Authors: Jennifer Haigh
In a moment Daniel followed her into the kitchen. “You must think I'm very rude,” he said. “I thought you spoke only Polish. That's why I never talked to you.”
Up close, in the bright light, he looked older than she'd thought him, his cheeks dark with stubble. He sat at the small table and pulled out a chair. “Please, let's start over. I'm Daniel. How do you do?”
Annie sat, undone by the question. Her heart raced pleasantly, as it had in the taxicab with his father.
“I know maybe two words of Polish. My mother says the Poles never did anything for us. But you're a Pole, and you bring my tea every night. So that is no longer true.”
“But your parents speak Polish all the time,” Annie protested.
Daniel laughed. “Only when they don't want me to know what they're saying. The same way they speak Yiddish around you.” He folded his hands. “So ask me a question, and I'll answer. Then I'll ask a question about you.”
For two months her head had felt swollen with questions. Small questions nested inside larger ones, like matryoshka dolls.
She chose the smallest question, a timid one. “Why do you study all night?”
“It's my job. I'll be studying for the rest of my life.” His smile was broad, like his father's. “My turn. Where did you come from, and why did you leave there?”
Flushing, Annie talked about the house in Bakerton, her eight brothers and sisters, the forest and the coal trains. The money she sent home each Friday, two bills folded in an envelope.
“You send them everything we pay you?” Daniel stared at her intently.
Annie felt her cheeks flush. “Almost,” she said.
There was a long silence.
“But that was three questions,” she said. “So now I can ask two more.” She felt suddenly bold. “Why are there two sets of dishes?”
“
You shall not boil a kid in its mother's milk.
”
Annie frowned.
“Not very helpful, is it? Listen, there are rules for everything. Foods we do not mix. Other foods we don't eat at all.” He recited very fast: “
This is the law about beast and bird and every living creature that moves through the waters and every creature that swarms on the ground, to make a distinction between the unclean and the clean and between the living creature that may be eaten and the living creature that may not be eaten.
”
Like his father, he seemed to enjoy explaining. He spoke with his entire body: eyes, eyebrows, shoulders, hands.
“But that doesn't answer your question, does it? Your question was
why.
So, Miss Lubicki: we eat this way as a reminder of our covenant with God, who led us out of slavery in Egypt. That's the official answer. Not my answer. My answer is, I don't know.” He shrugged. “Is it the same for you? Do Christians do things for no reason?”
Annie thought of her mother, who saved Lenten palm leaves, tucked them behind the Last Supper hanging on the kitchen wall. Each year, on Palm Sunday, the old leaves would be replaced with new ones. To ward off lightning strikes, her mother said, an explanation Annie found dubious.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “All the time.” One last question hung in the air. “Why did you think I spoke no English?”
He had his father's eyes, dark and quick, always moving. “It's what my mother told me.”
“Why would she say that?”
“I don't know,” Daniel said.
I
n the beginning the languages had melded together; she'd scarcely noticed which was spoken. Now she began to pay attention. One Friday, chopping vegetables for cholent
,
she heard the Nudelmans argue in Polish. A secret from Daniel, then: they didn't care if Annie heard.
The argument began in the hallway. Like every Friday, Mr. Nudelman had come home early, but he'd forgotten to stop at the bakery after work. Annie felt a flash of disappointment. Mrs. Nudelman always offered her the leftover challah
,
a treat she savored. The braided loaf was dense and eggyâin taste and texture, identical to the paska her mother baked at Easter. This had been a remarkable discovery, surprising and somehow joyous, like glimpsing her sister on the street.
The Nudelmans went into their bedroom and closed the door. Their voices rose steadily. Mrs. Nudelman's was clear and sharp, easier to hear. “And where does he sleep, this nephew? The apartment is crowded already.”
“With Daniel,” said her husband. “We could put another bed in his room.”
“And what happens when Daniel is ill? Our son can't share a room.”
“The situation is desperate,” said Mr. Nudelman. “If we wait a year, it may be too late.”
“You're not his only uncle!” Mrs. Nudelman was nearly shouting. “What about that brother of yours? He can't be bothered to help?”
Mr. Nudelman answered in a low voice. Annie stood very still, listening, but she couldn't make out the words.
“
H
is name is Mitro,” said Frances. “But he likes to be called Jim.”
Annie smiled, for the first time in her life aware of her lips, coated in borrowed lipstick. They stood on the sidewalk waiting for the boys to arrive. Frances's beau had arranged the evening. His friend Jim drove a taxi and would collect the girls in his car. Annie glanced up at the third-floor windows. A single light burned in Daniel's, the bright study lamp at his desk.
A yellow car stopped at the curb, and a burly man stepped out of the backseat. “Eddie!” Frances squealed, and kissed him full on the mouth.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” the driver called. Annie bent to see him through the open window. He wore a wool cap and a leather jacket and resembled her father, her brothers: the broad cheeks, the eyes watery blue.
Frances and Eddie tumbled into the backseat. Another car pulled up behind the taxi, its horn blaring. Timidly Annie opened the passenger door.
“We don't have all day,” Jim shouted. “Let's go, let's go!”
The car was close and warm inside, smelling of cigarettes. Jim turned the wheel sharply, and they darted into the avenue. “You're Polish,” he told Annie. “I could tell a mile away.”
Murmurs from the backseat, a stifled laugh. Annie glanced over her shoulder. Eddie and Frances sat whispering, their hands intertwined.
“You want to live in city, you need to move faster.” Jim shook a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. “I know many Poles. All Poles are slow.” He himself was not a Pole but a Ukrainian. He announced this with a certain drama, as though Annie had won a spectacular prize.
They drove. As in the taxi with Mr. Nudelman, Annie felt her stomach lurch. Storefronts flew past at a dizzying speed: laundry, delicatessen, shoe repair while you wait. She closed her eyes, knowing the signs would keep coming. That they would come to her that night, in dreams.
Finally the car stopped. Annie stared up at the bright lights of a theater. A crowd had gathered in front
.
ISLAND OF LOST SOULS
,
announced the marquee.
“Get out,” Jim said abruptly. “I go park this thing. I come and meet you inside.”
She scrambled out of the car and followed Frances through the revolving door. The high lobby was bright and crowded, the carpet soft as swamp grass under her feet. A long line had formed at the ticket counter. She took her place behind Frances and Eddie, who stood hip to hip. They seemed to have forgotten she was there.
The line moved quickly. Annie watched the revolving doorâendlessly turning, a constant stream of people pouring in from the street. Young couples and old ones; several well-dressed women, a group of boys in black coats and small black caps. One boy, the tallest, caught her attention. Annie turned away, flustered. For an instant her heart raced.
At the window Eddie bought tickets for himself and Frances. Again Annie glanced at the door. The ticket cost her a quarter, exactly the amount she had in her purse.
T
hey found seats in the dark balcony. The newsreel had already begun. Annie stared at the screen, reading quickly:
Work Speeded on Huge Structures for World's Fair in Chicago. Some 20,000 Beer Cases in Skyscraper Pile Ready for April 7.
Beside her, Frances and Eddie sank into an embrace.
A stack of cased brew as extensive and as high as a city apartment house block is the amazing sight that meets the eye on the grounds of a large brewery here. Almost five million bottles, a veritable mountain of drinks, await the Zero Hour when the 3.2 howitzers will begin to pop.
“Here you are.”
Annie turned. Jim sat heavily in the seat beside her. “I had hell of time finding parking space.”
“That's too bad,” she said, wishing he'd be quiet. She had never been a fast reader. On the screen a man gestured wildly. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped irritably at his brow.
German Chancellor delivers a rousing speech to crowd of thousands.
“Why is he so angry?” she whispered.
“It's news.” Jim leaned in closer. “It's warm in here. Take off your coat.”
Annie did, leaning forward in her chair, a clumsy business. Then, finding nowhere to put it, she laid the coat across her lap.
The picture started. As always, the lilting strains of music swept her up completely; she barely noticed Jim's arm slipping around her shoulders. The stars' names flashed across the screen, written in swirling script. Only one was familiar. Unlike Frances, who spent half her wages on movie magazines, Annie had seen few pictures; but everyone knew Bela Lugosi.
Jim's hand reached beneath the coat on her lap.
For two hours her eyes didn't leave the screen; yet later, when she tried to remember the story, the details would escape her. She recalled only the warm weight of Jim's hand, burrowing like a small animal, tunneling under her skirt.
W
hen the lights came up, Annie blinked, a little dazed, as though she'd been asleep a long time. Flushing, she adjusted her skirt. Beside her were two empty seats. Frances and Eddie had stepped out halfway through the picture, crowding past strangers' knees:
Excuse me. Pardon me.
It hadn't occurred to her that they wouldn't return.
“Where did they go?” she asked Jim.
“They want to be alone.” He rose abruptly. “Let's go.”
He charged into the aisle, shoving his way through the crowd. Annie hurried into her coat. The aisle was swarming with people. It was a sensation unlike anything she'd experienced, the room humming like a beehive, strangers pressing at her back. In a moment Jim was several paces ahead of her. She watched his broad shoulders disappear around the corner into the lobby.
“Wait!” she called, fumbling with the buttons of her coat.
Rounding the corner, her head down, she collided squarely with a tall boy holding a paper bag. There was a shower of white blossoms, popcorn scattering to the floor.
“Oh!” she cried, catching her breath.
He reached out a hand to steady her. He wore black trousers and a wrinkled white shirt, but he was not Daniel Nudelman. He was only a boy.
“I'm sorry,” she said, stepping back. To her horror, she felt her eyes tearing. “It was my fault.”
“It's nothing.” He looked puzzled. “Miss, are you all right?”
“I'm sorry,” she repeated, hurrying past him. She pushed through the crowd. A leather jacket had disappeared through the revolving door.
The sidewalk was crowded with people and umbrellas. A steady rain beat the pavement. Annie looked both ways, but the Ukrainian had disappeared.
She stepped back under the marquee, crowded with people seeking shelter. Her mind raced. She had no umbrella, no money, and crucially, no idea where she was. She could walk for a week and never find her way back to the Nudelmans'. She swiped her eyes with her sleeve.
“Miss?”
She turned to see the boy from inside the theater.
“Are you all right?” His eyes flickered across her face. “Did I hurt you?”
“Oh, no.” She found a handkerchief in her purse. “I'm justâlost.”
“Where do you want to go?”
When she gave him the Nudelmans' address, he smiled. “Easy.” He pointed down the street. “Just go left at the corner and keep walking. It's not quick, but it's simple. Thirty blocks, and you're home.”
She felt a hand at her back.
“Jew, leave her alone.”
Annie turned. Jim's face was very red, his fair hair sodden. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.
The boy looked uncertainly at Annie.
“It's all right,” she said. “I'm fine now. Thank you for helping.”
“Beat it,” Jim said.
H
e drove with the windows down, crashing through puddles. “Why were you talking to this Jew?”
“He gave me directions,” she said. “I couldn't find you. I didn't know the way home.”
“What, you think I leave you there? I go to get car.” He tossed his cigarette out the window. “It's bad idea, talking to strangers. You should be more careful.”
Annie stared out the window.
“It's bad part of town,” said Jim. “Low class. Too many Jews.”
They drove for what seemed a long time. Finally, with a kind of exaltation, she recognized the kosher butcher, the fish market, the bakery Mrs. Nudelman favored. For the first time in months she knew exactly where she was.
“Stop here,” she told him. “That's my building.”
“It's early,” he said, stepping on the gas. “We go drink a nightcap. I know a place.”
The rain quickened, nicking the windshield. “No, thank you,” said Annie.
“You'll like it,” Jim said, racing down the block.
When the car idled at a red light, Annie didn't hesitate. She threw open the car door and stepped into the street.
“Hey!” Jim called.
Annie hurried to the sidewalk and broke into a run. I'm not slow, she thought.