Flora hadn’t heard from Margot or her mother in nearly two months. The mark had become so devalued in Germany that sending a letter to America cost nearly a billion marks. In her last letter, Flora had suggested that Margot and Frederick let young Edith spend the summer with her and Simon. Edith was still recovering from her pleurisy, and her parents thought that the fresh air and open lawns of Yonkers might be good for her. Besides, the news out of Germany was alarming. There were reports in the newspaper that middle-class parents were allowing their daughters to hire themselves out as prostitutes so long as they were paid in butter. Adolf Hitler’s National Socialist Party was doing field exercises and parading down the streets of Munich. Meanwhile, people were starving, and Hitler was using the desperate economic conditions as an excuse to pound away at the upper-middle-class Jews and Jewish “financiers.” In America, the wealthy automaker Henry Ford was publicly and financially
supporting Hitler’s party. Reportedly, there was a photograph of him on the wall of Hitler’s office. True or not, Simon bought a Buick that year instead of a Ford, which would have cost him half the price.
“Simon and I are no political experts, and we don’t know what to believe from the newspapers,” Flora wrote in her best German. “But for certain we know that, should you allow Edith to come, we would do everything in our power to make sure that her stay is exceptional. We urge you to consider our offer.”
Edith had been only ten years old when they had visited Margot in Kaiserslautern two years earlier, but Flora and Simon had fallen in love with her. She was bright and funny and, like Flora, loved clothes and even had a predilection for modern hats.
Flora smiled as she thought about that. If she’d ever had a daughter, she would have liked her to be like Edith. Daughters become best friends, and she missed having a best girlfriend. She and Seema saw each other about once a month now. Seema had a steady boyfriend: Oliver Thomas, one of her blue-eyed boys, as she liked to call him. She lived in a fancy apartment house on Park Avenue, and she and Oliver gave lavish dinner parties. She was still pretty, but in a way that was more mannered and brittle. When she laughed, she threw her head back so that the alabaster nub of her throat was all you could see. She smoked cigarettes that dangled from Bakelite holders and she called everyone “darling.” Flora was sure that Seema didn’t intend to make her feel like a hick, but each time Seema called Simon “that cute little man” or where they lived “your cozy little house,” Flora couldn’t help but feeling somewhat diminished.
The sky suddenly became overcast and the air chilly. Simon woke abruptly, as if someone had snatched away his blankets.
They sat on the bench staring out at the ocean when they caught sight of some boys on the shore. They were laughing, throwing stones at the gulls, who were still stirring up a ruckus. Flora thought she saw one of the stones nick one of the gulls’ wings, but she couldn’t be sure. All she said to Simon was, “I wish those boys would quit doing that.” He took her arm and they left the bench, continuing their stroll down the boardwalk at a slightly brisker pace.
When the wind stirred up and the sky got molten, they decided to turn around and head back. As they neared the bench where they’d been sitting, Simon was first to notice the gull. The other birds were gone now, and his solo cry sounded plaintive as he spiraled toward the water. One of his wings was outstretched like a leg in a cast. The wing was first to hit the water and he landed gently, as if in a parachute. Flora saw what Simon was seeing and the two of them stood on the boardwalk, speechless and helpless. The gull was silent, too. He kept turning his head to look at his broken wing, opening and closing his orange beak as if with disbelief.
Gamely, he tried to lift himself out of the water, but his flapping became weaker. He was beginning to list to one side. “Stupid kids,” shouted Flora, turning away. But the boys were well out of earshot, way down the shore, still throwing stones at the sky. They had hit their mark here and didn’t even know it.
Simon kept staring out at the water.
“Make them stop,” cried Flora, so agitated that she was walking in circles. “We should do something.”
Simon buttoned up his jacket and turned up his collar. “You’re right, we should do something,” he said, as he watched the gull sink out of sight.
Oliver Thomas. What kind of a man has two first names? Not a Jewish man, I think.”
Flora and Simon finally received a letter from Margot two weeks after the walk on the beach. She’d written it on onionskin stationery in a disjointed hand. It was dated March 12, 1923.
You say she lives in a house with marble floors and crystal lights that hang from the ceiling. It is not something I can imagine. Is this Oliver Thomas a nice man? Will they be married? Frederick is so kind. Without him my life would be vacant. I hope Oliver Thomas is good to Seema.
The situation in Germany is hard but we are fine. We eat well. Always meat once, sometimes two times a week. Frederick works hard. Germany will recover soon and be stronger than ever. When I told Edith that you and Simon wanted her to come to America, she jumped up and down and said how much she
would like to come. It’s hard for me to believe that she has not yet met Seema. I think Seema would get a kick out of her lively young niece who, by the way, is healthy and does well in school. She is a strong-willed girl who goes her own way. We would like her to come to America to visit with you and Simon when the time is right. She has such good memories of your visit here and cherishes the jewels from her Aunt Flora.
Margot finished the letter by saying:
Sometimes I look at Edith and wonder if we were ever that young and without cares. It is hard to imagine now. She has her whole life ahead, and her nature is more like yours than mine, which for her is a fortunate thing. Edith and Frederick send their best regards. We speak of you and Simon often and still have some of the peanut butter and Juicy Fruit gum that you brought from America.
Your loving sister,
Margot
Margot wondered if Flora would guess how long it had taken her to write that letter. Writing did not come naturally to her, nor did the casual, cheerful tone she tried to affect. It was important that she not reveal the truth. Frederick would not have allowed it. The cold made her fingers so numb that she could barely grip the pencil. Her words looked like a litter of matchsticks. She hoped that her worries had not slipped through.
The situation at home was frightening. Frederick still had his job, though Rinehart had cut back his wages. Businesses were
closing every day. She knew people who had lost everything. She’d report one apocalyptic story after another to her mother, who would brush her off by saying, “You don’t have to believe everything you hear.” At night, Frederick would reassure her: “Whatever happens, people always need to eat meat. Germany without wurst? It’s not conceivable, is it?”
But that was the trouble: everything was starting to be imaginable to Margot. She didn’t know whether Frederick was pretending to be calm or whether he honestly believed that all this would pass. His was such a good heart that perhaps it rejected the kinds of negative thoughts that occupied her. What would happen if Frederick lost his job? What if they couldn’t afford to put food on the table? What if they froze to death? Edith was so thin that her hipbones practically jutted through her skin. She was twelve and as flat-chested as she had been at ten. Her hair had grown back, only it was thinner now, and there were spaces where you could see patches of her scalp. Margot found it hard to look at her own daughter; the sight of her only stirred up more worry. What if she got sick again? What if, this time, they didn’t have enough money or food to take care of her?
She’d tell herself that she was being overly dramatic and that her mother was right, she was too gullible. Then she’d repeat what Frederick often said: This was Germany, and Germany would never let her people break in such awful ways.
She hadn’t lied to Flora about the meat. They did eat it sometimes twice a week. Frederick would scavenge pieces from the neck or hindquarters of a pig or cow after they’d wrung all they could from the animal. Sometimes what he brought home was little more than bone or gristle. But no matter: he would wrap it in brown paper, place it in the center of the table, and declare,
“Tonight we eat like kings.” Margot would boil the scraps with potatoes, onions, paprika, and anything else she could find that would add up to a meal. Edith and Frederick would eat so fast that sometimes they used their fingers to scoop food into their mouths. Then they’d rub their stomachs and start the game. “Mmm, wasn’t that the best
Rindfleisch
with red wine sauce and mushrooms you’ve ever eaten?” Or “That raspberry cake with the dark chocolate icing was exactly what I had in mind for dessert.” It was a game that hungry people played.
On the night that she wrote the letter to Flora, Margot had lashed out at Edith and Frederick after they’d finished a make-believe menu of sauerbraten and noodle pudding: “I am cold and hungry and so sick and tired of these silly games. Surely you see what’s going on! Am I not the only one who is frightened?”
“We are all here now,” said Frederick evenly. “At this moment, in this place, you and Edith and I are together and healthy. We are blessed, Margot. Don’t you see that?”
Later that night, Margot bolted up in bed, her nightclothes soaked with sweat. She’d been dreaming of a man who used to live on the other side of Frau Schultz. He was sleeping, face down, in the street. One foot was bare and swollen and leaking pus. She wanted to give him bread or some money, but she had neither. She thought he might be dead and tried to call for help. That’s when she woke herself up, trying to cry out.
She wanted to wake Frederick so that he could comfort her, but as she moved closer and studied his face, she thought as she had so many times that, in sleep, he had the startling sweetness of a child. She wouldn’t disturb him. Instead, she lay next to him, trying to synchronize her quick heart to his slow breathing. What seemed like hours passed until the chalky light of morning
filled the room. Bad dreams were all she had to show for this sleepless night and her head throbbed behind her temples. She got up with Frederick and went with him into the kitchen, where he lit a fire.
They boiled water for a cup of what was passing for coffee these days. He took one of her feet in his hands and rubbed it in front of the fire. When it got pink, he put it down and picked up the other one. This was how they started each day. On this morning, after he massaged her feet and they poured a second cup of coffee, she pulled her hair back from her face, clasped her hands behind her head, and said, “Frederick, I’ve come to a decision. The time is right now. Edith should go and stay with Flora and Simon this summer.”
The skies of New York were filled with crosses. That’s what Seema noticed when she moved to the city over twenty years earlier. Every time she’d look up, there’d be the cross of St. James, the cross of St. Thomas, or the gilded cross of Trinity Church soaring over the harbor. In those years, when she worked for the White family, the only doors that were open to her were back doors. The crosses were a comfort to her. It was inspiring, the way they withstood the sun and wind and harsh winters of New York. She loved the way they looked against the early evening sky, and when robins perched on them in the spring.
She got to know each one of them by their distinct characteristics: The limestone one that hovered over the Episcopal church on Forty-third Street was dignified despite being covered with soot; the one atop the Baptist church downtown was fussy and spindly, unlike the no-nonsense iron one on top of the Lutheran church on Madison Avenue. Her favorite was the roughly hewn wooden crucifix that seemed to bear all the weight of the Catholic
church on Park Avenue. Sometimes these crosses welcomed her with their outstretched arms; other times, hands on hips, they turned her away. Either way, they never failed to move her.
On bright days, the sun would bounce off the heavy bronze doors of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue and turn them gold. But it was the flickering lights of the votive candles by the entrance that always drew Seema inside. She loved the smell of the melting wax and the incense and how the light refracted through the stained-glass windows seemed to melt down the sides of the walls. It was dark, and it was the quietest place in New York City.
When Seema took the Whites’ ten-year-old daughter to Saint Patrick’s during one of their walks, she told her, “This is the kind of a place where you can listen to your heart.” But the girl was not interested in what her heart had to say. She spent the whole time fidgeting and flipping through the pages of the prayer book looking for pictures. Seema told her that if she would be quiet for just a few more moments, she would buy her a present. So the girl barely took a breath until it was time to go.
At the back of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral was a little shop that sold assorted medals and statues of Jesus and Mary Magdalene. The girl pulled Seema toward the shop. “Here, I want my present from here,” she demanded.
“No. This isn’t the kind of store one buys presents from,” Seema said softly.
“You promised. You said if I was quiet …” Her shrill voice resonated in this house of whispers. Rather than make a scene, Seema followed her into the shop.
Next to the cash register was a row of wire baskets. Each one contained rosary beads. They were divided by materials—silver,
glass, wood. The girl stuck her hand into one of the baskets and pulled out a crystal rosary. “I want this one.”
Seema had noticed people in church rubbing their fingers over the beads and moving their lips in prayer. It felt so intimate, the way they’d sometimes lean over and kiss them. Now she picked up the crystal beads and held them in her hand. They were cool to the touch and heavy. She ran her fingers over the brass cross. All the times she’d looked at crosses, she’d never actually touched one, though she’d memorized their contours. She squeezed the cross tightly and brought her closed fist up to her cheek. She looked to see if the little White girl had noticed, but she was too busy wrapping another rosary, this one made of wood, around her fingers. “This is the one I want,” she said, spinning it in the air like a lariat. “I like this one best of all. Please, you said I could have it.”