That evening, as Jacob rested his head on his pillow, he prepared himself for another restless night. Ever since he had left his boyhood home, sleep had eluded him. And when, after several hours, he finally did fall asleep, his sleep was troubled, filled with nightmares. Since he had first set foot in America, it had gotten worse. Sometimes he thought he heard the steel shovel hitting the earth; other times he saw the face of the fair-haired Nazi as he snapped a chicken’s neck. Worst of all was the touch of his mother’s hands as she secured an afghan blanket around his shoulders. And though he felt those hands around him now, his body soothed by the only item he had brought from home, it brought him no solace. On more than one occasion, he would wake up flushed, his face and neck drowned in sweat. But that night, his sleep was peaceful as he dreamed of his date with Esther. She consumed his thoughts, leaving no room for anyone else.
Jacob brought flowers, pink and white tulips, when he visited her on the fifth floor of a high-rise on East Seventieth Street. Although he also lived in an apartment, the residences were about as different as the moon and the sun. Uncle Abraham’s apartment served as a container, with its one kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and the scents of hot coffee and toast in the morning; in this, the home of Esther’s parents, the door opened to a seemingly endless array of long corridors where intricate moldings hugged the ceilings, red-and-black-lacquered cabinets with tall vases filled with exotic flowers stood against the walls, and the scents of rose tea and baked goods emanated even before Jacob’s finger touched the buzzer by the door. He was certain that the flowers in his hand had already begun to wilt.
But before Jacob had time to reconsider, there was Esther, petite, her chin tilted up as she stood at the door in a white flared dress with green polka dots and a Peter Pan collar, again that bright coral smile as she pulled him inside.
The family welcomed him, all except for the father, who stood with a hawklike eye at one of the broad windows. The mother, wearing a black-and-white-checkered dress with heavy white pearls at her neck, reached to embrace him. After quickly surveying her face, Jacob realized that her mother’s appearance was indeed a foreshadowing of Esther twenty years into the future, and he decided that he was happy with the outcome. Meanwhile, Esther’s brothers, both short and skinny with pomaded dark hair and wearing identical pale-blue button-down shirts, could have been twins, except that Menashe, the elder, had a short growth of a mustache that he kept stroking. The two, smiles on their faces, pumped Jacob’s hand furiously, coaxing him to come into the living room and watch the Red Skelton Show on their new Magnavox.
Jacob stood in the foyer for a while, unable to move. He had not felt such an assault of love since his arrival in New York Harbor. He sensed Esther’s gentle touch at his sleeve.
“There will be plenty of time for television watching,” she said, admonishing her brothers, “and that is not the purpose of Jacob’s visit anyway.” She led Jacob past a large oil painting of a woman in a gilded frame toward a window where her father stood still, hands in his pockets.
“Papa, this is Jacob, the boy I told you about, the one from my English class.” The man’s face betrayed neither affection nor disdain as he grasped Jacob’s hand in his.
“Happy to meet you, sir,” Jacob said. The father mumbled something under his breath that Jacob didn’t quite understand, but his hand, when Jacob shook it, had been warm.
Esther led Jacob into the kitchen, and the first thought that came to his mind was never in his life had he seen such a light-filled space. Sparkling rays cascaded from a chandelier in the kitchen (of all places), crystals glimmering like little rainbows; the cotton curtains that hung primly over a window near the sink were a bright white, as was the linoleum, shiny and clean with flecks of gold. Even the glasses for tea arranged on a counter reflected the glimmer of a yellow moon that could be seen peeking through the white curtains.
“Some tea?” Mrs. Itzkowitz was asking him, but already her hand was pouring the steaming golden liquid into a glass.
Before long, Jacob was seated at the kitchen table, sharing tea and slices of homemade sponge cake with Esther, her mother, and her two brothers who, lured by the scent of the sweet cake, had forsaken Red Skelton to join them. Before sitting down, though, Mrs. Itzkowitz had found a glass vase, filled it with water, and arranged Jacob’s flowers in the center of the table next to the cake platter.
“Thank you, Mrs. Itzkowitz,” he said between bites, finding his voice again. “It’s so kind of you. And the cake is one of the best I’ve tasted!”