She didn’t tell him the real reason she wanted to attend English language school, though. He had never trusted boys, never known one who had good intentions, either for business or when it came to relationships. He was obstinate when her mother would stand at his desk, hands on hips as he tallied a list of numbers, and pleaded with him to allow the girl a few hours to have her hair fixed at the beauty shop or, even worse, attend a dance with friends; and without raising his eyes from the paper, he would speak, keeping his voice low and steady, “I am busy now, Sally. Do not bother me with such nonsense.” And with that, the subject was closed.
So when Esther approached him just as he was opening the blinds in the office and called him by the familiar pet name she had used from babyhood, he turned toward her.
“Papou, I have been thinking about the business. You know that I am the one who is meeting with our salesmen or tenants, and of late, I have become ashamed.”
He looked at his one daughter as she stood before him, wearing a red-and-white-checked gingham dress, her reddish-brown hair throwing off sparks of sunlight.
“You—ashamed? You have nothing to be ashamed for. Who said that to you?”
She came to him, placed her long white fingers on his shoulder.
“Oh, no, Papou. No one has said a thing to me. But it is only what I feel when I am speaking to people. My English, it is okay, I suppose, but sometimes the words are confusing. Sometimes I feel as if I am coming from a different planet when I speak, from Mars and not Poland. Only yesterday Mrs. Ekstein had to explain the word exchange to me, and when I meant to say mortgage, by mistake I said the t, which should be silent. I feel so stupid!”
“Don’t be such a silly girl! Money talks better than words,” Boris answered, turning back toward the window.
“I can’t help it, Papou. It is how I feel. Besides, would it not be better for the business if I could speak the right way, not look like such a greenhorn?” At the word and all its implications, he turned toward her quickly. A scowl that all too rapidly, she knew, could morph into anger, dominated his face. She pressed on.
“And so, I have a question to ask you. My friend Sophie, you’ve heard me speak of her? She has told me about a class she is taking where I can go to learn English. They have only just begun the sessions, and it would not be too late. It is at the high school on Thirty-Third, and since the classes are given at night, I will not be taking time from the business at all. Oh, Papou, it would make me feel so much better if I could, so happy!”
Boris gazed at her, taking in her young face, her hopeful eyes, still feeling the delicate touch of her hand on his shirt. The sun was full on her face now, lighting up her cheeks, which still carried the red glow she’d had even as a toddler. Her floral perfume enveloped him, lulling Boris again with its hypnotic fragrance. How could he deny her anything?
He was a soda bottler. An anonymous job, just another cog in the complex workings of the city. But somehow when he read his essay, speaking of his meager occupation, it was with the authority of a mayor, the confidence of a lion tamer. She had not meant to applaud when he finished, but the momentary silence that followed seemed somehow too sad, too empty. She simply had filled it and was surprised to hear that hers were the only hands clapping.
Esther was even more surprised when he approached her after class. At first, when she heard his voice so close to her ear, she thought the floor had somehow fallen away, but she soon heard her own words, apologetic, released from her throat. And then she told him the lie as easily as if she had lived it. As she spoke, his eyes, his dark olive eyes, even the sweet little dimple in the middle of his chin, never left her. When she finally entered the passenger side of the large Oldsmobile, its lights sparkling in the rain, she answered her father’s questions mechanically. But her mind, her heart, remained in Jacob’s gaze. And when she stared out the window at the streets of Manhattan as they drove past familiar storefronts, shut now, the stray cats rubbing their bodies against the concrete walls of alleys, the moon hidden beneath a violet sky, Esther could see only a shaft of light, and in it, the face of a boy and the promise of a thousand days.
FOUR
Zalman, 1953
Zalman’s hand shook as he tore open the telegram. Although he was the first to admit that he was still naive about this modern means of communication, he understood enough to know that telegrams meant bad news. The first thing that his eyes fixed upon was the name—Jacob—and his heart beat faster. He read the short document again just to make sure. Zalman wiped beads of sweat off his brow as relief washed over him.