“Why? Solitary confinement is the worst sort of imprisonment. Nothing is worse than being alone, my darling. Nothing.”
“I—”
“You survived. Do you think yourself unworthy of it? I fear that you do.”
“I didn’t—”
“Did you collaborate with the Nazis? Of course you did not. Did you take up with a German, and make use of his weakness for your protection? I don’t believe for one second that you did, but even if you had I would not condemn you. We all found ways of surviving the war, and the enemy who sought to kill you was a far more determined and pitiless foe than the enemy I faced at a distance.”
“Please do not make me think of it, not now. Not tonight.”
“I won’t,” he said, and he bent his head in contrition. “Only believe me when I say I am glad beyond measure that you survived. Every selfish particle of me is glad, because without you I would have been alone, too. I won’t pretend to have suffered as you did, but when Mary was killed I thought I might die from the grief of it.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Of course I do,” he said, and now he looked up and met her gaze steadily, his pale eyes shining with emotion. “She was my friend, and my lover, for many years. But I don’t see her when I look at you. I don’t long for her when I’m with you.”
He pulled off his spectacles, tossing them on the table, and took her face in his hands, cradling it ever so gently. And then he touched his mouth to hers, deepening the kiss by degrees, and she leaned forward, almost tipping off her perch on the sofa, so eager was she to reciprocate.
He pulled away, only far enough to scatter kisses across her cheek, and then to whisper in her ear. “You are the woman I want, the woman I desire, and I will wait for you as long as you need. For years, if it comes to that.”
“You do not need to wait,” she said, and if she was trembling it was only out of happiness and excitement and more than a little apprehension. But she was safe with this man, and sure of his intentions, and she wanted this intimacy with him more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.
He sat back on his heels, his breathing a little ragged, and looked her in the eye. “I love you. I need you to know that.”
“And I love you,” she told him. “I do.”
“Then will you be with me now, and tomorrow, and the days after that? Is that something you can give me?”
“I will,” she promised. “And now, if you are ready, I should like for you to kiss me again.”
Epilogue
Ann
March 21, 1997
It had been years since Ann had gone to downtown Toronto on her own, and she was more than a little nervous of getting lost on the way to the gallery, but it wasn’t enough to deter her, nor did she want to ask her daughter to come along. This was something she needed to do on her own.
It was a Friday afternoon, the day of the week when she usually took care of the sort of errands that couldn’t be done on the weekend. Visits to the bank, medical appointments, that sort of thing. Today, though, she took the subway all the way downtown, and then, instead of getting on a streetcar, she decided to walk. Her route took her through the heart of Chinatown, which had always been one of her favorite parts of the city, but she didn’t have time to stop. Not today.
She soldiered on, and just as she was beginning to feel a little tired she caught sight of the banners.
MIRIAM DASSIN
VéL D’HIV
ART GALLERY OF ONTARIO
SPRING 1997
She couldn’t remember, now, how she’d learned that the embroideries would be exhibited in Canada. Most likely she’d heard it on the news. Their coming to Toronto was nothing short of a miracle, for she’d wanted to see them for years and years, and it had been hard to wait out the crowds. She hoped the gallery wouldn’t be jam-packed today.
Ann paid her entrance fee, politely declined the suggestion that she become a member, and made a beeline for the gallery where Miriam’s embroideries awaited her. According to the pamphlet she’d been given, the exhibition was set up as three separate spaces. First was the historical context for the embroideries; this she bypassed, for she already knew more about Miriam than any potted history could tell her.
The second space was set up like a small theater, with a short film that repeated every ten minutes. This, too, held little interest for her, particularly since Miriam herself had not been interviewed.
She was rushing, she knew she was, but she could come back to all of this later, after she had seen the embroideries. She walked on, drawn to the final room, and found herself before the first panel. Un d?ner de Chabbat, the one Miriam had first imagined while sitting at Ann’s kitchen table fifty years before.