“He won’t remember anything. He was drunk,” I said weakly.
“I certainly hope so. If he does, then we all are going to die.”
My face hot, I went back to the bakery, back to the table where no one had wanted me to sit. I wanted a cigarette badly. I dug into my purse, but there were no cigarettes inside. I held the purse tight, my fingers trembling. I must stay; I must tell him why I came here, tell him about the child of our love, the future that belonged to us.
Mr. Schmidt said something in Ernest’s ear, and he finally got up. Stiffly, he walked toward me, his lips quaking strangely. Suddenly I was afraid. Ernest, for whom I had fought with my family, for whom I was willing to destroy my future, once nineteen years old, homeless, helpless, and friendless, was no longer the same man I had fallen in love with.
65
ERNEST
Miriam was gone. She’d died to save his life. What should he do now?
It was over. Everything was over.
He could hardly lift his feet, each breath a pin in his throat. The bakery was warm, but he shivered. When he reached Aiyi, he forgot for a moment what he was going to do. He held her hands, pressed them to his face, and closed his eyes. If there were a way to alleviate his pain, to forget about his stupidity, to believe this was only a nightmare, it came from her touch, her breath, and her skin. Help me, my love, help me, he cried out in his head.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said.
Miriam is gone, my love, he wanted to say but couldn’t. If the words were unspoken, then there was a chance what had happened was not true.
He looked up. The ceiling was gray, gloomy; the air lapped toward him like an ocean of vinegar. He heard the wailing of the train’s horn, its stuttering chugs, and the rattle of its floor as it slunk away. Outside, his parents were weeping, their eyes full of anguish, and his mother in her favorite sunflower dress doubled over like a wilted sunflower. Their voices, even after two years, sounded so clear. Ernest, take good care of your sister. Ernest, have a good life and marry a good Jewish girl.
He had failed to protect the sister he’d loved since she was a baby. He had refused to let her go to America and kept her selfishly. Had he let her go with Mr. Blackstone, she would not have been shot; she would have lived and had a good life.
You understand? She could have lived. She would go to America, she would go to Vassar College.
“Ernest? Ernest? Talk to me.”
She died to save my life, Aiyi. He opened his mouth; his chest hurt too much. She, his teenage sister whose life had been destroyed by him, had decided to love him, and gave her life to him. He should have protected her, but he had paid her no attention. Again.
He could never live with this—looking at his lover’s face, knowing it had cost his sister’s life. “Us. Aiyi. You and me. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.”
She let out a gasp.
He held her tightly. Oh, Lord, what had he just said? He was breaking her heart; he was a heartless man. He had dreamed of being with her, protecting her since they met, and he would give his life for her. His life. Not Miriam’s.
“Don’t, Ernest. Please don’t. It’s not my fault. You can’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. I can’t leave you.”
She was right. It was not her fault, yet she would bear the blame; it was his stupidity, yet she would suffer. It was not fair; life was not fair. He wanted her, but he couldn’t live with her. What had she said about love? Something like divine coins. Something like one love, one eternity. It was rubbish. All was rubbish. Love was not a coin; it was a bullet.
He felt the wetness on his shirt, saw the wetness on her face—her face, a lonely moon across an oceanic sky; he wanted to wipe the tears off, but couldn’t raise his hand. Instead he stepped back, closed his eyes, and swallowed the briny air. In his mind’s eye, he saw her slim figure waver, diminish, and finally disappear in the maze of tears, bullets, and ashes.
66
AIYI
My body was weightless, a plume of spineless smoke, a shadow of silent sighs. Outside the bakery, I stopped to catch my breath. In and out I breathed. In and out.
From behind me came soft footfalls, the keening, and the voices of Golda and Mr. Schmidt. A man with scraggly hair and a long beard nearly crashed into me, swerved, and went inside the bakery.
Holding my purse, I stumbled to my Nash and climbed in. The car drove into the sickening night. The streets were silent, the bars and restaurants dead like graves. Sometimes I heard the rumbling of vehicles, the patrolling soldiers’ yelping; sometimes children’s nightmarish screams and people’s warped quarrels in the alleys.