A Book of Great Worth (28 page)

As a side issue, a spirited debate ignited in the letters to the editor column of
The Day
about the validity of the Lost Tribes of Israel theory. One distinguished rabbi, a professor at the theological seminary, wrote an article arguing that the Indians of the American and Canadian West and North were indeed Jews. This was clear from their physical appearance, their languages
and many of their customs. Another rabbi, equally
distinguished, responded with a blistering letter dismembering his colleague’s thesis and strongly implying that the first rabbi was in league with the devil, the fascists
or both. “At the very least, this hare-brained theory of
fers dangerous succour to the anti-Semites,” he wrote. Others wrote letters arguing pro and con whether the government of Canada was allied with the Soviet Union; whether the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, with their famous red serge jackets, were an offshoot of the Red Army; whether cousin Henrietta and her two small children were likely or not to be Communists and, if so, Trotskyites.

At the next gathering of the family circle, many of the previously estranged cousins – the children and grandchildren of Abe, second and third cousins I had heard of but never met – were present, noisily and amiably, embracing their more discreet cousins, the descendents of Joseph. This gathering took place at Uncle Henry’s cottage, it now being summer, and a good thing too, my father said, because no one’s home in the city would have been nearly big enough. “We’ll have to rent Madison Square Garden when she finally gets here,” he predicted sourly.

The mention of Madison Square Garden, the home of numerous sporting events, perked up the ears of cousin-in-law Lou, the bookmaker, and soon he was offering odds on when Henrietta would be returned to the bosom of her long-lost family. It had
come that far –
when
, no longer
if
. The donations bowl, marked with a handwritten card, “The Henrietta
Fund,” overflowed.

“At our next family party, cousin Henrietta will be the honoured guest,” my mother announced, and this repeated piece of news rippled through the large crowd like a mantra of the dimensions of the age-old Jewish prediction, part plea, part boast, “Next year in Jerusalem.”

Contributions poured in as well from complete strangers, newspaper readers who were touched by
Henrietta’s plight. Her story appealed to widows, or
phans, star-crossed lovers and people with distant beloved relatives. “And who does that leave out?” my father wondered.

During the preparation of his newspaper story, my father had done simple research and learned some salient facts that had again aroused his suspicions: Whitehorse, rather than being a tiny outpost on the edge of an ice floe, was a thriving small city of some ten thousand people, the capital and administrative centre of the territory, with many urban amenities, even a daily newspaper of its own, the
Star
. My father telephoned a reporter there, resulting in a story in that paper as well. One thing he learned was that, despite cousin Henrietta’s claim that she, her children and the friendly dentist were the only Jews there, Whitehorse had a small but cohesive Jewish community, made up of teachers, doctors and merchants. “Staten Island could be worse,” my father mused.

In Henrietta’s defence, my mother pointed out that the far-flung cousin lived not in Whitehorse itself, but the tiny village of Princess Anne Island, a daylong dogsled mush from the capital. It was there that her late husband, Constable Dumont, had been posted, there that he died, there that the widowed Henrietta remained.

“She could maybe move to Whitehorse,” my father half suggested, but my mother had her sights and heart set on restoring the woman to the family fold, on closing the circle.

“What about cousin Florence?” my father asked, only half jokingly. That was a low blow, Florence being the former wife of the child molester, who had disappeared into the jungles of Florida. She was just as far-flung, just as alienated from her family, just as deserving as Henrietta, wasn’t that so? “And, in all likelihood, an innocent bystander.”

True, my mother admitted, but Florence had ab
sented herself from the family on her own accord. “Henrietta is a victim of circumstances.”

And what, my father teased, about Henrietta’s nasty brother, Abram, and her sister, who had never been named to us and was hardly mentioned? Weren’t they also victims of circumstances? Didn’t they too deserve to be saved?

“No,” my mother pronounced, making it clear there was no doubt in her mind. “They haven’t reached out.”

“But shouldn’t
we
reach out to
them
?” my father in
sisted. He was playing with fire and probably knew it, but he had a reckless streak.

My mother wouldn’t be baited, though. “You may be right, Harry. Maybe later. We’ll see what happens.”

Who could argue with that?

Eventually, all the details were worked out, my mother being terrifyingly efficient. Passports and visas were obtained – it turned out that Henrietta, through her mother, was still a U.S. citizen, as were her children. Travel arrangements were made – a combination of bush plane and railroad. Temporary lodging was secured – my mother would have liked to offer our hospitality, but our cramped apartment on Eastern Parkway barely contained us, and certainly had no room for extended visitors. Instead, distant cousin Barney, the real-estate salesman who now had his own agency, had offered the mother-in-law suite in his Bronx brownstone row house, his own mother-in-law having recently remarried. It was assumed that Henrietta and her children could live there, rent free, until she was settled and found a place of her own. One of the children was already of school age, and enrolment at the nearest public school had also been arranged. Even more importantly, distant cousin Ben had opened up a job for Henrietta in the office of his used car lot, Honest Abe’s, named in honour of his father. Henrietta had told us in one of her letters that, serving at her husband’s side in remote outports, she had handled the paperwork for the detachment, looking after supplies and records, and had developed decent secretarial skills, although “maybe not by civilized standards,” she had joked.

“So who said Honest Abe’s car lot is civilized?” my father rejoined.

Finally, all was in place and the day for Henrietta’s arrival in New York drew near. It was winter again, Thanksgiving and the holiday season both having passed, and the bleakness of January and February stretched ahead. The far-flung cousins’ arrival would certainly do a lot to brighten those drab months, for my mother, at the very least. More than two years had passed since we’d first heard from Henrietta, and she and my mother had exchanged numerous letters. It was as if they two were cousins,
close
cousins.

Madison Square Garden was apparently beyond our reach, but through the good offices of Lou, the bookmaker in-law, a union hall on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx had been made available, at no cost. My mother had been able, with minimal effort, to twist the arms of a long list of female cousins who would be cooking and baking their specialties. Distant cousin Murray, who had kept up his distillery connections though he was now, by all accounts, a legitimate businessman, would be providing the wine. The party would
be, it appeared, the family reunion to end all family re
unions. Everyone would be there, even distant cousin Meyer, who had recently been released from Sing Sing on parole. Rumour had it that even cousin Florence from Florida might be making an appearance, the first time in the dozen years since she’d begun her self-exile. If she did appear, my father pointed out, there would be a certain justice to it.

“That cousin of yours,” he said, referring to Henrietta as if she were in fact my mother’s cousin, although she was his, “might do more than anyone could have imagined to bring our family together.”

My mother was not an “I-told-you-so” sort, so she said nothing, but even I, who was halfway between my tenth and eleventh birthdays, could see that her smile was smug.

The moment we’d all been waiting for arrived. Henrietta and her children had several days earlier embarked on a long, complicated journey that began with a bush plane to Whitehorse, followed by commercial airline to Edmonton, then by train coach south to the improbably named Cut Knife, Montana, then east on the Empire Builder through Minneapolis, Chicago and Cleveland to Grand Central Station in New York where, mid-afternoon on a snowy but mild Thursday, my mother and I impatiently awaited them.

“They’ll feel right at home,” I had said, on seeing the fresh snow as my mother and I emerged from our apartment house and walked to the car, a 1950 De Soto station wagon cousin Ben had lent us for the occasion. My mother smiled indulgently at my comment. She worked mornings and into mid-afternoon usually, but had come home early, and I had been allowed to stay home from school after lunch as well.

Henrietta’s children, who my parents had calculated were my fourth cousins, were far younger than me, Uglik, seven, and Toogl, five, and my mother had instructed me to be especially nice to them. No one said this aloud, but I was sure that poor Uglik must be called “Ugly” by other kids. Poor guy, I thought.

The station was crowded and my mother worried how we would all recognize each other, although she had specified, in her final letter to Henrietta, that we would meet them beneath the big clock. There were two
big clocks in the station, but we took up a position be
neath the one closest to the arrival gates from the west, along with hundreds of other people who had apparently given the same directions to their distant cousins. I wondered if these particular distant relatives didn’t perhaps tell time by the sun and wouldn’t know what a clock was, but I kept this thought to myself. I assumed my fourth cousins, and perhaps Henrietta herself, would be wearing fur coats, perhaps even snowshoes, and that there would be no trouble recognizing them.

So imagine my disappointment when we finally stood face to face, I awkwardly patting the backs of two scruffy-looking children in ordinary corduroy jackets and scuffed Thom McCann shoes, my mother embracing a drab, shapeless woman in a kerchief and cloth coat and inexplicably carrying a yellow umbrella.

“Henrietta!”

“Berte!”

“And these must be Uglik and Toogl. You must be exhausted, darlings.” My mother stooped to embrace them both in a hug.

“And this must be David.” Cousin Henrietta’s breath, when her face touched mine, was strong with SenSen. Getting a close look at her face, I could see
that she was quite a bit younger than my mother, al
though at my own age I had a difficult time discerning the ages of adults, especially women.

“You’re here,” my mother said. “You’re finally here.”

“We’re here. I can hardly believe it.” Henrietta spoke with an accent that was unusual but hardly exotic.

“Can we have ice cream?” Uglik asked. There was a smudge of dirt on the end of his nose, and his skin was darker than mine by a shade or two, but no more so than that of an Italian boy I knew, and there was nothing particularly foreign-looking about him, or about Toogl, who had shiny black pigtails to match shiny black eyes and clung shyly to her mother’s leg. They were certainly nothing like the Red Indians I’d seen in movies.

We chatted like this all the way on the car ride to the Bronx as pure white flakes of snow, large as any I’d ever seen, fell gently on the De Soto, as if to make the visitors feel at home. “This is a wonderful car,” Henrietta said in an awestruck tone, looking around the front seat and running her hand over the dashboard. She mentioned that Dr. Birkowitz, the dentist who had figured occasionally in her letters, had a fine car too.

“A Lincoln. And you’d think the men who work on cars in garages, the...mechanics? The mechanics would be happy to work on such on a fine car, but no. They’re happiest with trucks and jeeps.”

“If you want to buy a car, I’m sure cousin Ben will find you a good buy,” my mother said. “Uncle Ben, that is. He’s your uncle.”

“I must learn to drive,” Henrietta said, laughing gaily. “Goodness, there’s
so much
to learn.”

She turned on the radio and Johnny Ray’s “Cry,” which had been all the rage for weeks, came blaring out. “Oh, my goodness,” Henrietta said, as if she’d been stung, and quickly turned it off.

My mother and I, and cousin Barney and his wife and children, big lumbering teenagers who had little interest in us, saw to their getting settled in, and we all sat down at a large table in Barney’s living room to dinner, which wasn’t very good, the unidentified meat tough and the vegetables overcooked. Still, I thought with satisfaction of the reheated chicken giblet and noodle casserole my father and sisters would be eating at home. Henrietta and her children ate with gusto and consumed everything put before them, asking for seconds, and Henrietta heaped praise on the meal and asked Barney’s wife, Anna, for the recipes.

“The poor things look half starved,” my mother said as we drove home. She had sent them plenty of money for meals on the trip, though, so that couldn’t be the reason. My mother turned to me and spoke as if I were an adult: “We’ve exchanged so many letters, but I really don’t know Henrietta at all.”

The frankness of that confession sent a small shiver through me and that night as I lay in bed awaiting sleep I thought how little I knew my mother, and my father and sisters as well. I’d thought I did – if I thought about it at all – just as I’d thought I knew my larger family, who was who and what was what. Now I realized differently.