All Good Women (43 page)

She found herself walking toward the park where there would be fewer people. The swans, yes, she could go up to the pond. Still, she couldn't believe it. How could Mama be completely gone? How could she never introduce her to Leah, never tell her about the end of the war? Could it be a mistake? Doctors had been wrong before. Was Papa lying to lure her home? No, these were not rational thoughts.

Ahead of her, three children followed their parents across the grass. One of the little boys held on to his mother's skirt. She kept swatting him away until finally she turned and picked him up. Anna passed them.

The terrible sadness spilled over her face. She wiped her eyes and wished she had worn sunglasses. She remembered times as a teenager, feeling distraught that she lived in a different world from Mama. Sometimes she had wondered if her mother had died years before. Since the age of eight she had been Mama's mother — translating, running errands. Periodically Anna had cried herself to sleep, fretful about Mama dying. She had worried about and longed for Mama's death. These hot tears were so familiar.

The pond was deserted. It must have been months since she visited the park. Anna stood still, staring at the brown water and rolling another cigarette. The tobacco sliced into her lungs grounding her. She realized she hadn't eaten all day. She decided she preferred the sweet heat of the fag. She didn't know if she could hold in anything else. Daffodils bordered the path up the hill. Golden daffodils and narcissus. The scent was overwhelming. She followed the flowers to the crest and surveyed the remaining rooftops of North London.

Would Papa arrange a funeral at the synagogue? Or would he dispose of her body in a discreet Episcopalian ceremony? Her eyes filled again.

Anna thought about the day she and Mama had gone to Golden Gate Park, just the two of them. Such an expedition on the buses. Such an adventure to do something without Papa. The trip had lasted three or four hours, but it lingered in Anna's mind as a vacation might. The afternoon had been brilliant. She and Mama had walked along trails and sat on wooden benches, listening to an orchestra of men in red suits playing gleaming brass instruments. On the way home, she had held Mama's hand and listened to tales about bands in Frankfurt and about family trips to the countryside. That night she had felt a special bond with Mama. She knew how lucky she was. Anna took a drag on her cigarette. Now Mama was dead; Anna would never recover the bright brown eyes and the quick smiles of that once vital woman. Dead. Never again would Anna see her. The tobacco filled Anna with a vast ache. She crushed the cigarette out on the path.

The next week passed
in
a mist. Everyone was kind.

Reuben held her for three straight nights and let her cry and rant and collapse into muteness. Esther told her not to come to work. Mark said he would try to arrange an early passage home. She was numb to these attendants. She wished she were alone and then, when she was alone, she felt paralyzed. Of course she couldn't stay home from the office. She would go mad in complete isolation. Besides, every day they got more news from Germany about who had survived the camps. There was important work. No, she couldn't just leave, not yet. Papa would be able to deal with Mama's death alone. Her death was no harder to handle than her suffering in the hospital. She wanted to talk to Reuben about his parents, about how he had endured all the grief. She had never understood before. But Reuben's mourning was so caught up in his hatred of the Nazis. Strangely, Anna considered, she got the most solace from her daughter. At first Leah didn't seem to understand Anna had a mother. Then suddenly, three days after the telegram, the child crawled on her lap and simply cried. Anna rocked her, crying as well, and woke up, four hours later, to find Leah still on her lap.

Normally they both looked forward to commuting together to the hostel. It was a time to gossip and cuddle before the day ahead. But for the next few weeks, they moved silently through the tube corridors and on the long, rattling ride to the office. Anna emerged from her sadness in brief patches of clarity. She could think and behave sensibly for half an hour and then she would fall into a dullness in which life seemed to be going too fast or too slow.

One morning as they were seated next to each other on the tube, facing — as Leah preferred — the opposite direction from which the train was headed, Anna spotted a heavy-set woman with a child about Leah's age. Were they Jewish? Italian? Armenian? Dark and large and quiet — like Mama. Soon, Anna imagined, the girl would turn into her mother's caretaker. Already she seemed to be showing her mother a map and pointing to their stop.

Shame. Disappointment. Anger. Anna had started wishing for a regular mother when she was Leah's age — eight or nine. As a smaller child, she was always vaguely aware of Mama's weight. She thought Mrs Miller across the street was prettier and this disloyalty grated at her conscience for months. She admired the ease with which Mrs Miller walked down the street. She liked to go over to the Millers on Sunday nights for popcorn and soda. Mrs Miller cooked hamburgers and tuna casseroles. Mama didn't know anything except the heavy Yiddish dishes and Anna grew so ashamed of the
blintzes
and
latkes
that she didn't invite the Miller kids back. Funny, she couldn't remember their names or their faces and yet their mother, Marge Miller, was etched in her memory. And just as Marge Miller came into her prime as mother and citizen, Mama's shyness grew worse and worse. Her English deteriorated. Her weight increased. Her spells of anxiety and fatigue got longer. Mrs Miller had invited Mama to play bridge, had asked her to join the parents' group, had suggested that she come on girl scout expeditions. Mama shook her head and thanked their neighbor. Then she disappeared inside. Anna began to answer the telephone for her. She held her hand on the long nights Papa spent at the factory. Gradually Anna grew furious believing this was all his fault. They were trailing after his dream. There was no room for anger with Mama.

Anna felt a tug on her coat.

‘It's our stop, Mummy.' Leah was looking at her with concern.

Anna searched for the heavy woman and her child, but they had gone. She turned to Leah and with all her strength responded, ‘Yes, dear, let's get off the train.'

The weeks were formless.
Gradually,
she was able to immerse herself in work. Anna was usually aware of what she was doing, but never clear on
how
she was doing. Sometimes she could talk herself out of the grief. After all, the best memorial to Mama was a good life of her own. Besides, she was a woman in her twenties, not a child; God, she had a child. She had to remember her responsibilities.

The letters of condolence were the hardest part. Friends meant well, but they opened the wound again and again, ‘ … your mother dead …', ‘ … our sadness at her death'. Just as she had climbed back to stability another letter would arrive — from people at work, from friends in the States. At least Wanda and Teddy and Moira included news in their aerogrammes; at least there was something to absorb the pain. Wanda seemed to be doing OK at the cannery although she had been worried about her mother. Separate letters came from Teddy and Moira. Moira was getting married, fancy that. What must Teddy feel; she didn't say much. Oh, poor Teddy, all alone now. Her father, gone, too. These past few years hadn't been kind to anyone.

Finally, a letter from Daniel. She hadn't heard from him since before VE Day. She raced upstairs to her room, grateful that Leah had made friends with the skipping-rope artists of Chester Court.

Dear Anna,

I feel sad about Mama. Where to begin? I wish we were closer, just so I could look at you. I never realized how important family was before the war. Poor Papa. I wish we could have been with him.

I've been dreaming about Mama every night since I heard. Dreaming about sitting in the kitchen each morning. One dream about
Chanukah
.
But most of them are commonplace. I often think of her as a stranger, but she's deep in my blood. This isn't making much sense.

Let's try practical details. Tell me about your work. How much longer will you stay in London? Tell me about the girl, how old is she now? What does she look like? Kids change every day, I know. I've grown quite fond of several kids here in the village. Orphans everywhere. I can't imagine the devastation of Jewish families in the camps. I think you've done the bravest work, Anna, facing those stories straight on.

Don't know when I'll be released. There's a point system I'm sure you've heard about. Or maybe you haven't. American GIs think our news is the world's news. Well, you need eighty-five points for immediate release. You get one point for each month of service since September 1940; one for each month overseas; twelve points for each child under eighteen; five points for combat medals. See, this is the military — orderly disorder. I've got about thirty-five points, so it looks like I'll be in on the occupation for a while. I am tired.

Let's stay in closer touch. With the fighting over, mail will get easier. Maybe I'll get a leave to come to England. Remember I love you. Your brother, Daniel

Anna put down the letter
and sighed. Her brother a soldier who survived. Her brother loved her. She had always understood that, despite the way Papa's favoritism separated them. Daniel was right that the war made you weigh things differently. You saw past your own losses. Your blessings became visible. She was alive. Daniel was alive. Papa was alive. How could Mama have survived this war? Anna felt some kind of settling as she looked out into the cool afternoon at Leah who was turning the rope now and singing the song she learned in the hostel.

Jolly old sailor took a notion

For to sail across the sea …

Reuben did his best.
At
first, he tried to listen, spending evenings inside her childhood. Then he tried to revive her, dragging her to the cinema. Then he tried leaving her alone as he went on several trips to other hostels. Then he encouraged her to take a trip with him. Never did he get exasperated. Never did he get tired. He had been through this before, she reminded herself — both parents, four brothers and a sister. He seemed to understand there was no solution. He would wait as long as necessary. And knowing he could outlast her grief helped.

Finally, she agreed to go to Cambridge with him. Mrs MacDonald was happy to take Leah for the weekend. Everyone thought a trip would be good for Anna. Had she turned into Mama, with all these people waiting for her to wake up?

The train was packed with families and soldiers. She felt self-indulgent, taking space for a country holiday when so many people had more pressing needs. Reuben got seats; she never understood his talent for such things. He set her down in a place facing toward Cambridge — for, if truth were told, she couldn't get used to Leah's preference for travelling backwards.

It was one of those clearly lit June evenings which wouldn't darken until 9.30 or 10.00 p.m. Secure in the long, late light, she considered the miles of lush green field and she imagined the war had never happened. She turned to Reuben who was deeply engrossed in a book, yes,
Der Zauberberg
by Thomas Mann. She felt illiterate. Reuben could read easily in French, English and German. Why had she given up her classics course? Would she ever catch up? Odd, how when she was with him she was stimulated to go back to school and study. And when she was away for a day or two, Latin and Greek felt like such luxuries. What was wrong with her? Didn't she have a mind of her own? She cleared her throat, this was going to be some holiday if she continued scolding. Look out at the farmland; she reminded herself that the earth was alive, that she was very much alive.

‘You are all right?' He touched her knee.

‘Sure,' she nodded. ‘And you?'

‘Fine,' he said, concern in his eyes. ‘You seem a little nervous tonight.'

‘Just the beginning of the trip. I need some time to unwind. You realize this is the first time I've taken more than a day's holiday since I landed here?'

‘And think that we're doubling it now!' He shook his head. ‘I hope you'll be able to bear all this leisure.'

She laughed and did feel more relaxed. He was a good man. He loved her. She loved him. She would remember that all weekend. She would enjoy herself.

Saturday morning was spent
in
bed. It had been months since they had had such a luxurious time, since before Leah came to her. He was playful — tickling, touching slowly, teasing. As her laughter grew easier, she allowed herself to feel her extraordinary affection for him. They were both lusty this morning, as if the distance from London obligations granted permission to indulge. He came inside her once, twice, three times. And then sitting up, she moved closer to him, gently waking his penis again and drawing it into her vagina. They kissed and rocked and stroked and rocked and climbed together to a climax. Afterward, she held on to him like a buoy. Oh, she needed him. It was more than wanting. Petrified by this idea, her mind turned a joke, ‘What if we're stuck?'

He frowned. ‘Well, we'll just have to go to work like this. And that would end the whispering about whether we were “attached”.'

‘Yes.' She smiled and drew apart.

Reuben stretched back with satisfaction, lit a cigarette for her and then one for himself.

His smoke rings reminded her of Leah. ‘Really, we shouldn't smoke so much,' she sighed and ran a finger down his temple.

‘No “shouldn'ts” this weekend,' he said. ‘This is R and R for you. For me too.'

‘OK,' she said. ‘Easily persuaded.' She held her mouth tight and blew circles to accompany his to the ceiling.

Late in the afternoon,
they
s
trolled across Midsummer Common to a pub that had been creaking since the sixteenth century. She thought how Mama used to talk about the ancient façades of Galicia and Germany.