Flowers in the Blood (12 page)

“Your father paid for the term.”

“That's what I told her, but she won't listen to me. Will you talk to her? Please!” I implored. “Tell her I must go.”

“Your aunt must have an explanation.”

“Only that she didn't like a verse I had copied.”

“What verse?”

I went over to the Bible that Nani kept on a shelf by her Sabbath candlesticks and leafed through it. “I can't find St. John. You are missing half the book!”

Grandmother motioned me to sit on her lap. She kissed my perspiring forehead. As she brushed back my bangs, she spoke kindly. “Dinah, Mrs. Hanover has broken her word to your father. As Jews, we believe only in the first book of the Bible; as a Christian, she believes in a second book as well, the one that talks about Jesus as the son of God.”

“Why should one part of the Bible be true and the other not?”

“And the woman gave me her word.” Nani sighed sadly. “I know you want to go to school. So do many other Jewish girls. That is why some good people in this community, especially Mr. Elias Cohen, have been working to begin a Jewish Girls' School. It should open after the October holidays. Do you think you could wait until then?”

I frowned. What choice did I have?

To divert my attention, Nani began discussing my father's return in a few weeks and how busy I would be with him.

“I can hardly wait,” I admitted. “I want everything to go back to the way it was before.”

“There will be many changes—”

“I don't want anything to change!”

“Nothing remains the same.”

I was about to question her further when Nana was wheeled in to celebrate the Sabbath.

 

The next day my grandparents took me back to Kyd Street, but we first visited the Jewish cemetery. As the carriage slowed, Nani took my hand. “Your grandfather and I have never been here because Ephraim was so ill. This is the first time we have come to see where your mother is resting. Wait here for us.”

After my grandparents had walked away, I hopped down and followed them at a distance. Nani led the way. Her husband trailed behind. When she found the spot, she seemed to stare for the longest time, then bent closer to see if she had missed something. When it was obvious she had not, I heard a long, rumbling wail explode from somewhere deep inside her.

I ran up and studied the modest rectangle. I knew enough Hebrew to read: “The grave of Luna, daughter of Ephraim Rahamin, born on 4 Iyar 5614, died on 4 Tishri 5639.” There was another sentence that I only deciphered years later that said, “May her soul be bound up in the bonds of life.”

“What is wrong?” I asked my grandfather. He clasped my hand but was too overcome to respond. I looked around at the other stones. Their inscriptions carried the names of husbands, wives, and occasionally children.

“It does not have my name or my brothers'.” I looked questioningly at Nana, but he merely shook his head from side to side. “Why doesn't it say 'Sassoon'?”

“Disowned,” Nani spat. “How could he have done this to her—and to you?”

To me? What did she mean?

“He has left you motherless—in fact and in name.”

 

A week later, Aunt Bellore took her daughters and me along when she went to Theatre Road to check that certain repairs were being made in preparation for my father's return. Someone had certainly been hard at work. The marble steps glistened in the sun. Lavish arrangements of flowers spilled from brass cache pots. The furniture had been polished and oiled. I scampered upstairs to find that my room had been repainted a jade green. My books had been placed in mahogany and glass cases, and the embroidered spread decorated with red and white poppies we had purchased in Patna was tucked into a new carved bedstead.

“Is this your room?” My youngest cousins were impressed.

“Of course it is.”

“Green is an ugly color,” Sultana said nastily.

“Well, I don't have to stay here if I don't want to.”

“Where would you sleep?”

“Follow me.” I thrust my chin in the air and led the way.

My father's old bedroom was still being refurbished. The walls were painted a pale coral. Two small beds—instead of a large one—were placed perpendicular to the place where the large platform bed in which my mother had died had been. They were covered with quilts appliqued with a central lotus surrounded by mango trees, leaves, birds and stars. Matching armoires, carved with a border of fruits and flower garlands, stood in the old bed's place.

“This is where I will sleep/' I said to my cousins.

“Really?” Abigail and Lulu gasped at the sight of a splendid white hibiscus plant growing out of a porcelain pot placed between the beds. Stuffed white doves were perched on the branches, and white silk ribbons shot with golden threads were sprinkled amongst the leaves.

“Yes, I always sleep with my father,” I lied, since I hadn't since we had returned to Calcutta.

“No, you won't.” Sultana wheeled around and faced me. “They will make you stay in your own room.”

They? I had a premonition of disaster. “What do you mean?”

Abigail stared at her sister. “Hush, Sultana. Mama made us promise—”

“Promise what?”

Sultana folded her arms across her chest. “Can't say.”

“Can't say what?” I shrilled. “Tell me!”

“You are getting a new mother, that's all.” Lulu giggled.

“You're a liar!”

“She's not!” Sultana crowed. “You'll see, and . . . and you'll be sorry!”

I ran to my room and slammed the door. Sultana probably never spoke a truer word. Aunt Bellore was bad enough, but a total stranger! Now I was certain I had lost my father forever.

 8 

 

M
ozelle arrived with her mother—I was instructed to address her as Grandmother Helene—in tow. Because Mozelle's shoulders were narrow and her hips and buttocks rounded, she resembled an eggplant at first glance. At eight, I was exactly half her age.

After the formal introductions, my father bent close to my ear. “I've brought you a new mother and a new friend.”

I looked at him warily, then at Mozelle, whose eyelids twitched. The poor girl was more frightened than I was. As Papa lifted Jonah and Asher and carried them inside, I seized my advantage and walked beside him. Mozelle followed behind docilely. We managed to get through an entire tea and tour of the house without the bride uttering one word.

The next day, every Sassoon came to inspect Benu's choice and to hear the tale of their marriage. The widowed Helene Arakie had been spending the season at the mountain home of her first daughter's family. The girl had married well, having the dowry to attract a man 'who traded cotton and silk. Helene's second daughter was so beautiful, her modest dowry had been overlooked by a wealthy trader in indigo. “All three of my girls have been fortunate,” Helene said with more than a touch of smugness at having negotiated so well for her youngest.

“Youth is her only asset,” Aunt Bellore whispered to Uncle Saul's wife, Rebecca, as they sampled the
rasamalai, rasagulla
, and the rest of the syrupy sweets.

“And when that wears off, what will Benu do then?” Rebecca tittered knowingly.

“So far my brother has proved himself more faithful than his wife,” Bellore whispered haughtily.

Mozelle remained at my father's side, nodding when he spoke to her, shyly answering questions put to her with only a yes or no. I had been so prepared to dislike her, but how could I feel anything but sympathy for the poor creature?

Grandmother Helene was given the downstairs room where my grandparents had stayed. Within a short time she was supervising the household better than my mother or even my grandparents ever had. The Arakies had been modest storekeepers so she had no experience, just a natural aptitude. She had a sunny disposition, a love of beautiful flowers, a taste for rich, spicy food, and she adored children. Best of all, she liked animals. We were given kittens for the nursery, and a pony was purchased for the boys.

Since her mother was in charge, Mozelle had nothing to do. I offered to lend her my books, but was astonished to learn she could not read. Sometimes I would read aloud to her, but her attention drifted quickly, and she usually fell asleep after a chapter or two.

Aunt Bellore invited me to play with her daughters and was annoyed when I refused, preferring to stay home with Mozelle. “So you like your new mother, do you?” Her tone was probing, not pleasant.

“She's all right,” I replied curtly. I was unwilling to give her the satisfaction of knowing I was accepting Mozelle, for in doing so, I might be seen as disloyal to Mama—something I suspected would gratify her.

Papa came to my room one evening to tell me how pleased he was that I was kind to his new wife. “When I go away, Mozelle will be company for you—and you for her.”

An idea struck me. “Could she attend the Jewish Girls' School with me?”

“I don't think so.”

“She doesn't even read,” I confided.

“That’s not important. In any case, that is not her desire.”

“How do you know?” I challenged.

My father ignored me.

“Let's ask her.”

“Dinah!” He looked exasperated enough to chastise me further, but he caught himself. I could tell he was mulling over his next words. He lowered his voice. “Mozelle must have quiet activities for the next several months.”

Mozelle was sleepy most of the time. She napped more than my brothers. “Marriage must be tiring,” I said.

Papa laughed heartily. “She has started a baby, so she must rest.”

“When will she finish it?”

He chuckled even louder. “In May, I think. I will try to be home by then.”

A pang reminded me that he would be going back to China in a few weeks, but I no longer feared loneliness. At least I would not have to return to Aunt Bellore's. I would be going to a new school, Grandmother Helene enjoyed my company and kept everyone amused, and the boys were older and more companionable. Mozelle and I would be together and, happily, soon there would be a new baby in the house.

 

“What this house needs is music, laughter, people!” was Grandmother Helene's pronouncement a few days after my father's departure for China.

She was right. We had been a somber clutch ever since the date of his trip had been announced.

“I'm leaving you in good hands,” he assured me. “Now, I want you to help Grandmother Helene take care of Mozelle. She will be your 'little mother.' “

“Yes, Papa,” I agreed, finding the term “little mother” pleasing because it proved I was not as motherless as Nani had feared.

My father had acquired two women in the marriage contract: a nubile innocent to bear him children, and a sensible—at least that was what he thought—manager for his household.

Grandmother Helene was a big woman in body, in soul, in heart— and in requirements to sustain the three. The kitchen was the site of her first improvements. Our cook, a Muslim who was well-schooled, in kosher laws, had until now brought little imagination to his task. Grandmother Helene had no qualms about rolling up her sleeves to work side by side with him until his creations met her exacting standards. Under her tutelage even the traditional
kooba
—stuffed rice dumplings—were more deliriously spiced. Specialties such as
pantras
, pancakes rolled with chicken, and
bamia khutta
, sweet-and-sour chicken and okra, were placed on the table several times a week. On the Sabbath,
muchli ka
curry, a tangy fish platter, and
hans mukmura
, duck with almond-raisin-and-spice sauce, appeared. No longer was only one dish offered for each course of the meal. Grandmother Helene insisted that a “taste of this and a taste of that” was best for her “Mazal-Tob,” the Jewish name she preferred to call her daughter.

Indeed, in the early months, Mozelle felt sick if she went without eating for more than an hour. Tables in every room were laden with trays of fresh fruit, several varieties of
barfi
fudges, even my favorite, the creamy coconut candy, dol-dol.

“Bring me some figs. I want mango fool. I must have a turnover,” she ordered in so docile a tone that she did not sound officious.

“Yes, yes, my darling,” her mother cooed.

My brothers and I were no longer expected to take our meals in the nursery dining room. “This is one big family!” Grandmother Helene exclaimed. “We shall eat together.”

Her concept of family stretched beyond us three children and her daughter to include her other children, their husbands and babies, her sisters' and brothers' families, her old friends from Calcutta, Darjeeling, and everywhere else. Rarely did only five of us sit down to a meal. Her hospitality became legion. The Arakie clan broadcast the news that her table was always set for twenty. We never knew who might appear at mealtimes.

The genial Arakies were the opposite of the staid Sassoons. They hugged, they shouted, they laughed, they cried—all in the space of a few minutes. Children could run freely through the mansion, racing, rolling toys, throwing balls. Father's Chinese porcelains disappeared for the duration. Other delicate objects were removed. The corridor runners were rolled and put away.

Quite soon Mozelle grew too large to frolic with the children, but she hated to be alone. “I am afraid here without Benu,” she confided the first month after my father had gone.

Many a bride might have felt the same in so large a home, but few had as just cause as Mozelle. Her mother slept in her room at night, even though one durwan was posted outside her door and another in the courtyard below. If she rested during the day, I was expected to keep her company. Her body seemed to swell even as I observed her sleeping. Her chest grew as plump as pillows, her arms and legs thickened, and her belly, which held the venerable object, was that of a female Buddha. So awestruck was I by the metamorphosis that I vowed never to allow the same to happen to my body.

If I could not nap, I would slip downstairs to the terrace, where Grandmother Helene sat on a divan directing the malis to plant more flowers (especially the rare bicolor varieties of roses she adored), trim hedges to her specifications, and fertilize the vegetables and herbs she required for the table. Many afternoons, ladies would arrive about three for rounds of
nowta-hasthta
, a card game like baccarat. When my mother had entertained guests, I had been ordered to disappear, but Grandmother Helene included me. “Come, advise me on my play,” she asked to flatter me after I had learned the basics.

Gone as well was the rule that I could visit my Raymond grandparents only every other Sabbath. Grandmother Helene declared this nonsense and said I might go whenever I wished.

“May they come here too?” I asked. “They hardly ever see Jonah and Asher.”

She bit her lower lip. “No, your father was firm about that.”

For the most part the Sassoons ignored us. We saw them at the synagogue, but they made a point of not calling at Theatre Road, and I was hardly ever asked back to Kyd Street. On one of the few occasions I did see them, at a Chanukah party at Uncle Saul's, Aunt Bellore questioned me. “Dinah, tell me, is what I hear true? They say that Helene Arakie has a crowd over for a big
tamasha
every night.”

“Not every night,” I demurred.

“She feeds a crowd at her table, doesn't she? Who visits? Anyone I would know?”

My guard was up, for I thought she was trying to discover if my Raymond grandparents were breaking my father's ban. “If you want the names, ask my Grandmother Helene,” I snapped, and sauntered off.

Toward the end of her pregnancy, Mozelle retreated upstairs, no longer hazarding to transport her bulk—her width was nearly equal to her height—down the marble stairs. She spent her days propped against a mound of Persian pillows, her face as pallid as a new moon, her drooping eyelids giving her a perpetual sleepy expression. Her sausage fingers seemed forever grasping an almond turnover, and its crumbs littered the expanse of her enormous abdomen.

In the last weeks of her confinement, she contracted a severe case of prickly heat, and a filigree of pink welts laced her transparent skin. “Mama! I cannot tolerate it!” she cried out as her itch worsened toward midday. “Please, can't we go to the mountains?” Every one of her relations, except her mother, had fled to Darjeeling.

“You know you must not travel,” Grandmother Helene chided.

As two ayahs patted their mistress's bulk with towels, one of them giggled and jumped back.

“What is it?” I asked.

The second ayah pushed on Mozelle's belly to show me that when the baby moved, visible bumps dotted the landscape of her abdomen. She started to dry Mozelle again, but Mozelle was so irritated at being poked from two directions at once, she lashed out and slapped the girl.

“Mozelle!” her mother admonished as she shooed the servants away. She draped her pouting daughter in a loose cotton sari.

I did not think any less of Mozelle for her outburst. People were known to go mad in Calcutta's heat. Out in the sun your brain would sizzle if you dared remove your clammy topee for even a moment. In the shade, your body bade you to do as little as possible. As the unrelenting heat blasted us, everyone was irritable, and at times we all were stricken with fits of bad behavior. My brothers whined and hit each other. I threw books against the wall, ripped up my drawings, even poured a pitcher of water over my head when I was wearing my fanciest frock.

At the apex of the cruel summer, we were allowed outdoor activity only in the early-morning hours before the sun climbed as high as the top of the rose arbor. My brothers and I were taken on sunrise walks in the Maidan, where we watched with astonishment as the British soldiers paraded in full uniform.

Yali shook her head. “Crazy men.”

“Look”—I pointed—”they wear a different color uniform in the summertime.”

Jonah studied the troops and reported, “They are the old ones soaked with sweat.”

In the worst of the heat, we dozed on charpoys wrapped in wet sheets. The mattresses were removed from the string beds so that the punkah-wallahs could force the stagnant air to circulate around our burning bodies. Wakeful at night, we played quiet games on the terrace. This was the only time Mozelle seemed content. She talked sweetly about the baby, what she might name it, what it might look like.

“Do you think Benu will be back in time?” she asked her mother wistfully.

Grandmother Helene was hopeful. “He said he might.”

“He won't,” I offered from experience. “He is always away more than six months.”

Mozelle sulked, but no one contradicted me.

In early June, Aunt Bellore and Uncle Samuel called on us after Saturday-morning services.