No One Must Know (10 page)

Jean didn’t reply. She just kept on spreading the apple filling, her face impassive.

“What’s wrong with you, Jean?” Molly asked. “Why aren’t you talking to us?”

Jean balanced the edge of her spatula on the rim of a plate before speaking. “Well,” she finally said, turning to me, “you can’t expect Christie to invite you if you’re going out with Jacob.”

“Why?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she said. “No reason, I guess.” She turned to Molly. “I think you and I should go to the party, though. It would hurt Christie’s feelings if we didn’t show up.”

“And what about Alex’s feelings? If she doesn’t go, I don’t want to either!” Molly declared. “I’m surprised at
you, Jean. Everybody calls us the Three Musketeers. We do everything together.”

“Don’t be so childish,” Jean said. “I’m going, and I’m sure Alex doesn’t care.”

“Of course you should go,” I said. I hoped the fake smile on my face wouldn’t let her guess how much she was hurting me. “You should go too, Molly.”

“No way!” Molly caught Jean’s sleeve. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you being so weird?”

Jean pulled away. “I’m not!” she said. “It’s just that…Oh, never mind.” She threw down her spatula. “I have to leave now,” she announced. “I have to go somewhere with my mother. Alex, could you please put my strudel into the oven at 350 degrees for half an hour? I’ll come by tomorrow to pick it up, if that’s all right.”

“Okay, but–”

“I’ve got to run now,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

Before I could reply, she had disappeared.

“What’s the matter with her?” Molly asked. She sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. “Sometimes I feel as if I don’t know her at all.”

“Me neither. She’s certainly been acting strangely. Jacob thinks she doesn’t like him. Do you remember how unfriendly she was to him on the bus?”

“I do. After you got off, I asked her why she was like that to him. She wouldn’t tell me.”

“Well, it’s no use asking her again. You know how stubborn she is. She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”

Mom came into the kitchen. “Dr. Gal has to make a housecall, Molly. He can drop you off at your house, if you’d like.” She looked around the room. “Where’s Jean?”

“She had to leave early, Mom.”

“That’s too bad. Dad could have taken her home too.”

“I’ll get my jacket, Mrs. Gal,” Molly said as they left the kitchen.

W
hen Dad came home, I told him about the mystery letter. He said nothing. Instead, he went straight upstairs to see Mom. I could hear their voices, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

When he finally came back downstairs, Dad said, “The letter you were asking about is from an old friend of your mother’s. It’s nothing for you to worry about.” Then he went into the den and shut the door behind him.

I spent the rest of the afternoon watching an old movie on TV, but I barely followed it. I kept thinking about how much I wanted to call Jean to find out why she disliked Jacob. As if it had a mind of its own, my hand reached for the telephone. But as I was dialing her
number, I realized that she would be getting ready for Christie’s party. Despite what I had said, I was still terribly hurt that she wanted to go without me. I slammed the receiver back onto the cradle just as Mom and Dad came into the room. Mom was a little more pale than usual, but she looked smart in a blue wool dress and a matching hat with a feather in it. Her coat was draped over her arm. Dad was wearing his black suit. I started to ask them about the letter, but a look from Dad stopped me.

“Well, we’re ready to head off to the Glenn Gould concert. When I hear his music, I forget everything,” Mom said in a wistful tone.

One look at my face was enough for her to know that something was wrong. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Are you feeling sick? You’re a little pale.” She felt my forehead. “You don’t feel warm, but why don’t you lie down? You may be coming down with something.” She took off her hat and put down her coat on the sofa. “I’ll stay home with you.”

“No, Mom. I’m okay. I have a little headache, that’s all. Please go! I know how much you love the music.”

“I can’t leave you alone when you may be sick, dear. You go without me, Jonah.”

“I will not!” Dad said. “You’re coming with me, Agi. You need to get out of the house.”

“But I’m worried about Alexandra being–”

Dad interrupted her. “It’ll do you good to go to the concert.”

“It’s just that–”

He patted her hand. “Don’t worry about Alexandra. There’s nothing wrong with her, and we’ll be home in a couple of hours anyway. She’ll take an aspirin and her headache will be gone by the time we return.”

“Dad’s right, Mom. Please go. I’ll be fine.”

It took us several minutes to convince her to leave. I breathed a sigh of relief when the front door finally clicked closed behind them. I turned on the TV again but still couldn’t concentrate, so I began to wander the house aimlessly. I suddenly realized that this was my big chance to look again at the photographs hidden in Mom’s drawer. I was especially curious about the girl who looked like me.

Without any more delay, I raced to my parents’ bedroom and pulled out the bottom drawer of Mom’s dresser, careful not to displace the scarves in it. I reached under the green scarf on top, but this time my fingers did not touch the flat package. Mom must have moved it, I thought. I took out all the scarves and unfolded them–still no photos. Then I rifled through the rest of the drawers. Hidden below the lace mantilla Mom wore to church was the letter that had come that morning. But the photographs were nowhere to be found.

I turned my attention to Dad’s tall chest of drawers. The photographs weren’t there either. By then, I was flinging piles of my parents’ clothing onto the floor. I peered at the top and bottom of the closet. I crouched down and checked under the bed. I even lifted the mattress and slipped my hand underneath it. No sign of the photos.

I checked my watch. Over an hour had passed since Mom and Dad had gone out. It was time to start folding the clothing I had flung about and putting it back in place. I was just returning the last pair of socks to a drawer when the doorbell startled me. I looked at my watch again. It was still too early for Mom and Dad to have returned.

I peeked through the spy hole in the front door and saw a small woman with brown hair in an elegant black overcoat. She held a small suitcase in her hand. She seemed harmless enough and there was even something familiar about her, so I swung the door open. When she saw me, she took a step forward, her arms stretched wide.

“Agi,” she cried, continuing on in what sounded like Hungarian.

I stepped back. “I’m sorry, but I can’t understand you. My name is Alexandra. My mother’s name is Agi. What can I do for you?”

“Yes, of course. Alexandra, like your grandmother of blessed memory,” the woman replied in a soft voice with an accent that sounded like Mom’s. “I am being silly. Of course you wouldn’t speak Hungarian.” She enunciated her words carefully, the way people sometimes do when their first language is not English. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I had forgotten for a moment that the years have passed. When I last saw your dear mother, more than fifteen years ago, she looked the way you do today.”

“Everybody says that I look like Mom. Did you come to see her? She isn’t home.”

“I am Jutka!”

She looked at me as if she expected me to know who she was. Her name was familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I had heard it before, so I shook my head.

“Your mother hasn’t talked about me?” she asked, her voice laced with disappointment. Suddenly, she glanced at the doorframe, her features clouded with confusion. “Where is the mezu–” She broke off and leaned against the door. “Please, may I come in and wait for your mother? I’m so tired. I traveled through the night to get here.”

I knew I wasn’t supposed to invite strangers into the house, but she looked so exhausted that I couldn’t bear to leave her standing outside. I’m bigger than she is, I
told myself, so she won’t be able to hurt me. “Please, come in,” I found myself saying, and I led her into the living room.

“What a lovely home you have,” she said. “Agi always loved beautiful things. So did your grandmama.” She walked up to the piano. “Do you play?”

“A little. I used to take lessons, but I wasn’t very good. Mom’s the real musician in the family.”

“Your mother and I had the same teacher a million years ago. Do you mind if I…?” she asked, pointing to the piano. “I can never resist.”

“Go ahead. I love music.”

Her eyes closed and her fingers flew over the keyboard like the wings of a butterfly, coaxing notes from the belly of the black beast. The music reminded me of roaring waves in a stormy sea. Then the waves flattened, becoming gentle and soft until they gradually dissipated. Her hands rested lightly on the keys for a final stretched-out note before she turned to me.

I was at a loss for words. “You’re a wonderful pianist,” I finally said.

“I used to be. Never as good as your mama, of course. Both of us dreamt of the concert stage, but that was before…”

“Before what?”

She didn’t reply. She seemed to be staring at the cross around my neck, just as Mr. McCallum had done that day in the church.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Why are you looking at my necklace?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

She closed the piano and picked up one of the three photographs displayed on top. The first was my school picture, the second a stiffly posed family photo. The one she was looking at was a snapshot that Dad had taken of Mom that summer at the beach. She was sitting on a bench beside the lake, her face lifted toward the sun as if she was trying to absorb all of its warmth.

I was suddenly reminded of another picture I had seen–the photograph of the four women in the garden. There was something about this woman’s expression that made me look at her more closely. She was the girl with the dark hair in the photographs I’d found, I realized. And her name–Jutka–wasn’t that one of the names on the back of one of the photographs? Wasn’t it also the name Mom had called out when she read the mysterious letter for the first time?

“You’re the girl in Mom’s photographs, aren’t you?” I cried. “You also wrote her a letter, didn’t you? Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I don’t understand. I know nothing about any photographs,” she said. “Your dear mama is my oldest friend. I did write her a letter, but she never answered me.” She kissed Mom’s picture and said, “My beloved Agi.”

“What are you doing? Who are you?” I repeated. She seemed so emotional that I began to feel a bit panicked. What if she didn’t know Mom at all, I suddenly thought, and was just some crazed woman I’d let into our home? I moved closer to the fireplace, within reach of the bellows resting by the hearth. I could use it to defend myself if she turned violent.

“Please! Please! You have nothing to fear from me,” she said, noticing the alarm on my face. “Agi and I have been friends ever since we were girls. I love her like a sister. She saved my life. She sacrificed herself for me!”

I stared at her, my curiosity at war with my fear.

“Look,” she said, rolling up her left sleeve and displaying a series of blue numbers on her forearm. “We even lied about our last names so we could stay together in the camp. Agi’s number is A10235. Mine is A10234.”

By then I was convinced that I was facing a madwoman. “What are you talking about? My mother doesn’t have any numbers tattooed on her arm.” I pointed to the door. “Get out!”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know that–”

She was distracted by the sound of a key turning in the front door. I started breathing easier when I heard my parents’ voices. They appeared in the doorway, and Mom’s hand flew to her throat at the sight of the stranger. I couldn’t read the expression on her face. She shuddered deeply and stretched out her arms toward the woman.

“Jutka! Jutka!” she cried. “It’s so good to see you. Until your letter came, I thought you were dead.”

The two women engulfed each other in a tight embrace, their tears intermingling. Then it was Dad’s turn to be hugged.

“Alexandra,” Mom said, “I’m so glad you welcomed my darling Jutka to our home.”

“Who is she, Mom?” I asked.

“Explanations can wait,” Dad said. “Jutka should have something to eat. We’ll talk after the meal.” He patted my face. “Well, sweetheart,” he said, “it seems that you’ll be getting some answers to your questions.”

Although it was late, Mom filled the table, and we all sat down to eat. I picked at my food and waited for someone to tell me what was going on.

“Let’s speak English,” Dad suggested, “so Alexandra can understand.”

“Jonah, do you think that’s a good idea?” Mom asked.

“Can’t you see that the time has come for her to be told the truth?” Dad turned to Jutka and said, “We’re surprised to see you. Your letter came only this morning.”

“I wrote to you a month ago, as soon as I found out where you lived,” she said. “When you didn’t reply, I became worried and bought a train ticket so I could come here myself.”