The Belief in Angels (50 page)

“You don’t have to depend on anyone anymore. That’s an excuse to be lazy.”

“Sometimes depression looks like lazy.”

We don’t talk at all for the rest of the ride.

When we pull up to my grandfather’s brownstone, the sunset has turned the dusty brown stone into crimson. I jump out at the curb and slam my door shut before Wendy turns off the car.

Her voice catches me as I start to walk toward the building.

“Give me a break. I did the best I could! What can I say to you? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every lousy thing that’s happened. I’m sorry I wasn’t the mother you wanted or felt like you deserved. I’m sorry I pick losers for husbands and boyfriends. I don’t know what else I can say, but I’m sorry!” Wendy is screaming now.

“Sorry works. Sorry is a good start. You never say you’re sorry about anything. You act like I’m the one out of line for asking you to be different and behave like a person who cares about her kids. You’ve done terrible things to us. You made me feel …” I can’t finish what I wanted to say.

“I made you feel what?”

I start to cry. “You told me it was my fault Moses died.”

“I … what? I never said that!” She seems mystified by my statement.

“You did!”

“When?”

“After … after it happened.”

“No, I didn’t. Or I didn’t mean it if I did say it. I can’t remember what I said. I remember that I was out of my fucking mind that Moses died. It wasn’t your fault. My God! It wasn’t your fault.”

Wendy starts crying. I’ve never seen her cry. Not once. Not even when Howard beat her. Not even when she found Jack with the girl down in Key West. Not even the day of Moses’s funeral. It freaks me out.

“Why are you both shouting in the street like criminals?” my grandfather calls down from his apartment window.

Crap. We’re standing there crying and screaming like morons. I’m mortified and hope my grandfather hasn’t heard what we’ve been fighting about. Wendy and I stare at each other. I start to laugh. At first she crosses her eyes at me like I’m crazy, then she starts to laugh as well.

We go into the brownstone, climbing the steep stairs to my grandfather’s apartment together.

Wendy stays for dinner and her check, as usual. I plan to stay for a week and take the T and the buses back. I walk her out to the hallway at the end of the evening and say good-bye.

“Remember, you’re old enough to make your own choices. Don’t let him bully you into doing what he wants. Don’t let him buy your will.”

I think about her warning. Will he try to
buy my will?
I’m certain I’m not going to let that happen. I’ve already secured financial aid if I need it, I won a National Merit Scholarship and I’ve been offered a small grant if I’m accepted as an art student. My plan, if I’m accepted to the Boston School of the Arts, is to stay in the dorms the first year and then rent a room from David’s high school friend who has a place in the city. I’m also planning to get a work study job.

There’s nothing my Grandfather Samuel can do to change my mind.

Jules, 17 years | March, 1979

a little sorrow

AT FIRST, MY grandparents and I hang out together.

In the morning, when I wake up, my Grandmother Ruth offers me Frosted Flakes. The same box my grandfather has kept in the cupboard since Moses spent the night ten years ago. I ask her if she’ll make me fried matzoh instead. I love fried matzoh.

Later, we go shopping for groceries and my grandfather goes to work. He’s sixty-nine years old and he’s still working four or five days a week at his tailor shops. Ruth walks everywhere to do errands. She walks miles out of the way to save five cents for a particular item. I had no idea how much exercise she manages on a daily basis.

After we bring the groceries home and put them away we go to the movies. We watch
Harold and Maude.
I love it. Ruth hates it. When we’re home, I help her make dinner, and then we go to visit friends of theirs in the next apartment building over.

I sleep in the dining room, which doubles as their guest quarters, on a cot.

After three days of more or less the same activities, I wake up one morning to find my grandfather sitting in one of the chairs at the dining table. I have the feeling he’s been sitting here for a while, waiting for me to wake up.

“Morning,” I mumble.

“Good morning,” he says with his thick accent. “I want to talk with you while your grandmother shops.”

I sit up and pull the covers around me, self-consciously trying to tidy my hair, which sticks out everywhere in its morning mess. I figure this must be the
college conversation,
but it starts out differently than I expect.

“You don’t look like your mother or the father. You look like my twin sisters, Ruchel and Sura.”

I’ve wondered most of my life why I don’t resemble anyone in my family. Wendy’s revelations a few days ago have certainly made me wonder about my true paternity—despite her assurances that Howard is my father. But I don’t understand how, if Wendy is adopted, I could resemble my grandfather’s sisters.

I go from sleepy to completely alert in a few seconds.

“Tell me about them. You never talk about your family. What were they like? Are they still alive in the Ukraine?”

My grandfather turns his gaze to the wall, and we remain there, silent, for a while as he removes his glasses and begins to clean them with the handkerchief he always keeps in his pocket. Then he speaks slowly and quietly. I can barely understand him.

“No. They are
toyt. Meysim.”
He pauses, realizing he isn’t speaking English anymore. “They are gone. They are all gone now. I have family still in New York who I don’t know … but the brothers and sisters who stayed behind … are gone.”

He sounds sad. I’m afraid to ask more questions, but if I don’t, I may never have another chance.

I ask softly, “What happened to everyone? What happened to Ruchel and Sura?”

He’s quiet so long I don’t think he’ll answer me at all.

Then my grandfather stares straight into my eyes and says, “They were killed by the Russian soldiers. They were murdered. They killed Berl, my sister Rose’s first husband. They killed my brother Idel.”

When he says his brother’s name, his voice breaks and he makes a sound like a gull’s cry. The pain of it makes my own heart ache.

“My parents, they had come here, to America, with the young ones. Rose, my brother Oizer and I, and the others … we were the ones left. After the camps, Rose and Oizer came to America to be with the family. I sailed for Palestine. I am thinking I am going to start my life there.”

Again, he grows quiet. I have many questions, but I can see how upset he’s become and I’m afraid to ask them. I’ve never seen my grandfather like this. His emotions scare me.

“You see, there is a little of sorrow in everyone’s life,” he says.

“But in the end, I come here … to America, to start my life, instead of Palestine. I stay with my
foter
and
mater
in New York for a short time. Then Rose and her new husband, Mocher, they take me here to Boston to work with them. I never see the rest of my family much after this. Over the years, I went back to New York twice, once for my
foter’s
funeral, then for the
kind”

He stares out the long casement window of the brownstone.

“This is the last time I see my
mater
before she goes. When I take the
kind”

“What
kind?”
I ask.

“The child. The child. She couldn’t stay with my
mater
anymore. My
mater
is dying. Yetta and I, we brought her here to live.”

I realize he’s talking about Wendy.

They went to get Wendy in New York because she was staying with his mother. Wendy told me she was ten when this happened.

“Why did she live with your parents? Was the orphanage in New York? How come they adopted her?”

“
Tsu vos
orphanage? There is no orphanage.”

“My mother wasn’t adopted?”

Now I’m mystified. I wonder if Wendy made up the story about her adoption.

My grandfather continues,
“Dayn mother
is
mayn
family.”

He says this last thing with anger. I’m not sure what I said to upset him.

“I don’t understand.”

“Your mother is
mayn
family. She is
mayn
sister’s daughter.”

I think about what he just said. Wendy is his niece? His sister’s daughter? What sister? He told me Ruchel and Sura were murdered in the Ukraine.

“Do you mean Rose? Is my mother Rose’s daughter?”

“No, not Rose. Anna.”

Anna? Who is Anna?

This question triggers more questions in my mind. Also, the knowledge that my grandfather truly is my blood relative fills me with so many emotions I can’t sort them.

“Anna is my youngest sister. She is born here in America. She died alone in a hospital. She …” His voice is breaking, but he continues. “There are stories I have not shared with your mother. There are stories it is best we don’t tell, Chavalah. For what good would it do to tell these things?”

“I want to know you, Grandpa. I want to know my family.”

With these words, my grandfather sighs, his body sagging against his chair. The lines in his face sink somehow deeper. He raises his handkerchief to his face
and begins to weep. I move to his side and wind my arms around his shoulders, leaning in to nest my head against his neck. My stomach is in knots and my throat is choked, but I don’t let go.

“The world is full of terrible things, terrible people. I have witnessed more horror than you can dream.”

At his words my body grows cold. Something in his manner terrifies me. It’s my Grandfather Samuel’s body, but it’s as though he’s gone away and someone else is speaking.

Then, as quickly as I have this thought, my grandfather pushes me away and puts his glasses back on. He shoves the handkerchief back in his pocket and looks directly at me. His face is alarmingly composed and serious.

“I want to talk with you about college.”

“Yes,” I answer, shaking my head to try and clear away my questions. “I want to talk with you about your studies. What, what are you going to study?”

“I’m going to study art, Grandpa.”

“What do you mean art? Nobody studies art. You should study teaching. This is what you must do.”

I start to feel uncomfortable, but I tell myself I need to be honest and patient and clear with my grandfather. He’ll understand why I want to pursue art as my major.

“Grandpa, I know that when you were young, the idea of studying art probably sounded decadent, but now it’s an accepted area of college study.”

“I am not accepting. This is foolish thinking. You must think of your future and the life you will have when you graduate. You’re not a
kind
anymore and you must think of a steady career. This will not make money. A degree for an artist. This means nothing. This is foolishness.”

I suck in a breath. I can see this is going to be difficult.

“Grandpa, there are lots of things I can do with my art degree. These days, if I want my art to be taken seriously, if I want to work in the field of art, I need a degree to compete in the art world.”

“You don’t need to compete in this world. You should take a degree in education and teach. This is what you should do. Forget this dream of being an artist.”

“Grandpa, I can’t forget this dream. I understand you’re worried for me that I won’t succeed as an artist. I can’t assure you I will, but I can assure you I’ll never be happy unless I try.”

“What is this happiness? We don’t go to college to be happy. We go to be educated. Enough with this happiness. You should study teaching. That’s enough.”

He waves his hand dismissively. I think he might end the conversation here, with a standoff.

“I will give you money. You will have money to study teaching. No money to study foolishness.”

“I don’t want money from you. I don’t expect you to pay for my college if you don’t want to. I’ve got a grant, student loans and scholarships lined up for school.”

He seems surprised to hear this. I’m relieved. I think maybe he was worried or even offended by the idea that I would expect him to support me. Maybe he’ll support my plan now that he knows I’ve secured the funding?

“They give you scholarships for this foolishness? This is foolishness!” he shouts.

He’s even angrier now. I’m trying to understand why.

“No. You should use the scholarship for education studies. Write to them and thank them, then tell them you want to use the scholarship for this instead.”

“It doesn’t work like that. I got an arts grant. A visual design grant. I can’t use the money for an education major. They don’t teach anything but art education at the school I want to attend.”

“What school this is where they don’t teach anything but dreams? This is a
meshugener
school.”

He laughs. Then I laugh. I’m relieved we’re laughing now.

But he stops laughing and says, “If you go to this
meshugener
school, I will not give you anything. I will give you no money. I will die and you will have none. No money.”

He’s shouting again. He’s never spoken to me like this.

Wendy warned me.

I don’t want to disappoint him, but can see he might never accept my decision.

I consider my options. I know I can take Wendy’s suggestion and lie to him about my intention. I can let him think he’s changed my mind. I can accept his offer to support me through college and never tell him what I’m really studying. I don’t think he’ll continue to ask to see my report cards each semester, as he has throughout high school.

But I can’t. I can’t lie to him about something important to each of us. I want to try and build a relationship with him based on honesty and openness, not like what he and Wendy have. I want to help bring him into the end of the twentieth century. I come up with a compromise I think he’ll be happier with.

“I promise you, if I don’t make it as an artist, I can use this degree to teach.”