Shadows of Berlin полностью

“Do I?” he wonders. And now when he smiles, it is with no more than a hint of paternal condescension softening his eyes. “If you say so, child. From your lips to God’s ear.”

Rachel breathes in and then makes her admission. Her admission that proves her devotion to him, though why does it sound like a crime she’s confessing? “I paid your rent.”

“Say again?” A crooked expression of confusion. “You did what?” He has removed a package of Wissotzky Tea from the shelf above the hot plate, the coil now glowing red.

“Mrs. Appelbaum told me that you were two months in arrears.”

A flash of embarrassed anger streaks across his eyes. “Oh, she did? She thought that was news for the front page?”

“She remembered me. From when we both lived here.”

“And so you decided to what? Empty your bank account as a remedy for an old man’s financial dilemma?”

“It was an impulse,” Rachel attempts to offer as an explanation. Now that his theatrics are done, she knows that she must suffer through her uncle’s genuine embarrassment over money, even though yesterday he was, as he’d reminded her, begging her for it. But money for a painting? That was a deal. Paying his overdue rent? That’s charity. C’est une insulte!

Feter Fritz turns his back on her, busy filling a small mesh tea ball. “An impulse,” he says. “One of which I’m sure your good husband will disapprove.”

“I was trying to help. I was looking for you at the cigar store, and I talked to Mr. Michnik.”

“Michnik.” Feter repeats the name sourly. “A true racketeer if ever one was born. The markup on those loathsome cigars of his? He’s a swindler and a cheat, and I’m well out of his employ.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Feter. Please understand. I was trying to be helpful.”

“Yes, yes. Of course, Rokhl. Le vieil homme comprend, ma chère,” he says, still showing her his back. “I’m a broken old bum living in a trash dump.”

The kettle begins to gurgle on the hot plate; steam dances from its spout. But her uncle does not touch it. His shoulders square, and he does not move even as the gurgle becomes a shrill squeal. Finally, it’s Rachel who crosses the room and turns off the burner.

“I am not in possession of your mother’s painting. I wish I was hiding it under a bed I do not have. But I am not,” he tells her.

At this point, all she can do is wipe the tears from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

“I’m sorry that we could not protect her work from the hands of some anonymous philistine,” he says. “But if it is gone, it is gone. It pains me deeply, yes, but God has His plan, and who can argue? What is worse for me? What is truly painful? It’s seeing the effect of this on you, Rashka dear. How deeply it has disturbed you. You inherited your eema’s mistrustful nature, this much I know, but now? To doubt me to the point where you’ve concocted a fantasy? A fantasy that even your old uncle is deceiving you? Stealing your mother’s legacy from you? Honestly, Rokhl, I regret having involved you at all. It was thoughtless of me. In my excitement, I forgot how fragile you remain. It would have been better, perhaps, had your eema’s painting simply appeared and then disappeared in the same breath, without you ever having known. But now?” he says. “Now, all we can do is share the loss.”

6.

Doughnut Paradise

Rachel’s life with Aaron begins in January of 1950, when, still fairly fresh off the boat, she has some trouble with a desk attendant at the Seward Park Library. A young balding fellow with a brown mole on his cheek gets sharp with her. “Hey. Whattaya you think you’re doing?” this fellow demands to know, though the answer is really quite obvious. Air France Flight 009, flying from Paris to New York, has crashed into a mountain in the Azores, dispatching all aboard, and Rachel is busy tearing the article from the branch’s copy of the Daily News.

Stopping in midtear, she blinks blankly at the fellow with the mole. “I beg your pardon?” Her accent is on display.

“That is library property, hon. Know what that means? Other people get to read it too. You can’t just start ripping it apart.”

Her spine straightens. A beat of panic stabs her heart. It simply hadn’t occurred to her that she might be committing a library crime. She lets go of the paper and balls her fists as if she may be forced to defend herself, but before she speaks another word, her eyes attach to the man who will, within months, become her American husband, Aaron Samuel Perlman. A solid young mensch, dressed in a black wool jacket, with a soldierly haircut growing out into curls and hooded eyes of manganese blue. He’s come to the Seward Park branch, she will later discover, to return an overdue copy of a book called Battle Cry, but now he goes to battle for her.