Shadows of Berlin полностью

But this is their first holiday gathering. The house is one in a row of functional, well-­kept, two-­story brick or wood-­frame dwellings with shingled porches and small grassy patches of yard that form a fringe against the sidewalk. Trees shade the street at uneven intervals, but otherwise the sun brightens the springtime greening and shrinks the shadows under the porch roofs.

“God knows she’s been cleaning like a maniac since Purim,” Aaron advises Rachel. Still outside as they are heading for the front door. “You won’t find a particle of schmutz for fifty miles in any direction,” he says, “so mention how spotless the house looks, and you’ll be in like Flynn.”

At the door, a mezuzah. Nothing too fancy. A functional little brass casket inscribed with the holy seal of God. Aaron performs his usual tap-­and-­kiss routine and doesn’t notice that his wife breaches the barrier without any such gesture. He is already busy announcing their arrival in his favorite singsongy Yiddish bubbe’s voice, thick with diphthongs. “Halloo! Cherished mishpocha peoples! Guess who it is come from the big city!”

Inside, the sun’s bright edge fades as it’s filtered through the drapes. A homey, murky veil of daylight hues color the living room. The house is small on the inside but appears content with its crowd of bulky furnishings. The armchairs and living room couch are comfortably padded but not voluptuously so. The bureaus and tables are thick, dark mahogany. The rugs on the floor vacuumed half to death. The air pungent with the deeply simmering aroma of chicken soup and matzah balls.

“So, Ma, I see you took the slipcover off the sofa,” Aaron calls to his mother in the kitchen, then turns to Rachel and takes her jacket. “You must be very special,” he says. “She never does that. I’m serious. The Prophet Elijah could actually walk through the front door, and she wouldn’t take the slipcovers off the sofa for him.”

“What a fresh-­mouthed boy I’ve raised,” his mother declares as she walks in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She is a thin, diminutive woman dressed in a pale-­green sweater and black hostess skirt. The green of the sweater is obviously chosen to highlight the green in her eyes. She is a woman who must have been beautiful in her youth and has become handsome with middle age. Her hair is a dark chestnut like her daughter’s with threads of silver. “Hello, troublemaker,” she says affectionately to her son.

“Hi, Ma,” he answers with a boyish smugness and gives his mother a confident peck, still his mother’s boy who gets away with the moon and the stars.

“And hello, darling,” she says to Rachel and plants a motherly kiss on her cheek.

“Hello, Mrs. Perlman,” Rachel replies.

“Please, so formal. Call me Miriam. I keep telling her, Aaron,” she complains with a smile. “We’re family now,” she says, and there’s only a small hint of like it or don’t in her voice as she says it.

“Miriam,” Rachel repeats. “Your house is so nice and so well kept.”

Miriam glances around the room, just to confirm that this is true. “Well, thank you, dear.” She lifts her eyebrows with approval to Aaron. “Such a courteous thing,” she commends him. “Now if only your sister could learn how to be so polite. But of course, her father, may he rest, took care of that. There was nothing I could do,” she confides wearily to Rachel. “She was always her poppa’s pet, and he let her get away with bloody murder.”

“Why, thank you, Mother,” Naomi announces as she enters from the kitchen, without an apron but with a goblet of wine. “I see you don’t waste any time, do you?”

“Oh, Gawd, Naomi,” the woman squawks. “I see you don’t waste any time either. You’re into the wine already?”

“Relax, Ma,” Aaron injects magnanimously. “We’ve all gotta drink four cups, right? Don’t have a stroke.”

“Thank you, shtoomer,” Naomi replies with acidic gratitude. Then gives Rachel a sisterly smack. “Poor girl. To think you’re married to him now.”

“Will you lay off, please?” Aaron instructs his sister amiably enough. “Rachel’s not like you. She doesn’t have the hide of a rhinoceros. And speaking of rhinoceri, where’s the boyfriend, Mr. Hockey Player?” he asks.

“His name is Roger, as I’m sure you’re aware, and he couldn’t come. It’s his weekend with his kids for the month.”

Miriam huffs out a thick sigh of disapproval the size of a billboard.

“What, Ma?”

“Nothing. I just still can’t believe, Chella, that my daughter is seeing a divorced man.”

“And don’t forget, Ma,” Aaron chimes in helpfully. “He’s also a goy.”

“Don’t get me started.” His mother frowns.

“Ma. This isn’t Budapest,” Naomi points out. “Things are different in America.”

“Well, I was born in America too, Missy, and I have news for you. If I had ever stepped out with a man who’d left his wife of twenty-­two years to futz around with me, I would have been shipped off to Budapest on the next boat!”

“I told you, Ma, Roger’s marriage was over before we even met.”