She had a face made for beaming, youthful and smooth and innocent, framed by a shower of brown curls. The smile dug dimples in her plump rosy cheeks and made her light brown eyes sparkle. She had a pert nose and a small pink mouth set in the middle of a round face. She reminded me of pictures of fairies in one of the children's books I had read for my daughters. She was five two and bosomy in a blue housedress with red dots. She was barefoot. Her feet were tiny. If not for the onset of laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, she might have been mistaken for a buxom fifteen-year-old. Her age, I knew from the police report, was thirty.
Truth was, she was pretty, but hardly on the level of movie actresses.
She looked so utterly happy with my lie that I hated having to ruin her mood.
I told her what I was there to talk to her about. Her face fell. She pressed one hand to her cheek and shook her head.
"What an awful thing. I must have cried for a week straight when I heard the news. Well, come in, come in. I'd be happy to help."
I followed her down a hall that opened onto a narrow kitchen on the left and a larger living room on the right. Children's toys lay scattered on the rug and coffee table.
"Forgive the mess," she said. "The children…they just throw their things everywhere. No matter how often I tell them to tidy up after themselves, they never listen. You have children, Adam? I can call you Adam, can't I?"
"No and yes. No, I don't have children, and, yes, you can call me Adam. How old are your children?"
"Four and two. Boy and girl. Can you believe that I have two children? Most people think I'm too young." She flashed a coquettish smile. Her breath smelled faintly of sugar. "They're at my mother-in-law's now. Which is the only good thing about having her live nearby. I do love the two monsters so, but they can be draining. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't look so worn out." She let out a theatrical sigh of desperation, then peered at me expectantly. It took me a moment to realize that she was waiting for some response from me.
"You don't look tired," I offered lamely, but it appeared to satisfy her. She took my arm and steered me toward a two-seater. She sat next to me, curling her feet under her. Then she shook her head playfully and let out a chuckle.
"Where are my manners? I haven't offered you anything to drink."
"I'm fine," I said.
"Sure? I can make some coffee, or do you feel like some red wine? I know they say drinking alcohol before dinner is bad for you, but I've read that in America lots of people do. Have you been to America, Adam?"
"No."
"I so desperately want to go," she said, her hand still on my arm. "When I see movies, I picture myself in those huge cities with the buildings so high they pierce the clouds. Or when I listen to big band music on the radio, I imagine those nightclubs with all the glamorous people dancing and drinking champagne. I sometimes can't help but feel angry that when my parents chose to leave Poland, they came here instead of America. What were they thinking? Can you imagine how glorious my life could have been?"
I nodded slowly, though inside I was burning with indignation. Leah Goldin, I realized, was the sort of self-centered person who believed she deserved far more than what life had given her, the sort who invariably blames others for her perceived misfortune.
A part of me wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her hard, and yell in her face that she should be thankful that her parents had found the fortitude to uproot themselves and immigrate to a land they knew only from Jewish history and tradition. That by doing so, they had surely saved their daughter's life. That I blamed myself for not having the foresight to do the same. That my family was dead because of my blindness.
I gritted my teeth, biting back the words. Hitting her with the truth would do no good. It would only alienate her, and I needed her cooperation.
"Do you have a cigarette?" Leah said, jerking me out of my furious thoughts.
I yanked the pack out of my pocket and tapped one out for her. I fired up a match. She leaned forward toward the light, cigarette stuck in her small mouth, laying a steadying hand on mine as she brought match and cigarette together. Then she took a pull, making a face before tilting her head back and blowing out a cloud of smoke at the ceiling.
"You must be a strong man to smoke such potent tobacco." She was giving me a half-lidded stare, one that sent a message that was impossible to mistake. On the wall above the sofa hung a large framed wedding picture of Leah Goldin and her husband. She was beaming again, all in white—her dress, her earrings, her necklace, her veil, and the bouquet of daisies in her hands. He was a lanky man wearing a three-piece gray suit and a self-conscious smile. He was looking directly ahead, but also appeared to be gazing down at us. I shifted slightly away from her, my back pressed against the armrest.
