“No, Mrs. Hirsch,” Zoya looked at her with her big green eyes, praying that the storm wouldn't come.” am.”
“You are Russian?” She asked the question in her mother tongue, and Zoya almost smiled at the accent. It was the accent of the peasants she had known in her youth, and for an instant she was reminded of Feodor and his cozy wife, Ludmilla.
“I am Russian,” she admitted again, but this time in her own language, which she spoke with the smooth diction and poise of the upper classes. She knew that the older woman would recognize it instantly, and more than likely hate her for it.
“From where?” The inquisition went on as Simon looked helplessly at his father, who was also intently watching Zoya. He liked what he saw, she was an attractive woman with obvious breeding and good manners. Simon had done well for himself, but he also knew that there was no stopping Sofia, Simon's mother.
“From St. Petersburg,” Zoya answered with a quiet smile.
“St. Petersburg?” She was impressed, but she would rather have died than say it. “What was your family name?”
For the first time in her life, she was grateful that it wasn't Romanov, but her own name wasn't much better. She almost laughed as she faced the giant in the printed housedress. She had arms almost like a man's, which made Zoya feel all the more childlike. “Ossupov. Zoya Konstantinovna Ossupov.”
“Why don't we sit down while we talk?” Simon suggested uncomfortably as his mother showed no sign of relenting, and made no move toward the room's straight-backed chairs in their small apartment on Houston Street.
“When did you come here?” She asked Zoya bluntly, as Simon groaned inwardly. He suspected what was coming.
“After the war, madame. I went to Paris in 1917, after the revolution.” There was no point concealing what she was. She only felt sorry for Simon, who looked miserable as he listened to the exchange between his mother and the woman he wanted to marry. But after the bond of their lovemaking and the closeness that had been born of it, they both knew that nothing could keep them apart now.
“So, they threw you out after the revolution.”
Zoya smiled at her. “I suppose you could call it that. I left with my grandmother,” and then her eyes grew serious, “after my family was killed.”
“So was mine,” Sofia Hirsch said bluntly. Their name had previously been Hirschov, but the immigration officer at Ellis Island had been too lazy to write their full name, and without further ado they had become Hirsch instead of Hirschov. “My family was killed in the pogroms, by the Tsar's Cossacks.” Zoya had heard tales of that as a child, but she had never realized that she would one day be put in a position to defend it.
“I'm very sorry.”
“Mmm …” Simon's mother glowered and then stalked out to the kitchen to finish making dinner. And when it was ready, his mother lit the candles, and chanted the Sabbath prayer. His mother kept a kosher home, and had made the traditional challah, which they served with ceremonial wine. It was all a new experience for Zoya. “Do you know what kosher is?” she asked halfway through dinner.
“No … I … yes … well, not really.” They were still speaking Russian, and Zoya felt awkward about her lack of knowledge. “You don't drink milk with meat.” It was the best she could do, as his mother glowered at him again and referred to him constantly as “Shimon,” talking to him in Yiddish instead of Russian.
“Everything has to be kept separate. Dairy must never touch meat.” They had separate plates, and with their new prosperity, she now had two ovens. It all sounded very complicated to Zoya as she explained, but she was fiercely proud of her devotion to Talmudic law, and then she looked proudly at her son as Zoya smiled. “He's so smart, he could have been a rabbi. But what does he do? He goes to Seventh Avenue and throws his family out of the business.”
“Mama, that's not true,” Simon smiled. “Papa retired, and so did Uncle Joe and Uncle Isaac.” Zoya realized as she listened that this was an aspect of his life she hadn't truly understood. It was one thing to hear him tell about it, and another to actually meet them. She felt suddenly terrified that she would never measure up in their eyes. She knew nothing of his religion, or how important it was to him. She didn't even know if he himself was religious, although somehow she suspected that he wasn't. Her own religion wasn't extremely important to her, although she believed in God. But she only went to the Orthodox church on Easter and Christmas.
“What did your father do?” Sofia Hirsch fired the question at her, after Zoya had helped her to clear the table. She already knew that Zoya worked in a shop, and that Simon had met her in Paris.
“My father was in the army.” Zoya answered as the older woman almost shrieked.
“Not a
