“Sorry I’m late. I had to wait for my stockings to dry,” Theta purred and glanced over at Henry.
Don’t worry, he mouthed from his seat at the piano.
A reporter tipped his hat. “Miss Knight?”
“That’s my name,” Theta said, and even that was a lie.
“What do you remember about your life in Russia?”
“It was cold,” Theta answered. She dangled her unlit cigarette until a reporter offered a match, and Theta looked up at him with her bedroom eyes. “Even our sables wore sables.”
The reporters laughed, and Theta relaxed a little. If you kept them entertained, they didn’t get too personal. They asked their questions, and Theta answered each one, making it up as she went along. It seemed to Theta that her entire life had been improvised and reinvented to fit whatever story she needed in order to survive. She knew about lying by omission—how you could leave out parts of yourself to be filled in by other people who only saw in you what worked for their own reinvented lives. Theta rarely corrected them. What was the point? Most of the stars in Hollywood had phony names given to them by agents and studio heads, and backgrounds invented out of thin air and a desire to sell movie tickets. That was part of the dream factory.
Theta stole another glance at Henry. At the piano, he yawned, barely awake. Shadows showed under his eyes, and his face was much paler than usual. Maybe he didn’t see it, but Theta did.
“Miss Knight?” a reporter prompted her.
“Huh?” Theta said. “I mean”—she put the husky purr back into her voice, a woman of mystery—“yes?”
“Say something in Russian,” a reporter cajoled.
“Twenty-three skidoo-ski,” Theta deadpanned.
“What part of Russia is that from?”
“The swell part.”
“Now, boys, go easy. Miss Knight was only a little girl when they smuggled her out of a war-torn country in the dead of night, to be delivered to this great country by loyal servants and raised in an orphanage by kindly nuns,” Mr. Ziegfeld said. “It was quite traumatic! The poor girl has amnesia and doesn’t remember much at all. The doctors don’t expect that she ever will.”
“That true, Miss Knight?”
Theta blew a plume of smoke in the reporter’s direction, enjoying his cough. “If Mr. Ziegfeld says it’s true, then it’s true.” She couldn’t wait for this dog and pony show to be over so she could sing and dance. That’s the act she was good at, not this one.
“Hey, honey, are you spooked to perform here after what happened to Daisy Goodwin? Murdered right up there on that stage!”
Theta paled. If she told them about that night and the secret power that had helped her to escape from Naughty John, the newspaper boys would have a story to wipe Flo’s “Russian princess” invention right off the page.
“I don’t spook easy,” Theta said, letting her answer out on a plume of cigarette smoke. “If I did, I wouldn’t live in Manhattan.”
“You worried about this sleeping sickness?”
“Who sleeps? I’m a Follies girl.”
“Say, Theta, honey—you wanna give ’em a little song and dance?” Wally nudged.
“It’s what I live for.” Theta dropped her coat on the chair and walked past Henry. “Look alive,” she whispered. “We’re on.”
Theta’s heart beat fast. She avoided looking at Wally. “This is a brand-new song…” Theta started. In his seat, Herbert Allen preened like a man who expected the world to go his way. “… written by the talented Henry DuBois the Fourth.”
Theta gestured toward Henry. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Herbie’s face shift from smug to shocked. “It’s called ‘Slumberland.’ Hit it, Hen!”
When Theta finished selling Henry’s new song for all she was worth, the news hawks applauded.
“Not bad,” one of the reporters mused. “Different.”
“Yeah. A real surprise,” Herbie said. There was murder in his eyes.
“Gentlemen, I give you the Follies’ newest sensation, Miss Theta Knight,” Mr. Ziegfeld crowed.
“And her piano player, Henry DuBois the Fourth,” Henry mumbled to himself. “Thank you, thank you. Hold your applause, folks.”
“Terrific, Miss Knight. Simply terrific,” a smiling reporter said. “They’re going to love this story in Peoria. Why, you’ll be famous everywhere—from New York to Hollywood, Florida to Kansas.”
“Kansas?” Theta whispered.
“Yeah. Big state in the middle of the country. Fulla corn, Republicans, and Bible salesmen, and not much else?”
Herbie put his arm around Theta and gave her a squeeze. “Isn’t she terrific? Actually, I’m writing new songs for this little lady myself. A whole show’s worth. She’s my muse!”
“That so? Is this your beau, Miss Knight?” The gossip columnist winked.
“No,” Theta said, gently shaking Herbie’s hand free.
“Well, you must have somebody—beautiful girl like you.”
The skin of Theta’s palms crawled with heat like a mess of fire ants. Calm, she told herself. Keep calm.
“Come on, give us a little juice for the columns,” the columnist persisted.
“Uh… sure. I got a fella.”
The reporters’ pencils were ready to take it all down. “Well, who is he?”
The heat reached her wrists. “Uncle Sam,” Theta shot back. “I’m a real patriot. ’Scuse me, I gotta powder my nose.”
Quickly, Theta headed for the wings.
“She’s something,” a reporter said.
“She sure is,” Herbie said, looking at Theta as if she were a house he’d bought and was just waiting to move into.
Theta ran into the washroom and yanked off her gloves. Her hands were the color of hot coals. She shoved them under the cold tap, biting her lip as the curls of steam rose up and fogged the mirror. When they felt cool again, she dried her hands, examining them. They looked perfectly normal. But inside her gloves were faint scorch marks.
After the press filed out, Henry and Theta went out the stage door into the alley so Theta could get some air.
Henry gave her a big hug. “We did it!”
“Yeah, we sure did.”
“If I could only watch one movie for the rest of my life, it would be the look on Herbie Allen’s face when you started singing my song.”
“That was something, all right.”
“Hey, what’s the matter? They loved you in there, Czarina Thetakovich!”
“Did you hear that reporter, Hen? Kansas!” Theta said, breaking away and lighting up a cigarette. “What if somebody reads that story and they recognize me? What if they question me about the fire? About Roy?”
“They won’t. You’re Theta Knight, not Betty Sue Bowers. You don’t even look the same. You’re safe,” Henry said, kissing her forehead. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Theta said, feeling a temporary safety with her best friend.
“I’ve got some news of my own.” Henry grinned wide. “Louis is coming to New York. I sent him the train ticket in the mail today.”
“Gee. That’s great, Hen. So you got through to that noggin of his after all. How’d you do it? Did you tell him our telephone exchange over and over till he finally woke up and called it?”
Henry shoved his hands in his pockets and avoided Theta’s gaze. “Not exactly.”
“So how did you… oh, Hen.” Theta sagged against the side of the theater. “Making plans in a dream? That’s no more real than… than me being Russian royalty.”
“I thought you’d be happy for me,” Henry said, hurt.
“I am, Hen. But I’m worried about you. It’s like you live more inside that dream world than you do the regular world these days. You’re skinny and beat, and you’re miles away even when…” Theta stopped suddenly. Her eyes narrowed. “Hen, where’d you get the kale for the train ticket?”
Henry kept his eyes on the ground. “I’ll pay it back.”
“Son of a bitch, Henry!” Theta
barked. A couple passing by on Forty-second Street gave her a disapproving glare. “Breeze, Mrs. Grundy! This ain’t your business,” she growled and they hurried on.
“You made that fund for me because you wanted me to be happy. Having Louis in New York will make me happy, Theta.” Henry had been excited to share the news with Theta. Now it felt like a mistake.
“Hen, that piano fund is our piano fund. It’s for our future. You and me. A team. At least I always figured it that way.”
“I thought you of all people would understand.”
“That ain’t fair, Hen. You know I’m on your side. Always.”
“Yeah. Sure,” Henry said, and he and Theta watched the people walking past on Forty-second Street rendered momentarily insubstantial as they stepped through the steam rising from the city’s manholes. In the alley, he and Theta stood side by side, but they’d never been farther apart.
Between his new role as Evie’s pretend fiancé and putting in more hours at the museum now that Will was gone, Sam had found little time to follow up on his Project Buffalo leads. Finally, he managed to slip away and down to his old neighborhood on the Lower East Side. Many businesses were closed due to the sleeping sickness, and Sam had no luck on Orchard Street until a pickle vendor informed him that the Rosenthals had made good and moved to the Bronx.
Now Sam and Evie waited outside the sprawling apartment building on the Grand Concourse, an aspirational Tudor made for Jews who wanted to reinvent themselves once they’d left the crowded tenements of Orchard and Hester Streets—those tenements themselves a remove from the shtetls and ghettos of Russia, Poland, Romania, and Hungary. Every building had its ghosts, it seemed.
“I don’t see why I had to come,” Evie groused.
Sam put his fingers to his cheeks, making dimples. “Because you’re my darling fiancée. Everybody loves the Sweetheart Seer!” he said sarcastically. “Oh, one more thing—if she asks, you’re converting to Judaism.”
“What? Sam!”
“Don’t worry. Everything’s jake, Baby Vamp. Just follow my lead.”
“If that’s supposed to be reassuring, it’s not,” Evie grumbled.
They took the stairs, dodging a handful of merry children running amok, and knocked at Mrs. Rosenthal’s door. Anna Rosenthal was rounder and older than the young woman Evie had seen in her vision. She wore glasses now, and a few threads of gray showed in her dulled red hair, but it was unmistakably the same woman. Mrs. Rosenthal uttered a small cry before crushing Sam into a fierce hug. She stood back, shaking her head affectionately as she assessed him. “Sergei!”
She spoke to Sam in Russian, and he answered in kind, faltering a little. “Sorry, Mrs. Rosenthal, my Russian’s a little rusty these days.”
“Everyone forgets,” she said, and Sam couldn’t tell if it was said with sadness or gratitude.
Evie cleared her throat.
“And this,” Sam said, hugging her, “is the apple of my eye, my lovely bride-to-be, Evie O’Neill.”
“Charmed,” Evie said, curtsying.
“Yes, I read all about it in the papers! But I had no idea the famous Sam Lloyd was our Sergei Lubovitch until you telephoned and told me. But, please—come in, come in!”
Mrs. Rosenthal welcomed them into a parlor whose every stick of furniture wore a doily yarmulke. From the kitchen, she brought out a plate of mandelbrodt and a pot of coffee.
“Sergei Lubovitch!” Mrs. Rosenthal exclaimed, pressing her fingers to her lips. “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby. And here you are, grown. And so handsome.”
“You don’t look a day older, Mrs. Rosenthal. Why, I’d know you anywhere,” Sam said.
The charm didn’t fail to work on Mrs. Rosenthal, who laughed and waved away the compliment. “Tell me of your mother and father.”
“My father runs a fur shop in Chicago. My mother, I’m sorry to say, died many years ago.”
Mrs. Rosenthal put a hand to her chest and bowed her head. “Such terrible news. Poor Miriam. I remember on the ship coming over, she was so sick with you.”
Sam had heard this story quite a few times from his parents. The “We Left Everything Behind and Braved a Treacherous Voyage to a New World in Order to Give You the Best Possible Life” story. Usually it was leverage to get him to do whatever they needed—study the Torah or help his father in the store. He wanted to ask Mrs. Rosenthal about the letter, but he couldn’t rush into this and insult her or she’d know this was more than a social call, so he sipped his coffee and waited for an opening.
“The ferries brought us to Ellis Island, and when we see the Statue of Liberty, like an angel in the harbor, we are crying. From joy. From relief. Hope. We had nothing.” Mrs. Rosenthal’s voice quavered with emotion. “This country took us in.”
“God bless America,” Sam said. He needed to cut off Anna Rosenthal before she devolved into further sentimentality and, possibly, folk singing, so he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the mysterious envelope. “Mrs. Rosenthal, I came across something of my mother’s that had me scratching my head, and I wondered if you might know anything about it. It’s from someone named Rotke Wasserman.”
Mrs. Rosenthal squinted at the writing on the envelope as Sam handed it over. “Yes, yes, I remember. It came after your mother and father were gone. The Wasserman woman sometimes would come to work with Miriam. Because of her gift,” Mrs. Rosenthal said matter-of-factly and sipped her coffee.
“Her gift. You mean as a nurse?” Sam asked, confused.
“Nurse.” Mrs. Rosenthal made a tsk sound, as if the word was an insult. “A nurse, yes. In this country. But before? She was the best fortune-teller in Ukraine. People come from everywhere to ask about marriages, babies, if they should open this business or sell that cow. Even the Mad Monk himself, Rasputin”—Mrs. Rosenthal spat, uttering a curse in Russian—“came to see the great Miriam Lubovitch.”
“I thought my mother was a nurse,” was all Sam could seem to say.
“On our papers, we had to write occupation. Most write wife, mother, cook, seamstress, maybe. Like that. Your mother puts fortune-teller.” Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head. “We’re afraid they won’t like it. It is not a country for superstition. But that woman, Miss Wasserman, speaks Russian. She says, Miriam, will you take a test for me—”
“What kind of test?” Evie interrupted.
Mrs. Rosenthal shrugged. “How should I know? I only know she must do well, because they let us all in. They say, don’t worry, don’t worry, you are safe here, and they give her something to feel better. Water. Rest. Meat and vitamins for strength. Soon, she is better. And that is why you are here now, Sergei. An American. For a while, your mother, father, and I settled with cousins of mine on Orchard Street before your parents took their own rooms on Hester. Every now and then, Miss Wasserman would come to see you and your mother.”
“Why’s that?” Sam asked.
Again, the woman shrugged. “To see how you were. She would play games with you. She liked you. Who wouldn’t?”
“The letter,” Sam said, drawing her attention back to the yellowed envelope. “You didn’t send it on to them in Chicago?”
“I should know where they went? For ten years, I hear nothing. I know nothing, till you telephoned,” Mrs. Rosenthal said, hurt creeping into her tone.
Sam couldn’t imagine why his parents would’ve been so rude. It wasn’t like them at all.
“It was those men, I think,” Mrs. Rosenthal said suddenly. “They came and frightened your mother. Your parents were gone the next day, like ghosts.”
“What men?”
“Some men in dark suits came to see your mother. I walked them up to your apartment.”
“Who were they?” Sam asked. His tapped his fingers frantically. Evie put her hand over his to stop him.
Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head. “They say immigration, which makes us nervous. Some anarchists are Jews. What if they think we are anarchists and throw us out of the country? The men, they want me
to go away, but your mother says, ‘Anna must stay.’ She says my English is better—a lie. I could see she was afraid. They ask her questions: Was she getting along all right? How was the neighborhood? Any trouble to report? Fine, fine, all fine, she told them. It was all fine until they ask about you.”
“Me?”
“Sam?” Evie said at the same time.
Mrs. Rosenthal nodded. “How you were, if you were healthy, did you take after your father or were you more like your mother? Were you special?” She made a face. “This is a thing you ask a mother? Is her son special? I think your mother will talk for a week about how special you are. But no.” Mrs. Rosenthal worried her napkin in her lap. “This, maybe, I shouldn’t say.”
Sam had given up on charming Anna Rosenthal. “Please, Mrs. Rosenthal,” he pleaded. “I need to know what happened.”
After a deep, weary breath, Mrs. Rosenthal continued. “Your mother tells the men, ‘That little pisher weakling? He is sick and small, a disappointment. Not like me at all.’” Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head. “I was shocked. How could she say such a thing? You were her prince, Sergei. You brought her such naches. This was not the Miriam I knew, I can tell you.”
From what Sam remembered of his childhood, his mother had always doted on him, taken his side. Protected him.
“The next day, your mother and father left Hester Street for good without so much as a good-bye to anyone—only two weeks before my wedding! I try not to take it personally, but…” Mrs. Rosenthal trailed off, sipped her coffee. She handed the envelope over to Sam. “When that letter came… psssht, I was angry. I send it back.”
“But you don’t know what the letter said?”
“Anna Rosenthal does not snoop in private papers. But there is something. Miriam asked me to keep it. Come.”
From a corner closet, Mrs. Rosenthal took a box down from the shelf. “Just after the men visited, your mother gives something to me. ‘Anna,’ she tells me, ‘hide this in your house. I will come later for it.’ But she never did.”