While We’re Far Apart

“Yes. Good day, Mr. Dalton.”

  By the time the inspector left, Jacob’s entire body trembled with fury. He remembered feeling this same impotent rage as a young man in Hungary when he’d seen how his people were treated, but he hadn’t experienced it in a long, long time. Not here in America. He stuffed his hat on his head and walked the two blocks to Rebbe Grunfeld’s apartment on the ground floor of a six-story brick building.

  “You need to tell me what is going on,” he said the moment the rebbe opened the door.

  “Yaacov? What – ?”

  “A man from the fire department just interrogated me as if I were a criminal. What did you tell him about me?”

  “About you? Nothing, Yaacov. I never said anything – ”

  “Do you know how the fire started? Did they tell you that?”

  “Please, come inside and sit down. The hallway is no place to talk.” He put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder and guided him through the door. “Let me tell my wife that you’re here. She’ll make coffee.”

  The rebbe’s living room glowed with gentle light, warmed by softly whistling radiators. The aroma of home filled the apartment; the smell of roasted meat and spicy potatoes, of bread baking and soup simmering, the scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee. Jacob’s house had once smelled just the same. He should not have come.

  “I do not want coffee,” he said, refusing to sit. “I want to talk about the fire. Do you know how it started?”

  “They said it was arson, that the fire had been deliberately set. They found a burned kerosene can in the beit midrash.”

  Kerosene. Jacob closed his eyes. “Were there signs of a break-in?”

  “No. . . . Yaacov, please. Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Don’t you see? They think I set the fire!”

  “You? That’s ridiculous. Who thinks that?”

  “The inspector who just interrogated me. The questions he asked all led to that conclusion. I have a key to the building. I have not attended shul in a year. I argued with you after evening prayers on the night of the fire. . . . I am telling you, he thinks that I started the fire!”

  “That’s absurd. I already told him how grateful we all are that you risked your life to save the scrolls that night. How valuable they are to us, and – ”

  “And he thinks that was why I did it, to get back into your ‘good graces.’ That is exactly what he said.”

  “No. No, that can’t be. I’ll tell him he’s wrong, Yaacov. I’ll tell him you would never do such a terrible thing.”

  “Then you had better be ready to tell him who did set the fire. Because nobody broke in, Rebbe, and I happen to be one of the few men who has a key.”

  “How can I tell him who set the fire? We don’t know who set the fire. Or why.”

  “Of course a Jew must be to blame. A Jew is always to blame, yes?” Jacob turned to leave, but Rebbe Grunfeld grabbed his sleeve.

  “Listen, Yaacov. I’m certain that you are worried for nothing. I’ll talk to the inspector. I’ll convince him that you are innocent. Please believe me. You have nothing to worry about.”

  But as Jacob walked home through the rustling leaves, he worried nonetheless.

  CHAPTER 13

  ESTHER DIDN’T UNDERSTAND why some of the boys in school like Jacky Hoffman always acted rowdy in music class. She loved going down to the music room once a week and listening to the recordings the teacher played for them on her phonograph. Esther excelled in class, of course, because she already knew how to read music. And Miss Miller was one of her favorite teachers. Esther wished the combined class of seventh and eight graders met more often, and that the boys would behave so Miss Miller wouldn’t have to yell.

  The hour-long music lesson had sped by much too quickly, as usual. But as Esther and the others began lining up to return to their classroom, Miss Miller pulled her aside.

  “Could I speak with you for a moment, Esther?”

  She turned to her classroom teacher, who nodded her approval. Esther waited behind while the other students shuffled out.

  “Your caretaker, Miss Goodrich, came to see me the other day,” Miss Miller began.

  “Penny did?”

  “Yes. Miss Goodrich and I had a very nice conversation.”

  Miss Miller’s words made Esther angry. This school, this music class, was her territory, and Penny Goodrich had no right invading it. Penny didn’t belong here or in the apartment or any other part of Esther’s life, for that matter. She would tolerate Penny until Daddy came home if she had to, but –

  “Miss Goodrich told me how well you play the piano, and she asked me if I knew anyone who could give you lessons. I told her that I would be happy to teach you.”

  Why did Penny always make Esther feel pulled in two directions at once? She wanted nothing to do with piano lessons if they were Penny’s idea. Who did she think she was? But at the same time, Esther liked Miss Miller a lot. And she had missed playing the piano, missed the sound of music in their apartment. Esther used to love studying the tiny black notes on a sheet of music, discovering the magic they contained and bringing them to life. She loved to create a story from the notes, making them say something happy or sad or playful or majestic.

  Miss Miller rested her hand on Esther’s shoulder. “So . . . would you like to take piano lessons with me?”

  Esther tried not to cry as she struggled to make up her mind. Should she do it? Then she remembered how Mama had seemed to come back to life the other day when she had played the piano for Peter. Esther nodded. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

  “Good. I told Miss Goodrich that Peter may take lessons as well, if he would like to. Would you ask him for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll ask him.” She wondered if Miss Miller knew that Peter couldn’t talk. The entire school probably knew.

  “How about if we start your lessons tomorrow after school? You can bring some of the books you were working on, and we’ll go from there.”

  Esther nodded again as happiness battled with anger. And guilt. Was she being disloyal to her mother to study with another teacher? “How much does it cost?” Esther thought to ask. Daddy always worried about money.

  “Miss Goodrich and I already worked everything out. I’ll see you tomorrow right after school. I’m looking forward to it, Esther.”

  “Yes. Me too.”

  As Esther helped with the supper dishes that night she wondered if Penny would mention the piano lessons. Esther knew she should thank Penny – it was rude not to – but she couldn’t make herself do it. If she opened the door just the tiniest crack, Penny would elbow her way inside.

  When the last pot was dry, Esther escaped downstairs to the front porch. The apartment seemed stuffy and confining with Peter silently inhabiting their bedroom and Penny in the kitchen and the piano looming in the living room, tugging Esther in opposite directions between guilt and anticipation.

  The fall weather was too chilly for sitting outside, the wind damp and blustery, but Esther sat down on Mrs. Mendel’s glider just the same. She wished she could talk to Mr. Mendel again, but she didn’t have the courage to knock on his door. She knew he was home because she could hear music pouring from his radio, filling the vestibule and drifting faintly outside past his living room window. He liked orchestra music, the kind Miss Miller played in music class. Esther sat very still on the rusty glider, listening.

  The music ended a few minutes later and the announcer began to speak. She had been listening with her eyes closed, scarcely daring to breathe. When she opened them she saw Jacky Hoffman pedaling toward the apartment on his bicycle. He had made good on his offer and had walked home from school with her and Peter a couple of times, but now she scrunched down, hoping that he wouldn’t see her. He pulled to a stop in front of the porch, brakes squealing.

  “Hey, beautiful!”

  “Go away, Jacky. I’m mad at you.”

  “Why? What’d I do?”

  “You and the other boys always act up in music class. You alway
s spoil it for everyone else.”

  His forehead creased in a scowl. “You like music class?”

  “Yes! Miss Miller is one of the nicest teachers in the whole school.”

  He grinned like a movie star. “Well, from now on I’ll be on my very best behavior. Just for you. And I’ll clobber anyone else who acts up, okay?”

  He was being nice again, but Esther didn’t know whether to forgive him or not. She felt as wary of letting him in the door as she did Penny Goodrich, even though she longed to have a friend to talk to.

  “Okay,” she finally said. “Thanks. And I noticed that the other kids haven’t been teasing my brother as much. You have anything to do with that?”

  “Yep. I told them that they’d have to answer to me if they give him a hard time.” He made two fists and punched the air like a prizefighter.

  “Well . . . thank you for that.”

  “What did you say was wrong with your brother?”

  “The doctors don’t know yet. His throat doesn’t work right.” She knew better than to lie, but Peter was the only family she had left and she had to protect him.

  Esther’s earliest memory was of the day that Peter had been born, and she’d seen him for the first time, lying in their mother’s arms, only a few hours old. Mama said that Esther had glared at him as if she wished he had never been born. He had taken Esther’s place in Mama’s arms, which was reason enough to hate him.

  But then Mama had let Esther hold Peter, and Daddy took a photograph of the three of them together. Whenever Esther and her mother came to that picture in the photograph album, Mama would say, “See how tiny your baby brother was? But you helped me take such good care of him.” Nine years after Aaron Peter Shaffer had come into Esther’s life, she knew that she would lie, cheat, and probably steal in order to continue taking care of him for Mama.

  “Hey, you missed a great movie last Saturday.” Jacky said, interrupting her thoughts. “We watched Andy Hardy’s Double Life. You like Mickey Rooney?”

  “He’s the best. My dad used to take us to see all his movies – before Daddy went off to war, that is.”

  “I’ll take you anytime you want to go. I have spending money now that I’m working.”

  “Thanks. It’s nice of you to offer . . . but I don’t know if I can.” Penny would probably agree to anything Esther asked in order to get on her good side. Penny had arranged piano lessons for her, hadn’t she? But Esther wasn’t sure if she really wanted to go to the movies with Jacky Hoffman. Once again she felt pulled in opposite directions. “Could Peter come, too?”

  “Sure, if he has money. I’m only paying for your ticket.” He grinned, and he looked just like Clark Gable with his rogue’s smile and a lock of hair hanging over one eye.

  “Okay. Maybe Peter and I will go with you this Saturday.”

  “I have to deliver groceries in the morning, but meet me right here in time for the matinee.”

  He started to leave and Esther found she didn’t want him to go quite yet. “How’s your dad doing?” she asked. “Do you get letters from him?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes we go a few weeks without hearing anything, and then a whole pile of letters will come all at once.”

  “Where is he stationed now?”

  “He’s on a battleship in the Pacific Ocean somewhere. He isn’t allowed to tell us where or the censors will cut up his letters like Swiss cheese.”

  “Do you miss him?” she asked, thinking of her own father.

  “Yeah, sure.” But Jacky looked away when he spoke, and Esther could tell that he was lying. Too late, she recalled how Jacky’s father used to yell at his kids and chase after them with his belt. Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman used to argue all the time, and the neighborhood had been a lot quieter since he had enlisted. Their home probably was quieter, too.

  “My father says I have to be the man of the house while he’s away,” Jacky said. “That’s why I took this job delivering groceries.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yeah. I make real good money in tips. Lots of women are working at the Navy Yard all day now, and they don’t have time to stand in line for groceries when they get home. They’re real grateful when I deliver them right to their houses.”

  Esther wondered if the new job and the responsibility of being the man of the house had caused the changes she saw in Jacky. And she also wondered if they were permanent. Maybe he was like Mickey Rooney’s character in the new movie, only this time it was Jacky Hoffman’s Double Life.

  “Hey, I’d better get home and eat supper,” he said. “Ma is keeping it warm for me. See you Saturday.” He waved and steered his bike into the narrow passage between their two apartment buildings.

  The evening seemed to turn colder after Jacky left, and Esther decided to go inside. She got as far as the vestibule and she could hear the music so clearly that she stood there for several minutes, listening. When the piece ended she summoned all her courage and knocked on Mr. Mendel’s door. He opened it a mere crack.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, Mr. Mendel. I really like the music that was playing on your radio just now. Could you please tell me which radio station that was?”

  “Heh? The station? I cannot recall. But I suppose you could come inside and look on the dial for yourself. The numbers are hard for me to read without my glasses.”

  “Thanks.” She slipped through the door as he opened it wider and knelt down on the carpet in front of the radio console to read the tiny numbers.

  “Here is some paper,” Mr. Mendel said. “You can write the numbers down.”

  “Thanks. I always fight with Peter over which station to play,” she said as she copied the numbers. “He likes to listen to ball games. The Dodgers are his favorite team.”

  “Yes. So he has told me.”

  Esther nearly lost her balance. “He talks to you?”

  “Well . . . he used his hands as I recall, not words. I thought he was playing a game.”

  “No, it isn’t a game. Peter can’t talk. There’s something wrong with his throat, I think.” Esther stood again and handed back his pencil. “Is there something I can do to help you today, Mr. Mendel?” The music had started playing again, and she wanted to stay and hear it. And to talk to him. “It must be hard to wash dishes with only one good arm.”

  “Thank you, but I cannot take advantage of your kindness again.”

  “I don’t mind, honest. And I could listen to the music while I worked.”

  He studied her in silence for what seemed like a very long time. Esther could tell that he was struggling to make up his mind, as if he felt pulled in two directions at the same time just like she sometimes did. But she didn’t understand why it was such a hard decision.

  “How would it be if I paid you to help me?” he finally said.

  “You don’t have to pay me. I’ll do it for nothing.”

  “No, I insist. My dishes do need to be washed, and I am afraid there are a good many of them.”

  He led the way into the kitchen, and as they passed the dining room table she saw it was covered with photographs and clippings and maps cut from the newspaper. She wanted to stop and look at the pictures more closely, but instead she followed him through the kitchen door. Esther saw right away that he was right about the mess. Plates and bowls and pots filled the sink, the way they used to pile up in her own kitchen before Daddy joined the army and Penny had come to live with them. More dishes covered the tabletop.

  “See what I mean?” he asked. “Would you like to change your mind?”

  Esther thought of what she could do with the money and shook her head. “Our dishes used to pile up like this, too, after Mama died.” She took off her jacket and began rolling up her sleeves.

  “I should warn you that you will have to wash these two piles separately. The dishes and silverware by the sink cannot be mixed with the ones on the table.”

  “Okay . . . but why?”

  “That is our law,” he said with a shrug. “One se
t of dishware and pots are for serving meat, the other for dairy. The meat utensils go in this cupboard and in these drawers, and the dishes for dairy go over there. The pots must be separated, as well. Meat goes here, dairy there.”

  Esther turned on the faucet and waited for the water to get hot. She feared making a mistake now that she knew there was a wrong way to do it. “Mr. Mendel? I’ll try to be really careful, but what happens if I make a mistake and accidentally mix them up?”

  Once again he looked at her for a long moment before replying. She wondered if he would change his mind and send her away. But he finally shrugged and said, “Nothing. Nothing will happen. I do not even know why I bother, now that Miriam is gone. She was always so careful about her kitchen, making sure to follow all the laws of kashrut. I suppose I am doing it for her sake. She would be very upset with me if she were here and saw how I lived. But what does it matter? She is not here.”

  “I liked Mrs. Mendel,” Esther said softly. “She was so nice. I’ll be careful for her sake, too.” She put the plug into the drain and sprinkled in Ivory Snow powder as the sink filled with water. “I really miss her. I’ll bet you miss her, too.”

  “Yes.” She saw his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallowed. “Yes.”

  Esther felt sorry for him, living all alone. She was about to ask if he had any children when she remembered Mrs. Mendel telling Mama about her son who was a grown man like Daddy. Esther couldn’t remember if he was fighting in the war or not, but she seemed to recall that he was far away somewhere.

  “Mrs. Mendel showed us pictures of your son, once, and said that he lived far away from here. Is he fighting in the war?”

  Mr. Mendel pulled out a kitchen chair and sank onto it. His cast clunked against the porcelain tabletop as he rested his arm. “No. No, our son went away to a small town in Hungary to study Torah, and now he cannot get home. The United States is at war with Hungary, you see.”

  “Is that why you’re cutting out all those pictures and maps from the newspaper?”

  “I have not found any newspaper pictures from Hungary, but I am trying to gather what little news I can about my people.”