While We’re Far Apart

  Penny slouched toward the door. “I’ll see you and Dad next Sunday. Bye.”

  Mother’s reaction made Penny fume all the way across town. Long before she arrived home, she reached the conclusion that no matter what happened, she would never move back home with her parents. Never. If Eddie fired her and hired someone else to watch his kids, she would find a little apartment of her own. She could do it with a pay increase of fifteen dollars a week. If Mr. Whitney thought she could drive a bus, then maybe she could.

  Penny had found a seat close to the front of the bus, and she watched the driver at work, imagining herself doing his job. He had a lot to look out for with so many cars and pedestrians and buses filling the streets. But other than that, all he did was stop and go, and take people’s tickets, and hand out transfers, and make sure passengers dropped enough change into the little metal slots to cover their fares. Penny had endured the same boring, day-to-day existence her entire life – living at home, selling tickets at the bus station, listening to her mother’s criticism – and suddenly, she couldn’t stand the thought of living that way for the rest of her life. Fifteen extra dollars a week. She would be rich. She would sign up for drivers’ training tomorrow.

  She smiled at the driver as she got off the bus. She practically skipped all the way upstairs to Eddie’s apartment. She had her confidence back and was growing more and more excited about the new job when the ringing telephone interrupted her thoughts.

  “Shaffer residence, Penny Goodrich speaking.”

  “Hello, this is Mrs. Cole from Waring Elementary School. I’m Peter’s teacher. I wondered if you could meet with me tomorrow afternoon after school.”

  “Well . . . I’m not a relative, Mrs. Cole. I’m just taking care of Peter and Esther while – ”

  “I know. Mr. Shaffer came to the school and explained the arrangement before he left for the army. Would this time tomorrow work for you, Miss Goodrich?”

  “I guess so. I could come right after work.”

  “Thank you. I’m in Room 5. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Now what? Did Peter need extra help with his homework? Was he causing trouble? Penny hoped not, because she didn’t know how to handle discipline problems. She couldn’t even get Peter to talk to her. Now Eddie would realize for certain that she didn’t know anything about kids. She was in over her head and dumber than a green bean to have volunteered for this job in the first place. She would be an even bigger fool to think she could drive a bus.

  Penny barely slept that night for worrying. She was groggy-eyed the next morning when Mr. Whitney came to her cashier’s booth again. “I don’t want to rush you, Miss Goodrich, but I will need to know your decision soon.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Whitney, but I don’t have a birth certificate. My mother said she lost it years ago and – ”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Here in Brooklyn, I guess.”

  “Well, the New York State Vital Records Office can issue you a new one. You’ll probably have to pay a few dollars, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  She was about to explain that she had made up her mind not to take the job when Mr. Whitney added, “In fact, I’ll give you an extra half hour for lunch today so you can go over and apply for a new one. That’s how badly I need drivers, Miss Goodrich.”

  Penny did as she was told. She always did. As soon as she finished filling out all the papers at the records’ office, she shoved the job decision to the back of her mind as she continued to worry about this afternoon’s meeting with Peter’s teacher. Her knees shook as she walked through the doors of his elementary school.

  “I’ll come right to the point,” Mrs. Cole said after the introductions. “Peter hasn’t spoken a word to me or anyone else in school in weeks.”

  The news astonished Penny. She would have fallen over if she hadn’t been sitting on a chair. “You either? He hasn’t talked to me since the day I arrived and his daddy left for boot camp. I thought he was mad at me for some reason. I had no idea he wasn’t talking to anyone.”

  “His sister, Esther, came to me a few days after their father left and said that Peter had laryngitis and couldn’t talk. I sent him to the school nurse, but he didn’t have a fever and his throat didn’t seem swollen. I decided to wait and see if he was going through a phase, but when nothing changed I thought you and I should talk. He has been doing fine with his schoolwork, and he doesn’t cause any trouble. He simply communicates by writing, not speaking.”

  “What should I do? I-I don’t know what to do. I don’t have any experience with children, Mrs. Cole. I just wanted to help Eddie out.”

  “I’m aware that Peter’s mother passed away over a year ago and that his father has recently left home. I’ve heard of cases like this before where a child becomes so traumatized that he simply shuts down. For a boy as sensitive as Peter, I can see how losing both of his parents in such a short time might have that effect.”

  “Do you think I should take him to a doctor?”

  “Not yet. You seem like a kind, capable woman, Miss Goodrich, and I have a feeling that once you and the children settle into a new routine, Peter will be okay.”

  It was the second time in two days that someone had told Penny that she seemed capable. She felt like a fraud.

  “Will Peter’s father be coming home anytime soon?” Mrs. Cole asked.

  “He’ll get a furlough when he finishes basic training.”

  “Then I think the best thing to do is to simply wait and see. Don’t pressure Peter. If the problem doesn’t resolve on its own, we can all meet to talk about the situation when Mr. Shaffer comes home.”

  Penny thanked Mrs. Cole and walked back to the apartment. For some reason her tears would not stop falling the entire way. She didn’t want to raise two difficult children. She didn’t know how. All she wanted to do was marry Eddie Shaffer. Was that asking for so much?

  CHAPTER 9

  A BASEBALL GAME blared from Jacob’s radio. It had done so for the past hour, but he could only stare at the machine in frustration. He wanted to change the station or at least lower the volume, but every time he tried to manipulate the tiny knobs with his useless hands he made matters worse. That was how he had ended up with the baseball game in the first place instead of the musical program he usually listened to.

  He was tired of wearing bandages on his hands, tired of being helpless. The dressings should have come off a week ago, but the doctor had detected a problem. The burns were not healing right. There was a slight infection, and Jacob would not only have to keep the dressings on for another week but the doctor had made the bandages even thicker. The bulky cast on his right arm added to his frustration.

  A stack of newspapers cluttered his dining room table. They contained articles he wanted to save, the latest maps showing where the battle lines were drawn, and photographs of the Nazi bombings in London. But Jacob could not hold a pair of scissors, much less cut with them.

  Women from the congregation continued to come by every few days to drop off casserole dishes and quarts of soup. They offered to come inside and help Jacob, but he chased them all away. Let the dirty dishes pile up – what did it matter? Rebbe Grunfeld still coaxed him to let the men from the shul come here to pray. The deluge of food must be part of the enticement as they tried to persuade him to join them again. Jacob continued to refuse.

  “It’s a line drive into center field . . . the runner heads toward second base. . . . The center fielder scrambles for the ball . . . and he fumbles!”

  Would the baseball game never end? Jacob wanted to hear the latest news about the war and the Allied invasion of Italy. The news should come on soon. It usually did around suppertime – and suppertime meant more frustration as he tried to heat up another meal with these mittens on his hands. The doctor should try working with these clumsy things. See how he liked it.

  He sighed and sat down at his desk, fumbling for his son’s letters. Jacob had waited all day to reread one. After much pract
ice these past few weeks, he had finally figured out how to blow into the opened envelope and remove the letters with his teeth, then smooth them out on his desk with his mittened hands.

  When Avraham had first begun writing, it had been easy for Jacob to picture his son through these letters and visualize the life he led in Hungary. He could imagine Avi’s excitement when he saw the old country for the first time and when he met his relatives and their families. Later, Avi’s letters had given details of his studies and told how much he valued the rebbe’s wisdom and insights. Then Sarah Rivkah had entered the picture, and Avraham had spoken of little else as his love for her blossomed.

  Jacob had read the letters so many times that he had their contents memorized. He already knew what today’s letter would say. He knew both the joy and the pain it contained.

  Dear Mama and Abba,

  I have wonderful news. Sarah Rivkah and I have decided to marry. I love her and she loves me. I don’t want to live another day of my life without her. She is a precious gift to me from Hashem, blessed be He.

  I know the news of our engagement may upset you, and I am so sorry for that. You will say that I am too impetuous, that I am moving forward too quickly. You will advise me to wait a year before marrying her. I can almost see your face, Abba, and hear the concern in your voice as you say these things. But Uncle Yehuda knows Sarah’s family very well, and he has agreed to act in your place for our betrothal and marriage. Mama, I am so sorry that you will not be here with us to celebrate this joyous day, but I know that you will love Sarah Rivkah the moment you meet her. She is the daughter you have always wished for. Please rejoice with us.

  I received your most recent letter, Abba, and I understand why you are begging me to come home. I am as concerned as you are, now that the Nazis have invaded neighboring Poland. You are probably right in believing the war will eventually spread to America, too. But if another worldwide war truly is coming, then Sarah and I want our chance at happiness before it does. Right now it is very difficult to emigrate to the U.S. from Hungary because of all the quotas. Nobody wants to take in more Jews, it seems. But since I am an American citizen, I’ve been told that it will be easier for Sarah Rivkah to immigrate if we are already married. It might make it easier for her parents and the rest of our family to come, as well.

  Jacob stopped reading. He knew the rest. The mail took so long to travel across an ocean filled with U-boats and warships that by the time Avraham’s next letter arrived, the wedding had taken place. Eleven months and dozens of letters later – after Belgium, the Netherlands, and France had all fallen to the Nazis – Hashem had blessed Avi and Sarah with a little daughter.

  Jacob didn’t even try to stuff the letter back into the envelope. It couldn’t be done. The bandages must come off. Now. If he couldn’t cut them off himself, he would swallow his pride and go upstairs and ask his tenant for help. Jacob started toward the door, then stopped. Ed Shaffer wouldn’t be there. In the aftermath of the fire, Jacob had forgotten that his tenant had left to join the army. Well, maybe one of the children could help him cut off the dressings. He gripped the doorknob between both hands and turned it. The door opened – and the boy from upstairs tumbled into Jacob’s living room as if he had been sitting on the floor with his back against the door.

  “What in the world . . . ?”

  The boy scrambled to his feet, ready to run.

  “Wait. Don’t run away, please.” Jacob tried to corral him with his cumbersome hands. “I would like to ask a favor of you.”

  The child turned to him, and the fear Jacob saw in his eyes made him feel like an ogre in a fairy tale. He hadn’t meant to frighten him. The boy had never run from Miriam that way. But then Miriam Shoshanna had spoiled both of those children, passing out caramel drops and slices of honey cake. Surely they knew she was gone, didn’t they?

  Jacob shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Could you come inside please and help me with the radio? I cannot do it so well with these.” He held up his hands. He tried to smile to put the boy at ease, but his smile felt so forced that Jacob wondered if he had forgotten how. “Come, come. The radio is right here.” He rested his hand on the child’s shoulder to herd him through the door. “Tell me your name again?”

  Instead of replying, the boy dug into his pocket and pulled out a piece of lined notebook paper, folded many times, and the stub of a pencil. Smudged writing filled the paper on both sides, but he found a blank place and printed: Peter.

  Odd. Very odd. But perhaps Peter thought Jacob was odd, as well.

  “I am sorry if I frightened you, but I was not expecting anyone to be leaning against my door. I never heard you knock because my radio is too loud . . . Was there something you wanted?” Maybe he had come to ask him to turn it down – something Jacob had tried in vain to do.

  Peter nodded shyly and pointed to the radio.

  “Heh? My radio? You would like me to turn it down, yes?” Peter shook his head vigorously – no – and made a motion like a ball player swinging a bat. He managed a flicker of a smile as he pointed to the radio again.

  “Ah. You were listening to the game.” A nod. Jacob wondered why the pantomime? Why not simply speak up? He had no patience with guessing games.

  “And so as the seventh inning comes to an end,” the announcer said, “the Brooklyn Dodgers lead by three runs.”

  Peter’s smile widened, and he held up three fingers in triumph.

  “Is that the team you like?” Again, a shy nod. Jacob didn’t have the heart to make him change the station. He would do it later himself, after the boy helped him cut off the bandages.

  Just then the door to the apartment upstairs rattled open and the sister shouted down the stairs. “Peter? Peter, where are you?”

  The boy went to the open doorway and looked up, silently waving his arms at her. Apparently he was playing his little game with everyone, not just Jacob.

  “What are you doing?” she called down to him. “You know we’re not supposed to bother Mr. Mendel.”

  Jacob was going to lose his assistant. He hurried over to the door. “Please, he is not a bother. I asked him to come inside. I need a favor.”

  She stared at Jacob for a moment, then descended the stairs silently and gracefully. She was a lovely girl, blond like her father, and she carried herself like a princess. He recalled that her name was Esther, like the queen in Scripture. She would be a beauty like her mother, no doubt. The brief memory of the children’s mother – so tightly entwined with the memory of Miriam Shoshanna – stuck him like a knife in his ribs.

  “How are you doing, Mr. Mendel?” Esther asked politely. “We haven’t seen much of you since the night of the fire. Are you okay now?”

  “Yes. I am fine. But I would like someone to cut off these bandages for me. As you can see, I am quite helpless with them on.”

  She took a small step backward. “Shouldn’t a doctor or . . . or a nurse do it? I’ve never done anything like that before. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

  “You cannot hurt me. Just cut them off, please. You will find a pair of scissors in that desk drawer.”

  “Why do you need them off?”

  “Because I cannot do anything for myself with them on. I cannot turn on the stove to heat up my dinner or turn down the radio – I can barely feed myself, and I am growing tired of it.”

  “I can turn on the stove for you. And fix the radio.”

  “Are you going to feed me, too? Heh?” He saw that he had frightened her a bit, and he hadn’t meant to. Why vent his frustration on her? “I am sorry. I should not have said that.”

  “That’s okay. I can help you in the kitchen, if you want.”

  Jacob glanced at Peter. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the radio, listening intently.

  “It’s another base hit for the Dodgers . . . Looks like it’s going to be a double . . . Yes! He’s safe on second . . .”

  “Do you have a radio of your own upstairs?” Jacob asked her.
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  “We do, but we’re not supposed to listen to it until after our homework is done.”

  “Ah. I see.” He would let the boy listen a while longer. “Come into the kitchen then, if you don’t mind, and we will see about some food.” He opened the crammed refrigerator for Esther and showed her what he wanted to eat. “Do you know the best way to warm it up? I am tired of eating everything cold, but as you can see, all my pots are dirty and I am unable to wash them.”

  “I’ll wash them for you.”

  “It would be less work for you to simply cut these off.” He felt a smile tugging his mouth as he held up his hands again. “Then I could wash them myself.”

  She caught the joke and smiled in return. “I don’t know anything about bandages, Mr. Mendel, but I do know how to wash dishes.”

  “Fine. Whichever you prefer.”

  He watched her choose a pot from the pile and scrub it clean with soap and water. “It’s really sad about the synagogue burning down, isn’t it?” she asked as she worked.

  “Yes. Yes it is. I suppose they will rebuild it. But even so, it will never be the same.”

  She scooped several spoonfuls of the casserole he had chosen into the clean pot and put it on the stove to warm. It had been a long time since Jacob had watched his wife work in the kitchen. Miriam Shoshanna had loved to cook. Watching her knead the dough and braid the challah for Shabbat had been like watching a sculptor at work. He wondered about the daughter-in-law he had never met, Sarah Rivkah. Did she bake challah for Avraham and light the Shabbat candles and recite the blessing? And his granddaughter, little Fredeleh –

  “Can I ask you a question?” Esther interrupted his thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Everyone says that my mama and Mrs. Mendel are up in heaven now, but I don’t understand why God wanted them, do you? Couldn’t He see that we need them down here a lot more?”

  Jacob felt tears burning his eyes. He looked at his cluttered kitchen, the stack of dirty dishes, then at the child waiting for his reply, and he realized her need was every bit as great as his was, even if her graceful hands were not covered in bandages.