by Gay Courter
I knew it was senseless to argue. He did not care how I felt. If he did—even the slightest bit—he would have made better arrangements than forcing me to stay with Aunt Bellore. I don't think she wanted me any more than I wanted to be with her, but she did her duty grudgingly. She had told my father that I could not bring Shareef to her house, but somehow he prevailed. The only condition was that I was expected to shut him up in the bathroom at night. On my third night, though, I awoke with a start. My darling Shareef was licking my face. I wrapped him in an end of the mosquito net and let him sleep with me the rest of the night. In the morning Yali showed me how he had broken a pane of glass in the bathroom, escaped into the garden, and back through the open window of my bedroom.
“How clever!” I said.
All the same, the pane had been broken, and Aunt Bellore surmised what had happened. The next afternoon I returned from the schoolroom to find Shareef's basket empty.
“Where is Shareef?” I sobbed.
Bellore shrugged her shoulders. “You can't expect he'd want to be cooped up forever. He must have escaped again.”
I searched the house. There was no evidence of a broken window or open shutter, but he never returned. I knew that my aunt had taken him away, and I vowed I would never forgive her.
The summer heat in Mrs. Hanover's schoolroom was gruesome, even with the four punkah-wallahs, who worked ceaselessly. Still, I liked going, if only as a respite from Aunt Bellore's austere rules for my behavior, which varied from the ones her daughters were given. When I complained, all she would say was, “Somebody has to control you, and since your father shows no interest in the matter, the task has, unhappily for us both, been left to me.”
Fortunately, Mrs. Hanover had taken an interest in me and was having me write short essays and do more challenging sums. If I finished my work early, she would give me a Bible verse to copy out in my neatest hand, and then illustrate.
Mrs. Hanover looked for verses that might have meaning to me. “You know about Passover, don't you, Dinah?”
“Yes, we had a seder in Monghyr.”
“Good, then work on this one.” She handed me the Bible, open to St. John, Chapter Six.
I read aloud, “ 'And the Passover, a feast of the Jews, was nigh.' “ After I had absorbed the idea of the story of feeding loaves and fishes to five thousand strong, I spent the rest of the afternoon drawing an elaborate picture of a crowd scene—with the people in saris and dhotis eating Indian breads and large fishes. Mrs. Hanover was extremely pleased.
Aunt Bellore was not.
Reading the verse, she became so furious she crumpled it. “Why won't your father ever listen? How many times have I told him that Mrs. Hanover is only trying to poison your mind?” Her huge bosom heaved up and down. “You may not go back to that school.”
“But Papa said—”
As an afterthought, she smoothed out my work to save as proof. “Once he sees this, he will understand I acted in his best interests.”
I knew better than to argue with my aunt. I let my anger simmer for two days, waiting for the second Sabbath of the month. I was allowed to visit my grandparents every second and fourth weekend. Nani had made the original arrangements with Mrs. Hanover. She would stand behind me.
“I hate Aunt Bellore!” I announced moments after the Lanyado carriage deposited me at Lower Chitpur Road.
“I see,” Nani said as she led me in to visit with my grandfather. She placed her finger over her mouth to warn me not to show my temper to him. I kissed him and accepted his tremulous pat before she led me away.
“So, you are unhappy at Kyd Street.”
“Yes. Aunt Bellore is cruel to me. She does not permit me to do anything I wish.”
“I am certain she has reasons for her rules.”
“Her reason is to be mean to me. Besides, if it were not for . . .” I caught an idea forming. “Nani, you always said that Mama and Bellore were good friends and that Mama wanted Benu because she wanted to remain close to Bellore and the other Sassoons.”
Her eyes shifted warily. “Yes, that’s right.”
“But Aunt Bellore was engaged to marry when my mother got the idea that she wanted to marry too.”
Nani nodded cautiously. I sensed her considering how to explain the nuances of what adults thought and felt.
“When Mama married Bellore's brother, she made a better match, didn't she?”
“Your Uncle Samuel Lanyado is a fine man.”
“Not as rich as the Sassoons.”
“No.”
“And Aunt Bellore's match was arranged for her, while Mama picked Papa.” My voice rose feverishly. “Aunt Bellore must always have wondered if Mama was happier than she was. She was jealous!”
“That is enough, Dinah.”
I was prancing maniacally around the room, oblivious of Nani's disapproval. “The whole time, Aunt Bellore only pretended to be my mother's friend. All the while, she disliked my mother for taking away her brother, for having more money, for marrying into a more important family. Why, Mama even had me first.”
“I hardly think—”
“I am right, Nani, I know I am. It explains why Aunt Bellore is so awful to me and why she will not permit me to return to Mrs. Hanover's school.”
“What? When did this come about?”
“I haven't been since Tuesday.”
“Your father paid for the term.”
“That's what I told her, but she won't listen to me. Will you talk to her? Please!” I implored. “Tell her I must go.”
“Your aunt must have an explanation.”
“Only that she didn't like a verse I had copied.”
“What verse?”
I went over to the Bible that Nani kept on a shelf by her Sabbath candlesticks and leafed through it. “I can't find St. John. You are missing half the book!”
Grandmother motioned me to sit on her lap. She kissed my perspiring forehead. As she brushed back my bangs, she spoke kindly. “Dinah, Mrs. Hanover has broken her word to your father. As Jews, we believe only in the first book of the Bible; as a Christian, she believes in a second book as well, the one that talks about Jesus as the son of God.”
“Why should one part of the Bible be true and the other not?”
“And the woman gave me her word.” Nani sighed sadly. “I know you want to go to school. So do many other Jewish girls. That is why some good people in this community, especially Mr. Elias Cohen, have been working to begin a Jewish Girls' School. It should open after the October holidays. Do you think you could wait until then?”
I frowned. What choice did I have?
To divert my attention, Nani began discussing my father's return in a few weeks and how busy I would be with him.
“I can hardly wait,” I admitted. “I want everything to go back to the way it was before.”
“There will be many changes—”
“I don't want anything to change!”
“Nothing remains the same.”
I was about to question her further when Nana was wheeled in to celebrate the Sabbath.
The next day my grandparents took me back to Kyd Street, but we first visited the Jewish cemetery. As the carriage slowed, Nani took my hand. “Your grandfather and I have never been here because Ephraim was so ill. This is the first time we have come to see where your mother is resting. Wait here for us.”
After my grandparents had walked away, I hopped down and followed them at a distance. Nani led the way. Her husband trailed behind. When she found the spot, she seemed to stare for the longest time, then bent closer to see if she had missed something. When it was obvious she had not, I heard a long, rumbling wail explode from somewhere deep inside her.
I ran up and studied the modest rectangle. I knew enough Hebrew to read: “The grave of Luna, daughter of Ephraim Rahamin, born on 4 Iyar 5614, died on 4 Tishri 5639.” There was another sentence that I only deciphered years later that said, “May her soul be bound up in the bonds of life.”
“What is wrong?” I asked my grandfather. He clasped my hand but was too overcome to respond. I looked around at the other stones. Their inscriptions carried the names of husbands, wives, and occasionally children.
“It does not have my name or my brothers'.” I looked questioningly at Nana, but he merely shook his head from side to side. “Why doesn't it say 'Sassoon'?”
“Disowned,” Nani spat. “How could he have done this to her—and to you?”
To me? What did she mean?
“He has left you motherless—in fact and in name.”
A week later, Aunt Bellore took her daughters and me along when she went to Theatre Road to check that certain repairs were being made in preparation for my father's return. Someone had certainly been hard at work. The marble steps glistened in the sun. Lavish arrangements of flowers spilled from brass cache pots. The furniture had been polished and oiled. I scampered upstairs to find that my room had been repainted a jade green. My books had been placed in mahogany and glass cases, and the embroidered spread decorated with red and white poppies we had purchased in Patna was tucked into a new carved bedstead.
“Is this your room?” My youngest cousins were impressed.
“Of course it is.”
“Green is an ugly color,” Sultana said nastily.
“Well, I don't have to stay here if I don't want to.”
“Where would you sleep?”
“Follow me.” I thrust my chin in the air and led the way.
My father's old bedroom was still being refurbished. The walls were painted a pale coral. Two small beds—instead of a large one—were placed perpendicular to the place where the large platform bed in which my mother had died had been. They were covered with quilts appliqued with a central lotus surrounded by mango trees, leaves, birds and stars. Matching armoires, carved with a border of fruits and flower garlands, stood in the old bed's place.
“This is where I will sleep/' I said to my cousins.
“Really?” Abigail and Lulu gasped at the sight of a splendid white hibiscus plant growing out of a porcelain pot placed between the beds. Stuffed white doves were perched on the branches, and white silk ribbons shot with golden threads were sprinkled amongst the leaves.
“Yes, I always sleep with my father,” I lied, since I hadn't since we had returned to Calcutta.
“No, you won't.” Sultana wheeled around and faced me. “They will make you stay in your own room.”
They? I had a premonition of disaster. “What do you mean?”
Abigail stared at her sister. “Hush, Sultana. Mama made us promise—”
“Promise what?”
Sultana folded her arms across her chest. “Can't say.”
“Can't say what?” I shrilled. “Tell me!”
“You are getting a new mother, that's all.” Lulu giggled.
“You're a liar!”
“She's not!” Sultana crowed. “You'll see, and . . . and you'll be sorry!”
I ran to my room and slammed the door. Sultana probably never spoke a truer word. Aunt Bellore was bad enough, but a total stranger! Now I was certain I had lost my father forever.
8
Mozelle arrived with her mother—I was instructed to address her as Grandmother Helene—in tow. Because Mozelle's shoulders were narrow and her hips and buttocks rounded, she resembled an eggplant at first glance. At eight, I was exactly half her age.
After the formal introductions, my father bent close to my ear. “I've brought you a new mother and a new friend.”
I looked at him warily, then at Mozelle, whose eyelids twitched. The poor girl was more frightened than I was. As Papa lifted Jonah and Asher and carried them inside, I seized my advantage and walked beside him. Mozelle followed behind docilely. We managed to get through an entire tea and tour of the house without the bride uttering one word.
The next day, every Sassoon came to inspect Benu's choice and to hear the tale of their marriage. The widowed Helene Arakie had been spending the season at the mountain home of her first daughter's family. The girl had married well, having the dowry to attract a man 'who traded cotton and silk. Helene's second daughter was so beautiful, her modest dowry had been overlooked by a wealthy trader in indigo. “All three of my girls have been fortunate,” Helene said with more than a touch of smugness at having negotiated so well for her youngest.
“Youth is her only asset,” Aunt Bellore whispered to Uncle Saul's wife, Rebecca, as they sampled the rasamalai, rasagulla, and the rest of the syrupy sweets.
“And when that wears off, what will Benu do then?” Rebecca tittered knowingly.
“So far my brother has proved himself more faithful than his wife,” Bellore whispered haughtily.
Mozelle remained at my father's side, nodding when he spoke to her, shyly answering questions put to her with only a yes or no. I had been so prepared to dislike her, but how could I feel anything but sympathy for the poor creature?
Grandmother Helene was given the downstairs room where my grandparents had stayed. Within a short time she was supervising the household better than my mother or even my grandparents ever had. The Arakies had been modest storekeepers so she had no experience, just a natural aptitude. She had a sunny disposition, a love of beautiful flowers, a taste for rich, spicy food, and she adored children. Best of all, she liked animals. We were given kittens for the nursery, and a pony was purchased for the boys.
Since her mother was in charge, Mozelle had nothing to do. I offered to lend her my books, but was astonished to learn she could not read. Sometimes I would read aloud to her, but her attention drifted quickly, and she usually fell asleep after a chapter or two.
Aunt Bellore invited me to play with her daughters and was annoyed when I refused, preferring to stay home with Mozelle. “So you like your new mother, do you?” Her tone was probing, not pleasant.
“She's all right,” I replied curtly. I was unwilling to give her the satisfaction of knowing I was accepting Mozelle, for in doing so, I might be seen as disloyal to Mama—something I suspected would gratify her.
Papa came to my room one evening to tell me how pleased he was that I was kind to his new wife. “When I go away, Mozelle will be company for you—and you for her.”
An idea struck me. “Could she attend the Jewish Girls' School with me?”
“I don't think so.”
“She doesn't even read,” I confided.
“That’s not important. In any case, that is not her desire.”
“How do you know?” I challenged.
My father ignored me.
“Let's ask her.”
“Dinah!” He looked exasperated enough to chastise me further, but he caught himself. I could tell he was mulling over his next words. He lowered his voice. “Mozelle must have quiet activities for the next several months.”
Mozelle was sleepy most of the time. She napped more than my brothers. “Marriage must be tiring,” I said.
Papa laughed heartily. “She has started a baby, so she must rest.”
“When will she finish it?”
He chuckled even louder. “In May, I think. I will try to be home by then.”
A pang reminded me that he would be going back to China in a few weeks, but I no longer feared loneliness. At least I would not have to return to Aunt Bellore's. I would be going to a new school, Grandmother Helene enjoyed my company and kept everyone amused, and the boys were older and more companionable. Mozelle and I would be together and, happily, soon there would be a new baby in the house.
“What this house needs is music, laughter, people!” was Grandmother Helene's pronouncement a few days after my father's departure for China.
She was right. We had been a somber clutch ever since the date of his trip had been announced.
“I'm leaving you in good hands,” he assured me. “Now, I want you to help Grandmother Helene take care of Mozelle. She will be your 'little mother.' “
“Yes, Papa,” I agreed, finding the term “little mother” pleasi
ng because it proved I was not as motherless as Nani had feared.
My father had acquired two women in the marriage contract: a nubile innocent to bear him children, and a sensible—at least that was what he thought—manager for his household.
Grandmother Helene was a big woman in body, in soul, in heart— and in requirements to sustain the three. The kitchen was the site of her first improvements. Our cook, a Muslim who was well-schooled, in kosher laws, had until now brought little imagination to his task. Grandmother Helene had no qualms about rolling up her sleeves to work side by side with him until his creations met her exacting standards. Under her tutelage even the traditional kooba—stuffed rice dumplings—were more deliriously spiced. Specialties such as pantras, pancakes rolled with chicken, and bamia khutta, sweet-and-sour chicken and okra, were placed on the table several times a week. On the Sabbath, muchli ka curry, a tangy fish platter, and hans mukmura, duck with almond-raisin-and-spice sauce, appeared. No longer was only one dish offered for each course of the meal. Grandmother Helene insisted that a “taste of this and a taste of that” was best for her “Mazal-Tob,” the Jewish name she preferred to call her daughter.
Indeed, in the early months, Mozelle felt sick if she went without eating for more than an hour. Tables in every room were laden with trays of fresh fruit, several varieties of barfi fudges, even my favorite, the creamy coconut candy, dol-dol.
“Bring me some figs. I want mango fool. I must have a turnover,” she ordered in so docile a tone that she did not sound officious.
“Yes, yes, my darling,” her mother cooed.
My brothers and I were no longer expected to take our meals in the nursery dining room. “This is one big family!” Grandmother Helene exclaimed. “We shall eat together.”
Her concept of family stretched beyond us three children and her daughter to include her other children, their husbands and babies, her sisters' and brothers' families, her old friends from Calcutta, Darjeeling, and everywhere else. Rarely did only five of us sit down to a meal. Her hospitality became legion. The Arakie clan broadcast the news that her table was always set for twenty. We never knew who might appear at mealtimes.