by Megan Chance
“No,” I said in horror, backing away from him. “Oh, no, no, no—”
He muttered at me and walked on, but I was shaken. I had no idea where to go. What had the street sweeper said? Walk up Allen to Essex, but where was Essex? How far had I gone?
I drew into the shadows, huddling there, afraid. Irene’s words came back to me—You might want to have your driver take a weapon—and I was certain I would not get from this place alive.
The noises around me grew louder. Men laughing, shouting. Faint music. Coughing. The squeak of pushcart wheels. Weary footsteps. The high voices of women calling out in singsong.
I heard them before I saw them. The swish of a gown, of two, the step of heels. When they came nearer, I saw what they were, but I was afraid enough that I didn’t care. I stepped from the shadows as they neared me. They laughed nervously and gave me a critical eye and began to walk by.
“Please,” I whispered, and one of them stopped. She had the hardest face I’d ever seen. She looked at the woman with her—a younger version of herself, with a tattered kerchief hiding her hair—and rattled off a long string of words. I held up my hand to stop her and said desperately, “I’m looking for Victor Seth. On Essex Street. Essex Street.”
“Essex,” the younger one said, and I nodded in grateful relief.
“Yes. Essex.”
“Seth?” She pronounced it oddly—a long e—but again I nodded. She looked to the older woman and said something to her, and the older woman laughed and pointed to the corner beyond, saying over and over a word I couldn’t come close to making out. Then she crooked her finger and held up her fingers—one, two, three—and then the two of them laughed again as I stared uncomprehendingly.
The older one grabbed my arm. She was quite strong, and I was tired and afraid, so I didn’t protest; I stumbled along behind her. They led me down the street, and I had the dim thought that they were taking me to some terrible little house where I would be held prisoner. They could have thrown me into the East River, and I would have been helpless to stop them.
But they did not. They took me to the corner and turned right, and we were on a street lined with row houses and tenements indistinct from the first, and then we were before a ramshackle row house that looked to be sinking beneath the weight of its misery. They pushed me up the cracked and weathered stoop and left me sagging against the door before the younger one said, “Seth,” in her odd way. They walked away again, chattering between themselves, abandoning me.
I was cold and sweating at the same time. My feet would no longer hold me, and I was so afraid I was nearly paralyzed. But I held one last hope that the women had brought me where I wanted to go—in any case, I had no choice—so I lifted my hand to the door and knocked.
There was no sound beyond. I knocked again, louder this time, and when that brought no answer, I began to pound. Someone must be there. There was a dim light coming from the second floor—someone had to be there. My pounding became rhythmic, almost soothing. I think I might have pounded forever, too mindless to stop, too terrified to leave, but then I heard footsteps beyond, and a muttered curse in something that sounded like German, and then the door was pulled open so abruptly I nearly fell into the man who stood on the other side.
He was short and wizened, with rheumy eyes that squinted at me before he straightened in surprise and said, “Fräulein, you must be lost.”
It took me a moment to realize that I understood him. All I could say was “Victor. I—I’m looking for Victor Seth.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Victor. Ja, ja, Victor. Come. Come.” He stood back, motioning me inside. I almost collapsed in gratitude and relief.
He closed the door behind me. The house had been converted into flats, and we were in a dimly lit hallway littered with old mattresses and straw and rags; with bodies that huddled, stinking, in the shadows beyond. There were boxes and cans, heaps of clothes, piles of fabric tied with twine. From somewhere came the monotonous hum of some kind of machinery. The smell of kerosene was strong, along with the smells of cooking—onions and cabbage and grease—and the stench of urine. The doorjambs were grimy with fingerprints, the stairs before us sagged in the middle, and the finish had been worn to bare, filthy wood. The banister shook as the man put his hand upon it and gestured for me to follow him upstairs.
We climbed the creaking stairs to the next floor, where wash lines were strung with clothing from room to room. One of four doors had been eased open to cast its faint light across the hall. From inside that room came the guttural sounds of talk punctuated by the clatter of dishes, and again that whirring sound.
The man pushed open the door. “Victor!” he called, and then he said something in German. I heard an answer, low and deep, in Victor’s voice, and then there was the sound of a chair pushing back, and footsteps, and he was there, stepping around the old man, pausing in the doorway, staring at me.
“Lucy,” he said.
I fell sobbing into his arms.
Chapter 16
My God, Lucy, what are you doing here?” He tried to hold me away from him, but I could only cling more tightly, so relieved to have found him, so certain he would make everything all right.
He gave me a little shake. “How did you find me? What happened?”
I could not answer. Finally he pulled me close while I sobbed against his chest, and I heard him say something to the old man in German—the gutturals made his chest rise and fall in jerky movements—and then he was leading me into the room beyond, where the whirrr became louder, the smells of food overpowering. I buried my face in his shirt; the scents of soap and sweat were oddly familiar and comforting.
“Come,” he whispered to me. He spoke again to the man and to someone else—there was someone in the room whom I saw indistinctly—and then he led me across the room, which I had no sense of through my tears, into some small dark space. He shut a door behind us. “Here. Sit down.”
My knee bumped into something—a bed, I realized, and I sank down upon it. It sagged beneath me, and when he sat beside me, it sagged even more. His arm was still around me; I leaned into his side, my sobs easing. I felt him fumble, and then he was shoving a handkerchief into my hand.
“Would you like something?” he asked. “Something to drink?”
“No.” I shook my head, dabbing at my face. “No, nothing. Just you. I . . . I had to see you.”
“Yes,” he said. Then, “I’m going to light the lamp.” He took his arm from my shoulders, and I heard the strike of a match. There was the flicker of flame and the small, dim light of what I realized was a kerosene lamp, and the darkness of the room eased. It was not a room, even, but a closet, like the closet between my room and William’s, but smaller still than that. It held only the bed we sat on, no more than a cot covered with a stained, frayed quilt. The lamp was set on a shelf built into the corner, and piled around it were books, and above them a top hat. A brown suit hung on a hook in another corner, along with a coat. There was a lock on the door. The room held the strong, familiar scent of cigars.
“What is this place?” I asked. “You can’t possibly live here.”
I realized how undone he looked. His shirt was collarless. His braces were loose, looping at his hips, and his hair was tousled and curling at the nape. He looked younger than I’d ever imagined. “Why are you here, Lucy? Why have you come?”
I had thought of nothing but getting to him. He was to be my salvation. He understood me as no one had. But his questions were cold and faintly hostile, and I felt uncertain and embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, crumpling the handkerchief. “I should not have come.”
“No, you should not have,” he agreed. “How did you find me?”
“I . . . I went to your office. Irene gave me your address.”
His gaze was assessing, dark. He was like another man altogether. “How did you get here?”
“I walked.”
“You walked?”
“I didn’t re
alize how far it was . . . or what it would be like—”
“You could have been killed out there. Didn’t you know—”
“How could I have? Why should I assume a doctor—a neurologist—my neurologist—would live in a . . . in a . . .”
“Tenement.”
“Yes,” I whispered. I looked at him. “Yes. Why? Certainly you could live better than this, with the money William pays you alone.”
“The old man you met out there is my father,” he said grimly. “He and my mother have lived here since they came from Germany thirty years ago. He owns it now.”
“Then he could sell it. There are other places, better ones.”
“For Jews, Lucy? Jews who aren’t of your class? Where else would they go?”
I had no answer.
“They have a decent life here,” he said, “though you wouldn’t know it just to look. He does piecework. That noise you hear—those are sewing machines. They go nearly all night. He contracts with the mills and hires women to sew. Twenty, thirty women and their families live and work on this floor alone. The money he makes paid for my schooling. That and a donation from a generous mentor sent me to Leipzig.”
I did not know what to say.
“You wanted to know more about me,” he said bitterly. “Does this satisfy your curiosity?”
“I understand about your parents,” I said. “But you—”
“They’re getting old,” he said. “They struggled to give me a better life, and they deserve a son to look after them now.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Sorry that you know where I come from? That I’m not what you wanted me to be? Or is it only that you’re sorry you’ve trusted someone like me?”
“Don’t.”
His hand was on mine, holding me in place. “Why did you come, Lucy?” he said roughly against my ear. “Why are you here?”
“It doesn’t matter. Truly. I’ll go back home.” I was crying again, and I dashed my hand across my eyes, muttering fiercely, “God, how stupid I am. What a silly, stupid woman.”
I rose. It was a single step to the door. He was there suddenly too, grabbing my shoulder, forcing me to face him. I put my hands on his chest to push him from me. My vision was blurred, and I felt desperate in a way I could not explain, as if just his presence was too much; as if I could not find ground steady enough to hold me. “I’ll be fine. If you’ll just let me go.”
He took hold of my wrists and moved my arms as if they were made of clay, pliable, elastic, down to my sides, trapping them there so I could not move, and then he kissed me.
I felt his lips on mine with a little shock, and then he was pressing against me, his body holding me to the door. I had both wanted and feared this, perhaps it was even what I had come to him to find, and I opened beneath him. He loosed my arms and put his hands on either side of my face, and I leaned in to him and followed when he pulled me with him to the bed and we fell onto the ragged quilt together. I did not hesitate but only reached for him when he backed away to slide up my cloak and skirt and petticoats, when he pushed between my legs. Though we were both clothed when he came inside me, it seemed I felt him with every part, that he freed me so I was thrusting against him, impatient, yearning, pleading, and then stunned as the pleasure coursed through me, leaving me mindless and crying out into his mouth, gripping him until he collapsed upon me with a final groan. We lay there for some time, it seemed, until the pleasure died, and I could not move for the intensity of my release.
When he stirred, I did not want him to go. But he slid from me and sat up, tucking and buttoning while I lay there with my clothing pressed up to my hips, my boots and stockings still on, my hat falling from my head, clinging to a loosened hat pin.
He sighed, and I became self-conscious. I pushed down my skirt and sat up. The hat pin fell out. My fingers trembled as I reached for my hat and held it in my lap, afraid to look at him, to look at anything but a burgundy rose and a jaunty dark green feather. I could not say anything, and I wanted him to stay silent as well; I did not think I could bear whatever it was he would say.
But then he turned to me, and his gaze caressed me, and I found myself saying, “I . . . I’ve never felt like that. Not even the electrotherapy . . .”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “It’s not the same.” His eyes darkened and he said, “Someday I would like to see all of you.”
I reached for the fastening of my cloak, embarrassingly quick, to please him. “Yes,” I said. My breath came fast again; I looked at his mouth. “Yes, of course. Just let me—”
His hand came over mine, stopping it. “Not now,” he said. “Not here.”
I was disappointed. “Oh. I thought—”
“It’s late.”
“Surely it’s not—”
“Where does William think you are?”
William. I had so completely forgotten him that when Victor spoke his name, it was like that of a stranger. I was horrified at what I’d done, at what we’d done, and I scrambled off the bed, shamed by the wetness between my legs, by the scrapes of mud my boots had left on the quilt. “Oh, I didn’t think . . .” I twisted my hat in my hand.
“Ssshhh,” he said, coming to me, taking the hat from my hands. “It’s all right, Lucy.”
“No,” I said desperately. “No, it’s not all right.”
“He keeps you caged.”
“Yes,” I said breathlessly. How much I craved the touch of him, already—so quickly—yielding to him again.
“You mustn’t feel guilty for this. You needed this.”
“Oh yes.”
“Does he know where you went?”
I shook my head. “I just left. I came by myself. I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Good,” he murmured against my ear. “That’s very good.”
I lifted my mouth to his. “I suppose that he should know. . . .”
“We’ll talk about that later,” he said.
“But he’ll have to know. If I don’t go back—”
“You have to go back,” he said. It was a breath against my lips, but it startled me.
I jerked away from him. “What?”
“You have to go back,” he said. “Come, Lucy, you know this. You can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
“Look around you.” He motioned impatiently at the room. “You don’t belong here.”
“But . . .” I stared at him, uncomprehending. “But you can’t want me to go back to my husband. Not after this.”
“Where else should you go?”
The question had no meaning, no relevance. I could not bend my mind to it. “But we’ve—”
“You would be ruined, Lucy,” he said softly. “If you were to leave him now, I would be ruined.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Yes, it does.”
I was humiliated beyond bearing, but I could not escape him. The room was too close, he was too close. I looked at him in confusion. “I’m falling in love with you,” I said miserably.
“Listen to me, Lucy,” he said. “You must listen closely. We must be careful. It’s not unusual for a patient to form such an attachment to her doctor. Or to mistake feelings of gratitude for love.”
“Gratitude? That’s absurd. I know the difference.”
“Oh, Lucy,” he said. “We still have so much work to do.” He reached over to the bed, where my hat pins lay scattered, and gathered them up. Then he set my hat on my head, gently—far too gently for any man—fastening it to my hair. He grabbed his coat from the hook by his suit, and then his hat, which he tucked beneath his arm. “It’s late. You must go home. Come. I’ll take you there.”
Chapter 17
He opened the door and took my hand, and I let him lead me out without a murmur. The old man—his father—and an old woman who must have been his mother sat at a table with another woman who was bent over a sewing machine that she operated in
fits and starts.
His mother was sewing by hand, by the light of a kerosene lantern. She was so hunched her eyes were nearly on the fabric. As we came out of the room, her expressionless gaze raked over me, taking in everything, and I felt she knew exactly what had gone on behind that door, what I had done with her son, what I had come for.
He said something to them in German, and they both nodded.
“You should lie down, Mutter,” he went on in English. “Your eyes are too tired for that.”
“Pssshhh,” she said, waving at him in disdain before she bent back to her sewing. The father did not take his gaze from me as we went to the door.
“You be careful, Victor,” he said, and then, “Take care, Fräulein.”
We went out into the hall, where the darkness was more pronounced, and the huddled sleeping bodies were harder to see. Victor held my elbow, directing me down the stairs. At the foot he paused to lift a bundle of bound pieces and move it out of the way, and then we were back into the night, which was cold now, and foggy, and very, very dark.
“Stay close to me,” he ordered, though I was pressed into his side, with no desire to leave it. There were only a few people on the street, mostly women. As we passed them at a fast clip, one or two of them murmured to Victor, and he called back a greeting.
“You know them?” I asked.
“I grew up here,” he told me curtly.
“So you know everyone.”
“No.” He shook his head. “When I was a boy, these were all German houses—German Jews. Now most of them are from Russia. They aren’t like us at all.”
“Us? I thought you didn’t believe in religion.”
“I don’t practice Judaism, Lucy, but I can’t escape my heritage, no matter how I try. It’s changing here, faster than anyone likes. These signs you see all over, they’re Yiddish. My parents don’t speak it. I don’t speak it. My father considers them fanatics. They’re clannish and backward. But there are so many of them that any ground we’ve managed to gain has been stripped away. When your people think Jewish, they no longer think of men like my father, who have come to terms with Western culture, who have even embraced it. They think of the unemployed masses in the Khazzer-Mark.”