by Karen White
“I’d better be going,” she said.
After she left, Grandma and I stood at the upstairs window and watched her walk briskly back across the fields with her son in her arms.
—
The wounded soldier by the clock had a young, hopeful face. His clothes were neat, and if I didn’t look I could pretend his leg wasn’t missing. I was glad when a couple came to meet him. That he had family to go to. He nodded to me when he left. The old woman with the black eyes stared at me, too, twisting her thin hands together. I decided to find Mother. I walked up and down the telephone queues, but she wasn’t there and she wasn’t in the waiting rooms. I went along the wooden benches and dragged our suitcase down the ramp to the lower levels. I returned to the main concourse and climbed the stairs, standing on the balcony so I could see across the hall. An awful panic began to grip me. Several trains must have arrived at once because the concourse was suddenly packed with people.
“You’re lost, aren’t you?” said a voice. It was the black-eyed old woman. “My son is in the navy. He’s coming back soon, you see? I got a slice of my Good Luck lemon pie waiting in the refrigerator for him. But who are you waiting for, dear? Do you want me to ask a porter to help you? I know them all. I come here every day to wait. You’re awfully young to be on your own . . .”
She gripped my elbow and offered to take me home. I could have her son’s room until he came back. The bed was all made up with a blue satin comforter. She showed me a telegram from the War Department and explained they must have made a mistake. Her son couldn’t have drowned. He was a terrific swimmer.
“I’ll look after you, dear,” she said. “I’ll take good care of you.”
There was a roaring in my ears; panic was washing over me. I tried to pull my arm free from this woman offering me kindnesses I didn’t want. I searched the crowds again looking for Mother, and instead I saw Jack. Tall and unmistakable, standing by the clock, his hat in his hands, turning it over and over.
“He’s here!” I cried, struggling free of the woman’s grip, pushing her away. I picked up our suitcase and tried to fight my way down the stairs. Jack was the first person I had seen in all the weeks we had been travelling who knew me and our farm and the people I loved. Seeing him was like seeing home again.
“Jack!” I yelled, all ideas of hiding from him gone from my head. “Jack, Jack, it’s me!”
—
Mother and I left the farmhouse in the dark. We’d said our good-byes the night before and promised we’d write when we arrived in America. Grandma made us a picnic to take on our journey. “You take care,” she said and hugged me so hard I couldn’t breathe. She gave me a small, worn-out teddy bear. “It was your father’s when he was a child. You keep it.”
Mother had put out my travelling clothes on Susan’s empty bed. A pinafore dress and my favourite yellow cardigan. The navy blue coat with a velvet Peter Pan collar, a pair of gloves, and my Sunday-best beret.
We tiptoed past the sheepdogs dozing in the farmyard. Up the grassy track in the August moonlight we went, silver light splashing us, moths dancing, the dew soaking my socks and sandals. I stopped and looked up at the thatched farmhouse that had been my home forever. A figure stood at the landing window. It was Grandma. She lifted her hand and sank down very suddenly, onto the chair that was always there.
I knew then, that even when I was a very old lady, I would never forget the shape Grandma made in the window. How she had waved me on my way and then dropped into the chair, as if broken by our leaving.
Mother was already farther ahead, striding out in the darkness. I ran after her, asking her to wait.
“Grandma . . .” I said.
“Don’t look back,” Mother whispered, walking fast. “Don’t look back.”
—
Mother stood by the big clock with Jack. I cried out to them both, and somehow, in the noise and commotion of the train station, they heard me. They heard me and all I could think as they wrapped their arms around me was that I belonged with them.
“I was going to hide,” I said. I needed them to know I was sorry. I had got so many things wrong.
“Darling girl, we’d have found you,” said Jack, picking up our suitcase. He had a way of speaking that put sunshine in my mother’s eyes. I felt it, too, the warmth of his words. “Are you ready, Molly?”
Mother looked at me anxiously.
“Yes,” I said, letting her take my hand. Yes, I was ready to go.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Roger Watts for his generosity in showing me around a World War II American airfield in the tiny village of Rattlesden in Suffolk, England. During the war the airfield was used by the United States Army 8th Air Force 322nd and 447th Bomb Group. As we stood in the original control tower and looked out over what is now farmland, Roger’s ability to bring that extraordinary past to life, in the form of personal and historical anecdotes, was invaluable to me.
Strand of Pearls
PAM JENOFF
In loving memory of my grandparents, especially Bubby Fayge, whose courageous real-life journey from China to America inspired this tale.
Ella stepped onto the platform, still feeling the gentle rocking of the train under her feet. She adjusted her hat as she tried to gain her bearings. It was Mama’s hat, actually, the one that she had insisted Ella would need, made by the lone Jewish haberdasher in the Hongkou District. It felt old-fashioned now and too stuffy, just like her dress, its hem a good inch longer than those worn by the New York women who swirled sleekly past her.
She moved back against the wall to free herself from the current of travelers that surged this way and that. Plumes of cigarette smoke rose to a pillowlike cloud above. The crowd did not bother her; Ella had grown accustomed to the crush of humanity in the Shanghai market, and had learned how to surf the tide of bodies, which pressed together until they seemed to be part of her. More than once she had emerged with strange impressions on her arm, left by bags and belongings not her own.
Ella leaned against the cool, rough wall, savoring the plainness that allowed her to just fade into the backdrop. It was a luxury she’d seldom had in China, where no matter how ordinary she had felt, her wheat blonde hair and pale blue eyes had still caused her to stand out. But she had learned well on the train to avoid drawing the unwanted attention of a woman traveling alone. Here she could just watch the parade of travelers passing through Grand Central Terminal at midafternoon. There were soldiers everywhere. Though the heaviness of the war had lifted from their faces, the pain and hardship were still fresh enough that their eyes danced with appreciation at everything ordinary around them. A man in a bowler hat rushed past, nearly colliding with an old woman who hobbled across the platform. Ella had always marveled at the fearlessness of elderly travelers who battled the crowds on the Shanghai buses, stooped women, their faces as jowly and hanging as those of Shar-Peis.
Ella started forward once more, trying to make her strides long and confident to match the pace of the crowd. She passed double doors that led to a hotel lobby. The Biltmore Room, the sign beside the doors read. On the other side, a couple was locked in a tight embrace, oblivious to the crowds around them. Ella tried to avert her eyes, but she found herself drawn to the place where the pair’s lips met, wondering what it might feel like. Looking away, she saw another couple standing close with a young girl of three or four at their feet. Suddenly it seemed as if everywhere she looked there were people together. Only she was alone.
Alone, that was, until she found Papa. What would it be like to see him again? Ella had searched a hundred times during her journey for the right words that would abate any awkwardness and make them something more than strangers. She had been just twelve when he left, lifting her one last time to press her cheek against his scratchy beard, which smelled sweetly of pipe smoke, before starting jauntily aboard the ship. Four years later, his image had grow
n shadowy in her mind, and the low roll of his laughter had faded. But now here she was in the very same city, just kilometers, maybe even blocks, away.
Reaching the main concourse, Ella gazed upward at the high, vaulted ceiling. She stopped, breathing in the deliciousness of the open space, a stark contrast to the claustrophobia of the rocking ship and the train and the city of her youth. Two rounded staircases rose to meet on the balcony above. Over the ticket windows, a large poster of Ingrid Bergman, stunning even in nun’s garb, advertised showtimes for The Bells of St. Mary’s in the Grand Central Theatre. (A cinema in a train station—who could imagine such a thing?) Sprawling signs ringed the perimeter of the station, touting different trains: the Owl, the Merchants Limited. The dizzying choice of destinations made her weary. She had traveled for weeks; now she just wanted to rest.
By the clock in the center of the concourse stood a girl in a blue beret, seemingly also alone. She could not have been more than twelve years old, and Ella considered asking whether she needed help, before realizing that she had none to give her. The girl’s light eyes and freckles reminded Ella of her brother back home. “But why are you leaving?” Joseph had asked plaintively. Now five, he had been too young to remember when their father had gone.
She cleared the image of her brother from her mind and looked toward the clock once more. This time she noticed the girl was nibbling from a bag of snacks. She had no look of being lost, after all. Ella wished she could say the same for herself. Again, she glanced around the concourse, searching for the best way out of the station. Spotting the information kiosk, she took a step toward it. As she did, something bumped into her from behind. “Oh!” she cried as the half-broken clasp on her valise opened, sending the contents sprawling. Hurriedly, she knelt to pick them up, embarrassed to see her nightgown and underthings exposed. But people kept moving around her, not noticing.
“I’m so sorry,” a deep voice said from above. “Let me.” The accent was strange, not like the Americans she had heard. She looked up, clutching a silk slip to her breast. A young man with dark eyes stood over her. His hair beneath his cap was dark, too, but feathered with a fine gray, as if it had snowed only on him.
Ella swept her belongings quickly back into the suitcase before the man could touch them. “I’ve got it. Thank you, though.” The words tumbled out crude and unclear.
“You speak English?”
“Some. French would be better.” Life in Shanghai had been a cacophony of languages—Chinese she had learned to understand on the street, French at school, Yiddish at home, or Russian if the adults did not want her and Joseph to know what they were saying. She had studied English on her own in the years since Papa had left, but it was mainly from books, and the opportunities to practice speaking had been few.
“English,” the man pronounced decisively. “You need to practice.” The note of condescension in his voice made her bristle. He reached for her valise. “At least let me carry it for you. That looks heavy.” Ella smiled inwardly. The small, rounded suitcase was only a fraction of what she would have brought if Mama had her way.
She noticed then the red color of the man’s cap. “You’re a porter.” He carried bags not for kindness, but for money.
He nodded, gesturing with his head toward the handful of brown-skinned men in caps like his clustered by the kiosk. “Something of an odd duck among the group, but they don’t seem to mind me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have enough money to pay you,” she said, as he lifted her suitcase.
He waved his hand. “I’m finished working.”
“Your shift . . .” She fumbled for the right word. “Is it over?”
He shook his head. “Done for good. Today was my last day.”
“Oh.” He did not look distressed, as he surely would have if he had been fired. But who would give up a job here willingly?
He stood the valise upright. Then he straightened, a good head taller than her now. “Where to?”
Ella faltered. She had Papa’s address, of course, copied from the back of one of his letters onto a scrap of paper. But she was not sure how to get there—and she wasn’t quite ready to go just yet. “No one here to meet you?” the man pressed. She shrugged. “Let me buy you a drink,” he offered. “To apologize for bumping into you.”
Ella glanced at the tall clock that stood in the middle of the station. It was nearly four and she needed to get to Papa. She had no idea how far it was to where he lived, and she did not want to arrive unannounced at dinnertime. Today was Friday—did Papa still observe the Sabbath, either on his own or with other Jews? There were compromises that had to be made during their years in China, food that was less than kosher when nothing else could be had during the war. But surely some things remained.
Not waiting for a response, the man picked up her valise. He started walking briskly through the waiting room with its neat rows of wood benches toward the elegant restaurant at the end of the concourse, leaving her no choice but to follow. “Wait!” Glimpsing the potted palms and fine white linens on the tables, Ella’s stomach jumped. She had not envisioned anything so grand, and she did not want the man to spend his hard-earned money on her.
But he led her past the restaurant and out the double doors of the station to a metal cart that gave off a savory smell. “Two hot dogs and two sodas, please,” he said to the vendor, fishing coins from his pocket.
“I’m . . .” Ella started to protest that she was not hungry, then stopped as her stomach grumbled. She’d spent a nickel on a buttered roll for breakfast, but that was several hours ago, and she had no idea what Papa might have for their supper. The vendor handed her a napkin-wrapped frankfurter, warm through the bun. “Thank you.” She looked at it uncertainly.
But David bit into his without hesitation. “You learn not to be so fussy in the camps,” he said matter-of-factly as he chewed.
“You’re Jewish?” He nodded, then passed her a soda. “Me, too.” Here, it did not seem awkward or dangerous to acknowledge.
His thin lips lifted to a smile that seemed to reach his eyes. “That’s a fine coincidence.” Finding other Jews seemed to mean something now, after so many had been lost. “I’m David Mandl.”
“Ella.”
“Like Ella Fitzgerald,” he said.
She cocked her head. “I don’t know who that is.”
“Really? She’s a wonderful singer. Very famous.”
“Oh.” Ella was suddenly mindful of her unkempt hair and the smell that lingered despite her attempt to wash up in the toilet on the train. She had taken a room for a single night in San Francisco. The hard, narrow bed with its clean sheets and real pillow had seemed like heaven. But that was six days ago, and all of the freshness had worn off. The yellow silk of her dress was gray with soot, the clutch of flowers that sat atop the hat like eggs in a robin’s nest now crumpled.
David led her to a bench, then brushed at it with a napkin before gesturing for her to sit down. Ella perched on the edge and took a small bite of hot dog, delighting in the rich, salty flavor that filled her mouth. Willing herself to eat slowly, she tilted her head upward. The warm air was pleasant, late summer trying to hang on a bit longer than it should. An odd fog swirled above, obscuring the tops of the buildings along the wide expanse of 42nd Street. She could just make out the now-tattered yellow ribbons that hung from the fire escape ladders on the other side.
They sat beside one another, not speaking as they ate. Buses and taxis filled the street before them, their engines gurgling noisily as they inched forward. Ella studied David out of the corner of her eye. He was not handsome in a classic way: his nose was crooked, as though someone had twisted the end a few degrees to the right, and his chin was a bit too pronounced. But it all came together in a way she rather liked. He gazed out at the street with wide, unblinking eyes, as if trying to memorize the scene before him. Though the gray in his hair and deep lines by h
is eyes suggested he was older than she, Ella could not tell by how much. The fingers he drummed against his knee with his left hand were unusually long.
“I’m from Prague,” he said, turning toward her and picking up the conversation. “Have you been?”
She stared straight ahead, embarrassed to be caught looking at him. “No.” Ella’s family had left Odessa before she was born, fleeing east to escape the hatred and violence toward Jews that had always been present but seemed to worsen in times of famine and hardship. “I grew up in China.” They had spent her earliest years in Harbin, and Mama often told stories of watching as the harbor village rose to a bustling city right around them. But after the Japanese came, they moved to Shanghai and opened a small bakery. Ella could not remember life very well before the overcrowded, polluted city.
His eyes widened. “Well, that’s unusual.” A flash of something crossed over his face—recrimination, maybe, at her having escaped the suffering. She had seen it in the eyes of the Jews that had come to Shanghai from Europe, weary, stoop-shouldered travelers. They lived in the cramped ghetto apartments, cluttering the once pleasant streets, and had no money to buy bread or cakes. “That must have been hard.”
She did not know how to answer. Life in China had been different than other places, she assumed, but it was all she had ever known. There had been better days, with governesses and studies at l’école. But then war had broken out and the government shut down the bakery, and the bombing raids came almost nightly. Mama kept things bright, though, with homeschooling and games and small treats—routines and rituals that connected the days like a strand of pearls. “And you came all of this way yourself?” he asked.
She nodded. The visa window had been a narrow one: Chinese citizens above the age of eighteen only. Mama’s Russian passport had kept her from coming, and Joseph was too young. Ella was the only one who could pass. “You go,” Mama had said over her protestations. “It will make it easier for us if you are settled.”