She didn’t understand how it had happened, but Herr Goodman said she didn’t have to.
“They’re not Jewish,” he told her, “but they’re willing to take you in at your age, which is rare. We can be thankful for that.”
Still, she couldn’t help wondering why a family she’d never met, a family who had no clear ties to her faith or to her, would want her.
Now, as she listened to Ruth ramble about everything she had on her list to do once she reached New York, Dalya felt only the dullest interest. Her mind was too full of regret that while Ruth could dream of the day her parents would join her, she would forever be without her family. Without anyone.
—
One of the older boys was the first to see her.
“There she is!” He leaned over the railing, pointing. Shouts and laughter echoed around the deck as everyone crammed the railings to get a better look.
Dalya tried to dampen the thrill that rose inside her when she saw the graceful lady wielding her torch, but it was impossible. The Statue of Liberty had never been something she’d expected, or even desired, to see until this very moment. But she was glorious as she stood in the harbor, outlined by the sprawling city that glimmered silver in the late-afternoon sunlight.
“Have you ever seen anything so spectacular?” Ruth asked, gripping Dalya’s arm.
“No,” she said. But it was only the beginning. The buildings that, from a distance, seemed to brush the sky became towering giants once the ship docked in the harbor. Dalya couldn’t stop looking up, and when the chaperones brought her, along with the other refugees, into the ballroom of the ship for final paperwork and examinations by an immigration doctor, she found herself impatient to see the fantastic skyline again.
Finally, with her satchel and coat in her arms, she was allowed to disembark just as the sun was setting. Some children moving down the gangplank waved enthusiastically to relatives and friends in the docking area below. They rushed forward while others hesitated, scanning the crowd, not sure who they were looking for.
Dalya stepped off the gangplank, swaying unsteadily as her feet adjusted to solid ground. Soon, she spotted a man with skin darker than any she’d ever seen before, holding up a sign with her name on it. She swallowed thickly, straightened her shoulders, and stepped forward.
“I am Dalya Amschel,” she said in German. From the man’s blank look, she realized he hadn’t understood her. She pointed to the sign and then to herself.
“Miss Amschel?” the man said, and she nodded. Together, they waded through the throngs of people hugging, laughing, crying. Ruth called out to her from the crowd, waving goodbye as she walked with a friendly-looking couple toward a cab.
“I’ll see you soon!” she said.
Dalya nodded and waved. She followed the man as they quickly made their way through customs and then to a black car waiting amid a slew of yellow taxis. The man held the door open for her, and she took a deep breath and climbed in.
A beautiful woman was sitting across from her, her blond hair pulled into a sleek knot at the base of her neck. She smiled, extending a hand in greeting, but Dalya didn’t miss the way the woman’s jade eyes widened at her appearance. Her face composed itself almost immediately, but the instant was enough to make Dalya flush in embarrassment. Even though her cheeks had softened since she’d left Sachsenhausen, the gray shadows under her eyes hadn’t completely faded, and her still-meager figure swam in her dress. She couldn’t stand being pitied, though, and was relieved, when she looked back into those eyes, to see kindness instead.
“Hello, I’m Katherine Ashbury.” Her voice had a satin command, and Dalya guessed she was used to being obeyed. The woman kept talking, and Dalya could tell by the slight turns at the end of phrases that she was asking questions, but the words were foreign.
Dalya shook her head, hoping to show that she didn’t understand without being offensive. “No English,” she said falteringly, but that was all she could manage in this alien tongue. Mrs. Ashbury (as that was how she supposed the woman would be addressed by American standards) stopped talking, looking surprised and disappointed. Then she patted Dalya’s shoulder and let her sit in silence for the rest of the ride.
Dalya turned toward the window, grateful to escape questions. Soon, she lost herself in the scenes streaking by the glass. She’d been accustomed to the bustle of Berlin, but it was sluggish compared to the frenzied pace of New York. People hurried by, pushing against each other, the sidewalks, and the streets until the city itself seemed to bulge. Horns blaring, subways rumbling, music wailing, people shouting—all combined into a manic roar that Dalya could hear even above the car’s motor. Flowers and fresh produce were piled into vibrant peaks under grocers’ awnings, sidewalk cafés teemed with diners, and men in suits scurried about with briefcases. Dalya vaguely remembered hearing of Times Square once in chitchat at school, but nothing had prepared her for the effervescent lights pouring from every street corner, window, and billboard. She stared, awestruck, at a giant electric sign for something called Wrigley’s that was full of glowing fish blowing bubbles. Everywhere she looked was dizzying energy, but instead of exciting her, it gave her the helpless sensation of being frozen in other people’s spinning, ceaseless lives.
Gradually, though, the streets became less crowded as the tall business buildings were left behind for smaller, more stately homes with curtained windows and gracefully sculpted fronts. Her panic subsided. These streets reminded her of some of the finer ones in Berlin, at least the way she remembered it. She saw women pushing baby carriages and an elderly man walking a dog, and she guessed they were driving into some kind of residential neighborhood.
Finally, the car stopped in front of a cream-colored three-story stone house. The driver helped them out, then held the ornate door open for them before disappearing inside with Dalya’s satchel and coat.
Dalya stepped into a marble-floored foyer with a sparkling chandelier and richly carpeted staircase. Branching off from the foyer were, on one side, a dining room with perfectly placed china and crystal wineglasses and, on the other, a wood-paneled parlor with shelves overflowing with books. Dalya couldn’t stop staring. It didn’t seem possible that she would be living in such a place. Even the air here seemed to shimmer grandly. How could so much excess and beauty exist in one part of the world, while in another, war was destroying everything?
Mrs. Ashbury beckoned Dalya into the dining room and gestured toward the plates, probably meaning that dinner could be made for her, if she was hungry. Dalya shook her head. She was hungry, but the idea of being scrutinized through an entire meal without being able to make herself understood…it was too much. What she wanted was a place to steal herself away from this strange new world, at least for the night.
Luckily, her face must have given her away, because Mrs. Ashbury led her out of the dining room and up the stairs to a second-floor bedroom. Dalya walked into the room to find her satchel sitting at the foot of a four-poster bed. A lovely midnight-blue day dress was draped across the satin bedspread. Mrs. Ashbury held the dress under Dalya’s chin, and Dalya blushed, realizing it must be for her. She touched the fine fabric tentatively and said “Thank you” in German, hoping Mrs. Ashbury might understand.
Mrs. Ashbury smiled, said something in a reassuring tone, and left the room.
Once the door was shut, Dalya let out the breath she’d been holding, sinking onto the bench at the foot of the bed. The luxurious bed and furnishings, the plush carpet—none of it seemed real, let alone meant for her. A vision of her humble apartment back in Berlin filled her mind, and longing filled her heart. Here was her body, safe on American soil, but every other part of the person she’d been before—her laugh, her smile, her dreams—had been lost along the way. Who would she become now, without a family or a country, and with a faith that half the world seemed to despise? She didn’t even have the right language.
Tears threatened her eyes, but she held them back. She didn’t want anyone in the
house to hear her crying and think she was ungrateful. Instead, she turned toward the window for a glance at this city that was her new home.
There, perched on the window ledge outside, was a small blue book with a large, round yellow fruit sitting on top of it. Dalya carefully opened the window and brought the book and the fruit inside. The book, much to her relief, was a German-English dictionary. Inside was a note written in German that read: Welcome to America. Enjoy the grapefruit. Your ally, Henry.
Dalya smiled. Who was Henry? If Mrs. Ashbury had mentioned him already, Dalya hadn’t heard, or understood. But she was so relieved to see the note scrawled in her native language that she felt an affinity for him already.
She ran her hand over the fruit’s bumpy rind, and as she did, her stomach whined. She’d never seen or heard of a grapefruit before, and her curiosity (and hunger) was getting the best of her. She peeled off the skin, pulled a section from the fruit, and bit into the rosy pulp. Juice squirted across her cheek and dribbled down her chin as tangy sweetness filled her mouth. It was a flavor unlike any other she’d ever experienced, like rays of sunshine on her tongue. It tasted of newness and promise, and it brought inklings of a smile to her face. The smile didn’t break the surface, but even its beginning was enough for now.
—
She woke nervously, feeling like a trespasser. The pillows, the satin bedding, the hum of traffic outside, all of it was disorienting. She moved about her room cautiously, afraid to touch anything. She washed quickly in the private bathroom adjoining her room, slipped into her new blue dress, and made her way downstairs.
The house was so quiet that, for a minute, she thought she was alone, and relief swept through her. But then she heard distant splashing and echoing voices. She traced the sounds to an open door at the back of the kitchen that seemed to lead to a basement. Slowly, she made her way down the stairs, and as she did, the air became moist. The white-tiled room she stepped into held a large metal tub filled with steaming water. A woman in a crisp white dress busily adjusted knobs on the side of the tub while a young man, about Dalya’s age, sat in the middle of the bubbling water. He was staring at her so openly that she immediately blushed, then hoped he wouldn’t notice. But he did, and it made him smile.
“So, you’re Mother’s new cause,” he said in flawless German. “I’m so glad you’ve finally arrived. Now she’ll have a hobby besides me.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, trying to avoid looking at his broad, bare chest. He was wearing a bathing suit, but even so, she had never seen so much of any young man before. “My name is Dalya Amschel.”
“Henry.” He raised a hand in greeting. His steely blue eyes glinted with playfulness, but there was fierceness in them, too, and she wondered why. “Did you like the welcome gift I left you?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “You speak German very well.”
He laughed in a hard way that made him seem much older than he looked. “That’s one of the few things I do well. My father wanted me to learn it, along with French, although I don’t know why. The only language he understands is money.” He leaned forward. “You don’t speak any English?”
Dalya shook her head.
“That’s really going to muddle Mother’s plans,” he said, looking pleased. “I’ll find her frustration entertaining, but I doubt you will, so that means we have our work cut out for us. If I’m going to help you with English, we’ll have to practice in between my water therapy and my tutoring sessions. Oh, and your school schedule.”
“School?” Dalya repeated doubtfully. The word belonged to someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t left childhood behind a barbed-wire fence.
“You didn’t think you’d escape it, did you?” Henry grinned. “Mother’s at her churchwoman’s meeting this morning, but she’s planned the rest of your day after that, so prepare yourself. Clothes shopping, and then over to Dalton to register for school.” He must have seen shades of panic cross her face, because he added, “Don’t worry. You don’t start until August, so that gives us plenty of time to improve on your English.”
Dalya’s stomach screwed up tight. “But I can’t pay…,” she began.
“It’s taken care of,” Henry said casually. “You might not see Father around much, but he knows Mother’s philanthropic projects are good for the family name. He’s made sure she has a hefty allowance for you.”
Embarrassment stirred inside her, and she clenched her fists. “I don’t need anyone’s charity,” she said. “I can make my own way.”
Henry’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “I’m sure you can, but I bet you’ll discover that their way is easier. I did.”
The woman in the white uniform brought a towel over to the tub, and Henry propped himself up on his arms and slid backward until he was resting on a submerged ramp. His legs didn’t move with the rest of his body. They seemed stiff and ungainly, and he had to slide an arm under his thighs to sweep them over the side of the tub to dry off.
“Polio,” he said, catching her staring. “Two years ago, and the reason why I have a full-time tutor and part-time nurse.” He smirked. “Mother scours the globe for the latest treatments. Like this—a Hubbard tank, it’s called.” He banged on the metal tank with his fist.
“I’m sorry,” Dalya said, hearing the bitterness in his voice.
Henry shrugged, tying a robe over his bathing suit. “Fortunately for my parents, sitting behind a desk is something even someone in a wheelchair can do. So they still have their heir, and I still have my inheritance.” He said it so smugly that she wondered what his parents could possibly have done to warrant that much hatred.
The nurse handed him a pair of cagelike metal braces, which he buckled onto his legs. After slipping his forearms into crutches, he took a few halting steps toward her. “I don’t know you yet,” he said quietly, “but I’m guessing that you’ve seen much worse than my pathetic situation. Am I right?”
She couldn’t answer over the wailing of blood in her ears. But he kept his eyes on her until the burden of the truth contorted her face, giving her away. She knew he saw everything she wasn’t saying. He could’ve pressed her. But he glanced away, leaving her to wrestle her features back into composure.
Just then, footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs, and Mrs. Ashbury called for her.
“Have fun shopping,” Henry said as Dalya turned to go. “English lessons start tomorrow, four p.m. sharp.”
Dalya felt him watching her as she climbed the stairs, and she wondered if he thought her as much of an oddity as she felt. She hoped not. Instead, she hoped that, in him, she’d found a friend. Because in this wilderness of skyscrapers and commotion, that was what she needed more than anything.
BEA
Bea’s first memory was of her parents dancing barefoot in the moonlight.
It was past her bedtime, but she heard her mother’s laughter outside and slipped from her covers. She peeked over her windowsill to see her father twirling her mother around until her bare feet flew and her hair caught wisps of silver moonglow. Her father bent forward and grazed her neck with his lips, the whisper of a touch.
Bea smiled. Tonight, her father had taken her mother out for their anniversary. “To the ritziest place in town,” he’d said. Her mother had put on her best dress and her pale pink shoes—her wedding shoes.
“Your daddy brought these home for me from the other side of the world,” her mother had told her as she dressed. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Bea thought they were the most beautiful shoes she’d ever seen. They sat far below in the backyard, two pearly doves nesting in the grass. They seemed to be watching her parents dance, too, and the way they shimmered in the moonlight made Bea think of Cinderella’s glass slippers.
“I have a gal who’s sweet on me,” her father was singing now. “Evie.”
“Hush, Robbie,” her mother scolded. “You’ll wake Beatrice.” But she laughed as she said it.
Bea giggled from her perc
h high above as she watched her father scoop her mother into his arms all over again.
Bea wanted to dance under the stars like that, too. She got off the bed to go downstairs, then stopped. She didn’t want to break the spell. So she stayed, and watched.
RAY
When Ray walked into the bus station, the dawning sky held a few remaining stars. Her clothes were damp from running, her feet throbbed, but she hadn’t seen any cops, which meant Mrs. Danvers hadn’t noticed she was missing…yet. Maybe she could actually pull this off. The small waiting room was empty, but she held her breath as she peered into the ticket booth. Jaynis was the sort of town you couldn’t crap in without everybody knowing what you ate the day before, and if Mr. Neener was manning the booth this morning, he’d have her back at Smokebush by sunrise. Thankfully, though, the woman in the booth was someone Ray didn’t know. She’d probably sell Ray the bus ticket, no questions asked. Still, it’d be best to lie low until right before the bus boarded, just in case.
She slipped into the ladies’ room and wet some paper towels to cool off her face. After grabbing her wallet from her duffel, she counted the money she’d taken from Mrs. Danvers’s stash. She’d get as far as she could on the bus, then hitch the rest of the way. She finished counting, then smiled. Two hundred seventy dollars. Enough to make it to Manhattan, with a little left over for food. She could lift a few bucks from someone’s wallet, too, and then she might be able to pay for a place to stay once she got to the city, at least until she figured out what to do next. She’d been checking the fares and timetables for months, ever since she got the catalog from Juilliard. It was an escape route—she hadn’t been sure she’d ever use it, but it made her feel better to know it was there.
Confident that the next bus would leave in ten minutes, she stepped into one of the stalls. A few seconds later, the ladies’ room door wheezed open, and Ray’s stomach seized. Her guitar and duffel, with the cash inside, were sitting on the counter by the sink, where she’d left them. If this was anyone who recognized her stuff, she was screwed. Swearing under her breath, she peeked out from under the stall. There they were…a pair of pathetically worn purple Keds shedding glitter all over the floor.
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