To my surprise, Hannah looked like she might cry herself. “Welcome,” she said warmly.
I was missing you with extra passion and could not smile, which made me feel rotten because here was Hannah being so kind, and I was not. Hannah did not seem bothered, though. She was more bothered by Max, who was terrifically intent on folding up the paper with my name. Hannah poked his arm and spoke to him in Yiddish. (Yes, Yiddish! To think that all this time, Mama and Papa were so intent on us learning English and not Yiddish!) Finally, Max looked me in the eye. He seemed to be studying me. Perhaps he was trying to find resemblances to Papa. That is what I was trying to find in him . . . but I could not find any. I still cannot. They are cousins, but they are nothing alike. Here is why:
Max is so short . . . shorter than Hannah, even when she removes her high heels . . . and his hair is almost gone. What’s left of it is blond . . . another difference.
Max does not wear glasses.
His eyes are a deep brown, unlike our green-gray.
Their noses. Papa’s is rather small (do you agree?), but Max’s is VERY large and full of indents, as though he pressed his face into a bucket of sand.
Papa is always charming around strangers, but Max would have remained silent if Hannah hadn’t kept poking him. After the fifth or sixth poke, he finally nodded politely and said, in English, “Welcome, Anna.”
Then we all set off onto a train called the “subway” to go to Brooklyn, 64th Street in Bensonhurst (Hannah said that is the name for this part of Brooklyn). How nice it was to have them lead the way . . . to have an adult to take care of me again.
Belle, I have so much I want to record. About the apartment here (floral wallpaper . . . dark wood furniture that is very elegant . . . soft rugs), about Hannah’s closet of fur coats, about Max’s pair of uncles who eat dinner with us (both bald, both grumpy), about the streets and the buildings and the smells and the sounds. But as overcome as I am with everything, I am also overcome with sadness. How I wish you were all here to see and hear and smell everything with me! Even if Kurt had come along, then I would have someone to share this with. But for now, I will continue to pretend we are together by writing in this journal, until you arrive and we can truly share everything once again.
With much, much love,
Anna
4 September 1941
t. August 1950
Belle,
Today I received a letter from home! Hannah placed the envelope on my plate before lunch, and when I saw Mama’s handwriting on it, I almost fainted. It would have been nice to read it privately, but I could not wait even a moment. I must have looked very conflicted, because Hannah laughed and said, “Go ahead! Open it!” Then she hurried away to ready the laundry for pickup, which was very kind of her.
I’m going to keep the letter someplace safe, so I will always have it. How lovely to read Mama’s words, and now I can read them whenever I’d like. It’s funny that Mama told me Oliver’s drawing is of a ship . . . I would have known even if she had not. She mentions a letter from you, but it has not yet arrived. This one is dated 23 August, the day the Mouzinho set sail.
I must have read Mama’s letter six times before I realized the laundry had been weighed and sent off and my lunch was in front of me. Hannah said that she was waiting to pour my seltzer until I was ready, otherwise it might have gone flat.
She said, “I hope they’ve received our message that you arrived safely. They must miss you terribly.”
I said, “They will come soon,” but here is where I began to wonder, and my happiness about the letter began to spoil. I assumed Hannah would rush to agree and assure me it is so (I have only just met her, but it seems her optimism is in line with Papa’s). But she didn’t . . . not quite. She smiled, yes, but her lips stayed closed. And instead of saying “Of course they will!” she merely replied, “Oh, I do hope so.”
There was a sadness in her smile, and it made me a bit cross. Who is Hannah to say if you are coming or not? What does she know about living in occupation, or Mama and Papa’s plans, or living here while everyone who matters is there? Who is she to say, “Oh, I do hope so,” because what does she know of hope? My desire for the rest of you to arrive is not merely hope. I am yearning . . . no, longing for . . . no, I NEED you to come . . . there is not a word in any language strong enough to describe it. Even if Hannah does “hope so,” and she was not just saying this to be polite, it is nothing compared to the feeling that swallows me whole, as I write this, “hoping” that you will come.
Your sister,
Anna
CHAPTER 13
I was lying in bed on my stomach, my pillow pushed under my chest and the diary pressed onto my mattress. (Yes, I’d read more without Madeline. But waiting until tomorrow would’ve required some serious self-control.) When I looked up, I saw Jaime in my doorway.
“How long have you been standing there?” I asked, annoyed and embarrassed.
“Um,” he said, making it obvious that he’d been there a long time. “Not that long. What’s that book?”
I considered telling him the truth. All these secrets were starting to weigh on me, and maybe sharing this one would bring us together. Maybe it would even start a conversation about being adopted (which—surprise, surprise—Jaime and I had never talked about), and maybe the two of us could go to Mom and Dad together to tell them we wanted to find our birth parents.
Or maybe that was the most selfish idea in history. Double-teaming my parents might make it easier for me, but it would only make it harder for them. What’s the only thing more painful than one of your children suggesting you’re not enough? Both of your children suggesting you’re not enough.
I stuck my pillow over the open diary. “Just something for school,” I said. “What do you want?”
“What subject?”
“History.” I didn’t even skip a beat.
“Oh.” Jaime leaned against the doorframe. “Is it boring?”
“Can I help you with something?”
“Can you?” Jaime asked hopefully. “Math. I’d ask Mom or Dad, but they think I did my homework before watching TV.”
I pushed myself up, sighed. I glanced at my pillow, then at his eager face. “Sure.”
“Okay!” He disappeared for a second—just enough time for me to close the diary and put it back in its shoebox—then returned with his math workbook. “This page,” he said, handing it over.
“Units of measure,” I read aloud. “Number one. Which unit of measure is best for measuring the length of a car?”
“I don’t get it,” Jaime said. “Which car?”
“Any car.”
“But I didn’t bring home my ruler.”
“You don’t have to actually measure anything,” I told him, trying to be patient. “You just have to think about how you would if you had to. See, they even give you choices. If you were measuring a car, would you do it in inches or in feet?”
“Inches?” Jaime guessed.
“Jaime. An inch is, like, this big.” I showed him with my fingers. “It’d take a lot of inches to measure a car.”
“Okay, feet.”
“Exactly. Circle feet.”
He did, and I looked at number two. “See, this one would be inches, because it’s the length of a toothbrush. That’s small enough for inches.”
“Don’t tell me the answers,” he said as he circled it. “Just help me figure it out.”
“Fine. Sorry.”
We went through the rest of the page, picking the best units to measure a football field, a mountain, and a pair of glasses. Fourth-grade math was easy.
“Last one,” I said. “The length of an ocean.”
“Does that mean how deep it is?”
“No, how far across. Like if you wanted to measure the Atlantic
Ocean all the way from here to Europe.”
“Oh.” My brother thought. “Yards?”
I shook my head. “Too small.”
“Miles?”
I frowned at the choices. “Yeah, I guess.” That had to be it. But miles didn’t seem big enough—not nearly. In fact, it didn’t seem like that should be a multiple-choice question at all.
5 September 1941
t. August 1950
Belle,
I have forgiven Hannah her closed-lip smile. She won me over today. You see, I wrote a letter back to Mama and wanted to mail it straight away. Then I decided I would summon the courage to ask Hannah if I could include a bar of Ivory soap with it. There’s a French-English dictionary in my room (truly, they are so thoughtful), so I prepared the words: “Please I send for my family soap?” Hannah attempted to hide her confusion, but I knew she didn’t understand. She kept guessing other words I might have meant. She guessed soup (soup!) and stamps for the letter . . . It could have been a comedy scene on the radio, if I’d been in a better humor! I tried to explain about the rationing, but to be plain I felt like such a fool, and a burden on top of that. I had just about given up when she suddenly ran to the bathroom and came back with the soap. When I said yes, she put her hand to her heart with such dramatics and cried, “Why, of course we can send your family soap!” The best part (the reason I am no longer angry with her) is that she showed no pity about us needing soap. She simply said, “Let’s pop over to the A&P.”
Just wait until you see the A&P, Belle. What an enormous place! It has rows and rows of groceries, with fruit and even a butcher, right there inside the store. I followed Hannah as she gathered four boxes of soap, a tube of toothpaste, and a box marked “Dorothy Gray salon facial package” that she insisted Mama would appreciate. (I think she will but not how Hannah imagines. Maybe Mama can trade it for some extra food coupons, or sell it to help bring you here! I hope she thinks of it.) Hannah saw me eyeing a magazine with a picture of Vivien Leigh on the cover and said we could get that too. When I said it was for you, she looked delighted and said we should get something for everyone, so I chose magazines for each of you. Oh, I wish I could see your faces when you open this package!
I’m sorry I was upset with Hannah yesterday. It’s unfair to expect that she understands how I’m feeling. To be plain, I don’t understand what I’m feeling . . . I’m constantly overtaken by emotions, but I can’t sort out what they are.
Max is a mystery still. He isn’t rude to me, but he isn’t kind either. Sometimes when he arrives home in the evening, he looks surprised to see me, like he forgot there’s an extra person living in his apartment. Then the surprise fades, and he nods politely, like we’re strangers passing on the street.
I can just see you roll your eyes at me for saying such things about Max. I can hear your voice: “Yes, Anna. You’re one to complain that someone is quiet.” I know, I know. It’s not as though I am trying to start conversations with him either. Maybe he is just a quiet person, like I. Better Max be quiet than grumpy like his uncles. They are constantly muttering in Yiddish, complaining about who knows what. At least I only need to see them for supper. Max must work with them all day.
I will start school soon, I imagine, but for now, I spend the day at the apartment with Hannah. To think I used to crave silence and time to myself! Hannah plays the radio all day, but it still feels like silence compared to Mina crying and Greta arguing with Mama and Oliver playing. I imagine it is much the same there, without me. Nine in the house can’t be much different from eight.
Sunday, 7 September 1941
t. August 1950
Oh Belle,
Today we had the special supper Hannah had promised. It was not fish, thank goodness! It was something entirely new and strange and delicious . . . Chinese food! When Papa said the food would be different here in New York, I would not have guessed it would be food from China! Oh, wait until you try it. It was exotic and delightful. Crispy noodles with sweet orange sauce . . . string beans with garlic and a salty coating . . . beef with broccoli . . . long, slippery noodles with savory brown sauce. And piles and PILES of rice! We ate it at a Chinese restaurant, where the cooks and the servers were all Chinese. But imagine this, all the diners were Jewish!
I ate with terrific abandon. It was like there was nothing in the world but noodles and rice. At one point I stopped for air and looked up . . . everyone was staring at me!
“Oy gevalt,” said the uncle whose head is shaped like an onion.
“Oy veyezmir,” said the uncle whose head is shaped like an egg.
Hannah burst out laughing, and even Max broke into a hearty smile.
The uncles began mumbling to each other in Yiddish with their voices low and their bushy eyebrows high. Hannah didn’t tell them to speak English, so I guess she didn’t care for me to understand what they were saying. I doubt they know much English anyway.
But Cousin Max laughed and reached over to pat me on the shoulder. Then he said, in English, “Eat!”
Oh, I did!
CHAPTER 14
Not wanting to risk a protein bar interrupting our lunchtime diary-reading again, Madeline and I ate quickly and went to the school library. I was feeling a little guilty about reading by myself last night. I wasn’t actually sure if I was going to tell her or not—maybe I’d just reread the part I read so she wouldn’t know. But before I could decide which page to open to, Madeline opened her backpack and took out a folder.
“I did some research for you,” she said.
I could see the librarian’s ears prick up at the sound of the word research.
“On Luxembourg?” I asked. If I was going to do my Holocaust project on Luxembourg, I was eventually going to have to read something besides this diary.
“Not that,” Madeline said. “Your other bat mitzvah project.”
I looked at her blankly. “My Torah portion? My haftorah? Oh! Are you going to write my speech for me?”
Madeline knocked on my skull. “Your gift, O wise one.” She opened the folder and took out a list of websites. She’d printed the whole thing out, knowing that a text with links would have done me and my dumbphone no good. “Adoption resources,” she explained. “Organizations that will help you find your birth family.” She slid it across the table to me. “But they all say that you need your parents’ permission if you’re under eighteen.”
“I know.” I mean, duh. If my parents’ permission weren’t required to find out more, I’d have, like, had brunch with my birth mom last week.
I skimmed Madeline’s list of information. It was nice of her to put all this together for me. Or was it just practice groundwork for her journalistic investigation? Either way, it would definitely be convenient to have—if I ever worked up the nerve to talk to my parents, that is. I definitely didn’t have the stomach to keep searching behind their backs. “Thanks,” I said.
“You’re just nervous about this, right?” Madeline asked. “It’s not like you’ve changed your mind.”
“Right,” I said.
Then, “Well.”
Finally: “I don’t know.”
“What’s making you so nervous?” Madeline asked, and I could tell she was picturing us in some NPR recording studio, wearing headphones and speaking into microphones.
“Have you met my mom?” I said. “This will crush her.”
“She can handle it, Imani,” she said in her trademark practical tone. “She’s a grown adult. And she adopted two children. She must know you’re going to bring this up someday.”
“I don’t know,” I said again. As crazy as it sounds, sometimes I wonder if my mom even remembers that I’m adopted. I once heard some moms with strollers in the park joking about how your hormones make you forget the pain of childbirth. Could my mom’s loving-mom hormones have made her forget that she didn’t physically give
birth to me or Jaime? Even though we all look nothing alike?
“She’ll love you no matter what,” Madeline added, and her voice was so sincere, I rested my head on her shoulder.
“That’s exactly the problem,” I said with a sigh. I thought about Anna not wanting to appear ungrateful to her cousins. She knew her first family, and had a reasonable expectation to see them again. I don’t even know who or where mine are, yet I still think about them all the time. It only makes me feel even guiltier. So guilty that I was willing to make Madeline mad at me, just to change the subject. “I have a confession to make: I read the diary without you last night.”
“Imani!” She shrugged my head off her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I said, smiling because my subject-changing worked. “It’s just so tempting. And I can’t promise I won’t do it again.”
Madeline frowned, but I could tell she knew she couldn’t really protest. This was my great-grandmother’s diary. She was just along for the ride.
“I told myself I’d just read one page, to see what the next entry would be about,” I explained, “and then I got sucked in.” I filled her in on Anna’s new home, Hannah’s kindness, Max’s uncertainty, the grumpy uncles and the delicious Chinese food. “Do you want to read more now?” I asked. “Together?”
“Yes,” she said graciously. Her hand hovered over the printout of adoption resources. “Do you want this stuff?”
“Yes, definitely, thank you.” I folded the website list in quarters and stuck it in my bag.
“Do you want me to keep bugging you to talk to your parents?”
I looked at her hard, but my mind was picturing my dad handing me a Chipwich from the ice cream man, totally unaware that minutes before, I’d been trying to find information about my other dad. If Madeline hadn’t been constantly on my case about this, maybe I wouldn’t have done something so traitorous.
The Length of a String Page 7