The Length of a String

by Elissa Brent Weissman

  The image of us four shrank and moved to the corner, replaced by Grandpa Fred. It was the first time I’d seen him since Grandma Anna’s apartment, and he looked better, or was at least trying to look better. The rough stubble that had formed during shiva was shaved, and he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. But some sadness still lingered. I could see it in the dark crescents under his eyes, which were only made darker in the shadow of his desk light. My heartbeat sped, not knowing if what he was about to learn would make things better or worse.

  “Imani, my love,” he said. “I hear you have something to show me.”

  I don’t know what he was expecting—probably a tennis trophy or an amateur magic trick—but I know it wasn’t what I held up. “I was going through Grandma Anna’s books, and I found this,” I told him. (All technically true. If he asked when this was, I’d be honest, but if he chose to think I found it while going through her books today, that was fine too.)

  He moved his face close to his computer screen, giving us a close-up of his wrinkled brow and remaining hairs. “What is that?”

  My mom started to sniffle. I glanced at the image of us in the corner of the screen and saw that she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  “It’s Grandma Anna’s diary,” I said. “From 1941.”

  He bolted upright, like an acting student asked to demonstrate surprise.

  “She wrote it when she was twelve,” I continued, “and she first came to America.” I opened it and held it up to the webcam so he could see the handwriting, maybe even read some of the words.

  Grandpa gave a low whistle. “It’s real?” he asked.

  I pulled the diary away from the camera and nodded.

  “Have you read it?”

  I nodded again. “Some of it. I’m up to the beginning of October. She’s really into the World Series.”

  “Wait,” Jaime said. “Did you say 1941? Was it the 1941 World Series?”

  I looked at him with surprise. “Yeah, why?”

  Jaime’s mouth dropped open. “No way. The subway series where Mickey Owen dropped the ball and Tommy Henrich hit a home run and the Dodgers lost?”

  All our faces, from both parts of the screen, stared at Jaime with disbelief. “How’d you know that?” I asked.

  “How do you not know that? That’s a classic series! I can’t believe Grandma Anna was there.”

  “She wasn’t there,” I said, still in shock about my brother’s knowledge of baseball history. “She listened to it on the radio with her friend Freddy.”

  Now it was Grandpa’s turn to get excited. “Freddy!” he said. He rubbed his hands over his face and looked directly into the camera. “Freddy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m named for a Freddy!” he explained. “She always said he was her first friend when she came to America.”

  My jaw dropped. “That’s Freddy! Her first friend. The same Freddy! He’s in here!” Wait till I tell Madeline! We weren’t completely off base. There was a connection between Freddy and my grandpa Fred. “Freddy seems really cool,” I told him.

  “My namesake,” Grandpa said proudly. “He died in the Korean War.”

  No. Freddy—Freddy!—was going to die. Was there anyone Anna wasn’t destined to lose? “Soon?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, like, was Freddy young when he died? When was the Korean War?”

  I could see Grandpa thinking.

  “Late 1940s?” my dad guessed. “Early 1950s?”

  “Something like that,” Grandpa agreed. “Freddy was pretty young. Probably twenty or so.”

  That didn’t seem too young to me. At least Anna would have Freddy for another eight or nine years before he died. No chance she’d have to deal with that in the course of this diary, anyway.

  “Imani’s researching Luxembourg for her Holocaust project,” Mom told Grandpa. “Since she found the diary and all.”

  Grandpa smiled, but I could see the sadness creeping back into his face. He was probably thinking of Grandma Anna. The diary was bringing her to life for me, but this was Grandpa’s mom. He must have wished she were still alive for real.

  “It doesn’t seem like it should really belong to me,” I said to Grandpa, hoping to get this over with before he started to cry. “Do you want me to mail it to you?”

  Grandpa shook his head. “Grandma left all her books to you.”

  “To both of us,” Jaime corrected, sticking his face right in front of the camera. “I want to read the part about the World Series.”

  “To both of you,” Grandpa said with a chuckle. “Isabel too. That means it’s yours.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  He didn’t look sure, but he still said, “Yes.”

  That settled that, but it wasn’t like I was suddenly feeling fine about the whole thing the way I’d hoped. I swallowed and reminded myself of my plan. Now’s the time to bring it up, I thought, just to test the water.

  “I would love to see the diary, though,” Grandpa said, “if you’re willing to lend it to me.”

  “Of course!” I said.

  “Okay. But take your time reading. I’ll wait my turn. And don’t put it in the mail! It’s way too valuable.”

  “Right,” my mom said. As if she would’ve let me mail it anyway. If Grandpa wanted it right away, she probably would have driven it to Florida herself. I could see it now: Mom at the wheel with the diary buckled into the passenger seat, locked in some sort of waterproof, crash-proof, tamper-proof case. Maybe she’d have rented an armored car.

  “Grandpa?” I said, my armpits getting sweaty as I tiptoed toward my carefully crafted words. You’re probably worrying for nothing, I told myself. Remember how easygoing Mom was about looking up your name.

  “Yes?” Grandpa asked.

  “Did you know Grandma Anna had a twin?”

  He looked surprised but not shocked. “Yes,” he replied. “But I don’t know much about her. My mom didn’t like to talk about her past. She changed the subject whenever I tried to ask.”

  Sounds familiar, I thought.

  “It must’ve been painful for her,” Mom said, “to remember.”

  “So,” I said, my eyes on Grandpa and my heart beating in rapid thumps, “you’ve always wondered about where she came from?”

  “Yeah,” Grandpa said. “I’ve always wanted to know more.” He smiled, even as he looked sadder.

  Here I go! “I’ve always wanted to know more about my birth parents too.” I forced the words out quickly, before I could take them back. And as nervous as I still was, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit triumphant. Because, there. I’d done it. It was just a tiny step—a dip of a toe in a deep, dark lake. But I’d done it! Now what?

  Grandpa looked lost in his memories, but I could see my mom flinch in the corner of the screen. She and my dad looked at each other. My words hung there like an airborne disease, with no one knowing whether or not to panic.

  “Great seeing you, Fred,” my dad said finally. “We’ll keep the diary safe until you visit.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Grandpa gave a small salute. “And thank you, Imani.”

  “Love you, Dad,” my mom said. Her smile was fake, and her voice was empty, and my stomach tightened into a pit. Mom leaned over me and clicked to end the call. Then she straightened up and sniffed. I barely glanced at her, but I could tell her eyes were filling with tears.

  “Mom—” I started. I didn’t know what I was going to say, so I guess it was okay that she cut me off.

  “I’m going to get ready for bed,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”

  Jaime, trying to pretend a bomb hadn’t just gone off, asked my dad if he wanted to play catch. Dad’s eyes flicked to me for a second, then, decidedly, to Jaime. “Let me put on a sweatshirt.” He jogged up the steps, and I followed behind him,
my legs like lead. Dad closed the door of his room, but I knew he was comforting Mom, and I’m pretty sure she was crying. Their words were muffled, but I think I heard her say something about not being prepared.

  I sat down, heavily, on the top step and pressed my palms into my eyes. This was nothing like when Mom caught me looking up my name. How could I even think that it’d be the same?

  “Imani,” Jaime said nervously. “You made Mom cry.”

  “Everything makes Mom cry,” I said, lifting my head and hoping my eye roll would mask my guilt.

  “That’s mean.”

  “But it’s true.” I was just making this better and better.

  He stared at my face for a second, like he was trying to figure out if he knew who I was. He was probably wondering what kind of nasty, evil genes my birth parents had given me, and feeling confident his DNA came from a nicer set of people. People who knew all about the 1941 World Series. Then, looking like he might cry himself, he shook his head and went to his room to get his baseball mitt.

  I lingered on the landing, debating knocking on my parents’ closed door. Then I heard the bathwater start running. Mom was making herself officially unavailable.

  Dad came out in a sweatshirt. “Your mother . . .” he said, trailing off in such a way that I thought, for a crazy few seconds, that he was about to say something about my birth mother. But no. He was talking about Mom. “Just give her some time, Imani,” he said. Then he jogged downstairs and out the door.

  Some time? I thought. Like, she’ll be better in the morning? Or should I wait another twelve years? My stomach turned over as I stared at the bedroom door. She’d probably stay in there all night, trying to set the world record for longest bath. Anything to avoid talking to her ungrateful daughter about her past.

  So much for testing the water. If Mom got this upset when I dipped a toe, what would she do when I landed a cannonball?

  Sunday, 12 October 1941

  Belle,

  What a day! I was “out of sorts” all week . . . furious about the uncles, nervous about starting school soon, worrying about you. . . . I told Freddy I needed a clear head, and he said (this is funny), “You need a ride on the Cyclone. That will whip your head around so much, all your thoughts will get Hoovered through your ears and go flying into outer space.”

  In an odd way, that sounded appealing. So . . . we went to Coney Island today! “We” was Freddy and me, and Milton and Enid, and Hannah and Max. And the most impossible thing: Uncles Egg and Onion came too! (Coney Island is free if you don’t ride or buy anything, but still, can you believe it?) We all put on nice clothes (well, not Freddy) and rode the subway to the end of the line. Freddy talked and talked about every ride and game and food and in what order best to do them.

  There were so many wonderful, truly happy moments today that I could barely list them all, but I will tell some:

  Hannah wagered a nickel that her Steeplechase horse would win Max’s horse, and it did!

  Eating a hot dog and fries from Nathan’s. Uncle Egg said that it tasted terrible, and that it was too small. Freddy slurped the ketchup off first again, then ate the bun. He put the dog in his pocket for later of course . . . but he lost it on the parachute jump!

  The uncles rode the Human Roulette Wheel! Uncle Egg’s hat fell off while spinning, and Uncle Onion tried to catch it but instead landed on top of it and flattened it like a pancake!

  We all took for a photo postcard. It was Hannah’s idea. We could have weared silly costumes, but Max wouldn’t hear of it (a relief because I didn’t want the costumes either). The 8 of us stood together, even the uncles, and the photo was ready in just 10 minutes. Hannah said I could keep the postcard to remember the day. I can’t stop looking at it and seeing myself with this people of 8. It makes me happy and sad at the same time. Before I left home, I did not know that feeling was possible.

  The very last thing we did was ride the Cyclone.

  I needed the whole day to find my courage, and I almost didn’t, but Freddy said, “You want your mind erased, remember?” So yes, I rode my first roller coaster!

  ZOWEE, what a rush! Erase my mind indeed! We whipped around those curves like the track was on fire. It was so fast, so bumpy, it shook my bones. Freddy was next to me, and he pulled my hands up into the sky. I see now why you and Greta like the fast rides. Yes, the climb up is horrid . . . so long and slow . . . and then the car turns around a curve, and you see the dive coming and fear you aren’t brave enough, but it’s too late to get off. Then, ready or not, you start to drop. And my, does it feel good to scream.

  CHAPTER 23

  My mom left for work early the next morning, which was fine, because I couldn’t decide if I was going to apologize or not. Dad and Jaime acted like nothing had happened last night. I was still feeling guilty. All morning, my body was doing the things it was supposed to do—shower, brush teeth, eat a pack of mini muffins for breakfast on the way to school—but, as my tennis coach would say, my head was not in the game.

  I wished I could ride the Cyclone and have my thoughts Hoovered through my ears and into outer space. But no such luck. They stayed in my brain, screwing with my focus and making me do ridiculous things. I got chicken nuggets at lunch, totally forgetting until I bit into one that the cafeteria might as well bread their chicken nuggets with cardboard. I accidentally volunteered to stand in front of the whole class and act out a scene with Magda—entirely in Spanish. And after school I changed into my tennis clothes, stretched, and filled my water bottle, only realizing when I got to the courts that there wasn’t practice today.

  “What is up with me today?” I shouted, pounding the net with my racquet.

  “I don’t know!” shouted some older kid who was walking by. His friends laughed and then ran away. Whatever.

  I couldn’t bring myself to go home yet, and I didn’t feel like hanging out with Madeline either. I walked over to the edge of the court, sat down against the edge of the fence, and pulled out the diary.

  Wednesday, October 15, 1941

  Dear Belle,

  I went to school today. Hannah was so excited and nervous, like it was her first day of school. She and Max presented me a nice leather book bag as a gift . . . this angered me at first. I thanked them of course, and I know they meant well, but I wish they’d spent that money on bringing my family instead of a leather bag. When I got to school, however, I was glad to have it, to be plain. Everyone else had a nice bag, and to carry my books or use my old bag would have drawn more attention to me. I just want to blend in and get by. Only one teacher (“homeroom”) wanted I stand in front of the room for an introduction, so the rest of the day I was able to drift along without notice.

  How strange to be at school and not have anyone know me, or mistake me for you. A girl in my math class invited me to sit at her lunch table, but I told her I was going home at lunch, which is what Hannah and I planned. My heart started beating quickly at the invitation, so I was glad to have an excuse. But then, walking to and from the apartment, I was sad and wished I accepted. You would have accepted without a care. You probably be spending the evening with that girl and her friends tonight, and by tomorrow every other girl in the seventh grade would beg to sit with you at lunch. I don’t need that much popular, but it would be nice to make a friend beside Freddy (especially since he is still in elementary school . . . when he bothers to attend). I will try to channel you, the bold twin, and be braver and more fun. I told Hannah I will try eating lunch at school tomorrow. I don’t need to listen to the next episode of “The Romance of Helen Trent.” (This a radio “soap opera” she always likes at lunch time.)

  After school, I took the subway to the factory. I used the nail getter on the floor and went to the stationer to buy more pens and ink. I helped Max arrange some pelts on the table as well. He is always staring at these things, arr
ange the strips of skins in different ways. When I help, I hand him pins in silence, much like the way we play Chinese checkers. Today he asked if school was okay, and I said yes, and that was all. He is so different from Hannah! She would want for me to perform a play of the whole morning while we ate lunch. I do hope Hannah gets to meet you soon. You would be fast friends, so much that Hannah will probably wish they sent the other twin from the first day. I wonder if Mama and Papa believe they made a mistake to send me. I remember the way Papa took my shoulders in his hands before I left. He said, “Be brave, Anna. You’re going to be brilliant.”

  Tell Papa I’m trying. I’m trying my best.

  Love,

  Anna

  Thursday, October 16, 1941

  Ma très chère Belle,

  Today I took your favorite class . . . French! Hearing French was like jumping into a cold lake . . . startling at first, but then you start swimming, and it feels natural and refreshing. The other students are just starting out, so their French is very poor. Much, much worse than my English! Mme. Veron called me to her desk after class. She asked me where I was from, and she became excited when I told her. She moved here from Paris in 1936! She has never been to Luxembourg, but she used to vacation in Marseille, close to where we would go with Mama’s family!

  She said my French is very good (which it is, of course, though I have not spoken in these many months) so she will see about if I can transfer to the 8th-grade class. It will still be easy for me, but she thinks it might be “un peu plus interessant, n’est-ce pas?” To be plain, I don’t mind having 1 easy class, since I must concentrate so heavy in English the rest of the day, but I daren’t say so. Mme. Veron had another idea as well, one that I liked better.

  She said she has a student who is struggling. She’s in 8th grade, name Miriam. She scarcely got by last year, and then forgot everything over the summer, according to Mme. Veron. She said, “She’s very sweet, though. You will like her. Perhaps the two of you can meet during lunch once or twice a week. You can help her with French, and she can help you with English.”