Wicked Winters: A Collection of Winter Tales

by Lucy Smoke

  She’d already had Carmen recall the catalogues. No matter what Lohse wanted, she couldn’t put the pieces in the auction.

  Lamps were kept in a supply closet in the back of the gallery, along with cleaning supplies. Once she found what she needed, she hefted it off the ground. The thing was heavy, set with special lights that wouldn’t fade or dull fragile artwork.

  “Miss Rose, you have a phone call.” Carmen’s voice echoed through the building as it came over the intercom. The lamp swung, hit the back of her heel, and she groaned. This day was the worst.

  The worst.

  Anger gave her strength, but she was still out of breath by the time she answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Shira?” A deep male voice came over the line.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Ravi. Ravi Hasmone. I was in your gallery yesterday, and the other night…”

  Automatically, she’d assumed the caller was from Posse Gallery, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be disappointed that Ravi was the one calling.

  And his introduction!

  She found it endearing Ravi would think she needed as much background as he gave her. “I remember you, Ravi. How are you?”

  The stomach churning anxiety she’d had all week dissipated somewhat, and she lowered herself into her chair. This may only be a brief respite from the shit storm of her job, but she’d take it.

  “I’m—” He stopped and started again. “I was wondering if I could take you out tonight. For dinner.”

  Her stomach filled with butterflies. Dinner with Ravi? She would love to, but… “I have so much work here, Ravi. I don’t think I’ll get out early enough.”

  “That’s okay,” he answered quickly. “I’d pick you up for an early dinner, and then bring you back. If you need to work late that is. Or else, I can pick you up late and take you out to dinner. Or bring you dinner. Or meet you somewhere. My grandmother is nearby. We could even go there, if you’re not sure you want to be somewhere with me.”

  Unable to stop herself, Shira giggled. “A first date with your grandmother?” She loved it.

  Ravi chuckled. The warm sound sent tingles over Shira’s skin. “She’s a wonderful woman.”

  “No doubt,” Shira said, remembering how Dov had said they were in town to celebrate Hanukkah with her. “Would you like me to come there? For Hanukkah?” A niggle of guilt wormed its way into her stomach. So she’d go to Ravi’s grandmother’s home for Hanukkah, but hadn’t been able to make it to her own grandmother’s? The thought, as it occurred to her, came accompanied by her grandmother’s voice.

  “You’d do that?”

  “Um.” Unsure now, Shira paused. “If you want. If you’re only here to see her, I’d go with you to her house. If it was okay with her. And it wouldn’t put her out.”

  “No, no,” he said quickly. “She’d love that. My grandmother loves guests.”

  Shira suddenly remembered the other people who may be at Ravi’s grandmother’s. She couldn’t say for certain, but it was possible Dov and Pascal wouldn’t be so pleased to see her. “What about your brothers? Should you check with them? What if they only want their family there?”

  “Don’t worry about them.” There was a note of irritation in Ravi’s voice. “They won’t be there.”

  “Oh.” It wasn’t the answer she was expecting. Nor was she expecting the surge of disappointment she felt.

  “If we’re going to my grandmother’s, I should probably pick you up early. We need to be there before sundown.”

  “Right.” Shira glanced at her watch. It was almost four, and the sun would be down in close to an hour. Two piles lay on her desk. The bad news pile, and the maybe-bad-news pile. She’d cleared two provenances, had two that, in her opinion, couldn’t be authenticated, and four more she’d barely touched. Slowly, she reached forward and closed the Gaugin provenance, shifting it to the bad news pile. “I’m ready now.”

  “Really?” he asked. “Great. Wonderful! I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. What time does your gallery close?”

  The question threw her off, and she struggled to remember for a moment. “Six,” she answered. “It closes at six.”

  “Okay.” She wondered why he needed to know. “You won’t be leaving too early then.”

  “No.” She wouldn’t be. The truth was, the pieces Lohse wanted in the auction couldn’t be authenticated in time. These piles were the death knell of her job—perhaps her career. Hopefully not, but she couldn’t see Lohse agreeing to be her job reference.

  “I’ll be there soon,” he said.

  “Okay,” she answered again.

  “Bye, Shira. I’m looking forward to seeing you.” His voice was kind, and it almost undid her. In combination with her epiphany, exhaustion, and the general shitiness of her life this week, she was closer to tears than she wanted to admit.

  Once they’d hung up, Shira dove into the next provenance. To her relief, it was a relatively simple authentication process, especially compared to the others.

  This piece actually fit into the rest of her collection. The artist, Max Beckmann, had been identified by the Nazis as creating Entartete Kunst, Degenerate Art. Whoever had owned this piece had managed to hide it from the Nazis and pass it, by descent to their children.

  And now, here it was.

  “Shira?”

  Startled, she squealed and spun in her chair. Ravi watched her from her door. He had a small smile on his lips, but she could see his dimple. It was his tell. He was smiling a real smile if she could see his dimple.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “I am.” She took another picture of the gallery stamp on the frame of the painting.

  “What are you working on?” Ravi asked, coming inside. His gaze left hers and went to the portrait. Almost immediately his face changed from lighthearted to dour. The dimple disappeared and he frowned.

  “Not a modern art fan?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Is that what this is?” Stepping closer, he peered at the painting. As she watched, he examined each brush stroke and line.

  “Yes,” she said. “This is a Max Beckmann. He was an Expressionist. Banned by the Nazis.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I’m surprised it wasn’t destroyed.”

  “Are you familiar with—”

  He cut her off. “The Reich Culture Chamber?” he said. “Yes. I’m familiar with a lot. In Israel, that is not a period of time we gloss over.”

  “We don’t gloss over it here,” she said quickly. It seemed to her he was accusing her of something.

  “I had family expelled from Spain in the 1500’s,” she said. “Both of my great-grandfathers fought in World War II. They had family in Europe who died in the gas chambers. The Holocaust is part and parcel of who I am as a Jewish woman, as an American, and as a human.”

  He stared at her, green eyes roving her face.

  “I’m not lying,” she felt compelled to say.

  “I know.” Ravi shook his head, sighed, and ran his fingers through his wavy hair. Mussed, he seemed lost and overwhelmed. “I didn’t mean to—or—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed that era affected you less than it has affected me, or my brothers.”

  He’d turned so serious, like Pascal and Dov.

  “I understand if you don’t want me to go with you anymore.” Whatever he was feeling that made him go from lighthearted to not, made her want to give him an out.

  “No!” His answer came immediately. “I asked you out and I want you to come with me to meet my grandmother. She’ll love you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  He turned his back on the painting and stepped toward her. Skimming her arms, he gently grasped her elbows. “I hoped to have this time with you. Since meeting you, I can’t seem to stop thinking about you.”

  Shira bit her lip, trying to keep her dopey smile from covering her entire face.

  “Don’t hide.” Ravi touched her chin with his thumb,
dislodging her lip. It lingered where her teeth had dug into her skin.

  The air between them crackled with an electricity she could almost see. She swayed toward him, but he dropped his hands and stepped back, leaving her off-balance.

  Blinking rapidly, she tried to regain her focus.

  “Here.” Ravi held her coat for her. Silently, she stuck her arms in the sleeves. As she buttoned it, she happened to peek at him. He stared at the painting over her shoulder, head canted, eyes narrowed.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  He stared a moment longer before glancing away. “Yup.”

  She led the way toward the exit, while Ravi followed silently behind her. “Are you good to lock up?” she asked Carmen, as they approached the front desk.

  “Leaving now?” The receptionist peeked at the clock.

  “I’ll be back,” she answered quickly. “Just forward calls to my…”

  “Right…” Carmen reminded her. “Your cell…”

  It had been in her purse.

  The purse that was stolen.

  “Here.” Ravi reached into his pocket, withdrew his wallet and gave Carmen a card. “Leave me a message here. It’ll be on silent, but I’ll check it.”

  “Great.” Carmen read the card. “Lawyer, huh? I wouldn’t have pegged you that way.”

  Shira wondered now how Carmen would have categorized him. Her musings were interrupted by the woman’s next words. “Too many muscles.”

  Widening her eyes, she wordlessly begged Carmen to stop. Ravi merely laughed, and a wave of unexpected jealousy whipped through her. Was he interested in the beautiful receptionist?

  She was funny and, socially, she seemed to banter effortlessly.

  Also, she was a model.

  But Ravi had gripped her hand, and now he dragged her toward the door. All the while, his thumb stroked the back of her hand. The slide of skin over skin made her shiver, and suddenly she didn't care about Carmen anymore.

  “Cold?”

  “No,” she answered, holding his gaze.

  Two bright spots of color appeared on his cheeks. She squeezed his hand. Having pity on him, she changed the subject. “How far is your grandmother?”

  “Couple of blocks.” He followed her lead, allowing her to go to a less charged subject. Still, they held onto each other’s hands, despite the chilly wind and the fact that neither of them wore gloves.

  “Same apartment for fifty years.”

  “Were you born in Israel?” she asked.

  Ravi cut a gaze her way, raising an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

  “Your accent,” she said. “And Yaphet greeted me in Hebrew when I…”

  “That’s right.” With a tug, Ravi pulled her toward a building. A gaggle of teenagers, three wide, headed their way. “My other brother, Pascal—” He must have remembered how Pascal had greeted her in English. “He’s overly cautious,” Ravi explained. “Forgets sometimes he’s not in Israel.”

  Oh. Pascal worried he would be vulnerable if he identified himself as Jewish in an unfamiliar setting.

  At the same time, Pascal seemed wary of her. Something about her bugged him.

  “Where are your brothers tonight?” she asked. “Your grandmother doesn’t mind them missing dinner?”

  “No,” Ravi answered. “Our grandmother understood we had some obligations we had to keep.” He paused. “This is it.”

  Shira hadn’t really been paying attention to the neighborhood, but now she laughed. “Of course!”

  “What?” Ravi smiled, confused.

  “This is my grandparents’ neighborhood as well.” She pointed down the street. “They live two blocks that way.”

  “Uh oh.” Ravi laughed. “So, by tomorrow they’ll be calling to ask why you were in the neighborhood, but didn’t come for dinner.”

  “Yup.” She smiled up at him. Some people didn’t realize that neighborhoods in the city could be a lot like a small town.

  There were people here who’d known her her entire life. Across the street was the baker who made her favorite sufganiyot, a special donuty-type of pastry made only at Hanukkah.

  She was going to get so much guilt later.

  Ravi pressed the buzzer on the side of the building.

  “Hello?” a staticky voice asked.

  “Grandma. It’s Ravi.”

  The door buzzed and he pushed it open. Their shoes clicked against the tiled floor as they walked to the elevator. Nervous, Shira ran her fingers through her hair. At the back of her head, she found the pencil she’d used to keep her hair half-up and out of her face when she pored over her files.

  Furtively, she stuffed it in her pocket, but happened to glance up.“I thought it was cute,” Ravi whispered, eyeing her pocket.

  The elevator doors opened revealing an elderly woman. “I thought I saw a girl on the camera. Who is this beautiful woman, Ravi?”

  This had to be his grandmother. She was probably in her eighties, but she held herself like a much younger woman. Her back was straight, and her short, white hair bobbed around a proud chin.

  Green-eyed, she was clearly the source of Dov and Ravi’s beautiful eyes.

  “Hello.” Shira held out her hand, but the woman brushed her arms aside and wrapped her in a hug.

  “Welcome!” Pulling back, she reached up and patted Shira’s cheeks. “You seem so familiar. Have we met before?”

  “This is Shira Rose,” Ravi said. “Shira, this is my grandmother, Sarah Hasmone.”

  “Rose…” his grandmother repeated. “Are you Abigail Levin’s granddaughter? Her daughter married a Rose, and you’re the image of that girl.”

  Oh, boy. Shira could just imagine the conversation she had coming.

  “Yes,” she answered. Defeated, she nodded. “Yes, that’s my grandmother.”

  “Oh, lovely, lovely.”

  The door to a nearby apartment was open, and the rich smell of food wafted through the hall. A wave of homesickness hit her as they walked through the door.

  Shira recognized all the scents. They were as familiar to her as her own face. Matzah ball soup. Latkes. Homemade apple sauce. Roast chicken.

  Grandma was right to guilt her. She should have been spending Hanukkah with her family. One day, she would wish for just one last holiday with her grandparents.

  “Smells amazing, Gram,” Ravi said, pulling her from her guilt-induced reverie.“Let me take your coat,” he then whispered to Shira. He slid it off her, placed it in the closet and touched her lower back, sending a shiver of awareness through her body.

  The table was set. Near the window sat the menorah, candles standing unlit in the holders.

  “Dinner is ready,” his grandmother informed them, gesturing toward the table. “I was just waiting for you to say the prayer and light the candles.”

  Ravi held a chair out for her, but Shira didn’t sit. He took a place next to her as his grandmother stood at the head of the table and began to recite the blessing while lighting the candles on the menorah. Four were lit, as well as the shamash, which she placed carefully in the center of the menorah.

  Ravi continued to stand, waiting for his grandmother to sit before he did. Each moment with him, even these quiet ones where he considerately waited for his grandmother, struck Shira. Every action he took seemed a deeper insight into who Ravi was.

  Close to his grandmother sat the steaming pot of matzah ball soup, along with a stack of bowls. Once Shira was seated, his grandmother immediately began to ladle the thick liquid into the bowls. “So Shira, what do you do?”

  After accepting the bowl, Shira settled it in front of her. “I’m an art curator at Lohse and Gottleib House nearby.”

  “How interesting!” His grandmother handed Ravi a bowl. “Do you enjoy the work?”

  “Usually,” Shira answered. She lifted a spoonful to her lips. It tasted so much like her grandmother’s soup, she had to swallow hard past the lump in her throat. “This is wonderful, Mrs. Hasmone.”

  “Please, call me Sar
ah.”

  “It’s wonderful, Sarah.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She smiled and sipped the soup delicately. “You know, my husband’s family were artists. Before the war, my husband’s father was quite prolific. He even had a collection of artwork by friends of his. They often exchanged pieces for things like paints and canvases when money got tight.”

  Shira nodded. “That was quite common,” she answered. “I believe Monet would often give his paintings to his doctor in exchange for medical care.”

  The woman nodded sagely. “I believe Ravi’s grandfather did something like that as well. At least before the paintings were banned.”

  Shira looked between Ravi and Sarah. “Your family is from Germany? That’s incredible. The auction I’m curating right now includes pieces from the Entartete Kunst. It’s…”

  “I know what Entartete Kunst is, dear. Degenerate art. An exhibit of the Nazis meant to revolt the German people.” Sarah shook her head. “It was a very sad time for my husband’s father. Of course, not as sad as it would be a year later when they were sent to Theresienstadt. My husband was already here, in New York, attending medical school.”

  The soup sat heavy in her stomach now. She imagined Ravi’s grandfather, all alone in the United States, not knowing the horror his family was about to face.

  “I’m sorry.” Sarah patted her hand. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

  The irony of Sarah comforting her wasn’t lost. Shira shook her head. “No. It’s this exhibit. So many things about it are interesting, but so many other things are just so incredibly sad. What happened to the artwork Ravi’s grandfather had?”

  “It was stolen,” Ravi answered. Gently, he placed his spoon next to his soup. “All of it was lost. Confiscated by the Germans.”

  “It’s never turned up?” she asked.

  Sarah shook her head sadly, but Ravi stood. “Grandma? Do you need me to get the latkes?”

  “Thank you, Ravi.”

  Nodding shortly, he went into the kitchen, banging around a little.

  “It’s upsetting for my boys,” Sarah whispered. “But those were only things. My husband found his sister after the war, and for him, that was more important than anything else. Most families weren’t so lucky.”