Talat was speaking in French with Suzanna. The two were laughing, just like sisters, Gohar mused. She knew her youngest daughter enjoyed playing the role of an older sibling, teaching the girl how to cook Persian dishes and listening to her stories about the faraway country she had fled. Gohar considered Josefina. This lady had lost so much; would she want her child to stay in such a foreign place? Even though Soli could give Suzanna everything, would her mother approve?
Gohar touched Josefina’s hand gently and asked Talat to translate when she spoke. “You must be so proud of your daughter,” she said. To her delighted surprise, the Polish woman said moteshakeram.
ON A DAY SOON AFTER GOHAR’S VISIT, Soleiman managed to talk with Suzanna privately. Would she consider an afternoon of tea and dancing this coming Sunday at the Café Naderi? he asked.
She looked directly into his eyes before speaking, and when he beheld her face—full of a light that trumped the sorrows she had known, the demure smile, the natural blush of her skin—Soleiman felt an unexpected warmth surge in his chest.
“Tashakkur,” she said, smiling more broadly. “I would be delighted, Monsieur Cohen,” she said. “My mother, of course, will want to accompany us.”
Her pronunciation of Farsi had improved; likely Talat was teaching her. But she also sounded as if she had given some thought to her answer, which provided Soleiman with a certain reassurance. What did this girl from Poland think of him? he wondered. He was only several years younger than her mother. Was it his sophistication she found attractive? His knowledge of suffering paled in comparison to hers, but perhaps she sensed the deep empathy he had for her, which allowed him to conjure the cold and fear and hunger and anguish she had experienced. He imagined that, with not much instruction, Suzanna would soon be able to enter a room, and all heads would turn. And because of her genuine modesty, her beauty—and he was thinking particularly of that beauty buried deep inside her, a beauty he wanted to coax out into the open, nurture, and protect at all costs—would captivate everyone.
THE SUNDAY OF THE THÉ DANSANT, Soleiman Cohen sat across from Suzanna and next to Josefina at the Café Naderi. Anyone who was anyone in Tehran went to the Café Naderi. Once you walked through its doors, you felt as if you had left Iran. The smoke of foreign cigarettes filled the rooms with a softer, more refined smell than that of the roughcut Iranian tobacco rolled in thick paper. The aroma of baking pastries and Turkish coffee soaked the air. Writers, intellectuals, and journalists maintained reserved tables in the café. Allied army officers and military and government personnel loved it as a place that provided a haven of normalcy in the midst of a world at war. Patrons at Café Naderi discussed politics, the weather, literature, music, among other subjects. Inquisitive Iranians loved to see who was there and to gather news and gossip overheard from guests at the other tables. Café Naderi was where one went not only for the latest news about the war but to make contact with Europeans. It was also the perfect place to bring a date.
Of course Soleiman did not advertise to Josefina that in his mind, she was the chaperone, and he was taking her daughter on a date. He had elevated to an art the ability to assess the emotional temperature of others. Thus Soleiman sensed Josefina’s disapproval of certain Mizrahi customs, and in particular, those around the age of marriage for brides. “In Europe,” she said, with no pretense toward being oblique, “a young woman almost never marries before the age of twenty.”
He would have to convince Josefina of the qualities he admired in her daughter—Suzanna’s patient integrity, and the promise she showed—not just to survive but to reach across generations and geography, to have an impact on the lives that would come from their union. He knew that the expression of such intention, especially to this particular future mother-in-law, required time. Which they really didn’t have because it was critical to intervene with immediacy in Suzanna’s trajectory toward womanhood. Healing from the atrocity of her family’s fracturing could come with the making of a family.
She needed opportunities for education, which Soleiman was positioned to provide for her. Not a university education—such liberties were not yet part of the world they lived in, though he paid attention to how the war was changing things, what with women in the workforce in countries whose men had gone to battle. No, instead he envisioned Suzanna cultivating a different kind of learning, one he thought was more profound in terms of its enduring legacy, one which could affect hundreds, maybe even thousands of people, most of them her descendants. First there would have to be a restoration that occurred, of trust in others, faith, and the rituals requisite to a consistent environment and life. Soleiman imagined them bringing together the refinement and stability inherent in each of their respective cultures. This young woman, he noticed, was possessed of a temperament that was astonishing for its gentle justice, intuition, and modesty. If given an opportunity, the kind he hoped he could help shape for her, Suzanna could become a woman whose opinions and advice would be sought after and valued by others for years to come, even after she was no longer alive. And she, in turn, would offer him care and companionship; the blessing of children; and, he hoped, a devotion born of love and respect.
AFTER TEA WAS SERVED AT CAFÉ NADERI, the music began. The band played a waltz, and Mr. Cohen invited Josefina to dance. She stood, aware of the people watching them, and approached the dance floor. Suddenly, she understood that for the patrons of the café, she was waltzing with an available bachelor.
“It has been such a long time since I danced,” she said.
“Certainly you have not forgotten,” Mr. Cohen said.
His grip—at once strong yet gentle—startled Josefina, reminding her of how much she missed Julius, his touch, the solace of his guidance. She was silent. The music transported her into the lovely sway of the waltz. She wondered if this dance were a prelude—though she hesitated to articulate, even to herself, what it might preface. Did Mr. Soleiman Cohen want a romantic relationship with her, a refugee employed as the manager of a bachelor’s household help? The idea was ludicrous.
“Madame Kohn,” he said, bringing Josefina back into the present. “Would you allow me after this dance to waltz with your daughter?”
She was charmed by his query, though she didn’t realize at the time that she and he were both contemplating different ends. In that moment, a vision of the future unfurled in Josefina’s mind: in it, she would marry this gentleman, who was clearly capable of providing for her and acting as a father to her daughter. “Of course,” she said. “Suzanna learned to dance at a young age. Because she is a very accomplished pianist, she is also a superb dancer.”
They exited the dance floor and returned to the table. After Josefina was seated, Mr. Cohen extended his hand to Suzanna.
“Mademoiselle, would you care to dance with me?”
Josefina busied herself with pouring another cup of tea, and so she didn’t see the blush rising in her daughter’s cheeks. But when she did look up and out to the dance floor, she understood immediately that the future she had envisioned with Mr. Cohen was completely incorrect.
He had placed his right hand on Suzanna’s back, and Josefina found it remarkable how assured his gesture seemed. His left hand was open, and he received Suzanna’s palm as if cupping a flower. Her daughter stood taller than he, but his posture was so perfect they looked directly into one another’s eyes. The other couples gave them a wide berth, and Soleiman Cohen waltzed Suzanna around the floor as though they were suspended in time and had been dancing together all their lives.
At first, Josefina’s expression soured. How dare he! Such a union would absolutely not have her blessing. What was he thinking? But just then she beheld the expression on her daughter’s face, neither a smiling nor dreamy countenance, but an outpouring of contented affection. Although Josefina was surprised and a bit disappointed to not be the object of Soleiman Cohen’s attention, she couldn’t help but feel the sudden pleasure of seeing Suzi experience the abiding contentment in which she was no
w immersed. These two contradictory feelings were new for Josefina, and she wasn’t quite sure how to reconcile them. For now, perhaps, it was best to not say too much.
The war, she realized much much later, altered her psyche, though she never wanted to dwell on the particularities of the transformation, dismissing the modern world’s embrace of the talking cure, that phenomenon heralded by Sigmund Freud, a man whose career once mattered to her, as opera and skiing and having her portrait painted were once important. What did Freud know about her? she thought. Instead of talking, she cultivated an ordered life, but one filled to the brim of the cup, as she liked to say.
She would come to understand her mixed reaction to Mr. Cohen’s courtship of her daughter as a result of a misunderstanding, the kind caused by the years of anxiety-charged existence, and the parallel tendency to overprotection she afforded both her children during their years of flight and imprisonment. As if those two reactions to circumstances beyond her control were not enough, Suzanna’s adult sensibility was just starting to take shape, already molded by three years in the eastern lands of the taiga and now in the Middle Eastern land of Persia. Josefina could not yet grasp the entire impact of losing a father at the age Suzi lost hers. In her mind more often than not, her daughter was still an adolescent, though she knew it was impossible to still have typical teenage thoughts after the despair of their deportation and enslavement and all the losses in between.
SUZANNA, ENTRANCED BY THE MUSIC and the dancing, held tight to the warm feeling of happiness, which had been elusive for so very long.
“Your face is lit from within,” Mr. Cohen said, his tone sincere and kind. “I am thinking you might be happy.”
She smiled, a bit shyly, and nodded. In all her girlish fantasies of a suitor, not once did she imagine a man such as Soleiman Cohen. As she danced at this proximity to him, she saw the clean border of his shirt cuffs. She admired the crease in his trousers, straight as a knife’s edge. His black-and-white silk cravat was expertly knotted. The pochette crisply folded in the pocket of his double-breasted suit jacket was subtly scented with an earthy cologne. He was clean shaven. His hands were at the ready to grasp another’s hand or open a door. In all these ways, he resembled her father. But at the same time, her feelings toward him were womanly, which, strangely, gave her some insight into her own mother’s sorrow; to lose a spouse like her father must have devastated Mama, Suzanna thought as she danced in the gentleman’s arms.
He was an excellent dancer, which did not surprise Suzanna but endeared him more to her. She had danced only with boys, most of them gangly and unsure, and she had never danced with a man to whom she was not related. She felt safe in his presence, able to be herself, though she knew she was still becoming, which meant that being herself meant not being sure all the time. She knew she was nervous in a way, though she hid it well. With Mr. Cohen and his sister Talat, she didn’t have to hide anything. Like many refugees, Suzanna resisted thinking too far into the future and was reluctant to make plans. Her mother’s constant reminders about settling in England after the war had started to irritate her, though she’d never say anything. What if the war never ended? What if it went on for years and years? Was everyone supposed to put their lives on hold waiting for peace? Couldn’t Mama see they were living in a paradise right here in Persia? The emphasis on beauty in Iranian culture—from gardens and fruit to carpets and silk, poetry and music—comforted and energized Suzanna, who had started to look forward to awakening each morning in Tehran.
“I am quite happy,” she said, daring to look deeply into Mr. Cohen’s eyes. “I had forgotten what that felt like.”
They danced one more waltz before returning to the table. Suzanna was warm from the mild exertion of the dancing. As she went to sit down, she noticed her mother’s disappointed expression, though Suzanna couldn’t guess the reasons for Josefina’s subdued behavior. Presently, one of Mr. Cohen’s friends stopped by the table with his wife, and Mama perked up a bit. After introductions were made, the couple joined them, and they spent the remainder of the afternoon discussing all kinds of matters, from the war to the cost of certain goods and materials; and from the attire of the band members to the quality of the café glacé, one of the Naderi’s most famous confections.
The war, the war, thought Suzanna, glad when the subject changed to something more mundane. She could discuss espresso poured over vanilla ice cream and had much to say about clothing. And although she was more knowledgeable than most people about the war-induced pain and struggles in the lives of ordinary folk such as herself, she felt unable to articulate her opinions. Who was interested in what a sixteen-year-old girl had to say?
For now, however, she was seated at a table in the Café Naderi, watching the couples on the dance floor. Her mother and the Persian woman spoke in French, chattering about flowers and fruit and how gifted a seamstress Suzanna was. Had Madame Kohn heard, the lady asked, that Madame Lya’s dress shop was doing more business than ever? The charming Soleiman Cohen listened to his friend tell a story in Farsi. Suzanna understood enough to know that the man was narrating a humorous tale. Suddenly, Soleiman Cohen began to laugh.
Of all his character traits, Soleiman Cohen’s laughter was his most unique. Suzanna was quite taken by the sound of pure elation he produced when he laughed, which urged everyone who heard it to stop and listen to its single purpose, an announcement of how life was both profuse and magnificent. Even if you hadn’t listened to—or in Suzanna’s case, completely understood—the story or joke, the intonation of Mr. Cohen’s laughter made people want to join in. On this late-summer afternoon, such laughter not only put Suzanna at ease, it sparked in her heart a bit of magic, which was both unfamiliar and irresistible.
IN THE WEEKS FOLLOWING THE SUNDAY THÉ DANSANT at the Café Naderi, it was clear to Soleiman that Josefina was not pleased with his attentions toward her daughter. Once the daily household responsibilities were completed, she retreated to her room. Frequently she went out to socialize with other Polish refugees. Suzanna was often very quiet during these evenings alone with Soleiman, leaving him to initiate conversation, which he purposely limited to subjects such as food, weather, or her education as a dressmaker.
Although Soleiman appreciated private moments with Suzanna, he was attuned to Josefina’s less-than-approving mood. He had to find a way to mend what was threatening to destabilize the harmony of the household. He could not ask Josefina’s permission to marry Suzanna, for he knew she would say no, and then they would all be in a predicament with no way out. The one solution, as Soleiman saw it, was a marriage proposal, made directly to the young woman. Besides, Josefina, who was European and modern, most likely was an advocate—if not publicly, at least in her heart—of such a modern European manner of proposing. One late afternoon at the start of September, Josefina was out, and Soleiman invited Suzanna to walk in the garden.
“Do you like it here in Tehran?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, “it’s very different from Poland, but I like it very much.” She pointed to the snow-capped peaks of the Central Alborz range rising in the distance. “I especially like seeing the mountains. They remind me a little of home.” Suzanna sat on the edge of the small pool in the garden and touched the surface of the water with her fingertips. “I love this water, too,” she said. “At home I always enjoyed meeting my friends at the Well of the Three Brothers or at the fountain in Rynek Square. And there was the Olza River, too, crossing the bridge to see my grandparents—” Here she grew slightly wistful. “I love water,” she said, a smile brightening her face, and Soleiman admired the grace with which she brought herself back to the present moment.
He tried to picture her going to see her friends in a town he could sketch barely in his mind. Only three years ago she was that young girl, navigating what he imagined as cobbled streets in a sleepy little Polish town, all of which was now lost to her. He was astonished, once again, at how quickly Suzanna had become a woman.
“Do you th
ink you might imagine making a home here?” Soleiman asked. He didn’t realize until he had finished posing the question that he was holding his breath. A slight agitation stirred in his chest. On one hand, he felt a responsibility to this young woman; on the other, he wanted her to feel equally toward him, to love and cherish the man who stood before her. What if she said no? For a moment Soleiman Cohen was filled with the unfamiliar feeling of apprehension.
Suzanna looked at him with a modest but direct gaze and drew in a breath before speaking. “I am already at home here,” she said with a fondness Soleiman did not expect. “But I am afraid that my mother does not want to stay, and I cannot imagine us being separated … I also cannot imagine not being here … with you.” She began to cry softly.
In serious moments, Soleiman typically responded by diverting attention from the sadness at hand. He often did this by saying something funny at the most opportune and respectful moment, eliciting laughter, using humor to soften any tensions. Instead, he took Suzanna’s hand in both of his and caressed it. The two sat in silence until her tears abated.
In the falling dusk, they listened to the busy chitter of birds as they settled into their nests for the evening. Soleiman offered his pocket square to Suzanna, who used it to dry her cheeks. He took her left hand in his and reached into his pocket for the ring he had placed there earlier. Suzanna laid the handkerchief in her lap and faced him; he could tell she was attentive to the change in his comportment, and he liked this sensitivity she had to people around her. When she raised her eyes to his, he spoke.
Six Thousand Miles to Home Page 25
