The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  India looked past Mr. Moskowitz to the people standing in the entrance. Their faces were haggard; the young woman's was tear-stained.

  "He always does this," Solly grumbled.

  Mr. Moskowitz lowered his voice. "She cries, the girl. They have no food, Mama. Nowhere to go."

  "Of course she cries," Mrs. Moskowitz said briskly. "With an empty stomach, nothing can be tolerated." She bustled past her husband, greeting their guests loudly and warmly in Russian. Smiles came to their weary faces at the sound of their own tongue.

  "They're not sleeping with me. Not this time. Last bunch gave me fleas," Solly muttered. A swat from Ella silenced him.

  Mrs. Moskowitz got the newcomers' coats and hats off. She got them washed and brushed, then she ushered everyone into the dining room. India sat down, but Ella shook her head and she sheepishly stood again.

  "Aaron, the kiddush cup," Mrs. Moskowitz said.

  Aaron took the silver goblet from the table, filled it with wine, and handed it to his father, who sang a prayer over it, then drank it. His voice was deeper than Yanki's, but every bit as beautiful. Next he uncovered the challah and blessed it. He tore off a small piece, dipped it in salt, and ate it. He did the same with more pieces, handing them to his wife, his chil-dren, and his guests. Then he bade everyone sit down to supper.

  Yanki and Aaron brought extra chairs from the kitchen; Ella hurriedly set three more places. Mrs. Moskowitz and Miriam brought the food. The meal began with thick mushroom soup, sopped up with challah. It was followed by apricot chicken, sweet and meltingly tender; carrot tsimmes, rich with honey and cinnamon; and a golden rice pilaf. India noticed how hard the newcomers tried not to bolt down their helpings.

  And with the food came talk. The immigrants spoke to Mrs. Moskowitz in Russian, telling her of their journey, and of St. Petersburg. Ella trans-lated. Mrs. Moskowitz questioned them animatedly, eager for news of her hometown.

  "Mama grew up in St. Petersburg," Ella explained. "Papa came from the country. He was a farmer's son selling chickens at the market when they met."

  "She was going to marry a rich merchant's son!" Miriam piped up. "But Papa smiled at her and she went with him instead."

  "You make me sound like a stray dog, Miriam! That's not how it was at all!" Mrs. Moskowitz protested.

  The children giggled. Like all children, they loved their parents' love story, and vied with one another to tell it.

  "Mama's father was very angry," Miriam said.

  "He called Papa a turnip. He didn't know Papa was to study law at uni-versity," Solly added. "The rabbi from his shtetl helped him prepare."

  "They said if Mama married him, she was no longer their child."

  "But she married him anyway!"

  "They were poor and sometimes had nothing but potatoes to eat."

  "Then Papa became an important barrister and they had lots to eat. And a nice house, too."

  "And Mama's parents were sorry, and said Papa wasn't a turnip after all."

  "Enough already!" Mrs. Moskowitz said, laughing. She turned to India. "You see? Beshert. That's Yiddish. It means fated to be together. It's as I told you--love chooses you." She looked at her husband, and the tenderness in her eyes told India how very happy she was with love's choice.

  "But then they had to leave, Mama and Papa did. Bad men burned their home," Miriam said solemnly.

  "They had to walk all the way to the border with Ella and Yanki," Solly added.

  "Ah, well," Mr. Moskowitz said. "All that is behind us now. He who can-not endure the bad will not live to see the good. And here in Whitechapel, there is much good."

  Ella, who'd been translating the children's words all along for the immi-grants, translated her father's and the newcomers smiled, bolstered by them. As the others continued to talk, Mrs. Moskowitz sat back in her chair, a faraway look in her eyes. India thought that she must be remem-bering St. Petersburg and all that she had lost.

  "You must miss your home," she said to her.

  Mrs. Moskowitz shook her head. "No, my dear," she said, smiling. "I never left it." She nodded at her husband, her children. "My home is where they are."

  India smiled, deeply touched by her words, and then suddenly she thought of Sid again and wished that he were here. Not for her sake, but for his. She wished that he was not at the Bark, or on the harsh London streets, or alone, as he so often seemed to be, but seated at this table, encircled by the warmth and light of this night and these people, moved, as she was, by their love for one another and for three poor strangers. He had that same light in him; she knew he did. She'd seen it.

  Guilt gnawed at her conscience. Here she was thinking of Sid again, when she was engaged to Freddie. Freddie, who was moral and principled.

  Freddie, who was facing a terrible political struggle and who needed her love and loyalty like never before. How could she be so disloyal? What in God's name was wrong with her?

  Mrs. Moskowitz's words came back to her. "You do not choose love. Love chooses you." And as they did, India realized she had her answer: Love had chosen for her. And love had chosen Sid.

  Chapter 31

  "And then I sez to Old Bill, I sez... Oi! Malone! C'mere for a mo'. Listen to this one."

  Big Billy Madden, guv'nor of West London, was drunk. He waved Sid over, put his arm around his neck, and proceeded to tell him how he'd coshed a constable with his mam's rolling pin when he was only ten years old.

  "Cracked his skull, I did. Put him straight into the hospital. And me only a nipper!" Madden brayed laughter. Sid could see his teeth, black with decay. The smell of Madden's breath, mingling with his cheap cologne, made Sid's stomach lurch.

  "You ever done a rozzer, Sid?" Madden asked.

  "Of course not. I'm a businessman, me. What truck have I got with Old Bill?"

  "Businessman, eh? What line you in? Monkey business?" Billy brayed again. He dropped his voice, suddenly conspiratorial. "You might want to make a start with the rozzers, eh? From what I hear, Alvin Donaldson's become a right pain in your arse. Quick way to fix that." He drew an imagi-nary knife across his throat.

  "What? And take away all me fun?" Sid said. "I live to put the wind up that bloke. Baiting rozzers is me favorite sport. Oi!" He barked at a passing waiter, eager to extricate himself. "More champagne for Mr. Madden and his lads."

  Madden tightened his arm around Sid's neck. His knuckles, crusted with rings, grazed Sid's cheek. "I love this bloke. He's the cream!" he pro-claimed. "Smartest fucking one of us." His smile faded, just slightly, and his predator's eyes narrowed as he said, "Richest one, too."

  "Not after tonight, Billy lad. You lot'll drink me dry. Won't have a far-thing to me name come morning."

  "Where's the guest of honor?" Madden asked, releasing him. "I'd like to congratulate her."

  "Buggered if I know. Hasn't made her grand entrance yet. Tell you what, I'm going to find her," he said, grateful for an out. "Soon as I do, I'll send her round."

  Sid walked over to Desi and Frankie. "You see Gem?" he asked.

  "Fucking toe-rag," Frankie growled, staring at Madden.

  "Easy, Frankie. He's our guest."

  "Why'd you invite him?"

  "Good relations. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. You learn things that way." He himself had just learned plenty.

  "I'd keep him close, all right. I'd put him in a headlock. He shouldn't take liberties like that. It doesn't look right."

  Sid heard the accusing note in Frankie's voice. He let it go. He wasn't up to an argument. He hadn't slept for days and his head ached. It hurt more after learning that Madden knew Donaldson was after them. He'd be rubbing his hands together, hoping Donaldson succeeded. With the Firm in jail, he could move into East London.

  "He's up to no good, Madden. You know that, don't you? You talk to Joe Griz yet?" Frankie said.

  "No. Why?"

  "He says a bloke came to his home a week ago looking to move a stolen painting. Griz didn't know him, so he started asking
questions. �Where you from? Who do you know? Who've you worked with?' When he couldn't get any proper answers, he chucked him out. I don't like it, guv. Madden's behind it, I just know it. Looking to land Griz in the shit with the rozzers. Get him sent down. He wants his business. Wants the swag. He always has."

  "Could be the rozzers themselves."

  Frankie shook his head. "They ain't that enterprising."

  "They are now. Donaldson hasn't been able to get us directly. So he's likely taking another route. If he can get Griz for a stolen painting, he can pressure him. Promise to go hard on him unless he grasses on us."

  Frankie's eyes widened. "Didn't think of that."

  "That's the trouble with you, Frankie. You never think."

  He walked away to yell at a waiter. He'd been harsh and he didn't care. He was tired of Frankie. Tired of Madden. Tired of all of them. He was restless, unsettled. He wanted out of this place. Out of the darkness and the smoke. He was gripped by an urge to simply leave. If it weren't for Gemma, he would have.

  Ronnie walked by deep in conversation with Tom.

  "You two see Gem?" he called.

  "What's wrong with your head, guv?" Ronnie asked.

  "What?"

  "Your head. You're rubbing at it like to take the skin off."

  Sid realized he was digging his fingers into his temple. "It's nothing. Where's Gemma?"

  "Don't think she's here yet."

  It was Gemma Dean's big night. She'd made her debut in the Gaiety's new revue with a solo and was absolutely smashing. As he'd promised, Sid was throwing a huge party to celebrate her success. He'd closed the Alhambra, a flashy gin palace he owned on the Commercial Road, and had invited all of East London's theatrical world, and a great deal of its criminal one, to a fancy catered do there.

  Sid ordered a whisky, neat. He downed it, then leaned against the bar and looked around. Joe Grizzard, the city's most notorious fence, was sit-ting in a corner with half a dozen bent cops. Sid could see the diamonds flash on his fingers as he cut his steak. Across the room, Bertha Weiner from Shadwell was sitting at a table with her pack of house-breakers, tearing the legs off a roast duck. Vesta Tilley, the show's lead, was singing at a piano. Max Moses and Joe Weinstein, who fronted the Bessarabians, a brutal Whitechapel street gang, were drinking at the bar with a couple of big-time bookmakers. Three men from a rival gang, the Odessians, sat at the other end, seeing who could hold his finger in a candle flame the longest. One-eyed Charlie Walker and his Blind Beggars, a group of pick-pockets, lifted plates of caviar from a waiter's tray without the man knowing. Teddy Ko strutted by with two more Limehouse drug lords, all blindingly flash in their new suits and shoes. A gaggle of chorus girls eyed them hungrily.

  Sid closed his eyes, fingers rubbing his throbbing head again, and for an instant it wasn't night and he wasn't here with Madden and Griz and every other thief and cutthroat in London. He was by the sea. With India. And it was morning. He quickly pushed the image out of his mind. He'd been thinking of her constantly since the night he'd kissed her in Whitechapel. And he didn't want to. She'd hurt him, made him feel like a fool. But worse than that, she'd made him love her. He could forgive a woman a lot of things, but he couldn't forgive that.

  Shouts suddenly went up; a burst of applause was heard. Sid opened his eyes. Gemma had arrived, looking spectacular in a turquoise satin gown, its every fold and tuck designed to showcase her splendid figure. She was wearing the dazzling diamond necklace and earrings he'd given her, plus an armful of bracelets and a knuckle-duster of a ring. She turned every head in the place. Madden's eyes crawled over her.

  Gemma was stunning, and Sid knew he should feel proud of her. Pos-sessive. Lustful. Something. But he didn't. He felt nothing. He also knew he should go to her, so he did.

  "Well if it isn't the Gaiety's brightest new star," he said, coming up behind her.

  Gemma whirled around. "Why, Mr. Malone, you dressed up for me!" she exclaimed, looking him up and down.

  Sid smiled. He'd changed his uniform of dungarees and shirtsleeves for a suit. "You were wonderful, Gem," he said. "Everyone's saying so." He kissed her cheek.

  "Who's saying so? Who's here?" she asked, glancing around the room.

  Her quick eyes darted everywhere at once, and Sid knew she was sizing up her guests, calculating who could do what for her. She was on the make. As was everyone else in the room. It was their way. Her way. His. It was the East London way.

  The urge to walk out came over him again. He wanted to leave the Al-hambra, the party, the whole bleeding East End. He took her arm.

  "Come for a stroll with me, Gem," he said. He needed to walk with her, talk with her. He needed her to hold him. Hold him here. Hold him down. To this place. This life.

  "A stroll? Now? Are you mad? I just got here."

  Maybe that's it, he thought. Maybe I am mad.

  "I know what you're after and you're not having it," she added, with a sly smile. "You'll ruin my dress. There'll be time for that later. Now, Sid luv, who said I was great?"

  Sid forced a smile. "Billy Madden did. Go say hello to him. He wants to congratulate you."

  "You don't mind?"

  "Not a bit. Go on, pet. It's your night. Have fun."

  Go, Gem. Go to him, he thought, watching her walk away. He'll treat you better than I ever did. He'll give you everything you need. Everything you want.

  He'd just ordered another whisky when Frankie, Ronnie, and Tom all walked up to him. He could tell something was wrong. "What's up?" he asked tightly.

  "Trouble at the Taj," Ronnie said.

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "Brass tried to off herself. Made a bit of a mess. Susie's in a right state."

  Sid told Tom to tell Gemma he'd been called away and to stay and look after her; then he, Ronnie, and Frankie left for the Taj.

  "Flippin' hell, Sid, what took you?" Susie shrilled when they arrived. "What'll I do with the body? How will I get rid of it? What if the rozzers come sniffing?"

  "Calm down, Susie. Tell me what happened," Sid said.

  Susie explained that one of her girls had become distraught because her best customer had thrown her over for someone younger. "There was a fight. That's something I never tolerate. The men who come here don't want to listen to rowing. They get plenty of that at home."

  "The girl?"

  "I sacked her for fighting, didn't I? And then the silly bitch goes and swallows a bottle of arsenic I'd got for the mice. Bloody cheek!"

  "She's dead now?"

  "If she ain't yet, she soon will be."

  "Where is she?"

  "Upstairs. Room Eight."

  When they reached the landing--a large, open room where the girls sat waiting for punters--Susie shook her head. "Just look at this bleeding mess, will you?" she grumbled. "Knocked the whole flippin' room apart, she did. Smashed a good mirror. Me favorite vase, too. I'm taking it from her wages. Dead or not."

  She opened the door of Room Eight. A woman lay on the narrow bed, eyes closed, clutching her stomach. White froth fiecked her lips. As they stood there, she lunged forward and vomited onto the floor.

  "Bloody hell!" Frankie yelled, backing out of the room.

  "Still here then, Molly?" Susie asked.

  The woman moaned.

  "What do we do?" Ronnie asked.

  "Let nature take its course," Susie said. "If she lives, she lives. If not, it's into the river with her. I don't want the rozzers involved. They've given me enough trouble lately as it is. That wanker of a Donaldson paid us a visit yesterday, you know. Luckily one of his lads is a customer and gave me ad-vance notice. I had time to get the punters out the back door and the girls downstairs before he showed up. I've had to put two lads on at the door, though, with orders not to let any strangers in. Only regulars. In case it's coppers pretending to be punters. Costing me a bomb, it is."

  "April, April!" Molly sobbed.

  "What's she saying?" Sid asked.

  "April's her baby," said a new
voice.

  Sid looked up. A group of girls had gathered in the doorway. The one who'd spoken gazed back at him with dark, dead eyes. Another, naked from the waist up, leaned on the jamb. She had the pallor of an opium addict.

  "For April, please..." Molly said, her eyes wild with fear. She pushed something toward him. He saw that it was a pound note.