While We’re Far Apart

by Lynn Austin

  “Yes, but – ”

  “We found a birth registration with your name, your birthday, and your parents’ names, but it’s a certificate of adoption. They are listed as your adoptive parents, not your birth parents.”

  Penny’s smile turned into a frown. “Well . . . that can’t be the right one. I’m not adopted.”

  “Look.” The clerk turned the piece of paper around so Penny could read it. “This is your certificate of adoption. Albert and Gwendolyn Goodrich applied for it on the day of your birth, and it has been officially registered with the state of New York. That means they adopted you.”

  Penny stared and stared at the certificate, but it still made no sense to her. Was someone playing a joke? “This . . . this can’t be mine. I think somebody must have made a mistake.”

  The clerk slapped the counter. “Look. What do you think are the chances that there are two people in New York state named Penny Sue Goodrich, both born on the exact same day and in the exact same year, in Brooklyn, with parents named Albert and Gwendolyn Goodrich? Huh? I would say that it’s highly improbable, wouldn’t you? This has to be yours.”

  “But . . . but if it’s true and my parents did adopt me, why didn’t they ever tell me?”

  “You’ll have to ask them that question, Miss Goodrich, not me.” The clerk leaned to one side to look around Penny as if to see how long the line was. Penny didn’t move, couldn’t move.

  “Then who are my real parents?”

  “The state doesn’t list that information on an adoption certificate.”

  “Can you find out for me?”

  The clerk’s irritation smoothed to a look of pity. “Maybe. First we would have to find out if your adoption record was sealed or not.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Many times the birth mother doesn’t want her identity to be known, so she asks for the records to be officially sealed. In that case, even your adoptive parents may not know who your real parents are.”

  “How do I find out if it was sealed?”

  “We could do another search for you. It would take at least a week and cost an additional fee. If the record has been sealed, then your birth parents’ identities would remain a secret at their request. And I have to warn you, Miss Goodrich, in nearly all of the adoptions I’ve seen over the years, the records are always sealed.”

  Penny hung on to the edge of the counter. The world had been knocked sideways, and she feared she might topple over if she let go.

  “Would you like to pursue the search, Miss Goodrich?”

  “I guess so. I mean . . . yes.” Her hands shook as she dug into her wallet for more money. The clerk handed Penny a new form.

  “Here you go, Miss Goodrich. You can return it to me after you’ve finished filling it out. Who’s next?”

  Penny stumbled toward a row of chairs in the waiting area, needing to sit down. No wonder Mother had been so upset when Penny had asked for her birth certificate. She had left the iron plugged in while she’d hurried into the living room to stop Penny from searching the desk. She hadn’t wanted her to know the truth.

  But why not? If she really was adopted – and Penny still didn’t quite believe that it was true – why hadn’t her parents ever told her?

  Somehow Penny managed to return to the bus station and do her job. She was so distracted as she took in money and handed people their change and their tickets that it surprised her when her cash drawer added up to the exact penny at the end of the day, as usual.

  “So, all set to start training?” her boss asked as he checked her receipts.

  “I-I’m adopted. I have my adoption certificate but not a birth certificate.”

  “I’m sure that will be fine. Any legal identification will do. You just have to prove who you are.”

  But who was she?

  Penny still clung to the belief that someone had made a mistake.

  She would find out the next time she returned to the records’ office that this was all a huge misunderstanding or an elaborate joke. Except who would play a joke on her? Her parents had no sense of humor. And the joke wasn’t funny at all.

  CHAPTER 12

  JACOB READ THE DATE on the calendar. Today was his son’s thirtieth birthday. He looked down at the letter he held in his hands, the last one he had ever received from Avraham, and saw it was nearly two years old. The unending silence during all that time had been torture. Surely the truth, no matter how bad, would be better than this terrible silence.

  Today he would reread Avraham’s final letter. Tomorrow Jacob would start reading through the pile of letters all over again, one each day, beginning with Avi’s descriptions of his first days in Hungary. He had been there only a short time when the government passed the first anti-Jewish laws, banning Jews from working in the professions and owning their own land. Avi should have come home right away. Everyone should have known it would only get worse. Later, Avi would tell all about his studies in the yeshiva and how much he was learning, along with news that Hungary had joined with Germany to invade Czechoslovakia.

  Avraham’s letters would get longer and more exuberant as he described how he had met Sarah Rivkah and had fallen in love with her. They had decided to marry, he would write. Then he would tell how thousands of Polish Jews had fled across the border into Hungary for refuge after Hitler invaded Poland. Avi’s joy had multiplied when little Fredeleh had been born – as did Jacob’s fears. Couldn’t Avraham see that Hitler was intent on conquering the world? Hungarian troops had marched off to fight alongside German ones against the Soviet Union, and Jacob had begged Avraham not to stay in a land that was allied with a madman. Jacob had written letters to every government official he could think of, pleading for help in rescuing his family. But there had been no rescue, no visas, no way out for Avraham and Sarah Rivkah. Even Jacob’s prayers had met with silence.

  Dear Mama and Abba,

  We have just heard the shocking news that the Japanese have attacked the Americans in Pearl Harbor. They are saying the U.S. will now join the war against the Axis powers. That means America and Hungary may soon be at war with each other, and mail will no longer be allowed to pass between our countries. And so I am writing this quick letter to let you know we are all fine. For now, we are being left alone to live our lives as usual. I’m not so certain the same is true for Jews in other lands. Some of the Polish Jews who have escaped across our borders tell horrible stories about massacres in their country. But so far Hungary is still a safe place for us.

  We’ve heard rumors that able-bodied Jewish men might be drafted into labor companies soon, and I’m not sure if I should admit I am an American or not. No one knows if it will make matters better or worse for me now that America and Hungary are enemies. Either way, I pray that Hashem will guide me and that I won’t have to leave Sarah and Fredeleh behind.

  If there had been any way that we could have left Hungary and come home by now, we surely would have. But I am still unable to get the necessary immigration papers for my wife and daughter, and now the American Embassy in Budapest will close.

  We are all saddened that our beloved Hungary would ally itself with a man like Adolf Hitler and the hatred he embraces. Our government officials did it for the promise of land, to increase our territory to its proper borders and to regain the land that was stolen from Hungary after the first war. Our soldiers may fight for Germany’s cause, but I don’t think our leaders believe in what Hitler does. Let’s hope it ends soon. And that by the time it does, the immigration papers that I filled out for Sarah and the baby will finally be processed.

  Sarah Rivkah and Fredeleh send their love. We are all praying for this madness to end so Fredeleh can finally meet her American grandparents. Stay well and don’t worry.

  All my love,

  Avraham

  This last letter had arrived a few months before Miriam died. She would never meet her daughter-in-law or hold her little granddaughter. And unless Jacob’s last few letters had somehow gotten
through to Avraham, he did not know that his mother was gone. But maybe it was better that Miriam Shoshanna had been spared the agony of silence and waiting. Especially if something had happened to their only son and his family. Miriam’s tender soul never could have handled such terrible news about the persecution of Jews in Europe – atrocities that no one wanted to believe were true, massacres and starvation in the Jewish ghettos. Who knew what other horrors would take place if the war continued to drag on? Were the Jews in Hungary still safe? How could they be when their nation was allied with a monster?

  But was that any reason for Hashem to take Miriam’s life? Why not stop the atrocities instead? Why not let Miriam live and let Adolf Hitler die?

  Jacob sifted through the photographs he had cut from the newspaper, including the latest picture, smuggled to the press from Warsaw, Poland. It showed “death carts” gathering up corpses. The caption read: “Jews starve to death under the Nazis’ new order which severely restricts food rations for Jews.” Another picture from April of 1941 showed the burnt remains of a synagogue in Bucharest, Romania, with the caption, “Hundreds of Jews burned to death.” Aside from the date, it was indistinguishable from pictures of the synagogues that had burned in Germany five years ago on Kristallnacht, “the night of broken glass.” And whenever Jacob looked out his front window, the remains of the shul across the street looked eerily similar to the photographs from Europe.

  The doorbell rang, interrupting Jacob’s thoughts. He could maneuver doorknobs easily now that his bandages had finally come off. Only the plaster cast on his arm remained. When he opened the door, Jacob was surprised to find the gray-haired fire marshal standing there. What did he want now?

  “Good evening, Mr. Mendel. I’m Inspector Dalton from – ”

  “Yes. I remember. The fire marshal’s office.”

  “I have a few more questions about the fire in the synagogue. Do you have a moment?”

  “I already told you everything I know.”

  “I understand. But I need to confirm a few things now that I’ve interviewed other witnesses.”

  Jacob leaned against the doorframe in resignation. “What would you like to know?”

  “May I come inside, please? This shouldn’t take long.”

  Jacob’s wife would have chided him for his lack of manners. She would have offered Mr. Dalton coffee and a slice of honey cake. But Jacob did not feel very sociable. “Have they determined how the fire started?” he asked as he led the man into his living room.

  “Yes, Mr. Mendel. It was set deliberately. Arson. That’s why we are continuing to investigate.”

  A small shudder traveled through Jacob. He needed to sit down. Deliberate? Who would do such a thing? His friend Meir had warned that the fire was likely motivated by hatred.

  The inspector glanced all around the room as if memorizing its contents, pausing as he glanced at Jacob’s desk. “May I?” he asked. He reached to pick up the clipping of the destroyed synagogue in Romania, then laid it down again. “I thought for a moment that this was the synagogue across the street. They are quite similar, don’t you think?”

  “Everywhere, people hate us.” Jacob motioned to the sofa. “Have a seat, Mr. Dalton.”

  The inspector removed the small notebook from his pocket and took a moment to page through his notes before asking, “What is your relationship with Congregation Ohel Moshe?”

  “My relationship? I have no relationship, at the moment.”

  “But you do know the rabbi and all of the other leaders, correct?”

  “Yes, they are my friends.”

  “I’m told that for several years you held an honored position among the men. You were called the gabbai?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago did you resign your position?”

  “A year. Maybe a little more than that.”

  “Why do you no longer attend the congregation?”

  Inspector Dalton had been firing questions one right after the other without giving Jacob time to think. This time Jacob drew a breath before answering. “I don’t understand what that has to do with the fire.”

  “I’m just getting some background information, Mr. Mendel.”

  “It is nobody’s business but mine if I attend or not.”

  “But you are very familiar with the synagogue’s layout, the use of the rooms, and so forth?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have a key to the building, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you use your key to let yourself into the building on the night of the fire?”

  “Of course I used it. The front door of the building was locked.”

  “So you unlocked it and went inside?”

  “Yes. I saw the flames and I went inside to save the Torah scrolls.”

  Inspector Dalton nodded, then consulted his notebook once again. “I understand you had a conversation with Rabbi Grunfeld shortly before the fire began. Is that correct?”

  Jacob had to think back to that night. It seemed like a very long time ago. He recalled that he had bumped into the rebbe on his way home from the store that evening, just as the men were coming out of the shul. “We had a short conversation that night, yes.”

  “May I ask what you discussed?”

  “How should I know what I said so many weeks ago? Do you remember the conversations you had in the past?” He was losing patience with these idiotic questions.

  “Perhaps I can help jog your memory.” Inspector Dalton leafed through the pages of his notebook. “Ah, here it is. Several witnesses overheard you shouting that night. Arguing with Rabbi Grunfeld. They said you sounded very angry. You said something to the effect that you didn’t care what happened to the synagogue, that the building could fall down for all you cared. Do you recall saying that?”

  For the first time Jacob felt real fear. These weren’t innocent questions that the man was asking. He was trying to lead Jacob down a path chosen well in advance. And Jacob had the feeling that something terrible awaited him at the end of it. “Why do you ask me questions if you already know the answers?”

  “I’m just trying to confirm that the information is true, Mr. Mendel. Did you raise your voice that night?”

  “I suppose I did.”

  “I’m told that you were carrying a paper bag in your hand. May I ask what it contained?”

  “My supper. I bought a can of soup and some crackers at the store. That was why I left the apartment in the first place.”

  “Isn’t it against your Jewish beliefs to make purchases between sundown on Friday and sundown on Saturday?”

  “My beliefs are my own business. They have nothing to do with the fire.”

  “What happened to the bag that evening?”

  “To the bag? What do you mean?”

  “I’m told that you were carrying the scrolls, wrapped in a bundle, when you came out of the burning synagogue. You no longer had a bag at that time, nor is there any mention of a bag or a can of soup among your effects when they admitted you to the hospital.”

  Jacob stared at the man, shocked by the information he seemed to possess. Again he thought back to the night of the fire, remembering how he had let himself into the synagogue, then dampened his jacket in the sink. He had no idea what had become of the soup. “I suppose I must have set the bag down inside somewhere. I don’t remember.”

  “After your argument with Rabbi Grunfeld, what did you do next?”

  “I went for a walk.”

  “To any destination in particular?”

  “No. I just walked.”

  “Is there anyone who saw you and can verify where you went on your stroll?” Jacob’s stomach rolled with another wave of fear. He shook his head. “And at the time that you went for this walk, Mr. Mendel, the synagogue would have been empty? You saw all of the men leaving, correct?”

  “No. I saw Rabbi Grunfeld and a few others leaving. I have no idea who remained inside.”

  Inspector Dalton nodded
, then flipped back a few more pages in his notebook. “The owner of the cigar store gave a description of the man who reported the fire and asked him to call for help. He said that he was Jewish, with a black beard and hat, wearing a black suit and striped suspenders. Was that you, Mr. Mendel?”

  “Yes. I noticed the flames as I was completing my walk and returning home.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I saw that it was taking too long for the fire trucks to arrive. The Torah scrolls were going to burn. So I went inside to save them.”

  “Using your key?”

  “Yes. Of course using my key.”

  Dalton fell silent for a moment, as if thinking. He reminded Jacob of a hunter carefully setting a trap in the stillness of the woods. “Mr. Mendel, I understand that Rabbi Grunfeld and the others are very grateful to you for what you did.”

  “Ask them, not me.”

  “And so, after being angry with the other members of Congregation Ohel Moshe for more than a year – ”

  “I never said I was angry with the congregation or anyone else.”

  “Let me rephrase that . . . after being estranged from the others for more than a year, you are once again in their good graces, is that right?”

  Good graces? The phrase made Jacob angry. He stood abruptly. “I would like you to leave now. I have told you everything I know about the fire. I saw the flames as I was returning home. I asked the store clerk to call the fire department. I went inside to save the Torah. That is all there is to it.”

  Mr. Dalton smiled faintly. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Mendel.” He seemed to take his time rising from the sofa and crossing to the door, pausing beside a bookshelf to examine Miriam’s small glass kerosene lamp.

  “This belongs to you?”

  “It was my wife’s.” Miriam used to use it as a night-light on Shabbat. Jacob hadn’t touched it in more than a year.

  “This burns kerosene?” Mr. Dalton bent to sniff it.