Breaking Faith

by E. Graziani

  “Mrs. Lieberman—I’m sorry—did she pass away?”

  “What! Silly girl. She is now in university no—bigger—you are skinny and small.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—I thought…never mind. Thank you.” She’s letting me use her granddaughter’s clothes, allowing me to shower in her bathroom and she’s feeding me—and she’s letting me stay overnight. Why would she show me such compassion, I wonder—a street kid she doesn’t know from any old scam artist?

  I shrug and accept the kindness anyway. I take the bundle of clean clothes and the plastic bag.

  “Use soap and shampoo—lots. Towels in cupboard.” The corner of her mouth curls up just slightly into a smile, and her eyes betray an innate kindness, despite her brusque instructions.

  At that point, I think she’s the coolest. I nod yes and glide by the pot of chicken soup, simmering on the stove.

  After my shower, I make certain that I clean up properly after myself and leave the bathroom in immaculate condition. Clean and freshly changed, bag of old clothes in hand, and ready to have a good meal, I feel like a new person.

  “Come, girlie,” says Mrs. Lieberman. “Soup is get cold.” Balancing two glasses on her walker—one filled with milk, the other water—she shuffles over and places them on the table next to the steaming, hot bowls. I drop the bag at the door alongside my backpack and hurry to the table, reminding myself halfway there that this indulgence is only for one night.

  As I sit down, I look at the spread in front of me, incapable of remembering such a healthy meal. Shelter food is okay, but this is in another category altogether. Chunks of carrots and celery swim around my big bowl of chicken soup, bumping up against the giant round dumplings, and on the side is a dish of what looks like pierogies, complemented by an overflowing breadbasket to my left.

  I inhale deeply as I reach for my spoon. I barely touch it to my lips when she puts her hand out in front of me.

  “Stop, girlie. Now we pray.” She looks at me sternly, saying it as if I should have known all along that this was a necessary precursor to dinner, so I gingerly set my spoon down and bow my head. She takes a bowl from the side of the table and pours water over her hands, into another bowl, and says something in a language I’ve never heard.

  I wait for it to be over, and take my host’s lead, only taking up my spoon again when she does. I wait a few moments, just in case, then she finally says “Eat, girlie—what you waiting for?” like I should have known this, too.

  I spoon soup into my mouth at lightning speed, relishing every bite of savory goodness. While doing so, I notice her looking at me and chortling softly.

  “Mrs. Lieberman, the soup tastes delicious.”

  She nods as she slurps down a spoonful. “Thank you. Is matzo ball soup,” she says as she points to my plate.

  “Oh.” I watch as she takes a pierogi and bites into it.

  “Try one,” she says, shoving the side dish closer.

  “Sure,” I say. “I love pierogies.”

  She shakes her head. “No,” she says flatly. “This is knish. Is Jewish.”

  “Okay…. Are you Jewish, Mrs. Lieberman?”

  My host glances at me for a moment, raises her brows, and laughs softly. “Matzo ball soup, knishes, and Lieberman—yes, Jewish.” She chortles out loud now, a little harder, and I can’t help joining her—her laughter is infectious.

  “I don’t know any Jewish people. There aren’t many where I come from,” I say.

  “Too bad for you,” she remarks matter-of-factly. I have to laugh at that.

  “You Catholic?”

  “No.”

  “Protestant?”

  “Um—not really. I’m not anything.” I look down, embarrassed that I’m not anything. I stick my fork in one of the knishes and bite into it. An explosion of rich, savory flavor bursts in my mouth. I’m beginning to feel sleepy from a full stomach and not enough sleep the night before.

  “Where is family?” blurts out Mrs. Lieberman, taking me by surprise.

  “I told you, I don’t have one.”

  “I don’t believe.” I sense that her eyes are fixed on me, figuring me out. I shake my head and rub my eyes.

  “Fine,” she inhales deeply, standing to stack the dishes. “You finish, then you sleep.” The old woman sets the plates on her walker seat and rolls them into the kitchen. My need for sleep is winning the battle over my curiosity about Mrs. Lieberman. Why is she being good to me? I will ask her before I leave tomorrow. For now, I have to set my head down and close my eyes.

  “Sofa is comfortable. There is blanket and pillow in closet. You sleep now.” I’m not about to argue with her.

  Chapter 21

  I try to get to Taylor, but strong hands are holding me back. She and Shaylee are crying, bleeding, gasping. Strong hands are holding them down, too. I can’t breathe; I open my mouth wide to scream, but nothing comes. I feel a hand shaking my shoulder, and I try to reach to pry it off, but my arm may as well be made of stone. I open my eyes and see the outline of a little old woman and light from a window flooding the apartment behind her.

  “Mrs. Lieberman?” I croak.

  “Yes, girlie.” She looks kindly at me. “You cry in sleep.”

  As I rub the sleep from my eyes, I look around the place. Yep, I was still here, no abandoned factory, no Taylor, and no Shaylee—just me. “I was having a nightmare.”

  Mrs. Lieberman grunts her agreement. “You call someone in sleep. You call family, yes?”

  I shake my head no and think for a moment about not telling her, then I don’t think anymore. “The two girls on the news last night—the ones the police found—they were my friends.” I see her mind working, then finally it clicks.

  She puts a hand to her mouth. “They in hospital?” she asks.

  I nod. “They were beaten by boys who drugged us—I was there, too, but I got away. I don’t know how I got away, but I called the police and they got there in time. I thank the Ultimate Being for that.” Mrs. Lieberman mumbles something in another language as she clutches her chest.

  “Who is this Ultimate Being?”

  I shrug. “God, I guess.”

  She smiles. “You and friends stay out of trouble—then no need for HaShem to save you. Come to breakfast.”

  “Um. What time is it, Mrs. Lieberman?”

  “Nine. You sleep sixteen hours. Must be very tired.” She appears from the galley kitchen with more crockery on her walker seat. A bowl full of piping hot oatmeal smelling like cinnamon and apples, along with a giant mug of steaming hot milk. She places the bowl and mug at the same spot where I sat last night.

  “You made that for me?” I feel spoiled—a feeling that has been foreign to me for most of my life.

  “Yes. Come!” Her voice is jokingly impatient, so I smile and obey. Her little body turns back into the kitchen and returns with a cup of tea. She places it on the table, then sits down, and watches with pleasure as I eat.

  “Thank you so much for feeding me.” I wipe my mouth and look at her with what I hope is appreciation. “How can I ever repay you, Mrs. Lieberman? You saved my life last night. I don’t know what I would have—”

  “Shh!” She puts a finger to her lips. “Enough, girlie.” She gathers up the plates and hobbles to the kitchen again, putting them in the sink. Then she turns and reaches up, feeling for something on top of her fridge. She comes back with a change purse tucked in her palm and hands it to me. “Take money—you go to laundry and wash clothes. I make grocery list for you, and you shop for me. You help old woman, I help young girl. You stay another day—yes?” She looks at me with sweet eyes that are trying hard to be stern. My own eyes sting with tears despite my best efforts to hold them back.

  “Okay,” I whisper. “Yeah, I can do that for you.” She’s throwing me a lifeline and she knows it, but doesn’t want to compromise my dignity.<
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  I stay that day. I wear her granddaughter’s clothes to the Laundromat, I do her groceries while my clothes wash and dry, then go back to her place with her food. She makes me dinner and I sleep on the couch again. The next day, she gives me money for clothes. As I walk out, I see Brian unlocking his door.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, taken by surprise.

  “Mrs. Lieberman asked me to stay,” I mumble as I look down and walk past him.

  “You better not be ripping her off, or stealing from her. She’s a nice lady. And she’s been through enough.”

  “I’m not.” I sneer at him. “And I know she’s nice. She helped me, unlike someone else.” I make my eyes look hard and narrow them to slits. Then I continue to descend the steps and exit through the door next to the grocer.

  I find a secondhand store—they call it vintage. I pick up some pants and sweaters. I’m in heaven. Safe, cared for, clean, and fed, appreciating small kindnesses like I never have before. I go back and we watch TV, talk, and eat together.

  The next day, I help Mrs. Lieberman down the stairs and we go for frozen yogurt. Everyone in the shop knows her, like she’s a celebrity. Then we go back up to her apartment, where she announces that she wants to teach me how to make knishes. This is an entire afternoon. We make the filling and are about to roll out the dough when she asks me the question again.

  “Girlie,” she says, “Who is your family?” I wince at the question because, even though I lie like an expert, I know that I can’t lie to her. She’ll know if I do. “You have mama, papa? Brother, sister? You don’t believe, but is true—they worry.”

  I don’t answer her question. I’m too afraid to tell her, in case her intention is to call someone to come get me “for my own good.” Then the police would show up and drag me back to that hellhole neighborhood in Greenleigh—back to counselors and therapists with endless stupid questions. And back to my grandmother, that sour old prune who drove my mom away. And to Constance, who’s ashamed of me and my low-life ways. No thanks, Mrs. Lieberman, I’m staying here as long as you’ll let me, thank you very much.

  In the end, Mrs. Lieberman lets it drop and keeps on working.

  “These will be good,” she says, taking pride in her handiwork. “Very good.”

  “Where did you learn how to make knishes, Mrs. Lieberman?”

  “My mama teach me,” she answers as she cleans the table, her mind clearly focused on the task at hand.

  “That’s nice—my mother never taught me anything.”

  Mrs. Lieberman’s eyes lock on to mine. “So you do have mama.” She thinks she has me.

  “Had. She died a couple years ago from septicemia. My mother was an IV drug user—she got an infection from dirty needles and never got better. She was too weak to fight it off.”

  Mrs. Lieberman stands beside me and listens. “I am sorry.” Her voice is soft, and laced with sadness. She pats my shoulder, then shakes her head and takes the cloth to the sink to rinse it.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Is why you run away?” asks Mrs. Lieberman.

  “Partly. But there were other reasons that had nothing to do with my mother. It’s a whole bunch of reasons.”

  She turns to me, the twinkle in her eye now gone. “Father beat you?”

  “No—I don’t really know him.”

  “You live at foster’s home?”

  “With my grandmother, but she…she’s not really like a grandmother. She’s…cold.”

  Mrs. Lieberman raises a brow. “Only you and grandma?”

  “I have two sisters. One younger, one older. The older one I thought was my best friend—but when I found out she’s actually embarrassed to be related to me, I couldn’t take it anymore.” My story spills out of me like I’ve pulled off a giant scab and my words are bleeding uncontrollably all over the kitchen counter. Mrs. Lieberman sits on one of her dining room chairs, and listens.

  I admit to her that I always felt out of place at school, the oddball, moody, miserable kid. I tell her that I was centered out because of my family situation, about the embarrassment of being bullied—and that I decided to fulfill my portended role as a dirty, unkempt, crazy, angry mess because people said that’s what I was most of my life. I tell her how lost and abandoned I felt when my mother would leave us, how I thought she was the only one who knew me and could save me. And then how I felt we were never enough for her, and how frustrated I was with her, deep down (though I had never admitted it to anyone because that would’ve meant my mother was at fault). And about how angry I was that I was left with my Gran and had to look after both me and Des because, according to Gran, she had already raised her kid and wasn’t about to raise her daughter’s kids, too. Mrs. Lieberman flinched at that one.

  I tell her that I was upset with Connie ’cause she left and got to live with Josie. Then, of course, there was my friendship with Norma and Ishaan, two misfits who were as willing as I was to experiment with any available substance to get away from their realities. I admit that the experiments increased when the reality of my mother’s death hit home at a formative time in my life, when I needed her guidance and loving hand the most. Then I tell her about the whole nineteenth birthday party fiasco, my run, and the last nine months or so on the street, culminating with the factory party disaster, which almost got me killed. Of course, the story wouldn’t be complete without telling Mrs. Lieberman about Emma, who is now missing, and her suggestion to come see Brian, which led me to this kindly old woman in the first place. I finish with a deep breath and shrug, and wait for a response.

  I expect to hear something like “Poor girlie, you so hard done by—you have such hard life”—anything. Instead, she remains silent.

  Mrs. Lieberman purses her lips tightly and digests the information spewed at her by this runaway she’s taken in. I’m certain she’s rethinking her choice, but then she takes my hand and orders me to make us a fresh pot of tea.

  “Nice and strong—then I tell you my story.”

  ...

  I listen, drinking my tea, as Mrs. Lieberman recounts with chilling detail the horrific story of her childhood, about Poland and the Second World War when Hitler and his Nazis tried to eliminate all of Europe’s Jews. She tells me about her once happy early life and how the war changed her formative years so horribly—how her parents were separated, and how her mother hid her only beloved child in the trunk of a car and paid someone to smuggle her out of Warsaw and into Hungary. She remembers not wanting to say good-bye and how she never saw her parents again; she found out later that they had been murdered in Treblinka.

  Mrs. Lieberman tells me about ghettos and camps, disease and starvation, exhausting treks across mountains, and her eventual rescue when she was hidden among Christian children in an orphanage. She tells me about the terror, the torture, the unfathomable death toll on her people—about the inhumanity ordinary people are capable of. Her tears flow freely. So do mine. She sniffs and then her gaze falls on me.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Lieberman,” is all I can think of to say.

  “I sorry too. I survive, yet my mama and papa were killed like dogs.” Years of guilt and sadness are etched on her face.

  “But you were a little girl, Mrs. Lieberman. You couldn’t have done anything.”

  The old woman draws in a shuddering breath, then grasping my teacup along with hers, she places them on her walker and heads to the kitchen.

  “Anyway, that is how I survive. Mama—she brave and strong. She save me.”

  I move to the kitchen, too. “That’s just it, Mrs. Lieberman. I don’t have a brave, strong mother to rescue me. I have no one.”

  Mrs. Lieberman turns to me. “Then you must have courage. You save you. Promise, girlie. Go home, find family, make peace.” The urgency in her voice is clear, her worries about me are evident, though I’ll never know why she gave me a second thought. />
  ...

  That night as I lay on her couch, watching the streetlights reflected on her ceiling, I couldn’t get the images of Mrs. Lieberman’s story out of my mind. Maybe Mrs. Lieberman was destined to save someone. I thought, What if that someone is me?

  Sleep finally rolled around and took me over, but unsettling images shook me awake a few times that night, resulting in a wild bed-head and red eyes the next morning—a small sacrifice for learning Mrs. Lieberman’s terrible, awful, moving truth. Yes, she was damaged—who wouldn’t be. But she had managed to turn a page and live her life. She’d come to Canada, gotten married, had a son, had a granddaughter. She inspired me and gave me hope that I just might be able to do as she asked; to go home and make peace, so I could have peace. This little old woman had more strength and grit in her thumbnail than I had in my entire body.

  Chapter 22

  I stayed with Mrs. Lieberman for another week. She taught me to cook and talked to me all the time. She told me about her son, Noam, who lived in Montreal and was an investment banker. She said he wanted her to move there to be closer to him, but she wouldn’t. Her husband had chosen Toronto, and she would stay here. Noam also wanted to move her to another apartment, a newer condo in a better neighborhood, but she was accustomed to her street and knew where everything was—she was afraid she would get lost in a new neighborhood. I went to sleep that night thinking I was the luckiest person on Earth to have found my rescuer in such a kindly, gentle old woman.

  ...

  On the third Thursday after Mrs. Lieberman first invited me to stay, I wake up as usual. After I shower, I make coffee. It’s unusual for her to sleep beyond seven. I know this because she always manages to wake me with her kitchen bustling. At eight, I begin wondering if she couldn’t sleep the night before and is sleeping in. By nine, I’m getting worried. I step softly to her bedroom door, knock the obligatory three times. No answer. Again, I knock, louder this time.

  I open the door, just a crack, and peek in. She’s lying on her side, facing away from me. I feel an ominous foreboding wrap around me. Her blanket isn’t moving in the up-and-down rhythmic way a blanket does when the person underneath is breathing. I step around the bed and move her walker over so I can get to her. Mrs. Lieberman’s face is bluish and blotchy. Panic starts rising in my throat. I reach out with a shaking hand to gently caress hers, which is still holding on to the edge of her fleece blanket. It’s ice cold.