From the moment he’d given up Jenny he had devoted himself to building the right kind of life. He had taken over his father’s brokerage house, married the right woman, a girl he had been friends with since childhood, tried his best to bring up his two children with the right values. Yet two minutes after seeing Jenny again none of it made sense.
The fluorescent lights hardened the planes of his face, leaving dark hollows beneath his deep blue eyes. He wondered what Jenny had thought when she saw him today. The years had been so kind to her. She was still slender, with those incredible Irish amber eyes and hair the color of warm molasses. She was more beautiful at forty-eight, if that was possible, than when he had first met her.
He dropped the ice cubes into the glass, filled it half full of scotch, then added soda. He took a long swallow, then walked back to the desk and sat down. Where the hell had the years gone? More important, how had he spent them?
“In a strange kind of capitulation, that’s how,” he said aloud. “An acceptance of the very privilege most people spend a lifetime trying to achieve.”
He had been born into one of San Francisco’s wealthiest Jewish families. His wife, Sylvia, came from the same background. As far as marriages went, he had no reason to complain. Had there been compromises? Of course. But Sylvia had been a good wife, and he was more than aware of her virtues, even if he tended to handle his marriage by trying not to scrutinize it too closely. Today he knew that for all these years he’d been fooling himself. He had never forgotten Jenny.
Even this morning, driving to work, Jenny buried safely twenty-five years into his past, the memory of their affair had been lurking in the back of his mind, waiting to throw his life into turmoil once again.
Thursdays were Sylvia’s day in town. She would leave the house in Woodside, in time to meet Martin for lunch at the St. Francis Hotel. Afterward, she would spend the rest of the day shopping, often staying over at the apartment either to have dinner with friends or attend the theater or opera.
As usual, Martin had met her at precisely noon for a light lunch; neither wanted a heavy midday meal. After all these years they could talk in an easy shorthand: about their house, the apartment they kept on Nob Hill, the children. At 1:30 they descended the broad stone steps of the St. Francis, crossed Powell Street and walked past Union Square, where the children were assembling to sing Christmas carols. They stopped in front of I. Magnin’s. Before hurrying in, Sylvia kissed him gently on the lips, then stepped back and said, “Now, be nice to the Grants tonight, Martin.”
“I’m always nice.”
“No, you’re not. I know you think Craig is a bore, but you have to do this for my sake. Laura’s indispensable to me. I need her for the upcoming Spring Ball … I really do. So be a darling—and don’t argue politics, for heaven’s sakes!”
“I’ll try my best.”
She smiled and said, “Thanks. You know, Martin, you can be a complete charmer when you put your mind to it.”
He looked at her and smiled. “Well, that’s comforting to know. I’ll see you back at the apartment.”
It was while he was waiting for the light to change that he saw Jenny walking past Gump’s. For a moment he thought he was dreaming. His pulse raced and he stood frozen. Then, barely waiting for the traffic to stop, he ran across the street shouting her name.
She turned slowly, uncertain whether someone was really calling her. Then, all at once, they were face to face as the crowd flowed around them. Finally Jenny found her voice.
“I simply can’t believe this.”
Martin shook his head yes. “In one split second I might have missed you.”
“How did you know it was me with my back toward you?”
“I’d recognize that walk anywhere.”
“Even after all this time?”
“Yes, even after all this time. You haven’t changed at all.”
She laughed. “Of course I have. We’ve all changed. You look wonderful, Martin.”
“Really? Thank you … But life seems to have stood still for you.”
“Hardly. Are you happy, Martin?”
“Yes, I suppose. And what about you?”
“I’m just trying to keep adrift these days.”
“What are you doing in the city?”
Jenny hesitated a moment.
“I’m on my way to the Orient. The firm I’m with has a number of Japanese accounts.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the Fairmont.”
“For how long?”
“Only until tomorrow. My plane leaves at seven in the evening.”
“Oh well … maybe we could have a drink in the afternoon sometime.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. I’d just like to see you.”
“That seems harmless enough.”
“What name shall I ask for?”
“McCoy, Jennifer McCoy. Same as when we met. It’s been extraordinary, Martin, meeting so unexpectedly.”
He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her close, and this time never let her go. Instead he said, “I’ll call.”
Then she disappeared inside Shreve’s. Martin didn’t know how he made it back to his office. Yet suddenly he found himself standing in front of the massive oak doors, looking at the names of Roth, Seifer, Roth, Stearn & Hines. He remembered how unsure of himself he’d felt that day his father had added the second Roth to the prestigious roster. He hadn’t believed he was worthy of mention in the famous brokerage firm his great-grandfather had founded ninety years before.
It was strange about the accident of birth. If he had not been heir to the Roth firm, or if Jenny McCoy were not an Irish Catholic, how different their lives might have been. Seeing Jenny had threatened his resolve to carry on the traditions of his family. A small voice within him wanted to cry out: You must forgive me, Papa. I know I disappointed you in many ways, but when it came to Jenny I did as you wished. I gave her up once but I can’t do it again. Please forgive me but I feel I have a right now to reach out for the thing I need so much in my life. I don’t want to hurt anybody, but something inside me can no longer be deprived.
Abruptly shaking off the ghost of the past, Martin turned the knob on the door and walked down the hall toward his office. He was almost there when Charles Hines called to him through his open door, “Come on in, Martin.”
Obediently he stood framed in the doorway.
“Jesus, Martin, I’m glad you got back. I need your advice on what to do with this order of Normal Bells.” He waved a yellow memo in the air. “It’s imperative that we get into the market on Monday morning because …”
Martin knew he would never be able to muster a logical reply; he was too distracted. Cutting off Charles’s explanation, he said, “Okay, hand it to me and I’ll take a look.”
Without glancing at the page he backed out of the office and continued on down to his own where his secretary, Nancy, was waiting. Nancy occupied a position of some importance since she had been with the firm even longer than Martin and knew his moods even better than Sylvia. The moment she saw his face she said, “Is everything all right, Martin?”
But he just mumbled that he didn’t wish to be disturbed and closed the door to his private office. He tried going over the portfolio on his desk but he could only think of Jenny. If he had been one minute earlier or later crossing Stockton Street, he would never have spotted her. It was as though fate wanted them to have a second chance.
He sat lost in the past, unaware of the passage of time. He was shocked when Nancy knocked on the door and he looked up to see that the desk clock said six.
“Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?” She stood in front of the desk and seemed reluctant to go, but it was Christmas Eve and she wanted to get home.
“Why are you still here?” he asked.
She smiled. “Because I’m an old campaigner. And I had to finish up some loose ends. Merry Christma
s.”
He got up and embraced her. “You too, Nancy.”
After closing the door behind her Martin knew he should go, but he’d remained, sipping his drink. Now it was fully dark outside and he knew he’d be late. In a flurry of guilt, he got up, grabbed his raincoat, and walked out of the office.
It was 7:30 when he reached the apartment and walked to the bedroom, where Sylvia was applying makeup. “For heaven’s sake, Martin, you’re late.”
“I know—I’m sorry.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, you could have called.”
“You’re absolutely right. I’m so sorry.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. You’ve got exactly twenty minutes to shave and dress. I’ve got your clothes laid out on the bed.”
Watching Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, her annoyance faded. He looked so tired. In a conciliatory voice she said, “I’m going to fix a drink. Do you want one while you’re dressing?”
“Please.” He needed a moment to pull himself together. To remind himself that this was Sylvia, whom he loved, and that Jenny was a dream he hadn’t enjoyed for nearly a quarter of a century. He was finished in the bathroom and nearly dressed when Sylvia came back with his scotch. “Here, darling,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “Sometimes I sound just like a nagging wife.”
“No, you don’t. I was late and I’m sorry.”
“Well, now that makes two of us. I wasn’t exactly charming. Okay, finish up and I’ll call down for the car.”
Martin wasn’t listening. He despised cocktail parties and tonight he sure as hell wasn’t up to one, but he couldn’t think of an excuse not to go, especially when he noticed that Sylvia was looking particularly radiant.
By the time they arrived at the penthouse atop Nob Hill, the party was in full swing. A number of guests were sitting on the stairs as Sylvia and Martin made their way to the second floor. The living room had been transformed into a winter wonderland. Trees in huge tubs from the Podesta Baldocchi florist were decorated with tiny Christmas lights. The room smelled of pine and expensive perfume. Martin found he could barely breathe. “Darling,” said Laura, embracing Sylvia. “I’m so glad you came! I was beginning to wonder … you’re so late.”
Sylvia laughed. “How could you have possibly missed us with this galaxy?”
“I’m terribly good at keeping track. And how are you, Martin?”
“Good. You look lovely,” Martin said, trying to escape the cloud of gin and Joy.
“So nice of you to notice. Now go have fun, both of you!”
Sylvia began to circulate, and Martin wandered about the room, idly listening to fragments of conversation. “I think she looked perfectly dreadful. She has no right to wear a dress that tight …” Martin moved on. “You know they’re having an affair …” He plucked a scotch and soda off a waiter’s tray, wandered over to a quiet corner. He was startled when Sylvia materialized at his elbow and said, “A penny for your thoughts, Martin.”
“You’d get robbed, they weren’t worth that.”
That strange feeling she’d had earlier persisted. “Well, what are you doing here, standing by yourself?”
“Trying to avoid the stampede.”
Looking at her husband, Sylvia felt guilty. She knew that he hated big parties, but all her friends gave and went to them. She and Martin were like the couple in which the wife loved the seashore and he loved the mountains. Well, she wasn’t going to think about that now. “Maybe a little food will soothe whatever it is that ails you,” she said.
A wave of guilt washed over him, as though he’d already called Jenny. How did Sylvia know that anything ailed him?
Taking him by the hand, Sylvia led him to the buffet table.
It was overwhelming: a whole salmon glazed with mayonnaise and truffles; pâté in an aspic glaze; caviar and cucumber aspic; lobster cooked in brandy with toasted almonds. And at the other end of the table stood a ham en croute and a chafing dish filled with beef bourgignon.
“Isn’t this the most sumptuous thing?” Sylvia said.
He looked at the enormous buffet. It was indeed incredible, but he seemed to have lost his appetite.
Sylvia handed him a plate and took one for herself. Tasting the lobster, she said, “This is simply marvelous.” He remained silent. She watched as he stared blankly at the food.
“Aren’t you going to eat, dear?”
She was suddenly afraid. Martin liked good food, and even though he was careful about his weight he never skipped a meal. Sensing her worry, Martin seemed to pull himself together. He ate a few bites and began moving through the crowd, saying hello to their friends. He even went over to Laura and Craig and smiled while Sylvia made plans for the Spring Ball.
It was after eleven when they finally got away and almost midnight before Martin turned off the bedroom light in their apartment. But even in the dark he could not escape his wife’s growing concern.
Sylvia knew Martin hated being fussed over, but he had been acting oddly ever since he came home from work. Suddenly her pulse raced. Martin had been to the doctor a few days ago for his annual checkup, and maybe … maybe … God, she wasn’t going to look for trouble. Yet three of their best friends had dropped dead from heart attacks in the last year or so. That’s enough, Sylvia. The only way she’d find out would be to ask. “Darling, are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, Martin …” She hesitated.
They lay silently for a few moments in their separate beds. Sylvia had never felt so lonely. Finally she said, “You were so dreadfully quiet tonight, Martin. Are you worried about something?”
Martin’s heart beat a little too rapidly. It was as though she were clairvoyant. He was worried, worried about hurting her.
“I wish you would talk to me, darling,” Sylvia persisted. “I have the strangest feeling that you are facing some crisis.”
“No, of course not,” he answered quickly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes … I’m sure.”
“Are you? Darling, if there is anything wrong, you know how much I care.”
“I know that, Sylvia,” he said contritely.
Again the thought struck her that Martin might be ill. She sighed and turned off the light. “Well, sleep tight, Martin. I love you.”
Staring up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head, he thought, Goddamn it—is a trick of timing, an accident, going to destroy our peace? “I love you too, Sylvia,” he said. And he did, but not quite in the way he would have wished.
Chapter Two
SLEEP WAS IMPOSSIBLE FOR Martin that night; he could not stop thinking about Jenny. Their affair had been doomed from the very beginning. She was a devout Roman Catholic; he was a Jew, and right after World War II that was not an easy bridge to cross. He had not been able to renounce his faith, even for her, for the bonds of family were too strong within him. And Hitler had made Judaism far more than a religion. According to the Nazis no Jew could escape his or her history.
Martin’s great-grandfather had been among the multitude swept out of France in the early nineteenth century by a wave of anti-Semitism. Freed from the ghetto by Napoleon after the French Revolution, the Jews soon discovered that by the time of the Second Empire all they had won was a ghetto without walls; a Diaspora without dignity. They had hoped the Revolution had ensured their status as Frenchmen, but they were forbidden to own land, were barred from the universities, and were subjected to even more rigid regulations than before.
So the Jews of France joined that network of humanity pouring out of Russia, Poland, Germany, and Hungary. And among the human tide was Ephraim Rothenberger.
America was the hope, the dream, the salvation they thirsted for. America was a word called freedom. But the price Ephraim paid to achieve that goal was years of pain and untold loneliness. As the oldest he was the son chosen to leave, and at twenty he said goodbye to everyone and everythin
g that he loved and joined the legions who were making their way to the Promised Land.
The story of Ephraim’s journey to America was never formally chronicled. Had he realized that his destiny would be to spawn a dynasty, he surely would have kept some form of journal. As it was, he tried to forget the terrible hardships and left much of the trip to his descendants’ imaginations. But not even the most gifted imagination could evoke its real horrors.
When Ephraim left Paris, it was with the clothes on his back and a sack containing a few utensils, bread, potatoes, some cheese, and a small salami. Once outside of Paris, he took to the country roads, heading southward to Marseilles. The distance seemed so great that he refused to even contemplate it. Instead, he accepted each day as it came, trying only to survive. He rested only when he was too exhausted to go on and slept for a few hours each night in a hayloft, a meadow, in a grove of trees, wherever he happened to be. He kept alive by stealing a few eggs, which he cracked and swallowed whole. At first he almost gagged, but he forced himself to hold them down until the rumbling of his empty stomach subsided. When he came to a stream, he would bend down, cup his hand in the cold water, and drink until his stomach had the illusion of being full. Once he was lucky enough to spear a trout with his knife, though he had to eat it raw.
His source of strength was his belief that God was watching over him, for the destiny of his family had been vouchsafed into his keeping. Each day when he put on his phylacteries and chanted the ancient prayers, his faith was renewed. When he had the good fortune to ride on the back of a farmer’s cart or get a lift downriver on a barge, he knew that it was because of God’s blessing.
Two months later, he arrived in Marseilles. The soles of his shoes had worn out long ago, and he had wrapped his bleeding feet with pieces of thin, dirty blanket which he had torn in strips. He had earned and saved a few francs from jobs he’d done for farmers along the way, and with that he bought a pair of secondhand shoes and paid for a night’s lodging. The luxury of sleeping on a straw mat, even in the company of ten others, was a joy he’d almost forgotten existed. That night he washed his clothes and laid them on the floor next to his mat to dry. Then he enjoyed his first bath in longer than he could remember.
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