“She couldn’t have known,” I said automatically. “Even Margaret said as much. She said that she didn’t want her daughter to be a stranger to Daniel’s people. Margaret knew what she was doing. She knew her daughter would be raised as a Jew.”
“Apparently so,” Robert said. “And it sounds as if she started this tradition, of the book being passed down through the generations. This could be the reason that it once belonged to a Holocaust survivor. It belonged to a Jewish family.”
“A Jewish family,” I concluded, “who never realized that their ancestress was Catholic.”
Robert gestured to the parchments that we had extracted from the book’s binding. “And these papers are probably not that much older than the manuscript,” Robert agreed. “Let me check on the Gregorian year that corresponds to 5322, the year that Daniel died,” he said, taking his Blackberry out of his pocket.
“You and that Blackberry,” I joked. “You’ve got all of Jewish history tucked away in there.”
“Here it is,” he said, tapping a few times on the keypad. “According to my Hebrew date converter, it comes out to May 2, 1562. Not that it’s the real date,” he said. “There have been a lot of changes to the Gregorian calendar since then. But this is as close as we get.”
“I wish I knew when Daniel was born,” I said. “He must have been pretty old in 1562. I imagine that he was about Margaret‘s age, maybe a little older, and he outlived her by nearly twenty years. She was thirty-nine when she died.”
“Which made him close to sixty,” Robert said. “Or older, which was a long life in those days. Which was a good thing, considering that he was alone in raising his daughter. Besides, we can’t even be sure that 1562 was when he died. It might just be when he made his will.”
“That’s a good point,” I said. “Do you have any idea why they would have ended up someplace like Poland?”
I watched his brow furrow as he thought about it for a moment. “Well, at that time, Poland and Czechoslovakia were the only real havens for Jews. Most of Western Europe, with the exception of certain areas in Italy, had expelled their Jewish populations, but the Eastern nations were somewhat less hostile. In fact, ever since the medieval period, many of the major eastern European cities boasted major centers of Jewish learning. Think about places like Warsaw, Prague, even some cities in Germany. And as you know, most of them were wiped out, either by pogroms in the early part of the century, or eventually, by the Nazis.”
I nodded. Then the phone rang at my desk. “Could be Jacob,” I said, running to answer it.
I picked it up on the third ring. “Hello, this is Jill Levin,” I said breathlessly.
“Jill?” The voice was elderly, faded, tired-sounding.
“Yes?” I asked, thinking that perhaps it was Aviva’s mother, calling to tell us about the baby. I found myself wondering if Jacob had even shown up at the hospital.
“Jill,” the voice said, “it’s Mitzi Feldman.”
“Mitzi,” I said, feeling my stomach lurch. All at once I knew that there was something wrong. “What is it?”
Her voice sounded shaky. “It’s your grandmother, Jill,” she said. “And it’s not good.”
I hung up the phone, and Robert, seeing the look on my face, was by my side almost instantly. When I had regained my composure somewhat, we quickly and carefully packed the manuscript away with the parchments tucked inside the back cover. Once it was safely in the vault, I sent a quick e-mail to the team letting them know that I, too, had to leave the office for an emergency. And then, I called Michael.
I took a few minutes to brief Robert on the status of the presentation and the team assignments, and was totally confident he could handle the project for the rest of the day, or even, God forbid, the next couple of days. I didn’t leave him any specific instructions about the manuscript, or researching the donor database, but I knew he would know what to do in my absence. I let Mira know that I was going up to New York-Presbyterian, and she could reach me by cell phone if anyone needed me.
While I was upstairs with Mira, Robert had gone to the café, and when I returned to my desk to pick up my coat and bag, I saw he had packed a lunch for me to take along. The pure sweetness of his gesture brought tears to my eyes, but I brushed them away. I had to get uptown.
He put his arm around my shoulder as he walked me to the elevator and then downstairs to the exit. Once outside, he hailed a cab for me on Battery Place, bundled me inside and slammed the door shut. The car lurched forward, headed for the West Side Highway. I checked my bag for my cell phone, made sure it was turned on.
The inside of the cab smelled like cigarettes and a disco station blasted from the tinny speakers. We made the left turn on to West Street, passed by the spot where the World Trade Center once stood. While we waited at the light, I tried not to look out the window. There was nothing to see anyway, except for the green fence lining the perimeter of the site.
I looked around at the other cars, amazed to see that people were looking straight ahead, as if they were stuck at a red light at an ordinary intersection. Only the tourists, snapping pictures from the top of the red double-decker bus, seemed to be taking any notice of where we were.
The cab driver was yelling into his cell phone to be heard over the radio. Finally, he hung up. “Radio’s busted,” he said apologetically. “Can’t turn it down.”
The ride uptown seemed to take forever. I checked my cell phone again. I tried to read the book that I always carried with me. I tried to think about the manuscript. But I couldn’t focus on anything. I could feel my heart beating in my chest; my hands felt cold. I stared at the unpronounceable name of the cab driver, emblazoned on the medallion license that was posted on the Plexiglas partition behind his head. I tried to figure out how many words I could make out of the letters of his name, and then wondered why I was doing it, for what did it matter how many words I could make? My grandmother, my Omi, was unconscious and in the hospital. I didn’t know what had happened to her. And worst of all, she had left me a message the night before, and I hadn’t called her back.
I tried to tell myself she was okay, she was with people who could help her, she was getting good medical care. Finally, the driver let me out at the entrance to the emergency room. I ran inside and checked in at the desk. They told me my grandmother was in ICU, gave me some brief directions and a visitor’s pass.
I found Mitzi in the waiting room. She told me she had left a message for my parents – my grandmother, fortuitously, had told her the name of the cruise ship they were on. She checked her messages using my cell phone, and discovered they would be on the next plane to New York, arriving at 8:00 the next morning.
I checked my messages at home and heard my mother’s voice on the answering machine, faded and tinny sounding on the ship-to-shore line. She sounded distraught, unable to contact me on the cell phone, wondering aloud if she would arrive too late.
I looked at my watch. It was 1:30. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, I saw Michael walking down the hall towards us, his briefcase hanging from the strap over his shoulder, his coat folded over his arm. I met him at the doorway. We didn’t say anything at all; we just held each other for a couple of minutes. Then we went back inside to where Mitzi was sitting, red-eyed, looking up at the television.
“Any news?” he asked quietly.
I shook my head.
“How about your parents?”
“They’re on their way.” I rubbed my eyes. “They’re taking the first flight they can get, which gets them into JFK early tomorrow morning.”
He nodded. “I can rent a car, pick them up.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I can’t think right now.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he took off his coat, put his briefcase down, and sat next to me on the couch. “Do the doctors know what made her collapse?”
“They took her for a CT-scan,” I said. “But they haven’t told us anything yet. And she hasn’t regained conscious
ness at all. Not since Mitzi found her.”
At the sound of her name, Mitzi’s attention was drawn from the episode of Judge Judy that was blaring from the television high up on the wall.
“Mitzi,” I said, “this is my boyfriend, Michael.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, leaning forward to extend his hand towards her. “I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances.”
“Me, too,” she said, shaking his hand. “This is terrible.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe it. I knocked on her door this morning. We were supposed to go to our exercise class at the senior center at eleven. She didn’t answer. I just had a bad feeling about it, so I went back to my apartment to get the key.”
Her voice became choked. “I found her in the kitchen. She was in her bathrobe and slippers. There was bread in the toaster. It looked as if she had just poured herself some coffee. The mug was in pieces on the floor. There was coffee everywhere, even in her hair.”
Michael bit his lip and held my hand a little tighter. “I’m so sorry you had to find her,” he said sympathetically. “It was good of you to let Jill know so quickly.”
Mitzi reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes. “Well, you know, when you get to be our age,” she said, “you make sure your friends know who to call.”
I nodded. “Just like when she fell.”
“Right,” Mitzi said. “Even though Anna said not to call you, I knew, deep down, she really did want me to let you know.”
Michael leaned back on the couch and drew my head to his shoulder. “But we thought the fall wasn’t that bad?”
Mitzi shook her head. “It’s hard to say. She seemed to be fine. I’ve been keeping an eye on her this week. But lately, she’s been forgetful. At first, it wasn’t anything you’d notice. Like she’d ask what time it was and then ask again a couple of minutes later. And then she seemed to have trouble remembering what day it was. I’d say, Anna, now you remember that we have class tomorrow, or that we’re volunteering at the community center bake sale on Friday. And she’d say, oh, yes, I remember. But then she’d forget.”
I was mystified. “Just in the past couple of days? Since the fall?”
Mitzi looked guilty. “Jill, sweetheart,” she said. “I know it was wrong not to tell you, but it’s actually been a few months since she’s been like this, and getting worse. I told her it was worrying me. I kept telling her, Anna, you’ve got to see a doctor, or at least, let your family know that this is happening. But you know how dismissive she can be. As if she didn’t want to admit that anything was happening to her. And then the night that she fell,” she looked at me sadly, “she made me promise not to tell you this, but the doctor was very worried. She seemed disoriented by the fall. When we brought her to the hospital, and she was in the emergency room waiting to be brought in for x-rays, she kept asking me to help her in German. And she kept calling me Rachel. I kept saying, no, no, Anna, I’m Mitzi. But she looked right at me and said, ‘Rachel, helfen mir. Bitte, helfen mir.’”
“Rachel was her sister’s name,” I said softly. “She died during the war.”
“I knew that,” Mitzi said. “It’s why I’ve been so worried about her. I was going to tell you about it, the night that you came to see her, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to risk upsetting her, because I was afraid she would be angry at me, and she would stop telling me things.” Her eyes filled with tears. Michael handed her another tissue, and she paused to wipe her eyes again. “And I really didn’t want her to feel like she couldn’t ask me for help. It’s so hard for her to ask for help as it is. She’s so strong, and stubborn.” A small smile played on her lips in spite of her tears. “You know how she is.”
“She went through a lot as a young person,” I said. “It made her strong.”
“The war made us all stronger than we ever planned on being,” Mitzi said, her voice sounding a little less strained. “In fact,” she said with a shrug, “I never used to cry like this.”
“She’s your friend,” Michael said. “Of course it makes sense for you to be upset.”
The three of us sat in silence. The room seemed strangely empty. The only sound came from the television, where Judge Judy impatiently banged her gavel.
I heard the sound of high heels tapping down the corridor. In another moment, a beautiful young woman with bright red hair walked into the room and touched Mitzi’s shoulder. “I came as soon as I could,” she said. “How is she?”
Mitzi shook her head. “Not good,” she said sadly. “They took her in for a CT-scan. She was convulsing in the ER. It doesn’t look good. She hadn’t regained consciousness when they took her for the tests.”
The woman placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you called me,” she said.
“She would have wanted you to know,” Mitzi said. “Beth, this is Anna’s granddaughter, Jill, and her boyfriend Michael.”
The woman smiled at us sympathetically. “How do you do?” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Beth Zuckerman.”
We both stood to shake hands with her, and then we all sat down again, Beth on the couch next to Mitzi.
“How do you know my grandmother?” I asked politely.
“Actually,” Beth said, “I’m from her synagogue. I’m her rabbi.”
“Really?” I could barely keep my jaw from dropping. “But you’re so - ”
“Young?” Beth supplied, grinning. “I know. I get that all the time.”
“Especially,” Mitzi said, “because our congregation is almost entirely, shall we say, getting on in years.”
“It’s not so much that,” Beth remarked. “The regulars, of course, are mostly older. But a lot of young families are moving back into this neighborhood. I took over for a rabbi who retired last year. He was with the congregation for almost forty years. But it’s a great place to be. We’re talking about starting up a nursery school – something we haven’t had for a long time. And your grandmother,” she said, “was very excited about it. Some of the older people complain when there are little children running around during services. But it delighted her to see them there.”
I smiled, feeling a lump come into my throat.
There was a knock on the door. A man with a stethoscope around his neck looked questioningly at us. “Excuse me. Are you the family,” he looked down at his chart, “of Anna Altschul?”
I looked around at the assembled group and realized I was the only family member present. “I’m her granddaughter,” I said, as I rose to my feet.
“I’m Dr. Sachs,” he said. “May I speak with you out here for a moment?”
I looked back at Michael’s concerned face, and then I followed the doctor outside into the hallway. “I’m afraid it’s not good news,” he said. “Your grandmother is in a very deep coma. And I’m afraid it is, in all likelihood, irreversible.”
I swallowed. “Do you know what happened to her?”
He shifted his chart to the other hand. “We just got her CT-scan results back. Apparently,” he looked down at the report, “she suffered a significant cerebral hemorrhage. The damage to her brain is extensive. I’m very sorry that I don’t have better news for you,” he said kindly, as he pushed his glasses up on his nose.
“Is there any chance,” I asked, clearing my throat, “She'll come out of it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. His voice was calm, and I was grateful for its serenity. “I would hate for you to have any sense of false hope. I had the neurologist take a look at the brain scan, and it’s likely that most of her ability to function – movement, speech, even basic human tasks like feeding herself, or going to the bathroom – have been compromised.”
I nodded, trying to stay as calm as I could, even though I wanted to scream. “Where is she now?”
He nodded towards the door of the ICU. “She’s inside. She’s comfortable. We have her on a morphine drip, just in case there’s any sort of function left in her brain that would enable her to feel
pain. But from the sensory tests we’ve run,” he said, “she doesn’t respond to any sort of stimuli.”
“What happens now?” I asked.
“You can go in to see her as soon as the nurse says that it’s okay,” he said. “But it’s only a matter of a couple of hours at this point. Her blood pressure is very low. The injury to her brain is not survivable.”
“Will she stay alive long enough for my parents to get here?”
“Where are they?”
“On a plane,” I said, the tears coming into my eyes. “From Europe.”
He handed me a clean, folded tissue from the pocket of his white coat, and then placed a hand on my arm as I wiped my eyes. “I can’t really answer that,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s not really up to me. We can keep her on the respirator, but her hospital records indicate she signed a Do Not Resuscitate order, and she specifically stated it was for any treatment that she received here, in the care of this hospital. So if she goes,” he said, “we have to let her go.”
“I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t want to.
“You should go back to your family now,” he said. “I’ll have the nurse call you in as soon as they’re ready for you to see her.”
“Okay,” I said. I crumpled the tissue into a little ball in my fist, and watched Dr. Sachs walk back into the ICU. Then I returned to the waiting room.
They all looked at me, their faces expectant. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I shook my head and lowered myself heavily onto the couch next to Michael. Nobody spoke. It was as if my body had told them the answer to their question.
“I’m sorry,” Beth said in a quiet voice. “I’m so sorry.”
Michael said nothing. I could feel his hand lightly stroking my back. Mitzi pressed her fingertips to her forehead, as if she could erase the thought from her mind. I felt terrible for her. But all I wanted to do was leave. I wanted to pretend none of it was happening. I wanted to go home, go to sleep, and wake up so I could start today over again.
The Bookseller's Sonnets Page 28
