News From Heaven

by Jennifer Haigh

“Why would she say that?”

  “I don’t know,” Daniel said.

  In the beginning the languages had melded together; she’d scarcely noticed which was spoken. Now she began to pay attention. One Friday, chopping vegetables for cholent, she heard the Nudelmans argue in Polish. A secret from Daniel, then: they didn’t care if Annie heard.

  The argument began in the hallway. Like every Friday, Mr. Nudelman had come home early, but he’d forgotten to stop at the bakery after work. Annie felt a flash of disappointment. Mrs. Nudelman always offered her the leftover challah, a treat she savored. The braided loaf was dense and eggy—in taste and texture, identical to the paska her mother baked at Easter. This had been a remarkable discovery, surprising and somehow joyous, like glimpsing her sister on the street.

  The Nudelmans went into their bedroom and closed the door. Their voices rose steadily. Mrs. Nudelman’s was clear and sharp, easier to hear. “And where does he sleep, this nephew? The apartment is crowded already.”

  “With Daniel,” said her husband. “We could put another bed in his room.”

  “And what happens when Daniel is ill? Our son can’t share a room.”

  “The situation is desperate,” said Mr. Nudelman. “If we wait a year, it may be too late.”

  “You’re not his only uncle!” Mrs. Nudelman was nearly shouting. “What about that brother of yours? He can’t be bothered to help?”

  Mr. Nudelman answered in a low voice. Annie stood very still, listening, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  “His name is Mitro,” said Frances. “But he likes to be called Jim.”

  Annie smiled, for the first time in her life aware of her lips, coated in borrowed lipstick. They stood on the sidewalk waiting for the boys to arrive. Frances’s beau had arranged the evening. His friend Jim drove a taxi and would collect the girls in his car. Annie glanced up at the third-floor windows. A single light burned in Daniel’s, the bright study lamp at his desk.

  A yellow car stopped at the curb, and a burly man stepped out of the backseat. “Eddie!” Frances squealed, and kissed him full on the mouth.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” the driver called. Annie bent to see him through the open window. He wore a wool cap and a leather jacket and resembled her father, her brothers: the broad cheeks, the eyes watery blue.

  Frances and Eddie tumbled into the backseat. Another car pulled up behind the taxi, its horn blaring. Timidly Annie opened the passenger door.

  “We don’t have all day,” Jim shouted. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

  The car was close and warm inside, smelling of cigarettes. Jim turned the wheel sharply, and they darted into the avenue. “You’re Polish,” he told Annie. “I could tell a mile away.”

  Murmurs from the backseat, a stifled laugh. Annie glanced over her shoulder. Eddie and Frances sat whispering, their hands intertwined.

  “You want to live in city, you need to move faster.” Jim shook a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. “I know many Poles. All Poles are slow.” He himself was not a Pole but a Ukrainian. He announced this with a certain drama, as though Annie had won a spectacular prize.

  They drove. As in the taxi with Mr. Nudelman, Annie felt her stomach lurch. Storefronts flew past at a dizzying speed: laundry, delicatessen, shoe repair while you wait. She closed her eyes, knowing the signs would keep coming. That they would come to her that night, in dreams.

  Finally the car stopped. Annie stared up at the bright lights of a theater. A crowd had gathered in front. ISLAND OF LOST SOULS, announced the marquee.

  “Get out,” Jim said abruptly. “I go park this thing. I come and meet you inside.”

  She scrambled out of the car and followed Frances through the revolving door. The high lobby was bright and crowded, the carpet soft as swamp grass under her feet. A long line had formed at the ticket counter. She took her place behind Frances and Eddie, who stood hip to hip. They seemed to have forgotten she was there.

  The line moved quickly. Annie watched the revolving door—endlessly turning, a constant stream of people pouring in from the street. Young couples and old ones; several well-dressed women, a group of boys in black coats and small black caps. One boy, the tallest, caught her attention. Annie turned away, flustered. For an instant her heart raced.

  At the window Eddie bought tickets for himself and Frances. Again Annie glanced at the door. The ticket cost her a quarter, exactly the amount she had in her purse.

  They found seats in the dark balcony. The newsreel had already begun. Annie stared at the screen, reading quickly:

  Work Speeded on Huge Structures for World’s Fair in Chicago. Some 20,000 Beer Cases in Skyscraper Pile Ready for April 7.

  Beside her, Frances and Eddie sank into an embrace.

  A stack of cased brew as extensive and as high as a city apartment house block is the amazing sight that meets the eye on the grounds of a large brewery here. Almost five million bottles, a veritable mountain of drinks, await the Zero Hour when the 3.2 howitzers will begin to pop.

  “Here you are.”

  Annie turned. Jim sat heavily in the seat beside her. “I had hell of time finding parking space.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said, wishing he’d be quiet. She had never been a fast reader. On the screen a man gestured wildly. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped irritably at his brow.

  German Chancellor delivers a rousing speech to crowd of thousands.

  “Why is he so angry?” she whispered.

  “It’s news.” Jim leaned in closer. “It’s warm in here. Take off your coat.”

  Annie did, leaning forward in her chair, a clumsy business. Then, finding nowhere to put it, she laid the coat across her lap.

  The picture started. As always, the lilting strains of music swept her up completely; she barely noticed Jim’s arm slipping around her shoulders. The stars’ names flashed across the screen, written in swirling script. Only one was familiar. Unlike Frances, who spent half her wages on movie magazines, Annie had seen few pictures; but everyone knew Bela Lugosi.

  Jim’s hand reached beneath the coat on her lap.

  For two hours her eyes didn’t leave the screen; yet later, when she tried to remember the story, the details would escape her. She recalled only the warm weight of Jim’s hand, burrowing like a small animal, tunneling under her skirt.

  When the lights came up, Annie blinked, a little dazed, as though she’d been asleep a long time. Flushing, she adjusted her skirt. Beside her were two empty seats. Frances and Eddie had stepped out halfway through the picture, crowding past strangers’ knees: Excuse me. Pardon me. It hadn’t occurred to her that they wouldn’t return.

  “Where did they go?” she asked Jim.

  “They want to be alone.” He rose abruptly. “Let’s go.”

  He charged into the aisle, shoving his way through the crowd. Annie hurried into her coat. The aisle was swarming with people. It was a sensation unlike anything she’d experienced, the room humming like a beehive, strangers pressing at her back. In a moment Jim was several paces ahead of her. She watched his broad shoulders disappear around the corner into the lobby.

  “Wait!” she called, fumbling with the buttons of her coat.

  Rounding the corner, her head down, she collided squarely with a tall boy holding a paper bag. There was a shower of white blossoms, popcorn scattering to the floor.

  “Oh!” she cried, catching her breath.

  He reached out a hand to steady her. He wore black trousers and a wrinkled white shirt, but he was not Daniel Nudelman. He was only a boy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, stepping back. To her horror, she felt her eyes tearing. “It was my fault.”

  “It’s nothing.” He looked puzzled. “Miss, are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, hurrying past him. She pushed through the crowd. A leather jacket had disappeared through the revolving door.

  The sidewalk was crowded with people and umbrellas. A steady rain beat
the pavement. Annie looked both ways, but the Ukrainian had disappeared.

  She stepped back under the marquee, crowded with people seeking shelter. Her mind raced. She had no umbrella, no money, and crucially, no idea where she was. She could walk for a week and never find her way back to the Nudelmans’. She swiped her eyes with her sleeve.

  “Miss?”

  She turned to see the boy from inside the theater.

  “Are you all right?” His eyes flickered across her face. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Oh, no.” She found a handkerchief in her purse. “I’m just—lost.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  When she gave him the Nudelmans’ address, he smiled. “Easy.” He pointed down the street. “Just go left at the corner and keep walking. It’s not quick, but it’s simple. Thirty blocks, and you’re home.”

  She felt a hand at her back.

  “Jew, leave her alone.”

  Annie turned. Jim’s face was very red, his fair hair sodden. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.

  The boy looked uncertainly at Annie.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m fine now. Thank you for helping.”

  “Beat it,” Jim said.

  He drove with the windows down, crashing through puddles. “Why were you talking to this Jew?”

  “He gave me directions,” she said. “I couldn’t find you. I didn’t know the way home.”

  “What, you think I leave you there? I go to get car.” He tossed his cigarette out the window. “It’s bad idea, talking to strangers. You should be more careful.”

  Annie stared out the window.

  “It’s bad part of town,” said Jim. “Low class. Too many Jews.”

  They drove for what seemed a long time. Finally, with a kind of exaltation, she recognized the kosher butcher, the fish market, the bakery Mrs. Nudelman favored. For the first time in months she knew exactly where she was.

  “Stop here,” she told him. “That’s my building.”

  “It’s early,” he said, stepping on the gas. “We go drink a nightcap. I know a place.”

  The rain quickened, nicking the windshield. “No, thank you,” said Annie.

  “You’ll like it,” Jim said, racing down the block.

  When the car idled at a red light, Annie didn’t hesitate. She threw open the car door and stepped into the street.

  “Hey!” Jim called.

  Annie hurried to the sidewalk and broke into a run. I’m not slow, she thought.

  She didn’t look back.

  The apartment was silent at that hour. Her key clicked loudly in the lock. Annie slipped out of her coat and tiptoed down the hallway. At that moment Daniel emerged from his bedroom. He removed his spectacles and rubbed wearily at his eyes.

  He seemed startled to see her. They stood there a moment, not speaking. Then a voice came from the Nudelmans’ bedroom:

  “Daniel? You are still awake?”

  “Go back to sleep, Mother,” Daniel said.

  His eyes met Annie’s; he raised a hand in greeting. Annie waved back, thinking of her rumpled skirt, her smeared lipstick. Her cheeks burned with shame.

  Ash Wednesday came, the beginning of Lent. A day of false spring weather: the crusty snow melting, the storm grates loud with runoff. Annie crossed the park quickly, her head down, a black smudge on her forehead where the priest’s thumb had traced a cross on her skin. Mrs. Nudelman had given her the morning off, and she took the long way back from church, the route she had memorized. Alone, she didn’t dare attempt a shortcut. Earlier that week Frances had been sent back to Passaic, her belly swollen. Annie’s only friend.

  Back at the apartment Mrs. Nudelman called from the parlor. Three large suitcases sat open on the floor. Her nephew was getting married on Sunday, she explained in Polish. The family would travel to Newark for the weekend. Just this once, Annie would work on Thursday, help with the laundry and the packing. In return, she would have the weekend free. She could do as she pleased until Monday morning, when the family returned.

  In English Mrs. Nudelman repeated this incredible fact: for an entire weekend, Annie would stay in the apartment alone.

  That night she slept badly, plagued by nightmares. She was lost in the city streets. A yellow taxi seemed to be following her, its horn honking angrily. When Annie turned to see the driver, the yellow car was gone.

  Friday morning, as usual, Annie went to the market. The sky was low and heavy. The spring weather had vanished like last night’s dream. When she returned, Mr. Nudelman was sitting in the kitchen.

  “Daniel is ill,” he said. “Only a cold, but it would be unwise for him to travel.” The doctor had already come and gone.

  Annie nodded, not surprised. The night before, when she’d taken his tea and cake, she’d found the room dark. In a whisper she’d apologized for waking him. Quietly she’d closed the door.

  “My wife is upset. She doesn’t like to leave him.” Mr. Nudelman shrugged. “I told her you’d look after him.”

  Annie laid the table for lunch, but Mrs. Nudelman would not come out of her room. Her husband drank coffee and stared at his newspapers, English and Yiddish. Annie bought them each morning at the corner store.

  “The world,” he said, “is a dangerous place.”

  He sat smoking as Annie cleared the table. At the front door she helped Mrs. Nudelman into her coat.

  “Take Daniel some soup later.” Mrs. Nudelman spoke in a whisper, her face flushed, her eyes red.

  Her husband gave Annie a slip of paper. “This is the telephone number in Newark. If you need anything, please call.”

  From the window she watched them get into a cab. A wet snow was falling. The taxi was yellow, as in her dreams: the car the Ukrainian had driven. If he were the driver, would he speak to the Nudelmans? I know a girl who works in this building. What would he say about her?

  In the kitchen Annie switched on the radio. The announcer joked in Yiddish or English. The audience roared with laughter.

  At dinnertime she heated the soup and carried it to Daniel on a tray. His room was dim inside, the curtains drawn.

  “How are you feeling?” Annie asked.

  He sat up partway in bed. His eyelids were heavy, his hair wild, his face coated with a sickly sheen. Annie put down the tray and sat at his bedside. Without thinking, she laid a hand on his forehead. She did this automatically, as with her younger brothers and sisters. He seemed startled by her touch.

  “You have a fever.”

  He smiled weakly. “How do you know? You don’t have a thermometer.”

  She had nursed a brother through pneumonia, the little twins through whooping cough. “I know,” she said.

  The doctor had given him aspirin; there was more in the medicine chest. In the bathroom she found the bottle behind the mirror. She filled a glass with water and wet a towel at the sink.

  “Cold,” Daniel said when she laid the towel across his forehead. “Feels good. My mother left me in good hands.” He shifted in the bed. “She’s not happy about it, I can tell you that. But every once in a while my father puts his foot down.”

  “She wants you to eat.”

  “Always.” Daniel lay back and closed his eyes. “Later. I promise.”

  “I can call your parents. On the telephone.”

  “Don’t.” Daniel sat up abruptly. “Please. They’ll come back, and that will only make me feel worse. I’ll be better in the morning. You’ll see.”

  “All right,” Annie said.

  Outside, the snow was flying. A stiff wind rattled the windowpanes.

  On Saturday morning the city was quiet, the streets snow-covered. Daniel was sleeping deeply, wearing his spectacles. A book lay open on his chest. In that moment Annie felt her freedom. She had nothing to clean and no one to feed.

  She put on her coat and wound a scarf around her neck. The elevator was empty, the street quiet. Her breath steamed in the cold. In the avenue, the traffic lights were blinking. There were no cars in
sight.

  Why not? she thought, and walked down the middle of the street.

  Blanketed in snow, the park seemed larger, a vast plain of whiteness. I could stay here forever, she thought. A few strangers crossed the lawn, hands in their pockets. On this still morning everyone was smiling, as though the storm had been staged for their amusement. Annie found herself smiling back. For the first time she felt included in the joke.

  When she returned to the apartment, it was nearly noontime. The indoor air burned her cheeks. In Daniel’s bedroom the radiator was steaming. He had tossed aside the blanket. His pajama shirt was dark with sweat.

  She sat on the bed and laid a hand on his forehead. His eyes snapped open. His lips were parched. A fast pulse beat in his throat.

  In the hallway she took the slip of paper from her pocket. As she had seen Mrs. Nudelman do, she took the receiver from its hook and listened for a voice.

  “I tried to phone your mother,” she told Daniel. “It didn’t work. I think I did something wrong.”

  Daniel closed his eyes.

  “I can call the doctor,” she said.

  “It’s Saturday. No one will answer the phone.”

  He was thirsty but couldn’t drink. Water tasted like metal and turned his stomach. Annie brought milk and held the glass as he drank. Heat rose off him like steam from the stove.

  In the evening she fixed herself a cheese sandwich, ate it standing over the milchig sink. Even alone, she followed the rules. In this kitchen there seemed no other way to eat.

  For several hours Daniel slept deeply, his skin cooler. Then, at midnight, the fever returned.

  In the kitchen Annie put on the kettle. She opened the pantry cupboard and scanned the shelves. The Nudelmans had no garden, no dry, aromatic plants hanging in bunches in the cellar. There was only ground pepper and cinnamon and coarse salt; a bottle, labeled Onion Powder, whose use she couldn’t fathom; and a familiar yellow can. At home her mother kept mustard leaves for this purpose. In the city, Colman’s Dry Mustard would have to do.