And with that, the congregation fell into thunderous applause. From the corner of her eye, Valentina could almost make out Sylvia, standing up from her chair, clapping.
Sixty-Six
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately about forgiveness,” Rabbi Weisman began.
Alan put his arm around the back of Sylvia’s chair and settled in to listen. It seemed to Sylvia that he wanted her to pay close attention to what she was about to hear.
“The days between Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, are called the Days of Awe,” he continued. “And why are they called that? The dictionary defines awe as: ‘an emotion variously combining dread, veneration, and wonder that is inspired by authority or by the sacred or sublime.’” Rabbi Weisman was big on dictionary definitions. And not just any dictionary—Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. Eleventh edition.
“It is during the Days of Awe that God opens the Book of Life, to see what is written. On Yom Kippur, we pray for forgiveness for our sins. God makes his final determination and then closes the Book of Life. It remains sealed until the following year.
“But before one can ask God for forgiveness on Yom Kippur, before one can be written in the Book of Life for another year, one must first consider the relationships we have. With friends. With family.” The rabbi took a long pause before continuing. “The High Holy season is a time to reflect. To think. To forgive. To ask for forgiveness.”
Sylvia looked over at her children. First, at Becca, seated next to Ursella with Henry on her other side, fingers entwined. And then to Sarah. Joe had his arm draped lazily over the back of her chair, much in the same way that Alan had his over her own chair. Sarah’s head tilted slightly toward Joe. She was paying attention to her husband, letting him know she was beside him, even as they listened intently to the rabbi’s words. Her husband.
And now, here was Joe, learning about Judaism. Not for her, but for Sarah. Wasn’t that something?
“At this time of year, I’m always reminded of the story of Jacob and Esau. Younger brother Jacob, who stole his brother’s birthright and his blessing, was exiled from his homeland. When God told him to return twenty years later, Jacob realized that he would have to pass through his brother Esau’s territory. Jacob was scared. He knew that his brother wanted to kill him for all that he had done. Jacob did what he could to prepare—he sent presents, he sent men to spy. Esau, also readying himself for the meeting, surrounded himself with an army of four hundred men.
“When the moment arrived for the brothers to reunite, Jacob did not know what to expect. Would his brother kill him? When Esau saw Jacob, he didn’t kill him. He embraced him. He kissed him. He forgave him.
“It reminds me of two congregants I had when I was back in New York. Two brothers. Business partners. When their father died, the younger brother—let’s call him Jacob—asked his older brother to use the entire inheritance to start a company. The thing they’d dreamed of since they were young. They invested the money, all the money they had in the world, and the company was a failure. The older brother, let’s call him Esau, lost everything. He had to sell his house and move in with his in-laws. The younger brother, Jacob, was shunned by the family and went off to California. In California, he created another company, a better company, and he became a huge success.
“His older brother never forgave him. ‘Why was the second company the one that succeeded?’ he asked me. ‘Doesn’t my brother owe me something?’
“They didn’t speak for twenty years. Jacob didn’t come back East for holidays, he didn’t attend the Bar Mitzvahs of his nephews. And then the fight was no longer about the money. It became about other things, like the fact that Jacob never called on the holidays to wish his brother a gut yontiff, and the fact that he’d missed so many milestones. He’d missed so many chances to say ‘I’m sorry’ that it became impossible to do so. There were just too many apologies to be made, too many things to be angry about.
“When their mother got sick, her dying wish was for Jacob to come and see her.
“So, Jacob flew back to New York for the first time in twenty years. It seemed like Esau had an army of four hundred men—the entire family hadn’t spoken to Jacob in the twenty years he’d been gone, and Esau had many close friends, friends who felt like family to him, ready to do battle for him.
“He saw his brother and was prepared to fight. But when Esau saw his little brother, the money didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that his brother was home. They were family.
“Forgiveness.”
Alan passed Sylvia a handkerchief before she’d even realized that she was tearing up. Under normal circumstances, she’d excuse herself to use the ladies’ room. But no one ever got up in the middle of one of Rabbi Weisman’s sermons. She dabbed the handkerchief to the corners of her eyes, to the edge of her nose.
As she looked back up, she and Sarah locked eyes. And they both understood.
Sixty-Seven
“Well, that was a nice temple, wasn’t it?” Henry asked. He couldn’t bear the tension any longer.
His parents didn’t respond. They were doing a lot of that lately—not speaking—and Henry couldn’t stand it. What a difference a few months could make. It used to be that Henry hated it when his parents spoke to him. Always questioning him, always judging. But now things were different. Now that Henry felt sure of himself, knew where he was going, he actually wanted to speak to his parents.
“The stained glass was really beautiful, I thought,” Henry said, another attempt at discussion.
“It was,” Ursella said. She was staring out the window, watching the world go by, barely paying attention.
“It was wonderful of the Golds to include us in the holiday this year,” Edmond said. He was doing something he didn’t do often—driving his own car—because with the changes at the bank (that’s what Edmond and Ursella called them: changes), the Rothschild family was cutting back on expenses. They hadn’t sold the house. They weren’t facing total austerity just yet. But things that they’d taken for granted before—a driver, a chef—had been done away with.
Henry thought it was odd that his parents hadn’t sold the house in Nice yet. He’d figured that would be the first thing to go. But maybe if things got too heated in New York, that could be a good place to hide out. Though, he would think that Morocco would be a smarter move. No extradition treaty.
“It was,” Henry agreed. “I’m glad we were free this year.”
“So are we, darling,” Ursella said. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of seeing all those people.”
Henry knew that it was the thing both his parents were thinking—they didn’t want to see anyone connected to their old life in Manhattan—but he wasn’t expecting for her to say it quite so bluntly. In his experience, his parents didn’t often say exactly what they were thinking.
“Well, I, for one, really like these people a lot more than those people anyway,” Henry said.
Henry could see, in the rearview mirror, the edges of his father’s mouth turn up ever so slightly.
Sixty-Eight
First, it had been the board from her museum committee. Wasn’t it time, they asked, to give some of the younger volunteers a chance to plan their most high-profile fund-raising event? Ursella didn’t know what to say. She’d been on the museum board since Edmond’s mother was still alive. Three of the most important pieces from her art collection were on loan to the museum at that very moment, including the Rothschild egg, a Fabergé egg designed as a wedding gift for Edmond’s great-aunt in 1902. Her name was on a brass plaque at the entrance to the sculpture garden. But now they didn’t want it on the invitation.
Then, there was the Beatrice Club. The Rothschilds had been members since before Henry was even born. They’d spent countless holidays in the dining room, Henry had gone on the annual ski trips to St. Moritz throughout his childhood, and he’d even had his first kiss in the coatroom on the second floor during a particula
rly tedious Super Bowl party. They weren’t kicked out of the club. The Beatrice Club wouldn’t ever kick out one of its esteemed members (especially after cashing the enormous membership checks each year), but it was suggested to Edmond that his presence at this year’s Rosh Hashanah dinner might make the other members uncomfortable. Perhaps he’d be interested in private dining in one of the conference rooms? Edmond was not.
The last straw was when Ursella went shopping for a new suit to wear to temple for the holiday. Ursella made an appointment, like she always did, with her personal shopper at St. John. She was so happy to be there. To escape the news. Escape her life for an hour. All she had to do was look at beautiful clothing and decide on an outfit. There was something about shopping that always made Ursella giddy. Growing up, she’d had no money, no options. Clothing had consisted of hand-me-downs from her siblings. It wasn’t something to be enjoyed. It was only when she started dancing that she began to appreciate different fabrics, the way different colors changed her appearance, and how the right outfit could make her feel like another person altogether. It wasn’t an entirely unwelcome feeling.
She browsed the store and picked out a few things to try on. Her personal shopper set her up in a fitting room with a bottle of seltzer water to sip while she made her choice. Ursella sat down on the tiny ottoman and flipped her shoes off. She looked at herself for a moment, clad only in a slip, and noticed how the stress of the past few months had taken its toll. Her face looked drawn, her cheeks sallow, and her skin had lost some of its luster.
Ursella tried the first suit on. It was a piqué knit, her favorite, in a rich red. Red always complemented her light-blond hair and pale skin. She spun around to inspect herself from every angle. She liked what she saw. The color red also reminded her of something her costume designer told her when she first joined the ballet—that it would ward off the evil eye. Those who were jealous of her wouldn’t be able to wish ill on her if she wore red. Ursella wore red often in those days. She knew that other girls like her, girls who wanted to get out just as madly as Ursella had, would be wishing her bad. They wouldn’t see Ursella as an example. They would see her as someone who’d stolen their spot.
Ursella thought it might not be a bad idea to wear red for the High Holy Days this year. The evil eye, indeed. She would do anything to try to protect herself.
She took the suit off and carefully put it back on its hanger. She put her clothing back on. She didn’t even need to try on the other suits—this red suit was the one. She unlocked the fitting room door and heard familiar voices—two of her friends from the museum committee.
“I doubt they’ll show their faces this year,” one said. “If you were Ursella, wouldn’t you just shrivel up and die?”
The other one laughed a throaty laugh. As if she were not only enjoying the conversation, but enjoying the reversal of fortune the Rothschilds now faced. “But she’s a ballerina, as Edmond likes to remind us all, so she would shrivel up and die very gracefully.”
“Marilyn!” the first one chastised. “You’re so bad.”
“Do you have any idea how much money Phillip has lost over this?”
“Yes,” the first one said. “We’ve lost a bundle, too. I’d like for them to just go away as well.”
“I wish she were one of those ballerinas in a child’s jewelry box. I wish I could just slam the box shut and never have to see her again.”
“Let’s toast to that!” Ursella could hear the salesperson opening a bottle of champagne for the ladies. “To the Rothschilds leaving the island of Manhattan!”
Ursella sat down on the ottoman. How could she leave the fitting room?
She heard hushed voices. Then a gasp. “I had no idea,” one said.
“Oh, I’m so embarrassed,” the other said back.
“No, you’re not.” Then, they both laughed.
Ursella looked at her reflection in the mirror. She smoothed her hair back with her hand. She reapplied her lipstick and then walked out of the dressing room.
“Hello, ladies,” she said with a smile. Then she walked to the cash register to pay for her suit.
She’d escaped communist Russia by way of the goddamned ballet. There was no way she was going to allow two Upper East Side matrons, women who’d had their lives handed to them on a platter, make her feel small.
Sixty-Nine
This time Sylvia was doing things differently.
She invited everyone back to the house after temple. Traditionally, she’d done a large holiday dinner the night before the holiday began, but she didn’t feel up to it this year. This year, she was too tired. This year, she had other things occupying her mind.
She didn’t scurry about the house, looking for areas in need of improvement. She didn’t hire a chef or buy new linens. She set the table the night before, and didn’t make seating arrangements. The guests would have to fend for themselves when it came to figuring out where they would sit. Cell phones would be allowed, copious glasses of wine would be served, and everyone would eat whenever they pleased.
The day before, she’d made her famous beef brisket. The one with the fresh crushed tomatoes and pressed garlic. The kitchen smelled like holiday. When she got back from temple, the ovens went on, and in went the brisket (always more delicious the second day), the tray of broccoli (simply prepared with garlic, salt, and pepper), and the oven-baked potatoes (the secret was the truffle oil). She got the matzoh ball soup into a pot to reheat, and then turned to the apples.
Sylvia heard the doorbell ring—everyone was beginning to shuffle in from temple—but she remained in the kitchen. She used to pre-cut the apple slices, using a squeeze of lemon to stave off the brown spots, but this time she decided to cut the apples just as her guests were arriving.
“Do you need some help in here?”
Sylvia looked up from the honey she was pouring into a pot. It was Sarah.
“Sure,” Sylvia said. “I’ve got the gefilte fish already on plates in the fridge in the garage. Do you want to bring those out to the table? I bet people are hungry.”
“No problem,” Sarah said.
Sylvia lost herself in the slicing. She heard the family out in the living room, but she was happy right where she was. There was something therapeutic about the kitchen. Concentrating on one thing—slicing the apples into perfect little spheres—freed her mind. She was able to stop the constant torrent of thoughts that usually clouded her brain. It was just about the apple slices. And the lemon. She tried to find the perfect combination. Just a dash of lemon was needed to keep the apples from browning. Too much would alter the taste of the apples.
“All set,” Sarah said, coming back into the kitchen. “Do you want me to pour you something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine,” Sylvia said. “Do you want to see if everyone’s ready to eat?”
“Dad’s pouring wine,” Sarah said. “So far, that’s all people seem to want. And their apples. We’re all ready for the apples.”
Sylvia placed the apple slices on a tray. Then she took the pot of honey and put it squarely in the center.
“Why don’t you go serve these to everyone.” Sylvia said.
“Okay, but let’s you and I have one first.”
Sarah took an apple slice and dipped it into the honey. She handed it to her mother and then made one for herself.
“Happy New Year,” Sarah said.
“To a sweet New Year,” her mother replied.
Sarah grabbed the tray and walked toward the living room, but Sylvia realized something was missing.
“What?” Sarah asked.
“You need napkins,” Sylvia said. She handed her the linen napkins. The embroidered ones, the ones with tiny little apples that Sarah had bought for her. Sarah could see that they had been laundered and ironed. They were crisp and clean and smelled faintly of her mother’s special lavender laundry detergent. The one she reserved solely for her most special things.
Sarah nodded as she grabbed the napkins. And then
she headed out to serve the apples and honey.
“What is that smell?” Valentina asked as she walked into the kitchen.
“You didn’t have your apples and honey,” Sylvia said. True, Sylvia wanted all of her guests to eat apples and honey to ensure a sweet New Year, but she was also stalling. She wasn’t quite used to Valentina yet, and she had no idea how to interpret the question: What’s that smell?
“I had one,” Valentina said. “Gooey. Now, where are your forks?”
Sylvia pointed to her cutlery drawer and Valentina walked over and grabbed a fork. The nerve of this woman. Sylvia laughed to herself. And then: At least she feels at home in my house.
Valentina opened the oven door and found what she was looking for. She peeled back the aluminum foil and stuck the fork into the pan. The broken slice of brisket was piping hot—Sylvia could see the tiny puff of smoke from across the kitchen—so Valentina blew on it carefully and took a bite.
“Oh, this is good,” she said, still chewing the meat. “Sarah’s always carrying on about your brisket, and now I know why. I need the recipe for this.”
“Of course,” Sylvia said, pleased. Cooking was the one thing that Sylvia knew she was good at, but it was still always nice to hear the compliments. “Do you have a brisket recipe?”
“I do,” Valentina said. “But I call it pot roast. I don’t use a tomato-based sauce. I use a white wine and mushroom–based recipe.”
“I’d like to try that,” Sylvia said. And it surprised her to know that she was speaking the truth. She really did want to try it.
“You know, I feel like I have to apologize,” Valentina said.
“I’m flattered that you like my cooking,” Sylvia said, and Valentina furrowed her brow. Sylvia thought she was talking about sticking a fork into her food before she’d served it, but that’s not why Valentina was apologizing.
The Dinner Party: A Novel Page 18
