Dad smiled. “Of course not. You still have your heart set on a singing career.” More of a question than a statement.
I shrugged.
”At the slightest sign that you don’t feel well, please come straight home.”
I nodded.
Dagmar flung her arms around him. “You’re the best!” As he biked down Roosevelt, she called after him, “Don’t wait up for us tomorrow night. We might be late.”
I gave Dagmar the tell-me-more look.
She ran her fingers through her curls. “Baez is singing at the rally tomorrow, didn’t I tell you? And they’re talking about occupying Sproul Hall afterwards, which is perfect for us. A captive audience for your dreidels. Plus, you don’t have to worry about Grandpa because The Great Dane will be home.”
Occupying Sproul? My stomach lurched. Being on the public plaza was one thing. Occupying the administration building was going too far. “B-but I t-told you. S-school r-rules.”
Dagmar squeezed my shoulders. “I know, I know. That dumb rule about going to the music festival. Listen, if you don’t want to stay, I’ll sell the dreidels for you. But Baez will be there. It’ll be a blast. And Gabriel’s been asking about you. I keep telling him you’re all right, but he wants to see for himself.”
”I-I’ll th-think about it.” The last thing I needed was to get involved with one of Dagmar’s druggie friends. I didn’t remember Gabriel from the Halloween party or the hospital. At least I didn’t think I remembered him. A voice, maybe.
”We’ll meet at Sather Gate after choral music class, which is when?”
”Th-third p-period.”
”Which ends when?”
”E-eleven forty.” You’d think my sister graduated from Berkeley High in the ’50s instead of last June.
”I’ll bring the dreidels. I’ll take care of everything. Except the tuna casserole. You’ll make it, won’t you?”
I was wondering when she’d get around to that. I nodded.
”Yes! I am so jazzed.” She waltzed to the bathroom. I got back to painting.
Exhausted after ten dozen large dreidels, I decided to forget the small ones. Dagmar skipped out for dinner as usual, promising to bring back pizza.
Grandpa was still napping at 5:30, so I got a Hostess cupcake—I believe in dessert before dinner—and poked around in our World Book Encyclopedia. It was an old set from 1951, but serviceable. I scribbled notes on every topic that seemed connected to Avram and his bakery, and my time with Serakh in Paris. I felt like I was back in the sixth grade, but it was a start.
mainz. Large trading center in Western Germany. On left bank of the Rhine River. One of the oldest German cities.
crusades. Military expeditions to take back the Holy Land. Started with Pope Urban II in France. Several campaigns. First crusade 1096–1099. Crusaders captured Jerusalem in 1099. Islamic forces later recaptured city.
rashi. RAH shee. (1040?–1105) French-Jewish writer. Born in Troyes, France. Real name Rabbi Solomon ben Isaacs. Most noted works were commentaries on the Bible and Talmud.
rye. Hardiest of the small grains. One of the most important plants of northern Europe. Rye flour used to make black bread eaten by many in northern Europe. Fungus that grows on rye gives it the disease ergot. Poisonous to humans and animals. If used properly, has high medicinal value.
ergot.
UR-got. Parasitic fungus. Commonly infects rye. Causes disease called ergotism, common among people who ate bread from infected rye grain. Symptoms often gangrene and convulsions. Also known as Saint Anthony’s fire or erysipelas.
I found nothing useful on coins, or what happened to the Jews during the Crusades, and nothing about horror or bloodshed in Mainz, except that the city got bombed in World War II. The Nazis probably sent the Mainz Jews—if there were any by then—to concentration camps, but that was centuries after Avram’s time. If Dolcette’s grandfather was Rashi and he was still alive when I saw her, then it made sense—magical sense anyway—that I traveled to Paris at the end of the First Crusade.
I doodled on the page, trying to connect the topics in some logical manner. No good. I remembered the dot-to-dot coloring book Dagmar took to the Halloween party, even though it had nothing to do with her costume—she had been dressed as some sort of fairy princess.
Dagmar had insisted that I shouldn’t sit home and waste my Marcel Marceau mime costume just because Leona had the flu and couldn’t go with me to the party at Leona’s friend’s house. There I was on a Saturday night, all dressed up as Bip in whiteface, ready to smile and play mute—the perfect costume for me. I’d told my sister that I didn’t mind staying home, but she was all “this will be so much fun.” The next thing I knew I was out the door. Stupid me.
Doodle. Doodle. Connect the dots. Rye. Rotten rye. Saint Anthony’s fire. Dagmar called LSD “rotten rye,” but was she right? I went back to the World Book. Nothing on LSD.
I rubbed my forehead. What was I missing? What was wrong with Avram? He looked perfectly healthy. Except that he planned to kill his son.
The Third Day
Paris
27 Kislev 4860
Anno Domini 1099, festival eve and feast day for Saint Lucie of Syracuse
Sunset, Monday, December 12–Sunset, Tuesday, December 13
Berkeley
27 Kislev 5725
Sunset, Tuesday, December 1, 1964–Sunset, Wednesday, December 2, 1964
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I turned on the light in the hall and opened Grandpa’s door. The room could use an airing. Sylvester rubbed against my leg.
Grandpa was lying in bed in the dark. “Rachel?” His voice seemed forced, raspy.
”It’s H-Hope, Guh-randpa. T-time for d-dinner.”
”I’m not hungry, sheyna maidl .”
”Y-you >have t-t-o eat s-something.” Taking his cold hand in both of mine, I went for his Hanukkah favorite—the potato pancakes Mom had made and frozen before she left. “L-latkes and s-sour cuh-ream?”
”For latkes and a glass of wine I will move these old bones. But I eat in my pajamas. Starting tomorrow I eat in my bedroom until Rachel comes home. Deal?”
”D-deal.”
After I gave him a drink of water, he seemed more alert and together. He walked on his own to the living room, where I lit the menorah for us and sang the blessings.
I decided to make two tuna casseroles and heated the water to cook the elbow macaroni. We ate together in comfortable silence (latkes for me, too, with salad and a hard-boiled egg).
Afterward Grandpa sipped his wine and watched me collect the box of macaroni, a bag of frozen peas, two cans of tuna, and a can of cream-of-mushroom soup. “What is this sadness?”
”J-just t-t-tired.” Which was true. While my mind raced in triple time, trying to connect the dots, my body ached with fatigue.
”You cannot fool your old grandpa.”
I shrugged.
He hummed a simple melody in a minor key, a tune I seemed to have always known.
”Nu? Tell me your troubles.”
I got up from the table and walked toward the stove. “N-nothing. I-I’m a l-little sad. I-I’m r-reading about the J-J-Jews in Germany a l-l-long time ago.”
Grandpa rubbed the stubble on his chin. “That’s why I came here, to this country. Germans you cannot trust. And Russians, no better.”
It only took a moment to dump the macaroni in the boiling water, but by the time I looked back, my grandfather was rocking slightly, his eyes seeming to look inward.
”’Beat the Jews,’ they shouted. It was summer in my beautiful Bialystok. 1906. Another pogrom. This one was the worst I ever saw. They slashed Chayim from ear to ear. Chayim, who worked in the textile mills, a loving husband to my sister, the father of her children. He twitched and gurgled, blood everywhere, and still they spat in his face
and stole his shoes. They left him to rot.”
I rushed to the table and put my hand on his shoulder. “Th-that’s h-horrible, Guh-randpa.”
It was as if I weren’t there. He finished half a glass of wine in three gulps. “When night came, our people would take his body to prepare it for burial. Then it would be too late. So I stole a meat cleaver from the kosher butcher and desecrated Chayim, may God forgive me. I chopped off two of his fingers to get his gold wedding ring. I sewed the ring into the waistband of my trousers and I never told Rivka. Chayim’s ring bought a third-class train ticket to Gdansk for Rivka and me and Rivka’s children. I worked and stole, and starved, to bring us all to New York. Your grandmother’s Uncle Hermann of blessed memory offered me a job in the print shop, and the Industrial Removal Office paid for our train fare from New York to Portland.”
I wiped spittle from the side of his mouth. “I-I am s-so s-sorry.”
His eyes focused on me again. He stopped rocking and shrugged, his bony shoulders lifting his pajama top. “Ach! I would do it again, wouldn’t you, sheyna maidl? To save a life? I met my Miriam of blessed memory in Portland. Nothing is always one hundred percent horrible. Nu? You don’t agree?”
”Don’t agree about what?” Dad framed the kitchen doorway, his book bag over his shoulder and one pant leg still clamped against his shin from his bike ride.
Before I could say anything, Grandpa asked, “Where is Rachel?”
”She’s still in Israel buying items for her gift shop. Today is Tuesday, Ephraim. She’ll be back this coming Monday. Six more days.”
”Call her, Henry.” Grandpa’s hand tapped the kitchen table. “Tell her to come home now.”
Dad studied Grandpa the way I imagine he would an alpha particle. “I’ll do my best,” he said, his voice inflected with sadness. He helped Grandpa to bed while I got the tuna casseroles ready to bake.
When he came back, Dad wore a worried look that must have matched my own. I glanced at the telephone.
He glanced at the kitchen clock. “It’s 4:57 in the morning in Haifa. I’ll call the international operator tomorrow at 10 a.m. our time, but please don’t get your hopes up. You know how your mom is. Somebody tells her about an artist on some kibbutz, and she wanders off to places that don’t have reliable phone service. Grandpa will be fine until your mom gets home.”
I bit my lip and put the casseroles in the oven. As Grandpa would say, from your mouth to God’s ear.
He peeled a banana and offered me half. I shook my head. “Things are heating up on campus, Miriam Hope. The students are angry about the university’s plan to expel Mario Savio and several other free speech leaders. Don’t let Dagmar drag you into doing something foolish again.”
I shook my head and slapped the stove with a potholder. “I-I didn’t know it had eh-LSD. I-I th-thought it was j-just l-l-licorice.”
His smile was thin, his face tired. “Yes, we’ve gone over this with you and Dagmar more times than I can count. In theoretical physics, we could travel backwards and undo that whole horrible night. Believe me, if I could build you a time machine, I would.”
I closed my eyes and leaned against the kitchen counter. Daddy, meet Serakh, my human time machine. Serakh, this is my father, Henry Friis.
”I…uh… s-since I’m on c-campus…D-do you know p-professors in the h-h-history duh-partment? F-for the M-M-Middle Ages?”
”Is this for your history paper?”
I lied with a bob of my head. What could I say? It’s for a trip across the olam?
Dad didn’t ask for details. “Try Professor Cavanaugh. She’s an expert in that field, I think. We’re on faculty committees together. Nice woman. Friendly.”
I promised myself I’d see this professor after the rally and learn what I could about Mainz. Maybe that’s what Serakh needed me to do.
Wednesday morning dawned cool and crisp, the perfect day for a rally. I put the bag of dreidels next to my sleeping sister and dressed in my pink long-sleeved oxford blouse, and gray tweed skirt. Grandpa was still asleep, too. Dad was listening to someone on the kitchen phone. He mouthed “international operator” and smiled a good-bye.
On our way to school, I reminded Leona about my plans for the rally. She raised her eyebrows in disapproval.
”I thought you were going to let Dagmar sell the dreidels.”
”I-I want to hear J-Joan Baez. P-plus I have t-t-to do r-research on c-c-ampus.”
”Well, if there’s trouble at all, you go straight to my dad in the financial aid office. It’s on the third floor of Sproul Hall.”
I shifted my books to my other hip. “Th-the r-rally’s outside. I’ll s-sell a bundle of duh-reidels.”
”And suppose someone sees you at the rally and tells Mr. Z.? He’ll never let you sing at the music festival. You’ll lose your chance to wow the judges. Don’t you have your heart set on winning that music scholarship? It’s too risky.”
”N-no one will s-see me. I n-need the m-money.”
Leona stopped and faced me. “I don’t want anything else to happen to you, Miriam Hope Friis.” She glanced at my bandages. “I’m serious. “
You’d think I was marching off to Vietnam.
Leona’s anxiety nagged at me through homeroom. I spent history class wondering what Dagmar would do if I didn’t show up. During English, I decided that I could trust her to sell the dreidels and give me my share. Or most of my share, anyway.
But suppose she meets some guy at the rally and gets stoned for the rest of the day and forgets about the dreidels?
I strode into my choral music class determined to sneak out to the rally afterward. Cash was always tight in the Friis family when Mom was buying inventory, and I needed money for the trip. End of story. Still, I blew two full measures in “Now Is the Month of Maying.” Mr. Zegarelli’s hands stopped in mid-conducting.
”S-sorry,” I said.
He tapped his baton on the music stand and scowled. “Let us start again, from the top of page 6, letter B. Miss Larson and Miss Wolfe, please sing with Miss Friis this time.”
Martha and Francine grabbed their copies of “Now Is The Month of Maying” and rushed to stand on either side of me. Their smiles weren’t exactly rapacious, but everyone knew they wanted to share my soprano parts for the competition. I concentrated on the music and did a decent job on the rest of the piece.
After class, I stuffed my books in my locker and convinced myself that no one would notice me skipping the rest of school. Clutching my purse, coat, scarf, and empty book bag, I walked to the front door. No hall monitors. Perfect. I emptied my brain of what-if-they-stopped-me excuses and headed down Allston toward campus. The sun warmed my face, promising a huge turnout.
By the time I got to the entrance at Bancroft and Telegraph, the Campanile was chiming noon. A zillion kids covered Sproul Plaza. I practically gasped for air as I wove through the crowd to get to Sather Gate.
And there she was—Dagmar—wild black curls, army boots, peasant dress with a thick woolen vest, our bag of dreidels—and…Crap! Draped around her hips and knotted at her waist was my prayer shawl.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dagmar waved at me, then put her hands in the air and twirled. “The perfect sales outfit,” she said, as I got closer. “This is the most gorgeous prayer shawl I’ve ever seen. Totally Jewish, totally hip. You’ve been holding out on me.” She crushed me to her in a patchouli-smothered hug.
I shoved clenched fists in my coat pockets and shook my head. “This was Guh-randma’s. N-no one is supposed to w-wear it. Guh-randpa would have a fit.” I didn’t mention that I was about to have a fit.
”Grandpa’s not here.” Said with a little two-step and another twirl.
I shook my head again. “I-I m-mean it, Dag-m-mar.”
She stopped twirling and gave me her I’m-disappointed-in-you look.
The prayer shawl was my lifeline to Serakh. I had to stand my ground this time. “M-m-m-mine.” I held out my hand.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re the boss.” Which is so not true. She handed me the shawl, and I slipped it into my book bag. My shoulder twitched. Maybe Leona was right. Maybe this was a bad idea.
”So, Hope Against Hope, let’s get us the big bucks. Like Josh the Capitalist Wonder Brother says, know your customers. I’ll give you the short version, okay?”
I was tempted to remind Dagmar of her rants that guys like Josh are the scum of the Earth. I was tempted to remind her that I already knew all about the protests on campus because they had happened a few blocks from Berkeley High, and I couldn’t help but hear about them. The two-day sit-in with the police car in October had even made The New York Times, which Mom and Dad read religiously. I was tempted to say that my sister spent more time stoned off campus than she spent in class on campus. Instead I said, “Okay.”
Dagmar, I knew, was not to be deterred. She counted on her fingers, starting with her thumb. “First the high mucky-mucks banned students from distributing political stuff anywhere on Cal’s campus, even in their usual old place at the Bancroft-Telegraph entrance. Mario Savio and a bunch of kids started the free speech movement to protest the ban.”
Cal. She used Berkeley’s nickname for its football team, like this was some sort of arch-rivalry between the students and the administration. The professors seemed to be somewhere in between, with my father leaning toward the students’ side.
She grabbed her index finger. “So now they plan to kick Mario out of school. The FSM kids say they’ll demonstrate big time if that happens and the ban on political activity stays. And last night the Academic Senate sided with the high mucky-mucks and told everyone not to come here today.”
She raised her middle finger in triumph at the hundreds of people surrounding us. “This is the result. Got it?”
I nodded.
Dagmar plowed our way to a bench. She stood on top of it, and yelled, “Buy your hand-crafted, miracle-of-freedom, liberty tops here. It’s for a worthy cause.”
The Ninth Day Page 8
