The Ninth Day

by Ruth Tenzer Feldman

  I put the card in my pocket, shook her hand, mangled my thank you, collected the papers, and escaped. Forget Sproul Hall. I couldn’t deal with Mainz and Dagmar in the same afternoon. I headed home.

  Grandpa was still sleeping, with Sylvester curled at his feet. I left the door open a bit and went downstairs. I folded my arms over my desk and buried my head on top, waiting for tears that refused to come. Instead I kept thinking about Avram. He came from that time and place. He’d tried to “cure” himself of his horrible vow, and that had failed. Why couldn’t he accept that he’d survived the attack on Mainz, and build a new life in Paris? How could I ever persuade him that he was wrong about his personal kiddush Ha-Shem? How could his God be so different from mine?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The doorbell rang. I rushed upstairs, worried that it might be the police, looking for Dagmar. Or for me.

  “Ta-da!” Leona struck a dramatic pose, and then thrust an I. Magnin bag at me. “Your coat and purse,” she announced triumphantly. “My dad brought them to me at lunch.”

  Instant relief. I hugged Leona, bag and all. As we headed for the kitchen, I steered the conversation to the safe topic of an after-school snack. Leona opted for instant coffee with a squirt of chocolate syrup. I got a glass of milk, because I felt too jittery already, and I moved the cookie jar to the center of the table.

  ”At lunch time, the police were still making arrests.” Leona stirred her coffee. “Can you believe it? There must have been a thousand kids in Sproul Hall. Well, you would know, because you were there. Oh, Hope, I was so scared when you didn’t show up for school today. I called your father, but he didn’t know anything, so mum’s the word about your leaving your coat and purse. How come the police didn’t arrest you? Or did they and they let you go already? Does your dad know? Where’s Dagmar? I could strangle her.”

  I shrugged and smiled. Too many questions to answer at once.

  “Lucky for you, the police cordoned off my dad’s office and asked him to check his files. When he found your things he said they belonged to someone who had visited him before the demonstration. Yay, Dad! Plus he brought me ten of your dreidels. Did you sell a ton?”

  I nodded and sipped milk to be sociable, my appetite having vaporized after my visit to Professor Cavanaugh.

  “I swore my father to secrecy, so I don’t think you’ll have to worry about Mr. Z. finding out and banning you from the competition. Unless someone else saw you. When did you leave?”

  “L-last night.”

  Leona extracted a vanilla crème cookie from the jar and shifted into giving me a rundown of the latest news at Berkeley High. She was easy to listen to, an antidote to Avram and Mainz. Still, after a couple of minutes, I had to stop to get dinner for Grandpa. I looked at the clock.

  “That late?” Leona slurped the last of her coffee and gave me a quick hug. “See you tomorrow.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck and stood on the front porch in the winter twilight. Time for Grandpa’s evening pills. I wondered whether Mom had gotten the message Dad had left for her at the hotel in Haifa, and whether she was coming home early. It was already Thursday, and she was due back on Monday—only a few days to go.

  The damn phone rang. I stared at the instrument of my personal torture and bit my lip. This time I had to answer it. Mom could be on the other end. Ring four. Ring five. I filled my lungs with air, hummed, and picked up the receiver. “H-h-h-ello?”

  “Hey, Nudler, it’s Dad.” My jaw relaxed. “Noodles” in Danish. My favorite nickname. His voice bordered on the triumphant. Things must be going well at the lab. “How are things at home?”

  “F-fine.”

  “Any word from your mom?”

  “N-no.”

  “How about Dagmar?”

  “N-no.”

  “Well, I was just checking in. I’ll be another hour here, at least, so you and Grandpa eat without me. I’ll get home as soon as I can.”

  We didn’t chat for long. Dad knows I hate the phone. I like to think that I’m third on his top favorites list, after the mysteries of the universe and my mother.

  I made Grandpa’s turkey sandwich the way he liked it and put a dill pickle and a radish on the plate. I added a double-sized portion of chocolate pudding with a small dish of marshmallow cream on the side. He’d told me once that there was no such thing as marshmallow cream in “the old country,” and it was one more thing he thanked America for. Safety, freedom, and marshmallow cream.

  Balancing the tray, I waltzed down the hall and stuck my foot in the partially opened door.

  The Fifth Day

  Paris

  29 Kislev 4860

  Anno Domini 1099, festival eve and feast day for Saint Maximin of Verdun

  Sunset, Wednesday, December 14–Sunset, Thursday, December 15

  Berkeley

  29 Kislev 5725

  Sunset, Thursday, December 3, 1964–Sunset, Friday, December 4, 1964

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Grandpa was sitting up in bed, reading yesterday’s San Francisco Chronicle.

  He had slicked back his hair and, judging from three tiny pieces of blood-stained toilet paper on his cheeks, he’d shaved.

  “I was just thinking about chocolate pudding.” His eyes, which seemed to have sunk deeper into their sockets since this morning, were gleaming. “And marshmallow cream. A minor miracle. Is it still Hanukkah?”

  Chin-dip in the affirmative. I put the dinner tray on his dresser.

  “Help me to the living room and let us celebrate.”

  After hearing the rabbi’s wife horror story about Hannah and her seven sons, I didn’t feel like facing our menorah. Hanukkah was supposed to be about freedom, not kiddush Ha-Shem. But I didn’t say anything to Grandpa.

  Sylvester joined us. I lit six candles for the five nights and sang the blessings.

  “Sing them again,” Grandpa said. “I love to hear you sing. Psalm 150 you sing so well in the choir. Such a melody. You know I go to services just to hear you sing?”

  I sang the blessings again.

  “And Psalm 150?”

  I wasn’t ready. I’d ruin it. The Lewandowski arrangement we sang at temple had a wicked range. If I had the slightest chance of singing it properly, I’d have to take off my bandages, and I didn’t want anybody, let alone Grandpa, to see what was underneath. “I-I’m too tired, Guh-randpa,” I told him. “A-another t-time, okay?”

  Sadness flickered across his face, and I almost changed my mind. “Of course,” he said. “Another time.” He kissed my cheek. “Did I give you Miriam’s album? Good. And her tallis you have?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Good. You keep that tallis, but don’t you wear it.”

  We watched the candles burn. He asked for a glass of schnapps, as if this were a special occasion, and I poured him a jigger over ice, the way he liked it. The candles sputtered. I walked him back to bed. He told me he wanted to eat alone, kissed me good night, and touched the bandaged side of my face. “It’s getting better?”

  I nodded again.

  “Good,” he repeated. “I love you, sheyna maidl.

  “L-love you, t-too, Guh-randpa.”

  His fingers lingered on my cheek. “Just so you shouldn’t worry, I watered the jade plant today.”

  Sylvester refused to leave Grandpa’s room, so I left the door open again slightly. You never know with cats. He could change his mind in the middle of the night.

  The next morning, Dagmar was still gone. I wasn’t worried. She was probably in a safe place—jail. Someone else was watching out for her. I figured they didn’t allow drinking or LSD trips in there, and they’d give her meals and a bed. Knowing Dagmar, she’d be the star of the show. She was probably selling our “freedom tops” to the inmates.

  Plus, if Gabriel was with Dagmar, he’d watch out for
her. I put my fingers to my lips. Gabriel. I wanted him to call me and tell me that he and Dagmar were okay. No, that wasn’t what I was thinking, not really. I wanted him to call me and ask me out.

  No phone calls. I hummed the soprano part of “Now Is the Month of Maying” and got ready for school. The morning was chilly, with the marine layer still rolling in from the Bay. I wore my bright red pullover and a flowered headscarf in counterpoint to the gray skies.

  Dad stood by the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. “Dagmar’s not downstairs, is she?”

  I shook my head.

  “I was afraid of that.” He kissed my forehead and showed me a picture in the paper of Sproul Plaza. Dozens of students stood in the foreground, their backs to the camera. In the background, police were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Sproul Hall. “Now the question is, was your sister in the crowd in front of the building or the crowd inside. If she stayed outside, the police wouldn’t have bothered her. It says here that they only arrested the 796 students that occupied Sproul Hall after it officially closed. I haven’t heard anything about Dagmar either way. Have you?”

  “N-no.” I didn’t tell him that the police were already in Sproul when I…left. Dagmar didn’t stand a chance.

  “She drives me crazy, your sister. She always lands on her feet and never feels the consequences of her actions. The rest of us do the worrying, your mom most of all.”

  “D-did you h-hear fuh-rom M-Mom?” I put an English muffin in the toaster for Grandpa, and got out a bowl of Cheerios for myself.

  “Yes, finally. At 1:07 this morning. She’s decided to cut her trip short. She’s catching an El Al flight from Tel Aviv through Paris today, and I’ve booked her on an American Airlines Astrojet from New York to San Francisco tomorrow afternoon. Dagmar had better be home by then. Do you have anything planned after school today?”

  I shook my head.

  “Great. Then I’ll stay here to keep an eye on your grandfather and make some phone calls to see if I can find Dagmar. I’m sure the administration has the names of those 796 students. Some of the faculty collected bail money; I’ll get in touch with them. If I haven’t found out anything definitive by the time you get home from school, I’ll bike to campus.” He handed me Grandpa’s strawberry jelly. “When your mother comes home, everything will be back to normal.”

  Normal. Blue flashes and trips to medieval Paris. Some normal.

  I left the toasted English muffin on a plate in the kitchen—Grandpa likes it crisp and room temperature—and walked down the hall to say good morning to him before I left for school. As I reached his door, tightness gripped my chest. I smoothed my blouse, and took a breath. Something felt off-kilter.

  Sylvester sat like a sphinx next to Grandpa’s bed. I opened the blinds partway, and that’s when I knew.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  My feet refused to move. Then suddenly I was racing to the kitchen. Dad must have read my face, because he put down his coffee and newspaper, and we rushed to Grandpa’s room.

  I stood there, my tongue useless, my mouth opening and closing, opening and closing. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t…I couldn’t…And then a strange, high-pitched sound spilled out of me.

  Dad enveloped me in his arms. He said words that barely registered. A box of tissues materialized in my hands. I didn’t need them. I couldn’t cry.

  I’d heard somewhere that people who die in their sleep look peaceful. They don’t. They look dead. They look empty. I couldn’t kiss the face of empty. Instead I held the hand of the emptiness where Ephraim Jacobowitz had been. Then Sylvester rubbed against my leg, and Dad guided me back to the kitchen.

  More words, but these I managed to understand. “I have to make some calls now. It’s going to be a long and difficult day. I want you to eat something, and then let’s get you downstairs to your room.”

  Time fractured and blurred. Crystal shards pressed against the back of my eyes. I sat on my bed and hugged myself and rocked and rocked.

  Funeral directors come faster than you’d think. I scrambled upstairs. Dad was laying out Grandpa’s best suit and a navy tie.

  I blocked the bedroom door. “Stop!”

  Dad’s cheeks were blotchy. He cleared his throat, and put his arm on my shoulder. “Miriam Hope, please. There is nothing we can do for your grandpa now. He lived a good life.”

  “I-I…his h-handkerchief. I have to puh-ress a fuh-resh one. Guh-randma M-M-Miriam…”

  Dad nodded. “I’ll tell them to wait.”

  And they did.

  Death is about telephone calls. Dad made them. Dad answered them. Afraid to stop and let grief engulf me, I vacuumed the living room rug, wiped down the kitchen table and counters, and put fresh towels and cutesy soaps in the guest bathroom. I couldn’t sit still. There would be company coming, although I didn’t know when exactly. More talking and more phone calls. Home would be a horrible place. Finally, when I couldn’t stand one more second inside, I told Dad I’d go looking for Dagmar.

  A picket line blocked the entrance on Bancroft and Telegraph. The students were carrying hand-painted signs.

  don’t cross picket line. multiversity on strike. gov. brown enemy no. 1. I took a deep breath and walked up to a girl carrying a sign that read liberty and justice for all.

  Before I had a chance to explain, some idiot man behind me shouted at her, “Go back to Russia where you belong.” The girl said nothing—which would have been my tactic—and kept walking the picket line.

  I followed her for a few steps. “Puh-lease,” I said. “I-I have to f-f-ind m-my sister. And and G-Gabriel Altm-m-man.”

  She reached over and brought me through the line. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were one of us.”

  Sproul Plaza was jammed. I pushed through the crowd, searching for Dagmar. A guy with a Youth for Goldwater T-shirt stood next to a guy wearing a Young Socialist Alliance armband. Both were waving the same hand-painted signs. SPEAK UP FOR AMERICA. A girl by Sather Gate held a sign that read CAL COED: DO NOT FOLD, SPINDLE, OR MUTILATE. FREE SPEECH FOR ALL.

  I stood on a bench and managed to see Dagmar, several yards away, sitting on Gabriel’s shoulders and thrusting her fist in the air. She and Gabriel and dozens of other people wore large white V’s taped to their clothes.

  V for victory? V for violated? A woman standing next to me must have seen me staring at Dagmar, because she said, “That poor girl was one of the students beaten and brutalized, and released on bail.”

  Dagmar didn’t look beaten to me. She practically glowed. I pushed through the crowd and waved at my sister. She smiled and thumped Gabriel’s head. He helped her get down, and they waded toward me.

  ”I was worried about you,” Gabriel said. “It looks like you got home okay.”

  Before I could wedge two words in edgewise, Dagmar enveloped me in a beer-and-patchouli-soaked hug. “Yay! I told Gabey-Baby you’d be fine. You are so clever. I bet you unlocked Mr. Nash’s office with the key I gave you and climbed out the back window. Do you still have the key?”

  I shook my head. How can I tell her gently? Where do I start? “D-Dad…”

  ”No key? Too bad. And don’t start on me about Dad, okay? Gabriel’s lawyer is going to represent me pro bono at the arraignment. Our Father Who Art in the Physics Lab doesn’t have to get involved.”

  I took a breath. “W-we h-have to go h-home. N-now. Guh-randpa…”

  ”In a little bit. First I have to stand in solidarity. And, who knows, maybe make a connection. Then it’s home, home, home to soak in the tub. Drown the lice. You wouldn’t believe the toilets they have there. Putrid! I dared them to strip-search me. That got them to back off.”

  Dagmar extracted the cloth bag that nestled in her cleavage. She waved the bag in my face. “Your dreidel money was a lifesaver. And it went for a good cause. I was frugal, totally
frugal. Honest. And I’ll pay you back. They reduced the bail to sixty-eight dollars for me, and I had to help out Gabriel here. Plus this guy Charlie was in a bind. You know, we’ve practically closed down the university. Even the labor union is behind us. And then the high mucky mucks have the nerve to publically condemn the demonstration, after what they did, sending in the police. They’re all total vermin.”

  ”Shut up, Dagmar,” Gabriel said. “Can’t you see your sister wants to tell you something?”

  Her eyes drilled into mine. “What? You’re not going to nag at me about the money, are you? After I saved you from the ravages of prison?”

  I drilled back, determined to say what needed saying. “Guh-randpa is dead.”

  Dagmar stared at me, silent. Then she folded in on herself, as if I’d punched her in the stomach.

  ”Oh, God,” she said. “Not Grandpa. No.”

  Her head drifted from side to side. Gabriel wrapped his arm around her and then reached for me. “I am so very sorry,” he whispered, his breath warm and vaguely pepperminty. “May his memory be a blessing.”

  We three huddled together in our own private world. I ached to be with Grandpa again in his bedroom, listening to his stories and playing gin rummy. But then Gabriel felt so close, and suddenly all I wanted was for him to hold me forever.

  Later, Gabriel talked to some guy, and the four of us went to the guy’s car, and they drove us home. I sat in the front seat, while Dagmar and Gabriel murmured in the back. A leaf was stuck under the windshield wipers. Nothingness began to seep into me.

  Gabriel helped me out of the car. “When is the funeral?”

  ”I-I d-don’t know.”

  ”It’s okay. I’ll check the newspaper. The funeral parlor will put in an announcement. You take care of yourself. I am so sorry.”

  Dagmar draped herself across Gabriel’s shoulder. “I can’t bear to take one more step on my own,” she told him. I walked ahead of them and opened the front door.