The Ninth Day

by Ruth Tenzer Feldman

  Rabbi Cohen was looking at me with an expectant look in his eye. So was Dad.

  ”S-sorry,” I said. What did I miss?

  ”Rabbi Cohen was telling us about tomorrow’s service,” Dad explained. “We’re deciding who is going to take part.”

  ”I’ll sing.” It just slipped out, when I wasn’t thinking. I put my fingers to my lips.

  Two beats of silence. Then Rabbi Cohen stuck his finger in the air, as if I’d just answered the $64,000 question. “What an excellent idea! Ephraim loved your singing, Miriam Hope. He always told me you sang like an angel. You know Psalm 23 from choir, I’m sure. That would be perfect.”

  I shook my head.

  ”No? It’s traditional to sing at a funeral service. Song is prayer. Your voice would lift us up.”

  ”It h-has to be Ps-psalm One F-fifty.” I took a breath, hoping I didn’t have to explain.

  Rabbi Cohen cocked his head and tented his fingertips. “Well…then…yes, let it be Psalm 150. I’ve never heard it sung as a solo, but I’m sure you can do it.” He turned to Mom. “Will you want to say something, Rachel?”

  Mom shook her head. “My daughter will sing for the both of us. Thank you, sweetie.”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. Idiot! I’d never sung such a difficult part solo. As soon as I could, I escaped to the kitchen.

  Bad news travels fast. “My mother just told me you’re singing Lewandowski’s 150 tomorrow,” Leona said. “Perfect!”

  I shrugged.

  ”Oh, come on. You’ll be great. Here, have a cookie.”

  The ginger snap tasted like cardboard.

  Later, Leona sat on my bed while I warmed up my vocal cords and extracted Psalm 150 from my choir notebook. I went through the song once, just on the soprano lines. Without the rest of the voices, the soprano part sounded thin and screechy in places, but my singing wasn’t a total disaster. Leona and I studied every measure and penciled in a few adjustments. She assured me no one would notice. I tried again. Better.

  The next morning, the tip of my nose was numb and the room felt like the inside of a refrigerator. The window was wide open.

  I charged out of bed toward the mess on Dagmar’s side of the room. There she was, snoring, still in her clothes, with her feet on her pillow and the gray skirt I’d put out for her to wear to the funeral crumpled under her head. She must have climbed through the window and forgotten to close it. At least she was home. I closed the window and took a deep breath. We’d get through the day okay.

  When I came back from the bathroom, my semi-comatose sister was still in bed, slumped against the wall. Mom stood by my desk, a Macy’s shopping bag dangling from her hand. Her bathrobe pocket bulged with tissues. Her face sagged.

  ”I will not have my father’s memory dishonored by your wearing army boots and the hippie regalia you call clothing. Do this for me, Dagmar. I’m not asking much.”

  Dagmar’s eyes were puffy. She looked incapable of brushing her teeth, let alone getting dressed. Mom put the Macy’s bag on my desk and turned toward me. “There’s an ecru blouse for you that will go nicely with your navy suit. I made time to shop in New York between planes. Lord knows I needed a diversion. Can you manage?”

  I nodded.

  Dagmar grumbled, but later I caught her admiring herself in Mom’s choice of clothes—a flowing, black and white, calf-length skirt, an old-fashioned high-collar lace blouse, and soft black Capezio flats. If my new blouse hadn’t been beautifully tailored with little pearl buttons, I might have been jealous. I take that back. I was jealous as hell.

  Those pearl buttons saw me through the funeral service. I rested my right hand on the second button down from my neck. The pearl was round and smooth, cool to the touch at first, then warm as a kiss. I focused my eyes on the floor when it was time to stand, and on the weave of my navy skirt when it was time to sit. I closed off into a tiny world inhabited only by Grandpa and me—and our pearls.

  Pearl Harbor. I imagined the story Grandpa would have told me tomorrow, the same story he told me on December seventh ever since I could remember. I imagined how he and Grandma were eating Chinese food in a restaurant in Oakland when they found out about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. And how the next day he heard President Roosevelt over the radio. “December 7, 1941,” he’d quote, “a date which will live in infamy.” I wondered if I would remember President Kennedy’s assassination last year the way my grandfather remembered Pearl Harbor.

  And then I could see Grandpa sitting in his chair and telling me for the gazillionth time how Pearl Bailey was the best actress and singer to come out of vaudeville. How brilliant she was when she played her part in the Porgy and Bess movie he took me to when I was in sixth grade. And then we’d sing Porgy and Bess songs. “Summertime and the livin’ is easy…”

  And there was the pearl necklace that Grandpa and Mom gave to me for my sweet sixteen birthday last May. “The Marie Antoinette necklace,” Grandpa called it. He told me how my great-grandmother Lillian gave it to Grandma to wear with a Marie Antoinette costume on the night that Grandpa printed those VOTE FOR JUSTICE cards for Grandma, and then drove her to a Halloween ball. Lillian later gave those pearls to Grandma when she left Portland, and then she gave them to Mom when she turned sixteen. But Mom never dared to wear something so precious to a Halloween party.

  I caressed the pearl button and wished with all my heart that I’d stayed home with Grandpa this past Halloween.

  Josh nudged me. He was burying three-by-five cards in his suit jacket. “It’s your turn,” he whispered. I stood and stepped up to take his place.

  Focusing on the windows in the back of the sanctuary, I clutched the pearl button and hummed a D. For you, Grandpa.

  Inhale. Slow release.

  I hit the first note almost perfectly. But almost perfect was good enough. Grandpa wasn’t about perfection. He loved me just as I was.

  I closed my eyes and let the music fill the hollow places inside me and reach out to my grandfather. At some point in the psalm, the rabbi’s voice joined mine at an octave lower, then another voice came in, an alto. I heard a quavering voice in the mezzo-soprano range. By the last measures, it sounded as if the whole sanctuary had joined in the final hallelujahs.

  For a moment the air in the sanctuary seemed to vibrate with something beyond silence. I opened my eyes and took my seat. Mom whispered, “Thank you.”

  Later Rabbi Cohen announced, ”Shivah will be held at the Friis residence. Everyone is welcome to come tonight, and Monday, and Tuesday evenings, starting at seven o’clock, to participate in a short prayer service. Instead of flowers, a contribution to the charity of your choice would be appreciated.”

  Mom touched my arm. I stood with the family and walked down the aisle behind Grandpa’s plain pine casket. That’s when I saw Gabriel, sitting toward the back, his eyes on me, his face a mixture of sadness and comfort. You would have liked him, Grandpa.

  At the cemetery, a large rectangular hole pierced the ground next to my grandmother’s burial plot. I stared at her gravestone:

  MIRIAM JOSEFSOHN JACOBOWITZ

  BELOVED WIFE, MOTHER, GRANDMOTHER

  JULY 11, 1896–APRIL 2, 1948

  Grandma Miriam. Always a phantom to me. A story, a picture, someone else’s memories. I had her pearls now. And her prayer shawl. Did I have her courage?

  The few people who came with us to the cemetery perched on folding chairs next to a mound of newly turned earth. Gabriel wasn’t among them. The morning’s warm breeze had turned cooler, and clouds threatened afternoon rain.

  I planted myself at the back of the line so that I could be the last of the mourners to put a shovelful of earth on my grandfather’s grave. I wanted to tuck him in, to spread out his pajamas and get him a glass of water. I wished that Sylvester could be with us. When my turn came, I stared down at the hole. Is there a special spot
on the olam set aside for grief?

  The Eighth Day

  Paris

  3 Tevet 4860

  Anno Domini 1099, festival eve and feast day for Saint Gatian of Tours

  Sunset, Saturday, December 17–Sunset, Sunday, December 18

  Berkeley

  2 Tevet 5725

  Sunset, Sunday, December 6, 1964–Sunset, Monday, December 7, 1964

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The house was blissfully quiet for the moment. Mom and I stood alone in front of the lion-cruet menorah, which was fully bedecked with Hanukkah candles.

  She handed the box of matches to me and extracted a tissue from her skirt pocket. “We can’t leave them like this,” she whispered. “We can’t leave Hanukkah undone.”

  I lit the candles and sang the blessings. We watched the wax drip, cremating the entire lion.

  Mom grabbed my hand as if it were a lifeline. “Your singing was the best part of the service.”

  ”Thuh-anks.” Six beats of silence. “H-how was Is-Israel?”

  ”I don’t remember. Let’s talk about it another time.”

  I started to leave, but she didn’t let go of my hand. “We used to get salt water taffy for Hanukkah. Mama and Daddy had a customer who sent them taffy from Atlantic City every year. It was a real treat back then, when we didn’t have much. My brothers gobbled theirs on the spot, but I made my share last for weeks.”

  I nodded, knowing how memory can dull the pain of here and now. Then she turned into my mother again. “It’s been a terrible month for you. Halloween, and now… this…” She frowned. “The doctors said you should take off your bandages by Thanksgiving,” she reminded me, sounding the most like herself since she’d come home. “At this stage, air will help with the healing process.”

  Plastic surgery will help with the healing process. “I’m f-fine,” I lied, sounding like my grandfather.

  Later, I sat next to Leona, and tried to be the polite, attentive, dutiful version of myself. I tried to graciously accept people’s condolences, to be the good daughter, in contrast to Dagmar, who left right after the shivah prayers. I owed that to my parents and to Grandpa.

  ”So tomorrow I’ll tell Mr. Z. that you won’t be in until Wednesday,” Leona said. “I’m sure he’ll understand. Your singing was amazing today. I wish he had been there. Not that I expected him to come, although you never know. There was a bunch of people I didn’t recognize. Who was the cute guy with the scar on his lip? He was positively transfixed by your Psalm 150. You’re holding out on me.”

  I reached for the bowl of mixed nuts. “G-Gabriel Altman. D-Dagmar’s l-latest c-catch.”

  ”Not from where I was sitting. I’m telling you, Hope, he hardly noticed her.”

  I shrugged. If Gabriel wasn’t interested in her at the funeral, Dagmar would make sure he’d be interested in her later.

  And I was right. Dagmar made her grand entrance after every guest but Mrs. Nash had left, my parents had trudged to their bedroom, and Josh had taken the car to who knows where. I was helping Mrs. Nash clean up in the kitchen.

  Dagmar arrived wearing a bright orange shawl I hadn’t seen before over her black and white funeral outfit, and she’d stuck a wilting rose in her hair. By some miracle, she seemed to be completely sober.

  ”Gabriel and I found the perfect spots in Tilden Park to commune with Grandpa,” she announced, unwrapping the cheese platter and popping a cube of Gruyère in her mouth. “Lake Anza was gorgeous, positively gorgeous, right Gabey- Baby?”

  Gabriel stood next to her. He’d exchanged his funeral suit for a blue oxford shirt, brown sweater, and chinos. He smiled at me, his face strong and gentle, his eyes filled with concern.

  ”How are you doing, Hope?”

  I felt my cheeks flush. “B-better”—which was true. He clearly hadn’t shaved since Grandpa’s funeral, and for one crazy moment I imagined how it would feel to touch the stubble on his chin. Gabriel wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, like Avram, but gorgeous can be overrated.

  Dagmar’s right index finger caressed Gabriel’s face, and I squelched a sudden urge to drop an open container of sour cream on her lovely new shoes.

  ”I’ll just tidy up the guest bathroom,” Mrs. Nash said, in full retreat.

  Then it was just the three of us. Dagmar looked like she wanted me to leave, but I decided to dry the serving trays. She announced she was going to soak her weary body in the tub downstairs. She made it sound like she wanted Gabriel to join her.

  ”I’ve got a bunch of work to do, so I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gabriel said.

  Dagmar kissed him good night, a full, sloppy kiss on the lips. He jerked his head back slightly, and I wanted to imagine that he wasn’t entirely enjoying the experience.

  She pouted. “Be that way. It’s your loss.” Then she swooshed downstairs.

  So now it was just the two of us, with Mrs. Nash coming back any minute.

  I cleared my throat and picked up a dishtowel.

  Gabriel handed me a serving tray from the drying rack. “Look, Hope, I’m sorry to bother you with this, but I have a couple of favors to ask.”

  Crap. I bit my lip and waited, figuring the favors would involve my sister.

  They did.

  ”So the first favor is. There’s the arraignment tomorrow for everyone who got arrested at Sproul Hall. I’ll pick Dagmar up at 8:30. Could you see that she’s ready, and…um…maybe wearing the same outfit she wore today? Minus the orange shawl. She should look presentable.”

  ”Sure.” I scratched the edge of the bandage along my jaw where it itched the most.

  ”The stitches must be out by now. How is it healing?”

  I shrugged.

  ”No. I mean it. How bad is the scarring?” He touched the place on his face where I imagined he’d never grow the perfect mustache.

  ”I d-don’t want to t-talk about it.”

  He raised his left eyebrow and then his right eyebrow. They danced on his forehead independently, forcing me to smile.

  ”Okay, another time. Anyway, the second favor is that I’m not going to tomorrow’s arraignment. My lawyer will represent me. It’s risky, but sometimes you have to take a risk. President Kerr has scheduled a campus gathering at the Greek Theatre tomorrow at eleven o’clock. That’s conveniently close to the time of the arraignment, don’t you think?”

  I nodded.

  ”So if the judge doesn’t cooperate with us tomorrow, hundreds of Kerr’s most vocal critics, namely those people who occupied Sproul, will miss the campus gathering. That’s why I’m going to the Greek Theatre instead. I’d like you to come along. You were with us at Sproul and you might be a student at Berkeley in a couple of years. It’s fine if you’d rather not. But if it’s okay with you, I could come by here around 10:30. Is it a date?”

  Is it a date? I wish! If the arraignment had been at a different time, Gabriel wouldn’t have asked me. This wasn’t a date for real. Not the kind I wanted. “I d-don’t know.”

  He handed me another serving tray. “Yeah, I know, Hope. Bad timing. But I figured you weren’t going to school tomorrow because of your grandfather’s passing, and the shivah service isn’t until the evening. How about I stop by, and you can tell me then? It’s not out of my way.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’d like to see you anyway. If you don’t mind.”

  I leaned toward his hand and took a breath. Did he mean that? Not that it mattered much. Dagmar had already claimed him.

  Still…

  I licked my lips. “I-I’d l-like that,” I said.

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Great!”

  Mrs. Nash made an untimely appearance. Gabriel shoved his hands in his pockets. I dropped a tray.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Monday morning, I woke up three minutes before the 6:30 alarm—the only normal thing I’d done
in the past few days. Dagmar had taped a note to the clock. “Wake me at 6:45.”

  Resting against my pillow, I fixed my eyes on the ceiling and struggled to unravel tangled dreams: Avram with rye bread where his eyes should be; Grandpa at Pearl Harbor with two fingers missing; Gabriel zipping and unzipping his mouth; Dagmar’s feet shrouded in sour cream; Serakh bathed in blue.

  At 6:40, I jostled the lump on Dagmar’s bed.

  The lump mumbled, “What time is it?”

  ”T-t-time to g-g-get up,” I said.

  ”Wake me again in ten minutes.”

  ”I’ll be in the sh-shower.”

  Mumble. Mumble. Mumble.

  Twenty minutes later I collected the clothes Dagmar had worn to the funeral and draped them over the chair. Then I dribbled cold water on my sister’s forehead.

  Her eyes jerked open. “Whoa! That wasn’t very nice!”

  ”B-but euh-fective.” Why didn’t I think of this sooner?

  She bolted into a sitting position. “You haven’t told the parents about the arraignment today, have you?”

  I shook my head.

  ”Good. Gabriel says that the defense lawyers are going to ask the judge for a postponement anyway. We met last night at Garfield Junior High. You would have been so scared, because I know how you hate crowds. It’s a wonder I managed to keep you safe at Sproul Hall. Hundreds of kids, I’m telling you, there must have been a thousand people.”

  ”I thuh-ought you w-went to T-Tilden Park?”

  She arched her back and stretched. “We did that too. But no way was I going to talk about the meeting last night while Mrs. Nosy Nash was around. Remember when I asked you where the Municipal Court Building was?”

  I shrugged. No, actually I didn’t remember.

  ”Well, forget that. There are so many of us that the arraignment is going to be at the Berkeley Community Theater. Isn’t that ironic? Community theater. Gabriel calls this whole thing ‘theater of the absurd.’ I have to borrow five dollars from the dreidel fund. I’m tapped out. You’ll get back every penny, I swear.”