The Living and the Lost

by Ellen Feldman

  “Ten men are required for prayer,” Eddie insisted. “The law says men.”

  “Which law?” Barbara asked.

  There were a variety of answers to that.

  “What do you think, Millie?” Mrs. Gross asked.

  “Of course, she’ll be in favor of it,” Helene said. “She and Barbara, two peas, two Bryn Mawrtyrs, in a pod.”

  “Let her answer,” Mr. Gross said.

  “I don’t know much about Jewish law,” Millie began.

  “See,” Uncle Sol said. “That’s young girls today. They know all kinds of things they shouldn’t know and not what they should.”

  “What shouldn’t we know, Uncle Sol?” Barbara asked.

  “Let Millie finish,” Mrs. Gross insisted.

  “I can’t see why if women worship in the temple, they can’t be included in the number necessary to make up the quo— the minyan.”

  “You see,” Uncle Sol said. “She doesn’t even know how to pronounce it. That’s what will come of letting women in sacred places.”

  Mr. Gross laughed, slapped his brother-in-law on the back, and told him he was full of hot air; Mrs. Gross asked if anyone wanted seconds or thirds; Bobby and both Eddies began to talk about the Eagles; and Millie sat wondering at them. They were an unruly, argumentative bunch, nothing like her own family. Meals in the Mosbach house had been exercises in civility. Politics, art, and social issues had been discussed rather than disputed. Voices had never been raised. Even when the extended family gathered for holidays or went on vacation together, politesse reigned. But Millie wasn’t fooled by all the noise and bickering. These people were clearly in love with one another. She was happy for Barbara. Really she was. But it hurt.

  * * *

  A few weeks later, Rosalind Diamond asked her home for the weekend. Rosalind, who planned to major in Greek and Latin and hoped to go on to graduate school, was, by popular consensus, one of the smartest girls on campus. She looked the part, with wire-rimmed glasses, lank hair she never even tried to curl, and baggy sweaters that camouflaged her body, which, when spied dashing in and out of the showers, was quite lovely. Millie couldn’t get over the feeling that Rosalind worked at being drab. The weekend she went home to Scarsdale with Rosalind she realized why.

  A chauffeur met them at the station with a long black Cadillac. A uniformed maid opened the door for them, took their coats, and when she saw Rosalind’s bulky sweater and shapeless skirt, shook her head, less in disapproval than in sorrow.

  “Your mother’s waiting for you in the living room,” she said. “She’s going to love that,” she added, indicating Rosalind’s outfit.

  Millie followed Rosalind across a large foyer and stepped down into a sunken living room. Two things struck her immediately. The first was that Mrs. Diamond, dressed in a black silk suit with a huge diamond brooch at the throat, must have been a beauty in her day. Seeing Rosalind beside her, Millie recognized the resemblance. Now she was sure that her friend worked at being dowdy.

  The second was that there wasn’t a single book or painting in view. There were bookshelves. They supported various china and glass knickknacks. The framed pictures on the walls were photographs of Mrs. Diamond dressed in fashionable suits and gowns at various lunches and dinners, a man Millie supposed was Mr. Diamond holding a golf club and waving from the deck of a boat and posing with other men—the pictures with other men were signed—and two boys playing tennis and riding horses and perched on the hoods or behind the wheels of expensive cars. There were photographs of Rosalind too, looking as if she’d wandered into the frame by mistake.

  To give Mrs. Diamond credit, she waited until she thought Millie was out of hearing to ask Rosalind what on earth she’d been thinking when she put on that outfit.

  Mr. Diamond’s approach was more affectionate, if totally oblivious of who his daughter was. Rosalind’s mother knew the girl she was dealing with. Her father hadn’t a clue. He called her Princess, teased her about how the phone had been ringing off the hook all week with her brothers’ friends who’d heard she was coming home, and bragged to Millie about how many awards she’d won in school. He didn’t seem to know what they were for, but he did take pride in them.

  After dinner, Mr. Diamond left for his regular Friday night poker game and Mrs. Diamond brought out the big guns. First she talked about a friend of Rosalind’s from school, her own friend’s daughter, and a cousin of Rosalind’s, all of whom had gotten engaged since Rosalind had last been home.

  “How nice.” Rosalind’s voice sounded like a recording of an announcer trying to reassure the public that the fire was under control and there was no reason to panic.

  “How do you think I feel?” Mrs. Diamond asked.

  “Happy for them?”

  “Don’t be impertinent, Rosalind. You know what I mean. I can barely hold up my head.”

  “Because your daughter’s a failure?”

  “That’s not what they say to my face, but that’s what they think. I will not be pitied. The rest of my life is in order. More than in order. Everyone envies my home, my clothes, my successful husband, my two handsome, popular sons.”

  “Everything but your unhandsome, unpopular daughter.”

  “You wouldn’t be either if you just made an effort.” She turned to Millie. The woman had an uncanny ability to point with her chin.

  “You live with her, Millie.”

  “Actually, we’re in different dorms.”

  “Can’t you do something?” Mrs. Diamond went on as if Millie hadn’t spoken. “Can’t you help her with her clothes?” Her eyes wandered up and down Millie. “That’s a perfectly acceptable sweater set. Can’t you get her to wear makeup?”

  “No, Mother, she can’t.”

  “And that school doesn’t help. I know the motto. ‘Only our failures marry.’”

  “It isn’t a motto,” Rosalind said. “It’s a joke. Kind of. And the line is our failures only marry.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “It’s not the same thing at all,” Rosalind said, but her mother turned to Millie again.

  “What about you, Millie? Are you planning to stay all four years? Like my impossible daughter?”

  “If I can.”

  “What do your—” Mrs. Diamond stopped abruptly. She didn’t put her hand over her mouth, but she looked as if she’d like to.

  “Millie’s parents are still in Germany, Mother. I told you that.

  “I hope it wasn’t too awful for you,” Rosalind said when she walked Millie to her room that night.

  “It wasn’t awful for me. I was just an innocent bystander.”

  “That didn’t stop you from getting caught in the crossfire. But thanks for being here. Impossible as it is to imagine, she runs at me even harder when we’re alone. Tonight she was on good behavior.” She started to turn away, then pivoted back to Millie. “The worst part is sometimes I think she’s right. Maybe I’m tilting at windmills. Maybe I ought to give up and marry the next candidate she comes up with. I don’t fool myself that I’m so desirable, but my father’s money is. Does the world really need another classics scholar? And even if it does, I’m not sure I’m equal to the job. Even if I’m smart enough, and I’m not sure I am, I don’t think I’m strong enough to withstand her.”

  “The entire school knows you’re smart enough. And if you weren’t strong enough, you wouldn’t have made it this far. How did you manage to get your application past her in the first place?”

  Rosalind smiled. “You’re right. She goes through all my drawers. I kept it hidden at school.”

  Millie felt sorry for Rosalind, whose brilliance, she admitted, she’d always envied a little. But something else about the weekend troubled her more than Rosalind’s plight. She didn’t realize what it was until she was back on campus in her own world, away from the big house and the ostentatious furnishings and the servants. It had to do with all those things, and Rosalind’s mother’s obsession with appearance, and her father’s weekly p
oker game, and her brothers who spent their time riding horses and playing tennis and driving fast cars. The world didn’t care. Even other Jews didn’t care. Her mother and father and little sister were enduring unimaginable hardship, if they were alive, and no one gave a damn.

  * * *

  Then several weeks later, on a warm evening in May, the world righted itself, almost. She was in the library studying for her anthropology exam when she looked up and saw Russell Bennett striding down the line of carrels toward her. The white envelope in his hand glowed like a pale moon in the dimly lit Gothic expanse. It couldn’t be anything else. She jumped up and began running to meet him. Heads turned as she went. No one ran in the library.

  When she reached him, he held the envelope out to her.

  Mr. David Mosbach

  Miss Meike Mosbach

  c/o Mr. Russell Bennett

  She’d know that handwriting anywhere. She tore open the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper. Her hands were shaking as her eye raced over the words. She could barely make them out in this gloom, or rather could barely believe them. She glanced around for an empty carrel where she could read the letter in the light. They were all taken. She hurried back down the line to the one where she’d been sitting, shoved her books and notes aside, spread the letter out in the circle of light cast by the lamp, and bent over it. Her eyes raced through the words again, then returned to the top and read more slowly.

  My dearest children,

  Just a line to let you know we are safe, so there is no need to worry. We are living in a small town in the east.

  She noticed he didn’t say the name of the town. He didn’t even say the east of Germany or farther east.

  I am employed in a factory. Your dear mother is too. You would be proud to see what a game she makes of it. We both do. Sarah does her part as well. So you see there is no need to worry about us.

  The important thing, my dear children, is not to lose hope. This cannot go on forever, or even much longer. We will be together again soon. I am certain of that. You must trust and believe it too. Your dear mama and little sister send their love.

  With love from your loving papa.

  Only after she read it through a third time did she notice the date at the top. January 10, 1939.

  She looked over at Russ Bennett, who’d been lingering a little distance away while she read, stood, and led him out of the reading room into the cloisters.

  “This was written four months ago,” she said.

  “These are unsettled times,” he explained. “I’m amazed it got through at all.”

  “Do you think they’re still all right?”

  He took a moment to answer. “Four months is not such a long time.”

  “Did you tell David?”

  “It’s addressed to the two of you. I didn’t want to open it. And there’s no return address so I couldn’t be sure. I’ll call him as soon as I get home.”

  “Read it to him.” She started to hand him the letter, then thought better of it. “Can you wait for a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  She went back into the library, returned to her carrel, and tore out a blank page from her notebook. Then she copied her father’s letter onto it, put the original in the pocket of her skirt, and went back to the cloisters. Russ was leaning on a balustrade, smoking a cigarette. She handed him the piece of paper from her notebook.

  “Here’s a copy for you to read to David. I had to keep the original.”

  “Of course,” he said again. Then he did something he never should have. He reached an arm around her shoulders for comfort. The dam broke. She began to cry. Not a silent shedding of tears in the spring darkness but a series of wrenching sobs that convulsed her body and echoed out over the campus. The few girls who’d come out to the cloisters for a breath of air or a cigarette hurried back inside. No one came over to ask if she was all right. They knew she wasn’t. Part of her was embarrassed. Part of her didn’t give a damn. They were alive.

  * * *

  She’d been sure she’d flunk the anthropology exam. She came through with flying colors. The letter crackling in her pocket every time she moved was a shot of pure adrenaline. They were alive.

  * * *

  When Millie had started school the previous fall, Lydia Bennett had predicted that her German education overqualified her for an American college. “But if you find you’re bored,” she’d said, “you can petition to sign up for advanced courses.” Lydia hadn’t been entirely wrong. Millie had done more reading, amassed more facts, and knew more languages than most of her classmates. But in another sense, she was totally unprepared. In Germany, she’d sat taking dutiful notes while great men droned on, force-feeding anointed truths and outright prejudices. Here professors questioned and girls answered and questioned back, everyone debated and no one was afraid. Occasionally, when opinions clashed, she remembered the day at the Lyzeum when the teacher had passed out single-edged razors and the class had cut the beating Jewish heart out of German history. This school was not a killing ground of truth. It was a hothouse of learning, protected by a bubble of privilege, nurtured by a bevy of professorial gardeners. She respected most of them; she adored Miss Albright.

  Miss Albright wasn’t really a Miss. She was married to Professor Rouget, who taught modern European history. Though she would never say as much to anyone, Millie had noticed something about the male professors on campus. They strode the walkways and taught their classes and accepted invitations to tea at the Deanery and meals in the dorms with a certain arrogance. How could they not have felt superior with all those scrubbed young faces, some quite lovely even to a middle-aged professor, especially to a middle-aged professor, turned up to them in eagerness. But the other side of that coin of haughtiness was an aura of shame. They couldn’t quite understand how they’d ended up teaching in a women’s college, no matter how excellent a women’s college, when their colleagues were opening the minds and shaping the characters of the future leaders of the world at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. Professor Rouget wasn’t as bad as most of them. Millie thought that was Miss Albright’s fault, or achievement.

  Miss Albright had refused to take Professor Rouget’s name when they married. That, some of the girls whispered, was the least of it. Before they’d come to Bryn Mawr, Miss Albright and Professor Rouget had lived together. Without benefit of clergy, the fastidious whispered. In sin, the bolder girls declared. They’d had to marry, not for the usual reason—they had no children—but because the college had made it a condition of hiring them. Nonetheless a few girls on campus refused to take Miss Albright’s courses, despite the fact that she was now an honest woman, as the phrase went. The parents of one student who had signed up for her seminar on the Victorian novel forced their daughter to take Mr. Collins’s course in Romantic poetry instead.

  Millie had no fear of contamination by Miss Albright. She had only admiration for her quick mind, crinkly red-haired beauty, and irreverence. Miss Albright seemed to return a certain regard. Perhaps it was Millie’s European background. Sometimes at tea with three or four girls, Miss Albright would hold forth on Sinclair Lewis and his view of small-town America. The day the seminar discussed Middlemarch, Miss Albright went on talking to Millie afterward all the way across campus, and when they arrived at Rhoads, she seemed surprised. “I guess I got carried away,” she said as she turned to retrace her steps toward the off-campus apartment she shared with Professor Rouget. Millie walked on air for weeks.

  Miss Albright encouraged Millie to go out for The College News, and when at the end of her junior year she was made editor in chief, Miss Albright took her to dinner at the College Inn to celebrate, no other students, no Professor Rouget, just the two of them. They sat across the starched white tablecloth from each other in the flickering candlelight and talked about books and Millie’s future and Miss Albright’s past. The rumors about her and Professor Rouget before they married were true, and Millie was both shocked and intrigued. The women s
he looked up to were admirable. Her chic, gracious mother, of course, but her mother had always made it clear how important it was to play by the rules. Lydia Bennett had gone to jail for breaking rules, but that was for a cause. Miss Albright had flouted convention for her own convictions and pleasures, not society’s betterment.

  “I told you about my past for a reason,” Miss Albright said when they’d finished their sweetbreads, the waiter had taken away their plates, and the candles had burnt low, though the light still made Miss Albright’s fiery hair, which insisted on escaping from her chignon, spark in the softly lit room. “Do you remember the line in Middlemarch, near the beginning, where Sir James says to Celia, ‘your sister is given to self-mortification’?”

  Millie nodded.

  “Sometimes I see a bit of Dorothea in you, Millie, and that worries me. She’s wonderful on the page, but that’s partly because her blindness and self-sacrifice make us want to scream at her. Open your eyes, Dorothea. Stop punishing yourself. Stop pushing pleasure away.”

  Millie was stunned. “I’m not punishing myself. If anything, I have more pleasure than I deserve.”

  Miss Albright smiled and shook her head. “That’s what I mean. In this world, there is no such thing as more pleasure than anyone deserves.”

  * * *