Margot: A Novel (27 page)

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“Robertson . . . What kind of an idiot do you take me for?”
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My heart thuds rapidly in my chest as Shelby shoots me a
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nervous look. We have been discovered, Joshua and I. I begin
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to sweat, to shake a little. I might vomit. I close my eyes, and
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I feel the roughness of hands against my neck.
There are no
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hands.
Not here. Not now. But still, I feel them, dragging me
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down the steps, bruising every single bone along the way, yet
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I could not cry out.
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I will not cry out, not here. Not at my desk.
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“Margie,” Shelby whispers. “Margie, what’s wrong?”
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It is an effort to breathe. In and out. In and out. In and out.
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“No,” Joshua’s voice booms back, unexpected. “I’m not
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going to drop it.” There is more yelling, more words I can’t
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make out. I inhale, exhale. The hand grabs my neck.
No, it
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doesn’t.
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“Yes, you are,” Ezra yells. “I’m your boss, and you’ll do as
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I say.”
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“Is that all you are,” Joshua yells, “my boss?” There is quiet
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for a moment, and I feel even through the walls that I can
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hear the heavy sounds of Joshua and his father breathing.
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Then, more muffled words I cannot understand.
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Joshua’s door flies open, and he is standing there, at the
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entryway, breathing hard. He looks to me, then Shelby, then
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back to me. “Margie,” he says loud enough for a few of the
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other lawyers to walk to the edge of their offices to stare at
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him. “I’m leaving.”
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Shelby stares at me hard and shakes her head a little. I can
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feel her panic gripping me across the desk.
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“Will you come with me?” Joshua asks. His gray-green
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eyes break on my face, and he says my name, his voice soften
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ing: “Margie?”
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Shelby shakes her head again, and her eyes, they remind
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me of Ilsa’s now, ripe with worry.
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I clutch my satchel from underneath my desk, and some
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how, I’m not sure how, I stand up. I look at Joshua. His eyes
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catch mine, and they are filled with something, or a combina
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tion of somethings: sadness or anger, mixed with excitement.
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“Margie, sit down,” Shelby whispers just as Ezra walks out
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of Joshua’s office and looks to me, then Joshua. Ezra doesn’t
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say anything, but his face is even redder than before. He
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clenches his fists tightly at his sides, and he stares hard at
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Joshua. His eyes are green, I see now, greener than Joshua’s.
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Joshua breaks his gaze and looks at me again.
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“Come on,” he says to me gently, and he nods in the direc
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tion of the elevator.
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I walk behind him, feeling the weight of Ezra’s green eyes
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and Shelby’s brown ones, as if both of them, they are burning
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holes through the back of my sweater.
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Once the elevator doors shut Joshua exhales. And then so do
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I, letting out breath I did not even realize I’d been holding.
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“Thank you,” Joshua whispers to me. But I do not answer
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him because I am thinking that we have been discovered, and
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we have escaped, and yet I can feel my fingers trembling. I
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tighten their grip on the strap of my satchel.
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I realize now that I do not know, where it is we are going,
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that I may have just quit my job, and that if I am not getting
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a steady paycheck, I will not be able to continue to pay my
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rent. But I still cannot speak.
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“I’m sorry it happened like that,” Joshua is saying, “but I
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would’ve asked you to come anyway, you know, when I left
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this place? I don’t think I can work without you anymore,
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Margie.”
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I don’t think I can be without you anymore.
No, that is not
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what he said. Work. Work without me. This is all about work.
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“Okay,” I finally say, and the word sounds hollow, far away, in
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my voice.
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The elevator pulls us down, down, down, slowly, gently.
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We have been discovered, and we are escaping, in such an
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American way. No rough hands on the back of my neck, no
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bruised shins bumping against the staircase. We float down
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in an elevator, unscathed.
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“I guess you’re wondering what happened in there?” I real
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ize Joshua is still talking, and maybe I have missed some of
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what he’s been saying. I nod, though I think it is fairly clear
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what happened. “My father played golf with Robert Robert
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son, and Robertson mentioned seeing the ad in the
Inquirer
a
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few weeks ago. My father is a smart guy. He put two and two
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together.” Joshua laughs drily. “I guess my father figured there
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could not be two Mickey Mouse lawyers in this city wanting
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to form a group litigation against Robertson.”
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The elevator falls slowly and comes to a stop. “You’re not a
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Mickey Mouse lawyer,” I say.
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“I know,” he says. “But my father sure thinks I am.”
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The elevator doors open, and Joshua and I step out into
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the lobby. I stop by the sandwich cart, mainly because I am
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unsure exactly where we are going, and Joshua seems to be
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walking slowly, as if in a dream. He stares at me and shakes
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his head. “I finally did it, didn’t I? I told my father the truth
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about what I want to do with my life.”
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“The truth?” I say, and my voice escapes in a whisper, as
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if that word, it is so foreign to me now, I can barely compre
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hend its meaning.
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“That I don’t want to defend murderers, that I don’t want
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to work for him. It felt good. It felt really, really damn good.”
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He pauses. “You know what? I think my mother would be
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proud.”
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The truth.
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Joshua is still talking, his voice bubbling with excitement.
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He is saying something about finding an office, or maybe
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starting out of his home, about how he will build something
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from the ground up, how we both will, together.
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Together.
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“Joshua.” I say his name, and he stops talking and smiles
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at me. His gray-green eyes catch in the sallow light of the
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lobby. They are so full of life and American entitlement. His
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truth, it is so easy. I put my hand to my mouth, realizing I
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have just called him by his first name out loud, the way I do
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so often in my head. But he doesn’t seem to notice.
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“Don’t worry, Margie,” he says, grabbing my hand. “I’ll
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make sure you still get paid. And once things get off the
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ground, and you get certified as a paralegal, we’ll really make
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a run of it, you and I.”
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“Okay,” I say. He drops my hand, and then he raises his
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own hand, as if he is about to touch my cheek, to trace it with
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his finger, the way Peter once did, only he stops just short and
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then instead reaches and slowly tucks a brown curl behind
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my ear.
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“Thank you,” he repeats, letting his hand linger by my
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cheek. “For coming with me. For believing in me. It means so
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much, Margie. I can’t even tell you how much. Really.”
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I nod. “Joshua.” I say his name again. And it is right there,
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on the tip of my tongue. The skin has peeled itself back, and
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so easily, I could say it.
Joshua, I am not Margie Franklin. I am
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not a Gentile. I want to come with you, but I do not know if I
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can help you with your case, you see, because I too, I am a vic-
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tim of Jew haters. Only, I do not even like thinking this word—
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“victim”—much less saying it, out loud.
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Joshua is so close to me, I can feel his breath on my face,
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and his fingertip, it traces the outline of my cheek now, gently.
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“Margie,” he whispers, and I have the strangest feeling that
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he is about to kiss me.
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“Mr. Rosenstein!” A familiar voice shouts Joshua’s name,
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from the bottom of the stairwell, just on the other side of the
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elevator. I look up, and Shelby is standing there, gasping for
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breath, so I know she has just run down the seven flights of
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steps. Her pale freckled forehead is shining with sweat.
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Joshua moves his hand away from my face, turns toward
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her, and frowns.
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“Mr. Rosenstein,” she shouts again.
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“What is it, Miss McKinney?” It is hard to tell whether he
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is confused or annoyed, or a little of both.
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“It’s your father,” she says, gasping for breath. “I’ve called
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for an ambulance.”
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It takes Joshua a moment to process what Shelby is saying,
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and when he does, he turns and runs, without hesitation. He
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presses the elevator button hard, over and over again, and
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then gives up and runs for the stairs.
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Shelby walks toward me. Her face is beaming red, her
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hands shaking. I reach out for one of her hands, and we walk
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toward the elevator holding on to each other.
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“What happened?” I whisper.
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“I don’t know,” she says, and her voice trembles. “He just
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collapsed. He was standing there, and then he was on the
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floor, and I couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.” She gets
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the words out, as if she is choking on them, in between tears.
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“Oh my God,” she is saying. “Oh my God.”
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I think about the look on Joshua’s face as he ran, as he
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pushed the elevator button, over and over again. And I know
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that Joshua loves his father. Even with everything else. Ezra
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is his father, and he loves him. Of course he does.
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“It’ll be okay,” I tell Shelby as we step into the elevator, and
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it rises again. “Everything will be fine.” But inside, I feel the
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same as when I held on so tightly to my sister’s hand, standing
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in line at the camp.
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It’s just a little ink. It’s nothing,
I told her.
Don’t scream,
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don’t cry, don’t be afraid. Keep your head down and your voice
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low. Keep moving forward, do as they say. Everything will be
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fine.
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Chap
ter
Thirty-ni
ne
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After the ambulance has taken Ezra and Joshua away,
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Shelby and I sit across from each other at our desks, staring
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at each other but not saying anything for what feels like a long
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while. I wonder if it is okay for me to be sitting here after I
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have quit, though I realize all I have done is taken the elevator
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down with Joshua and then back up with Shelby, and besides,
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with Ezra now riding in the ambulance, I do not think there
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will be anyone else here who would ask me to leave.
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Shelby’s fingers twitch in the air, until finally she fumbles
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through her bag for a cigarette. She tosses the pack of Kents to
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me, and I hesitate for a moment before taking a cigarette out.
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Shelby always says smoking relaxes her, so maybe I should try it.
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Normally, the girls don’t smoke inside the office, just some
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of the lawyers. But with Ezra being pulled out on a stretcher,
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and Joshua leaving with him, it seems as if all decorum has
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been suddenly thrown away.
I clutch tightly to the cigarette and notice that my hands
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too, they are shaking. I put it loosely in my mouth and lean
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forward to catch on Shelby’s lighter, and then I feel smoke
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burning in my lungs, as if I am running too hard, too far, too
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fast. I have had enough, and I crush the cigarette out in the
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empty coffee cup on Shelby’s desk, which she is using as an
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ashtray.
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Shelby takes another drag on her cigarette, leans back in
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her chair, and closes her eyes. “I’ve never seen it before,” she
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whispers, after a little while.
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“What?” I ask her.
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“Death. So close, right in front of me. Just like that.” I nod.
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“Have you?”
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Now I close my eyes, and I can feel the weight of my sis
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ter’s small hand, holding on to me, on the train. Mrs. van
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Pels, naked and small and without her rabbit fur. Mother,
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whispering to me at night in the camp, her breath rattling in
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her chest. “No,” I lie. “I haven’t.”
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“Oh, Margie, it was awful. I don’t know how Peg does it
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all the time. I could never be a nurse like her.” She shakes her
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head and blows a funnel of smoke in my direction. “And Mr.
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Rosenstein, he’s such a big, powerful man. You just don’t
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imagine him falling like that, you know?”
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I nod, though in my head, I am revising slightly my image
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of Pim, coming straight from the camp after it was liberated
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to the Prinsengracht. Why have I always imagined him as the
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Pim I knew in the annex, still strong, with broad shoulders
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and girth much like Ezra Rosenstein? The Pim straight from
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the camp must’ve been a smaller man, broken, skeletal. I try
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to make the image come that way, but I cannot, no matter
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how hard I try to force it.
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The clock by the elevator strikes noon, and Shelby
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squashes her cigarette in the coffee cup and stands up. “I’m
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going to the hospital to see what’s going on,” she says to me.
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“You coming?”
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I think about Joshua’s face, as he stood there, in the lobby.
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I cannot be without you anymore, Margie.
No,
work. Work
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without you.
But I imagine Joshua, like Shelby, has never
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stood so close to death before. And then he rode there, all the
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way to the hospital in the ambulance, with his father.
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“Yes,” I tell her, standing up, grabbing my satchel. “Of
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course.”
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Shelby and I ride the bus together up Market Street, toward
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the University of Pennsylvania Hospital, where I wonder if
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Peggy is on duty. I hope she is, because she is caring and
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assured and the kind of nurse who brings real comfort.
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Shelby is quiet, which is so un-Shelby-like that I turn to
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look at her several times, just to check if she has fallen asleep.
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But she is still there, her shoulder bouncing next to mine
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on the city bus, her gaze straight ahead, serious, trancelike.
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I keep expecting her to ask me what happened, just
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before, when I followed Joshua down in the elevator, but she
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does not.
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I turn and look out the window at the city blurring by me.
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Then I shut my eyes for a second, and all I can see is Pim,
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Pim, Pim. And not the way he is now, an old man about to
turn seventy, living in Switzerland with a new wife, a lot of
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money, and, I imagine, a mountain-high pile of correspon
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dence about the book he published. No. I picture him the way
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he was then, in the annex, when sometimes he would look at
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me, seeming defeated, and I would want to hug him, just to
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inflate him again. I would want to hug him and tell him he had
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done so much to keep us safe. He had done so much. For me.
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I was the one the Germans wanted,
I might have told him.
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You could’ve given me away. But you didn’t.
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I never told him this, though.
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One time in the annex—it was night—and everyone was
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sleeping, even Peter. I got up from the divan in his room to
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tiptoe back downstairs, but then I saw Pim, awake, just sit
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ting there in the front room staring at the wall.
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“Margot,” he whispered, not noticing me until I stood
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there, right in front of him. “You’re not sleeping.”
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“Neither are you,” I pointed out.
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“But you are still a growing girl. You need your sleep, Bub
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beleh.” He hadn’t used his pet name for me in so long that I’d
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almost forgotten it had existed. And then there he was, saying
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it again—“Bubbeleh”—the word hanging in the stillness of
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night in the annex. His voice was warmth, and it captured
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me. He patted the space next to him, and I sat down there.
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I laid my head against his shoulder. He had strong, broad
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shoulders, even then. “I could sleep here, maybe,” I whis
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pered, because suddenly I was so very tired. I remembered
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what it felt like to want to find sleep, in the darkness. I
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remembered what it felt like when night had once been my
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friend, not my enemy.
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“Go ahead,” Pim whispered into my hair. “Close your eyes.
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I will keep you safe.”
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“Pim,” I whispered, my voice tracing a circle in the dark
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ness. “I love you.”
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“I love you too, Bubbeleh,” he whispered back.
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This memory is so distant, so hard to keep clear in my
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brain. Every so often I find it, and I try to keep it close to me.
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But as quickly as it comes to me, it fades away again. Too
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much has happened since then, to both of us.
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Mostly now I can imagine Pim there, after the war, stand
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ing at the door to the office at 263 Prinsengracht, his heart
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full with the hardest and roundest of emotions: hope. I imag
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ine Miep handed him the diaries once, and at first he refused
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them. “No,” he would’ve told her, handing them back to her.
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“My girls will be back.”
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And then he waited, and he waited, and he waited.
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“Otto,” Miep’s kind, small voice would’ve said to him as
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she placed her tiny hand on his shoulder. “Take the diaries.
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Read them. They are something.”
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“I tried to save them, and I failed,” Pim might have said,
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tears perched in his brown eyes.
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“There was nothing you could do,” Miep would’ve told
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him. “You did everything you could. You kept them safe for
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years.”
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“But it wasn’t enough,” Pim might have said. “Both of my
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girls, gone.”
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“Take the books.”
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He took them.
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Nothing can’t mean something,
Mother had said, of the ink.
But Pim, his eyes saw the world so much differently than
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Mother’s, everything in opposite. Pim would’ve said it like
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this:
Something can’t mean nothing.
Or:
Someone can’t mean
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nothing. Two someones can’t mean nothing.
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Oh, Pim.
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“What did you say?” Shelby asks me, finally speaking as
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the bus has stopped a block from the hospital, and she stands
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to get off.
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“Hmm?” I murmur.
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“You were just saying something?”
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“No.” I shake my head. “I wasn’t saying anything.”
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“Yes,” she said. “You were talking about a pin.”
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“Oh, that,” I say, and I can’t believe I have thought about
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him so much that I have spoken his name, out loud, acciden
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tally. “Don’t worry about it,” I tell Shelby. “It was nothing.”
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Chapter Forty
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Shelby and I walk through the wide emergency
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entrance of the University of Pennsylvania Hospital, with our
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arms linked, but not the way they are when Shelby, skipping,
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pulls me toward the bar. Now it is as if we are holding each
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other up. We are tied together, pulling each other’s weight,
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like sisters.
No,
I remind myself,
friends.
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Shelby has been here before to visit Peg, and she leads me
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straight to the emergency area nurses’ station, where Peg
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works. The waiting area surrounding the station is crowded,
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and I briefly look around and see a young woman bleeding
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from her arm and a small child crying at her feet. My stom