The Sisters Weiss (41 page)

Hannah had had mixed feelings about that. To her, the photos looked like one long search for Rivka. “I’m so happy for you, Mom. You absolutely deserve it.”

“Can you put the date of the opening down on your calendar?”

“Wait a sec. Let me just get a pen.” She opened her day planner, cradling the phone between her neck and chin: “Shoot.”

“The exhibit will be running the whole month, starting on June sixth. The gala is that evening. Get a cocktail dress and bring a boyfriend in a tux.”

“The former is possible and likely, the latter is neither.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, Mom, I’ve got work to do. Talk to you later.” Her mother’s words rankled. When she went back to her cubicle in the reading room, the book was gone.

Damn it!

She looked around the table and underneath it and on either side.

“I’m sorry, but are you looking for this?”

He was tall and very slim, with sandy-brown hair and gray-blue eyes that were bright and intelligent. He had a small trimmed beard and a mustache that looked very nineteenth-century, or very cool, depending on how you looked at such things.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I saw it laying here and wasn’t sure you were coming back.”

“Do you need it?”

“No, no. I’ve got it at home. I was just looking something up. Wonderful book. If this kind of material interests you, I can recommend a few others.”

“This kind of material?”

“Oh, um, Jewish women writers of the enlightenment. You know, in Hebrew there is no word for enlightened women, only enlightened men: maskil. But now there is a whole group of mostly female scholars who have discovered numerous overlooked women writers, poets, and essayists who were enlightened intellectuals that participated fully in the renaissance of Jewish writing and political movements of the nineteenth century. They’ve even invented a term for them: maskilot.”

Someone shushed him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “We’d better go outside.”

She followed him out of the building, suddenly noticing the skullcap on the back of his head.

“I haven’t introduced myself. I’m David Adler. I’m a doctoral student in Hebrew literature.”

“Here?” She had no idea NYU had such a program.

“No. Harvard. But I did my master’s here at Skirball. When I come in from Boston to see my dad, I like to use the library here.”

“I’m just a lowly first-year master’s student in the history department, concentrating on women’s studies. My name is Hannah Weiss Gordon.” She looked for a flicker of recognition, an intake of breath that would precede, “Ah, the famous photographer’s daughter!”

There wasn’t any.

He put out his hand.

She smiled, taking it. “So, you shake hands with women?”

He laughed, adjusting his skullcap. “Whenever I have the pleasure and opportunity,” he said. “So, what are you researching?”

“I’m fascinated by early women writers of Hebrew.”

His eyes went wide with surprise. “Me too! I actually fell into this whole subject. I was working on a translation of Yehuda Leib Gordon’s poem ‘Tip of the Letter Yud,’ trying to understand where his feminism and support for women came from. That opened up the door to his correspondence with the writer Miriam Markel-Mosessohn, and then I just started researching the rest of these women writers. I have boundless admiration for them! First, the men denied them an education out of piety. And then, when women managed to educate themselves, they refused to recognize their talents.

“I have a special place in my heart for the writer Sarah Foner. When other writers of the enlightenment were throwing their faith out the window, she didn’t understand why a person couldn’t be enlightened and devout; why secular and sacred knowledge couldn’t coexist peacefully. Too bad so many of her writings have been lost.”

“I actually came across something about her on the Internet,” Hannah said. “I think her great-grandnephew, Morris Rosenthal, has published her writings in translation.”

“I’ve read his book! But he only has the first half of her novel—the first one a woman ever wrote in the Hebrew language. The second half apparently never got published because some enlightened hotshot-male-chauvinist critic blasted it so badly.” He shook his head. “She died in nineteen thirty-six in Pittsburgh. I wish I could find out what happened to her papers and manuscripts.”

“Yes, so do I!”

“Well, I have actually been doing a bit of research on that subject…”

“Really…?”

They found their way to an off-campus coffee shop.

“You said you came in to visit your dad?”

“My mom died a few years back, and he took it very hard. He tends to be a bit of a recluse. He’s an archaeologist and not in the country for months on end, so whenever he gets back to New York, I make it a point to come see him.”

“I lost my dad when I was ten. My mom is also never home.”

They talked nonstop, until the light outside faded and hours passed without their even feeling it. Finally, she looked up.

“I can’t believe the time!”

Her words seemed to jog him out of some trance. He looked startled as he glanced at his watch. “It can’t have been that long!” He smiled. “And I have so much more I wanted to talk to you about…”

“When are you going back to Boston?” she asked, feeling suddenly shy.

“Monday morning. Perhaps we could meet Saturday night, and then again on Sunday…?”

They smiled at each other.

He paid the check, then held open the door for her.

She felt a small “ping” in her heart as she walked beside him, their arms gently brushing against each other.

“To be continued…” she said as they reached the subway entrance.

“Here, take my card.”

“You have a card?”

He chuckled. “My niece had this project in Hebrew school to raise money for some charity or other by selling business cards, and she talked me into ordering them for myself. Look at the title.”

She laughed. It said, DAVID ADLER: BUTCHER, BAKER, CANDLESTICK MAKER.

She tore some paper from a notebook, writing down her number. He studied it, then took out his cell phone and jabbed it in. “I tend to lose papers,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to lose this.”

She actually blushed.

39

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, June 6, 2011

The gala opening of her exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a glittering affair. Everyone Rose had ever known in the business was there: every important photographer, all her late husband’s journalist friends, all the people who had helped her and supported her along her difficult journey surrounded her with love, cheering her achievements in a meaningful way.

As she wandered around the crowded hall, she felt humbled by the accolades and excited by the interest and appreciation in the eyes of all those beholding her latest work. There was something special about this collection, she acknowledged. Far from being carbon copies of each other, the faces of the women with Muslim and Jewish head coverings and modest dresses were cast in fine relief by the sameness of their dress, the very drabness and uniformity of their outfits making the individuality in their eyes and expressions stand out that much more clearly: the struggle of the new Haredi mother to get a carriage on a crowded bus, the hands reaching out to help her; the suspicious stare of the pious matron guarding her world from outsiders; the natural curiosity of a charming toddler covered up in tights and a long skirt. The Muslim schoolgirls deep in avid conversations on a Jordanian bus. There were no clichés here, she thought. Each person was a world unto herself, a special world, a secret world, which each photo pried open like an oyster just enough to give the viewer a true glimpse of the beauty that rested within. It was her best work ever.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hannah!” She hugged her, then pulled back, looking her over appreciatively. Her dress was lovely, sparkling with black sequins that shone as delicately as the evening sky. “You look beautiful.”

“Mom, this is David.”

Rose looked him over, pleasantly surprised. He was nothing like Hannah’s usual choice in men. He looked clean, studious, and respectable in his tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches. For some reason, she was glad he hadn’t worn a tuxedo. It showed character.

“And this is his father, Joseph.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gordon. I’m embarrassed to say that as an absentminded-professor type, I’d never heard of your work. The exhibition is a marvel.”

He was a tall man with a shock of graying hair and blue eyes that were searching and intelligent. He looked distinguished and cosmopolitan in his dark suit.

“Thank you so much! I’m always happy to make new fans. Would you excuse me a minute?”

She took Hannah over to a corner. “What are you doing!”

“Dr. Adler is an archaeologist and a professor at Sarah Lawrence,” Hannah said, trying and failing not to sound like Yenta the Matchmaker. “He’s a widower, loves to travel…”

Rose shook her head. “I don’t believe this.” But then she smiled. “And this David of yours, is it serious?”

She blushed. “I hope so.”

Rose leaned over and kissed her as they returned to the two men.

“Please, won’t you both have some wine?”

“They only eat kosher food, and the wine here isn’t kosher,” Hannah said, sounding not only respectful, but knowledgeable.

It was then Rose noticed the skullcaps. She expected to cringe, but, instead, a strange calm washed over her.

“But you can have the cocktails. Liquor doesn’t have the same restrictions as wine, right? I know all about kashrus.” She smiled, saying the word with a heavy Yiddish inflection. “I’ve had an interesting past, you see.”

“I look forward to an opportunity to discuss it with you, Mrs. Gordon,” Joseph said sincerely, extending his hand.

She stared at it, startled. It was large and brown and worn, covered with rough patches and tiny scars.

“Please, call me Rose,” she said, placing her hand in his and smiling back shyly, also sincere.

She hugged Hannah again, before being overtaken and inundated by her hostess/star duties for the rest of the evening.

The next day, wanting to view the photos again in peace and quiet, she headed down to the exhibit in the late afternoon, after the lunchtime visitors had left and before the scheduled tour of the docent. In front of the photo of a little girl with smiling, curious eyes stood a young woman with thick, shoulder-length blond hair.

Rose held her breath. She had been disappointed so many times in the past, her longing and guilt providing so many mirages and false leads, each ending in heartbreak. But as she took some tentative steps forward, the woman turned around to face her.

“Aunt Rose!” Rivka said, smiling.

Rose stared at her silently. The face was the same, but the eyes were older now, the mouth firmer and less vulnerable. The long hair had been cut, but not shorn. She no longer looked like a child. She wore dark pants pilling at the cuffs and a worn pink sweater.

“Rivka? Is that really you?”

“Yes, it’s me.” Her smile was joyous.

Rose felt herself drowning in complex emotions that made her heart beat faster and her throat ache as she held back tears of anger and gratitude. “We’ve looked everywhere for you for years.”

“Really?” She seemed genuinely surprised. “Why?”

“How can you even ask that! Because we were worried sick! Because we felt responsible.”

“I guess sometimes a person can’t make a right decision that will please everyone. I thought for certain my leaving would be a big relief to you and Hannah, and even my parents. Anyhow, I took all those things you said to me in your office that morning to heart, especially the part about me taking responsibility for myself. You were so right.”

Rose felt her anger drain. “If you only knew how many times I’ve played that conversation over in my head, wishing with all my heart I had kept my mouth shut!”

“But why, Aunt Rose? You only said the truth. I was a spoiled brat, living in a dream world where I could break things and someone else would paste them back together for me. I was rebelling, but I wasn’t willing to pay the price for it. You were very kind to me, as was Hannah. I had to grow up sometime.”

“So, where are you living? What are you doing?” Rose asked, reaching out to touch her, still half in shock, afraid she’d disappear.

“I live in Brooklyn, in one of those apartments that haven’t been fixed up since nineteen ten, when the greeners moved in straight from Ellis Island.” She laughed. “But the street is slowly getting farpootzt.”

Rose smiled. “I think the word is ‘gentrified.’”

“That too. They have these little boutiques selling overpriced schmattes, and bars and coffeehouses. I waitress in one of them. Tuesday afternoons I have off. I like to go to the city and look around like when I was a teenager.” She opened her huge handbag. “I bought myself a camera. It’s old, but very good.” She handed it to Rose.

It was a vintage Nikon without any automatic settings. “I haven’t seen one of these for years,” Rose marveled. “How did you learn how to use it?”

“I worked in a photo store for a while, you know, feeding those machines that print out digital photos. But the owner used to be a real photographer. He was the one who sold me the camera and showed me how to use it. He passed away a few months ago, and the store shut down…”

“So, you’ve been taking photographs?”

“Yes.”

“I’d love to see them.”

“Would you?” Her face lit up.

Rose nodded, sincere.

Rivka hesitated. “That would be great, but listen, Aunt Rose, you have to promise me that if I give you my address, you won’t tell my parents where I am.”

“They don’t know you’re back in New York?”

She shook her head. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

So, there wasn’t going to be a happy ending then after all, Rose thought, the family coming together and accepting each other with unconditional love. But at least there would be some kind of resolution. “I promise not to pass on this information without your permission. I do speak to your mom off and on, you know. I won’t lie to you. It’s going to be excruciatingly painful to have to keep this a secret from your parents, knowing how happy it would make them.”