—8—
It was the ringing phone that awakened me. Electricity zapped my nerves as I rushed down the stairs, worrying who might be hurt or need help or have news. My brain ran through a litany of people I worried about, but mainly Betty, who must not be here if the phone went unanswered.
I snatched the receiver at seven or eight rings. “Hello?”
The line sounded staticky, and it was a moment before a voice came through. “Elsie, is that you?” The tone was tinny and far away, but I knew it instantly.
“Tanveer!” I sank into the chair by the phone table, pressing the earpiece harder to my head as if to clear the line. “How in the world are you calling? Where are you?”
“I am in Delhi, and it was complicated.” His voice, so rich and particularly accented, filled my ear, my head, sent relief cascading through my body. “I couldn’t bear not knowing if you were safe.”
“I am safe. Mother is safe.”
“I have been so worried. The reports have been terrible.”
I imagined him sitting in a telegraph office, dressed in a loose, fashionable suit, wearing good shoes—his city clothes.
The visual settled the thready beat of my heart, calmed me enough that I could take a deep, long breath.
“It was terrible,” I said. “It just went on and on and on. They didn’t sound the all clear until nearly four. ”
Silence fell between us, echoing down the line. A twist of the connection made his reply staccato, and I couldn’t decipher it. “I didn’t understand that. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” The word came through as if he were sitting right next to me, and the next phrase was so clear I could hear the raw worry. “Please keep speaking.”
“The cellar held up well. We drank tea.”
He chuckled, as I’d hoped. “Tea cures all.” And then, in Hindustani, he said, “I was so afraid you would be killed. It was—” The line swallowed the words.
“I wrote you a letter,” I said in the same language.
“Will you write me every day, so I know that—” you are still alive.
“Ha, yes,” I said, softly. “Will you write to me, too? It will give me something to look forward to in all the madness.”
“Every day,” he promised. His voice deepened in sorrow. “They’ll destroy the whole of Europe this time.”
Tears rose in my throat as I thought of the letter I’d written. “It is unbearable.”
“No,” he said, clearly. “It is bearable. You will bear it, and you will live. Do you understand?”
I took a breath. “I promise. You should be grateful Kirandeep is too young to fight.”
“I would never allow it.”
I smiled, thinking of how he’d defied his own father in the first war. A decision that changed both of our lives. “He is too young.”
“A blessing.”
For another long moment, we listened to the space connecting us. “You should hang up,” I said in English. “Every second will cost a million pounds.”
“I should.” I heard his breath, in, then out. “I am so relieved that you are still here. There.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. “Look for Venus tonight.”
A short pause. “I shall.” And then: “Write. Every day. Do not miss. Swear.”
“I swear.”
I heard the click of him ending the call, but I listened to the silence a moment longer. I thought of him sitting with his long fingers resting on the receiver, far away in Delhi.
Still connected.