Chapter Twenty-One
Rebecca smoothed the pleats of her new dark green wool gown beneath the impressively white lace tablecloth in Roger’s brother David’s dining room.
She should never have come. Never have agreed to join the family for Shabbos luncheon. She’d had a surprisingly amiable week since Fannie’s disappearance and its aftermath and thus had no reason to tempt the evil eye.
The house, while still not particularly organized, had somehow seemed less, well, somber.
While no nurse nor governess had been hired, Roger’s own efforts to assist his staff had resulted in far better behavior from both children.
So much so that both were nearly pleasant when they interacted.
Particularly Fannie, who was admittedly bright and seemed to have a keen sense of curiosity that could be quite endearing, especially when she wasn’t attempting to act superior.
Additionally, news of Rebecca’s location had spread, and while she could not fully practice her profession, she’d been busy enough providing ointments, teas, and tinctures while fielding questions regarding anything and everything from irregular courses to painful intercourse to how long one should bleed after terminating a pregnancy.
Even Fannie’s occasional “assistance”—really, monologues—punctuated with questions and requests to stir or add had not been displeasing.
Thus it had been hard to refuse the child when she—not Roger—had asked her to join the family that afternoon, rather cleverly reminding her that she’d only be walking two blocks.
Besides, Papa can thread his arm through yours, like this, the girl had explained, positioning them both before either could protest. See, you’re not touching now, but if you do fall, he shall catch you.
After that, well, it was almost impossible to say no. Fortunately, there was no slipping on the way over. Though from the moment she arrived, her stomach had become increasingly unsettled.
It was not the fault of David and his family.
While she’d always suspected that they looked down upon her, and they certainly would not approve of her exploits with Roger, from the moment she arrived, they’d been nothing but gracious hosts.
Roger’s sister-in-law, a rather attractive dark-haired woman in her forties, was especially kind, complimenting her Shabbos gown with expertly feigned sincerity.
“Perfect with your skin,” Nina Berab declared after the blessings had been said and the group started to pass around the various dishes.
“The beading on the sleeves is elegant yet subtle. You have excellent taste.” Her accent was so flawless, one would never have known that she’d been born in Amsterdam, not Grosvenor Square.
“I believe that’s the dressmaker,” Rebecca reminded the woman as she served herself a piece of cold fried cod with lemon.
“You didn’t send it back, and thus it is yours,” the woman declared, placing a bit of stewed chicken and rice with roasted eggs upon her own plate.
“Now, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve seated myself next to you,” she continued, glancing at her husband and Roger, who were deep into a debate regarding a new proposal to the Commission of Delegates to build a synagogue in the western part of the city.
“It shall weaken unity,” Roger declared.
“Most certainly,” David agreed.
“Friedland and Pollack are delusional if they think only people of their status will attend,” Roger continued.
“Can you imagine what shall happen when gentiles who’ve only been exposed to Jews like us see, well…
” He shook his head, that familiar superior expression Rebecca had nearly forgotten existed coming over his face.
“You know,” he continued, “the sort who might be—” He was halted by his sister-in-law’s coughing.
“Are you all right, my dear?” their host asked, concern etched in his face.
“Yes. I apologize. I must have swallowed wrong,” she explained, smoothing the tablecloth. “Happens at my age.”
David snorted.
His wife raised both brows. “You doubt me?”
“Never,” the man said with a wink, which made Rebecca smile despite herself, even as a stale, sour sensation that had nothing to do with the food settled in her gut.
The conversation fell off as everyone continued eating for another few moments, which was good.
Except Rebecca could not seem to let the prior conversation halt.
Putting down her utensil, she turned to Roger. “You were saying something,” she prompted.
“Beg pardon?” he asked.
“Before,” she continued. “You were explaining what sort of Jews would be quite dangerous for the well-heeled gentiles in the better neighborhoods to catch glimpses of.”
A silence fell over the table.
“You were making an argument regarding an important matter to the community to a person who is part of the group who shall decide it,” she reminded him.
“Thus, I’d like to hear the reasoning behind it.
” Leaning forward, she rested her chin on her hands and stared at him.
She was not using proper manners, but she had no desire to do so at the moment.
“Why?” His brow furrowed in confusion. “Would you be interested in attending services in the West End, instead of merely a block from your home?”
“Perhaps they’d hire interesting clergy,” she argued back. She cocked her head at him, ignoring the curious stares of the rest of the table. “You were saying?”
“I was saying that the intended location is on the outskirts of one of the finer neighborhoods of the West End,” he returned after another pause, “and the gentiles of that location have only had limited, carefully choreographed interactions with our kind.”
“You don’t say,” she retorted.
“Such is necessary,” he continued. “They have the ultimate power, and their favor is necessary for our survival.”
Rebecca sniffed. As if she didn’t know what strategy the community employed to maintain the little goodwill they were allotted.
“And you seek to convince them that we are precisely how they wish we’d be instead of how we actually are,” she finished with a roll of her eyes.
“I’d not say that,” he argued. “We’re just showing them our best, especially considering how many stories there are of our worst—real and imagined.”
“Or a combination of both,” she admitted.
“That generally sells the most ‘news,’ after all,” she continued.
“But you’re saying these gentiles don’t read?
That they’re above lurid tales of our villainy that shape-shift to conform precisely to what the audience of the particular publication finds most contemptible? ”
He took an infuriatingly deep breath. “I’m just pointing out that we don’t need to give them any assistance.”
“You believe you can control that by, what, hiding those of us that they deem monstrous by their current standards from view?” she couldn’t help but ask. “What an original idea.”
“There’s no wall, and there won’t be one,” he scoffed, obviously understanding her allusion to the ghettos gentiles had been forcing them behind for centuries, even while occasionally granting exceptions to a lucky few until they were no longer of use.
A practice that had continued in more places than not, despite all the talk of “emancipation.”
She raised both eyebrows at him.
“You’re twisting my words,” he accused.
“Or perhaps they were not quite as carefully selected as intended,” the man’s brother suggested.
An odd shadow crossed Roger’s face. “Perhaps,” he admitted.
“Or perhaps we’re all just a touch tired from being trapped inside our houses for so long,” Mrs. Berab added brightly. “I know I am.”
“Perhaps,” Rebecca conceded. She pressed her lips together. She should stop, halt this. Be gracious and polite.
Instead, she said, “Though you never responded to my original question, regarding precisely who would be included in the group of us that are best hidden away. Who? I presume Hannah Weiss?” She tapped a finger to her chin.
“But wait, she’s married to your own friend Sol.
So would that mean you’d not want to be seen with him in certain company? ”
She gazed at him sharply. “And naturally, this group of undesirables would include me, would it not?”
Silence once again fell over the table. Even Fannie and Michael were still in their chairs.
Her face heated, but she could not cease.
“You might not have been thinking of me or Sol in particular, but our kind. Ashkenazis who work, not invest for our keep, and have the misfortune of odd, noticeable attributes that paint us as Jews. In my case, unattractive ones,” she continued, the words tumbling out now as she ranted.
“Worse, we’ll ruin all your hard work on our behalf, using the wrong fork or wrong title or—”
“No,” Roger interrupted, his voice firm.
She blinked at him. “No?”
“That’s not why you’d infuriate them,” he explained.
“What would I do?” she asked.
“Be yourself,” he told her.
There was a gasp from the assembled group.
It was as if he slapped her.
“Roger,” Mrs. Berab admonished.
“I’m that offensive?” she asked him, her voice now tight.
“No.” He shook his head. “You’re that threatening,” he told her. “You’re smarter than them—smarter than all of us—and you don’t hide it.”
She squinted at him. “That’s the worst sin I could commit?”
“Yes,” He folded his arms over his chest and had the nerve to appear proud of himself.
“Roger,” Mrs. Berab repeated, her face stricken. She glanced at her husband for assistance, but he was merely staring at the two of them.
“You want to know why?” Roger continued, suddenly far surer of himself than he’d been since she entered the conversation. And smug. Which was obnoxious and yet somehow also alluring and, oy, what was the matter with her?
This was why she should never have come. But she was there, and she did want to know.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because that would mean one of us had something they don’t, or worse, something that they value, and that would—” He pressed his lips together. “They’d presume that it could only come about via subterfuge or trickery or something diabolical.”