Day of Atonement

“He said he put his name on this list—”

“Aaah,” Frieda said. “I know about the list. So many times I reached for the phone … I was too ashamed, too afraid. Too embarrassed! But he knew who I was. He didn’t come to me.”

“He knew you were married with five other children. He didn’t want to intrude on your privacy.”

“He is a better person than I am.”

Rina squeezed her hand. Frieda looked up at her, smiled. “He picked a beautiful bride. A young woman for his age.” She knitted her brow. “He just turned forty-one. You must be … what, ten, twelve years younger than him?”

Rina nodded.

Frieda shook her head. “I talk stupidity. Tell him I love him. He will not believe me, but tell him anyway. Tell him I will leave it up to him what he wants to do. But I would like to talk to him, ask his forgiveness.”

“There’s no reason—”

“Yes, there is, Rina. There is reason.”

“I’ll tell him.” Rina paused. “I don’t think he wants to see your parents—”

“My parents!” Frieda blurted out. “They’ll recognize him. Oh, dear God, my husband and children know nothing of my terrible shame.”

“So we figured—”

“I feel like dying.”

“Rest, Mrs. Levine,” Rina said. “Let me talk to Peter. I’ll find out what he wants to do.”

“Tell him my parents go to my sister’s house tomorrow for lunch,” Frieda said. “It will be only my family …” She started to cry. After a minute she asked, “Does he have any family?”

“Of course!” Rina said. “Peter didn’t grow up in an orphanage or anything like that. He had a very nice childhood. His mother and father live in Florida, where he grew up. They were taken aback by his conversion—”

“He doesn’t have to convert,” Frieda said.

“I know that,” Rina said. “And you know that. But it was easier to tell everyone that he was a ger than to explain the circumstances. Besides, he feels like a convert. His mother is a religious Baptist. Peter speaks very fondly of his parents. And he’s close to his brother.”

“Just the one brother?”

“Yes, that’s his only sibling,” Rina said. “And of course, he adores his daughter, Cynthia.”

Frieda clutched her heart. “A granddaughter I’ll never know. Such a terrible fate to suffer. But I deserve such a fate, Rina. It’s punishment from Hashem—”

“Shhhh,” Rina quieted. “Everything will work out.” But she didn’t believe her own words.

There was another knock on the door. Shimon this time.

“I’ll be out in a minute, darling,” Frieda said. “I feel much better. It was just a little exhaustion.”

“Rest, Mama,” Shimon said. “I just wanted to know.”

After he left, Frieda said, “You’d better go to him.”

Rina stood. “I’ll let you know what he wants to do.”

“Tell him I love him, Rina,” Frieda said. “I will not intrude on his privacy just as he didn’t intrude on mine. I will honor whatever decision he makes. Please tell him that for me.”

“I will.”

Frieda said, “And if he doesn’t want to see me, tell him I love him, I always have. And tell him I’m sorry … so very sorry.”

7 (#ulink_3095ef95-e612-5222-a214-2da189bc0019)

The next day, Rosh Hashanah services lasted from eight in the morning to two-thirty in the afternoon. Never much of a churchgoer in childhood, Decker wasn’t much of a synagogue goer either. But today he was grateful for every minute of delay. Less time to spend with people, specifically with her.

There was no purpose for flight now. His secret—so long buried, so seldom acknowledged even to himself—was violated. He knew and she knew. No one else knew of course, except Rina.

Rina, the go-between—a luckless role. She had played her part with aplomb and diplomacy.

She’ll do whatever you want, Peter.

What does she want to do?

She wants to talk to you.

I don’t want to talk to her.

That’s fine.

Then she doesn’t want to talk to me.

No, Peter, Rina had explained patiently. She does want to talk to you, but she doesn’t want to force you to do something you’re not ready to do.

I’m not ready? Decker had whispered incredulously. I’m not ready? I was the one who’d put my friggin name on the list. I was the one who was willing to be contacted. Now she’s saying I’m not ready?

Rina sighed, gave him a “please don’t kill the messenger” look. Maternally, she patted his hand and said, Think about it, Peter.

The upshot: He decided to eat lunch with her—and her family, knowing that the amount of contact she and he would have would be minimal.

Half of him wondered: Why am I doing this? His other half answered: Because you’re curious, jerk. That’s why you started this whole thing rolling twenty-three years ago.

He was curious. As they started back from shul, her sons at his side, he couldn’t help but sneak sidelong glances at them. The detective in him—trying to find any signs of physical commonality.

The oldest was Shimon, the one Rina had called good-looking. He was a handsome man—solid, strong features. Decker put his age at around thirty-eight: There was a gray coursing through his trimmed black beard. Decker’s own facial hair was full of rusty pigment, not a streak of white anywhere. For some reason that gave him an odd sense of superiority—as if his paternal genes were better. Although Shimon was dark, his pink cheeks—probably tinted from the cold—gave his face a splash of color. He stood about five eleven, had black hair and brown eyes, and was built with muscle—he and Decker had that much in common. In keeping with tradition, he was wearing his white holiday robe over his black suit. His kittel was a nice one—white embroidery on white silk.

The next in line was Ezra—same size as Shimon but thinner. Complexioned identically to his brother, Ezra was dark, his beard wide and wild. He wore glasses, and wrinkled his nose when he spoke. Decker was fixated on his ears—slightly pointed on top, exactly like his and Cindy’s. Ezra had pulled his kittel tightly over his chest as he walked, stuck his hands in the robe pockets.

Jonathan was the baby of the family. The Conservative rabbi was tall—same size as Decker but slender. He was also dark-complexioned, but his eyes were lighter—hazel-green. He was clean-shaven and wore a Harris-tweed sport-coat over gray flannel pants. No kittel—either he wasn’t married or the robe was too traditional for his taste. He was whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” as they walked, eliciting dirty looks from Ezra. Maybe it was the modern clothes, but Decker found more of himself in this kid than in the two older brothers.

Kid? Jonathan must be Rina’s age, maybe even a year or two older. A pause for thought.