The Last Embrace. Pam Jenoff

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      I had always been able to sense change, like the way Nonna’s leg used to ache before a storm. My neck would tighten and stay tense for days. My appetite would fade to nonexistent and I’d grow tired, sleeping long, restless nights that were full of vivid dreams, even darker and stranger than usual. I’d awaken more exhausted than I’d ever gone to sleep, as though I had traveled great distances in my dreams.

      I’d been that way for more than a week now and I yawned as I stood in my wool coat on the porch, which was still damp from the night’s rain. I hadn’t seen the boys since school on Friday. I still went to the Connallys’ most nights during the week. Charlie (or Jack, during football season when Charlie had practice) would call for me after dinner and then bring me home. My aunt and uncle had stopped fighting me about visiting the Connallys, as long as my homework was done.

      They insisted, though, that I stay home on Shabbes. Back in Trieste, my family had been secular, attending the large synagogue in our neighborhood only on high holidays. But here the block quieted Friday nights and Saturdays, the men making their way to shul and the women keeping the children busy without putting on the radio. It was always a long, sluggish day in the tiny house, and I filled it as well as I could, doing my assignments for school and writing letters to my parents.

      “They haven’t written back,” I fretted the day before at lunch.

      “The mail is disrupted,” Aunt Bess said, speaking authoritatively, though she could not possibly have known for sure. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

      “But what if they aren’t?’ I’d pressed. They could be trying to get word out, or even want to leave now, and we would have no way of knowing. My question hung unanswered in the air.

      It was Sunday now and I could leave the house. But there was no sign of Charlie. Perhaps he had forgotten about me. Did I dare to find my way to the Connallys’ on my own? “I’m going out,” I called inside to Aunt Bess, who was getting ready for her Hadassah meeting. Then I closed the door before she could stop me. Pulling on my stocking cap and gloves, I hurried down the steps and ran, past the drugstore and the shoeshine boy at the corner until my feet hurt beneath the stiffness of my Mary Janes and my blouse grew damp, finding my own way for the first time.

      The sun shone down brightly on the worn pavement. But a breeze, sharp for early December, cut across the street. I walked south, past shops on the bottom floor of buildings, shoe stores and a dry cleaner’s. I turned east toward Pennsport, the Irish neighborhood where the Connallys lived. Soon the streets began to change, like an unmarked border crossing between countries. Breathless, I slowed to a walk. Though Christmas was nearly three weeks away, almost every house sparkled with lights, one brighter than the next. I passed a tavern, noisy through its open door even before lunchtime. Older, noisy boys played stickball on a corner lot. My skin prickled as I recalled Uncle Meyer’s admonition months earlier about the dangers of this strange neighborhood. Perhaps coming alone had been a mistake.

      But soon I reached the Connallys’ and knocked. No one answered. The house was usually bustling with activity, so it had not occurred to me that no one would be home. I considered leaving. Instead, I turned the doorknob and stepped inside the house, looking around the empty living room uncertainly. “Hello?” I called out. “Mrs. Connally?” I eyed the piano in the corner, as I had so many times on my past visits. I made my way toward it, taking off my coat and then stroking the keyboard. It was a grand piano, so much bigger than the creaky old upright we’d had wedged into the dining room back in Trieste. I sat and played now, a simple piece that Papa had taught me back before his arrest when he still played. The notes rose above me like bubbles.

      Hearing the door, I stopped abruptly. Mrs. Connally walked in and removed her coat, revealing her cornflower-blue dress. “Addie!” she said, taking off her hat. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

      I stood hurriedly. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have come in.”

      “Not at all.” She waved away my concern. “We were at church for the O’Neill baby’s baptism and there was lunch and the boys stayed to help with the nativity. They should be home soon.” Church. The Connallys went so infrequently and so it had not occurred to me that was where they might have been. But now the word seemed to magnify the differences between the Connallys and myself, which were otherwise so easy to forget. “Do you like it?” Mrs. Connally asked, gesturing to the piano. “I had hoped one of the boys would take it up, but none of them did—they can’t sit still long enough.”

      “I’m sorry I didn’t ask first.”

      Mrs. Connally waved her hand. “Don’t be. It does my heart good to hear it make music again. You should come play it whenever you want, and I hope that will be often. I’m going to change out of my good clothes. Why don’t you play something else for me?”

      I sat and began to play again, “Torna a Surriento,” a song that Papa knew could always get my mother to smile. Once I had struggled with the notes, but now my fingers seemed to move of their own will, as if he was here, leading me. I finished the piece, the last notes echoing through the house.

      There was a noise behind me and I looked up, expecting Mrs. Connally. But Charlie stood watching me from the doorway, more handsome than ever in his navy church suit. How long had СКАЧАТЬ