1922
I didn’t know who was supposed to arrange my next visit with my sister. I think the orphanage assumed the adoptive families would take care of it, and maybe Mrs. Stein and Mrs. Kagan each thought the other should call and set up a date. Three months passed after I was adopted before I saw Naomi.
On the day my sister turned ten, I asked Mrs. Kagan if I could call her on the telephone. “Certainly, dear … show you how to … this telly-phone … always trouble … Hello! Operator, do you hear me? Oper-rrrrrray-ter …”
Mrs. Stein answered. “Hello, Devorah, how nice of you to remember the date. We are cutting Naomi’s cake at this very minute. Hold the line, and I’ll let her talk to you just for a moment, as we’re all gathered around waiting. Oh, and Devorah, I’ve been meaning to call Mrs. Kagan—would you like to spend Sunday at our house? Mr. Stein will be happy to get you in his car after his tennis match.”
At 11 a.m. on Sunday, I went downstairs and waited at the entrance to my building. My hands were perspiring as I clutched the little gift I’d made. A deep, rich growl announced the arrival of Mr. Stein’s motorcar and, resplendent in a snowy white sweater and long white shorts that reached almost to his long white socks, he jumped out of his seat and came around to open the passenger door for me.
“Devorrrah, menorrrrah!” he sang as he drove.
I smiled awkwardly. The trouble was that I never knew when I was supposed to laugh at his teasing. I was relieved when the big black car turned into the driveway leading to the Stein home. Naomi was waving excitedly from the front door.
We caught each other in a tight hug and I closed my eyes. How I had missed the familiar tickling of her soft hair, and especially the feel of her arms around my neck. Surreptitiously, I rubbed away the wetness on my eyelashes as I followed Naomi to the pink bedroom.
Photographs were strewn across the bed, ready to be pasted into a new leather photo album. “This is me at my ballet class,” Naomi pointed out. “I can’t really go up on my toes alone, so Mummy is holding my hands.”
I suddenly remembered Naomi on the day of the ballet performance at the orphanage. She was shining with pleasure and excitement. No wonder the Steins had wanted to take her home with them.
“And here I am with my cousins at a picnic,” Naomi continued, pointing at a photograph of a big merry crowd sitting among wicker baskets on a red-checkered cloth. I murmured politely, although the family pictures made my stomach churn.
My attention was caught by the labels on some school-books strewn on my sister’s desk. “Naomi Stein” was printed neatly on each one. Her adoptive parents hadn’t been stingy with their family name.
The loud brass bell rang for lunch. “Let’s go!” Naomi yelped, knocking over the photographs and pulling me by the hand. “It’s roast beef!”
I laughed, finding again the old exasperated love for my little sister. Naomi was still an ever-hungry puppy.
At lunch, Mrs. Stein put the choicest pieces of beef onto Naomi’s plate without even trying to hide what she was doing. Mr. Stein cracked more jokes, and Naomi laughed easily at all of them. Finally he got down on his knees, pretended to be a bear, and crawled around the table to tickle her.
“Help! Help!” Naomi squealed delightedly. “Devorah, help me!”
I smiled uncertainly. What was the right thing to do? Was I supposed to join in? I was saved from deciding when suddenly Naomi’s squirming knocked over a glass of water.
“Now, that’s enough,” Mrs. Stein said, but she was also smiling. She rang a little bell on the table and the maid appeared. “Mavis, will you bring a cloth and wipe up here, please. Mr. Stein,” she ordered affectionately, “sit right back down or you won’t get dessert.”
Mr. Stein sat down hurriedly with a naughty face. Catching my eye, he winked. Embarrassed, I looked down at my beef and began to cut it carefully. I saw Mr. Stein lift a small silver jug and lean across to fill my glass. “How about some milk, Devorah?”
I almost choked, my eyes popping in amazement. How could I drink milk while eating beef? Surely he knew that Jews can’t eat meat and milk at the same meal. It was the Law.
“Umm, no, thank you,” I managed to mutter. Then I watched Mr. Stein fill Naomi’s glass with milk. Without any hesitation, Naomi took a long drink. I squeezed my lips together so tightly I bit them. Didn’t she remember anything at all from home?
It seemed hours until lunch was over and we were alone. Then I burst out, “How could you drink milk at lunch? You know we don’t eat meat and milk together.”
“We do here,” was Naomi’s casual answer as she sprawled on her lacy bed, surrounded by her photographs.
“We’re Jews; we don’t do that,” I said.
“Mummy says there’s no need to be too Jewish,” Naomi answered.
I stared at her. No need. Too Jewish. The strange words hung in the air.
Sitting up, Naomi looked defiantly at me and said in a small, determined voice, “Maybe Mama and Papa and everyone else wouldn’t have died if they weren’t so Jewish.”
I gasped. My brain felt paralyzed and I shook my head to clear it. I needed time to work out what she was saying, to understand how she could say such terrible things. I perched uncomfortably on the pink kidney-shaped stool of the dressing table set. Naomi wouldn’t meet my eyes. There was silence. Then, with a huge effort, I started on a completely different subject. “How do you like your teacher?” I asked formally.
Naomi brightened. “I love her. She reads books and poetry to us and she talks really quietly. All the girls want to be her pet. Her leg is shrunken from an operation that went wrong, but she’s very pretty.”
Before I could stop myself, I said, “Mama’s legs were shrunken. Before she died.” My voice trailed off. Naomi wouldn’t want to talk about that.
But Naomi asked with genuine interest, “Is that what she died of?”
“No, she died of typhoid fever … and hunger, I suppose.” It was almost too painful for me to say the second part.
Naomi was quiet. Then she asked another question. “Is Daddy Ochberg our uncle?”
“Of course not. He chose us at the orphanage in Pinsk, but we hadn’t met him before then. How can you not remember that?”
Naomi’s lip quivered at my sharp tone, but she persevered. “We don’t have any real uncles?”
I flicked scornfully at the album photos of Naomi being held by smiling men and women.
“Everyone’s dead, Nechama!” I snapped. “Everyone’s dead.”
Perhaps it was my use of the old name; perhaps Naomi couldn’t bear the anger in my voice. Burying her head in her lacy pillows, she sobbed loudly.
“Shh, don’t cry,” I said quickly, moving over to the bed and patting her shoulder. It was the way it used to be when I was the strong older sister drying Nechama’s tears. I was glad to be back in that role.
But Naomi wasn’t the same little girl. Shaking off my hand, she pulled away, snatched a lace handkerchief, and blew her nose. Then she turned to me, her swollen eyes blazing. “You make me feel bad. Like I’ve forgotten my family,” she stormed. “But I only remember Papa a little bit, and Mama when she was sick in the bed. I’ve got my own mother and father now, and my own room and my own pretty things.”
I opened my mouth, but Naomi wasn’t finished. “I’m happy now!” she cried. “Even if you don’t like it, Devorah, I’m happy here.”
There was a sudden silence. Then I realized Mrs. Stein was standing in the doorway. I couldn’t tell how much of the conversation she had heard, but her voice was very quiet as she said, “I think I’ll take you home now, Devorah. Where did you put your coat?”