I was lying in bed on my stomach, my pillow pushed under my chest and the diary pressed onto my mattress. (Yes, I’d read more without Madeline. But waiting until tomorrow would’ve required some serious self-control.) When I looked up, I saw Jaime in my doorway.
“How long have you been standing there?” I asked, annoyed and embarrassed.
“Um,” he said, making it obvious that he’d been there a long time. “Not that long. What’s that book?”
I considered telling him the truth. All these secrets were starting to weigh on me, and maybe sharing this one would bring us together. Maybe it would even start a conversation about being adopted (which—surprise, surprise—Jaime and I had never talked about), and maybe the two of us could go to Mom and Dad together to tell them we wanted to find our birth parents.
Or maybe that was the most selfish idea in history. Double-teaming my parents might make it easier for me, but it would only make it harder for them. What’s the only thing more painful than one of your children suggesting you’re not enough? Both of your children suggesting you’re not enough.
I stuck my pillow over the open diary. “Just something for school,” I said. “What do you want?”
“What subject?”
“History.” I didn’t even skip a beat.
“Oh.” Jaime leaned against the doorframe. “Is it boring?”
“Can I help you with something?”
“Can you?” Jaime asked hopefully. “Math. I’d ask Mom or Dad, but they think I did my homework before watching TV.”
I pushed myself up, sighed. I glanced at my pillow, then at his eager face. “Sure.”
“Okay!” He disappeared for a second—just enough time for me to close the diary and put it back in its shoebox—then returned with his math workbook. “This page,” he said, handing it over.
“Units of measure,” I read aloud. “Number one. Which unit of measure is best for measuring the length of a car?”
“I don’t get it,” Jaime said. “Which car?”
“Any car.”
“But I didn’t bring home my ruler.”
“You don’t have to actually measure anything,” I told him, trying to be patient. “You just have to think about how you would if you had to. See, they even give you choices. If you were measuring a car, would you do it in inches or in feet?”
“Inches?” Jaime guessed.
“Jaime. An inch is, like, this big.” I showed him with my fingers. “It’d take a lot of inches to measure a car.”
“Okay, feet.”
“Exactly. Circle feet.”
He did, and I looked at number two. “See, this one would be inches, because it’s the length of a toothbrush. That’s small enough for inches.”
“Don’t tell me the answers,” he said as he circled it. “Just help me figure it out.”
“Fine. Sorry.”
We went through the rest of the page, picking the best units to measure a football field, a mountain, and a pair of glasses. Fourth-grade math was easy.
“Last one,” I said. “The length of an ocean.”
“Does that mean how deep it is?”
“No, how far across. Like if you wanted to measure the Atlantic Ocean all the way from here to Europe.”
“Oh.” My brother thought. “Yards?”
I shook my head. “Too small.”
“Miles?”
I frowned at the choices. “Yeah, I guess.” That had to be it. But miles didn’t seem big enough—not nearly. In fact, it didn’t seem like that should be a multiple-choice question at all.
5 September 1941
t. August 1950
Belle,
I have forgiven Hannah her closed-lip smile. She won me over today. You see, I wrote a letter back to Mama and wanted to mail it straight away. Then I decided I would summon the courage to ask Hannah if I could include a bar of Ivory soap with it. There’s a French-English dictionary in my room (truly, they are so thoughtful), so I prepared the words: “Please I send for my family soap?” Hannah attempted to hide her confusion, but I knew she didn’t understand. She kept guessing other words I might have meant. She guessed soup (soup!) and stamps for the letter . . . It could have been a comedy scene on the radio, if I’d been in a better humor! I tried to explain about the rationing, but to be plain I felt like such a fool, and a burden on top of that. I had just about given up when she suddenly ran to the bathroom and came back with the soap. When I said yes, she put her hand to her heart with such dramatics and cried, “Why, of course we can send your family soap!” The best part (the reason I am no longer angry with her) is that she showed no pity about us needing soap. She simply said, “Let’s pop over to the A&P.”
Just wait until you see the A&P, Belle. What an enormous place! It has rows and rows of groceries, with fruit and even a butcher, right there inside the store. I followed Hannah as she gathered four boxes of soap, a tube of toothpaste, and a box marked “Dorothy Gray salon facial package” that she insisted Mama would appreciate. (I think she will but not how Hannah imagines. Maybe Mama can trade it for some extra food coupons, or sell it to help bring you here! I hope she thinks of it.) Hannah saw me eyeing a magazine with a picture of Vivien Leigh on the cover and said we could get that too. When I said it was for you, she looked delighted and said we should get something for everyone, so I chose magazines for each of you. Oh, I wish I could see your faces when you open this package!
I’m sorry I was upset with Hannah yesterday. It’s unfair to expect that she understands how I’m feeling. To be plain, I don’t understand what I’m feeling . . . I’m constantly overtaken by emotions, but I can’t sort out what they are.
Max is a mystery still. He isn’t rude to me, but he isn’t kind either. Sometimes when he arrives home in the evening, he looks surprised to see me, like he forgot there’s an extra person living in his apartment. Then the surprise fades, and he nods politely, like we’re strangers passing on the street.
I can just see you roll your eyes at me for saying such things about Max. I can hear your voice: “Yes, Anna. You’re one to complain that someone is quiet.” I know, I know. It’s not as though I am trying to start conversations with him either. Maybe he is just a quiet person, like I. Better Max be quiet than grumpy like his uncles. They are constantly muttering in Yiddish, complaining about who knows what. At least I only need to see them for supper. Max must work with them all day.
I will start school soon, I imagine, but for now, I spend the day at the apartment with Hannah. To think I used to crave silence and time to myself! Hannah plays the radio all day, but it still feels like silence compared to Mina crying and Greta arguing with Mama and Oliver playing. I imagine it is much the same there, without me. Nine in the house can’t be much different from eight.
Sunday, 7 September 1941
t. August 1950
Oh Belle,
Today we had the special supper Hannah had promised. It was not fish, thank goodness! It was something entirely new and strange and delicious . . . Chinese food! When Papa said the food would be different here in New York, I would not have guessed it would be food from China! Oh, wait until you try it. It was exotic and delightful. Crispy noodles with sweet orange sauce . . . string beans with garlic and a salty coating . . . beef with broccoli . . . long, slippery noodles with savory brown sauce. And piles and PILES of rice! We ate it at a Chinese restaurant, where the cooks and the servers were all Chinese. But imagine this, all the diners were Jewish!
I ate with terrific abandon. It was like there was nothing in the world but noodles and rice. At one point I stopped for air and looked up . . . everyone was staring at me!
“Oy gevalt,” said the uncle whose head is shaped like an onion.
“Oy veyezmir,” said the uncle whose head is shaped like an egg.
Hannah burst out laughing, and even Max broke into a hearty smile.
The uncles began mumbling to each other in Yiddish with their voices low and their bushy eyebrows high. Hannah didn’t tell them to speak English, so I guess she didn’t care for me to understand what they were saying. I doubt they know much English anyway.
But Cousin Max laughed and reached over to pat me on the shoulder. Then he said, in English, “Eat!”
Oh, I did!