I stopped Madeline’s hand from turning the page. “Madeline,” I said. It was Friday night, and we were in her basement, reading the diary together again.
“There’s something I forgot to tell you,” I told her now.
Madeline looked at me over her reading glasses, expectant.
“It’s bad news,” I said. “Are you sure you want me to tell you?”
“Well, now you have to tell me.”
“Freddy dies.”
Madeline gasped, and her glasses slid down her nose. “What! When?”
“Not soon,” I assured her. “He died fighting in the Korean War.”
Madeline held up one finger. Then she did a quick search on her phone. “June 1950 to July 1953,” she reported, showing me the screen. “So Freddy won’t die for another, like, ten years.”
I felt like I’d taken a tennis ball to the chest. When I first heard that same information, on the call with Grandpa Fred, ten years seemed like a long time—I’ve only been alive twelve, after all. But right now it struck me as impossibly short.
“How do you know?” Madeline asked.
“My grandpa told me. He’s named for him, just like you thought.”
“No way. Was Freddy his dad?”
“No,” I said with a weak laugh. “He didn’t really know much about Freddy at all. He just knows that he was named for his mom’s first friend in America.”
“That’s so cool,” Madeline said. “I wish I was named for my mom’s first friend in America, instead of my great-aunt Mildred.”
“Aw.” I leaned my head on Madeline’s shoulder. “I bet Mildred was really cool. Maybe she went by Millie.”
“Nope. Mildred. My dad said she did some killer embroidery, though.”
I laughed. “My middle name, Harper, is for my dad’s grandma, Hildie. My mom sometimes makes her recipe for kugel.”
“Hildie sounds awesome,” Madeline said. “She and Mildred would’ve been best friends.”
I nodded. “For sure. They were probably on the same roller derby team.”
“When they weren’t making kugel.”
“Obviously.”
We heard some footsteps on the stairs. Madeline’s dad. “Hi, girls,” he said. “There’s Thai food upstairs. Come get some when you’re hungry.”
“Okay,” said Madeline. “Hey, Dad?”
He stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Yeah?”
“Did Great-Aunt Mildred make kugel?”
“Yes!” he said. “Potato kugel.”
Madeline and I looked at each other, our eyebrows up.
“It was awful,” Mr. Winter continued. “She was a terrible cook. Her matzo balls were like bricks.”
Madeline and I both cracked up.
“It’s true!” he said with a grin. “You needed a steak knife to cut those things!”
I pictured two old ladies, Hildie and Mildred, hacking at matzo balls with a meat cleaver. The image only made me laugh harder.
Mr. Winter was on a roll now. “Don’t even get me started on her brisket.”
Madeline and I fell on top of each other, we were laughing so hard.
“You girls.” He beamed and shook his head. “Come get some dinner soon, okay?” Then he left us to our laugh fest.
“Maybe that’s why my Hebrew name is Mayim,” Madeline said between deep breaths. “Millie’s cooking was so bad, you had to wash it down with lots and lots of water.”
I sighed a happy sigh. Maybe that was true. It was pretty random that Madeline’s Hebrew name meant “water.”
“Imani means ‘faith’ in Swahili,” I told her. “I looked it up.”
Madeline looked at me, surprised and eager for more. Then she remembered her promise not to bring up my birth parent search—I could see the restraint it was taking her to honor it. But she did.
“Come on, Faith Hildie Mandel,” Madeline said, nudging me with her elbow. “Let’s go eat pad thai.”
Monday, October 20, 1941
Belle,
Today at the factory, Max told me why he is always arranging the pelts in different ways. It takes 35 skins to make a short jacket, and 60 or so to make a long coat. But Max knows there must be a way to make a coat using fewer pelts, if we just cut them right. It is like a puzzle that I will help solve.
Each skin costs $18, so if we can make a coat using 33 pelts for instance, or 30, we will save a lot of money. We could also sell each coat for less money then, so we’ll “undercut the competition” and sell many more coats. I know the uncles would like that!
Uncle Egg kept looking up from his desk and peeking at me and Max by the table, not knowing if he should be grumpy or not. (What a decision! He is always grumpy.) It was like he wanted me to be cleaning or running errands to get his money worth, but he also knew it’d be more money if I could help Max figure out this puzzle. I know I shouldn’t need to prove anything to those uncles, but part of me still hopes that if they see how helpful I can be, they will want to send for the rest of you, and very soon. I do want to help Max too.
Beside, the pelts is a good puzzle. At first it seems like it must be simple. But then you realize that while each pelt can be cut in many ways, they can’t be cut just any way, or else the coat will look ugly. Are larger pieces better, or smaller? The colors must match up, as though the whole coat was made from one animal. We must avoid waste too. That is important.
Thank you, Max, for giving me this puzzle. It keeps my mind occupied more so than sweeping the floor.
Wednesday, October 22, 1941
Mamelikanner . . .
There is a FISH in the BATHTUB. A horse-drawn cart came down 64th St. with a man selling alive fish. Hannah heard the man ringing a bell and ran out (in her dressing gown!) to buy. A FISH. It is a kind called “pike.” We filled the bathtub with water, and the pike is swimming in there right now, as I write. It will be fish for Shabbat dinner. It will be dead by then . . . yowza, I hope so . . . but I don’t want to know how. Maybe the uncles will kill it. (They complained that it is not a carp, because carp is cheaper. I suppose we have a luxury fish swimming in our bathtub.)
Oh, how I hate fish. It is making a terrific mess of my stomach, and it is not yet near my fork. This is truly the last thing I need, as I am already so queasy with worry. I suppose on Friday night I can say I’m not hungry because I’m worried. Then I won’t have to eat the fish. Unless I hear from you or Mama or Papa by then . . . if it’s good news I will gobble up the whole pike as though it’s chow mein!
Thursday, October 23, 1941
Dear Belle,
I still know nothing about what matters. About you . . . about home. (For a moment I forgot the Luxembourgish word for home. How could I forget “doheem”? Doheem. Doheem.)
School helps for distraction, but not entirely. I sat with some girls at lunch one day. They were trying to be friendly, but I wasn’t helping them very much. If only you were here . . . I could see they didn’t want me to sit with them again, so I’ve been eating lunch in the apartment with Hannah instead.
Tomorrow I will have lunch with Miriam, the girl Mme. Veron said needs help with French. I do hope we get on. Then we can meet during lunch every day. I am tired of “The Romance of Helen Trent.”
Friday, October 24, 1941
Lunch with Miriam was wonderful! We brought our lunch to Mme. Veron’s room, so I did not have to sit in the cafeteria. You would be mad about her, Belle. She has masses of curled black hair. And a very excited humor always, like she just cannot wait to tell you secrets. And you will never guess what we talked most about . . . “The Romance of Helen Trent”!
Miriam adores that show, just like Hannah. She repeated the introduction, in a dramatic voice just like the man on the radio . . . “And now, the real-life drama of Helen Trent, who—when life mocks her, breaks her hopes, dashes her against the rocks of despair—fights back bravely, successfully!” She had me in stitches. She said, “Mme. Veron says you came here all by yourself from the war. You are a real-life Helen Trent!”
I put the back side of my hand to my forehead and said, “Yes, I also hope to prove that when a woman is 35 or over, romance is not over.” (This is also in the beginning of the program.)
When is the last time I laughed with a girlfriend? I can’t even remember . . . It felt warm and wonderful, I did not want our lunch to end. Maybe it is a good sign and there will be happy news from you tomorrow!