Sisters Weiss ~ A Novel Read online

  “My father says he’d be happy to lend you one. That you should just come over … But if you don’t want to, he says you should go to the Wall Street Camera Exchange. Ask for Alan.”

  *

  She missed her library night, looking up on a subway map how to get to Wall Street.

  “Could I speak to Alan?” she said timidly to the busy, bored man behind the counter, whose face suddenly took on some interest.

  He shrugged. “That’s me.”

  “I’m a friend of Mr. Goldband’s,” she said, then blushed furiously, correcting herself. “I mean a friend of his daughter, Michelle.”

  “Ah, the Frenchman. He’s a good customer. And how can I help you?” He smiled.

  “By not trying to sell me a Brownie, or some other kid’s camera. I’m going to be a famous photographer and win awards,” she told him boldly. “So when I tell everybody I started off with a camera from your store, which one is it going to be?”

  He took a step back, blinking. “What you need, of course, is a Nikon F.”

  “How much will that cost?”

  “Four hundred dollars just for the body, without any lenses…”

  She shook her head sorrowfully.

  “Okay, so here’s the next best thing: a Miranda Sensorex. Popular Photography rates this as almost as good as the Nikon—almost. It doesn’t have all the Nikon’s features, but the price includes an excellent normal lens. It’s a great camera to start a career off with.

  “Or”—he reached to the shelf behind him—“there’s the Canonflex, their latest after the sensational Canonet. It’s got an interchangeable pentaprism viewfinder, a completely automated aperture control system, and an externally coupled selenium exposure meter. There are lots of lenses available too, from thirty-five millimeter all the way to one hundred and thirty-five millimeter. It’s a whole system. It will never be obsolete.”

  She lifted the Canonflex to her eye. The heft was impressive. Her fingers curled around it. “How much?”

  “Three hundred dollars, and for another fifty, I’ll throw in a zoom lens.”

  “I’ll need some film,” she said. “Fifty rolls. And I want you to throw that in, too, free of charge.” He shook his head. “You’re killing me. Half-price. I can’t do better than that.”

  She considered it. “And a discount on developing the rolls whenever I come here?”

  He shrugged, amused. “For a world-famous photographer to be, how can I say no?”

  As she counted out the money, her hands shook. Her name was on the passbook, but it was her parents’ money. She felt like a thief. But a happy, successful thief, she told herself, rejoicing in her momentous victory, and a deep-seated satisfaction in her revenge.

  It took her three wasted rolls until she finally figured out how to use the camera, but when she did, the results were breathtaking: faces in a crowd waiting for the light to change, their expressions unguarded, wistful, and revealing. Two little girls playing hopscotch on a chalk-marked sidewalk, their limbs loose, their hair flying. And then there were the interior shots taken while her grandmother took her afternoon nap: a study of a well-used pot misted in rising steam that gave it mystery, the arrangement of simple ice cubes on a platter that looked like a work of modern art, she thought. But her favorite was a self-portrait in the mirror as she blew bubble gum, her eyes obscured by the camera, her fingers aloft. She loved hiding behind the camera, the gum the only hint of her age and personality.

  Of course, the photos could all have been improved, she realized. She would have liked the shadows to have fallen less harshly in some, more illumination and less ambiguity in others. But she adored her new camera. Adored it, suddenly feeling, for the first time in her life, that she and the world were one, awash in possibilities.

  *

  “So, you’re back,” said Mr. Giglio. “I thought I’d frightened you off when I didn’t see you last week. My heart was broken,” he said with that familiar gleam in his eye.

  “No, I just … now … got a camera and did the work, so … I had to skip last week.”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got, kid.” He reached out to her.

  Scared and hopeful, she handed him the envelope with her photos, then watched as he flipped through them silently, her self-confidence deflating, until she noticed that crinkle near his eyes. “Love the bubble gum, Miss…?” He glanced at the registration list. “Monroe?” he questioned. “Really?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  She had paid the tuition and was now officially enrolled for the entire semester, until the summer, at which time she could transfer to the summer classes. She had money left over for that, too.

  “Does that mean they’re good, Professor Giglio?” she asked, barely daring to hope.

  “No, not really.”

  Her heart fell.

  “But they do show originality of thought, and that is what is most important in any artist. By the end of the term, we shall improve your technical skills to match your talent. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she answered, her heart leaping up with joy. Artist. She was an artist.

  And so began a new rhythm in the life of Rose Weiss. She lived for the days she went to the library, and the day she went to her photography class, and in between for the times she could read her new books and take her photos. The strange fiction that comprised her days in Bais Ruchel, her exile from her family, her life with her grandmother became more of a footnote to her real life, something that had to be endured to make it possible. The more she poured into that real life, the stronger and less vulnerable she felt against the abuses of the life forced upon her, her spirit growing until she felt and saw glimpses of her old faith breaking through the dark clouds. Despite her sins, God had helped her. God had reached out to her and given her a new chance to be happy. He had lightened her punishment when no human had been willing to reach out to her and do so. He had had compassion for her weaknesses, and sympathy for her plight.

  Again, she felt the pull to the sacred words of prayers, words of praise, thanksgiving, and requests. He was out there; He was listening, even if her parents and teachers were not.

  If only this idyll could have lasted a few more months, she often thought, looking back years later. Perhaps disaster could have been averted, the terrible break avoided altogether, jumped over, like those deep crevasses that climbers reaching for the peaks manage to somehow circumvent. But then again, perhaps not. It was there, waiting for her, and she stumbled. What followed was as life-changing and tragic as it was inevitable.

  11

  “When am I going to see my sister?” Pearl wailed.

  It had been six months, and the child’s plaintive entreaties had been growing stronger and stronger. Despite all the attention and gifts lavished on her, which had had some effect, Pearl’s longing for Rose was beginning to take its toll. Her whining was almost constant now. Her parents couldn’t stand it.

  “Get them together for a little while,” her father told her mother.

  “But the Rav…”

  “The Rav said it was up to us!” he answered, annoyed. After months of adhering strictly to the guidelines, he was beginning to feel the stirrings of regret and something else. It was very easy, he thought resentfully, to give advice, especially if you didn’t have to live with the consequences. Even his iron-willed, pious wife was beginning to buckle, but not for the same reasons. Early on, the glowing nature of the reports had roused her suspicions and her anxiety. Satmar schooling had to have been a shock and a trial to her bookish daughter. And for the last few months in their weekly phone conversations, Rose had sounded positively happy, her complaints gone. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Could it be that her will had been totally broken? Or more ominously, her mental stability? Bracha Weiss was also anxious to check up on her daughter firsthand.

  “I have an idea,” she told her husband.

  “Nu?”

  “She volunteers at Beth Abraham once a week, on Tuesdays. We can go there at t
he same time. We can take Pearl.”

  “Excellent. Find out what time she starts.” He was happy and excited at the prospect of seeing his daughter. “We should bring her something, Mameh,” he told his wife. “A present. She deserves a present. She has done so well. Everyone says so.”

  “What should we bring her?”

  He thought about it. “Maybe a new Shabbos dress?”

  She nodded. “I’ll take Pearl shopping with me. We’ll pick it out together.”

  *

  The mother sifted through the racks, wondering exactly what size to get. Her old size was a four, but perhaps she had grown? It had been months, after all. Better to get a six. It could always be taken in.

  “Here, here!” Pearl called excitedly, pulling a pink dress with sequins off the rack. “Like a princess dress.”

  “No, it’s too fancy-shmancy,” said her mother, amused, thinking “too showy” and, most of all, too expensive.

  Pearl pouted. “It’s a present. For Rose.”

  “Come, look some more. What about this?” It was a simple gray dress, but with a stylish overskirt of filmy chiffon that was also lightly beaded and embroidered.

  Pearl looked it over. It was pretty. Not as pretty as the pink. And certainly not as pretty as her own dresses, especially the latest violet one her mother had bought her just two weeks before. She thought about it. Rose would look pretty, but not prettier.

  “Yes.” She smiled, nodding.

  The only thing left was to ascertain exactly what time to show up.

  “Bubbee, it’s me. Tateh and I want to visit Rose, surprise her. We want to meet her at Beth Abraham, where she goes to volunteer. What time should we go?”

  “Tuesday or Thursday?” the old woman asked.

  “Bubbee, she only goes once a week, on Tuesday.”

  “Oy,” the old woman said. “I forgot.”

  “Forgot when she goes?”

  “No. Forgot I vasn’t suppose to tell you vhat a tzadakis you have. Vhat a wonderful daughter you have trown out of your house…”

  “What are you talking about, Bubbee?”

  “She decided to volunteer tvice a veek. On Thursdays also. All her schoolwork she does, and my floors and the chulent pot she scrubs, and also she volunteers, two times a veek. Vus mere vilstah? Vhat more you could vant?”

  “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “She said she vasn’t sure. Maybe it vould be too much. She didn’t vant you to be disappointed if she stopped. But so far, every Thursday she goes, like an angel! Be there at six o’clock.”

  “We bought her a beautiful new dress. Don’t tell her anything, Bubbee. We want it should be a surprise.”

  “She could use a new dress. Don’t vorry. I say nut’ting.”

  Rebbitzin Weiss bit her lip, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

  “We’ll make it up to her, Bubbee.”

  “You owe her,” the old woman remonstrated.

  *

  “Hurry Tateh, Pearl. We need to catch the subway. It’s already five-thirty.”

  “I just need my hat,” he answered, putting on his big, black homburg in front of the hall mirror. As he smoothed down the felt brim, he smiled at his reflection.

  “Pearl, stop fussing with your hair already. Enough! How many times have you changed hair bands? And what have you got in that bag?”

  “It’s … just some of Rose’s stuffed animals. And her barrettes.”

  “She doesn’t need it. Put it away…” she scolded, but Rabbi Weiss raised his hand warningly. “This is very kind of you, Pearl. I’m sure your sister will appreciate your goodness. I’m sure she misses you as much as you miss her.”

  “Thank you, Tateh!” the child said happily, clutching the bag of treasures for her sister, into which she had secretly added many of her own new hair bands and barrettes. Not the prettiest ones, but still ones she liked very much that were almost brand-new. Did Rose even think of her at all? she wondered. Did she still hate her? Was she still angry?

  “Why is your hand shaking, Mamaleh?” her father asked as they walked through the streets to the subway.

  She looked down, surprised. Her whole body was shaking.

  They arrived at the entrance to Beth Abraham at a quarter after six and waited.

  “Maybe she’s already inside?” Pearl said when they had been there more than half an hour.

  “The child is right. Go check, Mameh.”

  “All right. And you two go inside; wait in the lobby. Sit down and rest, Tateh.”

  They waited patiently another fifteen minutes. The elevator opened, and Rebbitzin Weiss walked out toward them, her face fierce with anger.

  “She’s not here. I spoke to the woman in charge of volunteers, a very eidle woman. She says Rose never comes on Thursday nights.”

  *

  They were waiting for her in the living room, crowding her grandmother’s small apartment, sucking out the oxygen. When she opened the door, her parents jumped up, while her sister Pearl sat up on the couch, where she had been dozing.

  “WHERE WERE YOU!” her mother screamed, raising her fists.

  “Stop, Mameh.” Her father restrained her. “Think about the child!”

  Pearl sobbed hysterically, running into Rose’s arms.

  “Rosie! I brought you this!” the child sobbed, trying to put the bag into her sister’s hands. It fell forgotten to the floor.

  “Go away from her!” her mother screamed, forcefully separating the two.

  “Maybe there is some explanation, Mameh! As it is written, ‘judge each man leniently.’”

  “Shoshi, sweetheart, vhere did you go? Your parents vanted to surprise you. They missed you. Your sister missed you. They bought you a present. They vaited at Beth Abraham.”

  “YOU TOLD THEM! But Bubbee, you promised!”

  “You are complaining to your bubbee? You liar!” Her mother tried to grab hold of her, but her father stopped her. “Sha, Mameh! Think about the neighbors.”

  That immediately quieted her down.

  “Silence! Everyone. Come into the kitchen, Rose.” Her grandmother and mother started to walk there as well, but he turned to them, holding up his hand. “I am going to speak to my daughter. Alone.”

  He closed the door. Rose looked at her father across the table the way she would have looked at a stranger whose photograph she was about to frame. The white, sweating forehead beneath the heavy, old-fashioned black hat; the thick, dark beard flecked with gray, the calflike, pleading eyes. As she put her fists on the table, it wobbled. A fitting metaphor, she thought wryly, for their relationship. Lying to him was amazingly easy.

  “Where were you, child?”

  “I went to visit a sick friend instead tonight. It’s no big deal,” she said sullenly.

  “The woman at Beth Abraham, an eidle woman, told Mameh you only come once a week, on Tuesdays. So where do you go every Thursday, child?” He spoke quietly, reasonably.

  She hesitated. The truth was out of the question.

  “I don’t know who told Mameh that, but it’s not true. I swear it!”

  “It’s forbidden to swear!”

  “Bli neder.”

  He looked into her eyes, wanting so much to believe her. “Are you telling your tateh the truth?”

  She looked down. “Yes, Tateh.”

  The door to the kitchen flew open. To her horror, she saw clutched in her mother’s hands her latest photographs and her new camera.

  “Enough! You brazen-faced liar! Don’t say another word.”

  Her mother took her father back into her bedroom. There on the bed were her library books, her receipt for tuition, and her canceled bank book.

  He gave Rose a questioning look, then looked down at the floor. His heart was broken.

  “Bubbee, get me a bag,” her mother said fiercely. “A big bag, a shopping bag.”

  Rose watched wordlessly as her mother carelessly stuffed her books, her camera, her photos, film, and her re
ceipts into it. “Pearl, go take this downstairs and throw it into the garbage can!” she ordered, handing it to her.

  Rose grabbed her sister by the shoulder, shaking her, then turned to her mother, leaning in close. “Mameh,” she whispered without a trace of emotion, “if you do this, I swear, I will kill myself.”

  Her mother took a sharp breath, looking at her, frightened, Rose’s calm determination more effective than any tantrum or tears, which would have sailed past her mother like a ship in the night. But this … this composure, it was unnatural. This was no longer a child in front of her, but an adult, she saw, realizing the limits of her power. She felt helpless.

  Rose discerned all this in the deep lines that bloomed on her mother’s forehead and the downward pull of her determined lips. I have won this battle at least, if not the war, she told herself, rejoicing as she ripped the bag out of Pearl’s clutch, leaving behind a sharp red welt as painful as a knife cut.

  Pearl pressed her lips together, determined not to cry out, determined to do nothing ever again that would call her parents’ negative attention to her sister.

  12

  Everything had to be done quietly, with the utmost discretion, her parents decided. It was the only way to avoid scandal. The cover story was simple. Rose had come down with pneumonia and would be out of school and back home with her family in Williamsburg for the six weeks needed to recover. By then, the school year would be over anyway.

  She was moved back into her old room, while Pearl was given a curtained-off alcove with no window just off the kitchen. There was no choice, as the other bedroom housed the boys: Duvid, Shlomie Yosef, and Mordechai, when he was home from the yeshiva.

  The Honored Rav was not consulted about these changes. Indeed, no one—not even Rose’s brothers—was let in on the truth, lest word of her scandalous behavior leak out like dark ink from a faulty pen, indelibly staining the family’s linen-white reputation.

  This was not a choice, but a necessity. Anything else would put Mordechai’s and then Shlomie Yosef’s shidduchim at risk, and down the line Pearl’s and even Duvid’s! As for Rose, under the circumstances her shidduch must happen much sooner than they’d planned.