“This is a rather public way of repenting,” I said. “I suspect one is meant to do it more privately, but if it’s supposed to happen before the sun goes down, I didn’t have much time.”
“Well,Istill think Joe’s lucky,” Sophie said. “You’re much prettier than Rachel, and you’re selling that necklace and going to make him rich.Andyou confessed and repented. Everybodytalksabout confessing and repenting, but do they actually do it? Not to me, anyway. Do you see Mom and Dad asking my forgiveness for unjustly accusing me of causing trouble when I’m only being honest?”
“Sophie.”Both parents said this together. I’m afraid I laughed. I tried to conceal it in my napkin, but I’m not sure it worked.
Mrs. Stark hadn’t askedmyforgiveness, you notice. I tried hard not to let that matter, to remind myself that she truly felt a grievous injury, and one doesn’t have to ask forgiveness for feeling injured.
Hopefully the reminder was enough. Otherwise, how does a person ask forgiveness for not forgiving somebody else for not atoning? How complicated this could get! Around and around in circles. Perhaps it was just as well that I was Catholic.
But who was Rachel?
Did I also atone to my husband later that night for the many faults I’d displayed to him? No, I didn’t, even though at this moment, I was feeling decidedly non-holy, and in fact rather grumpy, because I wished very much to make love with him after all this excess emotion and the cello playing and so forth, and like eating and drinking, it wasn’t allowed.
Possibly because of that, I couldn’t get to sleep. I didn’t think he was sleeping either, because when I asked, “Who is Rachel?” he said, “What?” Andnotin a sleepy voice.
“Who is Rachel?” I asked again. “I’m pleased that I may be prettier, although this is vanity, but I’d like to know who she is, please.”
“Oh.” I could almost feel him shrug. “You met her. Rachel Fishbein. Dark hair, brown eyes.”
“Joe.Almost everyone there had dark hair and brown eyes!”
“All right. Pregnant, how’s that? Well, either she’s pregnant or she’s been eating like a horse.”
I laughed. I scolded myself for it, but I laughed anyway. “Fishbein. Fish bone. This name is a bit unfortunate.”
“Her maiden name,” Joe said, “was Schachter. Which is a kosher butcher.”
“Oh. The fish bones may be better.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’d say so.”
I’d turned toward him now, our faces and hands inches apart on the pillows and our knees touching. “So were you going to marry this Rachel? I remember her now; whatever Sophie says, she’s very striking in the face, and her breasts are much larger than mine, and her hips also. Of course, many twelve-year-old girls have breasts and hips larger than mine.”
“Well, she’s pregnant,” Joe pointed out. “Could we please not discuss the body of my old girlfriend, who’spregnant?”
“Why, does this disturb you?” I asked. “Is it a great effortnot to think of other women’s bodies?” I was teasing, of course; you see what a sinful wife I was!
Joe let out such a long, patient sigh, I had to laugh. Upon which he rolled me over and kissed me, and said, while over me, “It’s Yom Kippur. I’m not supposed to do this.”
“Mmm,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you to sin. You’d better go back to your own pillow.”
He did, but said, “I went out with Rachel for almost three years. I think she was expecting me to propose before I left for boot camp, but I was still a teenager and didn’t feel at all ready. I wrote to her later breaking it off. I’m sure she didn’t enjoy that, but obviously, she got over it.”
“But only a year later,” I said, “you returned to Nuremberg and we began to see each other. You came into the bakery and took me out with Dr. Müller, and we ate very bad food and drank hideous ersatz coffee and talked of books. How happy I was that day, and how confused! I couldn’t think why I liked your face so much. And then you touched my hand, you know, and looked into my eyes, and there—in front of Dr. Müller!—you told me that you’d thought of me and had wanted to see me, and wished to know what you could bring me.”
“Iknewthat was it,” Joe said, with such a smile in his voice. “The presents.”
I hit him in the chest. “Stop. No, it was—it was Dr. Müller, so thin and old, telling you that he would protect me ‘to the best of my ability.’ Upon which you told him, ‘Andyoushould know that I’ll be doing exactly the same thing.’” I sighed. “Oh, it was very romantic. When I saw you the next time, how my heart leapt! We both knew, I think, for I had feelings with you that I’d never had before, and Ihadknownsomemen. My heart didn’t long for your captain, for example, despite the shiny bars on his shoulders. How could you have changed so much, though, in a year? Was it the war?”
“Well, yes,” he said, not laughing now. “It’s pretty aging, war. But I think it was you, too.”
“Really?” This was fishing, and I knew it. But I wanted to hear it anyway.
“You were pretty,” he said, “of course you were. You were wearing some awful dress, and your shoes were?—”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “The Band of German Maidens shoes, which refused to die. How I despised them.”
“But you have the kind of face,” he said, “that will be beautiful when you’re ninety. It’s in your bones, and the rest of you felt like that to me too. I’d never known a girl as … as capable as you, or as confident in herself.”
