The woman just stood there, silent.
A hot dash of liquid fell on Hannah’s hand and another and another. She swiped at her blasted eyes with the back of her hand.
“I’m not crying.” She sniffed. “Crying is useless.”
It only showed weakness, and the weak were preyed upon at best and crushed at worst, and it certainly wouldn’t help Sol. No, air would help him and Doc and Rebecca and—tears continued to stream despite her arguments.
“Quite,” the woman said with a small squeeze of her hand. “And you’re a practical, sensible person.”
“I’m a woman who has learned from experience,” she sniffed again.
“A survivor.”
“Yes,” Hannah whispered. If only she could make him one too.
“He’s strong,” her companion continued, “in his own way. And shrewd. And rather good at heart, if not a touch arrogant. And quite the persistent noodge.Getting him to stay still for his ankle to heal… ridiculous.”
Hannah giggled but it quickly turned into a sob. She clutched Sol’s hand to her breast, wishing that his fingers would flex, or more likely, considering him, inappropriately squeeze, just where she enjoyed it most, despite the fact that they were not alone.
He could strip her naked and have his way with her in the middle of the synagogue for all she cared, as long as he was alive.
“But we all are, aren’t we?” the older woman asked.
“What?” Hannah glanced back at her.
“A bit ridiculous,” she continued. “Pretending we can plot and plan and control our fates. Know what the future will hold.”
“We can guess well enough,” Hannah snapped. “I don’t—this isn’t the time.”
“I’m just saying, dear”—the woman’s voice was sharp—“any of us can leave this earth at any given time. We don’t control that. We only get to choose how we spend the time we have and with whom. And finding someone whose window we can’t help but sneak into is a rarity. Far rarer than business opportunities or invitations to gentile balls or even prominently displayed donation plaques. And certainly rarer than people making us their villains then slaying us.” She gave Hannah another pat. “Not that you’ll believe the likes of me. I’m just the daughter of a scholar, one descended from Tzvi Ashkenazi.” She paused. “Actually, my name is Gertrude.”
Hannah could only nod as the blasted tears fell harder.
“Here,” Gertrude whispered, “I’ll go see how theothers are doing. Give you two some privacy. Even if there never really is any in this house.”
Before Hannah could respond, the door creaked again, leaving her and Sol alone.
“I’m sorry,” she choked out before laying her head on his chest, letting the beat of his heart, somehow still steady, comfort her. “I’m so sorry. I should have protected you. I would give anything for you to live.”
The tears returned, no matter how hard she fought them back. Finally, she whispered, “I love you, Sol. Even if I shouldn’t. Even if you’re a hundred times too good for me and always will be. I know I’m the one who ruined us, but you deserved to have heard me say it. To know it. You have always and will always be enough. You’re everything. And I love you.”
Bending down, she planted the softest kiss as possible on his forehead. A single tear splashed on his nose, and she pressed her lips there as well, and finally to his lips, as swollen as they were, blowing a little air inside his lungs as if the action could somehow fix everything, could somehow make his body stop struggling against itself and heal.
Heaving a sigh, she dipped the rag back in the bowl, repeating the ministrations as she waited. And hoped.
