Anna folded the letter and carefully placed it back in the envelope. She hurried to her bedroom, grabbed her handbag, and tucked the envelope inside it. Then she shouted down the hallway, toward the kitchen, “Esther?”
Esther was at the sink, scouring a pan. She didn’t look up.
“Where does Eli Hirsch work? Is his position with the American Jewish Committee full-time?”
Esther looked surprised to have been asked about Mr. Hirsch, and also slightly curious. But asking Anna why she wanted to know would have meant engaging her in a real conversation—something Esther hadn’t done in weeks. So instead she answered Anna’s question in as few syllables as possible: “The office is on Vermont Avenue. Near the lighthouse.”
“Thanks.”
“If you’re heading out, could you take Gussie with you?”
Anna had already turned to go, so she merely waved a hand over her shoulder and called behind her, “Sorry, not now. I can’t.” It was, she realized, the first time she’d ever told Esther no.
At least some of the money Eli Hirsch raised for the American Jewish Committee had to have been poured into its offices, which were large andlavishly appointed. A secretary greeted Anna, asked if she had an appointment, and when Anna admitted she didn’t, took her name and hurried down the hall, no doubt planning to tell Mr. Hirsch about his unannounced visitor in person so she couldn’t be overheard speaking into the telephone. When the secretary returned a few moments later, she looked vaguely disappointed to tell Anna that Mr. Hirsch would, in fact, see her.
“Anna,” Mr. Hirsch said, standing, when the secretary led her into his office at the end of the hall. “What a pleasure.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“Of course,” he said, leading her away from his desk and over to an arrangement of furniture by the window—a small sofa and two club chairs, all expertly upholstered. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s my parents,” said Anna, pulling her mother’s letter out of her purse. If Mr. Hirsch had been able to read Hungarian, she’d have handed it to him and saved them both the trouble but, instead, she summarized the letter’s contents.
As Anna spoke, he pressed the pads of his fingers together and closed his eyes. Was he listening? It was hard to tell. When she finished, she didn’t give him time to say a word. “What she doesn’t tell me—ever—is how bad things must be getting. My father’s been out of work for over a year, and I read enough in the papers to know Jews aren’t just being let go from their jobs. Before I left, that tourist couple was beaten nearly to death, and Kalterborn’s son, too.”
Mr. Hirsch had opened his eyes and was now staring at Anna intently. “Parents will always try, I’ve found, to protect their children.”
“Yes, well, I’d like to be in a position to protect my parents,” Anna said. “At lunch last month, you made a joke, or at least I thought it was a joke—about marriage being the surest way to get my parents out of Germany.”
Mr. Hirsch threaded his fingers together and gave her a sad smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Things would be much easier if you were an American citizen.”
“What would change?”
“Your parents would qualify for a preference visa. Spouses of U.S. citizens get first preference, and parents get second preference.”
“So, they’d skip to the front of the line?”
“Not exactly. The consul might still give them the runaround. But candidates for preference visas don’t have to worry about proving that they won’t be a public charge.”
“What about converting a student visa to a permanent visa? Applying for citizenship through the regular channels?”
“It’s all such a mess right now. It might take years. Or never happen at all. My understanding is that you’d have to leave the U.S. and wait out the application process somewhere else—maybe Canada, or Cuba.”
“And if I married?”
“It’s relatively simple. You wouldn’t have to worry about the visas, just apply for citizenship. You—or rather, your husband—would file a petition with the commissioner general of immigration at the Department of Labor, requesting that your parents’ visa application be classified as nonquota, or preference. They’d look at your marriage license, maybe do a little additional digging, and then inform the State Department of your request. The result would be that the consul would move your parents’ visa application from the quota pile to the nonquota pile, and as you know, the nonquota pile moves much faster.”
Anna thought of Stuart. In the pool the other night, and later when he helped her pull her wet dress over her head, she could have sworn he wanted to kiss her. She had wanted it, too, in a different way than she’d wanted Florence’s kiss, the night she received the letter. With Stuart, she had felt a quiet thumping in her chest that made it difficult to focus on anything he said. It was as if a gong had been struck somewhere in her center, the sound and its accompanying vibrations reverberating outward, toward her face, her hands, her feet.
“Do you have children, Mr. Hirsch?”
“Yes, four daughters and a son.”
“And if one of your daughters did what you’re proposing—turned down college to marry instead—would you be angry?”
“If her husband could support her and she thought he would make her happy, no.”
“What if he was a gentile?”
