Why did Paul Bronski have to be such a decent sort? That’s what made it so damned lousy. Bronski was a wonderful person. And any desire Chris had to create a scene suddenly melted.
“Chris, you and I haven’t known each other tremendously long as some friendships go. You know how it is. With some people you work with them all your life—like myself and Dr. Koenig—and never really know them. Another man can walk into a room and in ten minutes you become friends—real friends. I think you and I are that kind.”
“I hope so, Paul.”
“I’ve been a very lucky man. In addition to my position and my family, my father left me a considerable estate which I have been able to enlarge.” Paul slid the brown envelope across the desk.
“If something should happen to me ...” he continued.
“Oh, come now.”
“Good friends don’t have to make small talk, Chris. Poland doesn’t have a chance, does it?”
“No—not really.”
“Even if I do get through, which I certainly anticipate, they’re going to make it hard on us. With your connections and freedom of movement and with the possibility of an occupied Poland, you are in the best position of anyone I know to convert my estate into Swiss or American holdings.”
Chris took the envelope and nodded.
“You’ll find everything in order.”
“I’ll take care of it right away. I have a friend leaving for Bern next week. He can be trusted. Any preference in investments?”
“German munitions seem like a good bet.”
They both laughed.
“My bank is good and conservative. They’ll know the answers,” Chris said.
“Good. Well ... you hold all my fortunes. One more thing. If anything should happen to me, I know you will see to it that Deborah and the children are taken out of Poland.”
Chris’s mouth went dry. All the rest of it was what one friend does for another. But this seemed as though he were willing Deborah to him. Chris looked into Paul’s implacable eyes. Revealing, yet not revealing. If he really knew, he had carried it quietly. He had veiled the pain it must have caused. But isn’t this the way Paul Bronski would do things? He was a gentle man as well as a shrewd man. Wouldn’t he have thought it out and already forgiven both Deborah and him? Or maybe Chris was overdramatizing everything. Perhaps Paul did feel their friendship deep enough to ask this.
Nothing Paul said or did gave the slightest clue to what was really behind his expression.
Chris folded the envelope and put it in his inside pocket Deborah entered with two glasses of sherry for herself and Paul and a martini for Chris.
“You two look so grim.”
“Chris was explaining the meaning of the news to me, dear.”
“Rachael is playing the piano. Come on into the parlor.”
They stood around the piano, Paul obviously glorying in the extraordinary talent of his daughter. It was the same melody that was coming over the radio.
Chris felt himself back in bed looking at Deborah’s body. Paderewski ... Chopin ... a nocturne ...
Deborah lowered her eyes as her daughter’s slender fingers danced over the keys. And Chris lowered his.
Paul looked from one to the other. “Why don’t you play, dear?” he said to his wife.
She breathed deeply and slipped beside Rachael and took up the bass. There they were, Deborah and Rachael, beauty and beauty.
The mood of the moment was shattered by a bombastic roar at the door. Uncle Andrei had arrived. He had a second round of battle with Stephan and this time decided to lift fat old Zoshia off the ground and dance her around the anteroom.
“Chris!” he roared, belting De Monti in the back so that he lost half his martini.
Gabriela, filled with the weary happiness of love-making, drifted in almost unseen behind the roaring Ulan. “Keep playing! Keep playing!” ordered Captain Androfski.
Never known as a man adept in stifling emotions, he greeted Paul Bronski in a way that left little doubt of the iciness that existed between them. The words they exchanged testified they were straining for effect for Deborah’s sake.
“I hear you’ve been called up, Paul.”
“Yes, they’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
“No,” Andrei retorted, “you’ll do a good job for them. You always do a good job.”
“Why, thank you, brother-in-law.”
There were “ohs” and “ahs” regarding the beauty of the table from Gabriela, Chris, and Paul when dinner was called. Andrei looked up and down for something that was not there. He caught an angry signal from his sister and only then did he seat himself in sulking quiet.
It was a splendid meal, one particularly made to please Andrei. During the gefilte fish and horse-radish the conversation bemoaned the state of the theater in Warsaw. The best plays, always French, were slow reaching Warsaw this summer because of the crisis. Gabriela volunteered that the opera season would suffer too. Rachael hoped that the music would not be affected too much, and Deborah hoped so too, because if things went well the conservatory was going to let Rachael have her debut with a major orchestra.
The chicken soup was loaded with noodles. They talked about the Olympics. Stephan knew almost every statistic. Jesse Owens was great—but Uncle Andrei, who played forward on the Polish soccer team, was greater then Jesse Owens and the rest of the Americans put together. Where would Andrei play this year? Depended upon his situation with the army.
Roast chicken, stuffed helsel and noodle and raisin kugel. Chris reckoned he hadn’t had a good Jewish meal in months—he was glad Paul had talked him into coming. Gabriela asked for recipes, which Deborah promised to supply by phone next day. Stephan got restless.
Tea and rice pudding. Reflections of the university. Koenig to the dean’s chair? Isn’t he mixed up with the Nazis? Well, German or not, Franz Koenig was certainly entitled to the post.
Cognac. Rachael helped Zoshia clear the table. Stephan, who had lost all conversation before and after the Olympics discussion, disappeared.
And then, with the children gone, world politics.
All of this conversation, and Andrei Androfski had not uttered a word.
“Chris, Gabriela,” Paul Bronski said, “we have all endured the silent wrath of my brother-in-law, Captain Androfski. Fortunately it was not great enough to ruin my wife’s cooking. In his behalf I wish to ask forgiveness for his bad manners.”
“I agree with you, Dr. Bronski,” Gabriela said hastily. “Your behavior is shameful, Andrei.”
Andrei, suddenly exposed, grumbled a low rumble destined to increase in volume. “I promised my sister no arguments. I keep my promises despite the inconveniences it causes me.”
“I think it would have been better to argue and get it off your chest rather than sulk like Stephan and try to make everyone at the table as miserable as you,” Paul shot back.
“You promised, Paul. Stop baiting him,” Deborah said.
“Let Captain Androfski speak before he explodes.”
“Paul, you’re leaving in the morning. Let’s not have an argument tonight?” Deborah pleaded.
“Why, dear? Don’t you want me to remember home as it always is?”
“I am a man of my word,” Andrei said. “But I also remember my home as it always was. Friday night and I sit at my sister’s table and there are no candles or benediction.”
“Is that what has been bothering you, brother-in-law?”
“Yes, it is the Sabbath.”
“We stopped facing east a year ago, Andrei.”
“Oh, I knew it was coming. I didn’t know you could break her down so quickly. I remember when we lived in the slums on Stawki Street. God, we were poor. But we were Jews. And when we moved to, that fancy neighborhood on Sliska Street and Momma died, I had a sister then who was the head of a Jewish house.”