Margot: A Novel (14 page)

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“Margie. It’s Joshua Rosenstein.” My mouth is open, but I
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have nothing to say. “I hate to bother you, at home like this on
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a Friday night. I called the office first but you’d already left.”
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“I’m sorry,” I say. “I finished my work before leaving.”
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“Oh, no. Don’t worry about that. It’s just . . . I had an idea.
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About Miss Korzynski’s case, but I need your help.”
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“My help?” I know I sound like an idiot, but I am still
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dazed by the fact that Joshua is calling me, at home, asking
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me to help him.
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“Are you free now? Can we meet for a drink and we’ll
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discuss it?”
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“A drink?” I say, compounding my idiocy. I am wondering
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what has happened to Penny, or why Joshua can’t tell me his
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plan on the phone, but of course I don’t have the courage to
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ask him any of that. I stare at my unlit candle, at the skies
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darkening outside of my window. Joshua is a liberal Jew, and
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I’m sure he does not observe the Shabbat. Margie Franklin is
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not a Jew either, I remind myself. And Margot, who is a Jew?
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She is dead. I stare once more at the piece of paper in my
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hand.
Peter Pelt.
“Of course,” I finally say. “Of course I can
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meet you.”
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O’Malley’s, the bar where Joshua has asked me to meet him,
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is back on Sixteenth Street, near the office, and I walk out of
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my apartment building and head in that direction. It is dark
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outside now, and the streets are quieter than during the day,
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or the five o’clock hour when everyone is bustling home.
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It occurs to me that it might not be safe for a woman, even
a Gentile one, to walk on Ludlow Street after dark, all alone.
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I do not usually go out after dark. Never on a Friday.
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I hear the sound of footsteps behind me. They are heavy,
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the gait of boots. Surely, NSB footsteps. The Green Police.
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I cannot help it. I quicken my pace, until I am almost
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running.
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Chapter Eighteen
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Joshua is already at O’Malley’s when I arrive, and I
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spot him sitting on a bar stool by the long rectangular bar in
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the back. The place is small and dim inside, with high-topped
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tables filled with businessmen in suits and their dates dressed
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in shiny full dresses, all of which block my path to Joshua. I
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look around and I realize that this is not the kind of bar I’ve
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been to before with Shelby and Ron, where the men and
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women dance too close and holler on a checkered floor after
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everyone has had one too many drinks. Of course, I only
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watched in those bars. But here, in O’Malley’s, I feel even
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more out of place, in my plain gray cotton work dress, covered
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with a simple navy sweater.
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I make my way through the haze of smoke, well-dressed
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bodies, and the bright sound of laughter. The stool next to
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Joshua is one of the only empty seats in the bar, and I realize,
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staring at it for a moment, that it is meant for me, that maybe
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he has saved it for me.
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“Hello,” I say, sitting down next to him.
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“Margie.” He smiles, and I smile back, suddenly so happy
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that he called, that I am sitting here next to him. Then I think
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uneasily about the green mailbox on Olney Avenue, and I feel
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a tiny surge of guilt. “Can I buy you a drink?” Joshua asks. His
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drink is in a half-size glass: something brown that he takes a
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sip of, grimaces, and then takes another, bigger sip.
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“No thank you,” I say. “I don’t really drink much.” Or at all.
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“How about a club soda, then, with a twist of lime?”
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“Okay,” I say, and he beckons to the young man in the
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white-collared shirt and red bow tie who is standing behind
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the counter. Joshua orders my drink, and then he turns back
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to look at me. He is still dressed in his work suit, but his black
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tie is loose around his collar and the top button of his shirt is
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undone.
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“So it’s official,” he says. He takes another swig of his
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drink and smiles again. “I must be the world’s worst boss,
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dragging you out here on a Friday night.”
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“No, you’re not,” I say.
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“After I called you, it occurred to me that you might have
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had another . . . obligation. “
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I shake my head. “I don’t mind, really.”
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“Really?”
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I nod. I do not let myself think about the Shabbat, the
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unlit candle in my apartment. I do not let myself think about
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Bryda Korzynski, or even the crooked black letters on the Pelt
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mailbox again. Instead I think that Joshua is close enough to
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me that if I swing my stool, just a little, our knees might
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touch, and that his arm rests easily across the bar counter,
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just inches from my own. “You’re working on a Friday night
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too,” I say timidly. “I thought you had a date.”
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“Oh, that,” he says. “Penny and I just went to see a movie.
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Diary of Anne Frank.
Have you seen it?” I shake my head and
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hold my breath. “Penny thought we should go together.” He
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doesn’t elaborate on why, and I’m not sure whether it’s because
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Penny is his girlfriend again or because they are both Jews. I
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don’t ask.
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“Did you like it?” I ask instead, though I regret the ques
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tion as soon as I say the words. The bartender sets my drink
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down on a small square napkin in front of me, and I pick it
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up and take a sip. The club soda burns my throat, and I won
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der if it is not club soda at all, but a clear alcohol the bar
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tender poured by mistake. It makes my head warm, but it’s a
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feeling that I like, so I drink a little more.
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“It’s not really a movie you can like, is it?” Joshua is saying.
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“It’s more like school. Where you know you have to go and
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learn. Or going to the doctor. You know it’s good for you. That
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you
should
do it. But you don’t exactly enjoy it.”
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“I guess so,” I murmur. But then, I always quite enjoyed
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school. I was a star pupil at the Jewish Lyceum. It is hard for
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me to consider what I might have done, had we continued our
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lives in Amsterdam, had I been able to go on to college.
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“It does make you stop and think,” he’s saying now. “How
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your life might have been different had you been born some
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where else in the world.” He pauses and finishes off his drink.
“My father would’ve been the type to take us in hiding.
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Although,” he adds, “it would’ve been someplace we wouldn’t
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have been found, I’m sure. He’d be very good at hiding, at
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pretending not to be a Jew.”
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I nod, though I begin to feel annoyed with Joshua for the
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first time. I know he cannot help it that he is an American
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Jew, that he cannot really understand the way it was. I am sure
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already, from Shelby’s description, that the movie has put a
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glamorous sheen of Hollywood on all our experience. Maybe
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it made Father look weak, the annex cozy, though none of that
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is true, of course. But then again, how is Joshua to know?
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“Anyway,” Joshua says, “it just made me think more about
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Miss Korzynski, and how I really do want to help her. So I
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had an idea.” I take another, bigger swallow of my drink, and
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though I am now fully convinced it is not club soda, I don’t
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care.
Who’s a paragon of virtue now?
I think, inching myself
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just a little bit closer to Joshua so I am almost close enough
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for him to whisper, even in the crowded bar. “This is what we
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can do,” Joshua is saying. His breath is warm, and it brushes
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against my cheek as he speaks. “I want to put an ad in the
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Inquirer
. We’ll ask people to call us to join the suit. This way,
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we can collect a group of them, without Miss Korzynski hav
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ing to do all the work, and this way we can reach all of the
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factories. Make sense?” I nod slowly, even though Joshua’s
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words, and his face, are swimming before me. “But I can’t put
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the law office’s name or number or even my own in the ad.
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My father will know. Once we have the suit together, I’ll tell
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him. I’ll show him, how important this is, but until then we
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need to work furtively.”
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I finish off my drink, and my stomach turns. Joshua’s gray
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green eyes go in blurry swirls, around and around.
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“So, Margie, what I want to do is this. We’ll put an ad in
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the
Inquirer
that says something to the effect of: ‘Jews who
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work for Robertson’s unite against anti-Semitism
.
’ And then
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we’ll put your number underneath it. The people will call you,
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at home; you’ll take down their names, numbers, information,
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and then bring them to me.” Joshua pauses, and stares at me. “I
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know it’s a lot to ask,” he says. “So I’ll pay you extra. Five dol
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lars more a week.”
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I cannot imagine it, listening to their surely sad stories of
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being a Jew and being punished for it. Or even, other Brydas
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yelling at me through the phone, calling me a liar. Joshua’s
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face swims in front of me, his eyes swirl faster, until I am not
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sure anymore whether they are green or blue, whether it is
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him or Peter sitting there, asking something impossible of me.
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Peter van Pels. Peter Pelt. 2217 Olney Avenue . . .
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“Okay,” he says. “Seven dollars more a week.”
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I think about the way I felt, there in the annex, lying on the
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divan, kissing Peter, the way I wanted to be close to him. I hear
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my mother’s voice, my sister’s, the voice of the girl I was before
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the annex.
What are you doing, Margot, paragon of virtue?
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“I don’t know, Peter,” I say now, only maybe I don’t say
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Peter’s name. Maybe I just think it.
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“Margie.” I hear Joshua’s voice, although it sounds like it is
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coming from somewhere very far away, not right next to me.
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“Your face is so red. Are you feeling okay . . . ? Are you too
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warm?”
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I shake my head, even though I feel myself falling just a
little bit off the side of the bar stool, and then I feel Joshua’s
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hands, steadying me, tugging at the sleeves of my sweater.
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Peter’s eyes were blue, like the sea. So blue that they made
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me remember swimming and sky. They held me; they swal
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lowed me; they kept me alive.
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“Margot,” Peter whispered in my ear. “It’s like you and I
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are the only two people here,”
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I knew what he meant. There was nothing else but me and
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him, in the middle of the quiet night, in the darkness. We
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were no longer trapped rats there, hiding, terrified for our
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lives.
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We were alone, but we were together. Some nights, I
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wished we would be able to stay there, in the annex, forever.
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“Who’s Peter?” Joshua asks me now. We are standing on
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the sidewalk, in front of O’Malley’s, and after the noise of the
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bar, the quiet is almost alarming. Joshua is still holding on to
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my arm, steadying me with his large hands. “Would you like
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me to call him for you?” he’s asking now.
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“Peter?” I say, and I realize I must have actually said his
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name, inside the bar, when I was thinking it. I shake my
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head. Then I say, “I don’t think that was a club soda.”
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He nods. I notice the sleeves of my black sweater are
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pushed up slightly, and I tug at them quickly, to pull them
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back down. “I thought you were going to pass out,” Joshua
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says. “Come on.” He tugs gently on my arm. “Let me walk you
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home.”
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“You don’t have to,” I say meekly.
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“Yes,” he says, and his voice is curling with what sounds
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like guilt. “I do.”
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Joshua is still holding on to my arm as we walk down South
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Sixteenth, and then Ludlow. For a moment I pretend that it
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is because he wants to touch me, not because he thinks he
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needs to hold me up. The air is cooler now, and it calms my
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cheeks. I inhale deeply, taking in the scent of a Friday night
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outdoors. On Ludlow Street, that scent is roses, city bus
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exhaust, a hint of garbage, and something else, a little sweeter,
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that I think is Joshua’s cologne because it is slightly familiar,
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something I have smelled before.
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“Margie,” Joshua says. “I hope I didn’t upset you, with my
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idea.”
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I don’t say anything because, for once, I am not sure how
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to lie without also telling the truth.
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“I just want you to understand, how important this is to
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me. Being a Jew.” I think about the fact that Ezra, he is also
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a Jew and does not feel compelled to help. I wonder if it is not
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just a money thing, but also a matter of his reputation. Though
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the partners at the firm are all Jews, many of the clients are
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wealthy businessmen who are not. “I cannot imagine what it
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must have been like,” Joshua is saying now. “To have been
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treated like that, tortured, and then even now . . .” He pauses.
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“Did you notice Miss Korzynski is missing a finger?”
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I nod, but I remember what she said:
It’s not what you
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think.
Maybe it wasn’t the war. Maybe it was an accident in
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