Margot: A Novel (37 page)

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ting outside on the bench where Joshua once waited for me.
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She is holding a tiny John Wanamaker’s bag and glancing
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nervously at her slender gold watch. “Margie.” Her eyes break
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into a smile when she sees me.
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“You didn’t have to wait,” I say.
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“Bertie is picking me up here, remember?” She pauses. “I
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thought you would still be talking to your boss, for a while.”
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I had been thinking I would go to my apartment, take
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some money from my stash underneath the mattress, and
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then make my way toward the Greyhound station, where
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surely there must be a bus that could take me to Margate. But
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now I have a different idea.
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“Have you ever been to Margate?” I ask Ilsa.
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“Margate, New Jersey?” I nod. “I’ve been to Cape May,”
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she says. “Bertie’s cousin Alice has a house there. I think
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Margate is nearby.” She pauses and looks me up and down.
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“My dear,” she says. “What’s in Margate?”
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“Joshua,” I say.
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“Joshua?” She pats the space on the bench next to her, and
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I sit down. “This Joshua, he is your boss?” I nod. “And you are
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in love with him?” I meet her green eyes, wondering how they
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are so wise, how she knows so much. And really, that I am
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not as good as hiding things as I think. At least, not from Ilsa.
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I nod again, and then she reaches for my hand and clasps it
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tightly. “Bertie should be here in ten minutes. And then he
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will drive you to Margate,” she says. “We both will.”
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Ch
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Fift
y-t
wo
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In the back of Bertram’s Fairlane, I cling to the
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brown leather seat and look out the window, waiting anx
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iously for a glimpse of the sea. I can smell it faintly as we grow
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closer, the salt air curling in my nose, a smell so foreign now
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yet also so familiar. Once you have smelled the sea, I don’t
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believe you ever forget its particular scent.
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Bertram hasn’t talked much, but in true Bertram fashion,
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he did not argue or even seem upset that his afternoon off
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was being detoured by an hour-long drive to New Jersey.
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“Margate?” he’d said, raising his copper eyebrows at Ilsa as
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we both got into the car and Ilsa instructed him to drive
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there. Ilsa nodded, and Bertram said only, “Illie, pull the map
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out of the glove box, will you?”
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“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I said to Bertram. “I could
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find the bus.”
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“Nonsense.” Ilsa’s green eyes lit up as she found the atlas,
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and I could feel her excitement bursting through her skin.
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“We don’t mind at all.”
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And then all Bertram said was, “Check the map, Illie. the
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White Horse or the Black Horse Pike looks better for
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Margate?”
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Bertram held one hand on the steering wheel and slid the
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other across the seat to rest gently on Ilsa’s knee as Ilsa stud
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ied the map and then declared the Black Horse Pike to be our
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route.
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“Black Horse it is, then,” Bertram said, pulling away from
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the sidewalk, but keeping his hand on Ilsa’s knee.
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I watch her as she still holds the atlas on her lap now, and
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I cannot help but think of Peter. Of the way his finger traced
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the name of the city of Philadelphia.
City of Brotherly Love.
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Certainly Jews cannot be in hiding there.
And yet what have I
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been doing, all this time? Peter had brought me here. But no,
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I think now. I have brought myself. Peter and I were supposed
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to be together. Or maybe we weren’t. Maybe nothing in the
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annex was meant to be any more than a story, a fantasy, a way
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to survive the horribleness of having our childhoods ripped
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away, our lives ripped away.
We will go to Philadelphia,
Peter
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said.
Be married.
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I do not love him,
my sister said.
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Was she the only one of the three of us who was really,
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truly being honest? Understanding that the life in the annex,
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it was a pretend life. It was no life at all.
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“Where in Margate are we going?” Bertram asks as we are
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getting closer and closer to the sea. The smell of salt grows
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stronger, and I close my eyes and inhale, letting the salt tingle
in my nose as I try to remember the address of the house. I
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sent things there on behalf of Ezra and Joshua in the past few
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weeks. “Knight,” I whisper, recalling it. The house is on
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Knight.
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Ilsa finds the street on the map and gives Bertram direc
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tions. Their voices rise and fall in the background as I look
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out the window, at the houses. As we get closer to the sea, it
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seems they get bigger, grander, more beautiful. They are del
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icate and regal all at once, on stilts and swathed in windows.
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Any one of these could be the Rosensteins’.
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But the one that actually is the Rosensteins’ soon becomes
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obvious. It is at the end of the drive, the house closest to the
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sea. Their name is splashed across the black mailbox in white
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letters. It is not the biggest house on the street, but it seems
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fashioned of glass, and close enough to the sea that you might
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almost be able to taste the salt on your tongue from the back
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deck, which hangs close to the sand.
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“This is it,” I say.
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Bertram stops the car. Ilsa turns around and smiles at me.
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“Shall I come in with you, my dear?” I shake my head. “Bertie
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and I will go get a late lunch, then, and come back in an hour.
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Should that be enough time?”
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“I don’t know,” I say, because I have no idea how Joshua
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will react when he sees me. Maybe five minutes will be
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enough, or maybe, hopefully, it will not. “I can take the bus
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back,” I tell her. “You don’t have to wait.”
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“Nonsense,” Ilsa says. “Of course we’ll wait.” She leans in
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to the backseat to hug me. “Good luck, my dear,” she whis
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pers in my ear.
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* * *
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As Bertram’s Fairlane drives away, I stand in Knight Street for
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a moment, across from the Rosensteins’ house. In a way, it is
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not so dissimilar to our home on the Merwedeplein, in that it
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is grand and tall and lofty, and the place where a well-off
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family very obviously lives. We had nice things, before the
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war, before we were hiding. I should not be so intimidated by
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the big, big house by the ocean. And yet, still I am.
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After a few minutes a powder-blue Chevelle pulls up, and
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nearly immediately, I realize it is driven by Penny. She rides
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with the top down, a white scarf wrapped around her petite
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head. She is dressed in a slender black dress and wears big
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Marilyn sunglasses. My heart falls as she parks the car in the
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street next to the house, then turns my way and immediately
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locks her eyes on me.
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She pulls her scarf off her head, gets out of the car, and
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runs across the street. “Margie, is that you?” she says. She
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pulls her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and gives me
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a once-over. “If you’re here for the funeral, you’re too late. It
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was this morning.” She frowns, and I realize I am completely
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inappropriately dressed for a funeral, should that have been
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my reason for coming here. I am wearing my pale green dress
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with my pink sweater.
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I try to glance at Penny’s left hand, nonchalantly, but she
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clings tightly to her black leather clutch, and I cannot tell
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whether there is a diamond there or not.
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“No,” I finally say. “I’m looking for Joshua.”
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“You came all the way here for Josh?” She raises her eye
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brows, and looks at me in a way that says,
Silly, silly girl. Josh
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would never want to see you.
I think about what Shelby said
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once about wanting to punch Penny in her smug little face,
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and I clench my hands uneasily at my sides. “Well,” she says,
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pulling her sunglasses back up over her eyes. “This really isn’t
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the best time. We’re preparing the house for the first night of
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shiva tonight. That’s when—”
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“I know what shiva is,” I say. Though there were many shi
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vas I did not get to sit, for my mother, for my sister, we sat one
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on the Merwedeplein after Gram Hollander died in January
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1942. It was only a pretend shiva, though, as my sister said,
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since we did not want to attract attention then from the Green
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Police for having a large gathering of Jews. That was the first
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time I’d seen Mother upset, really truly upset, by the war.
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“You cannot even die with dignity anymore,” Mother had
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complained to Father.
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Penny stares at me hard, and then she says, “Josh is really
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in no state to be discussing work right now.”
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“This is not about work,” I tell her.
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“Well, whatever it is you came for, it’s going to have to
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wait. This is just the worst possible time.” She puts her hand,
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her right hand, on my shoulder. “You go back to work, and I’ll
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tell Josh you’ve sent your condolences, all right?”
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No, it is not all right. I am not okay with allowing Penny
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to be my gatekeeper, telling me where I can and cannot be,
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what I can and cannot say, and most especially how and when
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and why I am allowed to talk to Joshua.
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“I am going to walk down to the beach,” I tell her. “Can
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you ask Joshua to come down there to talk to me?”
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“Oh, Margie.” She sighs. “I am sure you are a lovely secre
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tary. But that is all you are. All you’ll ever be.”
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Penny’s words rush in my ears, making me suddenly dizzy,
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because it is possible, more than possible, that there is truth
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in them.
You’re you
. Shelby’s voice echoes in my head.
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I am me,
I think
.
And not the Gentile, Polish American
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secretary. I have spent so many years hiding, and as Ilsa said,
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it is time for me to become whole again.
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“I will be waiting on the beach,” I tell Penny. “And then,
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in a little while, if Joshua does not come down, I will knock
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on the door, and come inside the house.”
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I can feel the weight of her frown on my back as I turn and
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walk down the staircase that leads me to the sand and the sea
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below.
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Ch
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Fif
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I take off my pumps before I step into the sand, and
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then I dig my toes in. The beach is warm, and the grains of
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sand cling between my toes. The sea swells before me, giant
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and unyielding, even to the snow-white gulls who swoop
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down and then back up against the pale blue sky.
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The New Jersey sea, it is not at all like Peter’s eyes. It is
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greener and blacker, murkier. It reminds me more of the color
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of the canal running alongside the Prinsengracht, the water
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we could stare at for so long, but could not touch.
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The sea I always imagine in my head is the North Sea,
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which truly was as blue as Peter’s eyes. We vacationed there,
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the four of us, before the war got so bad that we could not. I
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can still picture my sister and me, digging our small hands
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into the sand while Mother and Father sunned themselves on
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long chairs. My sister and I dug a moat in a circle around
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them, pulling at the sand until it coated our arms and dusted
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under our fingernails. And then we filled the moat with buck
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ets of water, so anyone who would try to get to our parents, as
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they lay there with their eyes closed, could not.
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“Let’s do a castle,” I said to my sister, after the moat was
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finished.
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She shook her head. “Let’s keep digging,” she said. “I’ve
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heard if you dig deep enough you can dig straight through to
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the other end of the earth.”
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We did not need to dig that far then, though still we tried,
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until our arms grew tired, our fingers parched and ready to
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bleed. “Girls,” Mother said when she awoke. “Fill that hole
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back in. Someone might fall inside and kill themselves.”
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My sister smiled at me and whispered, “We were so close,
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I think. Maybe next time we’ll get there.”
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There never was a next time, of course. By the next sum
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mer, there were no vacations left for Jews. There were not
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even movies or bus rides or bicycles.
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“Margie?” I hear Joshua’s voice, and I turn away from the
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sea. He runs down from the house, in his black suit, a yar
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mulke crushing his curls. He has taken off his shoes and
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cuffed up the bottom of his pants, and he has removed his tie
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and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white collared
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shirt.
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“Penny told you,” I say, nearly in disbelief. Even though
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she had told him my message once before, this time it had felt
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different.
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“Penny?” He shakes his head. “I saw you out the window.
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I thought it looked like you and then I saw the sweater, so I
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figured . . .”
He stops running now, and his breath is hard and heavy
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in his chest. He is close enough to me that I could reach out
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and touch his arm or run my finger around one of his chest
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nut curls, but I do not.
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“What are you doing here?” he asks, still breathing hard.
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He does not sound angry or annoyed, as Penny would’ve had
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me believe, but confused.
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“I went into the office to talk to you, and Shelby told me
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about your father,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
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He nods, and he gently takes my arm and leads me to the
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edge of the sea. “Do you want to sit?” he asks. I nod, and he
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pulls his suit jacket off and lays it on the ground for us. I sit
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down first, and then he sits next to me, close enough so our
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shoulders touch as we both hang our feet out and dangle
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them in the edge of the water. It is warmer than I expected it
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would be.
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“I wanted to talk to you this morning,” Joshua says. “You
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know, before all this happened.” He waves his arms around
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in the air, pointing back toward the house. “I wanted to apol
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ogize for Friday, at lunch. I felt I offended you somehow, and
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that wasn’t my intention.”
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“I know,” I say. “And I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said
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those things about Penny and then just run out.”
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“You’re right, though,” he says. “I don’t love her.” My heart
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swells when he says it, not because I hate Penny so, but
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because I know it is the truth, and he is admitting it to me,
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and also to himself. “I love her as a friend, of course. I always
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have, and I always will, but . . .”
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He sighs and props himself back against his elbows,
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extending his face up toward the sun. And I do the same. Our
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shoulders are still touching, our faces beaming in the sun, our
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toes dancing against the water. If there has ever been a per
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fect moment since that last one, in the annex, lying in Peter’s
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arms before my sister walked in, this is the one: sunlight, the
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sea, the warmth of Joshua’s body next to me.
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“How did you do it?” Joshua asks, after a little while.
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“When your father died?”
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“Do what?” I ask.
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“I am not even sure what to feel. My father is gone. And
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I’m numb. Completely and totally numb.” He sighs. “You said
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you didn’t get along with your father. How did you mourn him
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and hate him all at once?”
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I think about Pim: Pim standing there, as surely he did, at
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the doorway to 263 Prinsengracht, just after the war. Pim
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holding on tightly to our diaries, thinking to himself that
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something, it couldn’t mean nothing. Pim now, in Switzer
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land, seventy years old. Seventy! I try to imagine him with
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snow-white hair, a slightly shrunken spine, but that same look
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of brightness in his eyes.
Lay your head here
,
Bubbelah
.
I will
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protect you.
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“My father isn’t dead,” I say softly. It is the first time I have
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said the words out loud, to anyone. And now they sound so
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real that they startle me all over again, the way my father’s
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name shocked me when I first saw it written there as editor
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on my sister’s book. Otto, Father, Pim—for certain alive and
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breathing in Switzerland.
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Joshua shakes his head, confused. “I thought you said both
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your parents were dead.”
“My mother is dead,” I say. “And my sister.”
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“You had a sister?” he asks, sitting back up.
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“Yes,” I tell him. I sit up too, and I look at him. His gray
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green eyes are purely green in the sunlight, and they hold
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my face in a certain way that tells me he is listening
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intently, more intently than anyone has ever listened. The sun
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is warm, and my skin aches and sweats underneath my pink
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sweater. “I loved her,” I say. “I really did.” Joshua covers my
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hand with his. “Sometimes we fought. But I always loved her.
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She was beautiful, and she was brave. She was smart and
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loud and pure and brilliant. I still miss her,” I tell him. He
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squeezes my hand and his eyes reach out to me in a smile.
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“You know her,” I tell him.
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“Me?” he asks, his eyes turning now in confusion.
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“Or you think you do,” I tell him. “Everyone thinks they
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do. But no one really knows her, not the way I did.” My face
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is turning wet, but it is not until Joshua reaches his thumbs
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up to wipe the tears away that I realize I am crying.
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“Margie?” he says, wanting me to tell him more, wanting
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maybe to understand it. The sun beats down upon us, burn
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ing on my back, my shoulders.
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I want to tell him everything, but my words, they are sud
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denly choking me, and there are so many tears that it is hard
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to keep on speaking.
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Instead, I pull at my pink sweater, tugging it gently off. I
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free my right arm, revealing my pale and unmarked skin, and
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then I take a deep breath, and I free my left arm, the arm by
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which Joshua sits. I fold the sweater in my lap, and I close my
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eyes, listening to the sounds of the sea whispering in front of
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me. If I hold out my tongue, I think, I might be able to taste
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the salt.
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Joshua’s finger dances gently against my left forearm, trac
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ing the
A,
then the numbers that follow, each one slowly and
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I can hear the echo of them in my head.
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“Margie.” Joshua whispers my name.
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After a while I open my eyes. I turn and I look at Joshua.
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I catch his gray-green eyes, and I hold on to them. “My name
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isn’t Margie,” I finally say. “It’s Margot.”
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Epilogue
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Sometimes now I still think about that Friday
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afternoon in April when I first learned about your movie. In my
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mind, that afternoon marks the beginning of the end of my hid-
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