The Chase: A Novel (43 page)

Rachel did not want to move. Her body felt tired and sore from all the times they had made love—and dear God, now she began to blush, thinking about the things they had done that she just knew weren’t proper—but the reason she did not want to move was that maybe being held like this was even better than making love. It was a difficult if not impossible question that Rachel decided to debate at a later date.

She felt elated, but now she sobered, because it was almost dawn, and it struck her, cruelly, that Eddy was leaving for Tangmere in an hour or so, while she would have to go home to face Papa and the wrath of God—the very same thing.

“Good morning,” Eddy whispered, kissing her forehead.

He was awake. Rachel smiled up at him, refusing to think about her father now. “Good morning,” she said.

“I love you.” His green eyes smiled at her and moved slowly over her face.

Her heart joined in the chorus coming from the treetops. “I love you, too.”

The smile in his eyes faded. “It’s five. We leave at six. I have to go.”

“I know.” She felt tears begin to gather in her own eyes. She turned away. He had many battles to fight, and she would not send him to war with tears and sorrow.

He hadn’t seen, though he was loath to release her. He handed her brassiere and underwear to her. Even though he knew every inch of her now, Rachel blushed and held her skirt over her nakedness.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he said softly, stepping into his boxers.

Rachel blushed just looking at
him
in near daylight. “I know. I need some time to get used to this.”

“I know.” He smiled briefly at her as they both began dressing. He didn’t look directly at her again and Rachel loved him even more, if that was possible, for his kindness. “Hon, I’m worried.”

She was alarmed and stopped buttoning her blouse. “Why?”

“Your father. What will he do to you when you get home—after you’ve spent the night with me?” He finally looked at her, tucking his shirt into his slacks.

“I don’t know,” Rachel said truthfully, a bitter and fearful pang finally going through her. “I just don’t know.”

Eddy seemed upset. “I can’t regret what we did, but Rachel, if he somehow hurts you—”

“Papa would never hurt me.” But now, thinking about her father, she was feeling sick. She had never lied to him, but if he asked her about last night, did she dare tell him the truth? The extent of her dilemma was beginning to sink in.

“You could always tell him that we’re getting married,” Eddy said.

Rachel began to realize the vast sum of her actions. She had violated the Shabbat, she had disobeyed Papa,
and
she had slept with a man.
Papa would never forgive her
.

“You’ve turned white,” Eddy said anxiously. “Damn it!”

She looked at him and somehow smiled. “Eddy. Don’t worry. Papa will be very angry, but I am his favorite. He will forgive me in time.” She hated lying to him. She had never lied like this before. But she could not let Eddy go into battle with his mind full of worries about her and her father. He had the Germans to worry about. Dear God, surely that was enough. “We will argue. Shout. Even cry.” She held back the tears. “But truly, that is all. In another week or so, Papa won’t even remember that I stole out of the house to see you.”

Eddy did not look convinced.

Rachel kissed his cheek, smiling. “Papa loves me, Eddy.”

“I know that,” he said, still grim and drawn. He sighed. “If only I were a Jew. C’mon. I’ve got to report to duty or I’ll find myself in the brig.”

She had no idea what the brig was, and just then she couldn’t care. All thoughts of facing Papa fled. She took his hand, overcome with an anguish of their impending separation. In just a few minutes, she would be taking the tube back to London and he would be flying
Angel
to the aerodrome at Tangmere.

“It will be a few weeks, Rachel. Just a few weeks,” he said.

She nodded, and felt the tears filling her eyes. She did not believe him.

What was worse, she was finally aware of a small voice in her head. Perhaps it was intuition or even a premonition. But now she understood why this night meant so much to her—why she had sacrificed her family and her religion in order to come to this man, in order to be with him.

Somehow, she knew that they were never going to have a wedding day.

She prayed that she was wrong.

CHAPTER 19

It was past eight by the time Rachel reached London. Her heart felt as if it were broken, she missed Eddy that much. Yet she was also ecstatic; she was truly in love, head over heels in love, for the first time in her life. Never had life seemed so bittersweet. Never had the future felt so fragile.

As her train traveled through the city, Rachel’s thoughts veered from Eddy to her father. The sweetness of her joy and the hard edges of her anguish softened as she began to contemplate facing him. Rachel decided to get off the tube at Piccadilly Circus; walking a few extra blocks might help clear her head and prepare her for what surely would be the worst argument of her life. It was too much to hope that Papa would still be asleep and that he might not have noticed that she had disappeared in the middle of the night.

He was going to be furious. Would he strike her?

He had never hit her. Papa did not believe in smacks or slaps. Yet once, when she was a child, she had seen him strike Sarah—her older sister had said something rude to Mama, and Papa’s reaction had been instantaneous. Rachel had recalled being stunned; Sarah had fled to their bedroom, locking herself in, while Mama had cried. Papa had gone about his business, but he had seemed more upset than anyone.

Rachel almost felt that she would deserve it if he did strike her. But she was an adult, and she could not imagine him doing so. There was only one other possibility. He would disown her the way Elgin had disowned Mama.

She reached the outskirts of her neighborhood, wishing Sarah was home, as if her older sister, who was so brave, might transmit some courage to her. At least she had reassured Eddy; at least today, as he scrambled time and again against the Germans, he would not have her to worry about.

It was still shocking—the gaping spaces between upright buildings, when once the block had been whole. Rachel passed the synagogue, finally succumbing to guilt. In a few minutes the morning services would begin.

Her feet dragged. Ahead was her house. There was no sign of activity from this vantage point, of course, but Rachel knew what she would find when she stepped through the front door. Papa waiting for her, Papa enraged, Papa telling her that she was no longer his daughter, Papa telling her to leave the house.

She was sick inside, in her heart, her stomach, her very bones.

Rachel pushed open the front door and was stunned to find the parlor empty. The house was deathly silent. Her unease escalated wildly.

Hannah stepped into the room, from the kitchen. She stared wordlessly at Rachel, her eyes wide, her face white. She did not say a word.

More fear—real fear—overcame Rachel.

“Hannah?” she tried.

Hannah stared at her as if she were a ghost. Then she turned and fled upstairs.

Rachel hugged herself. This was wrong, very wrong . . . She stepped into the kitchen. Her heart stopped.

Papa sat at the kitchen table, reading the Torah. He was dressed for temple, in his suit and
kipa
and talit. He did not seem to hear or notice her.

“Papa?” she said hoarsely.

He did not look up.

Rachel was trembling now. She cleared her throat, nervously toying with the hem of her cardigan. “Papa? Good morning.”

He continued to read. It was as if he did not hear her.

For one instant, Rachel was alarmed—was he ill? Had he lost his hearing? “Papa?”

He turned the page as if she weren’t standing there in the doorway, attempting to speak to him.

It struck her then that he was ignoring her. Was this how he intended to punish her? Or was he so hurt he could not look at her, speak with her? “Papa? I am so sorry! Please try to understand.”

He continued to read. It was as if he were stone deaf, or as if she did not exist.

“I love him. I know he’s not Jewish, but he’s a wonderful man. Please, please try to understand—tomorrow he might be dead! He’s being transferred far to the south—I had to go see him last night. Papa? Think of how it was when you met Mama—”

Papa stood, closing the Torah, and Rachel stopped in mid-sentence, hope soaring in her breast. But he looked past her, through her, and called, “Hannah, we must go.”

Amazement stiffened her.

Papa walked around her, not once looking at her.

“Papa!” she cried, turning as he went past. “I did what I did for love, Papa, and I am so sorry to hurt you! To have disobeyed you! Please try to understand.”

“Hannah?” Papa said, giving no sign that he had heard her.

Hannah trotted downstairs. She wore the same frozen, terrified expression as before. Her eyes met Rachel’s. She did not speak.

“Please, wait,” Rachel said with sudden desperation. “I should change. I am coming with you, of course.”

Papa took Hannah’s hand. He tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Ready?” he asked her.

Hannah nodded, darting a fearful glance at Rachel.

“Then we shall go.” Papa tried to smile but failed miserably. He led his youngest daughter through the parlor and to the front door.

Rachel felt her world beginning to crumble all around her, the way the walls of the Goldbergs’ house had crumbled, into heaps of rubble and piles of dust. “Papa!”

They walked through the front door.

He wasn’t going to speak to her; he wasn’t going to acknowledge her. This, then, was her punishment, the price she would pay for her defiance and her love. For one moment, Rachel could not move. The front door creaked closed.

For how long could he do this? Surely he must speak with her again eventually! Surely they would shout and argue in time. Perhaps he would even disown her. But to pretend that she did not exist?

Rachel covered her face with her hands. She was shaking wildly. This silent treatment could not go on for very long, she told herself. But she was not convinced. This, certainly, was far worse than anything she had imagined.

She fought back tears. She must not miss the morning service, but she could not go in these grass-stained clothes—the clothes she had made love in. Rachel turned to run upstairs and change. As she entered the bedroom she shared with her sisters, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror on the wall. It was terrified. Rachel opened the closet, choosing a dark, somber dress. She began to choke on the tears she was fighting.

Papa was the most stubborn man she knew. Rachel had a terrible feeling—that he would never speak to her again.

Shabbat.
Rachel now dreaded returning home for the holiest day of the week, but she could not stay away and hide behind her job at Fighter Command, as much as she would like to do so. That would only make everything worse. As Rachel entered the house four weeks later, she was assailed with the smells of roasting chicken, potatoes, and onions. She had no appetite—she hadn’t had an appetite in weeks, and she was very slender now.

Sarah came out of the kitchen in an apron, smiling and beautiful. She hurried over to Rachel and kissed her cheek, but her eyes were anxious. “Hi, sweetie. We’re having roasted chicken tonight.”

Rachel nodded, although she could not care less. She bit her lower lip and inhaled, trembling. “Is Papa in the kitchen?” she asked with dread.

“He’s in the backyard.”

Rachel hugged herself. “Surely he’ll talk to me tonight. It’s been over a month, Sarah. He has pretended that I don’t exist for an entire month.” Rachel’s gaze locked with her sister’s. She did not know how much more of this she could take—she had broken Papa’s heart, but now he was breaking hers.

“I know.” Sarah hugged her again. “I know and I’m sorry. You’re not the one who deserves this. I’m the one who should be treated this way.”

Rachel only shook her head. To make matters even worse, she had received one short letter from Eddy a week after his transfer, and she had not heard from him since. She was becoming doubtful; she was beginning to wonder if their love really existed. Or what if the reason she hadn’t heard from him was that he was hurt—or worse? Three weeks ago, when he had not replied to her letter, she had learned from an airman at Fighter Command that he was fine. The battle for Britain had become very intense, and the RAF was flying constantly in response to the Luftwaffe invasions. Last week, the silence growing ominous, Rachel had tried to speak with her source again. All the airman would tell her was “I can’t say much, but he’s not wounded or missing, Rachel.” And what did that mean? Was Eddy now a part of some classified action? She was torturing herself with worry.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Sarah asked, breaking into her thoughts.

Rachel shook her head, overwhelmed. The war was taking a terrible toll on everyone now—the bombs fell not just on the RAF airfields, on factories and munitions dumps, but on the city, both day and night. Hitler had vowed to bring Britain to its knees, and his efforts were concentrated on London. It was so bad that they no longer went to temple on Friday night; they ate their Shabbat meal in the Anderson shelter by candlelight, while Hurricanes and Spitfires roared overhead, taking on the Junkers and Stukkas sent to inflict what damage they could upon the civilian population. As they prayed, bombs exploded in the distance. More often than not, the distance wasn’t great—the East End and Cheapside were being the hardest hit thus far by the Germans. Many of her neighbors were outraged by the unfairness of it all.