noisily ticked the minutes. Was this to be my lot? Stuck in an apartment knitting or sewing or cooking while waiting for the men to come back from some adventure? It made me want to take the kitchen plates and throw them out the window just to hear them smash into a thousand pieces on the cobblestones below.
I sighed heavily.
My mother said, “Why should you want to be out there watching bombs fall? It’s not like fireworks, you know.”
“Maybe because it’s more interesting than sitting like a hen in a coop.”
“You think war is interesting? I saw a war once and there was nothing interesting about it. Better a hen in a coop than a bloody pile of feathers by the side of the road.” My mother drew her eyebrows together and pressed her lips thin, jabbing the needle through the hole of a button.
Auntie Shakeh said, “May the good Lord watch over us and protect us from ever seeing such things again.”
It was strange that I knew so little about what they had gone through, especially as it seemed to loom like a vast, amorphous shadow over our lives. My mother and my aunt referred vaguely and ominously to what they called the Massacres or the Deportations. If I asked a question about that period in the Old Country, my mother would say darkly, “It’s better not to talk about those times.” Auntie Shakeh would go pale and invoke God. So after a while, I stopped asking, and it was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes when they made their dire, cryptic references.
My father and brother returned a half an hour later, saying they hadn’t seen anything but bright flashes along the skyline. But the Kacherians had been there, as well as other neighbors. Once the British planes had flown off, people dispersed.
“No one complained about the English going after Renault,” my father said.
Missak laughed. “You might even say they were happy.”
My mother said, “I promise you, the people of Boulogne are not happy tonight. And all I’m feeling is exhausted.”
The night was almost over as we wearily returned to our beds.
I lay in the dark listening to the soft wheezing of my aunt, who had fallen asleep immediately. I was unhappy because I had missed seeing Zaven twice in one night. I wished it didn’t matter so much to me, but there were so few chances for romance in my life, and I had pegged my heart on this particular boy.
When finally I fell asleep, I dreamed that I was walking along the lake in the Buttes Chaumont. Zaven strolled beside me. It was a beautiful afternoon, the skies clear and the trees adorned with flowers. He slipped his arm through mine as though we had walked like this a thousand times, and he smiled into my eyes. My heart beat its feathered wings. I looked down at our feet. There were ducks and swans lying at the edge of the water. They were lifeless, their necks twisted at awful angles, their eyes staring up without seeing. Shuddering, I hid my face against Zavig’s shoulder.
9
I STOOD ON THE STOOL in my bedroom while my mother pinned the hem of a new dress. The fabric was ruby taffeta, and my mother had managed to hide the discolored folds in such a way that no one would guess the dress was made from a pair of flea-market curtains.
“Hold still,” my mother mumbled through a mouthful of pins. “If you keep moving, it’s going to be crooked.”
I glanced at myself in the mirror. The dress had three-quarter-length sleeves, a tight bodice, and a full skirt that made my waist look tiny. I wished that I had someplace special to go, and someone to take me there.
“Done,” my mother said. “Give it to me so I can hem it.”
“Can I wear it to Sunday dinner at the Kacherians’, or do you think it’s too fancy?” I undid the buttons and pulled off the dress.
My mother draped the dress over her arm. “You can wear this to church, to Sunday dinner . . . Speaking of Sunday dinner, I promised Shushan that your aunt and I would help her make
manti
on Saturday.
I sighed heavily.
My mother said, “Why should you want to be out there watching bombs fall? It’s not like fireworks, you know.”
“Maybe because it’s more interesting than sitting like a hen in a coop.”
“You think war is interesting? I saw a war once and there was nothing interesting about it. Better a hen in a coop than a bloody pile of feathers by the side of the road.” My mother drew her eyebrows together and pressed her lips thin, jabbing the needle through the hole of a button.
Auntie Shakeh said, “May the good Lord watch over us and protect us from ever seeing such things again.”
It was strange that I knew so little about what they had gone through, especially as it seemed to loom like a vast, amorphous shadow over our lives. My mother and my aunt referred vaguely and ominously to what they called the Massacres or the Deportations. If I asked a question about that period in the Old Country, my mother would say darkly, “It’s better not to talk about those times.” Auntie Shakeh would go pale and invoke God. So after a while, I stopped asking, and it was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes when they made their dire, cryptic references.
My father and brother returned a half an hour later, saying they hadn’t seen anything but bright flashes along the skyline. But the Kacherians had been there, as well as other neighbors. Once the British planes had flown off, people dispersed.
“No one complained about the English going after Renault,” my father said.
Missak laughed. “You might even say they were happy.”
My mother said, “I promise you, the people of Boulogne are not happy tonight. And all I’m feeling is exhausted.”
The night was almost over as we wearily returned to our beds.
I lay in the dark listening to the soft wheezing of my aunt, who had fallen asleep immediately. I was unhappy because I had missed seeing Zaven twice in one night. I wished it didn’t matter so much to me, but there were so few chances for romance in my life, and I had pegged my heart on this particular boy.
When finally I fell asleep, I dreamed that I was walking along the lake in the Buttes Chaumont. Zaven strolled beside me. It was a beautiful afternoon, the skies clear and the trees adorned with flowers. He slipped his arm through mine as though we had walked like this a thousand times, and he smiled into my eyes. My heart beat its feathered wings. I looked down at our feet. There were ducks and swans lying at the edge of the water. They were lifeless, their necks twisted at awful angles, their eyes staring up without seeing. Shuddering, I hid my face against Zavig’s shoulder.
9
I STOOD ON THE STOOL in my bedroom while my mother pinned the hem of a new dress. The fabric was ruby taffeta, and my mother had managed to hide the discolored folds in such a way that no one would guess the dress was made from a pair of flea-market curtains.
“Hold still,” my mother mumbled through a mouthful of pins. “If you keep moving, it’s going to be crooked.”
I glanced at myself in the mirror. The dress had three-quarter-length sleeves, a tight bodice, and a full skirt that made my waist look tiny. I wished that I had someplace special to go, and someone to take me there.
“Done,” my mother said. “Give it to me so I can hem it.”
“Can I wear it to Sunday dinner at the Kacherians’, or do you think it’s too fancy?” I undid the buttons and pulled off the dress.
My mother draped the dress over her arm. “You can wear this to church, to Sunday dinner . . . Speaking of Sunday dinner, I promised Shushan that your aunt and I would help her make
manti
on Saturday.
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