Last Train to Paris by Michele Zackheim

sensed the cleansing of her face.
    Mother had told me that Clara had felt she had been wearing a mask—and an unfortunately ugly one at that. But, over time, she began to see herself differently. The longer she didn’t glance at herself, the better looking she felt. That pleasant feeling of self-approval took on its own visual persona. When she caught an accidental glance of herself, Clara didn’t recognize the woman staring back. The charade had become a part of her life.
    Clara lived upstairs over her button-and-lace shop on Havemeyer Street in Brooklyn. The shop was called New World Notions. “I named this,” she said, “in honor of my becoming an American citizen and being free to have my own ideas.” Running along three walls of the store were built-in cabinets with rows of drawers filled with buttons. On the front of each drawer was a white ceramic knob and around each knob were painted colors and shapes to denote the drawer’s contents. Above these cabinets, secured to both sides of the long and narrow shop, were spools of lace and ribbon displayed on dowels that were balanced over the heads of the shoppers. The shoppers would point to what they wanted, and Clara would climb a wooden ladder with a cloth measuring tape draped around her neck and cut the desired lengths. Being Clara, she always added an inch or two.
    â€œI’ve fixed the spare room for you,” Clara said. “You can stay as long as you want.”
    I had been planning to stay at a women’s boardinghouse on the Lower East Side of Manhattan until I found an apartment. Now, I wasn’t sure. It was nice to be with family—but maybe a little too nice. I would have to think about it.
    Â 
    One Monday night when the theaters were dark, I saw Stella at Clara’s.
    â€œOh, Rose, it’s unbelievable! Two months ago I played Molly the whore in
Threepenny Opera
! I couldn’t believe it! Now I’m rehearsing
The Mask and the Face
with Humphrey Bogart. It’s so exciting!”
    â€œStella,” Clara said, “calm down and act like a lady.”
    The next Friday night the family, five people, gathered for dinner at Uncle Saul and Aunt Leah’s house. Leah sat at one end of the table, Saul at the other. Seated on either side were Clara, Stella, and me. The only Brooklyn relative who wasn’t there was David, Stella’s brother, who was on a business trip. It was the first time I had been around so much family, and I felt besieged. Questions and more questions. They couldn’t get over the idea that I knew so little of my own family’s history, while I sensed that they lived too much in the past.
    When they lit candles, I asked, “Are we celebrating a special event? Is it someone’s birthday?”
    They were shocked. “Didn’t your mother tell you anything about being Jewish?” Stella asked, laughing.
    â€œYour mother,” Leah said, shaking her head, “your mother —”
    â€œMa,” Stella said, “let’s change the subject. Come on, let’s eat.”
    And then there was a great commotion about food. “
Es, es, mayn kind!
” Eat, eat, my children! Clara said in Yiddish.
    Leah remained quiet. I found her cold and distant and felt as if she were passing judgment any time she opened her mouth. In the middle of serving the soup, Leah stopped, the ladle suspended in the air, and said, “Miriam has always hated being Jewish. Do you have any idea why?”
    â€œNone,” I answered. “Why don’t you ask her?”
    â€œI never dared,” Leah said. “Not with her temper!”
    Well, I thought, this is indeed something we share. But I kept quiet.
    â€œCan you answer another question?” Leah persisted. “Why did your mother leave us to marry a Catholic stranger? You know, it’s a tragedy in our family. Nothing could be worse, except marrying a Negro.”
    I could see that everyone