again.” She laughed.
“You
are
young,” I told her.
She laughed again and waved her hand in the air. “Did I ever tell you how I wanted to be on Broadway?” she asked. “I really thought I’d do it, too.”
I tried to imagine it, the small, motherly Ethel as a big stage star. Maybe that explained the piano, which I’d never heard anyone play for real.
“In high school my class voted me most likely to be America’s leading actress by 1950,” she said.
“You still have a few years,” I told her.
She swatted me lightly on the arm and smiled. “Oh, Millie, the dreams of a young girl . . . I’m a mother now. But, anyway, I can’t say I’m sorry.”
I saw Julius catch her eye from across the room, and he smiled at her. I first met Julius last summer just after Richie was born when I’d come over to see the baby and bring Ethel a casserole. Julius was not as tall as Ed, though he towered over Ethel, and he was quite slender, with an oval face, dark hair and a mustache, and round wire-rimmed glasses. He was holding the baby when I’d come by that day last summer, rocking Richie in a gentle way that had put him to sleep. “Ethel is resting. But I know she’ll appreciate your kindness,” he’d said in a hushed voice, trying so ardently not to wake her or the baby. I’d been immediately taken with—and, I’ll admit, a bit jealous of—his sweetness and obvious love for his family.
Since then, I’d seen Julius from time to time, getting on or off the elevator on his way to and from work, but always dressed in a suit, walking briskly, and looking quite serious. Now his face appeared softer again, and he seemed kinder and gentler, the way he’d looked that first time I met him.
Ethel smiled back at him and dropped my arm to walk towardhim through the crowd of men. Ethel leaned in and gave him a big kiss squarely on the lips. I could suddenly see them as a young couple deeply in love, holding on to dreams of bigness and life together. And it seemed that this tiny apartment in Knickerbocker Village, even with the elevator and the steam heat, was not enough for them now, not what they had hoped for once. I could imagine the two of them and their boys running across a green lawn in New Jersey just like Susan’s.
I walked toward them and Ethel pulled away from Julius for a moment and introduced me to the other people standing nearby. A man named Mortie Sobell, who waved with a friendly smile, and Ethel’s younger brother, David Greenglass, a round man smoking a cigarette who simply nodded at me, and his wife, Ruth, a pretty woman with a serious expression who was the only woman tucked in among the men, talking politics with them. Ruth looked me over once quickly and then took a drag on her cigarette and jumped back into the conversation. They were talking about Elizabeth Bentley, and I remembered reading about her in the paper, a quite pretty woman who’d claimed to be a spy for Russia who’d now turned back to our side and wanted to help keep the United States safe. She’d testified before the House Committee on Un-American Activities over the summer.
“Oh, she’ll say anything,” Ruth said, blowing a ring of smoke in front of her. “Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.”
“Can you blame her?” David said. “She’s trying to save herself.”
I wanted to jump into the conversation, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I felt I didn’t know enough about Elizabeth Bentley to make a comment, so instead I said, “Are you all members of the Communist Party with my husband?”
Ruth exchanged a look with David and took another drag on her cigarette. “We’re Democrats now,” she said. “Davey only wanted to come tonight because he likes his sister’s baking so much.” She motioned to a tray of cookies resting on the coffee table. “And because we needed a night out with adults.” She laughed.
“You have a child?” I asked, relieved that I could ask about something
“You
are
young,” I told her.
She laughed again and waved her hand in the air. “Did I ever tell you how I wanted to be on Broadway?” she asked. “I really thought I’d do it, too.”
I tried to imagine it, the small, motherly Ethel as a big stage star. Maybe that explained the piano, which I’d never heard anyone play for real.
“In high school my class voted me most likely to be America’s leading actress by 1950,” she said.
“You still have a few years,” I told her.
She swatted me lightly on the arm and smiled. “Oh, Millie, the dreams of a young girl . . . I’m a mother now. But, anyway, I can’t say I’m sorry.”
I saw Julius catch her eye from across the room, and he smiled at her. I first met Julius last summer just after Richie was born when I’d come over to see the baby and bring Ethel a casserole. Julius was not as tall as Ed, though he towered over Ethel, and he was quite slender, with an oval face, dark hair and a mustache, and round wire-rimmed glasses. He was holding the baby when I’d come by that day last summer, rocking Richie in a gentle way that had put him to sleep. “Ethel is resting. But I know she’ll appreciate your kindness,” he’d said in a hushed voice, trying so ardently not to wake her or the baby. I’d been immediately taken with—and, I’ll admit, a bit jealous of—his sweetness and obvious love for his family.
Since then, I’d seen Julius from time to time, getting on or off the elevator on his way to and from work, but always dressed in a suit, walking briskly, and looking quite serious. Now his face appeared softer again, and he seemed kinder and gentler, the way he’d looked that first time I met him.
Ethel smiled back at him and dropped my arm to walk towardhim through the crowd of men. Ethel leaned in and gave him a big kiss squarely on the lips. I could suddenly see them as a young couple deeply in love, holding on to dreams of bigness and life together. And it seemed that this tiny apartment in Knickerbocker Village, even with the elevator and the steam heat, was not enough for them now, not what they had hoped for once. I could imagine the two of them and their boys running across a green lawn in New Jersey just like Susan’s.
I walked toward them and Ethel pulled away from Julius for a moment and introduced me to the other people standing nearby. A man named Mortie Sobell, who waved with a friendly smile, and Ethel’s younger brother, David Greenglass, a round man smoking a cigarette who simply nodded at me, and his wife, Ruth, a pretty woman with a serious expression who was the only woman tucked in among the men, talking politics with them. Ruth looked me over once quickly and then took a drag on her cigarette and jumped back into the conversation. They were talking about Elizabeth Bentley, and I remembered reading about her in the paper, a quite pretty woman who’d claimed to be a spy for Russia who’d now turned back to our side and wanted to help keep the United States safe. She’d testified before the House Committee on Un-American Activities over the summer.
“Oh, she’ll say anything,” Ruth said, blowing a ring of smoke in front of her. “Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.”
“Can you blame her?” David said. “She’s trying to save herself.”
I wanted to jump into the conversation, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I felt I didn’t know enough about Elizabeth Bentley to make a comment, so instead I said, “Are you all members of the Communist Party with my husband?”
Ruth exchanged a look with David and took another drag on her cigarette. “We’re Democrats now,” she said. “Davey only wanted to come tonight because he likes his sister’s baking so much.” She motioned to a tray of cookies resting on the coffee table. “And because we needed a night out with adults.” She laughed.
“You have a child?” I asked, relieved that I could ask about something
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