but even so she knew enough to be ashamed.
Father turned the mirror over. A gift from Mama’s older sister, the one she said that Emilia resembled, it was engraved with all the sisters’ names.
“He was just bringing papers for you to sign,” Mama said. She didn’t sound ashamed.
“An excuse, you always have. Do you practice it in front of the mirror?” His voice was hardly more than a whisper, his mouth twisting as he broke off the handle with a loud snap, throwing it into her lap. And though Emilia held herself very still, Mama flinched. Then Father tookthe letter opener from her table and scratched the names on the silver back of the mirror. He had broken everything her sisters sent her. She didn’t have a single picture of them left. “Never forget, my wife, that I can send you both packing,” he said. In the painting above Mama’s dressing table, the hawk was very small above the green hills. There was a villa with white columns. That was where they’d go when Father sent them packing.
“Your daughter has done nothing to deserve such an insult. And let me tell you, neither have I.” But it wasn’t true or else Father wouldn’t be looking at Mama like that. He turned his eyes to Emilia, examining her like a spot of blood in an egg, spoiling it, making it unkosher, and eggs were so expensive. She couldn’t help but reach a hand to surreptitiously scratch her neck. Shame and fear were such itchy feelings, and hatred the itchiest of all.
Mama stood up, the ivory handle falling to the floor. “Freida,” she called. “Come back and help me off with this dress, please. I’m feeling faint. Mr. Rosenberg will have to greet the guests himself.”
“Sit down,” he said. And she did, as always.
“My dear husband …”
The words went on, but Emilia wasn’t listening anymore. She was looking at the style of Mama’s new dress with the mother-of-pearl buttons, imagining that she was grown up and had just such a dress herself. When she was grown up, there would be admiration in every man’s eyes. After Emilia and Mama ran away to their Italian villa, they’d hold salons, Mama playing the piano and Emilia dressed in a white gown embroidered with rosebuds. She’d greet the guests, extending her gloved hand just so, and she would tell her admirers that she was named after the Polish heroine Emilia Plater, who had disguised herself as a man to lead a cavalry troop against the Russians.
Father and Mama went down for dinner, his steps firm and quick, hers slower as she held on to the oak banister. Emilia reached behind Mama’s dressing table to take the book from its hiding place. One Hundred Steamships and Clippers . She was copying the illustration of a two-thousand-ton steamship with a clipper bow, one funnel, three masts, and room for fifty-four first-class passengers. Later she’d paint the drawing with watercolors and name the ship La Bella . Painting,like playing the piano, was an accomplishment that wives should have. Maybe Father would even allow her to pin the drawing on her bedroom wall. No one else would know that behind one of the first-class portholes, the one she’d paint with yellow curtains, were Emilia and her mother.
Outside the window the first Mrs. Rosenberg would be watching from the apple tree. She shouldn’t be left behind in an empty garden. Emilia pushed aside the curtains, throwing open the window to tell Mrs. Rosenberg that she was welcome to come live with them in the villa among the grazing goats.
The moon was a crescent in the sky, visible between the branches of the apple tree as if Mrs. Rosenberg held it in her dark lap. Emilia didn’t bless the moon. She hadn’t learned how. Her mother was too modern to teach her the women’s prayers. But Emilia didn’t need to empty her heart before heaven as long as she could speak to Mrs. Rosenberg, who shook the branches of the apple tree in answer. She knew what it was like to live in the house in Moskovskaya Street, and had
Father turned the mirror over. A gift from Mama’s older sister, the one she said that Emilia resembled, it was engraved with all the sisters’ names.
“He was just bringing papers for you to sign,” Mama said. She didn’t sound ashamed.
“An excuse, you always have. Do you practice it in front of the mirror?” His voice was hardly more than a whisper, his mouth twisting as he broke off the handle with a loud snap, throwing it into her lap. And though Emilia held herself very still, Mama flinched. Then Father tookthe letter opener from her table and scratched the names on the silver back of the mirror. He had broken everything her sisters sent her. She didn’t have a single picture of them left. “Never forget, my wife, that I can send you both packing,” he said. In the painting above Mama’s dressing table, the hawk was very small above the green hills. There was a villa with white columns. That was where they’d go when Father sent them packing.
“Your daughter has done nothing to deserve such an insult. And let me tell you, neither have I.” But it wasn’t true or else Father wouldn’t be looking at Mama like that. He turned his eyes to Emilia, examining her like a spot of blood in an egg, spoiling it, making it unkosher, and eggs were so expensive. She couldn’t help but reach a hand to surreptitiously scratch her neck. Shame and fear were such itchy feelings, and hatred the itchiest of all.
Mama stood up, the ivory handle falling to the floor. “Freida,” she called. “Come back and help me off with this dress, please. I’m feeling faint. Mr. Rosenberg will have to greet the guests himself.”
“Sit down,” he said. And she did, as always.
“My dear husband …”
The words went on, but Emilia wasn’t listening anymore. She was looking at the style of Mama’s new dress with the mother-of-pearl buttons, imagining that she was grown up and had just such a dress herself. When she was grown up, there would be admiration in every man’s eyes. After Emilia and Mama ran away to their Italian villa, they’d hold salons, Mama playing the piano and Emilia dressed in a white gown embroidered with rosebuds. She’d greet the guests, extending her gloved hand just so, and she would tell her admirers that she was named after the Polish heroine Emilia Plater, who had disguised herself as a man to lead a cavalry troop against the Russians.
Father and Mama went down for dinner, his steps firm and quick, hers slower as she held on to the oak banister. Emilia reached behind Mama’s dressing table to take the book from its hiding place. One Hundred Steamships and Clippers . She was copying the illustration of a two-thousand-ton steamship with a clipper bow, one funnel, three masts, and room for fifty-four first-class passengers. Later she’d paint the drawing with watercolors and name the ship La Bella . Painting,like playing the piano, was an accomplishment that wives should have. Maybe Father would even allow her to pin the drawing on her bedroom wall. No one else would know that behind one of the first-class portholes, the one she’d paint with yellow curtains, were Emilia and her mother.
Outside the window the first Mrs. Rosenberg would be watching from the apple tree. She shouldn’t be left behind in an empty garden. Emilia pushed aside the curtains, throwing open the window to tell Mrs. Rosenberg that she was welcome to come live with them in the villa among the grazing goats.
The moon was a crescent in the sky, visible between the branches of the apple tree as if Mrs. Rosenberg held it in her dark lap. Emilia didn’t bless the moon. She hadn’t learned how. Her mother was too modern to teach her the women’s prayers. But Emilia didn’t need to empty her heart before heaven as long as she could speak to Mrs. Rosenberg, who shook the branches of the apple tree in answer. She knew what it was like to live in the house in Moskovskaya Street, and had
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