Melting the Snow on Hester Street Read online

  ‘But why were the police coming after Matz?’

  ‘“Sheyn vi di zibn velten.” As beautiful as the seven worlds. She was thinking of California. Mr Gregory. My daughter is the only thing that’s relevant. This is the last time we saw her. When the police were hammering on the door, yelling for Matz and me. And little Isha was in bed … “Sheyn vi di zibn velten.” Don’t you see?’

  ‘I don’t. No. I don’t see.’

  ‘It was the last thing she said to me, Mr Gregory.’

  ‘Why were the police coming after Matz?’

  ‘They weren’t coming for Matz. They were coming after both of us. But you asked me when I last saw my daughter. Please. I want to tell you. Listen to me.’

  Gregory sighed. ‘We’ll come back to it,’ he said. ‘Keep talking then …’

  ‘Mama came through the door. Only fear – pure fear – on her face. She said, “Go! Go now!”’

  ‘At the back of the parlour there was a small air shaft. Not quite a window. An opening for air. There was one in every apartment, and everybody in the block used them as a shoot for the garbage. We had it covered most of the time because the reek from the garbage below was too sickening. The smell seeped through anyway – of course it did. But it stopped the flies. The smell was always dreadful.

  ‘But we could climb through that and reach the fire stairs out back. It was our only way out of there. Matz wanted to take Isha with us, but I stopped him. I stopped him, Mr Gregory. I didn’t think she was strong enough. She wouldn’t have survived the journey. And I told him – we would come back for her. And come back for Mama, too. And for little Tzivia, if her father hadn’t taken her by then. Matz wouldn’t listen to me. But that’s so typical of him! He said, “We have come for Isha. We’re not leaving without her.” He had Isha in his arms, and she was whimpering and I could hear her chest tightening again. She couldn’t breath, and the sound of the policemen’s boots was getting closer. The walls of that building might have been made from paper. You could hear everything. We could hear them, barking orders to each other. It was terrifying.

  ‘Mama said “Go now!” And she held out her arms to take Isha. “Go!”

  ‘I took the baby from Matz, held her tight, lay her back on the bed. She was sobbing. Her little body was shaking … I said to her: as soon as you are strong enough, we will come back for you.

  ‘Mama said: “Don’t come back for us. It’s too dangerous. You must send money, and we will follow as soon as Isha is well. It won’t be long. Just a few weeks. As soon as she is well, we will come! I promise you.”

  ‘Matz was tugging my sleeve: “We have to leave. Now. Now, Eleana!” I took a last look at my baby … “Goodbye, darling,” I said to her. But she didn’t reply to me. She turned away, sobbing still. She said, “Mama … Mama … Mama …” It was so faint … she was coughing, and the weight in her chest was squeezing the sound from her. She was fighting for every breath.

  ‘And then Matz pulled me away. Finally. And that was the last time. It was the last time I saw her: the fifteenth of September 1913. It was the day we were meant to bring her home with us to California.

  ‘She was five years old, Mr Gregory. And now she is twenty-two. And not a day has passed. Not one day …

  The ticker tape had fallen silent at last. Except for the motor cars chugging down Virginia Street, all was quiet in the bureau. Awkwardly, Gregory looked at his watch. Mrs Davison would be wanting to head home. And so did he. It was late. He was tired. He wanted to be at home with his wife. And his beautiful five-year-old daughter, Florence.

  28

  Eleanor took a car back to the hotel. Her lunchtime euphoria had evaporated in the long afternoon and the thought of being spotted – worse still, approached – filled her with horror and exhaustion. Wrung out, like the grey sheets that used to hang from the windows on Allen Street, she struggled to muster her usual good manners when bidding Mr Gregory good evening.

  Looking at her, the pale of her cheeks, the limp expression in those beautiful green eyes, Matthew Gregory was torn between sympathy and intense personal discomfort. The sight of such raw unhappiness in that lovely, so-familiar face made him feel at odds, like the world was upside down.

  ‘Hey – you’re gonna be all right?’ he asked awkwardly, as he wriggled into his mustard-coloured overcoat.

  ‘That’s quite some coat,’ Eleanor replied irrelevantly.

  ‘You like it?’ He sounded pleased.

  She nodded and sighed. It was all she could manage, and he was briefly overwhelmed by her sadness. ‘Listen here, Mrs Beecham,’ he said kindly, ‘why don’t you come back with me? Might do you good to be …’ He was going to say ‘at home with a family’. But of course that wouldn’t strike the right note. ‘Not to be on your own,’ he said instead. ‘It’s been a difficult day for you, huh? Mrs Gregory cooks a beautiful …’ He paused again. Couldn’t quite think what. She was a lousy cook. ‘She cooks a beautiful dinner …’

  Eleanor smiled. The invitation lacked quite the enthusiasm of his morning’s invitation. ‘I’ll be just fine, Mr Gregory. Thank you for asking. I think I shall go to my room and I shall probably fall asleep right away.’

  ‘Excellent!’ he said, too quickly. ‘If you’re sure?’ He picked up his case, glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘You sure look like you need the rest.’

  ‘I’ll be just fine,’ she reassured him. He was already halfway out the door.

  But Eleanor did not fall asleep right away. She hardly slept at all. She returned to her rooms and, for the first time in a very long time, took a moment to wonder at the extraordinary turn her life had taken. From Allen Street – to this! She had grown so accustomed to it, this life of preposterous luxury, that she only seemed to notice now when the luxury wasn’t there for her.

  It was there for her in Reno. The private drawing room in which she stood was already three times the size of the whole apartment back in Allen Street. Beyond it was a large bedroom, and a bathroom with marble bathtub. And through the hallway, adjoining the back of the drawing room, there was a personal maid’s room (empty, since Eleanor had not brought one), with private kitchen and smaller bathroom. Nevada law required a state residency of six weeks before any visitor’s divorce could be granted, and though there was usually a way round even that, most guests expected to be stuck in Reno for a month or so. Eleanor’s rooms were designed with longer visits in mind.

  She had no idea how long she would be staying. Nor, until that instant, had she paused to wonder.

  ‘For as long as it takes,’ she muttered. Vaguely. Decisively.

  For as long as it takes to achieve what? It’s what Max would have asked, had he been with her tonight. She could hear him, spitting the question out. And she answered him aloud. ‘To find Isha, of course. For as long as it takes to find Isha.’

  She imagined him, turning away unconvinced. Not replying. Not saying what she knew he wanted to say, what she would never allow him to say. Because if the hope was gone, then what was left?

  She missed him.

  Did he miss her? Would he even notice she was gone?

  Of course he would notice. They were expected for dinner with Dougie and Mary’s tomorrow night. He would be needing her there with him, to present a united front. She wondered what would he tell them all when he turned up alone. That she was too sick to come? That she was in Reno, seeking a divorce? Ha. Or maybe that she was in Reno, seeking their long-lost daughter? Twenty-two years old last week, Mary! (Have we never mentioned her before?) Older than the candelabra! Older than Hollywood, almost … It’s what we’ve been celebrating all these years. At our famous Beecham Supper Party. Celebrating little Isha. Fighting for breath. Alone on her bed. Sobbing. Her back turned.

  Was he alone? All alone at the Castillo del Mimosa, which they built together. Or was he at the studio, perhaps? Working. Always damn well working. Or was he …?

  She imagined Blanche, young and naked, lying with her husband in their enormous bed. Sweet
and bright and very ambitious, by all accounts. It’s what people said about her. With a loving family back in Oregon, hoping she would come home. Have kids. Be sensible. Settle down. Of course he wasn’t on his own at the Castillo.

  Eleanor wished, suddenly, fervently, that she hadn’t left her husband behind. What did she expect him to do with himself while she was gone? Set up a shrine to her memory? She laughed aloud. Or would he simply persuade himself she had never existed, just as he had apparently persuaded himself with Isha?

  There was a tap at the door. Eleanor – accustomed to staff answering doors for her, or Max, or Butch – didn’t think to answer it herself. She heard the soft scratching sound of something being slid onto the carpet and it jolted her out of her reverie.

  She found a wire, addressed to ‘Miss Cappalmann’:

  Baby, what are you doing in Reno? Please, darling, don’t be rash. I miss you. Come home!

  She felt a thud of disappointment.

  It was from Butch. Of course it was. Aside from Matthew Gregory, only two people in the world knew it was her maiden name. And Max would remember how to spell it.

  How did Butch find her? How did he guess she would be booked in under her maiden name? Stupid questions, both. Butch wasn’t stupid. Butch knew everything, or nearly everything, and a simple little thing like who climbs out of the first-class carriages at Reno? That was Butch’s business. Rather, it was Lionsfiel business. The studio probably had half the reporters in Reno on its payroll. Of course. All the studios probably did. It was how they kept a lid on the scandals. How they kept an eye on their stars, and how they controlled them. But if Butch knew where she was, she supposed Mr Carrascosa knew it too. They would no doubt all be assuming the same thing. Which was OK. Actually. They could assume whatever they liked. It was better than the truth.

  She dropped the telegram on the side table. Yes, she would call Butch. Maybe tomorrow. She would think up some excuse for being here. In the divorce capital of the world. She’d think of something … But she was so tired. She only wanted to sleep. And she wanted Max to find her. Except, of course, he never would. The time had long since passed, it occurred to her, when he would even think to try.

  29

  ‘Mama rented a post-office box and, as soon as she sent us the details, we began to send money to it. We started a few weeks after we returned to Hollywood, and we never stopped. I sent letters, too – and Mama wrote to me …’ Eleanor indicated the slim file lying open before Mr Gregory, and tried not to look at him. Emboldened by her admiration of his mustard overcoat, she imagined, his apparel this morning – mauve tartan waistcoat, even tighter than yesterday’s, with shirt peeping through gaping buttonholes – was proving mildly distracting. ‘You have the first letter there, I think. Where she tells us about the PO box.’

  ‘I do indeed. I have it right here.’ Mr Gregory picked up a single, flimsy sheet of paper, worn more flimsy still over the years. The letter was short and littered with spelling mistakes. ‘If I may say … the letter makes a whole lot more sense, now I understand she was writing to her daughter.’

  ‘Does it really?’ Eleanor smiled. ‘She was always cautious. And she meant to be cryptic. She believed the authorities might be reading her letters. She always thought it – even before we had anything to hide from them. It was a hangover from the old country, I suppose. In any case – the situation wasn’t simple. She needed to be careful.’

  ‘This little letter – this was the first you heard from her, was it? After you and Matz skipped town?’ He turned the sheet over. ‘She wasn’t a great communicator.’

  ‘I told you. She had to be careful,’ replied Eleanor. ‘And she was writing in English, too. She was trying to reassure us … that Isha was being educated properly. That she was teaching her written English, as we asked her to – you see?’

  He didn’t, but he nodded.

  ‘We wanted Isha to be an American. First of all.’

  ‘I admire the sentiment,’ said Gregory primly.

  ‘In any case, the letter must have taken her so much time, poor darling, because you can see all the crossings out …’ Eleanor smiled. ‘It didn’t reassure us at all! You can imagine. Matz wouldn’t stop nagging about it. But we were so happy to hear from her. It was such a relief …’ She broke off suddenly, unable to resist the urge to defend her family from this man, who didn’t know and who didn’t care and whose opinion of them hardly mattered. But she couldn’t let it rest. ‘Papa was different,’ she said.

  ‘Papa was as learned as anyone you ever met. As a young man, before he came to America – he would have been a lawyer if they had allowed him … But there were quotas. For the Jews. You probably heard about them. My father knew the law better than anyone.’

  ‘Quotas?’ Mr Gregory was confused.

  Eleanor waved it aside. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me. It has nothing to do with … anything. I only meant. My family was poor – but we weren’t uneducated. And the letter – Mama’s letter … English wasn’t her first language. When she wrote to me in English it was a gesture of love. You understand? English – she spoke it perfectly but the writing never came easily to her. She used to freeze up. Lose her confidence. But she knew how important it was to Matz and me. And she loved us. She loved Isha …’ Eleanor smiled. ‘She even loved Matz! She would have done anything for us. Anything.’

  Mr Gregory nodded, politely. It crossed his mind that he and Eleanor had not yet discussed a final fee. Were they working on an hourly rate at this juncture? Or a daily rate? He wondered whether he should broach the subject of an hourly fee … It didn’t seem unreasonable. He should certainly mention it. Perhaps over lunch. Not now.

  ‘You know what I picked up from this letter?’ he asked her. And answered before she had a chance to reply: ‘I got a sense she didn’t really want to make the journey west. She was safe in New York. The kid was OK.’

  ‘Of course she wanted to make the journey,’ snapped Eleanor. ‘Of course she did.’

  ‘I think she had already made one long journey in her life – to America. And she was elderly. And perhaps – you say English was difficult for her. Perhaps she dreaded making yet another long journey, starting all over, yet again.’

  ‘No,’ Eleanor snapped back. ‘You are quite wrong.’

  ‘Look, I’m not pretending I can understand. Me, I’ve always known where my home was. I am not … one of your people …’ It was the second time he had said it.

  ‘We are all people, Mr Gregory,’ she snapped. ‘Some of us are Jews. And some of us are movie stars. But we are all people.’

  ‘Yes indeed. Of course.’

  She leaned across the desk, smiled at him more kindly. ‘I only say it,’ she said, with that soft voice again, aware of the effect she could have, ‘not to alarm you, Mr Gregory. But I think if we are to work together, if I am to pour my heart out to you, as I seem to be doing – and I apologize, because sometimes, I know, I leave the subject behind, I forget where I am. But – I think, if we are to work together, we need to establish certain things. Any … awkward differences between us. We can talk about them, if you like. Get them out of the way.’

  ‘No, no! No need for that,’ he cried. ‘We are here to find your daughter, after all. Not to set the world to rights.’

  ‘I quite agree.’ Eleanor sat back in her seat again. ‘Good. So where were we? Mama’s letter.’

  He passed the flimsy sheet across the desk to her. ‘I have read it several times, of course. Plenty of times. But the ink is smudged. And the paper’s awfully thin. And the handwriting – I’ll be frank with you, Mrs Beecham, it’s not an easy read. Seeing as you’re here, maybe you could read it out. Just in case – maybe I missed a word, you know?’

  So Eleanor took it from him. As she gazed at the familiar page, she felt a thrill to be touching it again, and a flood of old emotions washed through her: the wild relief when she opened her Hollywood post-office box and first saw the letter lying there. Here it was, all these years later, bac
k in her hand again. It smelled of the apartment on Allen Street. Or did she imagine that? She felt a wave of longing – for her home, and for her mother, who had loved her as well as any mother could, and whose death, in all that followed, Eleanor had never paused to grieve.

  The letter gave a post-office box number in Manhattan, to which Eleana could send money; it related the story of the police, as if Eleana herself had not been present:

  I tell them again and again, poor dear Matz is ded. My Eleana is ded. I am not so shure they beleved me. What more can I say to them? My baby is ded! But in any case, they are gon for now …

  The letter warned, too, that Isha’s health remained poor. She said Isha was longing to come west, and could talk of nothing else. But now it was December – bitterly cold in New York. She wanted to wait until spring before they made the journey.

  Eleanor stopped, rested the letter on her lap. ‘I wanted to tell her, “but it’s sunny and warm in California!” Can you imagine? Spending the winter in New York when your mama and papa have a warm, bright home waiting for you in California? Matz was making twenty-five dollars a week! Sometimes even more, because all the stars adored him at Keystone. Whatever they were shooting, no matter: sometimes even on the street, in the desert, they insisted on Matz and his piano being there. Everyone always asked for Matz.’

  ‘He must have been very talented …’

  ‘And we were rich, Mr Gregory. Rich! Not like now – it was different. It was better! Every penny he brought home felt like a million dollars! Matz sent half back to Allen Street, to care for Isha, and half we spent preparing our home for their arrival. We were happy.