The Blood Years: Part I

But Astra made it up to me; after the incident with the flowers, she started taking more of an interest in my dancing, giving me tips after class and helping me with extra calisthenics on the weekends, holding my feet as I did sit-ups on our bedroom floor.

Mrs. Oppenheim always coveted the rug, so when Opa’s jewelry and repair business began to dry up when Goga and Cuza took power, her offer to buy it didn’t feel like much of a favor.

And then — yes, here he comes to join me in the kitchen, just as I’m pouring boiling water into the teapot, a loaf of challah tucked under his arm.

She’s taken her hair out of its ballet bun, and now she’s piling it atop her head, looking at it this way and that before finally she settles on a chignon — just like Mama.

“Maybe we should stay in. It’s dreadfully cold out there.”
“It’s dreadfully cold out there.” A perfect imitation of my inflection, followed by a wink.

She fishes out his paltry fold of bills, peels two from the top, and returns the rest.

“It’s cold, and dark already, and no good comes from gallivanting around.”

They dance until the other couples cede the center of the floor, they dance until the music builds to a fever crescendo, until a fine sweat breaks on both their brows, they dance until the music swells and crests and peaks.

I hate him, for abandoning us, for ruining Mama’s life...but then I breathe in the scent of his hair pomade, vanilla and sweet licorice, a smell I’d forgotten entirely until — suddenly — I remember.

But then one day Astra declared she was tired of the violin, and that was that. Back into the closet it went. No amount of cajoling from Opa could get her to open the case again.

Then they get into a debate about the weather, if it’s likely to change soon or if we’ll have the sunshine for a few days longer, both of them oblivious to the line of matronly ladies waiting for their turn at the counter.

Astra’s taken to wearing only flat shoes so that she’s not taller than him; one could almost pretend they’re equally enamored, the way their faces come together, neither above the other...but when Marcel walks away, it’s Astra who moons after him, and he who never looks back.

I know it’s a nasty thing to call someone — a rat tail — but always before, when Astra has said it, it’s been with affection. This is the first time it feels like an aspersion.

Her face does not change. The long oval of its beauty is placid, unfeeling.

You put Opa on a pedestal and he pretends you’re still a baby. And if it makes you feel better to coddle him, go right ahead. But if Opa refuses to tell you how bad things might get, and if you refuse to see it for itself, I’ll say it in a way you can hear it: things are bad, and they’re only going to get worse.