finish your tree," he said.
"Vera knows this?" Elizabeth said.
He said, "No. She doesn't want to know."
"Why are you telling me?" she said. "What am I supposed to do?"
He shrugged. "It was time. There's the tree." He pointed.
"But why do you care?" Elizabeth's voice rose. "You or Vera? Why would either of them invest any importance in anything as flimsy as a piece of paper? Three feet by two feet, which, like all paper, burned above four hundred degrees.
"It's something," he said. "This is America." Was he smiling?
"Go on then," she said, "make the corrections." She thumbtacked a new piece of paper down next to the draft and handed him a black pen. He hunched over the blank piece and made a deft vertical stroke. Working quickly, he built a city of black lines on the page. Then he started writing names. It was Hebrew, with all its unfamiliar serifs. "Wait," said Elizabeth. ''I can't read it. Tell me their names. Let me see where I was right." There had to be some small things that were clear.
He pointed his pen at one pair. "Anastasia and Moses Guttman, the great grandparents of my paternal uncle." Elizabeth had found them. Every time he wrote a new name, he translated for her. He smelled like a clean, elderly man. His collar was spotless. She stood next to, even brushed her shoulder against, a man who, nearly fifty years ago, left another for dead in a Roman street.
The names he knew were the old ones. Witoski, Keppelman. She had found many of them, but after the war, the blanks were still blanks. "Nothing there, Mr. Krystowicki? Are you sure? Your family is quite finished?" Suddenly, Elizabeth found herself angry. Angry at the abrupt end of the tree. Angry he had told her
Page 82
as much and as little as he had. Angry at this old, battered man for being so much more complicated than a victim. And most of all, for keeping her from feeling safe.
He walked out to the front hall. "Vera comes home tomorrow."
Where was Andrew? How had she let Kate spend the night away, even once? Elizabeth was wild to see them but asked, "Which name did you write down, Mr. Krystowicki?"
"Good night," he said and let himself out the front door through which Elizabeth saw him framed for a moment by the pair of lindens at the end of the walk, branches ripe with buds, lulled by the warm days into thinking it was time to open.
Page 83
Pacific
Helen looked out at the rough water and thought "Pacific" was not the name she would have chosen for this ocean. There was nothing peaceful about these waves with the profiles of sharks. The horizon swung with the boat. She wondered if the whales distinguished tracts of water the way humans did, had codes in their click-and-whistle language for Atlantic, for Indian, for dangerous reef and leaky tanker. What happened when an engine dulled the message? What if their sonar started to wobble, if the rings of sound became dented, imprecise?
The boat lurched. Helen's ring smacked the metal railing, which reminded her that Sam, who used to scold her when her imagination turned Gothic, wasn't here. She felt better when she remembered he went green at sea and was grateful she had some instinct for the nautical.
It had been two days since this group of whale watchers motored out of San Diego, and they'd only seen a distant flock of seabirds, mute V s dipping in the wind. As she stared at the waves, Helen couldn't stop thinking about the barracudas and the mantas like wet black capes gliding underneath. The voices of the newlyweds from Boulder passed, the pages of one of their guide books rattling in the wind. Helen's period was eleven days late. She wondered if sharks nursed.
Helen didn't notice that the birds had moved closer until she
Page 84
heard Melissa, the trip's naturalist, call out, "The willets are visiting!" Helen muttered The Willets Visit, thinking it sounded like the title of a children's book where roguish boys from Cornwall invade the house of Kensington cousins. She wanted to watch the birds,
"Vera knows this?" Elizabeth said.
He said, "No. She doesn't want to know."
"Why are you telling me?" she said. "What am I supposed to do?"
He shrugged. "It was time. There's the tree." He pointed.
"But why do you care?" Elizabeth's voice rose. "You or Vera? Why would either of them invest any importance in anything as flimsy as a piece of paper? Three feet by two feet, which, like all paper, burned above four hundred degrees.
"It's something," he said. "This is America." Was he smiling?
"Go on then," she said, "make the corrections." She thumbtacked a new piece of paper down next to the draft and handed him a black pen. He hunched over the blank piece and made a deft vertical stroke. Working quickly, he built a city of black lines on the page. Then he started writing names. It was Hebrew, with all its unfamiliar serifs. "Wait," said Elizabeth. ''I can't read it. Tell me their names. Let me see where I was right." There had to be some small things that were clear.
He pointed his pen at one pair. "Anastasia and Moses Guttman, the great grandparents of my paternal uncle." Elizabeth had found them. Every time he wrote a new name, he translated for her. He smelled like a clean, elderly man. His collar was spotless. She stood next to, even brushed her shoulder against, a man who, nearly fifty years ago, left another for dead in a Roman street.
The names he knew were the old ones. Witoski, Keppelman. She had found many of them, but after the war, the blanks were still blanks. "Nothing there, Mr. Krystowicki? Are you sure? Your family is quite finished?" Suddenly, Elizabeth found herself angry. Angry at the abrupt end of the tree. Angry he had told her
Page 82
as much and as little as he had. Angry at this old, battered man for being so much more complicated than a victim. And most of all, for keeping her from feeling safe.
He walked out to the front hall. "Vera comes home tomorrow."
Where was Andrew? How had she let Kate spend the night away, even once? Elizabeth was wild to see them but asked, "Which name did you write down, Mr. Krystowicki?"
"Good night," he said and let himself out the front door through which Elizabeth saw him framed for a moment by the pair of lindens at the end of the walk, branches ripe with buds, lulled by the warm days into thinking it was time to open.
Page 83
Pacific
Helen looked out at the rough water and thought "Pacific" was not the name she would have chosen for this ocean. There was nothing peaceful about these waves with the profiles of sharks. The horizon swung with the boat. She wondered if the whales distinguished tracts of water the way humans did, had codes in their click-and-whistle language for Atlantic, for Indian, for dangerous reef and leaky tanker. What happened when an engine dulled the message? What if their sonar started to wobble, if the rings of sound became dented, imprecise?
The boat lurched. Helen's ring smacked the metal railing, which reminded her that Sam, who used to scold her when her imagination turned Gothic, wasn't here. She felt better when she remembered he went green at sea and was grateful she had some instinct for the nautical.
It had been two days since this group of whale watchers motored out of San Diego, and they'd only seen a distant flock of seabirds, mute V s dipping in the wind. As she stared at the waves, Helen couldn't stop thinking about the barracudas and the mantas like wet black capes gliding underneath. The voices of the newlyweds from Boulder passed, the pages of one of their guide books rattling in the wind. Helen's period was eleven days late. She wondered if sharks nursed.
Helen didn't notice that the birds had moved closer until she
Page 84
heard Melissa, the trip's naturalist, call out, "The willets are visiting!" Helen muttered The Willets Visit, thinking it sounded like the title of a children's book where roguish boys from Cornwall invade the house of Kensington cousins. She wanted to watch the birds,
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