Flowers in the Blood (16 page)

This stopped me. I could not tell anyone that I hated my room, that I was lonely, that I didn't need another mother—least of all Zilpah—and I yearned for everything to be as it was before her arrival, so I remained silent.

The next morning I was so weak I could not sit up in bed. Dozing off and on, I heard someone enter my room.

Grandmother Flora bent over me. “What is the reason for this ridiculous behavior?” Her voice was harsher than I expected.

I burst into tears. “I want to live with you again.”

“You belong in this house with your father.”

“You don't want me either.”

“Whether I want you or not is beside the point. You live here.” Her chiding tone changed to a consoling purr. “You may visit me anytime you like, even after school each day, but this will remain your home.”

The firmness in her voice alarmed me. “But I thought you agreed with me, that you—”

“Just because I don't believe Zilpah was born a Jew has nothing to do with this.”

“She is against me.”

“No, you only think she is.”

“Why has she banished me to this closet? Why must I take care of Ruby? Why does she think I should not go to school anymore?”

Grandmother became indignant. “When did she say that?”

“I overheard her telling Papa.” Zilpah had not used exactly those words, but she had wondered how long my father intended to humor me.

“I will talk to your father about school,
if
you will take your nourishment.” Without waiting for my reply, she signaled Yali to bring in a tray. She fed me broth with a spoon as if I were a baby. I enjoyed her ministerings and wished she would never stop.

 

As to religious observance, Zilpah was the most dutiful mother I ever had. We attended both Friday-night and Saturday-morning services, and she was much more strict about observing the Sabbath and the dietary laws than anyone else had been. Grandmother Flora was not the only person who thought a Bene Israel not as pure a Jew as a Baghdadi. Everyone doubted her Jewishness. Even a convert would have been accepted more readily. Nobody in the women's gallery of the synagogue even acknowledged Zilpah; nevertheless, she knew the prayers, every ritual, the most minute detail about how a holiday should be celebrated. When we were ignored, I felt as though she was an impostor and that I was her accomplice.

Aunt Bellore rejected her with the most vehemence. “Benu, have you lost your senses? How could you, a
Sassoon
, marry a Bene Israel!” she railed the first afternoon she had been introduced to his wife. I had been playing with Jonah on the terrace when Bellore dragged him outside to berate him for his mistake. Even though we were visible, she did not check her venomous tongue. “A nigger! My God, you've married a nigger! How could you do this to our family? To your own children?”

“I must ask you never again to speak that way about the woman who is my wife,” Benu replied steadily.

Bellore modulated her tone to match. “Don't you see how unfair you have been to her? She will never be accepted in Calcutta.”

“A Sassoon is always accepted.”

She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Ever since you were a boy, you had to learn everything the hard way. It” has taken all these years for people to begin to forget Luna, and now this . . .” she hissed. Her words became nastier as her volume decreased. “You may ignore the consequences, and your sons may not suffer from having a mother who was a profligate, an addict, an adulteress, but you have tarnished
that
child with every move you have made.”

As her head tossed in my direction, I looked away. From where I sat, motionless, I could see my father's neck had turned crimson below his precisely cut hairline. He clenched both hands behind his back. Breathless, I waited for his response. He stared until my aunt slithered away.

A few weeks after my open rebellion was thwarted, I was asked to join my father and his wife after dinner, just the three of us. I would have been flattered if my father had not been so attentive to Zilpah. His eyes never wavered from her as he admired every gesture, every flicker of her long, curling lashes. Apparently he was not put off by her puckering mouth, which continued to unnerve me.

Zilpah offered me the chair right under the punkah. “Sit here, Dinah.” She and my father sat on either side of me, observing me, as though I were a mounted specimen.

“How is school, Dinah?” my father inquired solicitously.

“Fine.”

“Do your friends know about your new mother?”

“I suppose.”

“Do they ask about her?”

I eyed him warily.

“What do you know about the Bene Israel?”

I shook my head.

“My people have a long and fascinating history. If you are questioned, it would be wise for you to have answers.” Zilpah sat up taller. The folds of her sari aligned themselves in concentric drapes. Her immaculate hands remained clasped in her lap serenely.

“Don't you agree, Dinah?”

I shrugged.

Smiling, my father leaned back as Zilpah began speaking in that steady, clipped accent that was almost a parody of upper-class English. I decided to ignore her. But then, despite myself, I became intrigued with the tale.

“. . . So word of these strange peoples, the members of the caste of Shanwar Telis, was heard far and wide. One day, about eight hundred years ago, a learned teacher came to India from Egypt. His name was David Rahabi. After talking to the people, he suspected the Bene Israel might be a lost colony of Jews. He asked many questions, but received confusing answers, for the group had been without scholars for centuries. Much knowledge was forgotten, but they kept the Sabbath,
kashrut
, circumcision rites, and—most important—they recited
Shema Yisrael
for every occasion. In order to test them, Rahabi brought a basket filled with many types of fish. 'Please cook these for me,' he asked the women of Shanwar Telis. Amazed, he watched as the women separated the fish into two piles: those with scales and fins in one, the remainder in the other. 'Why do you do this?' Rahabi asked. 'We use only fish that have scales and fins,' they replied. This convinced Rahabi to remain among them and to reeducate them about Jewish laws and life.”

“Tell Dinah about your family,” Papa coached.

“About a hundred years ago, my grandfather met a man who came to our district from Cochin. He became convinced we were authentic Jews. He taught my grandfather—along with several other community leaders—to be a
kaji
, the person who would officiate at services and ceremonies.”

I knew this was supposed to impress me, so to keep the peace, I smiled thinly. Unfortunately, this encouraged Zilpah to ramble on about how important her father had been. “My father was a boy recruit in the forces of the British East India Company. Within ten years he was commissioned an officer.”

My father's head bobbed enthusiastically. “Zilpah's father saw active service in the Second Sikh War and the Persian campaign. And in the Mutiny, the Bene Israel soldiers remained loyal throughout. Afterward Kehimkar was rewarded with the highest rank open to Indians in the military: subedar major.” My father paused and stared at me.

I thought it wise to respond. “How did you end up in Darjeeling?” I asked, spitting out the name of the city with distaste.

“When I was about your age, my father was offered a position in Darjeeling. Unfortunately, that was where he was killed.”

“How?” I wondered, this time with a keener curiosity.

My father filled in for her. “A party of murderous
dacoits
ambushed him on their horses.”

“What's a dacoit?”

“That’s what they called armed robbers, like the thugs, in that region.”

“Oh!” I gasped as my sympathies moved in my stepmother's direction for the first time.

“After his death, Zilpah's mother managed a guest house and Zilpah assisted her.”

“I thought you went to school.”

“I attended one at Poona for a time. Even though you sometimes think I am against your schooling, Dinah, you can see I value education— even for girls.”

Bristling at her last phrase, I stood up and formally thanked her for the explanation. Zilpah and my father gave each other self-satisfied smiles. I would not like her! I vowed. Still, when I found myself having to justify the Bene Israel, I passed on Zilpah's tale to friends at school. And though I determined she should not know this, over time I was finding fewer reasons to hate her.

11

 

F
or the next three years a truce was declared. Zilpah did not order me about and I did not cross her. When my father traveled—which was for shorter times than previously—we hardly saw each other. I was free to stay with my grandmother as much as I liked.

At fourteen, I was head girl in my class—quite a small class, since many of the girls who entered with me were removed at twelve or thirteen and kept at home to prepare for marriage. A wedding at my age was not uncommon, although I assumed this custom would not apply to me. The four boys attended school as well, the two youngest at the Jewish Boys' School, the two oldest at St. Xavier's. Ruby, who was six, should have joined the first class at my school, but although she was a darling butterball, she showed no readiness to concentrate on paper-and-pencil tasks.

After services on Saturday mornings, I would walk Ruby to her Grandmother Helene's. Though her house on Loudon Street was much smaller than Theatre Road, her guest list had not diminished. Her grandchildren, nieces, and nephews were closer friends to me than my own cousins. I especially liked her niece Masuda Judah, who was one class lower than me at the Jewish Girls' School.

Masuda had an older brother, Gabriel, who had thick reddish curls and emerald eyes. I would find any excuse to be near him. We had known each other for years, but suddenly I felt a tantalizing tingling when he was nearby, and a tremor of loss when we were apart.

Whenever we met at Grandmother Helene's home on holidays, we played
towli
—backgammon—which I usually won, and tommy-dot, at which he had all the luck. Unsure of how he felt about me, I hid my emotions behind a veil of intellectuality. When younger children tried to pester us, I had the idea to thwart them by using a secret language: Latin.

“Cave, audiunt,”
I warned if they were listening.

“Abite, molesti!”
we shouted to send them off.

Our private vocabulary was successful at annoying the others. Soon we began to write notes, innocent exercises to show off to each other. If we had passed them only at Grandmother Helene's, or even through Masuda, no harm might have been done. I was the foolish one who became entangled in my own web. And I was the one who paid most dearly for the escapade of the
tiffin-wallahs.

Tiffin
—the colloquial name for luncheon—was always prepared at home, not only in Jewish households where dietary laws were followed, but in almost every Indian household. Before eleven each school day, the tiffin-wallah called at our kitchen, where he received six tiffin-carriers—one for each of the five children at school and one for my father at the Sassoon offices. On the bottom of the five-sectioned tiffin-carrier was a bed of hot coals. The next two layers were perforated to keep the meal hot. The top two layers contained bread and fruit. The cook helped load these on a wide board, which the tiffin-wallah balanced on his head. He made the rounds to various other families until he had more than twenty of the stacking tin containers. Then he went from school to school and to the offices. Around three in the afternoon he reversed his order, picking up our empty tiffin-carriers and returning them to each scullery by the end of the day. I had always been impressed that he could keep the tiffin-carriers organized, since they were of a similar design. Somehow he did, for I never received okra, a vegetable I despised. Jonah always had an extra pack of
popadoms
, the crispy curry biscuit he adored. And only Father was given a helping of
achar
, the fiery pickle that none of us children could tolerate.

The first time I made my own use of the tiffin-wallah was the day I found one of Jonah's school books in my sack. “Tiffin-wallah,” I asked sweetly, “do you go next to St. Xavier's?”

“Yes, missy-sahib.”

“Could you please give this book to my brother Jonah?” I gave him one rupee along with my request.

The bony Bengali man grinned, revealing his betel-stained gums.

Jonah, who had been very upset that he did not have his spelling book, was delighted with my ingenuity.

A week later I copied out a Latin verse from the
Satires
of Juvenal I thought Gabriel would find amusing:

Si natura negat, facit indignatio versum.

If nature denies the power, indignation would give birth to verses.

“Do you deliver to Gabriel Judah?” I asked the tiffin-wallah.

“Yes, missy-sahib.”

“Might I put something in his tiffin-carrier?”

He bent over, and with a free hand he pointed out Gabriel's tiffin-carrier on his board. I slipped my message on top of the bananas and biscuits.

Gabriel's reply, something he discovered in Horace's
Odes
, arrived with the pickup late that afternoon.

Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas.

Pray, ask not, such knowledge is not for us.

I scurried to see what other nuggets Horace might have written and was thrilled to find amorous tidbits I had never known existed. Somehow I mustered the courage to respond with:

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus
,

displicent nexae philyra coronae;

mitte sectari, rosa quo locorum sera moretur.

Boy, I detest the Persian style

Of elaboration. Garlands bore me

Laced up with lime-bark. Don't run a mile

To find the last rose of summer for me.

Gabriel's next find in Horace was even more daring:

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa

perfusus liquidis urget odoribus grato, Pyrrha, sub antral

What slim youngster, his hair dripping with fragrant oil,

Makes hot love to you now, Pyrrha, ensconced in a Snug cave curtained with roses?

Makes hot love to you! The words burned in my mind for days. I could think of nothing else. I could not send back anything so wicked. Just knowing we were perusing the same passages was enough to stir feelings that were terribly new and wonderfully thrilling. How I adored the boy! I started to dream that we would find a way to be together forever and ever.

Gabriel sent me quotations about “Diana, keeper of the sacred hilltops” and I began to understand the meaning of translations like “By all the gods, why are you making him weak at the knees with love?” and “Come now, leave your Mother: you're ready to know a man.”

Our game would have lost its amusement if we had not escalated the double entendres and hidden meanings. My gleanings through the steamier passages of Horace, Catullus, and Ovid had the added benefit of increasing my proficiency in Latin to the point that my teacher sent home a commendation for my diligence.

Proudly my father read her note to the entire family, concluding with, “It honors the family when you honor yourself at school.” He bowed to me.

Even Zilpah congratulated me with unqualified praise. “Yes, Dinah, keep up the fine work.”

Then I discovered the poems of Catullus. Even I did not have the nerve to copy the most titillating passages. “See XXXII and XXXVI” was all I dared.

Gabriel and I had not seen each other since the beginning of this correspondence. When we finally met, at Grandmother Helene's Purim party, he sought me out as soon as he could get away from his mother and sister.

“I am having difficulty with a translation. Would you be so kind as to assist me?”

I looked around furtively. “What seems to be giving you trouble?”

“The first and last lines of number thirty-six.”

“It can mean only one thing,” I giggled.

“No! It has to be something else.”

“Why? Do you think men didn't have the same needs then as they do now?”

“But
'cacata carta'?”
He grimaced.

“Well, I think it means 'toilet paper.' What else could it be?”

Gabriel flushed a violet hue. I was laughing so hard I could not stop.

“What is so funny?” Masuda wondered when she saw us. “Tell me . . .” she begged.

“My Aunt Bellore . . .” I improvised quickly. “Isn't her dress hideous?”

“Yes,” Masuda agreed, and joined in the laughter.

Relieved, Gabriel rushed off to be with the other boys.

“You like my brother, don't you?” Masuda asked after he had gone.

I shrugged. “He's nice.”

“He likes you,” she said with a conspiratorial smile.

“He just likes to beat me at games.”

“You win at least half the time.” She became more somber. “My mother thinks that is for the best. She believes a girl should be a boy's equal.”

What was Masuda hinting? Were our parents considering a match? I wanted to ask more, but there were too many people nearby.

Just when I began to hope our parents might speak to each other, the tiffin-wallah slipped up. How did it happen? Did my meddling with his system, cause him to deliver the wrong tiffin-carrier to the wrong person, or did I inadvertently move Gabriel's tiffin-carrier to the position on the board reserved for Pinhas Tassie's? Whatever the reason, it could not have fallen into worse hands.

Pinhas Tassie was as tall as I was, lean but surprisingly weak. Clothing, no matter how well-tailored, hung on him in awkward drapes. His feet were huge, as large as my father's, and he tripped often, walked into walls—in short, he was the clumsiest young person I had ever met. In sports, he invariably came in last or fell on his face. I suppose I laughed at him—we all did—but I do not think that was what formed the kernel of his resentment. There was something else, something about his character which distrusted me as much as I distrusted him. His cheeks were sunken and his heavy-lidded eyes seemed to be able to look two directions at once. Silent much of the time, he seemed to be observing everyone rather than participating. Just as his mother rarely responded to a situation, preferring to take action out of our sight, often days or weeks after the occurrence, I sensed that Pinhas toted up his score of inequities and slights, spilling them to his mother when they were alone. He had reason to be wary of me. I hardly had welcomed his mother into our household. My fasting, my coldness, my loyalty to my grandmother, had created rifts that had never healed. While I thought I treated Zilpah respectfully, my sullenness in her presence could have been interpreted differently, especially by her devoted son.

Most of the time Pinhas and I had the good sense to avoid each other. My brother Jonah was not so fortunate. Because the boys were almost the same age, it was expected they would do everything together, from sharing a rickshaw on the way to school, to studying, to sleeping side by side. Asher was a gregarious child who preferred to go along with a group's decision rather than invoke conflict by insisting on his own way, and thankfully for family harmony, Simon Tassie was almost as tractable as Asher. However, Jonah, who was accustomed to being first among the boys, resented Pinhas' interference. They frequently exchanged blows, with Pinhas receiving more than his share of the wounds. I always sided with my brother, which caused a further wedge between the two factions of the family, so it was my bad luck to have the most saucy of my tiffin notes fall directly into Pinhas' conniving hands. Even then, as I look back, I don't know how I could have risked writing:

Quern nunc amabis? Cuius esse diceris?

Quern basiabis? Cui lobelia mordebis?

Et tu, Catulle, destinatus obdura.

Where's the man that you love and who will call you his,

and when you fall to kissing, whose lips will you devour?

But always, your Catullus will be as firm as rock is.

When the tiffin-wallah did not deliver a reply that afternoon, I was unconcerned. I had searched for several hours before settling on this gem, and I expected it would take Gabriel a while before he located anything as audacious.

On Saturday I saw Gabriel for a few minutes outside the synagogue.

“What did you think?” I asked, smirking.

“About what?”

“Gabriel . . .” I tilted my head playfully. “You know what I mean . . .”

He was perplexed. “What?”

We had so little time alone, I was becoming impatient. “You know . . .”

Shaking his head, he said, “Why haven't you answered me since last week? Didn't you like the one I sent you on Monday?”

“I wrote to you Wednesday!”

“I did not receive anything.”

The back of my neck began to prickle with fear. “Weren't you in school?”

“I haven't missed a day this term. Don't tell me that ignorant tiffin-wallah put it in the wrong carrier?”

“I always place it on the top myself!”

“They look alike.” Gabriel's voice rose in pitch. “Could you have put it in the wrong one?”

“Somebody else must have . . .” I gasped.

“Was it a mild one?”

“Not a good choice,” I groaned.

“Don't worry. I never sign my name. Neither do you.”

“Good, then nobody will know who wrote it or where it was destined,” I nodded hopefully.

Gabriel was still agitated. “We eat in the courtyard. If somebody opened his tiffin-carrier and found a note, most likely he would have held it aloft and asked for its owner, especially if he knew any Latin.”

“Somebody is keeping this a secret, maybe a friend of yours.” I didn't sound optimistic.

“What if someone showed it to one of the teachers?”

“We would have heard by now. There would have been some sort of inquiry.”

Pinhas strolled by and we naturally stopped talking. “What sort of inquiry? A Latin query?” he punned boldly. The smug expression on his face made me feel faint.

Gabriel saw my knees buckle. I would have fallen backward on the stone walk if he had not lunged for me, one hand clasping my shoulder, the other my waist. The sudden movement brought me upright, then flopped me against him. For a second or two I leaned on him, my head next to his, his arms supporting me. At that moment Zilpah came around the corner, holding Ruby's hand.