No One Must Know (14 page)

“Really?”

“Really.”

We grinned at each other for a long moment, and then he took hold of my other hand too. “I told my parents that I don’t care what your religion is. That I don’t want to date anybody else. That I like you a lot, and they’ll just have to get used to the idea of our going out.”

“I like you a lot too,” I said to the top button of his shirt. I forced myself to raise my eyes. “But now,” I continued in a stern voice, “let go of my hands!”

He dropped my fingers with a startled look on his face. “Why?” he asked.

“Because our food is getting cold. I like french fries almost as much as I like you.”

I
was so upset by everything that had happened in the past few days that I tossed and turned most of the night, wondering who I was. By morning, I’d made a decision.

When I went downstairs, Mom was at the stove and Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, absorbed in his breakfast and the newspaper at the same time.

“Good morning,” Mom said. “Breakfast is ready.” She took a look at my pale face. “Is everything all right? Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well.”

“Neither did I. I was up all night thinking about Jutka. I miss her so much already.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “Aren’t you running a little late?”

“I’ll give you a lift,” Dad muttered from behind his newspaper.

“Thanks. But first, I have something to tell both of you.”

Dad’s newspaper was finally lowered, and Mom sat down on the chair beside mine. Best to get it over with as soon as possible, I thought to myself.

“I did a lot of thinking last night,” I began. “I’ve decided to phone Father Mike and make an appointment to see him after school today. I have some questions for him. I’m also going to tell Jacob the truth. I’m sick of lying to him.”

“You mustn’t,” Mom cried. “No one must know!”

“I can trust both Jacob and Father Mike. They won’t tell anybody else if I ask them not to,” I said.

“Be reasonable, Agi,” Dad said. “I think Alexandra knows what she’s doing.”

Mom covered her face with her hands. “All right,” she finally whispered. “You win. But you must not tell another person. I’d feel much safer if no one knew at all.”

“Come in,” called Father Mike when I knocked on the door of his study. He waved me to a leather armchair by his desk. I glanced around curiously, since this was the first time I’d ever visited his office. We were surrounded on three sides by shelves groaning under the weight of
large books. The priest sat behind an old desk piled high with more books and papers. Above the desk was the familiar sight of Jesus on the cross.

“Nice to see you,” he greeted me. “Is everything all right? You sounded worried when you called me.” He smiled reassuringly. “If it’s your confirmation you’re worried about, don’t be. I’m certain your parents and I will work something out.”

I clasped my hands together tightly. “There won’t be a confirmation, Father,” I said. Then I told him everything that had happened, starting with my discovery of the old photos in Mom’s dresser. When I finished speaking, the priest just looked at me, amazement and pity at war on his face.

“Your poor parents!” he finally said. “Do they know you came to see me?”

“It was Dad who suggested it. At first Mom was reluctant, but she agreed in the end.”

“Well, you must all know that your secret is safe with me. I’m bound by rules of confidentiality, and by my own conscience as well, of course.”

“Yes, Father.”

“So tell me, Alexandra, how do you feel about all of this?”

“I don’t know, Father. I’m so confused. I don’t know what to think, what to do. If Mom and Dad are Jewish,
then I must be too, but I’ve always thought I was a Catholic. I
feel
like a Catholic.”

“Alexandra, you know I’m always ready to instruct you in the ways of the church,” he said. He shook his head. “Your poor parents,” he repeated. “What terrible suffering they must have endured! And now, to feel that they must deny their past…” His face was full of sorrow.

I waited a minute before I spoke again. I didn’t want him to think I was being disrespectful, but I needed to voice some of my frustration. “I can’t understand how they can pretend to be something they’re not,” I blurted. “It seems so cowardly!” I was surprised to feel tears running down my face. I brushed them away impatiently with my fists.

Father Mike leaned across his desk, his face just inches from mine. He was so close to me that I could even see the minute wrinkles in his starched white collar.

“Cowardly?” he repeated. “Never, ever do them the injustice of thinking that of them! They sacrificed their past for your sake. They cut themselves off from everything they’ve known for the love of you! To protect you!”

I spoke slowly, hoping to make myself clear. “I know that Mom and Dad suffered in Europe, Father Mike, but they should realize that nobody in Canada cares about your religion,” I said. “Well, most of them don’t,” I corrected myself. “Anyway, my real concern is what I should
do now. What should I tell people? What will my friends say when they find out that we’re Jewish? I don’t even know how a Jewish person is supposed to feel. Who am I, Father?” My voice came out in a big wail.

“I can’t tell you what to do, Alexandra. Only you can decide who you want to tell your secret to, or even if you want to tell it at all. Only you can decide how you want to live your life. I would strongly recommend, however, that you find out more about your family’s heritage. Your people died for it, and you owe it to them to learn more. But whatever you decide, I will always be here to answer your questions about the church. The church is always here for you.” His expression softened. “I know this can’t be easy for you. How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

“Fourteen next month, Father.”

“Old enough to act as a responsible adult, but young enough to be fragile,” he said with a smile. “I would advise you to speak to a rabbi. Rabbi David Goltzman of the Herzlia Synagogue is a friend of mine. Do you want to see him? I can call him on your behalf and explain the situation.”

I shook my head. “Not yet, Father. I’m not sure what I want to do. I need a little more time.” I stood up and headed for the door. “I won’t be coming to Sunday school for a while, Father. I want to sort things out first.”

“Perhaps that’s wise,” he said. “I’ll explain everything to Sister Ursula.”

“Thank you,” I said, closing the door softly behind me.

“What do you mean you’re Jewish?”

“Shh! Lower your voice, Jacob. People will hear you.” I looked around the restaurant. We were sitting in our usual booth at the back of the Salisbury House. Nobody was paying any attention to us. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“I have, but I don’t get it.”

“I didn’t believe it either, but it’s true. I’m Jewish! Aren’t you glad?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess. It doesn’t really make a difference to me, but my mother will be happy.”

“Oh, you can’t tell your parents. I had enough trouble convincing Mom to agree to my telling you. She doesn’t want anyone else to know.”

Jacob shook his head, a puzzled expression on his face. “Why not?”

I told him about Mom and Dad’s experience in the camps, and about what happened to them in Toronto. His expression grew solemn.

“I can see why your mother would feel the way she does. My father lost all of his cousins in the camps. No one talks about it, but lots of people hate Jews, even here.
Do you remember that awful woman at the garage sale?”

I nodded. “How could I forget? Let’s not talk about her. It’s too depressing.”

He frowned. “I wonder if my mother was right and I should have gone to the Jewish school in the North End. There were lots of Jewish kids in my school in Toronto, but I’m the only one here. It might have been easier for me to make friends in a Jewish school.”

“You’ll make friends at Lord Selkirk. It just takes time.”

My words sounded hollow even in my own ears. I knew that I hadn’t been invited to Christie’s party because I was going out with him, and that that was probably the reason behind Jean’s snub the last time we were at the Salisbury House. What would happen when my friends found out that I, too, was Jewish? Perhaps I should never tell anybody else, I said to myself. Maybe I should just forget about being Jewish. But then I remembered that Father Mike had said I owed it to my family to explore my roots. So in spite of my fears, I reached across the table and squeezed Jacob’s fingers.

“Don’t worry. You’ll make friends. In the meantime, you’ve got me, and I need your help.” I smiled my most reassuring smile. “How can I find out what it’s like to be Jewish?”

“It sounds like you found out quite a bit from your parents.”

“But that was another time, in another world. I need to know what it’s like here and now. You’re my only Jewish friend. Please help me!”

“Well, the first step is for you to come to synagogue with me on Saturday. Let’s meet in front of the Herzlia at ten o’clock.” He stood up and began to pull on his jacket.

“I have a better idea. Come and pick me up at home. I’ll be ready by nine.”

He paused with his hands in mid-air. “You’re inviting me to your house, Alex?
Mazel tov!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s Hebrew for ‘congratulations.’ Let it be one of your first lessons in Judaism.”

“Thanks!” I said, laughing. “I’m excited to have you meet Mom and Dad.”

He nodded. “I’ve been wanting to see where you live. Afterward, we can walk to synagogue. The Herzlia is ten minutes from your place,” he said.

“How should I dress?”

“Same as for church, I guess. The same rules apply.”

“He’s such a nice boy.” Mom patted my arm as she handed me my jacket.

Jacob had spent the last hour making polite conversation with my folks. Mom’s frozen expression gradually
thawed, and she began speaking normally. Dad was grinning from ear to ear.

“I like your parents,” Jacob said as we picked our way through the fresh snow covering the sidewalk.

“I like your family too,” I said.

I was glad of the scarf I had wrapped around my throat. It was so cold that our breath formed ghostly spirits in the air. Only six more weeks until Christmas, I said to myself, and then I realized that Christmas would be very different that year.

“I told my parents I was taking you to synagogue with me,” Jacob said. “They wanted to know why, so I told them you were interested in the service. Come for lunch at our house when it’s over.”

“Thanks. I’d love to.”

We turned the corner of the street.

“We’re almost there,” Jacob said, grasping my elbow to prevent me from falling on a patch of ice.

The synagogue was a gray stucco building with a flat roof. Only the enormous stained-glass windows reminded me of St. Stephen’s. We joined a group of people climbing the stairs.

“Careful! The steps are slippery,” Jacob warned as he took my hand.

We hung our coats in a cloakroom, and then Jacob slapped a yarmulke on the back of his head and wrapped
his shoulders in a white shawl with a pattern of black lines and fringes at both ends. I fingered the fringe.

“You like my tallis?” he asked.

“It’s beautiful.”

“My parents gave it to me for my bar mitzvah,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”

We entered a large sanctuary filled with wooden pews. I slid into the last row, and Jacob sat down beside me. I looked around. It was a plain room, without any pictures or statues on the walls. Light filtered through the stained glass and fell upon a small podium at the front of the room. Four men were gathered around a small table covered with a royal blue velvet cloth. One of them, middle-aged with a grizzled beard, was reading from a book and chanting loudly in a foreign language.

“That’s Rabbi Goltzman,” Jacob whispered. “He’s a good guy.”

Behind the podium, on the east wall, was a tall cabinet covered by blue velvet curtains embroidered in gold. A lamp dangled from the ceiling in front of the cabinet. It was lit despite the brightness of the room.

I looked around curiously. The pews were filled with people of all ages, and there were a few little kids running around. The men wore prayer shawls and their heads were covered by yarmulkes like Jacob’s. The women were elegantly dressed in suits, hats, and gloves. I didn’t
recognize a single soul until my eyes fell upon old Mrs. Steinberg, who lived across the street from us. I sank down in my seat, hoping that she wouldn’t see me. Suddenly, she screwed her head around and her mouth parted in a surprised O. She leaned close to her neighbor and started whispering behind an open palm. Then her companion turned around and stared at me. I was certain they were talking about me.

Everybody was chatting with their neighbors. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention to the people at the podium. It was so different from the total silence expected of us at St. Stephen’s. If any of us even whispered out of turn, Sister Ursula’s eagle eye promised future punishment.

A red-headed boy whose face was covered with freckles slipped into the pew beside us.