Free The Imposter Bride by Nancy Richler Page B

More than a few moments, I suspect, for there was a note of alarm in the voice that pulled me back, dragged me to the present by asking if I was all right .
    I became aware at once of the noise of Tel Aviv, the nauseating smell of the sea, the weight of the grief that for one brief moment had lifted from my chest .
    “Close the windows,” I begged her. There was nothing to be done about the smell—it’s everywhere, always, that briny rot that swells the walls and permeates even the soft, fine curls of my children’s hair—but the noise could be blocked. I couldn’t bear the noise .
    And what were the sounds that so upset me, sounds so offensive that I experienced them as an assault? People talking on the balconies below me, motorcars and the hum of the city, the high, laughing voices of children in the playground, my own three children among them .
    “Please, the window,” I said, but she wouldn’t do as I asked. She brought me water, cooled my forehead, encouraged me to drink .
    I was in danger at that moment, I’m telling you the truth. I was standing on an edge, the balls of my feet still firmly placed on the hard, cold surface of my present life, but my heels unsupported, sinking deeply into memories, the past, a surface that yielded like billowing cloud. I wanted her to stay now, this woman who wasn’t Lily. I wanted her to stay and return the dead to me, return me to the dead that felt more like life at that moment than my own children laughing and calling to one another in the playground outside my open windows .
    “Please,” I said again. Stay, I meant. Tell me your dreams. I wanted to fall back into the void that was waiting to receive me .
    But she wouldn’t tell me anything more. She’s practical, this new Lily of ours. She had arrived just that morning and her status was still precarious .
    “Help me,” she said .
    I sent her over to the Zlotnik woman who arranges things for people like this—papers, marriages, jobs, whatever is needed. No problem, Mrs. Zlotnik said. She could have something arranged that very afternoon, but—are you ready for this?—a new life in Palestine wasn’t good enough for the imposter .
    “Canada,” she commanded Zlotnik .
    “Canada?” Mrs. Zlotnik could only laugh. She was still laughing, I believe, when the woman pulled out a diamond. Not a cut diamond, mind you, a rough one, and a good size, apparently, its source as untraceable as its bearer—I can only fear it belonged to our dear cousin Lily, that it was one of Uncle Chaim’s, from his workshop .
    Zlotnik told her to put the diamond away. There must have been something she would find easier to resell, gold coin, maybe—what does a woman like Zlotnik know about assessing the value of an uncut diamond?
    “It’s all stolen,” I reminded her when she was telling me the story .
    “Who are we to judge?” she responded, my moral instructor, the righteous Mrs. Zlotnik, who gets richer with every refugee that she helps. She told the woman to leave it with her for a few days .
    It was more like a few months, and then a little longer to get things properly arranged, but she’s on her way over right now as I sit here on my balcony. She’s travelling more quickly than these words I write to you. The lucky bridegroom’s name is Kramer. Go to her wedding and weep .
    Ida had read the letter, shaking her head.
    “What?” Elka asked, watching her.
    “Nothing,” Ida said. She could not quite absorb what her sister was telling her, could not quite believe it was true.
    “Is she still trying to get us to move there?” Elka asked.
    Was it Sonya’s tendency to embellish that had made Ida doubt what she had read? Or was it a reluctance to face the implications for her family if what Sonya said was true? She’d gone to the wedding fully informed that the bride was an imposter, yet expecting, somehow, to see her cousin Lily walk down the aisle. I forgive you , she’d been prepared to tell her, though her cousin