Free The Secrets of Flight by Maggie Leffler Page B

be here any moment.” I don’t tell her that he is here, that we decided I would go around the back, and he would ring the doorbell and pretend we hadn’t already met.
    â€œYour dress is black,” she adds, as though I can control the emissions from the local steel mills. Although I suppose I could be more like Sarah, who lays out two outfits every day: one for the morning and one for later in the day, after the steel mills cover the first dress with soot. Squinting, Mama moves toward me. “What’s that on your face? Dirt?” She licks her finger and rubs at the skin on my cheeks and forehead.
    â€œIs it coming off?” I ask.
    â€œHave you been wearing something on your eyes? There are marks . . .” she says, reaching for a wet dish towel instead. “And is this grease on your blouse? Miriam! Where have youbeen? Don’t you dare let Uncle Hyman see you,” she adds, before I can answer.
    â€œMaybe I can sneak upstairs and take a bath . . .” I suggest, just as the doorbell rings.
    â€œYou have five minutes to wash your face, comb your hair, and change your clothes—then get back down here,” Mama hisses, throwing the dish towel into the sink before moving out into the front hall to answer the door. I slip out behind her and head for the stairs.
    O NCE I’ VE SPLASHED WATER ON MY FACE, AND COMBED MY HAIR, and changed my frock, I rush back downstairs, where my uncle is introducing Tzadok to Sarah, who is back just for the occasion of his visit. Noticing me, Tzadok tips his head with a smile, before Uncle Hyman urges us all to take our seats. Then Mama waves the flames toward herself, welcoming in the Sabbath, and covers her eyes with her hands and begins to sing. In the flickering candlelight, I try to summon up my own quiet prayer. Please let me do good things with the gifts You’ve given me . I feel grateful for the warmth in the pumpkin-colored dining room, grateful for the bread we will soon be eating, and maybe even for the tight ball of anxiety inside my chest that released as soon as we sat down. I close my eyes and listen to the blessings, made even more holy to me by the fact that Sarah is home, and everything is better when my sister is here. Sneaking a peek at her to my right, I catch her peeking at me, and, heads bowed, we exchange secret smiles.
    Later, after we’ve been to services and gathered around the table once again for Uncle Hyman to say the Kiddush and bless the challah, Mama emerges with the main course, chicken androasted vegetables, and dinner digresses into conversations. I learn that Tzadok is eleven years my senior, that he left Germany in 1936 to stay with relatives in Belgium and then moved to England for further education. “Now that the Nazis are closing in on the English Channel,” he explains, looking directly at me, “it seemed like a good time to leave while I could.”
    I can’t help noticing that Tzadok frequently directs his remarks toward me, as if it’s me, not Uncle Hyman, asking the questions. I may be a woman now, but I’m not used to the kind of attention usually reserved for my sister, who has always been striking, with her chiseled jaw and a regal nose, even before she cut off her braid for a stylish bob. Besides, at twenty-two, Sarah is closer in age to Tzadok than I am, although I suppose, as she is currently seven months pregnant with another man’s baby, that might make her slightly less intriguing.
    â€œWhat were you studying at the London School of Economics?” Sarah asks, spooning more potatoes onto her plate.
    â€œEconomics,” Tzadok says, and I laugh.
    â€œHe was studying acting at the London School of Economics,” I say, and Sarah gives me a good-natured shove.
    â€œAnd you, Miriam?” Once again, Tzadok directs his gaze toward me. “What are you training for?”
    My heart skips, thinking of the books he handed me back on the sidewalk,