In spite of these displays of affection, Sheyndel is wary as she watches her cousin, about whom she has heard so much that she has no idea what to think. By nature, she does not trust people, or think well of them—often they strike her as stupid and vain. She hugs Avacha somewhat theatrically, too tightly—with women, she always dominates—delighting over her Polish-style braids. Sheyndel is a beautiful woman, well-dressed, confident in herself and the strength of the charm she exerts on all around her. Soon her voice alone will be audible inside the house.
Not standing on ceremony, she takes her cousin by the hand and leads him into the living room, the splendor of which intimidates the guests, who for thirteen years have not looked upon beautiful, opulent things other than in church. But here there is a polished wooden floor, with Turkish carpets on it, and there are walls painted in soft colors with flowers, and a white instrument with a kind of keyboard, and beside it an elaborately decorated stool on three legs modeled upon the legs of an animal. The drapery in the windows, a sewing box with drawers—their guests arrived as she was embroidering with her daughters, which is why the hoops have been tossed aside onto the armchairs. There are four daughters; now they stand next to one another, smiling, visibly pleased with themselves: the eldest, Blumele, beautiful, not too tall, cheerful, and then Sara, Gitla, and the very young Esther with her curls and red splotches on her pale face, as if someone had painted them. All wearing dresses in patterns of delicate little flowers, but each dress a different color. Eva would like to have a dress like that, and ribbons in her hair; they don’t wear those in Warsaw, and she can already feel herself falling in love with this clothing, these subtle colors and these hair ribbons. From Poland she knows only flashy reds and amaranths, and Turkish blues, but here it’s different: everything is a little bit diluted, as if all the shades in the world had been mixed into milk—there aren’t even words for the ever so slightly grayed pink of the ribbons.
Aunt Sheyndel introduces her children. Her Yiddish is a little different from what is spoken by the family newly come from Poland. After the girls, the boys come up individually. Here is Moshe, who at the news of a visit from his famous uncle has returned especially from Vienna. At twenty, he is just two years older than Avacha, with a slim, energetic face and uneven teeth; he is already writing scholarly dissertations, both in German and in Hebrew. He is interested in poetry and literature as well as new philosophical trends. He is just a little bit too bold, too talkative, too sure of himself, like his mother. There are some people with whom you have a little problem from the start because you feel too attracted to them—you like them without any justification, even as you feel certain that it is all a simulacrum, a game. That is how Moshe is. When he looks at her, Eva averts her eyes and turns crimson, which makes her even more ashamed. On being introduced to him, she curtseys clumsily and does not want to give him her hand, and then Sheyndel, who sees everything, gives everyone to understand—by the significant glance she casts her husband’s way—that this girl has simply not been brought up to have manners. Eva is unable to remember the names of the next two Dobrushka brothers.
Sheyndel Hirsh was born in Wroc?aw, but her family comes from Rzeszów, like Jacob’s family—Jacob’s mother and Sheyndel’s father were sister and brother. Now she is thirty-seven years old, but her face still looks fresh and young. Her large dark eyes resemble wells—you never know what you’ll find at the bottom. Her gaze is penetrating, suspicious, attentive, hard to shake. Eva looks away and thinks how different Aunt Sheyndel is from her own mother. Her mother was trusting and straightforward, which meant that she often appeared helpless and defenseless. That is how Eva remembers her anyway, as if all her strength would simply vanish, and every morning she would have to gather it back up like so many berries, patiently, slowly. This woman has more than enough strength; talking with Eva’s cousin, she simultaneously sets the table. A maid rushes in with a basket of rolls that are still warm, straight from the bakery. And there is honey and lumps of dark sugar, which they drop into their coffee with special little tongs.
The first conversations are had for the purpose of everyone making a thorough examination of everyone else. The Dobrushka children, who have hurried down from all over the house, curious and amused, look at Eva Frank, their unknown cousin, and their strange uncle with the coarse, dark face. Eva is wearing a dress bought back in Warsaw, in a “travel” color, a tobacco-like shade, that does not suit her at all. The upper of one of her boots has cracked, and she tries to cover it with the toe of the other one. Her full face never loses its flush. From under her hat—and to think that in Warsaw it struck her as chic—strands of her hair sneak out.
From the outset, Jacob’s manner has been loud and intimate, as though the moment he left the carriage, a change occurred within him, and placed over his tired and devastated face a jovial mask. His depression and exhaustion are washed away by sips of goose broth, and he is warmed by Sheyndel’s infectious laughter, relaxed by the cherry liqueur. In the end, there is that exotic name, Cz?stochowa, and Jacob starts to tell them stories, as he does—gesticulating, making wild faces. He curses in Polish, curses in Yiddish, the children don’t know how to react, but a glance at their mother soothes them—Sheyndel closes her eyes briefly, as if to say: To him all is permitted.
They sit in the living room at a small round table and drink coffee out of delicate cups. Eva does not listen to her father’s stories.
When she reaches for the sugar (with coffee they’re given snow-white sugar in big crystals), she sees on the sugar bowl a picture of a port city, with its characteristic cranes for unloading goods. And the cup—its insides are white and slick, and its edge is decorated with a delicate gold band. Bringing it to her lips, Eva can almost taste that band—its flavor is almost vanilla.
The clock ticks—this new sound breaks up time into little parts, and everything seems calibrated, in a grid. Clean, orderly, and perfectly sensible.
After lunch, her father remains with Uncle Zalman and Aunt Sheyndel, while Eva is sent to the girls’ room, where the youngest, Gitla and Esther, show her their diaries, in which visitors are supposed to write inscriptions. Eva is to do the same. She is terrified.
“Can it be in Polish?” she asks.
She looks through one diary and sees that all the entries are in German, of which her knowledge is limited. In the end, Magda Golińska writes on her behalf, in a fine hand and in Polish. To Eva remains the task of illustration: a rose with its thorns, like they used to make together in Cz?stochowa. These are the only flowers she knows how to draw.
In the living room, the adults are conversing loudly, and the girls can hear their bursts of laughter and cries of surprise. Then the voices lower to a whisper. The servants bring in coffee and fruit. Somewhere from deep inside the house comes the smell of fried meat. J?drzej Dembowski walks around the house, peering in all the rooms. He looks into the girls’ room, and with him comes the smell of tobacco, bitter and strong.