“God bless America,” Sam said. He needed to cut off Anna Rosenthal before she devolved into further sentimentality and, possibly, folk singing, so he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the mysterious envelope. “Mrs. Rosenthal, I came across something of my mother’s that had me scratching my head, and I wondered if you might know anything about it. It’s from someone named Rotke Wasserman.”
Mrs. Rosenthal squinted at the writing on the envelope as Sam handed it over. “Yes, yes, I remember. It came after your mother and father were gone. The Wasserman woman sometimes would come to work with Miriam. Because of her gift,” Mrs. Rosenthal said matter-of-factly and sipped her coffee.
“Her gift. You mean as a nurse?” Sam asked, confused.
“Nurse.” Mrs. Rosenthal made a tsk sound, as if the word was an insult. “A nurse, yes. In this country. But before? She was the best fortune-teller in Ukraine. People come from everywhere to ask about marriages, babies, if they should open this business or sell that cow. Even the Mad Monk himself, Rasputin”—Mrs. Rosenthal spat, uttering a curse in Russian—“came to see the great Miriam Lubovitch.”
“I thought my mother was a nurse,” was all Sam could seem to say.
“On our papers, we had to write occupation. Most write wife, mother, cook, seamstress, maybe. Like that. Your mother puts fortune-teller.” Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head. “We’re afraid they won’t like it. It is not a country for superstition. But that woman, Miss Wasserman, speaks Russian. She says, Miriam, will you take a test for me—”
“What kind of test?” Evie interrupted.
Mrs. Rosenthal shrugged. “How should I know? I only know she must do well, because they let us all in. They say, don’t worry, don’t worry, you are safe here, and they give her something to feel better. Water. Rest. Meat and vitamins for strength. Soon, she is better. And that is why you are here now, Sergei. An American. For a while, your mother, father, and I settled with cousins of mine on Orchard Street before your parents took their own rooms on Hester. Every now and then, Miss Wasserman would come to see you and your mother.”
“Why’s that?” Sam asked.
Again, the woman shrugged. “To see how you were. She would play games with you. She liked you. Who wouldn’t?”
“The letter,” Sam said, drawing her attention back to the yellowed envelope. “You didn’t send it on to them in Chicago?”
“I should know where they went? For ten years, I hear nothing. I know nothing, till you telephoned,” Mrs. Rosenthal said, hurt creeping into her tone.
Sam couldn’t imagine why his parents would’ve been so rude. It wasn’t like them at all.
“It was those men, I think,” Mrs. Rosenthal said suddenly. “They came and frightened your mother. Your parents were gone the next day, like ghosts.”
“What men?”
“Some men in dark suits came to see your mother. I walked them up to your apartment.”
“Who were they?” Sam asked. His tapped his fingers frantically. Evie put her hand over his to stop him.
Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head. “They say immigration, which makes us nervous. Some anarchists are Jews. What if they think we are anarchists and throw us out of the country? The men, they want me to go away, but your mother says, ‘Anna must stay.’ She says my English is better—a lie. I could see she was afraid. They ask her questions: Was she getting along all right? How was the neighborhood? Any trouble to report? Fine, fine, all fine, she told them. It was all fine until they ask about you.”
“Me?”
“Sam?” Evie said at the same time.
Mrs. Rosenthal nodded. “How you were, if you were healthy, did you take after your father or were you more like your mother? Were you special?” She made a face. “This is a thing you ask a mother? Is her son special? I think your mother will talk for a week about how special you are. But no.” Mrs. Rosenthal worried her napkin in her lap. “This, maybe, I shouldn’t say.”