As she walked across the plaza to her meeting with Mr. Crabtree, Lilly had knotted the scarf around her neck—a sort of talisman, a way to keep Josef with her. Why had she become so superstitious these past few days? And what good had it done for her, anyway? After she was ushered out by Mr. Crabtree, Lilly rode the elevator to the lobby stunned by Mr. Crabtree’s obstinate conviction that all would be well. Such an easy thing to believe when you could retreat to your office occupied by Indian plunder and emptied of hysterical Czechs who pestered you for favors you were unable or unwilling to grant.
By the time she had reached the lobby, she was shattered and disoriented. She unsnapped the clasp on her purse but instead of retrieving a handkerchief, she came away with the list. At the same moment, her gaze alighted on a sign before another bank of elevators: OBSERVATION DECK. She looked quickly at the list and joined the queue. It wasn’t the Empire State Building, but it would have to do. She was running out of time; she needed stories to bring home with her.
The crowded elevator rose and rose beyond any imaginable height. When the doors finally parted, Lilly let herself be swept along through a small room, up a flight of stairs, out a narrow door—and found herself in the very rafters of the city. Below her was the grid of regimented streets, a landscape of buildings topped with water tanks. There, so close she could almost touch it, was the Empire State Building soaring higher still, and there too was the Chrysler Building, which made up in style whatever it lacked in raw height. To one side lay the narrow ribbon of the East River, stapled over with bridges that linked the island to the low, mottled city that spread to the east. To the other side, she saw the Hudson River. It seemed that a running start would allow her to vault across to the limitless expanse of America. In that direction, a person could lose herself; go west and keep going, with nothing to stop you but the Pacific Ocean thousands of miles distant. If she set out that way, who would ever find her? There were so many places to hide.
Hadn’t Josef himself told her to stay? His last letter had put it quite bluntly: I love you but do not return. The city is in the grip of a madness. Even sensible people believe that this is as bad as it will get; that our guests can be resisted, or even overcome. Josef thought otherwise. He had lawyer friends who worked in the Castle, friends who already knew enough not to be seen in public with Josef—a Jew, a lawyer, a leftist, and a columnist for a recently shuttered newspaper. They had told him that legislation was already being drafted that defined who was Jewish and how exemptions could be granted to those deemed essential. You will perhaps be surprised to hear, he wrote, that I will not be deemed essential. Farther down the page he wrote, You are essential to me but not to these idiots. Therefore you MUST stay. A postscript dashed along the bottom of the page told her that this could be his last letter. Censorship had become routine, but he managed to get a friend bound for Zurich to post the letter on his behalf. He signed off, as always, Your favorite, Josef.
The ferry lurched as its engines slowed. The boat was scudding toward the pier, and the other passengers pushed past Lilly for a better view of the statue. Lilly was left alone near the stern, facing east, and she could see on the horizon the hot glow of the Atlantic under the midmorning sun. She knew what lay that way. Miles and miles of ocean leading inexorably to a port, a train, a city where everything had changed. She was going back to a place where she could not hide, only disappear; where her papers would allow for only one journey, and one destination. She burned like the morning sun to see Josef again, but for the first time she asked herself, What if I cannot find him? What if he was already gone?
Even after receiving Josef’s letter, she had never seriously considered the idea that she would stay in America while he remained in Prague. If Mr. Musgrove could not bring Josef to New York, then of course she would return to him. But yesterday at the top of the RCA Building, she had let herself get swept away by the possibility of staying in America—of abandoning Prague, and Josef, too. And now here she was, imagining him gone, or lost forever, as if that would excuse the betrayal taking root within her. She should have spent the day packing for the voyage, preparing to return home. Her luggage was due to the agent no later than noon on Saturday. Instead she had unfolded the list and, eyes closed, chosen the next item. Her finger had landed on The Statue of Liberty and now here she was, riding this ridiculous ferry, sick to her stomach and even more sick at heart. Soon she would climb to the crown, and she would look to the east, and when she saw the midday glow on the horizon, she would try not to think of burning cities but of the promise of the next sunrise.
FORDHAM HEIGHTS
FROM THE KITCHEN, MARTIN could hear Rosemary’s muffled voice singing the girls a lullaby, “Toora Loora” or “Give Her a Kiss” or one of her own invention that worked each girl’s name into the tune (Katie and Evie are my sweethearts…). Next came the click of the door and Rosemary’s feet on the floorboards, laced through with a melody of ssssshhhhs directed at the girls’ room. Through the open windows came the murmur, laughter, and shouts of neighbors on their front steps, but in the apartment a sense of calm was descending as the girls eased to sleep.
Rosemary returned to the kitchen to find Martin in the middle of the room, knotting his tie. “You’re going out?” she said.
“To the Savoy,” he said. “With Francis.” Since yesterday’s practice at the Dime, he had been eager to hear for himself Benny Carter’s reworking of his song. His canvass of the music stores hadn’t turned up a mad rush for the sheet music, but it was still early days. A lot depended on Carter and whether he recorded the song, and then on the radio stations and jukeboxes—those that played records by Negro bands. Your first race record, Rosemary had said last night. My parents will be so thrilled.
Now, as Martin checked the length of his tie and adjusted his pocket square, Rosemary busied herself with drying the dishes. They still hadn’t talked about his decision to quit the band, or about his prospects for another job. All Martin would say was that he had a plan.
“Don’t you think—” Rosemary stopped herself but then figured, Just say it. “Don’t you think you should’ve waited until you were back on the Hit Parade? Then you’d have more options, or you could’ve asked Chester for a raise.” She smiled weakly.
Martin laughed, a harsh bark, full of edges. “You couldn’t pay me enough to keep playing that music.”
“But wouldn’t it have made sense to see where the song goes before—”
“I’d already made up my mind,” he said. “The song at the Savoy—that feels like a reward for finally doing the right thing.”
“I know you’ve had a shock these past few days, but we need to think about—”
“Yes, I know. Rent. Food. Shoes.”