“And Mama wouldn’t let me go? Go to America, Dicu. Mama would
want you to.”
“But the TB,” I say. I am trying to be loyal, not to the law but to
Béla’s wishes, to my husband’s choice.
“When you can’t go in through a door, go in through a window,”
Klara reminds me.
* * *Night comes. Our second night, our last night in Vienna. I wait until
Marianne is asleep, until Klara and Csicsi and the other families have
gone to bed. I sit with Béla in two chairs by the door. Our knees touch.
I try to memorize his face so that I can recite its contours to Marianne.
His full forehead, the perfect arcs of his eyebrows, the kindness of his
mouth.
“Precious Béla,” I begin, “what I am about to say won’t be easy to
hear. ere is no way around how hard it will be. And there is no way
to talk me out of what I will say.”
His beautiful forehead creases. “What’s going on?”
“If you meet Bandi and Marta to go to Israel tomorrow, as we
planned, I won’t hold it against you. I won’t try to talk you out of it.
But I have made my choice. I will not go with you. I am taking
Marchuka to America.”