flew against my windows. In from the beach drifted low voices: people lay on the sand near the water, driven from their homes by the heat. I thought I heard a muffled cry, and I trembled.
Nothing!
Was it that word again?
Nothing.
And was that my mother’s voice now, barely audible, soothing?
A long time later I fell into an exhausted sleep.
The sounds of a door opening and closing woke me. It was early morning. From my window I saw the man and the boy who had come during the night leave the house by the side door and walk toward the street. They wore dark trousers, white shirts, and fishermen’s caps. I went back to sleep.
Sunlight woke me. I found my mother in the kitchen. She looked tired. My father and Jakob Daw had gone into Manhattan, she said. What did I want for breakfast?
• • •
A letter arrived from Aunt Sarah. The kitchen was too hot and my parents and I were having breakfast on the porch. Jakob Daw was still asleep. My father read the letter aloud. Aunt Sarah was back in Maine, working in a hospital in Bangor. Ethiopia had been very, very bad. She was certain we were aware of what would soon transpire in Spain. How was Ilana Davita? “Be careful of the heat. Drink lots of water and take salt tablets.” Maine was cool in the mornings and evenings and lovely even in these very hot days. If the heat of New York ever became intolerable, my parents should consider packing me off to Maine. She sent her love to all of us and a special kiss to Ilana Davita.
“Your sister keeps herself very busy,” my mother said.
“She’s telling us that she may go to Spain.”
“Yes,” my mother said. “I understood that.”
Jakob Daw came out onto the porch, looking as if he had not slept.
“Good morning,” he said, and coughed briefly. “The heat is terrible.”
“It’s terrible everywhere, Jakob,” my mother said.
“Except in Maine,” my father said.
“Sit down and I’ll get you some breakfast,” my mother said to Jakob Daw. “Did you sleep at all?”
“No. Early in the morning I fell asleep and was awakened by your neighbors. They seem to be very devout people. They go to synagogue every morning.”
“How do you know where they’re going?” my father asked.
“The man carries a prayer shawl.”
“They’re distant relatives of Annie’s,” my father said.
“The boy is my cousin’s son,” my mother said. “The man and his wife are the brother and sister-in-law of my cousin’s wife, who died recently. They are very religious people. The boy is saying Kaddish for his mother.”
“What does Kaddish mean?” I asked.
“A prayer that’s said in synagogue every morning and evening for about a year when someone close to you dies.”
There was a brief pause.
“Did you know they were coming here to the beach?” I asked.
“Of course. I suggested it. The boy is very upset by his mother’s death. His father asked if I would help keep an eye on him. From a distance, of course. What would you like for breakfast, Jakob?”
I looked out our screened-in porch at the empty porch of the adjoining house.
“Michael, are you going to the hunger march?” Jakob Daw asked. “Yes? Then I will come along.”
“We can make the noon train to Philadelphia if we leave here inside half an hour.”
“I will eat quickly,” Jakob Daw said.
“Jakob, you’re exhausted,” my mother said.
“Yes,” Jakob Daw said. “But I will go anyway.”
My mother and I spent most of the day on the beach. We swam together for a long time—my father had taught me to swim—and then I worked on my castle. My mother sat on a chair nearby beneath a beach umbrella, reading. She wore a yellow, wide-brimmed sun hat and a dark blue bathing suit, and she looked trim and full-breasted and lovely. I saw the boy who had moved next to us walking across the beach with the bearded man. They wore white short-sleeved shirts and dark trousers rolled up almost to the knees and were barefooted. I watched them step
Nothing!
Was it that word again?
Nothing.
And was that my mother’s voice now, barely audible, soothing?
A long time later I fell into an exhausted sleep.
The sounds of a door opening and closing woke me. It was early morning. From my window I saw the man and the boy who had come during the night leave the house by the side door and walk toward the street. They wore dark trousers, white shirts, and fishermen’s caps. I went back to sleep.
Sunlight woke me. I found my mother in the kitchen. She looked tired. My father and Jakob Daw had gone into Manhattan, she said. What did I want for breakfast?
• • •
A letter arrived from Aunt Sarah. The kitchen was too hot and my parents and I were having breakfast on the porch. Jakob Daw was still asleep. My father read the letter aloud. Aunt Sarah was back in Maine, working in a hospital in Bangor. Ethiopia had been very, very bad. She was certain we were aware of what would soon transpire in Spain. How was Ilana Davita? “Be careful of the heat. Drink lots of water and take salt tablets.” Maine was cool in the mornings and evenings and lovely even in these very hot days. If the heat of New York ever became intolerable, my parents should consider packing me off to Maine. She sent her love to all of us and a special kiss to Ilana Davita.
“Your sister keeps herself very busy,” my mother said.
“She’s telling us that she may go to Spain.”
“Yes,” my mother said. “I understood that.”
Jakob Daw came out onto the porch, looking as if he had not slept.
“Good morning,” he said, and coughed briefly. “The heat is terrible.”
“It’s terrible everywhere, Jakob,” my mother said.
“Except in Maine,” my father said.
“Sit down and I’ll get you some breakfast,” my mother said to Jakob Daw. “Did you sleep at all?”
“No. Early in the morning I fell asleep and was awakened by your neighbors. They seem to be very devout people. They go to synagogue every morning.”
“How do you know where they’re going?” my father asked.
“The man carries a prayer shawl.”
“They’re distant relatives of Annie’s,” my father said.
“The boy is my cousin’s son,” my mother said. “The man and his wife are the brother and sister-in-law of my cousin’s wife, who died recently. They are very religious people. The boy is saying Kaddish for his mother.”
“What does Kaddish mean?” I asked.
“A prayer that’s said in synagogue every morning and evening for about a year when someone close to you dies.”
There was a brief pause.
“Did you know they were coming here to the beach?” I asked.
“Of course. I suggested it. The boy is very upset by his mother’s death. His father asked if I would help keep an eye on him. From a distance, of course. What would you like for breakfast, Jakob?”
I looked out our screened-in porch at the empty porch of the adjoining house.
“Michael, are you going to the hunger march?” Jakob Daw asked. “Yes? Then I will come along.”
“We can make the noon train to Philadelphia if we leave here inside half an hour.”
“I will eat quickly,” Jakob Daw said.
“Jakob, you’re exhausted,” my mother said.
“Yes,” Jakob Daw said. “But I will go anyway.”
My mother and I spent most of the day on the beach. We swam together for a long time—my father had taught me to swim—and then I worked on my castle. My mother sat on a chair nearby beneath a beach umbrella, reading. She wore a yellow, wide-brimmed sun hat and a dark blue bathing suit, and she looked trim and full-breasted and lovely. I saw the boy who had moved next to us walking across the beach with the bearded man. They wore white short-sleeved shirts and dark trousers rolled up almost to the knees and were barefooted. I watched them step
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