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Authors: Stephanie Feldman
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a very young man.”
The old man had produced a small, hardback book. The cover was black and pebbled with a silver word impressed on the back, and on the inside, faint Cyrillic handwriting filled the flyleaf. The pages broke in my hands like stale bread. We scattered the shards in the open grave, and something unlocked inside my chest—I hadn’t realized how constricted my breathing had become—and for a moment, I was grateful to him.
I wanted to ask him more: When did they know each other? And where? And what had Grandpa been like? And why are you the first friend from his youth I’ve heard of?
But before I could speak, the old man grabbed my wrist with freezing fingers. “It’s a lie,” he said. “Whatever he told you. Everything he told you. A lie.”
I broke away from him, rejoined the small crowd by the parked cars—a few of my parents’ friends, the small band of old men from Brooklyn—and when I looked again, the old man was gone.
Until now. “Do you remember me?” I asked.
The old man laughed, and my throat tightened. He sounded like Grandpa. He had the same blue eyes. He gestured to the necklace. “Go ahead,” he urged. “It’s good luck.”
I didn’t want to insult him, not before I could learn who he was; or maybe it was just that he sounded so much like my grandfather. I put on the necklace. It was clammy from the messy bar, chill against my chest.
“I remember everything,” the old man said.
Immediately, I thought of The White Rebbe and the Sabbath Light . Grandpa had kept the story secret; he’d intended for the notebooks to be destroyed. He wouldn’t want me talking about them. Yet this friend, who sat beside me now, gazing into his empty glass, his mouth moving silently—he had been a secret too. I felt my loyalty to Grandpa’s wishes waver.
“You asked me what Grandpa—Eli—told me. You said it was a lie. Did you mean . . . did you mean the White Rebbe?”
The old man scrutinized me. I held my back straight, my gaze steady. There was no reason to fear him. Maybe I feared what he would say.
“So he did tell you.” The corner of his mouth twitched—the beginning of a grin, or a frown, I couldn’t tell. “He said he would take it to his grave.”
A hand fell on my shoulder. My friend, already heading to the door. “Meet me outside.”
I turned back to the old man.
“Go,” he said. “Don’t worry. We have plenty of time.”
I didn’t want to leave him there, give him the chance to disappear again, and with him any answers he had about Grandpa, his story, his secrets. But he was waving his hand toward the door, and his promise felt as solid as the necklace he had given me. I slid off the stool. “Be right back.”
Outside, I gave my friend the last of the money I had scrounged up that morning in exchange for a folded paper bag.
“We’re going to Eighth Street instead,” he said. “You want to come?”
“No. I’m going to finish my drink. And I have work to do tomorrow morning.”
“I haven’t seen you in months. Since you quit the writing group, I think.”
“Well,” I began. “Deadlines.” We were all under tremendous pressure to produce, to overachieve, and we must have all liked it, or we would have dropped out by now. But I wondered if I took it too far. I wanted to decide what the story meant. I wanted to decide what mattered and what didn’t.
But he was already looking beyond me, waving to a man and a woman crossing the street toward us. “Eighth Street!” he shouted. “I just texted you!”
I studied the sidewalk while they exchanged a flurry of names—who was waiting inside, who was still on the train, who was unaccounted for—and decided to have one more round. I glimpsed the old man, still at the bar, as the door began to swing shut.
Before I could follow them inside, the other man spoke. “So, did you read the book?” he asked.
I looked up. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his lashes were long and black, his eyes
The old man had produced a small, hardback book. The cover was black and pebbled with a silver word impressed on the back, and on the inside, faint Cyrillic handwriting filled the flyleaf. The pages broke in my hands like stale bread. We scattered the shards in the open grave, and something unlocked inside my chest—I hadn’t realized how constricted my breathing had become—and for a moment, I was grateful to him.
I wanted to ask him more: When did they know each other? And where? And what had Grandpa been like? And why are you the first friend from his youth I’ve heard of?
But before I could speak, the old man grabbed my wrist with freezing fingers. “It’s a lie,” he said. “Whatever he told you. Everything he told you. A lie.”
I broke away from him, rejoined the small crowd by the parked cars—a few of my parents’ friends, the small band of old men from Brooklyn—and when I looked again, the old man was gone.
Until now. “Do you remember me?” I asked.
The old man laughed, and my throat tightened. He sounded like Grandpa. He had the same blue eyes. He gestured to the necklace. “Go ahead,” he urged. “It’s good luck.”
I didn’t want to insult him, not before I could learn who he was; or maybe it was just that he sounded so much like my grandfather. I put on the necklace. It was clammy from the messy bar, chill against my chest.
“I remember everything,” the old man said.
Immediately, I thought of The White Rebbe and the Sabbath Light . Grandpa had kept the story secret; he’d intended for the notebooks to be destroyed. He wouldn’t want me talking about them. Yet this friend, who sat beside me now, gazing into his empty glass, his mouth moving silently—he had been a secret too. I felt my loyalty to Grandpa’s wishes waver.
“You asked me what Grandpa—Eli—told me. You said it was a lie. Did you mean . . . did you mean the White Rebbe?”
The old man scrutinized me. I held my back straight, my gaze steady. There was no reason to fear him. Maybe I feared what he would say.
“So he did tell you.” The corner of his mouth twitched—the beginning of a grin, or a frown, I couldn’t tell. “He said he would take it to his grave.”
A hand fell on my shoulder. My friend, already heading to the door. “Meet me outside.”
I turned back to the old man.
“Go,” he said. “Don’t worry. We have plenty of time.”
I didn’t want to leave him there, give him the chance to disappear again, and with him any answers he had about Grandpa, his story, his secrets. But he was waving his hand toward the door, and his promise felt as solid as the necklace he had given me. I slid off the stool. “Be right back.”
Outside, I gave my friend the last of the money I had scrounged up that morning in exchange for a folded paper bag.
“We’re going to Eighth Street instead,” he said. “You want to come?”
“No. I’m going to finish my drink. And I have work to do tomorrow morning.”
“I haven’t seen you in months. Since you quit the writing group, I think.”
“Well,” I began. “Deadlines.” We were all under tremendous pressure to produce, to overachieve, and we must have all liked it, or we would have dropped out by now. But I wondered if I took it too far. I wanted to decide what the story meant. I wanted to decide what mattered and what didn’t.
But he was already looking beyond me, waving to a man and a woman crossing the street toward us. “Eighth Street!” he shouted. “I just texted you!”
I studied the sidewalk while they exchanged a flurry of names—who was waiting inside, who was still on the train, who was unaccounted for—and decided to have one more round. I glimpsed the old man, still at the bar, as the door began to swing shut.
Before I could follow them inside, the other man spoke. “So, did you read the book?” he asked.
I looked up. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his lashes were long and black, his eyes
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