I could see two figures inside the car as I took my turn perpendicular to the corner where they were parked, but the windows were tinted and I couldn’t make out their faces or bodies. By the time I reached my mother’s house, I’d deduced that either Donnie Angel had multiple teams of men covering my likely destinations, or he knew where I was going this morning. The only way he could have known where I was going was if my mother had told them. No one else knew I was coming to pick her up. No one.
I was prepared for some verbal punishment for hanging up on her, but when I stepped inside she hugged me as though we were soul mates. For a brief moment, all my concerns vanished. The white Honda, Donnie Angel, my godfather’s death, Marko’s possible involvement in his business or murder, my job loss, and the personal dissatisfaction I had to overcome every morning to get out of bed. None of it mattered as my mother held me. Only when she let go did a voice of reason remind me she had to have had an ulterior motive for her most uncharacteristic display of affection.
“I’m so happy to see my beautiful daughter,” she said. “You know, my children are my pride and joy. I’m so thrilled you’ll both be with me at the blessing today. The entire community will see us as the family we are. The other women will be so jealous of me. Come in, my kitten, and help me arrange the basket.”
I realized her enthusiasm was a function of appearances. Or perhaps a combination of love and appearances. Yes, I thought. This sounded more logical. I understood it might have been a delusion, but I settled on it nonetheless. After all, it was the day before Easter.
We went to the kitchen.
“You said both of us will be joining you. Did Marko call? Did he call to confirm?”
“He told me a few weeks ago he’d be there today.”
“You mean he didn’t call to confirm?”
“Your brother’s a con artist, a bum, and a degenerate sinner, but he’s my son and I have no reason to doubt his word. You want some green tea?”
I shook my head. “So you didn’t call him.”
My mother looked at me as though I were an idiot. “Do I ever call my children? I don’t want to bother either of you. I don’t want to be one of those old women who’s a pain in their children’s butts. You think we should take all these colored eggs or leave the black one out?”
“You painted an Easter egg black?” I’d never heard of or seen such a thing.
She held it up. It was black as tar.
“My hairdresser has all the magazines,” she said. “Black is the new black, didn’t you know that? I’m just trying to bring fashion into the Easter basket. I thought you, Miss New York, would understand.”
Only the Black Widow would put a black egg in her Easter basket, I thought. “Of course, Mama. You’re right. Take the black egg. It works for you. But we’re going to leave my car and take your Buick, okay?”
Her face fell. “Why?”
“I’m low on gas. I didn’t have time to stop at a station, and I don’t want to take any chances. I know how you hate it when a car isn’t fully fueled and there’s a risk of running out.”
“Shame on you for not planning ahead. The one time your mother gets a chance to drive in a sexy car…” She bit her lip. “Pity. I would have looked so good in it pulling up to the church.”
It was a lie, of course. There was plenty of high-octane in the 911; I wanted to switch cars. I doubted it would be of much help. Even if I lost the boys in the white Honda, I was headed straight to the heart of the Uke community. I couldn’t have made myself more conspicuous. Still, the mere thought of being in another vehicle lowered my blood pressure. At least I was changing my routine a bit. At least I was doing something differently.
We arranged the breads, colored eggs, ham, sausage, a mixture of horseradish and beets, butter, cheese, and salt in a wicker basket decorated with an embroidered cloth. My mother spent no less than fifteen minutes rearranging the items until the presentation met with her approval. Afterward, we packed the car and I drove us to church.
I held my breath as I approached the food mart where I’d seen my followers, but the Honda was gone. It was also nowhere to be seen in the rearview mirror. I wondered if a second car would pick up my trail any moment, and if there were even more than two vehicles following me. Then I wondered if they knew my mother drove a Buick. Perhaps I was alone for the first time in days. Perhaps I’d actually lost them.
My mother may have liked the idea of sitting in a sports car, but she didn’t enjoy traveling at high speeds in any car. She scolded me twice and told me to slow down before I ever got on the highway. I apologized and reduced my speed. I needed her to be cooperative. I also wanted to ease into my intended topic of conversation but couldn’t figure out a way to do so quickly. I had no time for small talk.
“We were talking about the DP camps the other day,” I said. “Someone told me quite a few priests made it out of Ukraine during the war and ended up in the camps. I imagine Easter had special meaning back then. The resurrection of Christ, the Savior. It was probably a big deal in camp, wasn’t it?”
She glanced at me as though I was trying to poison her. “You’re going back there again? Give me a break. I thought I’d be sitting pretty in that little Porsche of yours. Like James Dean’s girlfriend. But no. You want to go cruising down memory lane in my old American jalopy instead.”
“That makes two of us. Wanting to cruise down memory lane.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’re going to the blessing of the Easter baskets. Together. Where all your friends will see us, Mama. And remember us as a family growing up.” My mother was the world heavyweight champion of quid pro quo. I was certain she’d understand. “Was Easter a big deal in the DP camps?”
She turned away from me and looked out the window. I glanced in her direction and saw her fidgeting in her seat, her head bobbing sideways and making little circles the way it did when she was irritated, digesting bad news, or contemplating something serious. In this case, it was all of the above, I suspected.
She turned back toward the windshield. She leveled her voice and sounded eerily calm. “Of course it was important. I was just a child but the adults did everything they could to give us structure and keep our spirits up.” She talked about the day-to-day struggles and tedium for a minute. “Fear lingered in camp. From the war, from the Holocaust. And eventually, from the screenings.”
“The screenings?”
“The screenings were a time of terror.”
“What screenings?”
“We all felt the tension. Even the children. It hung in the air like a noose waiting to fall on anyone’s head. You just prayed it wasn’t your parents.”
“What screenings?”
“People weren’t simply allowed to enter the DP camps. They had to prove they were legitimate refugees. Everyone in camp was interviewed. The interviews took upwards of a year. The interviews were conducted in Russian, English, and German, regardless of whether the people being interviewed spoke any of those languages. It was chaotic. There wasn’t enough room for all of us. Of course, the Russian officials were NKVD. Their real mission wasn’t to help administer the camps. Their purpose was to persuade the Americans and British to reject as many people as possible. Anyone whose story didn’t check out — anyone who changed a date from a previous interview, any charge of collaboration with the Nazis — and the person would be thrown out of camp.”