Berta handed Reb Rubenstein the few rubles that he had asked for and he reached into his cash box for the change. When he gave it to her he said, “Take care.”
“Yes, thank you.”
She turned to go, but before she could, he put a hand on her arm. She looked back at him.
“He is very resourceful, you know. I wouldn’t worry.”
She stared at him for a moment longer. She didn’t like this sudden familiarity, his hand on her arm, the sympathetic tone. She murmured something about an appointment and hurried the children out of the shop.
All the way up the street Samuil chattered on about his new tricks and how he would first try them out on Vera and Galya because they were so easily taken in. Berta wasn’t listening. Her mind on was Reb Rubenstein. She was trying to remember how they came to patronize his shop. Then she remembered an afternoon that Hershel had spent with Samuil, just the two of them. They had come back after the outing with a sack full of magic tricks. She and Hershel were happy to encourage Samuil’s sudden interest in magic. They thought it would distract him from spying on the servants and their friends.
After that they stopped at the glove shop, where Sura got a new pair of white gloves embroidered with violets. “I want a long pair like yours, Mameh. Like the ones you wear when you go out.”
“Those are for ladies, darling. When you’re older you can have a pair like that. For now you’re going to wear these.”
Their last stop was the English Room, a small but popular lunchroom just off Davidkovo Square. They sat in a little alcove by the bay window with a good view of the street. At that hour it was crowded with commodities traders from the exchange on the corner, who sat in the back drinking colored vodka, eating smoked fish, and arguing about the best way to maintain the protective tariffs. Up in the front sat older ladies with their daughters and granddaughters sipping tea and peeling off the fingers of their gloves so they could pick up the tea sandwiches. Tartar waiters with white aprons tied around their waists threaded their way between the tables, refilling teapots and delivering three-tiered silver servers of tea sandwiches, scones, and tarts to the center of the tables.
Samuil sat with his back to the window and unboxed a magic trick. He spread out the instruction sheet on the table and took the cards out of the box. With the cards in his hand and his eyes on the instructions, he attempted to mimic the diagrams that illustrated each step of the trick. Periodically he stopped to take a bite of a sandwich or a tart and then went right back to work.
Berta watched him master the trick. He was like that with learning. He pounced on the unknown with energy and enthusiasm, tearing it apart, examining each piece, until he knew just how it worked. Her gaze shifted to her daughter, who was sitting quietly in her seat looking mournfully at the sandwiches on her plate. Even though there was smoked salmon on white bread, her favorite, she didn’t take a bite. Berta knew she had been missing her father. She kept asking about him: When was he coming home, where did he go? She wrote letters to him that Berta pretended to mail but really hid in the back of a drawer in her nightstand.
“Don’t you want a sandwich?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you have one?”
“I don’t want to get my new gloves dirty.”
“Then take them off.”
“I want to wear them.”
“Then use your knife and fork.”
“To eat a sandwich?”
“Why not?”
There were two men sitting nearby talking over a tiny table, leaning in over their teacups with a quiet intensity that seemed out of place among the ladies at tea. One of them was a big man, dressed in workingman’s clothes, a gray tunic, wide black belt, and loose trousers. He held his cup by the bowl instead of using the handle and finished his tea in two gulps, his prominent Adam’s apple working as he swallowed. His companion was a student, a Jew most likely, with a thick moustache that he kept smoothing with two fingers. Berta couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the attentiveness of the worker and the avidity of the student, the way he kept making little jabs in the air with a stiff hand to make a point, caught her attention.
A moment later the door opened and two men dressed in leather coats and visor caps sauntered in. When the student looked up and saw them coming, he lowered his eyes and hunched down in his seat. He picked up his cup, murmured something to his companion, and took a sip. His companion stiffened too but didn’t turn around. They sat there quietly, pretending to drink their tea, as the men passed them without a glance.
Berta watched the reflection of the men in the window as they strolled to the long banquet table in the back where platters of zak uski were set out on display. As she watched them move up the table, picking up an olive or a pickle, she was aware that the student was also following their progress in the glass. He got up, threw down some money, and grabbed his satchel and books. His companion got up as well and followed him to the door, where they took their coats off the rack and left without bothering to put them on.
Outside, before they had a chance to walk on, another man in a peacoat came up behind them and grabbed the student’s arm. They were standing right outside the restaurant, directly in front of Berta’s window. The student tried to pull away; he was arguing with the man but getting nowhere. The other two men came out of the restaurant and joined them. One of them put a pickle in his mouth to free up his hand as he reached for the student’s other arm, which he held in a tight grip, high up, directly below his shoulder. It was then that the man in the leather jacket turned in Berta’s direction and she saw his face for the first time. With a shock of surprise she recognized the artel worker from the tram.
The entire altercation lasted less than a minute. Several ladies turned around in their seats to see what was going on outside. A waiter stopped by Berta’s table because it had the best view in the house. As the men led the student off, he dropped his satchel and books on the sidewalk and tried to go back for them but was pulled away. The worker was left standing there in front of the window, watching them go. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. His features were bland and expressionless. He stood there for a moment longer and then stooped to pick up the satchel and books. After that, he walked off in the other direction. The patrons in the restaurant soon returned to their conversation. It was a testament to the frequency of this sort of thing that in a few minutes no one was talking about it.
“Come, we’re leaving,” Berta said, gathering up her gloves.
The children looked over at her in surprise. “But we’re not finished yet,” Samuil said.
“It doesn’t matter. We have to leave.” Berta reached into her bag, pulled out several rubles, and put them down under her plate.
“I haven’t had my tart yet,” Sura complained.
“You’ll have one at home. Come along. We have to go… now.” She stood, took Sura’s hand, and pulled her up. Samuil started to gather up his cards. “I don’t see what all this fuss is about.” He sounded like Hershel and for a moment Berta felt a pang of longing.
“Leave them,” Berta said holding the door open for him.
“What? My magic tricks?” He dove for the cards and shoved them into the bag. “I can’t just leave them.” He grabbed the stray ones and the instruction sheet and rushed for the door.