Berta said nothing and followed the woman down a little hallway to an office where Shaposnikova met her tradesmen. There they found a fire in the fireplace, dirty tea things on the desk, and a samovar bubbling in the corner. “Look at this,” the maid grumbled as she gathered up the plates and piled them onto a tray. “Never gets any better. Always up to me. She hires the young ones from the countryside because they’re cheap and then I have to do all the work.”
Berta saw that there were little tea sandwiches left on the silver tray and an unmolested lemon tartlet. The maid picked up the tray and turned to the door. “I’ll tell her you’re here, but she won’t want to see you.”
“Tell her I brought the candlesticks.”
“Won’t make a bit of difference. She’s got her nephew in there. She won’t want to be disturbed.”
“Just tell her about the candlesticks.”
“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently, shifting the weight of the tray to her left hand so she could reach for the door handle. As she did a smoked salmon sandwich slid off the tray and fell to floor. A moment later the lemon tartlet suffered the same fate. Berta looked at them lying on the floor, the meringue flecked with dust but the filling still good and looking firm and sweet in its flaky crust.
The maid said, “Are you going to stand there? Go on, pick it up. Put it on the tray. I haven’t got all day.”
Berta bent to pick it up and tossed it on the tray. It landed in a cup of cold tea. Then she retrieved the sandwich and did the same. After the maid left the room, Berta could hear the purposeful clip of her retreating footsteps and pictured the lemon tart, soggy with cold tea, sinking to the bottom of the cup.
A few minutes later she heard Elizaveta Shaposnikova’s uneven gait coming down the same hall, the rhythm of her heel on the stone floor punctuated by the dull thud of her cane. The old lady appeared at the door, muttering a greeting as she limped over to the desk to examine the candlesticks.
“This is it? Where are all the others?”
“These were the best I could find, Elizaveta Shaposnikova. They’re Naidenov’s from Petersburg.” The Baranov brothers had given her a good deal on them, because she had threatened to go elsewhere if they didn’t. She had no intention of passing on the savings to Shaposnikova. She picked up the best one and laid it into Shaposnikova’s twisted hand. She was careful not to stare at the old lady’s fingers. They were bent away from the thumb, like the trailing fins of tropical fish. The knuckles and joints were twisted into knots of hard bone. “Here, look at this detail. Isn’t it beautiful? So delicate. All the best families buy their silver from Naidenov.”
Shaposnikova cradled the candlestick between her forearm and claw and stared at the intricate beading and engraving. Then she looked at the others. After a few moments she looked up at Berta. “Go down the hall and fetch my nephew. He’ll know which one to choose.”
Berta nodded and left the room to do as she was told, but she didn’t know the house and didn’t know where to find the parlor. The first door she opened led to the sitting room with a soaring cage of parakeets standing in a corner. Then she found the music room and finally the main parlor. There she saw a young man standing by the French doors watching the snow blanket the little park outside; his back was to her, pale hair curled over his collar, his delicate fingers hung by his side. When he turned she saw it was Yuvelir.
“Berta, what are you doing here?”
Berta forced a smile despite her thumping heart. “I think I’m looking for you. I’ve been sent to find Elizaveta Shaposnikova’s nephew.”
“She sent you?”
“She wants you to look at the candlesticks.”
“What for?”
“She can’t decide and she thinks you have good taste.”
“Of course I have good taste. I have the best. But what are you doing here?”
“I brought them.”
“Why?”
Berta’s face went blank and then she forced a smile. “A charity, why else?”
Yuvelir followed her down to the office. “Don’t you women ever get tired of charities? What would you do if there were no war widows and orphans?”
She laughed and it sounded false to her. “We’d invent them, of course.”
When they got back to the little office they found Elizaveta Shaposnikova still cradling the candlestick. “I think I want this one. What do you think, Misha?”
“I don’t know.” He looked them all over. “I guess I like it.”
“Guess? Misha, I want your opinion.”
“Yes, all right. Get that one.”
The old woman studied it a moment longer. “You’re right, I do like this one. Yes, all right,” she said to Berta, “bring me six of these. And I’ll need them by Saturday. Bring them in the afternoon. Don’t be too late. I’ll need them for dinner.”
“Are we done now? May I have my drink?” asked Yuvelir with exaggerated patience.
“Yes, of course.”
He held the door open for her. “Berta? Won’t you join us?”
Berta’s face flamed and she tried to protest, but Elizaveta Shaposnikova cut her off. “What are you doing?” she asked her nephew in surprise.
“I’m inviting Madame Alshonsky to stay for a hot drink.”
“I can’t stay, really,” Berta said, hurrying to wrap up the candlesticks.
“Misha, have you gone completely out of your mind?”
“What’s wrong, Tante?”
Berta said, “That’s it then. I’ll be going.”
“You’re inviting the house Jew for a drink?”
She wanted to run out the door but forced herself to stay, standing there motionless, the mortification pulsating like a bright, white star.
“She’s the house Jew, Misha. Who did you think she was? She came here to sell candlesticks.” Shaposnikova shook her head and limped to the door. “Not a brain in his head,” she muttered. “Hopeless. If he weren’t my sister’s child…”
Once she had gone Berta stole a glance at Yuvelir. He was gazing at the bubbling samovar. “I thought you said it was for charity.”
“Yes, well, I lied, didn’t I?”
“Misha!” his aunt called from down the hall. “Are you coming?”
“Yes, Tante,” he called back. He glanced at her briefly and then headed for the door. “Well, good luck to you,” he said vaguely. Then without waiting for a response he strode out the door and disappeared down the hall.
After he left she held on to the edge of the desk and waited until her heart stopped racing. Then she straightened and picked up the bags. At the back door she stood on the threshold watching the snow flurries in the shaft of light. Beyond the light there was nothing but blackness and the piercing cold. It was as if the universe ended at the bottom of the steps. Finally she took a deep breath and stepped into the arctic night.
Chapter Fifteen
March 1918
IT WAS COLD in the apartment. In the morning, the dregs in the bottom of the glasses were frozen, the laundry hanging in the front room was brittle, and there was ice on the inside of the windows. When it was cold like this Zev’s leg ached. Pain shot up his thigh, spreading out in exquisite strands of fire, a nagging reminder that he wasn’t whole, that he had limitations, that he was a cripple—a fact he tried to deny every day of his life. When he stood on his crutch that morning he winced and adjusted the brace so that it wouldn’t dig into his groin.
“You all right?” Lhaye asked. She watched him adjust the strap and then pull on his coat and hat.
“I’m going out. I’ll be back for lunch.”
He never complained. To his friends and coworkers he was a bull, strong, with thick arms and a square neck, a wrecking ball of a man, impervious to pain and determined not to let his infirmity get in the way. But with Lhaye he was different. He was comfortable enough with her to be himself. He trusted her to accept his infirmity and not to try to do too much for him, not make a weakling out of him, which was how he felt on mornings like this.