The Thief of Hearts Page 5

  “Same apartment for fifty years.”

  “Were you born in Israel?” she asked.

  Ravi cut a gaze her way, raising an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

  “Your accent,” she said. “And Yaphet greeted me in Hebrew when I…”

  “That’s right.” With a tug, Ravi pulled her toward a building. A gaggle of teenagers, three wide, headed their way. “My other brother, Pascal—” He must have remembered how Pascal had greeted her in English. “He’s overly cautious,” Ravi explained. “Forgets sometimes he’s not in Israel.”

  Oh. Pascal worried he would be vulnerable if he identified himself as Jewish in an unfamiliar setting.

  At the same time, Pascal seemed wary of her. Something about her bugged him.

  “Where are your brothers tonight?” she asked. “Your grandmother doesn’t mind them missing dinner?”

  “No,” Ravi answered. “Our grandmother understood we had some obligations we had to keep.” He paused. “This is it.”

  Shira hadn’t really been paying attention to the neighborhood, but now she laughed. “Of course!”

  “What?” Ravi smiled, confused.

  “This is my grandparents’ neighborhood as well.” She pointed down the street. “They live two blocks that way.”

  “Uh oh.” Ravi laughed. “So, by tomorrow they’ll be calling to ask why you were in the neighborhood, but didn’t come for dinner.”

  “Yup.” She smiled up at him. Some people didn’t realize that neighborhoods in the city could be a lot like a small town.

  There were people here who’d known her her entire life. Across the street was the baker who made her favorite sufganiyot, a special donuty-type of pastry made only at Hanukkah.

  She was going to get so much guilt later.

  Ravi pressed the buzzer on the side of the building.

  “Hello?” a staticky voice asked.

  “Grandma. It’s Ravi.”

  The door buzzed and he pushed it open. Their shoes clicked against the tiled floor as they walked to the elevator. Nervous, Shira ran her fingers through her hair. At the back of her head, she found the pencil she’d used to keep her hair half-up and out of her face when she pored over her files.

  Furtively, she stuffed it in her pocket, but happened to glance up.“I thought it was cute,” Ravi whispered, eyeing her pocket.

  The elevator doors opened revealing an elderly woman. “I thought I saw a girl on the camera. Who is this beautiful woman, Ravi?”

  This had to be his grandmother. She was probably in her eighties, but she held herself like a much younger woman. Her back was straight, and her short, white hair bobbed around a proud chin.

  Green-eyed, she was clearly the source of Dov and Ravi’s beautiful eyes.

  “Hello.” Shira held out her hand, but the woman brushed her arms aside and wrapped her in a hug.

  “Welcome!” Pulling back, she reached up and patted Shira’s cheeks. “You seem so familiar. Have we met before?”

  “This is Shira Rose,” Ravi said. “Shira, this is my grandmother, Sarah Hasmone.”

  “Rose…” his grandmother repeated. “Are you Abigail Levin’s granddaughter? Her daughter married a Rose, and you’re the image of that girl.”

  Oh, boy. Shira could just imagine the conversation she had coming.

  “Yes,” she answered. Defeated, she nodded. “Yes, that’s my grandmother.”

  “Oh, lovely, lovely.”

  The door to a nearby apartment was open, and the rich smell of food wafted through the hall. A wave of homesickness hit her as they walked through the door.

  Shira recognized all the scents. They were as familiar to her as her own face. Matzah ball soup. Latkes. Homemade apple sauce. Roast chicken.

  Grandma was right to guilt her. She should have been spending Hanukkah with her family. One day, she would wish for just one last holiday with her grandparents.

  “Smells amazing, Gram,” Ravi said, pulling her from her guilt-induced reverie.“Let me take your coat,” he then whispered to Shira. He slid it off her, placed it in the closet and touched her lower back, sending a shiver of awareness through her body.

  The table was set. Near the window sat the menorah, candles standing unlit in the holders.

  “Dinner is ready,” his grandmother informed them, gesturing toward the table. “I was just waiting for you to say the prayer and light the candles.”

  Ravi held a chair out for her, but Shira didn’t sit. He took a place next to her as his grandmother stood at the head of the table and began to recite the blessing while lighting the candles on the menorah. Four were lit, as well as the shamash, which she placed carefully in the center of the menorah.

  Ravi continued to stand, waiting for his grandmother to sit before he did. Each moment with him, even these quiet ones where he considerately waited for his grandmother, struck Shira. Every action he took seemed a deeper insight into who Ravi was.

  Close to his grandmother sat the steaming pot of matzah ball soup, along with a stack of bowls. Once Shira was seated, his grandmother immediately began to ladle the thick liquid into the bowls. “So Shira, what do you do?”

  After accepting the bowl, Shira settled it in front of her. “I’m an art curator at Lohse and Gottleib House nearby.”

  “How interesting!” His grandmother handed Ravi a bowl. “Do you enjoy the work?”

  “Usually,” Shira answered. She lifted a spoonful to her lips. It tasted so much like her grandmother’s soup, she had to swallow hard past the lump in her throat. “This is wonderful, Mrs. Hasmone.”

  “Please, call me Sarah.”

  “It’s wonderful, Sarah.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She smiled and sipped the soup delicately. “You know, my husband’s family were artists. Before the war, my husband’s father was quite prolific. He even had a collection of artwork by friends of his. They often exchanged pieces for things like paints and canvases when money got tight.”

  Shira nodded. “That was quite common,” she answered. “I believe Monet would often give his paintings to his doctor in exchange for medical care.”

  The woman nodded sagely. “I believe Ravi’s grandfather did something like that as well. At least before the paintings were banned.”

  Shira looked between Ravi and Sarah. “Your family is from Germany? That’s incredible. The auction I’m curating right now includes pieces from the Entartete Kunst. It’s…”

  “I know what Entartete Kunst is, dear. Degenerate art. An exhibit of the Nazis meant to revolt the German people.” Sarah shook her head. “It was a very sad time for my husband’s father. Of course, not as sad as it would be a year later when they were sent to Theresienstadt. My husband was already here, in New York, attending medical school.”

  The soup sat heavy in her stomach now. She imagined Ravi’s grandfather, all alone in the United States, not knowing the horror his family was about to face.

  “I’m sorry.” Sarah patted her hand. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

  The irony of Sarah comforting her wasn’t lost. Shira shook her head. “No. It’s this exhibit. So many things about it are interesting, but so many other things are just so incredibly sad. What happened to the artwork Ravi’s grandfather had?”

  “It was stolen,” Ravi answered. Gently, he placed his spoon next to his soup. “All of it was lost. Confiscated by the Germans.”

  “It’s never turned up?” she asked.

  Sarah shook her head sadly, but Ravi stood. “Grandma? Do you need me to get the latkes?”

  “Thank you, Ravi.”

  Nodding shortly, he went into the kitchen, banging around a little.

  “It’s upsetting for my boys,” Sarah whispered. “But those were only things. My husband found his sister after the war, and for him, that was more important than anything else. Most families weren’t so lucky.”

  Shira nodded, glancing toward the kitchen where Ravi was still banging.

  “Ravi!” Sarah called.

>   “Coming!” He returned, a plate of latkes in hand. His face was red, as if he’d been standing in front of boiling oil or the oven.

  “You okay?” Shira asked.

  “Yes,” he answered shortly, holding a hand out for her plate.

  She handed it over, all the while watching. As he passed it back to her, he glanced down at his watch, and then back up at her. “Is it late?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Ravi!” His grandmother frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

  So she’d caught it, too. There was an edge to Ravi’s voice, reflecting impatience, but for the life of her, she couldn’t understand what it was she’d done that upset Ravi so much. Was it the discussion of the artwork? She really hadn’t meant to bring up something painful.

  “I’m sorry, Ravi, if I upset you.” The smell of latkes suddenly turned her stomach. She lowered her voice, leaning over to whisper. “Do you want me to go?”

  “No, Shira.” He sighed, and again glanced at his watch. “No. Really. You didn’t upset me. I’m just feeling anxious.”

  “Well, relax,” Sarah huffed. “You’re finally here. I get you once a year, Ravi. Chill out.”

  Shira snorted, and finally, Ravi smiled. “There’s the dimple,” she said, and slapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Noticed my grandson’s dimples?” Sarah laughed. “You should see the other three.”

  “I have.” As soon as the words left her lips, she wished she could reel them back. While what she had said was innocent enough, the way it sounded was similar to, “I have, and damn, they are hot!” Not the sentiment she wished to impart to their grandmother.

  But Sarah only laughed louder. “You should have seen their grandfather. The good looks come from him. Blue eyes, cheekbones, and a tush you could bite.”

  “Grandma!” Ravi propped his elbow on the table and covered his eyes, but his shoulders shook. He peered through his fingers. “You’re too much.”

  “Leave me with my memories, boy. You know I don’t have much longer on this Earth. But I tell you, when I get wherever I’m going, I better not be an old lady. If I meet your Gramps and he looks the way he did when he died, and I look the way I’m going to look when I die? Let’s just say, someone’s going to get an earful.” With a wink, Sarah speared a piece of latke. “These latkes may be my best yet. Try them, Shira.”

  The laughter had done the trick. Her stomach uncramped. She could take a bite of the food and not feel like her body would reject it. “This is amazing.”

  “Thank you.”

  The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Sarah asked Shira more about her work as a curator, but the darkness never returned to Ravi’s eyes. He seemed comfortable, posture slouched until his grandmother reminded him to sit up straight. By the time dinner was over, it was nearing nine and Shira’s tights felt as if they were going to roll down her now-full belly.

  Ravi got her coat and held it out to her. “Ready?” he asked.

  She shrugged into it and faced his grandmother. “Thank you so much for having me.”

  Sarah opened her arms and enfolded her in a hug. “My pleasure. I hope to see you again soon.”

  “That would be wonderful. If you ever want to come by the gallery, I would love to show you around.” But Sarah would have to come soon, because it was likely Shira wouldn’t be there much longer. After the complete lack of progress on the provenances, there was no way Lohse and Gottleib would keep her around.

  “Sounds wonderful,” Sarah answered. She turned to Ravi and hugged him tight. “Oh, my boy. Tell your brothers to take care of themselves.” She went on to whisper something too low for Shira to make out before she opened the door.

  “Goodnight, Grandma. Happy Hanukkah.”

  “Happy Hanukkah.” The door closed behind them with a snick.

  “Your grandma is wonderful,” Shira said as they walked to the elevator.

  “She is,” Ravi said. “She's everything.”

  Thanks to the wind, it was even colder outside than it had been when they’d gone into the apartment building. One of the things she never got used to was how frigid the city could be. The night sky was purple, and for a moment she wished she could see the stars.

  “Do you like the city?” Shira asked, imagining the place Ravi had come from. “Where you are from, can you see the stars?”

  Ravi glanced up, his smooth, brown throat stretched toward the sky. He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “I love my grandmother, and when I was younger, coming to the city to visit was the highlight of my year. I loved the changing seasons, and the weather. Where I’m from, the weather never really changes.”

  He gestured toward the sidewalk with his elbow, a sign for her to follow, and started to walk. They continued on in silence, the only sound the wind, and their boots.

  Shira had so many questions for him.

  Her entire life had been spent in the city. She grew up in Brooklyn, which was a big deal to her mother and father. Most of their contemporaries never left this neighborhood. But her father, an academic librarian, got a job at Brooklyn College, so off they went.

  Shira had always counted herself lucky.

  Living in a city was a mix of all the world’s cultures, but now, she felt like it would have been nice to experience those places first hand.

  “Do you mind stopping by Dov’s apartment?” Ravi asked. “Before I bring you back, I mean.”

  “Um.” She still had so much work to do. After sliding her hand out of her pocket, she shook her wrist to dislodge her watch. It was past nine. “I don’t know. I really need to get back.”

  “It won’t take long,” Ravi said. He smiled engagingly, but it seemed off to her. Forced somehow.

  And there was no dimple.

  It was like he was playing at mellow, and actually was wound tighter than a drum.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “You’re asking me that a lot tonight,” he answered. He was taller than she was and dipped his head to better meet her eyes.

  “You seem anxious.” Shira thought about him at the gallery, his grandmother’s, and now. The man was definitely on edge.

  “I’m sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m not, really. I’m distracted and edgy. It’s not you. It’s just…”

  “I’ll come with you” she answered, cutting into his explanation. She wanted to know more about him. This little glimpse he gave drew her in.

  “You will?” He dragged his hands from his hair along the scruff on his jawline. She was tempted to feel his face, the scratch against her fingers. To stop herself, she curled them into fists and stuffed them in her pocket.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Lead the way.”

  He started off, and she struggled to keep up. His legs were so much longer than hers, she had to double-time her pace. “So Dov lives here year round.” She was embarrassed by how out-of-breath she was.

  “Yes. He visits our parents in Israel, but he stays here.”

  “And Pascal and Yaphet?”

  “They have obligations in Israel as well.” The way he said the word obligations made her wonder. “They have families?” Shira watched her feet as she walked, but she hung on his answer. What did it matter if Yaphet, Pascal, or even Dov, had families? She’d only just met them. The most she knew about them was their nationality.

  “No,” Ravi answered, and she let out her breath. He must have heard her because he chuckled.

  “My brothers are too busy to have families,” he answered. Why had he left himself off that list?

  “And you?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

  “No, Shira,” Ravi said. “I’m not married or have a family. I never would have asked you on a date if I was.”

  “Is that what this is?” She wondered, but he was so hot and cold. There were moments when their eyes met and she felt something spark between them, but others when he merely seemed to be passing the time. Like now,
for example, when he was checking his watch for the thousandth time.

  “Yes. It’s not obvious?” He stopped. “This is Dov’s apartment.” He indicated a townhouse undergoing the process of renovation. Scaffolding was erected around the stairs leading to the door and to the second floor. “We stay with him when we’re here.”

  Shira trailed behind him, waiting for him to unlock the door. Inside, stairs led to another floor where she could make out two heavy wooden doors. “How many apartments?” she asked.

  “Two up and two down. Dov’s is the biggest. Two bedrooms.”

  Shira studied the interior as they walked upstairs. Tiny two-inch tiles lined the floors, but the stairs were some sort of stone, heavy and dark, and veined with white. Next to Dov’s door was a mezuzah, done in teal blues. She examined it closely. What she thought was paint was actually the way the metal had aged. “This is beautiful,” she whispered.

  “It was our grandmother’s,” Ravi replied. “She gave it to Dov when he moved here to care for her.”

  Care for Sarah? The woman seemed healthy. She’d even met them in the hall when they’d exited the elevator.

  “I hope she’s all right,” she said. Ravi shrugged again, and pushed open the door.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, flicking on lights as he went into the kitchen.

  “No.” Shira spun in slow circles, admiring Dov’s home.

  It was beautiful. Details original to the building, such as window casings and columns, shone with fresh paint. She breathed in. The smell still lingered as if the paint had barely dried. “He must not have been living here very long,” she noted. On the mantel were a series of photographs, some old and sepia-toned, while others were new. One showed all four of the brothers. They squinted in the bright sunlight where they stood against the backdrop of a clear blue sky and full green trees.

  Edging closer, Shira peered at it.

  “Here.” Ravi stuck a glass of wine under her nose. She accepted it even though she hadn’t asked for it, and sipped delicately. The wine was sweet. It must have been meant to be paired with a dessert.