The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [65]
He pushed the diamond silently through the grille and she knew it was no good, he was not going to lend her the money. Sofia had been right after all. The jewels were worthless.
“Thank you, Mr. Abramski,” she said sadly, putting the diamond in her pocket. “I understand.”
Zev stared after her as she walked to the door; her thin shoulders drooped as if she bore the burdens of the world on her shoulders. She looked so pathetically young and alone: She reminded him of himself years ago, a boy all alone on the streets of New York with nowhere to go, no one to turn to….
“Wait!” he called, banging his clenched fist on the counter.
She swung around, her eyes filled with fear.
“I will lend you fifty dollars only,” he said. “Naturally, the diamond is worth much more, but I do not mean to cheat you. I will hold it until you can repay me, even though it may be a long time.”
Missie felt a quiver of relief in her stomach, but she knew she must tell him the truth. She said quickly, “I earn twelve dollars a week working in O’Hara’s Saloon. Out of that I have to pay the rent and keep my family. And with the threat of Prohibition, who knows how much longer even that job will last. I must tell you honestly, Mr. Abramski, that I may never be able to repay your fifty dollars.”
“Someday your fortunes will turn,” he said, opening the old wooden till and counting out the money briskly. He pushed the crumpled notes into the groove under the brass grille. “Fifty dollars. Let us call it a loan of trust.”
Missie stared at the small pile of money that meant so much to her.
“Go, bury your grandmother properly,” Zev said gently, “and shalom aleichem.”
“Shalom?” she asked, puzzled. “It means ‘peace be with you. ’”
Her tear-swollen violet eyes met his and Zev knew they were eyes for a man to drown in, a man in love. “Shalom aleichem,” she replied softly. Then, after hiding the money under her shawl, she turned away.
The bell tinkled noisily as she closed the door behind her and Zev stared at the glittering diamond lying on the scarred wooden counter. In all the years since he had watched his mother and father die, he had never allowed himself to feel emotion—no matter what he had gone through, no matter what terrible things he had seen, no matter how despairing the stories he had heard—but now tears stung in his eyes. His heart had finally been touched by an unknown girl.
Missie’s heart was breaking as she thought of the grand funeral that should have been Sofia’s by right: the bronze coffin with princes and noblemen to carry her to her final resting place alongside her husband and the Tsars of All the Russias in the great Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul. The air would have been heavy with the scent of incense and flowers and the deep, sonorous chanting of a male choir, and the Metropolitan of the Orthodox Church himself would have conducted her service. Her family and all her many friends would have gathered to pay tribute and to mourn her, and afterward a lavish but dignified reception would have been held in her honor at the beautiful palace on the Moika Canal. But instead, there was just Azaylee and herself and two indifferent men from the funeral parlor carrying Sofia’s cheap pine coffin down the four flights of narrow, malodorous stairs, cursing as it stuck at every bend.
Azaylee clutched her hand tightly. She was wearing a pink cotton dress and her long blond curls were brushed back and tied neatly with a black ribbon. She was pale but tearless and Missie felt glad there was no money to buy proper mourning because she knew Sofia would have hated to see her little granddaughter dressed all in black. Azaylee was carrying a posy of fresh flowers chosen from the pushcart that morning, and she bowed her head gravely to the watching women, who covered their heads with their shawls as Sofia’s coffin was loaded onto the shabby hearse.
Silence fell suddenly on Rivington Street; the pushcart peddlers stopped their shouting, the women their bargaining,