“Have you ever played it, Mama?” he asks.
I’m about to say yes, many times, when I pause. I see August there, watching with curiosity. I’ve never told him about my mother’s heritage. That was no oversight, I am shamed to say. August’s family had enough reasons to object to me. My family was not nearly on his level. Worse, I was “in business.” Orphaned, too, as if I’d done something to cause that. Twenty-four and unmarried and lacking even a dowry. Whatever was August thinking?
Now that I truly understand how horrible his father and brothers had been, I wish I had tossed my heritage onto the pile of my “undesirable” traits and let them deal with it. At the time, though, while my pride would have forced me to deny it, I had still held hope they would accept me. That someday, they would declare I was indeed good enough for August. And so, burdened with all the “objectionable” qualities I could not hide, I hid the ones I could, including my Jewish heritage.
That meant that I never told August my mother had been Jewish. It seems an unfathomable oversight, yet I was no more likely to go to a synagogue on Saturday than a church on Sunday. So why bring it up? Again, because it was more than religion. It was my heritage, and I denied it, and that shames me.
“My mother was Jewish,” I say.
Dare I admit that I brace a little for August’s reaction? Just because a loved one has never shown any sign of prejudice does not mean they don’t possess any. I cannot imagine that of August, but I also cannot imagine what ugly biases his father wedged into his young brain.
August only smiles. “Well, then, you are a quarter Jewish yourself, Edmund.”
Edmund considers, his expression thoughtful. Then he says, “What does that mean?”
August scoops him up. “Perhaps your mother will explain more once we are in the barn warming our fingers and toes. I have Jewish business associates, but I fear I do not understand the faith as well as I ought. Now, let’s get into the barn and get the fire going. I may have pilfered some twenty-first-century sweets from Thorne Manor and tucked them into my pockets. I have no idea what they are, but I propose we find out.”
A fire roars in the tiny woodstove. August and Edmund have arranged hay bales around it. As we eat the sweets—wrapped candies and chocolates—I answer what questions of Edmund’s I can about Hanukkah. Whatever I cannot answer, I promise we will research together. Then Edmund is gone, warmed up and poking about the barn. August and I share a hay bale, his arm around me.
“It’s Happy Hanukkah, then?” August says. “Like Merry Christmas.”
“Yes, but in the twenty-first century, unless you know for certain that someone celebrates Christmas, people say Happy Holidays. There are other religious celebrations at this time of year, and even if one does not celebrate any, they understand the sentiment.”
“I confess, I’ve never considered whether anyone in my acquaintance might not celebrate Christmas. I’ve probably even wished my Jewish associates a merry one, which is rather embarrassing.”
“I’m sure they understood.”
“I hope so. I shall now acknowledge the proper holiday.” His arm tightens around me. “There are wonders here, in this world, and I have only begun to scratch the surface. My life is in our time, and I would not wish to leave it, but I find this all very fascinating. Fascinating and overwhelming.”
“It is indeed.”
“I don’t know how I’d manage it without you as my guide.”
I smile and lay my head on his shoulder. “You’d figure it out.”
“As you did. I cannot imagine it, Rosie. To come through the stitch into this world, incomprehensible to us in so many ways. You had no one to guide you. You navigated this world and not only survived but made a place for yourself. Started a business, rented a flat, learned to drive a car. All on your own, without even being able to admit where you came from, to explain the defects in your understanding. You did all that.”
“I had to.”
“That doesn’t make it any less incredible.”
My cheeks heat, and I’m glad he can’t see me blushing.
“Here is what I did not understand,” August says, his voice even lower. “I knew you had been separated from your family—from me and Edmund and Portia and Miranda. I could imagine how difficult that was. But you were separated from everything you’ve ever known. Cast into this world to fend for yourself.”
I squirm.
He sighs. “You don’t want to talk about what you suffered. It’s done, and you wish to move onward. But . . .” He pulls me tighter against him. “When you were giving me that endless lesson on operating a car, you said I needed to check in the rear-facing mirror every now and then, so I know what’s behind in case it catches up and overtakes me. We do not need to talk about what you went through if you would rather not, but I still need to think about it, to understand it, and that means I will occasionally mention it. When you pull back or make a joke or change the subject, it doesn’t tell me you’ve healed. It says that I’m poking a sore spot, and I don’t mean to, but you must understand that it hasn’t healed and care for it, even as you’re moving onward.”
When I don’t answer, he kisses the top of my head. “You went through an incredibly difficult and, yes, traumatic situation that lasted for years. As strong as you are, you cannot expect to escape from that unscathed. Whether you’re willing to accept that or not, understand that I have accepted it. I’m just not certain what to do with it.”
I’m quiet for a moment, and then I whisper, “Be patient with me.”
His arm tightens around my shoulders. “I will be as patient as you need me to be, Rosie. You have shown me more patience than I ever deserved, with my jealousy and my suspicion. I only ask that you allow me to acknowledge what you’ve been through and do not throw up your armor each time I allude to it.”
I nod against his shoulder, and we sit quietly until Edmund lets out a little shriek. Then we both jump, nearly tumbling off the hay bale.
“Mama!” He holds up a box in his hand. “I found a game of drey-dals.”
I rise and walk to where he stands in front of a wall of storage shelving. It’s filled with all the things modern parents tuck away but cannot bring themselves to discard. Boxes labeled as children’s clothing and toys and also a stack of games. In the last, Edmund found a set of handmade dreidels.
“You know how to play, yes?” he says, holding up the wooden box.
I smile. “I believe I remember. Let’s find out.”
We play dreidel by the woodstove as the wind howls and snow beats against the windowpanes. It’s far from the holiday evening I imagined when I woke this morning, but it is a memory we will cherish after we have forgotten any other.
I shudder to imagine how late it must be when we finally fall asleep in the hay. Edmund goes first, and I think perhaps August and I will stay awake, unable to sleep in such a place. But I snuggle down with him to talk and before I know it, I am in dreamland.
I haven’t been sleeping long when I wake. I feel straw beneath my fingers, and I’m thrown back to those early weeks in the twenty-first century, nights spent wherever I could find shelter.