She managed to get upstairs without being seen and opened the door to her room. Her room. Weird: It felt like hers, this small space, with its uncomfortable mattress and graying walls. Much more than the bedroom at home, with its floral-patterned pastel wallpaper and neatly made twin bed adorned with a frilly pink bedspread, which Mother was now planning to redesign.

Maybe?

Should I?

No! Freedom was beckoning, waving a tantalizing, outstretched hand that pointed to San Francisco. Whispering of flower children, of nights of poetry readings and folk music and espresso, of walking barefoot and living with unlocked doors. Of following that lucky star of hers, wherever its twinkling light led.

S

he’d brought two bags with her. A small one, for the few things she needed: her bongos, of course, some personal items, a pair of fuzzy slippers. There was also a pink blouse that Mrs. S. had bought for her when they’d gone shopping for modest clothing; she would take that with her. And even, after a moment’s hesitation, the siddur that Rabbi Freed had given her, using it to teach her the alef-beis. She doubted it would be used, but it reminded her of good times…. Most of the clothing went into a different bag. Maybe the pawnshop would be interested; if not, there was a thrift store that would welcome them.

There. She was done. She slowly sat down on the bed and pulled out the postcard once again. Her eyes jumped: grayish wall to postcard, postcard to grayish wall.

Reality to dream.

A knock at the door interrupted her reverie. Marjorie jumped up and rapidly stuffed the postcard under her mattress, right before Perele Schwartz peeked in.

“Marjorie, darling, I’m so glad you’re here. We’ve been missing you since you became a college graduate.”

Her eyes fell on the open door of the closet, now empty. “But, Marjorie, what’s this? You’re not leaving us?”

Uh-oh. Think of something, Marge.

Much as she would have liked, Marjorie knew she couldn’t share her plans. Mrs. Schwartz was sure to try and persuade her to stay. Worse, she would probably call her parents.

“Um… hi, Mrs. S. Yeah, I guess I am, leaving.” She gave a very un-Marjorie-like laugh, a forced and sweet little tinkle. “I’m, um, going to look for a job,” she continued, her voice growing more confident. She was lying, but there was no choice. “That’s right, a real job, now that I’m a real college grad. I was going to come and tell you, after I packed.”

“Of course, darling, you won’t stay here and work in a kitchen, when you have so much promise ahead of you.” She put her hands on Marjorie’s shoulders. “But you’ll have to come and visit us, and sometimes stay for Shabbos, even while you’re living at home. We’re not going to let you go so easily.” The arms tightened around her, transforming into a warm embrace. “We’re going to miss you, Marjorie. You’ve become one of the family.”

Marjorie felt the hotel’s dark walls closing in on her; if she cried, it seemed to her that the tears would melt her dreams into a formless puddle on the floor. She muttered a few words, grabbed the bags, and fled, leaving Perele gazing after her, puzzled, shocked, and a little bit hurt.

IN

the kitchen once again, Perele began preparing onions for that night’s soup, hardly noticing that she’d chopped the onions so fine that they’d become a useless pile of white pulp.

Artie sauntered in, holding a wrench and whistling a cheerful tune.

“Hi, Mrs. Schwartz. I didn’t have time for breakfast, fixing broken faucets. Got anything left for me?”

“I’ll scramble you some eggs.”  She pulled out a small pan and cut in a pat of butter. “So, did you say goodbye?”

“Goodbye? To who?”

“Miss Burton. She’s leaving.”

“What?!”

“Yes, she’s moving out. She’s going to look for a job. Didn’t she tell you?”

“When did she leave?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

Perele turned back to the stovetop and poured the eggs onto the sizzling butter. When she turned around, Artie was gone.

M

arjorie threw the bags into the trunk and jumped into the Mustang. There’d be no more goodbyes, not to anyone else. Too many lies, too much emotion: It was just too hard.

She shifted into neutral, put her foot on the clutch, turned the key in the ignition, and… stopped.

There was Artie, racing toward her, his hand, still holding the wrench, waving wildly. He banged on the window with his other hand, and she rolled it down slowly.

“Hey, what’s going on? Mrs. Schwartz said you’re leaving. Without saying goodbye? Where are you going?”

Keep it light, Marge. “That’s for me to know….”

Not good enough. There was no answering smile. “C’mon, Miss Burton. You can’t just disappear. It will—” A pause. “It will really upset my grandfather and my uncle. It’s just not right.”

She surrendered, turned off the car, and climbed out. “I’m kind’ve in a rush.”

“So much of a rush that you don’t have a few minutes for a friend?”

He was right; he’d been a friend. And Mutty, and Ruchele, and all of them.

“Okay, let’s head to the Boardwalk. But Artie,” she said, looking at him squarely with those green-blue eyes of hers, “no questions, okay? I’ve got my plans, and they are no one’s business but mine.”

He paused. “Fair enough.”

They walked together in silence, until they passed the carousel. “So you’re jumping off the merry-go-round?” Artie asked, giving a short laugh.

“Maybe. And maybe I’ll be taking a roller coaster ride instead. But remember: No questions.”

T

he Levine house was quiet. After once again reassuring her, “No, sweetheart, we’re not moving anywhere, it was a crazy idea,” Abe had gone off to his practice. Now was the time Annie usually planned the day’s menu, did her shopping, sometimes calling a friend, or simply dreaming about the child she was expecting. But today she just sat at the table, lost in thought, her eyes casting occasional looks at The Jewish Press obituary page.

A knock at the door broke into her reverie. She jumped up to answer.

“Moe, what in the world are you doing here?”

“And a hearty welcome to you, too.” He laughed. “Are you going to let me in, or am I going to stand and chat in the doorway?”

She grinned at her brother and led him into the kitchen. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“We’re having a problem with the butcher here in Boro Park. Prices keep going up, and I’d rather negotiate in person. So I figured I’d pop in on the sister I never get to talk to.”

It was true, Annie thought, with a sharp pang of guilt. So much had happened since Moe had arrived from England: her first difficult weeks of pregnancy, her concerns about Artie and Marjorie, Mutty’s shattering decision to enlist. She simply hadn’t found the time or mood for a good sister-brother schmooze. Even when she was in the hotel, Moe was almost always busy fixing something-or-the-other that had broken.

Baruch Hashem, you’re never lonely. You have a husband, kids, a home. Who does Moey have when he wants to talk to someone? Is he even happy now that he’s back home?

“So how’s hotel life treating you?” she asked, placing a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.

“Surviving.”

“Just surviving?”

A deep sigh. “Sis, it ain’t easy. We’ve got fewer and fewer boarders who can pay their rent. You know Papa. If someone is living on minimum Social Security payments, he lets them stay for free.”

“As he should.”

“Yeah, but how do you go about paying the bills if there’s so little money coming in? Municipal taxes are killers, and there’s water, electricity, food costs. And the place really needs serious repairs. Annie,” he said, his forehead creased with worry, “I haven’t told anyone, but I’m not sure how long we can keep the hotel afloat.”

Annie, who’d been cutting her brother a piece of cake, abruptly sat down.

“You mean, close the hotel?”

“We may not have a choice. If we can’t get the money to pay our taxes, dear old New York City will take it away from us.”

Take it away from us.

My home.

A flood of memories washed over her, like the undertow she’d so dreaded as a child playing in the ocean: A wave mercilessly pulling her into the past, threatening to drown her in homesickness. The boidem, where Moey would hide from Papa. The kitchen, where she’d learned about baking, cooking, and life from Mrs. Horn. She envisioned the parlor, Abe sitting nervously at the table when they first met. Annie had eaten her wedding seudah in the hotel dining room, and she could almost hear her two babies wailing, as the twin boys entered into Avraham Avinu’s covenant with Hashem.

Of course, there had been hard times in the hotel, too, the passing sorrows of childhood, the profound sadness of not having a mother to love and nurture her. But those challenges had molded her, had made her into the woman she was today.

The hotel is a part of me, part of my very essence. And now they will take it away from us?

Another thought, more bitter even than her memories:

And Papa will lose his life’s work. And Moe and Artie will have to find new jobs. And all those people, those survivors, those old and frail men and women, will have no place to go, no one to take care of them.

“Hey, Sis, come out of your trance and give me a piece of your babka.”

Resolutely, she stood up, banishing all thoughts of the past. It was the future that counted. The future of the many people who needed the Freed Hotel.

“Moey,” she declared, her voice strong and firm, “I won’t give up the hotel without a fight. We’re going to find a way.”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 874)