The lawyer gave a dry little cough, which brought Annie’s thoughts back to the present. “There will, of course, be several documents to sign, and we will need proof of your identity, but all in all it should be a relatively straightforward affair.”

“Can my husband take care of the paperwork?” she asked. Annie loathed bureaucracy and arcane legal requirements; Abe took care of everything, even paying the monthly bills and tending to their bank accounts.

“I’m afraid not,” the lawyer replied. “The will is quite clear and specific; you are her only legal heir.”

Annie shot a glance at Abe, who’d been sitting quietly. His face was a mask of indifference, almost apathy. Annie, married to her Abie for more than two decades, knew that something was going on behind that mask.

But what?

Whether it was his 1939 Pontiac, Abe’s beloved first automobile, or any of the cars he’d purchased since then, Abe Levine was a gentleman, opening the passenger door for his wife before entering the driver’s side. It was one of those thoughtful gestures that Annie appreciated and loved.

Today, though, as they left the attorney’s office and he quietly, almost somberly, turned his car keys into the lock of his newest acquisition, a shining ’64 Cadillac, Annie felt something different in the atmosphere. Something unsettled, almost hostile.

Seated in the Caddy’s luxurious passenger seat, she tried to shake off that uneasy feeling. Perhaps it was all her imagination: After all, wills mean death, and the death of a loved one certainly brings sadness in its wake.

Pulling away from the curb, Abe broke the silence. “I hope the automobile meets milady’s requirements,” he said in a forced British accent.

No, it’s not my imagination.

“Abe, what do you mean?” Annie replied slowly, picking each word with care. “Is something wrong?”

“No, just kidding.”

Abe now spoke in his usual relaxed, calm tones. His friends would not have noticed anything different about him. But Annie was his wife, and she knew better.

“It’s about the money, isn’t it? Aunt Cele’s money.”

Abe was silent as he expertly maneuvered his way through the traffic entering the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel.

Annie could almost hear the attorney’s dry tones echoing off the tunnel’s dirt-encrusted walls. “You will be quite a wealthy woman… her only legal heir….”

Money had never meant much to Annie. When she’d met her aunt the first few times, Annie had been rather dazzled by the atmosphere of wealth that seemed to surround her Aunt Cele, by a life that included travel and fashion and gourmet food. But she’d soon realized that with all her money, Aunt Cele was a lonely and often unhappy woman.

Annie’s husband, Abe, came from a wealthy family, and now he was a successful Boro Park pediatrician with a high income, so money was not an issue: If Abe wanted to play around with a luxury car or Annie decided it was time to put in new carpets or an air conditioner, there was plenty for everyone.

I have enough money. We have enough money. What do I need this for?

When Annie broke the strained silence, her voice was firm and resolute.

“Abe, I need a favor from you.”

“Yes?” His voice was cool.

“I’ll sign whatever papers Mr. Chatham needs. But once the inheritance comes through, I want you to take care of it.”

Again that cool, seemingly uninterested voice. “It’s your money, Annie. Not mine.”

“It’s not my money, Abe. It’s ours. Put it in the bank, or invest it, or buy some real estate. Abie, I want to spend my life taking care of you and the children. I don’t want to spend my time figuring out what to do with a bunch of money I haven’t earned.” Her voice strengthened with an inner conviction that was growing clearer as she spoke. “I’m not interested in this. Please, Abie….”

“You’re wrong, Annie. You earned that money by being the only person in the world who ever loved Cele Mayer. Don’t patronize me, and don’t try shucking off your millions on me.” He gave a humorless laugh. “And if my practice isn’t enough for us, I can always borrow a few bucks from you.”

“Abe Levine,” she said, in a voice that was not her own. “That was a cruel thing to say. Cruel, and stupid, and just not true.”

In the tunnel, horns honked and trucks rumbled, but the noise seemed to disappear in Abe Levine’s Cadillac, leaving a vacuum of shocked silence.

A minute passed. “I’m sorry, Abie, really, I didn’t mean it.”

A smile, this time genuine. “Yes, you did. And you were right. I was being stupid. But really, Annie, are you sure? Having lots of money can be fun.”

“Not my idea of fun, Abe, and the money is ours, not mine. You can do whatever you want with it.”

As they left the Battery Tunnel and drove into the wintry sunshine, the atmosphere in the car seemed to also grow lighter, brighter.

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll do you a favor and make us millionaires. Or maybe….” He lapsed into thoughtful silence.

Annie was too relieved to notice the sudden glint in his eye. Baruch Hashem, there was shalom bayis. Nothing was more important in her world than peace in the home.

Her feelings of contentment lasted for the rest of the ride.

And then they reached the hotel.

In the 1950s, with Holocaust survivors and refugees pouring into the Freed Hotel, there had been action, noise, almost nonstop talk among people who’d been silenced for far too many years. There had been Mr. Hershkowitz’s moans that broke into the boarders’ dreams, as he revisited his nightmares in four different death camps. Shouts of joy when Blimchu and Malchu, two second cousins — the only survivors of a Polish Jewish family that had numbered over 60 souls — had somehow been reunited. There were serious conversations among men starting their business lives over in tiny candy stores or butcher shops or the “shmatteh” trade. And, of course, there was the incomparable happiness when a man and a woman — many without much in common except for the numbers tattooed on their arms — showed the ultimate courage by rebuilding their shattered lives as chassan and kallah.

But now, more than a decade after the end of the Holocaust, the rooms had emptied out. Those tiny candy stores and butcher shops had, for many, become serious and prosperous businesses. Those heroic new couples were living in Boro Park, Williamsburg, and the Lower East Side, in homes big enough to raise their children — their “nekamah,” their revenge upon the bloodthirsty Nazis who’d tried to destroy them and their people.

And the Freed Hotel had grown more and more silent, with only a handful of survivors who had not merited to rebuild left in its increasingly shabby rooms.

But today, as Abe and Annie walked through the doors of the hotel, there were sounds. Loud sounds, unusual sounds: happy shouts and men singing, and a thump, thump, thump of… could that be bongo drums?

Annie rolled her eyes. If those were bongos, that could only mean that Marjorie, the strange nonreligious American teenager who’d somehow managed to insinuate herself into the Freed Hotel, was up to her antics again.

It had begun with that unexpected Shabbos invitation that Papa had given her. Then she’d stayed over through Sunday, when the roof had fallen in on her. Not her fault, Annie had to admit, and she’d been a trouper about it, but still, did that mean she’d earned the right to stay over permanently? Monday had passed, and Tuesday, and now it was Thursday and still, there was no talk of her returning to her suburban home. Her mother, a respectable, well-dressed woman who’d looked very uncomfortable, had dropped off a suitcase of clothing — and a set of bongo drums — pecked Marjorie’s cheek, and disappeared into her late-model Lincoln.

Abe didn’t seem to mind. “Looks like our Marjorie is partying.” He laughed as he and Annie walked into the parlor.

Annie stood in the doorway, looking at the shocking scene in front of her. Someone had created a makeshift mechitzah out of a coatrack. On one side, Mr. Greenberg, the butcher whose stringent kashrus made his the only meat Papa would accept, was sitting on a chair, surrounded by six or seven boarders. They were dancing around him and singing — could it be? — “Kol sasson v’kol simchah, kol chassan v’kol kallah.”

Mr. Greenberg? A man in his seventies, whose wife had passed away two years before? A chassan?

Her startled eyes moved to the other side of the coatrack. There was Marjorie, of course, at the center of the action, banging on that silly drum. And there, sitting on a chair surrounded by the women of the Freed Hotel, was the happy kallah.

Mrs. Horn. The hotel’s cook for over 40 years.

Moey walked toward Annie, laughing. “Can you believe it, Sis?”

“But… she’s been a widow for decades.”

“Never too late. They’ll be getting married in a few weeks. What’s the matter, Annie? You don’t seem pleased.”

“I am, I suppose. But there are just so many changes lately, it’s making my head swim. Mazel tov.” A worried look passed over her face. “But who in the world will we find to take her place?”

“Papa’s got it all set. Apparently, they told him about it yesterday. One of the boarders, Perele Schwartz, is willing to cook. And,” he added, laughing again, “she’ll have help.”

“Help?”

“Yup, Marjorie Burton. She told Papa she loves cooking and has taken cooking classes. So she’ll be staying on to help Mrs. Schwartz in the kitchen.”

Ignoring the beating of her heart, which was going thump, thump, thump in rhythm with the bongos, Annie pasted a smile on her face and went to hug the new bride.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 848)