Photo: Shutterstock

As told to Faigy Schonfeld

W hen my brother calls to tell us that the house is burning the sun is already dipping red-gold reflecting off the glass showcase where I stand.

I draw air sharply the Geneva pendant in my hand clatters to the floor. I bend to retrieve it and my older sister Dina raises an eyebrow at me her fingers around a Lucerne bangle set with ruby and sapphire stones. “What happened?”

I try to talk but feel my throat caving in.

My father takes the phone from me. “Dovid. What’s going on?” My father listens jaw tensing; he closes his eyes. “We’re coming” he says finally.

Our work space in the showroom cozy now after business hours full of family and chatter and muted sounds of the city from four stories below fills with sudden silence. My father speaks: “Dovid heard that there’s a fire halfway down the block going all the way around the corner till the furniture store.”

Dina gasps. My mother goes white to the lips.

“Everyone’s out baruch Hashem” he continues then falls silent.

In the quivering moment before chaos comes I look down through the glass. A sea of watches glint beneath bright lights antique gold and silver and mother of pearl tucked around hills and valleys of white softness. I close my eyes. Ours is the corner house wrapping around the avenue into Ross Street. Little red door hall with soft green carpet our kitchen Mommy’s apron our bright blue pots the dusty ivory flowers on the dining room table—

“What?!” This from Dina. “What? Fire? But why I mean how did it start what are we going to do where are all the peop—”

“Is everything gone? All our things and the jewelry and... oh dear.” My mother goes still and I know I know she is thinking of her photographs those grainy black-and-white rectangles that reflect entire worlds to her mother and father and so many sisters aching love and yearning and all that was once.

I look at my father. He hangs up the phone motions for us to pack up. He doesn’t know much he says But there’s a fire a bad one. We need to get home fast.

It’s been a long day at work; my sister and I took turns wrangling with that annoying fellow from Santa Monica but neither of us got anywhere. Oh the people we’ve seen and served and negotiated with today some anxious some chatty some rushed or irritable orders and billing and calls while always polite always smiling... I just want to go home.

I bite my lip. Home? Mechanically my sister and I straighten our blue dresses and remove our white name pins as my father locks up the showroom. My mind is full of seething scarlet tongues and belching smoke. Funny I’m thinking about pots and dried flower arrangements. What about… what about our seforim? Our jewelry our documents... what about everything else?