“I’m in love with him,” she whispered.

He wouldn’t answer at first; he’d have to get used to the idea. He’d wonder if she still loved him, if she compared them in her mind. But he’d never ask. He’d ask instead, Does he love you?

“Yes.”

Will you marry him or live with him?

“Yes. But I’m scared.”

Of what?

“Of me and Leah having to live with black people who hate us.”

Leah stopped crying and in the silence she could almost hear Adam laugh.

Beats the Nazis, he’d say.

“It’s not funny,” she whispered sharply.

He’d say he was sorry and he’d be quiet for a moment, looking at her with his head to the side, then he’d put his arms around her. She lay still and could almost feel that firm gentle touch. Tears ran out of her eyes and fell on the grass.

You loved me, married me, lived with strangers to be with me. Was it worth it?

“Yes,” she sobbed.

Then it’s a good bet. A necessary wager, Pascal would say.

When she got home, the kitchen light was on and she thought Jacob was waiting for her. Leah was still asleep and she carried her into the house and put her down on the mattress in her playpen. Then she took a breath and pushed open the kitchen door. It wasn’t Jacob but Isaac Luria sitting at the kitchen table. All the lights on; they reflected on the white cabinets, the stainless steel sink and refrigerator, and back into her eyes. He looked at her without smiling and she let the door swing shut after her. The Shabbes school book that she thought she’d sent to Tel Aviv was lying on the white metal table.

“Where did you go this morning?” he asked her, without saying hello.

“To Riverdale,” she told the truth without thinking.

“Why?”

She knew she had to be careful.

“Who did you see in Riverdale?” He’d left all the lights on on purpose, she thought . . . the third degree. She grinned.

“What’s funny?” he snapped, and she stopped smiling and just looked at him. He was the handsomest man she’d ever seen, better-­looking than Hawkins or Levy or Adam. There were carvings of faces like his from Southern Italy, Cyprus, Byzantium. She’d seen his profile in relief on walls carted from the Mediterranean islands and hung in museums. Only his eyes didn’t fit. They were light, gray sometimes, blue others. They were gray in the kitchen light. He didn’t have a cup of coffee or tea in front of him. He’d die before he’d make it himself, she thought. Even the Germans cooked for him. They stared at each other.

“Would you like coffee or tea?” she asked.

“Coffee,” he said.

“Is instant all right?”

“Fine.”