Levy watched his granddaughter sleep. When she was awake, she looked like Adam; when she laughed, she looked like Rachel; but asleep, right now, she looked like his dead wife, Leah, and he closed his eyes and let himself imagine that it was her after all. She was wearing the linen nightgown he had had made for her in Sosnowiec and she was half lying, half sitting on their bed, waiting for him to strip and wash in the icy water. It was so cold he was trembling and, still a little wet, he got into bed next to her, naked, and she held him, using her body to warm his. When he stopped trembling, they made love, and late at night, after she was asleep, he awoke and had to get up and put on his socks and nightshirt.

He heard a whistle and woke in a panic. Then he saw the ducks appliquéd on the curtains and remembered that he was in Laurel, not Dabrowa, and that the whistle was a freight running from New York to Greenpoint and not the relocation transport from Krakow to Belzec.

2

Chapter 2

Every time it rained after that, she thought about clay, then the dead boys, then of Shabbes school for some reason, and the big colored picture book she had then. She couldn’t see the connection and she tried to find the book but it wasn’t on the shelves downstairs and she didn’t want to look for it in the attic, which was cold and still full of mice for all she knew.

She kept going back to the beach but by the middle of November the stretch of pebbles and water was empty, gray, freezing, and she gave up and took to spending the afternoons after work in Golda’s kitchen, which was bigger than Rachel’s living room. It had a fireplace, a work island, and a microwave oven that everyone was scared of using. The oven hung black-­faced and neglected in the wall, and Rachel felt absurdly sorry for it.

Golda poured vodka for herself and coffee for Rachel. She lit the fire, put her hands on either side of Rachel’s face, and turned it toward the firelight.

“Still not sleeping?” she said.

“Not too well,” Rachel said.

“You know what you need?”

“What?” Rachel asked.

Golda kissed her friend’s cheek. “You need a man,” she said, “and I’m going to find you one.”

Rachel thought of Hawkins. She could almost see him against the flames, looking embarrassed and gentle at the same time, covering himself by folding his hands. She felt an unexpected rush of tenderness, and then, before she could stop herself, she thought of Ableson, the dead boys, the clay.