Page 35 of One of Them

F or the next week, all Anne could think about was going to Palestine.

She scoured the newspapers for any mention of the region, consulted maps in an atlas so she could situate it in her mind.

Despite her preoccupation, she didn’t entirely understand her own reasons.

Was it part of her effort to apologize to Delia, to rekindle the friendship that had sparked at Vassar?

Given how Delia had acted when they last met, it didn’t seem likely that she would ever want to be Anne’s friend again, but still.

.. She also had to admit the possibility that she was being guided more by self-interest. A single girl following her boyfriend to another country might raise eyebrows in a way two girls traveling together would not.

Whatever it was, the idea of accompanying Delia to Palestine took hold, buzzing in her head, her soul even, until it felt imperative that she make this trip.

It would be more than a trip. It would be a pilgrimage to her own disavowed heritage.

Yet still she told no one about it. Until she had a concrete plan of action, it would be better to keep quiet.

Drew had gotten very busy at work and could not meet until Saturday evening.

Good. She had a little time to figure it out.

Sitting at the desk in her dorm room, she penned draft after draft of notes to Delia, but every one of them seemed wrong.

Soon she’d created a small mountain of crumpled pages that filled the metal wastebasket.

Saturday arrived, cold and clear. She got up very early, slipped on the fur coat, and went to the Montparnasse building where Delia was staying.

She had no clue as to when or if Delia would emerge, but she was almost out of time and needed to do something.

And after an hour or so during which she stamped her feet and balled and opened her gloved hands in the pockets of the coat, Delia did step out of the apartment building.

“What are you doing here?” She seemed startled, and not altogether pleased to see Anne.

“I have something to ask you. Something important. Can we talk?”

“I’m going to the market.” Delia indicated the wicker basket on her arm; inside was coiled one of those string bags all the Parisian women used. “You can come along if you like.” As she began to walk quickly away, Anne hurried to keep pace.

“What did you want to ask me?” Delia said.

“Palestine.”

Delia stopped abruptly. “What about it?” She looked very glamorous to be embarking on such a mundane task, what with her mink coat and the royal-blue-and-brown-patterned silk scarf over her hair and tied under her chin.

“I’m thinking of going. And I thought you might want to go with me.”

“You want to go to Palestine? Whatever for?” Delia started walking again.

“I’m not sure. I want to see it, experience it. From what it sounds like to me, it’s a different way to be Jewish.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Delia seemed to be considering the idea.

“Your mother is living there.” Delia nodded, so Anne continued. “You’ve been on her trail—first her sculpture, and now her. It seems logical that Palestine would be the next place you would want to go.”

They had reached the open-air market, dozens of tightly crammed stalls under a corrugated metal roof, the contents of some pushing out into the street.

A vendor selling live chickens was vainly trying to call out prices but couldn’t be heard because the birds made so much noise; a woman carried a baguette almost as long as she was tall; an old man inched along, weighed down by string bags filled with apples, onions, and celery.

The conversation paused as Delia wound her way through the cramped space, touching, examining, sniffing, considering.

Into the basket went a handful of potatoes, a head of cabbage, a bunch of beets to which black dirt still clung, and a round, fragrant loaf that Anne knew was called pain d’épice .

She also bought two wedges of cheese, one deep yellow, the other pale and buttery, and a log of goat cheese dusted with ash.

Finally she turned back to Anne. “So, when are you thinking of doing this?”

“In a couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks. That’s quite soon.”

“Someone I know is going there. I wanted to be there with him.”

“The man you were with when we ran into each other at the gallery? Is that who you mean?”

Anne felt her face grow warm and was sure she was flushing. She hadn’t wanted to reveal the part about Drew yet, but here it was. “Yes,” she said. “Him.”

“And why does he want to go?”

“He’s a photographer. He works for the Herald Tribune , and they’re sending him.”

“He’s your boyfriend?”

“He is.” The kiss had solidified it, and Anne couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across her face.

Delia looked away to examine bunches of flowers in tall metal buckets. After a moment she extracted a dripping bunch of white mums interspersed with red berries and set it atop the vegetables in her basket. When she’d paid the flower vendor, she turned back to Anne. “You must be in love with him.”

“I am,” Anne said, realizing it was true. She was in love with Drew, and he’d said he might be falling in love with her too.

Delia said nothing to that, and when she started walking back to the rue Vavin, Anne did not follow but called out, “You’ll think about it?” There was no answer at first, so Anne tried again, her voice louder this time. “You’ll let me know?”

That seemed to do it; Delia paused and turned around. “I’ll let you know,” she said before she resumed walking. Anne watched until she reached the corner and disappeared from view.

That night, she and Drew met at Le Petit Saint Ben?it, which she now thought of as their place.

He embraced her when she came close, and she clung to him for a moment, the wool of his scarf soft against her face.

Over dinner, she brought up his impending trip and said, “Remember that girl we met in the gallery?”

“The one who bumped into you? And was so rude?”

“She had her reasons,” Anne said.

“So you’ve told me.”

“She came to Paris because she was looking for her mother.”

He nodded. “Did she ever find her?”

“No, because it turns out her mother is in Palestine. That’s what the gallery owner said.”

Drew leaned back in his chair. “Well, that’s a coincidence. And it’s significant because... ?”

“Delia may want to go to Palestine. To look for her.”

“And you want to go too?”

“Well, yes.” Anne took a deep breath. “I do.”

“Anne.” He leaned in now and took her hands in his. “I’d love to be there with you, to be anywhere with you. But I’m going to be really busy. And like you said, it’s not exactly safe.”

“I know you’ll be busy. And I know it could be dangerous. But this is something I want to do for Delia. That I need to do for Delia.”

“Because you helped to get her expelled?”

“Yes.” She felt shame flooding her. “I was a coward then. I don’t want to be a coward anymore.”

“I admire your wanting to make amends, I really do. But isn’t there some other way?”

“Not one that would mean as much. And it wouldn’t just be for her—it would be for me too.

” Their dinner came, and he let go of her hands.

“I hadn’t ever thought about Palestine before you told me you were going.

I didn’t even know where it was. But now I can’t stop thinking about it.

I want to see it for myself. Can you understand that? ”

He put down his fork and put a hand to her cheek. “I can. I do.”

“So then... ?”

“Well, you’re a very determined girl,” he said. “I don’t think I could stop you even if I tried.”

After dinner, he walked her back to the dorm.

All along the way, she wondered if he would kiss her again, and what she would do if he didn’t.

She needn’t have worried; when they got to the entrance, he took her in his arms like she was meant to be there, and this second kiss was as wonderful as the first. She floated up the stairs and to her room, opening the door and shutting it quickly behind her.

The room was empty; Nancy had said she would be out that night.

That was all right, because Anne wanted to savor the last few minutes—the whole evening with Drew, really—all by herself for a while.

She hung up her coat and slid her feet out of her pumps before walking over to the mirror above her bureau.

Her hair was mussed by the wind; unlike Delia, she hadn’t worn a scarf to cover it.

Anne picked up a comb, and the gentle, repetitive movement calmed the nervous, fizzy excitement she’d been feeling.

It was only then that she noticed it—a cream-colored envelope with her name written across the front that had been slid under the door.

She put down the comb and picked up the envelope.

The single folded sheet inside said only this:

When do we leave?