Page 40 of One of Them

“Until we weren’t. That’s when I realized being Jewish wasn’t a choice for me to make.

It was a choice the world was going to make whether I liked it or not.

I decided to take a trip. I sailed from Marseille to Haifa.

I spent some time there and then made my way here, to the Negev.

I had some friends who told me about it—the kibbutz, how people lived there.

I didn’t like it at first—it was so empty.

Harsh. But something began to happen. My feelings changed.

I found that the desert wasn’t empty at all.

It was filled with wind and clouds, with sunsets that unfolded like revelations, with nights that glittered with stars.

I got to know the people on the kibbutz, the ones who welcomed us, my little boy and me.

I settled in and went to work, in the dairy, and then in the laundry.

But what I liked best was working outside, making things grow.

Would you have ever imagined it? In Vence, we hired gardeners to do everything; I never so much as picked up a tool.

I was disconnected from the place and hadn’t even known it.

Here, I found the connection that had been missing.

And it was here that I saw there was something wrong with my beautiful boy, something that couldn’t be fixed or healed. ”

“What do you mean? Is he ill or... deformed?”

“Not ill. And not deformed either. He was a beautiful baby, and he’s now a beautiful little boy.

But if you meet him, you’ll understand. He doesn’t look at you when you’re talking.

He can’t seem to focus or connect. And he barely speaks.

Just a few words now and then. Mostly he points.

Grunts sometimes. And cries, oh how he cries.

You were nothing like that,” Sophie said.

“You had great composure and self-control, even when you were very young.”

“Have you taken him to a doctor? There must be a diagnosis, a name for what he has.”

“I’ve taken him to so many doctors—in Paris, and even in Vienna, to someone who studied with Freud. Most didn’t know what it was. But one doctor suggested it might be something called autism.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” said Delia.

“Neither had I.” She raked her hands through her hair. “In any case, there doesn’t seem to be any treatment. The way Asher is now is the way he’ll always be, only when he’s older, he’ll be that much stronger, and these fits of his will be harder to manage. But if I stay here, I’ll have help.”

“The people have agreed to that?”

“Yes.” Sophie looked straight at her. “They have. And thank God for that, because I couldn’t do it myself. He’ll never be truly normal, but here there will always be a place for him. The community will support both of us.”

“Really? For the rest of your life?”

“Yes. They do that for all the members. I’m a member now. So is Asher. As long as he’s here, I’ll be here too. Unless I had the money to support him, there really isn’t anywhere else for him to go.”

“Do you have any money?” Delia’s father’s family was rich, but Sophie’s was not.

“A little. I had a bank account in Paris, and I took what was in it when I left. And when I sell work, there’s money from that.”

“And what about Paris? New York?” Delia asked. “And all your friends? Your life as an artist? You cared so much about it back then. Sometimes it seemed you cared more about them than about me.”

“I deserve that.” Sophie looked hurt. “And maybe someday I’ll want to make art again. But for now I need to be a better mother than I was—to Asher, and to you too, if you’ll let me.” She paused. “You must be in college. You were always so intellectually curious.”

“I was at Vassar. Until I was expelled.”

“Expelled? You? You always got such high marks in all your subjects.”

“I wasn’t expelled because of my grades. I was expelled because I had an affair with my English professor. Someone—a horrid girl—found out, and she told the dean.”

Sophie studied Delia’s face. “Your professor? He must have been older than you. Shame on him. Seducing a young girl, a student... that’s reprehensible.”

“He didn’t seduce me. I... seduced him.” Delia had admitted that to no one. Once the words were out, she discovered that it was a relief to have said them.

“Be that as it may,” Sophie said, “he should have known better.”

“Just like you should have known better... is that what you mean?”

Sophie was quiet. “Maybe,” she said at last. “But whatever you think of me, whatever I did, your father was an adult, an equal, and he had a part in what happened. A professor and a student? Not the same thing.” When Delia didn’t reply, Sophie added, “In any case, that must have been terrible for you. What did your father say?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“How can he not know?”

“I told him I was transferring to Barnard, and he believed me. You know Papa. He can be very... distracted.”

“Distracted!” Sophie said. “That’s a very forgiving way to look at it.”

But Delia wasn’t thinking about her father. “Distracted and a bit selfish. Just like you, Maman. You left because you were in love with Serge. But you didn’t stay with him. What a waste. You destroyed our family for no good reason.”

“Delia, there’s always a reason. Your father and I, we weren’t happy.

You knew that, didn’t you? And as for Serge, I did love him.

And I would have stayed with him. But who could have imagined that I’d end up with another child?

Another child that he just couldn’t accept. I can’t blame him for that.”

“So you gave Papa up for Serge, and Serge for Asher.”

“I suppose you could put it that way.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Outside, Delia heard voices.

What time was it, anyway? She’d lost all track.

And she was hungry; her stomach was growling.

But she wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

There was still more she had to ask. “That little carnelian figure. The pregnant woman. You left it with the gallery in Paris?” Delia knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from Sophie.

“Yes, I did. I went back to Paris one last time; it wasn’t all that long ago.

I went because I had to be sure that I was really and truly done with it, that Palestine was the place.

My place. I brought the carnelian sculpture with me.

I was ready to let her go, to let that old part of myself go.

The dealer was delighted to get it. And she recently wrote to tell me she had sold it. ”

“I know. Because I have it now.”

“You bought it?”

“No. But she sold it to a girl I know from Vassar, who made a gift of it to me.”

“I’m so pleased,” said Sophie. This time there was no mistaking the smile on her face. “You went to Paris without Simon?”

“Your sculpture was why I went to Paris. I wanted to find out what happened to it. Papa put all of it in a warehouse, but when he tried to get it back, the warehouse had gone out of business. And then when I left school, I had time, and nothing to do really. Once I was in Paris, I found out that you were alive and where you were living.”

“I never expected to be in such a place. And yet here I am.”

“Here you are,” echoed Delia. “You and... Asher.” Her brother.

“Would you like to meet him?” Sophie asked.

“Yes. I would.” She’d come all this way, hadn’t she? She had to finish what she’d started.

“All right. If you’re sure. I have the afternoon off, and we could go over there now.

” She looked again at Delia’s remaining black pump, now covered with fine, pale dust. “But you’re not going to be able to walk with only one shoe,” she said with a laugh.

She reached under the cot and pulled out another pair of the ubiquitous work boots she had on.

It was only then that Delia made the connection: these boots reminded her of those Sophie had worn when she worked in her Paris studio.

Yes, she’d changed. But not entirely. Delia had found a thread that bound her to her old life, and to her own surprise, that mattered.