“We have not been formally introduced,” he boomed, obviously tipsy.
Shayndel blushed. “I … I told you about David,” she stammered, although she had done no such thing. For two weeks she’d been trying to think of a way to weave David into the story she and Leonie told one another early each morning. She had no idea if he had a brother, or if he would like Leonie. Finally, she had decided it was better not to trouble her friend about David since she wasn’t sure how she felt about him.
“We’re out of water,” Shayndel said and hurried away with the pitcher.
As he watched her walk away, David sighed, “I am going to marry her.”
“You hardly know one another,” Leonie said.
“Love has nothing to do with time, not in this world anyway.”
“So you are in love with Shayndel?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure she feels the same.”
“She is a very good person,” Leonie said, gripping his arm and speaking directly into his ear. “You must be very good to her. You must take care of her. She takes care of everyone else. She never thinks of herself.”
“Of course I will take care of her,” said David. “You can keep an eye on me. If I’m not up to the job, you’ll let me know.”
“Me?” Leonie said. “I would be like an extra wheel. Like putting milk into a cup of wine.”
“But what about you?” he asked. “Every man in this room is in love with you—well, everyone but me. Why do you chase them all away?”
“You are drunk, monsieur,” Leonie said, wrinkling her nose at the alcohol on his breath.
“Yes, but that does not mean I am wrong. Why are you so chilly?” David tried to put his arm around her, but she moved her chair and watched as eight kibbutz girls delivered platters of cookies, cake, and strudel, and bowls of fruit compote. Shayndel followed, a big grin on her face and a plate in each hand.
She placed one heaped high with sweets in the middle of their table. “This is for everyone to share,” she said. “But the kuchen is mine. See, this one is made with apricot, this has plums, and the third is apple with raisins—which is what I grew up with.”
Shayndel picked up her fork with a flourish, like a maestro with a baton. She took a small bite of the first two cakes and nodded her approval after each. But the third kuchen required a second taste as she discovered almonds and bits of dried apple that had been moistened with liqueur, and a sweet blend of spices she couldn’t name. This was so far superior to her mother’s baking that Shayndel put her fork down out of loyalty.
“Is it good?” Leonie asked.
“Unbelievable,” Shayndel whispered, so serious that everyone at the table burst into laughter.
David stole a bite from her plate and pretended to swoon, while under the table he pressed his thigh against hers. She frowned and tilted her head toward Leonie, letting him know she was not going anywhere without her friend. David saluted and stumbled off, returning a moment later with Miloz.
“You sit here,” David said, pushing him into the chair beside Leonie. He pointed at Shayndel and said, “There is an accordion outside, and I simply have to dance with you. Please, mademoiselle?”
Shayndel started to say no, but Leonie waved her away. “Go on. He will not be denied.”
Nearly everyone in the hall stared at the vision of Leonie and Miloz side by side. Leonie’s soft brown waves framed her heart-shaped face; a pair of perfect brows arched above eyes the color
of gray clouds on a sunny day. She was the living proof that Parisian girls—including Jewish ones—were congenitally stylish.
Miloz seemed even more striking sitting beside her. With a long neck and jet-black hair that set off the milky whiteness of his skin, he looked like a Roman statue. It was impossible not to imagine them married and the parents of the most attractive Jewish children in history.
The attention made them self-conscious and acutely aware of the fact that they had nothing to say to each other. Miloz mashed a piece of cake into a pile of crumbs; Leonie sipped her water. They sighed in union, which made them laugh and turned their discomfort into an alliance.
“Let’s go watch the dancing,” said Leonie.
He pulled her chair out for her and offered his arm, which set the men from his barrack to shouting, “Hurrah!”
Zorah watched them, in spite of herself, and looked around the hall one last time to make sure that Meyer hadn’t arrived without her noticing. That means he is at home with his wife and children, Zorah thought, as she hurried outside, passing through the gauntlet of Arab guards who slouched on either side of the door, watching the festivities.
As the room emptied, Tedi noticed that the guards were eyeing the dessert table, and brought them a plate of cookies.
“Thank you very much,” said a small man with a heavy mustache.