The Winter Rose (42 page)

She knew the poem was an allegory about mankind's love for God--at
least that's what the vicar at Blackwood had said--but it wasn't God
whom the poem made her think of, it was Sid. She closed her eyes, trying
desper-ately to hear only Yanki's words, trying to push every memory of
their night together out of her mind, but she failed. She could hear
him, feel him. She could see him as he'd looked when she'd taken his
face in her hands, and when he'd kissed her. She'd kissed him back
passionately...and then, feeling a terrible guilt over betraying
Freddie, she'd driven him away.

The next day, frightened by herself, by how easily she'd allowed her
emotions to overcome her judgment, she'd finished early at Gifford's,
gone directly to Freddie's flat, and asked him to move up their wedding
date. He'd been pleased, and she'd been grateful to him for acquiescing
to her wishes. She vowed to herself that she would never betray him
again, never give him a moment's worry. She would be a good wife.
Helpful. Supportive. Concerned. He deserved that, for he was a good man.

They'd talked about the ceremony during their supper at Simpson's and
decided to have it at Longmarsh, on the third Saturday in August. It
was only five weeks away. She wished it were sooner, but Freddie had
work or social obligations almost every weekend until then. She wanted
it to be behind her. Done. Irrevocable. She hoped that when she was
married, she would stop thinking about Sid. Stop longing for him.

She had thought of him constantly since that night. Worse yet, she
often found herself talking to him in her head. Arguing with him
sometimes, but more often telling him about her work at Gifford's and
her hopes for her clinic. And at day's end, when she was alone and
quiet, curled up by her fire with some thick, daunting text, she found
herself picturing his face--his green eyes, the depths as hidden as the
deepest Welsh valleys, his generous smile. She would hear his voice,
mocking sometimes or tinged with sadness. She would remember what it
felt like to be held by him.

And then she would be overwhelmed by guilt and fear and anger and she
would tell herself that Sid was the Janus face of Freddie, that he was a
man as dedicated to dark and selfish pursuits as Freddie was to the
common good--but even she didn't quite believe it.

Could a man who gave money to Kitty the beggar, who watched over Ada
and Annie Armstrong, and who found work for Maggie Harris's hus-band be a
bad man? Ella had once told her that she saw only in black and white,
and Sid was a study in gray. There was good in him as well as bad; she
knew there was. She had seen him at Teddy Ko's. She had seen his blowsy
women at the Bark. Had heard about the Stronghold Wharf. Yet she had
also seen him tenderly cover a poor, damaged child with his own jacket
and give money to orphan boys. He had a kind heart, but a wounded one.
Something had happened to him. Something terrible. He had told her about
losing his mother, his family--but she sensed there was more. She had
glimpsed his heart, ever so briefly, before he'd closed it off again.
And now, even though she knew it was impossible and insane and wrong,
she still wanted to touch that wounded heart, to heal it.

"Papa! Papa!" Posy suddenly squealed. She jumped out of Ella's lap
and ran to the door. India heard the tramp of feet up the stairs, and
then Mr. Moskowitz was in the parlor.

"Shabbat shalom, Zeeskyte!" he said, swinging Posy off the ground and into his arms.

"Shabbat shalom, Papa!" Posy said, kissing his cheek.

He greeted the rest of his family, then India, then he turned to his
wife and with a sheepish expression said, "I've brought guests. Two
brothers. I met them at shul. And a sister. From St. Petersburg. They
arrived just yes-terday."

India looked past Mr. Moskowitz to the people standing in the
entrance. Their faces were haggard; the young woman's was tear-stained.

"He always does this," Solly grumbled.

Mr. Moskowitz lowered his voice. "She cries, the girl. They have no food, Mama. Nowhere to go."

"Of course she cries," Mrs. Moskowitz said briskly. "With an empty
stomach, nothing can be tolerated." She bustled past her husband,
greeting their guests loudly and warmly in Russian. Smiles came to their
weary faces at the sound of their own tongue.

"They're not sleeping with me. Not this time. Last bunch gave me fleas," Solly muttered. A swat from Ella silenced him.

Mrs. Moskowitz got the newcomers' coats and hats off. She got them
washed and brushed, then she ushered everyone into the dining room.
India sat down, but Ella shook her head and she sheepishly stood again.

"Aaron, the kiddush cup," Mrs. Moskowitz said.

Aaron took the silver goblet from the table, filled it with wine, and
handed it to his father, who sang a prayer over it, then drank it. His
voice was deeper than Yanki's, but every bit as beautiful. Next he
uncovered the challah and blessed it. He tore off a small piece, dipped
it in salt, and ate it. He did the same with more pieces, handing them
to his wife, his chil-dren, and his guests. Then he bade everyone sit
down to supper.

Yanki and Aaron brought extra chairs from the kitchen; Ella hurriedly
set three more places. Mrs. Moskowitz and Miriam brought the food. The
meal began with thick mushroom soup, sopped up with challah. It was
followed by apricot chicken, sweet and meltingly tender; carrot tsimmes,
rich with honey and cinnamon; and a golden rice pilaf. India noticed
how hard the newcomers tried not to bolt down their helpings.

And with the food came talk. The immigrants spoke to Mrs. Moskowitz
in Russian, telling her of their journey, and of St. Petersburg. Ella
trans-lated. Mrs. Moskowitz questioned them animatedly, eager for news
of her hometown.

"Mama grew up in St. Petersburg," Ella explained. "Papa came from the
country. He was a farmer's son selling chickens at the market when they
met."

"She was going to marry a rich merchant's son!" Miriam piped up. "But Papa smiled at her and she went with him instead."

"You make me sound like a stray dog, Miriam! That's not how it was at all!" Mrs. Moskowitz protested.

The children giggled. Like all children, they loved their parents' love story, and vied with one another to tell it.

"Mama's father was very angry," Miriam said.

"He called Papa a turnip. He didn't know Papa was to study law at
uni-versity," Solly added. "The rabbi from his shtetl helped him
prepare."

"They said if Mama married him, she was no longer their child."

"But she married him anyway!"

"They were poor and sometimes had nothing but potatoes to eat."

"Then Papa became an important barrister and they had lots to eat. And a nice house, too."

"And Mama's parents were sorry, and said Papa wasn't a turnip after all."

"Enough already!" Mrs. Moskowitz said, laughing. She turned to India.
"You see? Beshert. That's Yiddish. It means fated to be together. It's
as I told you--love chooses you." She looked at her husband, and the
tenderness in her eyes told India how very happy she was with love's
choice.

"But then they had to leave, Mama and Papa did. Bad men burned their home," Miriam said solemnly.

"They had to walk all the way to the border with Ella and Yanki," Solly added.

"Ah, well," Mr. Moskowitz said. "All that is behind us now. He who
can-not endure the bad will not live to see the good. And here in
Whitechapel, there is much good."

Ella, who'd been translating the children's words all along for the
immi-grants, translated her father's and the newcomers smiled, bolstered
by them. As the others continued to talk, Mrs. Moskowitz sat back in
her chair, a faraway look in her eyes. India thought that she must be
remem-bering St. Petersburg and all that she had lost.

"You must miss your home," she said to her.

Mrs. Moskowitz shook her head. "No, my dear," she said, smiling. "I
never left it." She nodded at her husband, her children. "My home is
where they are."

India smiled, deeply touched by her words, and then suddenly she
thought of Sid again and wished that he were here. Not for her sake, but
for his. She wished that he was not at the Bark, or on the harsh London
streets, or alone, as he so often seemed to be, but seated at this
table, encircled by the warmth and light of this night and these people,
moved, as she was, by their love for one another and for three poor
strangers. He had that same light in him; she knew he did. She'd seen
it.

Guilt gnawed at her conscience. Here she was thinking of Sid again,
when she was engaged to Freddie. Freddie, who was moral and principled.

Freddie, who was facing a terrible political struggle and who needed
her love and loyalty like never before. How could she be so disloyal?
What in God's name was wrong with her?

Mrs. Moskowitz's words came back to her. "You do not choose love.
Love chooses you." And as they did, India realized she had her answer:
Love had chosen for her. And love had chosen Sid.

"And then I sez to Old Bill, I sez... Oi! Malone! C'mere for a mo'. Listen to this one."

Big Billy Madden, guv'nor of West London, was drunk. He waved Sid
over, put his arm around his neck, and proceeded to tell him how he'd
coshed a constable with his mam's rolling pin when he was only ten years
old.

"Cracked his skull, I did. Put him straight into the hospital. And me
only a nipper!" Madden brayed laughter. Sid could see his teeth, black
with decay. The smell of Madden's breath, mingling with his cheap
cologne, made Sid's stomach lurch.

"You ever done a rozzer, Sid?" Madden asked.

"Of course not. I'm a businessman, me. What truck have I got with Old Bill?"

"Businessman, eh? What line you in? Monkey business?" Billy brayed
again. He dropped his voice, suddenly conspiratorial. "You might want to
make a start with the rozzers, eh? From what I hear, Alvin Donaldson's
become a right pain in your arse. Quick way to fix that." He drew an
imagi-nary knife across his throat.

"What? And take away all me fun?" Sid said. "I live to put the wind
up that bloke. Baiting rozzers is me favorite sport. Oi!" He barked at a
passing waiter, eager to extricate himself. "More champagne for Mr.
Madden and his lads."

Madden tightened his arm around Sid's neck. His knuckles, crusted
with rings, grazed Sid's cheek. "I love this bloke. He's the cream!" he
pro-claimed. "Smartest fucking one of us." His smile faded, just
slightly, and his predator's eyes narrowed as he said, "Richest one,
too."

"Not after tonight, Billy lad. You lot'll drink me dry. Won't have a far-thing to me name come morning."

"Where's the guest of honor?" Madden asked, releasing him. "I'd like to congratulate her."

"Buggered if I know. Hasn't made her grand entrance yet. Tell you
what, I'm going to find her," he said, grateful for an out. "Soon as I
do, I'll send her round."

Sid walked over to Desi and Frankie. "You see Gem?" he asked.

"Fucking toe-rag," Frankie growled, staring at Madden.

"Easy, Frankie. He's our guest."

"Why'd you invite him?"

"Good relations. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. You
learn things that way." He himself had just learned plenty.

"I'd keep him close, all right. I'd put him in a headlock. He shouldn't take liberties like that. It doesn't look right."

Sid heard the accusing note in Frankie's voice. He let it go. He
wasn't up to an argument. He hadn't slept for days and his head ached.
It hurt more after learning that Madden knew Donaldson was after them.
He'd be rubbing his hands together, hoping Donaldson succeeded. With the
Firm in jail, he could move into East London.

"He's up to no good, Madden. You know that, don't you? You talk to Joe Griz yet?" Frankie said.

"No. Why?"

"He says a bloke came to his home a week ago looking to move a stolen
painting. Griz didn't know him, so he started asking questions. �Where
you from? Who do you know? Who've you worked with?' When he couldn't get
any proper answers, he chucked him out. I don't like it, guv. Madden's
behind it, I just know it. Looking to land Griz in the shit with the
rozzers. Get him sent down. He wants his business. Wants the swag. He
always has."

"Could be the rozzers themselves."

Frankie shook his head. "They ain't that enterprising."

"They are now. Donaldson hasn't been able to get us directly. So he's
likely taking another route. If he can get Griz for a stolen painting,
he can pressure him. Promise to go hard on him unless he grasses on us."

Frankie's eyes widened. "Didn't think of that."

"That's the trouble with you, Frankie. You never think."

He walked away to yell at a waiter. He'd been harsh and he didn't
care. He was tired of Frankie. Tired of Madden. Tired of all of them. He
was restless, unsettled. He wanted out of this place. Out of the
darkness and the smoke. He was gripped by an urge to simply leave. If it
weren't for Gemma, he would have.

Ronnie walked by deep in conversation with Tom.

"You two see Gem?" he called.

"What's wrong with your head, guv?" Ronnie asked.

"What?"

"Your head. You're rubbing at it like to take the skin off."

Sid realized he was digging his fingers into his temple. "It's nothing. Where's Gemma?"

"Don't think she's here yet."

It was Gemma Dean's big night. She'd made her debut in the Gaiety's
new revue with a solo and was absolutely smashing. As he'd promised, Sid
was throwing a huge party to celebrate her success. He'd closed the
Alhambra, a flashy gin palace he owned on the Commercial Road, and had
invited all of East London's theatrical world, and a great deal of its
criminal one, to a fancy catered do there.

Sid ordered a whisky, neat. He downed it, then leaned against the bar
and looked around. Joe Grizzard, the city's most notorious fence, was
sit-ting in a corner with half a dozen bent cops. Sid could see the
diamonds flash on his fingers as he cut his steak. Across the room,
Bertha Weiner from Shadwell was sitting at a table with her pack of
house-breakers, tearing the legs off a roast duck. Vesta Tilley, the
show's lead, was singing at a piano. Max Moses and Joe Weinstein, who
fronted the Bessarabians, a brutal Whitechapel street gang, were
drinking at the bar with a couple of big-time bookmakers. Three men from
a rival gang, the Odessians, sat at the other end, seeing who could
hold his finger in a candle flame the longest. One-eyed Charlie Walker
and his Blind Beggars, a group of pick-pockets, lifted plates of caviar
from a waiter's tray without the man knowing. Teddy Ko strutted by with
two more Limehouse drug lords, all blindingly flash in their new suits
and shoes. A gaggle of chorus girls eyed them hungrily.