without further ado they had become Hirsch instead of Hirschov. “My family was killed in the pogroms, by the Tsar's Cossacks.” Zoya had heard tales of that as a child, but she had never realized that she would one day be put in a position to defend it.
“I'm very sorry.”
“Mmm …” Simon's mother glowered and then stalked out to the kitchen to finish making dinner. And when it was ready, his mother lit the candles, and chanted the Sabbath prayer. His mother kept a kosher home, and had made the traditional challah, which they served with ceremonial wine. It was all a new experience for Zoya. “Do you know what kosher is?” she asked halfway through dinner.
“No … I … yes … well, not really.” They were still speaking Russian, and Zoya felt awkward about her lack of knowledge. “You don't drink milk with meat.” It was the best she could do, as his mother glowered at him again and referred to him constantly as “Shimon,” talking to him in Yiddish instead of Russian.
“Everything has to be kept separate. Dairy must never touch meat.” They had separate plates, and with their new prosperity, she now had two ovens. It all sounded very complicated to Zoya as she explained, but she was fiercely proud of her devotion to Talmudic law, and then she looked proudly at her son as Zoya smiled. “He's so smart, he could have been a rabbi. But what does he do? He goes to Seventh Avenue and throws his family out of the business.”
“Mama, that's not true,” Simon smiled. “Papa retired, and so did Uncle Joe and Uncle Isaac.” Zoya realized as she listened that this was an aspect of his life she hadn't truly understood. It was one thing to hear him tell about it, and another to actually meet them. She felt suddenly terrified that she would never measure up in their eyes. She knew nothing of his religion, or how important it was to him. She didn't even know if he himself was religious, although somehow she suspected that he wasn't. Her own religion wasn't extremely important to her, although she believed in God. But she only went to the Orthodox church on Easter and Christmas.
“What did your father do?” Sofia Hirsch fired the question at her, after Zoya had helped her to clear the table. She already knew that Zoya worked in a shop, and that Simon had met her in Paris.
“My father was in the army.” Zoya answered as the older woman almost shrieked.
“Not a Cossack?”
“No, Mama, of course not,” Simon answered for her, he was obviously anxious to leave, and Zoya suddenly thought it all very funny. Their two lives, from such different beginnings had met in the middle somewhere, and after years of touting her title to some, she was now having to assure this woman that her father hadn't been a Cossack. And suddenly, she saw from the corner of her eye that Simon thought it was funny too. It was as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. And he decided to tease his mother a little. He knew she would be impressed, even though she might pretend to be horrified. He already sensed that his father approved, and even if his mother did, she wouldn't admit it. “Zoya is a countess, Mama. She's just too humble to use her title.”
“A countess of what?” his mother asked, and Zoya laughed openly this time.
“Of absolutely nothing anymore. You're quite right. All of that is finished.” The revolution had been nineteen years before, and although not forgotten, it seemed like part of another lifetime.
There was a long silence then, as Simon was thinking of how to make a graceful exit with Zoya, when his mother spoke in mournful tones, as though to whatever gods might be listening. “It's a shame she's not Jewish.” Simon smiled. It was as close as Sofia would come to saying that she liked her. “Would she convert?” She asked Simon pointedly as though Zoya were not in the room, and as Zoya sat looking startled, Simon answered for her.
“Of course not, Mama. Why should she?”
His father offered her another glass of wine, as Simon patted her hand, and his mother looked at Zoya with continuing interest.
“Simon says you have children.” It was more of an accusation than a question, but Zoya smiled, always proud of them.
“Yes, I have two.”
“You're divorced.”
Simon groaned inwardly as Zoya smiled at Sofia. “No, I'm a widow. My husband died