They Went Left - Monica Hesse Page 0,76

like the kind of joke that Abek and I have had before. Because when he was eight years old, nothing made him laugh more than when I put the heels of my hand over my mouth and blew out what sounded like a very rude noise.

“Cabbage,” Abek repeats in mock horror. “Oh no. Where is he sleeping tonight? Someone needs to warn—”

“Everyone?” I fill in.

“Someone needs to warn everyone in the camp, immediately.” He cups his hands around his mouth, as if forming a megaphone. “Attention. We have an important announcement regarding Uncle Tootle.”

“Shhhhhhh. He’ll hear you.”

“Uncle Tootle will be providing the music tonight.”

I kick him under the table, such a familiar gesture it nearly makes me gasp, and Abek starts chewing the inside of his cheek as he tries to quell his laughter.

“Abek.”

“I’m trying,” he wheezes.

“Why don’t you go walk around?” I suggest. “Get some more food, and see if there’s another bottle of wine for the table, and we’ll both pull ourselves together in the meantime.”

He obediently backs out his chair, and I watch him retreat toward the food table, shoulders still occasionally shaking.

Esther is watching me, her eyes wise and appraising. “You laugh the same,” she says.

“Do we?” I smile with pride.

“You must be so, so happy,” she says, and I reach across the table to squeeze her hand.

By the time Abek returns, I think it’s safe: Uncle ?wi?tope?k has left our table to go join some of the older folks having a quiet conversation in the corner.

Abek didn’t bring another plate of food with him, but instead slides an open bottle of wine onto the table. He pours me a glass and then, despite my raised eyebrow, pours himself one, too.

“You know who I’m thinking of?” I tell him. “Papa. Watching that wedding made me think of him.”

“About his and Mama’s wedding?”

“No, not exactly. Though I guess I was thinking of them like that, too. But mostly, I was thinking about how Papa was a good man. When he married Mama, he might have wanted to move into his own house, not to move in with his wife’s parents and little sister. But he did anyway—he really almost raised Aunt Maja, too, didn’t he?

“He was always trying to do the right thing,” I continue. “Even that day in the stadium, trying to defend the old pharmacist when he knew it would—” I break off. “Anyway, when Breine’s uncle walked her to Chaim, it made me think of Papa.”

“Because Papa walked Aunt Maja to the chuppah?”

“Because—no, Abek, Aunt Maja never married. Don’t you remember?”

“Mmm-hmm. Do you want another glass?” he asks, lifting the bottle.

I wave my hand to show him I don’t. “You remember what she always said about what a man would have to have in order for her to marry?”

“Yes. I said yes.”

I realize now that my brother looks a little red in the face and glassy in the eyes and that his wineglass is already empty when mine is still nearly full. Remembering that the bottle was open when he brought it to the table, I have a sneaking suspicion that this glass isn’t his first. So when he reaches for the bottle again, I move my hand first for the pitcher of water sitting in the middle of the table and fill Abek’s glass with that instead.

“It’s a wedding, Zofia,” he protests. “A special occasion!”

“And it looks like you celebrated enough already. You’re twelve.”

“You told me to get more wine!”

“I didn’t tell you to drink it,” I say, laughing.

“You don’t need to lecture me like that,” he snaps.

Across the table, a few seatmates have noticed our conversation and are unsuccessfully trying not to stare. Abek leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. I can tell he feels embarrassed at being singled out as so young. Everyone else at the table has been drinking; I’ve had a few glasses myself. I’m wondering, suddenly, if there would have been any harm in pouring him just one more swallow so that he could save face rather than feel embarrassed in front of a group of new people he’s just met.

“Maybe if you watered it down,” I suggest, trying to compromise.

“Water it down?”

“Or in another few hours, you could—”

“That’s not the point.”

But I don’t know what the point is. I can’t believe he’d really get so upset over a glass of wine, but I can’t think of what else would have made him suddenly so sullen and defensive.

Esther raises a sympathetic eyebrow; she’s witnessed