Three talented women as fiery as priceless diamonds, three lives burning with power, beauty, passion, talent and determination.
DAZZLE
The Complete Unabridged Trilogy
Book One
SENDA
She escaped the pogrom-haunted woods of a Jewish ghetto for the scented palaces of St. Petersburg to become the most famous actress in czarist Russia and mistress to a man as powerful as he was perverse, a meteoric star of the stage bewitching a generation doomed to die in the blood-splattered snows of revolutionary Russia...
Book Two
TAMARA
Her mother’s supreme sacrifice gave her passage to America where she became the golden-haired goddess of the silver screen. Her face was her fortune and Hollywood her Kingdom. But who was she? Where had she come from? Not even she knew. Only that one man had made her for the dream machine, and that he had the power to make or break her...
Book Three
DALIAH
The most gorgeous and gifted off all she was the film idol of millions in whom the multi-generational legend lives on. Caught up in a world of danger beyond theatrical make-believe, she found herself trapped in a Mid-East terrorist hell where she is forced to pay for the sins of her legendary forebears and forced to act her greatest role in the arms of a man she desperately wanted to hate but cannot stop loving...
Novels by Judith Gould
Sins
The
Love-Makers Trilogy:
Texas Born
Love-Makers
Second Love
DAZZLE
The Trilogy*
Volume One—SENDA*
Volume Two—TAMARA*
Volume Three—DALIAH*
The
Complete Unabridged Trilogy*
Never Too
Rich*
Forever
Too Damn
Rich
Till the
End of Time
Rhapsody
Time to
Say Good-Bye
A Moment
in Time
The Best
is Yet to Come
The Greek
Villa
The
Parisian Affair
Dreamboat*
The Secret
Heiress*
Greek
Winds of Fury
*Available as an e-book
* * * * *
DAZZLE
THE COMPLETE UNABRIDGED TRILOGY
By Judith Gould
* * * * *
Published by Malden Bridge Press at Smashwords
Dazzle
The Complete Unabridged Trilogy
Copyright © 1989 by Judith Gould
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, livind or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover Photo Copyright © Nuno Silva
* * * * *
All the world's a stage,
And
all the men and women merely players;
They
have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time
plays many parts,
His acts
being seven ages.
—William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Prologue
Payday
ALOFT . . .
Flying.
After all these years, she still couldn't get used to it. She would tense when the plane hurtled down the runway, and only begin to relax once it was airborne and the houses below looked no bigger than those on a Monopoly board. Only on night flights, such as this, El Al's nonstop flight 1002 from JFK to Ben-Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, could she settle down and sleep. She felt safe in the darkness. Then, once the plane began its descent and her ears started popping, the nervousness would gnaw at her again, and increase its bite until the aircraft touched ground.
She was a tall, slim woman who held herself with dignity and grace. Her world-famous face blended a disquieting combination of serene aristocrat and jungle amazon. Carelessly combed long straight black hair, so lustrous it shone blue-black, framed her features with a severe Madonna simplicity, but one sensed rather than saw the innate tawny tigress lurking just beneath the veneer of smooth creamy skin. She possessed that alluring quality of devil-may-care beauty that drove men to fantasize about her and women to emulate her. Even casually dressed, there was something disturbingly sensual about her. The cream silk duster from Luciano Soprani lent her the bohemian quality of a serious but highly successful painter, while the wide-sleeved black crepe-de-chine shirt beneath it, open at the throat, hinted at a smouldering sexual perverseness, and the pleated silk trousers, the colour of dried tobacco, contradicted it all with a kind of inborn Marlene Dietrich elan. Had it not been for the curious looks she'd been getting, those sidelong, knowing flickers of recognition, she would have been able to forget that she was one of the world's three greatest box-office attractions. She, Jane Fonda, and Meryl Streep. And usually in that order.
Even after nine years, I still don't feel like a movie star. She caught a man across the aisle staring at her, and quickly turned away. They think they know me. They think I'm some sort of goddess. They probably wouldn't believe it if I told them I get diarrhoea from drinking the water in Mexico.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' a disembodied voice announced over the intercom, in English, 'the captain has turned on the no-smoking sign. Please extinguish all smoking materials and see that your seats are in the upright position and that all tray tables are stowed. We hope you have had a pleasant flight, and given the opportunity to fly again, you will choose to fly El Al.' The message was repeated in Hebrew.
The chief steward appeared from the galley behind her, which separated the first-class section from economy. Solicitously he picked up her empty wineglass and the little square cocktail napkin, then pushed the tiny plastic beverage tray back into the armrest. 'We have arranged for you to disembark first, Miss Boralevi.' She had been born Daliah ben Yaacov twenty-nine years earlier, but upon embarking on her film career had adopted her mother's maiden name, Boralevi. 'One of our representatives will come to the plane to meet you. He'll see to it that you're sped through customs and baggage claim with as little fuss as possible.'
Daliah turned her emerald-eyed film-star gaze to meet his. 'Thank you,' she said throatily, her voice naturally smoky and peculiarly beguiling. 'I appreciate it.'
He lingered tentatively, hoping to strike up a conversation. 'Are you excited about visiting your homeland?'
She nodded, pushing a cascade of glossy hair from her face. She raised her face to his. 'Yes,' she said softly, 'I am a sabra. Born and bred.' She smiled.
'I know. Me too.' He returned her smile, automatically switching to Hebrew. Then the magic moment was gone: someone was signalling for him. 'Excuse me,' he told her and hurried down the aisle.
Daliah smiled slightly. Simply knowing that they were both sabras had given them common ground, something precious to share and cherish. A fierce pride. All native-born Israelis felt it, no matter how many years had passed since they'd been home.
Suddenly a wave of depression and guilt swept through her.
I've been gone eleven years, she admonished herself sternly. That's how long it's been since I last set foot on my native soil, if I don't count the various embassies and consulates when it came time to renew my passport.
The jet engines changed pitch, and for a long, drawn-out moment the airliner seemed to stand still in midair. Daliah clutched the armrests with such force that her knuckles stood out whitely on her thin hands. Then the jumbo jet banked and slid forward with another muffled thrust of power.
She let out a deep sigh of relief and, turning back to the window, saw, not the ever-nearing white-capped waves, but images of her family. She wondered if they would meet her at the airport or send a car instead.
They know I love them dearly. They know I haven't deserted them these long, past years. They, better than anyone, understand that I had to go out into the world and make my mark to prove myself. To show them I'm worthy of the Boralevi blood coursing through my veins.
And what blood it was! What a fine, fierce lineage was her heritage!
Her smile returned as she exultantly thought of her distinguished flesh and blood, remembering them in a brilliant flash of absolute clarity the way she had last seen them, in person, not frozen in the photographs they had exchanged regularly by mail over the years: a passionately close, loving family, proudly gathered at the airport to see her off in the silvery World War II-vintage DC-3, its twin propellers already whirling, which was to fly her and twenty other passengers to Athens. From there, connecting flights would take her to London and on to New York.
Daliah could imagine her mother in precise detail on that stark sunny morning, one hand pressing down the crown of her wide-brimmed straw hat against a gust of hot wind. At fifty-four, Tamara had still possessed a startling, eye-catching beauty, with teeth—flawlessly capped back in 1930—as toothpaste-advertisement-perfect as they had been when she was the toast of thirties Hollywood. Tamara's hypnotic emerald eyes, gleaming with jewelled radiance so like Daliah's own, coupled with the extraordinarily high Slavic cheekbones and plucked, pencilled-arch brows, had made her the most fabulous face of them all and had been, on that tearful but exhilarating departure, as theatrically expressive as they were in her old black-and-white films.
During the eleven years of separation, Daliah had religiously watched Tamara's old classics whenever they were played at nostalgia festivals or repeated and re-repeated on the late and late-late shows. She had sat through them enthralled, barely believing that the beguiling film siren on the screen could actually be her mother. By the time the end flickered on the screen, she always felt a morose, gnawing pang of guilt and homesickness, vowing to fly to Israel as expeditiously as possible for a long visit.
Now Daliah felt a warm pleasure radiate throughout her body, and her eyes sparkled in anticipation of the reunion she had put off so often, and yet waited and longed for with such keen desperation.
Her thoughts and images switched fondly to her father. How incredibly handsome he had looked that morning when he had come to send her off, his starched short-sleeved khaki shirt stained damp under the armpits, his thick, dark chest hair curling out from the V of his open-throated collar. His manner had always been so authoritative, but beneath it lurked a profound strength, an unshakable belief in what he had helped create, and a bottomless depth of love for his family.
General Dani ben Yaacov was more than a family figurehead adored by his worshipping daughter. He had been a fierce Haganah fighter, battling to thrust Palestine into the fledgling state of Israel, and then had hawkishly protected that most precious of almost holy treasures with a motherlike ferocity so that it might remain an oasis of Jewish freedom amid the simmering turmoil of the otherwise Arab Middle East. Since her departure, he had retired from the military, ironically rising in power in the process: a civilian finally, but nevertheless the staunchest of loyal patriots, he had scoffed at the idea of enjoying his golden years in quiet privacy, and had easily been swayed into being a consultant to the Israeli parliament, swiftly emerging as one of the country's most powerful and influential men. National treasure that he was, it was pitiable that the world knew him primarily as the man for whom the legendary movie queen Tamara had given up the dizzying ivory heights of her Hollywood tower for true love—a love firmly implanted in bedrock from the beginning, a love which had endured all obstacles and grown in strength with each passing year.
Daliah's thoughts were invaded by the imposing presence of Grandpoppa, Schmarya Boralevi himself. Grandpoppa— the only man alive who could, even now, instill a girlish fear and healthy respect in his sophisticated twenty-nine-year-old movie-star granddaughter. At seventy-two, the one-legged patriarch of the family had already been an unofficially deified living legend, a superhuman monument to the era when Jews still fled the pogroms of the Rusian Pale—that area of Eastern Poland and the Ukraine which had been a ghetto since the time of Catherine the Great—to the raw, brawny Promised Land. Now Grandpoppa would be . . . eighty-three? Was that possible? Yes, and doubtless he would exude the same robust health he always had.
Ever since Daliah could recall, Grandpoppa had been the easiest member of her illustrious family to conjure up visually, no matter where he might have been at the moment. His gnarled and gaunt body, with its deeply engraved hide toughened and tanned by decades spent in the relentlessly burning sun, and his shock of unruly sun-bleached white hair and long bushy white beard lent Grandpoppa the foreboding portentousness of a biblical prophet. Which, Daliah considered with gentle blasphemy, wasn't that far from the truth. Grandpoppa had been a modern prophet of sorts, resolutely envisioning a land for the Children of Israel long before it had ever been concretely fought for. His exploits had assumed almost mythic proportions. 'Thundering Schmarya,' he'd been reverently and affectionately nicknamed long ago, and the name had stuck. He could rightfully claim his bigger-than-life stance in the annals of Israeli history alongside such fellow luminaries as Chaim Weizmann and David Ben Gurion, although he incessantly bellowed that he didn't deserve it.
Only Ari ben Yaacov, her tall and handsome older brother, a proud sabra like her, had not yet achieved legendary status.
But he will in time, Daliah assured herself loyally. Ari's made of the same starch and fibre as the rest of us, only he hasn't had the opportunity to prove himself yet. He's a late bloomer, but his time will come. He's liable to outshine us all.
Then the corners of her orange-glossed, sculptured lips puckered into a frown as she was once again confronted with the purpose of her visit. Soon she and Ari would be reunited, but not for long. His wedding loomed two days hence on the horizon, and then he would scoop up his bride and carry her off alone somewhere.
She sighed. Eleven long years had passed, but now Flight 1002 from New York had floated in right on time, and she was home. Home.
What a wonderful word that was. Yet ... A tiny fear nibbled at her. Was this really her home? Or had she been gone for so long and had so much changed that she would find as foreign a place as myriads of others she had visited around the globe?
The chief steward's head appeared over the top of Daliah's seat. 'Welcome home, Miss Boralevi,' he said cheerfully in Hebrew. 'I trust you enjoyed your flight?'
She unclasped her belt and turned her face up to his. 'Yes, I did, thank you.'
He grinned. 'If you'll please follow me now, we'll hustle you off first.'
She leaned over, yanked her Bottega Veneta shoulder bag from under the seat in front of hers, and got to her feet, cautiously testing her land legs. They could use some stretching and exercise; her calves were in knots.
Swiftly sidling from between the seats, she tossed her hair over her shoulders and followed him to the exit. Her spine was straight, her shoulders squared, and her walk, despite the tingling pinpricks of sleeping feet, was as casually graceful and conquering as the most seasoned model's on a fashion runway. As a stewardess prematurely pulled aside the curtain to economy class, Daliah studiously avoided the sea of upturned prying faces and gaping mouths.
She could imagine what they were thinking. Look! For Christ sakes! A real-life movie star! Hey, I wonder, could you autograph . . . ? Could I snap a shot of you and the little woman? . . . Did you see her last flick, the one where she did the nude scene with Mel Gibson? Christ, I'd jump in the sack with her anytime.
The chief steward took his position beside the already open exit to the accordion tunnel connecting the jet to the terminal, a massive square umbilical cord. As promised, an El Al VIP representative was waiting for Daliah.
'Elie's not on duty?' the chief steward asked the VIP rep in surprise. 'I thought he was supposed to meet this flight.'
'You know Elie,' the man said with easy familiarity. 'Panics every time his wife or one of the kids as much as sneezes. I'm temporarily assigned to take his place.' The VIP man turned to Daliah and favoured her with a professional smile. Politely but firmly he touched her elbow and led her toward the terminal.
Frowning, the chief steward watched their receding backs until they turned the corner and were out of sight. Funny, he thought. The VIP man sure was rushing Miss Boralevi.
Hannah, one of the economy stewardesses, rolled her dark eyes at him. 'You always get the biggies. Hey! What's the matter? Why the screwed-up face?'
'I . . . don't know.' He shrugged. Whatever was nagging at his mind had yet to prod his memory. Meanwhile, he had work to do. Blocking the herd of restless economy passengers, he bid each of the first-class passengers a warm, friendly good-bye. Then he let the economy people out.
Too late, he recalled that Elie lived alone with his mother, who had been left crippled after a PLO raid.
Elie had never married. His records would show that, so he'd never use such an asinine excuse to get a day off.
It was a thought which would scratch at his memory for the rest of the day.
Who, then, was the stranger who had sped Daliah Boralevi so efficiently off the aircraft?
'If you'll give me your passport and baggage claims, Miss Boralevi,' the VIP representative was saying to Daliah, 'we can skip the usual formalities.' He smiled pleasantly, but his eyes were curiously cool as he stuck out one olive-skinned hand, palm up.
Daliah nodded and without breaking her leggy stride dug into her bag, handing him her ticket folder and the Israeli passport, sheathed in thin Mark Cross leather with triangular corners fashioned of smoothly polished twenty-four-carat gold.
Eleven years, but I've still kept my citizenship, she told herself approvingly. And I'm glad I did. It would have been so easy to become a naturalized American after five years, but I didn't bow to temptation. I might have stayed away forever, but I didn't have the desire (or courage?) to cut the umbilical tie to my heritage. That counts for something.
Doesn't it?
The man marched Daliah swiftly past the backed-up line of passengers from an Athens flight, flashed her open passport to an official behind the counter, who nodded and waved them past. Then the VIP man guided her efficiently through the crowded, noisy terminal, making a beeline for the exits.
'Wait!' Daliah stopped, turning toward him just as he was sliding her passport and the ticket folder with the stapled-on luggage claims inside his jacket pocket. 'What about my luggage? And I need my passport!'
His smile was cemented in place. 'I'll have the baggage delivered to you by special courier within the hour. The same goes for your passport. Our first consideration is you. We have to be very security-conscious, and you, Miss Boralevi, are an important national treasure. El Al does not like highly visible celebrities, especially one such as yourself, who hails from a prominent family, to be unnecessarily exposed to possible danger in public areas.'
She stood her ground. 'Surely there's a VIP lounge,' she said with irrefutable logic. 'I can wait there while you get the luggage, and save you a lot of trouble. Besides, I can't walk around without my passport. If I remember right, it's against the law here not to carry identification papers at all times.'
He smiled at her typical Israeli regard for official law. 'Don't worry,' he said airily. 'For you, carrying identification has been temporarily waived.' Apparently her logic was refutable after all. 'I have strict orders, and your safety is our sole concern. The car is already waiting outside.'
Her heart surged with eagerness and her eyes glowed with unexpected moisture. The car, with my family in it, no doubt, waiting to welcome me back within the warmth of their loving fold.
Without further delay, her Andrea Pfister heels clacked such a rapid staccato on the tile floor that it was the VIP representative's turn to keep pace. She reached the glass doors with such a rush of speed that she had to wait impatiently for them to glide smoothly apart. Then she burst out into a blaze of such stark white-hot sunshine that she was momentarily blinded. Blinking, Daliah groped in her bag for her huge dark sunglasses and slipped them on. Already her body was wilting, recoiling from the heat. After the air-conditioned cavern of the terminal, the dry broiling heat hit her with the hellish intensity of a blast furnace. The heat and sun were much harsher than she'd remembered, unrelenting and undiluted, of an almost surrealistic clarity. How easily one forgot things like that.
The VIP representative was right behind her, guiding her toward a shiny old Chrysler limousine waiting at the kerb. Its tinted windows were tightly shut, obviously cocooning the interior's air-conditioned coolness from the ungodly temperature outside. The driver waited behind the wheel, and in the back seat, at the far side, Daliah could make out a shadowy figure.
Only one person's come to greet me, she thought with a pang of misgiving. Who would it be? Dani? Or Ari? Perhaps Tamara?
The El Al representative gripped the rust-speckled chrome handle and yanked open the rear door. Daliah ducked inside the big car. Then she clutched the doorframe, her stomach heaving in fear.
It wasn't any of her family come to greet her, but a hawk-nosed, dark-skinned stranger, who was not offering her a welcoming bouquet but a victim's-eye view of the round, malevolent barrel of a revolver. It was lined up point-blank with her suddenly wary green eyes.
Time came to a standstill.
'Welcome to Israel, Miss Boralevi,' the stranger said with a ghastly smile, his Hebrew heavily accented with an Arab dialect.
She blinked and turned slowly as another pistol prodded her spine. The man posing as a VIP representative pressed close behind her, shielding his pistol from any curious onlookers with his body. On the sidewalk behind him, she caught sight of two wiry policemen in short-sleeved uniforms. Her heart gave a hopeful surge.
'I would get in very quietly if I were you,' the voice behind her whispered threateningly. 'If you try anything, you'll get shot, and innocent bystanders will get killed too. We have people staked out all over the airport.'
She didn't doubt him one bit. Wordlessly she climbed into the car. The bogus VIP man got in beside her. The door slammed shut against reality. Two pistols, one to either side of her, pressed through her expensive clothes, into her flesh.
'What's going on?' she demanded as the big car surged off smoothly. Her face was bleak, drained ofits naturally creamy colour.
The men remained silent.
'Tell me. What do you want with me? I've done nothing.'
'Ah. So you too are one of the holy innocents.' The man who had been waiting in the back seat barked a short laugh. 'You have more than your share of skeletons rattling in your family's closet, film star,' he spat out harshly. 'It is time someone paid for them.'
'Paid?' She nearly laughed hysterically, choked it down with an immense effort. 'Whatever for?'
'Let us say ... for the sins of the fathers and the mothers.' His smile was fixed.
'You won't get money from them. They refuse to buckle in to kidnappers' demands. You should know that.'
'It's not money we want.'
Her face burned feverishly. 'What, then?'
'To pay them back ... in kind. Call it payday, if you wish.'
'You know what you are,' she said with a blunt, cool vehemence, somehow managing to keep her voice subdued and steady. 'You're nothing but common criminals. Criminals,' she pronounced a second time, as though needing to make her point twice.
But her mind was racing. What did he mean by 'the sins of the fathers and the mothers'. Was he being metaphorical?
Or was she meant to take it literally?
BOOK ONE
SENDA
1911-1922
Composers, playwrights, choreographers, and dancers found favour, fame, and fortune in pre-revolutionary Russia, but because of the fleeting popularity of its stage stars and the lack of records on film, only a solitary name has survived from the stars of the theatre of that pre-motionpicture era—the legendary Senda Bora.
—Rhea Gallaher, Jr.,
Stage and Screen: A History of World Entertainment
Chapter 1
The pale afternoon sun cast weak, shifting shadows on the soft mossy ground in the birch forest. The canopy of tender green leaves overhead diffused the light even further, softly dappling Senda's purposeful features with a luminous glow. She was humming softly to herself, the tune one of the lighthearted lullabies Grandmother Goldie used to sing to her at bedtime as a child. Now the tune was especially appropriate, she considered. It was soft and lulling, light and innocent, and she appreciated the innocence it conveyed because she knew that the tryst toward which she was hurrying was anything but.
She lifted her heavy quilted skirt and with a swiftly bouncing step darted through the trees, ducking here and there to avoid the low-hanging branches. She breathed the brisk chill air and laughed to herself. Spring had definitely dawned; last night's frost had disappeared. She took it as a good omen and hurried even faster. Soon she left the village far behind, and only once she crested the hill and reached the familiar clearing did she stop to catch her breath.
This was her favourite spot. To her right was the wellspring of the stream which flowed past the village, the water in the small pool clean and crystal clear. She treasured the solitude this spot afforded, and proprietarily thought of it as her own— and his. Here they could make love together, far from prying eyes. Here, too, she could be at peace with only the sounds of the babbling water, the rustling of the leaves, and the chirping of the birds. Surveying the countryside from the clearing, she felt that the world was at her feet, the tiny rustic cottages built of mud, wattle, and wood appearing tinier yet, but the distance made the mean poverty of the village fetching, with the most important building, the synagogue, standing apart, larger and therefore more imposing.
Her breathing returned to normal, and she spun around, her skirt swirling about her legs. Her eyes searched the trees. She was alone.
The anticipation of seeing Schmarya again brought a glowing flush to her cheeks, intensifying her already natural startling beauty. Her face was a blend of her father's finely chiselled features, far too beautiful and delicate in a man but striking in a woman, and her mother's more harsh and determinedly disciplined, though no less eye-catching, strength. In Senda, the distillation was arresting, lending her a peculiar, unearthly beauty all her own. Her face was a perfect oval, with striking Slavic cheekbones, exquisite Botticelli hair and dazzling emerald eyes. Seen close, they were not perfectly emerald, but touched with glints of hazel and slivers of aqua, each a perfect jewel set within a star of copper lashes which matched her thick, gleaming hair. Her eyebrows were bewitching and decidedly witchlike, slanting upward at the ends at an elfin angle, and her skin had the lustre of pearl touched ever so slightly with a faint healthy pink glow. There was a naturally poetic lilt to her carriage, and she was by far the most beguiling young woman in the village, far more lovely, it was said, than even Grandmother Goldie had been, and Goldie Koppel was still as famous for her long-lost beauty as for her razor-sharp tongue. At the tender age of sixteen, Senda's beauty was in its flowering prime. Seated against the thin, supple trunk of the birch under its vast umbrella of green, with her knees drawn up close to her chin, Senda looked remarkably like one of the wood nymphs which populated the fairy tales she'd been told as a child. Not even the voluminous, shapeless quilt of a skirt in its drab shade of mud brown, and the modest off-white peasant blouse unadorned with any finery, not even an inch of lace, could detract from her magical appearance. Her sole feminine adornment was her precious bright scarlet scarf, tied like a sash around her waist. As soon as she'd left the village behind, she'd snatched it off her head and wrapped it around her. It was a desperate attempt at beautification, at the finery she hankered for but knew would forever elude her in this poor, puritanical village. But no matter what she wore, her nineteen-inch waist and well-matured breasts could not be disguised, to the chagrin of her shrewish, domineering mother, her sedate, archconservative husband, Solomon, and her disapproving in-laws. 'She's far too beautiful for her own good,' her mother-in-law, Rachel Boralevi, was all too fond of suspiciously uttering to any sympathetic ear she could find. Not that Rachel Boralevi didn't have a point. But for all her suspicions, even she had begun to admit that maybe Senda wasn't all that bad, and that she had, thank God, settled down since she'd married the apple of Rachel's eye—her dear brilliant and sensitive Solomon. But Rachel Boralevi saw what she wanted to see. She had even begun to take Senda's afternoon walks at face value, and Senda, knowing there was little love lost between them, tried her best to conceal her true self. At home she was demure, almost decorously prim and silent, not so much because she wanted to give a false impression of herself as because she was trapped in a loveless marriage—a marriage which was slowly killing her spirit. And it was this sullen spiritlessness that let Rachel Boralevi breathe a little easier. She was blind to the fire which burned within Senda's emerald eyes. It glowed constantly and turbulently, pleading for the three things she treasured most: freedom, adventure, and true love.
Senda's breasts now heaved with a painful sigh. She knew she was lucky to have managed to leave the house and come here. Only here in the forest clearing could she really be herself. Only here could she breathe freely, without being stifled, without being physically and emotionally fettered in a match not made in heaven. The forest gave her respite from the arranged marriage she so despised. And most important, it gave her the opportunity to steal the few precious hours of love which made life worth living and kept the fire from dying within her eyes.
Her extraordinary features sagged into a most unattractive frown. 'Only me, Grandmother Goldie, and Schmarya,' she said aloud, voicing her misery to a pair of sparrows darting through the trees. 'Why are we the only ones who know how much I despise this marriage? Why?'
Neither the trees nor the birds could answer her question. She fell silent, her frown deepening, remembering that day last year when the shadchen and her family had arranged her loveless union . . .
'She's not built for childbearing,' pronounced a woman's shrill voice. 'You have only to look at her hips. Did any of you notice how narrow they are?' There was a prolonged silence. 'You see!' the woman cried dramatically, smacking her hand resoundingly on her knee with the force of a gunshot. 'What did I tell you? One look at her, and you can see that she'll never give birth! And tell me, what good is a woman who can't have children, eh? You tell me!' Her prognostication was punctuated by the sudden creak of her chair as she sat back in triumph.
Senda felt Grandmother Goldie's gentle hand on her arm and resisted the impulse to stick her head through the open window to give Eva Boralevi a piece of her mind. Instead, she peered cautiously around the edge of the window frame, her face hidden from sight by the dark night and the curtain shifting in the breeze. Through the lace patterns she could see the kitchen of the Boralevi cottage. It was the main room, and it was warmly lit by flickering oil lamps. The faces of all those in the room were aglow with the yellow light. The Boralevi family counsellors, six of them; the shadchen, the official matchmaker who arranged marriages between families; the Valvrojenskis, her own parents, who had been relatively silent; and Uncle Chaim, her father's brother, and, his wife, Aunt Sophie, who had debated vehemently, pointing out her outstanding qualities, one by one, as the Boralevis had seized upon every potential defect. In all, there were eleven people crowded in a semicircle on three-legged stools; only Rachel and Eva Boralevi occupied chairs with backs.
The meeting had already lasted for over two hours, and the debate had just begun to heat up. Now, with Eva Boralevi's grim verdict on childbearing, the debate came to a temporary standstill. Eva Boralevi was the local midwife, and no one dared argue with her when it came to matters of giving birth. Nor did any family want to be saddled with a barren woman.
'I think,' the shadchen said hastily, sensing that the debate had gotten totally out of hand, 'that it's time to take a break and have a nice cup of hot tea.'
'So now we should stay to have tea?' Uncle Chaim growled. 'It's obvious that our Senda isn't good enough for the high-and-mighty Boralevis.'
'Ssssh, ssssh!' Aunt Sophie hushed her husband quickly. Then she smiled around the kitchen. 'Some tea would be very nice.'
Senda felt Grandmother Goldie pulling her aside, away from the window. She let herself be led around the corner, out of earshot. 'I have to go back inside now,' Grandmother Goldie told her. 'I left because I said I had to use the outhouse. I can't stay out here with you forever.'
Senda nodded in the dark. 'But ... I don't want to marry Solomon!' she cried in a low voice. 'You know that, Grandmother Goldie. Meanwhile, they're tearing me to shreds in there—dissecting me like a piece of meat! If they don't want me, why don't they just come out and say it and leave me in peace?' The pale moonlight shone weakly on her miserable features.
'It's not that, Sendale, and you know it. They do want you—'
'But I don't want them!' Senda interrupted vehemently. 'Not Solomon or any of his family!' She sniffed noisily. 'I want nothing to do with any of them!'
'Not any of them?' Grandmother Goldie asked shrewdly.
'Well, Schmarya, yes,' Senda admitted in a voice filled with longing. 'But he's not like the rest of the Boralevis.' Suddenly her emotional dam broke and the words tumbled out of her mouth. 'I love him, Grandmother Goldie! Oh, how I love Schmarya. And he loves me too!'
'I know. I know,' the old woman whispered gently, 'but Schmarya is out of the question. Your parents would never allow you to marry him.'
Senda hung her head. 'I know,' she said miserably.
'And if you know what's good for you, you'll stay far away from him.' Grandmother Goldie's voice grew harsher. 'Schmarya everyone tries to avoid like the plague, and with good reason. Even his parents have washed their hands of him. He has dangerous ideas. You mark my words, one of these days he will come to no good.'
Senda remained silent.
'Now, cheer up.' Grandmother Goldie smiled and took Senda's chin in her hand, raising her granddaughter's head. 'And be very quiet so nobody hears you eavesdrop. When the negotiations are winding up, hurry home. It's not seemly for a young woman to be found eavesdropping. You know how upset finding that out would make your mother.'
'Why should I care about her?' Senda asked, her low voice none the less savage for its softness. 'Mama doesn't want what's best for me.'
'Senda!' Grandmother Goldie hissed sharply. 'Your mother loves you. That you know. She only wants what's best for you and the family. And it's up to you to do what's best for the family too.' She paused, her voice growing gentler. 'Now, pull the shawl tighter around you so you don't catch your death.' She patted Senda's arm and almost reluctantly left her outside while she went back into the cottage.
Senda retraced her steps to the kitchen window.
'You were certainly gone a long time,' Senda's mother complained to Grandmother Goldie when she returned to the Boralevis' kitchen. 'For a moment I thought we should have to check on you. We were afraid the wolves had gotten to you.'
'I should make excuses for my health?' the old woman snapped. 'If you should be so unfortunate to live as long as I have, Esther, it's trouble you'll have with your bowels too.'
Esther Valvrojenski's jaw snapped audibly shut. Outside the window, Senda couldn't help but grin. Grandmother Goldie was the only person who wouldn't let her daughter get the better of her.
'Here, I kept your tea warm for you.' Aunt Sophie handed Grandmother Goldie a steaming glass filled with amber liquid. The old woman took it, popped a lump of sugar into her mouth and took a sip of tea.
'It's good tea, no?' Senda's mother said gushingly. 'Mrs. Boralevi knows just how to brew it perfectly.'
'So now it takes special talent to brew tea?' Grandmother Goldie sniffed. The way the marriage negotiations were proceeding, she couldn't see any reason to suck up to the Boralevis. She chewed quickly on the sugar with the good teeth on the right side of her mouth, swallowed the lumpy granules, and put her cup down after the one sip and pushed it away. Now that she'd tasted the tea and the others had had the chance to simmer down, it was time to get the negotiations back on track. 'Nu,' she said coolly, fixing the shadchen with a hard gaze. 'Are we going to socialize all night or finish what's begun? We've plenty of work awaiting us, and there are plenty of families who'd give their eyeteeth for our Senda's dowry.'
The shadchen flashed Eva a stern warning look. It was clear that the Boralevis had gone just a little too far; the shadchen could sense that Senda was slowly slipping out of the Boralevis' grasp. Mention of the dowry did it: the Boralevis might be more prominent socially, but the Valvrojenskis were far better off financially. If things didn't proceed with more caution, then Senda, and therefore the dowry, would be forever lost to them.
'Dowry aside,' Aunt Sophie put in, smacking her lips, 'it's like an angel our Senda cooks. Of course, she learned from her mother and me. There's no better homemaker in all the village than our Senda.'
Grandmother Goldie leapt into the melee. 'And wasn't I skinny? And didn't I have a fine daughter?' She thrust her jutting chin at Esther. 'And didn't Esther have the fine daughter we're now discussing? Who's to say that Senda cannot have children?' She glared at Eva Boralevi. 'You yourself delivered Senda from hips as narrow as those you hint are barren, or did you forget that?'
Eva suddenly looked nonplussed, and Rachel, Solomon's mother, took over for the Boralevis. 'But can Senda manage household accounts?' she asked smoothly. 'A Talmudic scholar is learned beyond belief, but a way to live in riches it's not.'
'Senda knows how to manage things,' Esther Valvrojenski put in quickly. 'Didn't I myself teach her?'
'But can Senda live on the good graces of many?' Rachel insisted. 'Or is she too proud? Like I said earlier, Solomon, being a brilliant scholar, depends upon the entire village for his livelihood.'
Adroitly Grandmother Goldie picked up the thread of conversation. 'Solomon we bless for all the hours he spends at the shul. But being a scholar isn't exactly the way a fine young man can take care of his family, is it?'
Rachel and Eva looked scandalized. It was blasphemous that anyone should dare question a Talmudic scholar's calling.
Grandmother Goldie seized upon their silence. 'Perhaps our Senda should marry someone more . . . more comfortably well-off?' she suggested, tapping her folded arms with her fingers.
'But why?' Eva asked, her feathers more than ruffled. Her voice grew shrill. 'All of us contribute to the care of Talmudic scholars, no one more than us Boralevis. So tell me, you think once our Solomon is married we'll withdraw our support?'
Grandmother Goldie let her silence speak for itself.
'You forget,' Rachel Boralevi said importantly, 'a Talmudic scholar makes an enviable addition to any family.'
Grandmother Goldie looked at Rachel shrewdly. 'The way I see it,' she said with her usual practicality, 'Solomon needs our Senda and her dowry much more than our Senda needs your brilliant scholar. And of course,' she goaded, laying her trump card out on the table, 'we don't even know if Senda wants to marry him, do we?' She turned her back on them, a sly gloating smile lighting up her ancient face.
The Boralevis were shocked into silence. No self-respecting family let the feelings of a mere child enter into such important decisions. It was unheard-of. What did a girl of fifteen know, anyway? When the negotiations had begun, the Boralevis had been certain it was they who held all the cards. They hadn't expected such a fierce onslaught from Senda's family. What Grandmother Goldie had voiced was true, but it wasn't the kind of thing decent people said—not with a Talmudic scholar at the centre of the argument.
'My mother is right,' Esther Valvrojenski boasted proudly. 'My daughter's dowry is one this village hasn't seen the like of for years. No girl will bring more to a marriage.' She sniffed and wiped her nose. 'Senda is all we have. Even our cottage someday will be hers.'
'And ours will be Solomon's,' Rachel retorted, not to be outdone. Her voice and attitude expressed miffed indignation.
'Mrs. Boralevi!' Aunt Sophie exclaimed. 'How can you say such a thing? It's two sons you have. And Solomon is the younger. Traditionally the older son inherits. Surely they both can't?'
Rachel suddenly looked flustered. She had walked into a trap of her own making. She cursed herself for her stupidity. All evening long, she had adroitly avoided any mention of Schmarya. She did not like the twist these negotiations were taking, not at all. Somehow the tables had turned on her, and the strong position she and her family had started out with had suddenly been undermined. 'Schmarya is not one for life in a small village,' she murmured weakly, her gaze suddenly occupied by studying her folded hands in her lap.
'Then you're disinheriting him?' Grandmother Goldie asked slyly.
Outside the window, Senda had been listening to the negotiations with a mixture of quickening interest and revulsion. She despised Solomon and couldn't for the life of her conceive of sharing his life and bed; nor could she help her morbid fascination with the drama unfolding before her eyes. She prayed fervently that Solomon would never be hers. At the same time, she couldn't help but feel delight at the beating the Boralevis now took. But the moment Schmarya was brought up, the most intense hatred she had ever felt prickled hotly behind her ears. How dare they? she felt like screaming. What right did they have to discuss him? she asked herself savagely. What did they know about Schmarya? Only she knew him . . . knew how he spoke out against injustice . . . knew how he tried to fight their serflike servitude and the anti-Semitic life they were all locked into. He was the solitary outspoken critic of Wolzak, the landowner who bled them all dry, and Czar Nicholas II, whose unfair laws allowed him to do so. Solomon hid behind his books, the entire village buried their heads in their work and only Schmarya had the courage to speak out.
Inside the kitchen, the mention of Schmarya quickly brought preliminary negotiations to a close, and the bargaining began in earnest. Schmarya was the black sheep of the Boralevi family—indisputably, the black sheep of the entire village. Everyone in the room knew, although they had never been proven, that the rumours that Schmarya was involved with a band of anarchists were undeniably true. Which was why Solomon was having such a difficult time of it finding an appropriate wife. Even the rabbi would not permit his homely daughter, Jael, to marry into a family tainted by such a volatile son, although no one would dare speak of it. It was surely only a matter of time before tragedy struck Schmarya. And when it did, then perhaps the entire Boralevi family would suffer the consequences along with him.
'Forty silver coins more,' Eva was saying firmly. Gone suddenly was the careful, crafty game-playing, the verbal shifting of musical chairs. She was seriously bargaining for Senda's dowry now, greed glinting in her sharp dark eyes. 'Plus the hope chest, and the original twenty silver coins you have offered already.'
'Four more silver coins and nothing more,' Senda's father said gruffly.
'Fifteen silver coins more.' Rachel Boralevi eyed the Valvrojenskis shrewdly. 'You should want your only daughter to starve?'
'So maybe if she stays at home and doesn't marry Solomon, she'll eat, nu?' Uncle Chaim interjected heatedly.
'Ten silver coins more,' the shadchen put in quickly, trying to get back into the act of bargaining. So far, the matchmaker had let the negotiations be taken out of her hands, and if she let the others seal the bargain without her, then she was in danger of losing her commission.
'Five coins more,' Senda's father said adamantly, 'as well as the original dowry.'
Rachel Boralevi glanced at her husband. A silent signal seemed to pass between them. Her husband sighed heavily and shook his head sadly. He sat hunched over, as though in great pain. Finally he shrugged. 'Seven more silver coins and we'll call it quits,' he said, 'but as God is my witness, my family for this will suffer.'
'It's settled then,' Senda's mother said quickly.
'We'll drink a toast!' Rachel Boralevi sat up straighter, her eyes shining eagerly. 'Not the chazerei we drink every day. The good wine we've been saving for the holidays.'
Then everyone began talking excitedly all at once. Forgotten now were the tough, cruel accusations of only moments ago.
Suddenly they were all the best of friends.
Outside, Senda clutched the windowsill unsteadily and shut her eyes. She let out a silent moan of intense pain. She felt drained, numb. Her entire world had suddenly collapsed about her. She wished she were dead.
Clapping a hand over her mouth, she stumbled home, tears flooding from her eyes. When she reached her family's cottage on the far side of the village, she fairly flew through the front gate, rushed at the front door, and the moment she burst into the tiny bedroom she shared with Grandmother Goldie, slammed the door shut with such fierce force that the entire cottage shook under the impact.
She flung herself on her narrow bed and sat huddled there, her arms wrapped protectively around her as if she suffered from a mortal wound. Her head lolled forward against her chest, and her face was streaked with tears. She didn't move from her pathetically childlike and vulnerable position. She didn't even lift her head when she heard her parents, Aunt Sophie, Uncle Chaim, and Grandmother Goldie finally return from the Boralevis'. Normally she would have jumped up and run to embrace them, but tonight she didn't care if she never saw them again, with the exception of Grandmother Goldie. Not for as long as she lived. Not after they had so cold-bloodedly bargained for a marriage she found loathsome in her heart and soul.
She heard chairs scrape and creak. In the kitchen, everyone talked at once, and she could hear snatches of the conversation, then the clinking of a bottle as tiny glass cups of precious celebratory wine were half-filled to toast the completion of the marriage negotiations.
'I'm so relieved!' Senda's mother was exclaiming. 'For a moment there, I thought I should suffer a heart attack!' She allowed herself a low laugh, now that the ordeal was over.
'You deported yourself very well, as usual,' her father said loyally.
'Yes, I rather did, didn't I?' Her mother sounded pleased. 'Imagine us, the Valvrojenskis, related to the Boralevis! And Solomon a Talmudic scholar, yet! Such an honour!'
'Yes, a fine young man he is,' Aunt Sophie agreed heartily. 'A good catch. Nothing like that no-good brother of his.'
'For a moment,' Uncle Chaim interjected, 'I was afraid it was all off.'
'And it would have been, too,' Aunt Sophie retorted angrily, 'had I let you walk out like you threatened! Fine things you get us into, Chaim! It's God I thank that I had the finesse and the fortitude to gloss over your outburst. If I hadn't, poor Senda would still be husbandless!'
'I don't count,' Senda thought angrily as the voices rose and fell, carrying clearly into her room. There they sit, congratulating themselves on what a fine match they've found for me. Well, the hell with shadchens and tradition, that's all I've got to say! I won't stand for being haggled over like a piece of meat! I will not be a sacrificial lamb for my mother's social climbing!
Once again her eyes overflowed with tears. She threw herself facedown on the bed, sobbing soundlessly into the pillow as she railed against the injustice of it all. She clapped her hands over her ears to try to drown out the voices from the kitchen, but she only succeeded in muting them somewhat.
'L'Chaim!' her father's voice rang out all too clearly.
'L'Chaim!' came the answering chorus. Glasses were clinked, and the toast drunk.
'Ah. Good wine,' Uncle Chaim said with a deep sigh of contentment. 'Better than the Boralevis'.'
In the kitchen, Grandmother Goldie had watched the others throw back their heads and swallow the wine, their faces flushing slightly under the glow of the rich ruby-red liquid. She looked down at her untouched glass. Now the others stared at her.
'You should think Senda would be invited to join in the toast,' Grandmother Goldie said quietly.
Senda's mother, who was seated beside her husband, smiled vaguely. Now that the negotiations were over, she was breathing easily, and the wine was making her feel heady and expansive. 'Oh, I don't think Senda would be interested,' she said. 'What's she to do with it?'
'It's her life,' Grandmother Goldie reminded her daughter. 'It's she who has to live with Solomon Boralevi.'
Senda's mother caught the unmistakably brittle tone in Grandmother Goldie's voice. 'And it's a fine young man he is,' she responded without hesitation. 'Senda's a very lucky girl.'
'Certainly she is,' Aunt Sophie echoed. 'She should count her blessings. It's not every girl who catches a Talmudic scholar. Such prestige.'
Grandmother Goldie stared first at her daughter-in-law, Sophie, then at Esther, her daughter. This was unbelievable. A marriage should be built on a firm foundation. And should not love be a part of it? Had they all forgotten that? And hadn't Senda made her feelings about Solomon clear time and again? Yes, but nobody had chosen to listen. 'Senda doesn't love Solomon,' she stated quietly as she set her untouched wine on the kitchen table. 'Has that not occurred to any of you?'
Senda's mother waved her hand in irritation. 'Then she will come to love him in time,' she said quickly. 'Love has to grow. In the beginning, it's like it was with us . . . all of us.' She nodded at her husband. 'From duty springs love.'
'That's all you have to say about it, then?'
Senda's mother nodded emphatically with self-righteousness. 'That's our final decision. The marriage ceremony will take place as planned next month.'
Later, when the cottage was quiet, Grandmother Goldie tiptoed softly into the little bedroom she shared with Senda. The window was open, and the curtains fluttered with the chill night air. She looked down at her grandchild. Senda was lying under the covers, her face turned toward the wall. Her breathing was coming regularly, as though she were asleep, but Grandmother Goldie knew she was pretending.
'Sendale, child, I know you're awake.'
Senda let out a stifled sob.
Grandmother Goldie took a seat on the edge of Senda's narrow bed. 'It's not the end of the world, child,' she tried to reassure her softly.
Senda didn't turn around. When she spoke, it was in a thick, muffled mumble. 'Yes. It is.'
Grandmother Goldie sighed heavily. 'Please, Sendale, listen to what I have to say to you.'
Obediently Senda sat up and faced her grandmother in the dark.
'That's better.' Grandmother Goldie spoke haltingly, choosing her words with care. 'Like it or not, a few things in life you must understand and accept. Now you are fifteen, almost sixteen, not a child anymore. You are a woman, and it is our lot to be hardworking and obedient.'
'And suffer through marriage to someone revolting?'
'Don't be so stubborn!' Grandmother Goldie whispered. She shook her head. 'You may be a woman now, but you are still a child in many ways.'
'Am I?' Even in the dark, Grandmother Goldie could feel her granddaughter's challenging gaze burning into her.
'No, you're not,' the old woman admitted at long last. 'But you must go through with this marriage nevertheless, no matter how distasteful it may seem to you. It would break your poor parents' hearts if you didn't. The shame of it! They'd never be able to live it down.'
'But I can?' Senda countered in a low voice. "I'm the one who has to live with him. I'm the one who's expected to give birth to Solomon's children.' She paused. 'Grandmother Goldie . . .' she began haltingly.
Goldie reached out and embraced her granddaughter. 'Yes, child?'
It was then that the torrent of misery broke and the words burst forth from Senda's lips. Quietly keening, she cried into her grandmother's warm, gaunt bosom. 'Oh, it's not Solomon I love,' she moaned over and over. 'It's his brother, Schmarya. What will I do? I can't live without Schmarya!'
'You mustn't speak such things! You must get Schmarya completely out of your mind. Do you understand?'
'How can I?' Senda cried. 'It's him I love. And he loves me.'
'You must!' Grandmother Goldie insisted sharply. 'This is evil! To think of your betrothed's brother in such a way!'
Senda was silent.
'Promise me!' Grandmother Goldie's voice was sharper than Senda had ever heard it. 'You must never speak of this again! You must banish it from your mind forever!'
Senda's eyes were as lacklustre as the dark.
Grandmother Goldie shook her. 'Promise me!' she hissed, her fingers digging into Senda's arms.
Senda shrugged. 'If you insist,' she mumbled without conviction.
'Promise me!'
'I promise.'
Goldie let out a deep breath of relief. Then she held her only grandchild in her arms, rocking her back and forth as though she were a baby. She too was crying, not for lost love but because she knew that by insisting Senda marry Solomon, she had betrayed her grandchild, the person on earth she loved above all others. 'You'll see,' she murmured soothingly, 'everything will be for the best.'
Gently Senda pulled herself out of her grandmother's arms. 'Marriage entails ... so many things.'
'It is only your duty you have to do.'
'But I'll have to . . . you know, nights . . .'
'That will come naturally,' Grandmother Goldie told her sternly. 'You should think of your physical duties now? In time, you'll get used to it.'
But Senda never did.
The night of her marriage, when Solomon stiffly stepped out of his best clothes, folding each piece neatly on the chair before taking off the next, a nauseating revulsion held Senda in its grip. She turned away from him, able to bear him in his nakedness even less than she could when he was clothed. She was sickened by his thick facial beard and even thicker pelt of dark body hair. His pale scrawny body and thin, erect penis disgusted her even more. When he slid naked under the covers beside her, she lay there unmoving, unyielding as a rock. 'Good night, Solomon,' she said with abrupt finality, pulling the quilt higher around her neck.
His hands moved under the covers. 'I love you, Senda,' he said softly.
'I'm tired,' came her reply. She wanted to jump out of bed, run outside in her flannel nightgown, and dash home to her own comforting little bed in the room she had shared with Grandmother Goldie. Yet she knew she didn't dare. She was honour and duty-bound to share Solomon's life and bed. Anything else was unthinkable.
She cringed as she felt him plant a clumsy wet kiss on the nape of her neck. 'I ... I don't feel well,' she pleaded, fighting down the nausea rising in her throat. 'Maybe it was all the wine, or the dancing . . .'
'Don't you love me?' Solomon sounded hurt. He nudged closer to her, and Senda could feel his moist penis rigid against her buttocks.