Andras gave a sigh and put a hand on Ben Yakov’s hand. “All right,” he said. “I’ll write to Tibor. And I’ll talk to Klara.”

…

12 December 1938

Modena, Italy

Andráska,

I consider it an honor to be asked to conduct the future Madame Ben Yakov to Paris. I’m glad to be of help to any friend of yours. I do feel for the girl’s parents, though. What will they think when they learn she’s gone? I hope Ben Yakov will reconcile with them as soon as he can. He may be just charming enough to pull it off. Please have him wire me Signorina di Sabato’s train information and I will meet her at the station in Firenze.

As for me, I’m more than ready to spend a few indolent weeks with you in your self-loving city. I’m exhausted. No one warns medical students that the course of study itself may produce any number of the diseases studied. I hope I may cure myself with sleep, wine, and your company.

Madame Morgenstern’s book of anatomy continues to serve me well. I’ll always be in debt to her for that gift. But please tell her not to make me any more such presents in the future! When my friends see that I own such a fine book, they overestimate my wealth and expect me to buy them dinner. At this rate I will soon be ruined entirely. In the meantime, I remain

your merely impoverished brother,

TIBOR

Andras brought the letter to Klara and asked for her help. Accompanying him was François Ben Yakov; it was the first time he had made Klara’s acquaintance. He had dressed for the occasion in a jacket of fine black wool and a red tie figured with barley-sized fleurs-de-lis. As Ben Yakov held Klara’s hands in his own and begged her understanding, meeting her gaze with his dark film-star eyes, Andras half-wondered if Klara might fall under the spell Ben Yakov seemed to cast upon every woman he met. She was enchanted enough to agree to help, at least; she allowed Ben Yakov to kiss her hand and to call her an angel. Once Ben Yakov had gone, leaving Andras and Klara alone, she laughed and said she could see why he caused such trouble among the young ladies of his acquaintance.

“I hope you won’t elope with him before the bride arrives,” Andras said. He pulled a chair close to the fire for her and they sat down to watch the coals burn low.

“Not a chance,” Klara said, and smiled. But then her expression grew serious, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I share your brother’s reservation, though. I wish the girl didn’t have to run away. Would it really have been impossible for Ben Yakov to approach her father?”

“Would you allow your daughter to marry François Ben Yakov? Particularly if you’d raised her as an observant Jew? I’m afraid Ben Yakov was right when he came to the conclusion that they had to do it in secret.”

Klara sighed. “What will my own daughter think?”

“She’ll think she has a compassionate and understanding mother.”

“I understand too well,” Klara said. “So will Elisabet. This Florentine girl is restless, most likely. She wants a way out of the fate her parents have chosen for her. So she imagines herself to be in love with your friend. She must be very strong-willed if she’s ready to leave her family behind for his sake.”

“Strong-willed, indeed,” Andras said. “And in love. To hear him tell it, she wants to come more than anything. And he wants it too.”

“Do you think he can make her happy?”

Andras looked into the fire, at the heat swimming up through the coals. “He’ll do his best. He’s a good man.”

“I hope he does,” she said. “I hope he is.”

On the night of Tibor and Ilana’s arrival they all went to the station to meet the train. They stood in a group on the platform, Andras and Klara and Polaner, Rosen and Shalhevet, while Ben Yakov paced the platform a little distance away; in one clenched hand he held a nosegay of pansies for Signorina di Sabato. Pansies were a terrible extravagance in winter, but he’d insisted upon buying them. They were the flowers he’d given her when they first met.

It was Shalhevet who spotted the train, the speck of light far off down the line. They heard the throaty alto notes of the whistle; their group pressed forward with the rest of the Parisians who’d come to meet their holiday visitors. The train pulled in, letting off a skirt of steam, and the waiting crowd surged closer still as it came to a stop. After a maddeningly long time, the doors opened with their metallic clack and the gold-epauletted conductors jumped down onto the platform. Everyone took half a step back and waited.

Tibor was among the first to appear. Andras saw him at the door of one of the third-class cars, his expression anxious and weary; he held a pale green bandbox and a lady’s fancy umbrella. He moved aside to make way for a young girl with a long dark braid, who paused on the top step to cast a searching look over the crowd.

“It’s her,” Ben Yakov shouted over his shoulder to them. “It’s Ilana!” He called her name and waved the pansies. And the girl broke into an anxious smile so beautiful that Andras nearly fell in love with her himself. She came down the steps and crossed the platform to meet Ben Yakov, stopping just short of running into his arms, and let forth a stream of quick and insistent Italian as she gestured toward the train. Andras wondered how Ben Yakov could keep from embracing her; it gave him a moment’s worry before he remembered it was forbidden by her observance. Ben Yakov would not touch her until he placed the ring on her finger at the wedding. But she raised her eyes to him with a look more intimate than an embrace, and he offered her the pansies, and she gave him that smile again.

Tibor had crossed the platform behind Signorina di Sabato; he set the bandbox at her feet and propped the umbrella against it. She spoke a few words in a tone of gratitude and he made a quiet reply, not meeting her gaze. Then he put an arm around Andras, bent to his ear, and said, “Congratulations, little brother.”

“Congratulate Ben Yakov!” Andras said. “He’s the groom.”

“He is now,” Tibor said. “But you’ll be next. Where’s your bride?” He went to Klara, kissed her on both cheeks and embraced her. “I’ve never had a sister,” he told her. “You’ll have to teach me how to be a proper brother to you.”

“You’ve got a fine start,” Klara said. “Here you are, all the way from Modena.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be very good company tonight,” Tibor said. He put a hand on Andras’s sleeve. “I’ve got a rather bad headache. I don’t think I’m fit for a celebration at the moment.” In fact he seemed overcome with exhaustion; he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with two fingers before he greeted the others. He shook Ben Yakov’s hand, gave Polaner an appreciative clap on the shoulder, told Rosen what a pleasure it was to see him with such a lovely companion. And then he drew Andras aside.

“Get me to bed,” he said. “I’m whipped. I think I may be ill.”

“Of course,” Andras said. “We’ll get your bags and go.” He had planned to accompany Signorina di Sabato to Klara’s house, to see her comfortably settled there, but Klara insisted she could manage on her own. There wasn’t much to transport: Signorina di Sabato had a small trunk and a wooden crate in addition to the bandbox, and those pieces, along with the fancy umbrella, made up the sum of her possessions. They got everything to the curb and Ben Yakov hailed a cab. He held the door for Signorina di Sabato and ushered her inside; to preserve her modesty he allowed Klara to slide in next. Finally, with a salute to the rest of them, he ducked into the cab and pulled the door closed.

Rosen and Shalhevet remained on the sidewalk with Andras and his brother. “Won’t you come have a drink?” Rosen asked.

Tibor made his apologies in his confident but skeletal French, and Shalhevet and Rosen assured him that they understood. Andras called another cab. He had thought they might walk home, but Tibor looked as if he might fall to his knees at any moment. He was quiet on the way to the rue des Écoles; all he would say about the journey was that it had been long and that he was relieved it was over.