Life, After Read online

  “I’m frightened, mi amor. I’m forty-eight years old, no longer a spring chicken. How am I supposed to start over again in a new country?”

  “Because we’ll do this together, querido. We’ll give each other strength, just like we always have.”

  “How do we explain it to the girls?”

  “We tell them the truth—that we’re moving to America for opportunity, for hope, for a chance at a better life,” Mamá said. “It’s not like we’re the first ones to leave. Dani told me the Sabans are moving to Miami, and the Tenenbaums made aliyah earlier this year.”

  “Well…what do you think about that, Estela? Are we better off moving to Israel?” Papá asked. “The Israeli government is offering great incentives. Maybe that would be better for us.”

  “But in America we have Jacobo,” Mamá said. “Family is something, isn’t it, if we’re giving up everything else?”

  “I’ve lost my sister, my parents, my business, and we’re about to lose our apartment,” Papá sighed. “Having family isn’t just something; it’s all we have left.”

  Chapter Four

  THE NEXT NIGHT over our candlelit dinner—we still had no electricity—my parents told us that we were moving to America. I acted surprised.

  “America! So are we going to meet movie stars? And cowboys?” Sarita asked. “Oooh! Can we go to Disney World?”

  “Don’t be so stupid, Sari,” I said. “We can’t even afford to pay the electric bill; how do you expect us to go to Disney World?”

  If looks could kill, I would have been buried in La Recoleta Cemetery with Evita Perón. I’m not sure whose glare was more deadly, Mamá’s or Papá’s. I felt bad when I saw Sari’s lower lip start to quiver. What I said was the truth, but she was only seven. Why not let her dream a little?

  “Someday we’ll go to Disney World, querida,” Mamá said. “But probably not right away.”

  “You promise, though? We’ll definitely go someday?” Sari sniffed.

  Mamá and Papá exchanged glances.

  “We promise. Someday,” Papá said gruffly.

  Yeah, like when you’re sixty, I wanted to say, but this time I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

  “So when are we leaving?” I asked.

  “As soon as we can get the visas and make the arrangements,” Mamá said. “It takes longer since 9/11. I want you to work very hard on your English lessons in the meantime. The school year runs differently in America—not from March to December like here in Argentina. So if we get the visas in time, we’ll leave when you have your winter break in July, then you’ll start school at the beginning of their school year in September.”

  “So I won’t even get a summer holiday?” I asked.

  “No,” Mamá said. “Because it will be winter in New York in December, not summer. The school year runs until the following June, and then you’ll have a long vacation during the American summer.”

  Estupendo. Not only did I have to leave my country and start in a new school, but I had to live through a neverending school year in order to do it. Still. It could have been worse. We could have stayed in Argentina and ended up living in a villa mísera. Given the alternative, going to school for a few extra months didn’t seem like the end of the world. Although, said the cynical, pessimistic voice inside me, that depends on the school, doesn’t it?

  I told that voice to be quiet, because I had enough to worry about.

  The following month was incredibly busy. We spent hours on line at the American Embassy, waiting to be interviewed for our visas. Sarita alternated between hyperactive excitement and whiny boredom, and I was always waiting for the moment when Papá would explode in front of all the other hopeful immigrants. Mamá and I took turns leaving the line to take Sari for walks, or to read to her from the English storybooks we took out of the library. We were all trying to practice our English as much as we could. Our conversations at home ended up being strange mixtures of Spanglish, where we’d start a sentence in English, then switch to Spanish when we didn’t know the word. I was copying out words of vocabulary every night, trying to memorize at least forty new words a day. Roberto was doing the same, and we’d test each other as we walked to the park after school.

  When our summer break started in mid-December and the date of his departure drew near, we spent even more time together, as much as we could. He met me outside my apartment one day with an “Adjectives for People” list that he’d gotten off the Internet.

  “‘Crazy,’” Roberto said.

  “‘Loco,’” I said. “Kind of how this is all starting to make me feel. Here’s one…‘beautiful.’”

  “‘Guapa,’” Roberto said. “Like you, Dani.”

  I felt my cheeks flushing. “I’m sure you won’t even miss me when you see all the ‘beautiful’ girls in Miami.”

  “Well, here’s another word for you. They will all look ‘ugly’ to me, because they aren’t you.”

  “‘Feo,’” I said. “But I bet they won’t. Still, it’s nice of you to say.”

  I sighed, looking around the familiar streets, where we’d walked so many times before.

  “Even though I know leaving Argentina is the right thing, I’m still ‘sad’ that we have to do it.”

  “‘Triste,’” Roberto said. “Me too. ‘Sad’ to leave Argentina. ‘Sad’ to leave my home and my friends. ‘Sad’ to leave you, Dani.”

  He took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Still, mi amor. It’s not going to be all bad, is it? Maybe we should try to think of the parts that are going to be ‘interesting.’ And ‘exciting.’”

  “‘Interesante y emocionante,’” I said. “I know. There’s a part of me that is excited to see what the future holds. Like do you ever wonder if life in America will really be like it looks on the TV shows?”

  Roberto laughed. “I’m pretty sure the people in your high school won’t be as perfect looking. And if I’m wrong, I want to know about it right away so I can tell my parents to move to New York!”

  His family was leaving the next day. Our remaining time together was so short and precious: so many memories to try to cram into a brief space. We reached our bench and I sat with my head on his shoulder, relishing the feel of his arm around me, the sensation of his lips brushing against my hair and my forehead. A nagging voice inside said I should be at home, helping Papá to look after Sarita while my mother was at work. I ignored the voice because I wanted this time with Roberto, I needed it, because for all I knew I would never have moments like this again.

  The branches of the ombú tree reached over us like a mother’s arms, as if to hug us to our native soil.

  “Do you think we’ll ever belong again, the way we do here?” I asked, between kisses. “Or do you think in America, we’ll always be extranjeros? I mean, don’t you hate what they call you on the visa—an ‘alien,’ like you come from outer space or something?”

  Roberto attempted to soothe me with more kisses. He took his fingers and tried to smooth away the furrows in my brow.

  “Dani, you worry too much.”

  “Yes, well, I think it’s an inherited trait.”

  He laughed. “Well, try to relax. Do yoga. Meditate. Kiss me.”

  “I would kiss you with pleasure. Problem is, you aren’t going to be around, are you?”

  “True. And I don’t want you kissing anyone else. So it’ll have to be yoga or meditation.” His lips met mine gently, and he brushed a loose strand of hair off my face. “Just try not to worry so much, querida. We’ll adjust.”

  I threw my arms around his neck and burst into sobs. I couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t see him anymore, wouldn’t feel his arms around me, or his lips on mine.

  “Oh, Roberto…what will I do without you?”

  “You’ll survive, Dani. The same way I’ll have to learn to live without you.”

  Roberto walked me back to my apartment. I must have looked like a vampire; my eyes were so red from crying.

  “Well, I guess this is i
t, Dani,” he said when we reached the corner where we always said our good-byes. My sight blurred with tears once more.

  “You will…write me…won’t you?”

  He lifted my chin, so I was looking at him instead of the cracks in the sidewalk, where I’d focused to hide my tears.

  “You think I’m going to walk away right now and you’ll never hear from me again? Hah! You should be so lucky, Daniela Bensimon…You can’t get rid of Roberto Saban that easily.”

  I let out a really unattractive snort of laughter through my tears, but that didn’t seem to bother Beto. He wiped my tears away with his thumbs and kissed me again, for once not caring if my father happened to see.

  “Just to make sure you don’t forget me, I got you this,” he said, taking a small box out of his pocket.

  I opened it, and there on a thin silver chain was a small heart pendant.

  “I had to fight with my father to let me have some of my Bar Mitzvah money to buy it,” he said. “Not that my Bar Mitzvah money is worth a fraction of what it used to be.”

  He took it out of the box and helped me fasten it around my neck.

  “Thank you, querido,” I said. “I wish I could have bought you something.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I have the pictures.”

  The week before, Beto had dragged me into one of those instant photo booths and we’d taken our picture together. The machine took four photos and he ripped the strip in half so we each had two.

  “Hasta la vista, mi amor,” Roberto said, and walked away down the street, looking back over his shoulder and blowing me one last kiss before he turned the corner out of sight.

  I stood on the street, watching the empty space where I’d last seen him, feeling like my heart was breaking. Then I wiped my tears on my sleeve and headed home to rescue Sarita from Papá.

  Chapter Five

  IT WAS JULY 18, 2003, at nine fifty-three in the morning. It was also my birthday, the last one I would have in Argentina, so there wasn’t much reason for joy. Nine years ago that day, a bomb ripped through the AMIA building, killing Tía Sara and all of the others. We were standing at 633 Pasteur Street in front of the black wooden panels with the names of the victims spray painted in white, and the photographs. I always found it so hard to look at them. When I saw Tía Sara’s picture, smiling, happy, her dark curls, so like Sarita’s, flowing over her shoulders, I expected her to walk out of the frame and embrace me. But she was trapped in the frame, her forever-smiling face inconsistent with the horrific way that she died.

  When Tía Sara’s name was called, we went up as a family. Papá lit a yahrtzeit candle and Mamá placed a red rose in a vase next to Tía Sara’s picture.

  As I watched the candles burning in front of the Wall of Memory, I wondered who would come now. When we were living five thousand miles away in America, who would be there to light a candle for Tía Sara, to honor her memory and say prayers for her soul in the place where she died?

  Her parents were dead—her father, my abuelo Oscar, died of a heart attack six months after the bombing; the doctors said it was brought on by the stress. And my abuela Debora died last year, not long after Papá lost the business, of breast cancer. Sometimes I wondered if that had been brought on by the stress, too. With Tío Jacobo already in America, there would be no one left here to say kaddish, the memorial prayer for the dead. More than anything, that was what brought home to me the fact that we were going, that we were leaving Argentina for good.

  My tears were for more than the bombing. For more than Tía Sara and the rest of the victims. I was crying for the future July 18s when we would be far away; where people might not understand why July 18 had such a dreadful meaning for us. I was crying for the following year, and the years after that, when Tía Sara’s picture wouldn’t have anyone to light a candle or place a rose. I was crying because I was scared of staying in Argentina, but I was scared of leaving, too. I was crying so hard that I set off Sarita.

  Mamá’s own eyes were wet, but she drew tissues from her bag and tried to calm the two of us.

  “Come, girls, no more tears. Sari, you never knew your tía Sara, but Dani, you know how much she enjoyed life, how she looked forward to each and every day. Let’s honor her memory by being happy, not by crying.”

  Easy for you to say. But I see the tears in your eyes, too.

  Papá was acting completely shell-shocked. He’d become more and more remote as the date of our departure approached, and for him, being down on Pasteur Street always brought back memories of that awful day and night, the waiting, the interminable waiting without knowing if Tía Sara was alive. He walked as if he were moving through thick molasses, every step slow and sticky. I could see he wouldn’t be much help with the final packing. It would all be down to Mamá and me, as so much had been in the last few months.

  After the ceremony at Pasteur Street, we took the bus to the Jewish cemetery and visited Tía Sara’s grave. We each found a smooth stone to place on the grave, instead of flowers, according to Jewish custom. Papá mumbled Mourner’s Kaddish, and we stood looking at Tía Sara’s headstone for what might be the last time. Who knew if or when we would be back to place another stone?

  I went to find stones to place on my abuelo and abuela’s grave, too. I wanted them to know that they were remembered and loved, even if we would be far away in another land. It was so hard to leave Argentina when we were literally leaving our flesh and blood behind us.

  “Are we doing the right thing, Abuela?” I whispered to my grandparents’ headstone. “Will Papá be himself again, Abuelo? Do you think everything will turn out okay?”

  The gravestone remained silent. All I could hear was the wind in the trees and the beating of my heart.

  The night before, as a birthday present, Mamá had given me a little money so I could go have a cappuccino in one of the cafés on Avenida Corrientes with my remaining school friends, to celebrate my birthday and say good-bye. Roberto had sent me a birthday card with a picture of him leaning against a palm tree, wearing a Miami Dolphins T-shirt. David propped the picture up on the table with the salt and pepper shakers, so we could pretend that Beto was there with us.

  My friends chipped in and bought some alfajores for us to share, and for that hour or so it almost felt like old times, before the Crisis, when we used to be able to do things like that all the time. So much so that sitting there with Sofia and Mili, Leo and David, I wondered if we were doing the right thing by leaving.

  But as I walked home from the café in the chilly winter rain, past empty storefronts where there had been thriving businesses before the Crisis, I knew that the hour I’d spent with my friends, while fun, had been like an illusion: an escape from reality, not how things really were. Their families were suffering, too. It had been a big extravagance for all of us just to be in a café buying a coffee and some cookies, something two years ago we wouldn’t have thought about twice.

  Mamá must have scrimped and saved, because she found extra money to get chocolate to make a cake to eat on my actual birthday, July 18, Tía Sara’s day, the night before we were leaving. It was supposed to be a surprise, but Sarita was so excited about it she let it slip.

  “Dani, I can’t wait for after dinner because we’re having a cake for you and it’s your favorite, chocolate!” she told me. “But don’t tell anyone because it’s a surprise.”

  I struggled to keep a straight face, but promised to keep it a secret.

  I think I acted surprised enough to fool Mamá when she brought out the cake. Sari was jumping around the kitchen table, so hyper that I was afraid Papá would start shouting at her, but he was still in the far-off place where he’d retreated down at Pasteur Street.

  Even though I’d been dreaming about it for months, I’d forgotten just how good chocolate cake tasted. Sari, Mamá, and I each had two pieces. Papá had one, but I wondered if he even tasted it.

  He went to bed right after dinner, despite the fact that there was all the last-minute pa
cking to do. I wished I could tune out the world the way he did. Sarita was the total opposite. She was so excited about going on her first airplane, an excitement only heightened after the chocolate cake, that I was worried she’d be up all night.

  “So how does the plane get off the ground if it’s filled with all the people and the luggage and everything? Isn’t it too heavy?”

  “No, Sari. It has very big engines to help it lift off, and then there are laws of thermo-something-or-other. Thermodynamics, I think it’s called. You’ll learn about it when you’re older.”

  “But you’re older and you don’t know about it.”

  “That’s because I haven’t taken physics yet.”

  “What do you think it’s like in America? Do you think I’ll make friends?”

  Sari might have been eight years younger than me, but we were still worrying about the same things.

  “I’m sure you’ll make friends,” I assured her. “After all, who wouldn’t want to be friends with someone as wonderful as you?”

  Sarita smiled and threw her arms around me.

  I only wished I could say the same thing to myself and believe it.

  She finally snuggled into bed with her scrap of blanket, her Baba, but just as I thought she was about to drift off she sat up and asked, “We’ll be able to take Baba with us to America, won’t we?”

  I went over and stroked her forehead. “Of course, Sari. Baba can come with us on the plane. We’ll pack it in your hand luggage tomorrow morning, first thing, before we leave for the airport.”

  “You promise?” she said. “You won’t forget?”

  “I won’t forget. I promise.”

  But just in case, I searched around for a piece of scrap paper and a pen and wrote BABA in big letters, then placed it on the floor by my bed where I’d be sure to see it.