noting for the first time that the maid seemed pale and her face, always surly, was newly expressionless. But that was to be expected, Ida supposed. Katya had been expelled from innocence.
Slowly, Ida mounted the stairs to her own room. She studied her face in the mirror and saw, with relief, that her skin retained its glow, her eyes their emerald brightness.
“Everything will be all right,” she assured herself.
She closed her eyes and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Chapter Six
Ida awakened late the next morning and stared out at the mist that clouded the windowpanes. Impulsively, she thrust the window open and leaned out, allowing the cool moisture to bathe her face. The door to her room was slightly ajar, and she could hear her mother discussing the chores of the day with Katya. There was laundry to be done and silver to be polished, the carpets needed airing, and the dining room floor had to be waxed. Ida listened, soothed by the cadence of Bella’s voice and by the unaltered pattern of the day’s routine. Her world might have changed, but it had not, after all, come to an end.
She dressed quickly, selecting a white woolen dress that both her parents particularly liked. She acknowledged, as she twisted her hair into a coppery coil, that she was dressing to please them, and she knew exactly why she was making such an effort. Bella and Marc, consummate actors on so many stages in so many countries, had taught her the importance of costume, the impact of appearances. She glanced at herself in the mirror, brushed a stray tendril away from her forehead, and left her room.
Bella was seated at her escritoire, pen in hand, studying the entries she had made in her copy book the previous day. Ida knew that it was her mother’s habit to reread her work each morning, often discarding much of it in her endless pursuit of perfection. Ida carried her coffee and croissant into the salon.
“ Bon matin, Maman ,” she said, placing her hand on Bella’s shoulder.
Bella smiled and looked up at her. “It’s late. Aren’t you going to La Palette today?”
“No. I had a difficult time at the studio yesterday. My work there, at least the painting, is not going well.”
“Painting does not come easily. Nor does writing,” Bella said ruefully and glanced down at her notebook.
“It comes easily enough to Papochka .” Ida dipped her croissant into the milky coffee, relieved that she was able to eat without experiencing the nausea of the previous morning.
“But your father is a genius,” Bella responded reprovingly.
“Where is he this morning?” Ida asked.
“He went to an exhibition of Matisse’s work. He’s interested in Henri’s use of mirrors.”
“And I suppose he’s interested in mastering the technique himself,” Ida said, and she and Bella exchanged smiles in shared recognition of Marc’s incessant pursuit of the secrets of other artists, his unbridled determination to emulate and exceed. Like a greedy precocious child, he gobbled up new skills. He would be a ceramist, and a painter; he would work on stained glass and create intricate etchings. He would design stage sets and illustrate fables and biblical tales. His boundless energy and his capacity for work and for the acquisition of new skills aroused both their admiration and amusement.
“Actually, he thought of asking you to go with him,” Bella continued, “because Henri was always so fond of you. But I told him you would probably be too tired. Katya said you came in rather late last evening.”
“Yes. I went shopping and then I visited a friend.”
“Someone we know?” Bella asked cautiously.
“No. A friend I met at the encampment. A doctor. Elsa Liebowitz.”
“Liebowitz?” Bella’s brow was furrowed. “A Polish girl?”
“It didn’t occur to me to ask,” Ida replied coldly.
Her parents’ snobbery irritated her. Marc and Bella cultivated friendships with the intellectual and artistic elite of Paris. The Jewish
Slowly, Ida mounted the stairs to her own room. She studied her face in the mirror and saw, with relief, that her skin retained its glow, her eyes their emerald brightness.
“Everything will be all right,” she assured herself.
She closed her eyes and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Chapter Six
Ida awakened late the next morning and stared out at the mist that clouded the windowpanes. Impulsively, she thrust the window open and leaned out, allowing the cool moisture to bathe her face. The door to her room was slightly ajar, and she could hear her mother discussing the chores of the day with Katya. There was laundry to be done and silver to be polished, the carpets needed airing, and the dining room floor had to be waxed. Ida listened, soothed by the cadence of Bella’s voice and by the unaltered pattern of the day’s routine. Her world might have changed, but it had not, after all, come to an end.
She dressed quickly, selecting a white woolen dress that both her parents particularly liked. She acknowledged, as she twisted her hair into a coppery coil, that she was dressing to please them, and she knew exactly why she was making such an effort. Bella and Marc, consummate actors on so many stages in so many countries, had taught her the importance of costume, the impact of appearances. She glanced at herself in the mirror, brushed a stray tendril away from her forehead, and left her room.
Bella was seated at her escritoire, pen in hand, studying the entries she had made in her copy book the previous day. Ida knew that it was her mother’s habit to reread her work each morning, often discarding much of it in her endless pursuit of perfection. Ida carried her coffee and croissant into the salon.
“ Bon matin, Maman ,” she said, placing her hand on Bella’s shoulder.
Bella smiled and looked up at her. “It’s late. Aren’t you going to La Palette today?”
“No. I had a difficult time at the studio yesterday. My work there, at least the painting, is not going well.”
“Painting does not come easily. Nor does writing,” Bella said ruefully and glanced down at her notebook.
“It comes easily enough to Papochka .” Ida dipped her croissant into the milky coffee, relieved that she was able to eat without experiencing the nausea of the previous morning.
“But your father is a genius,” Bella responded reprovingly.
“Where is he this morning?” Ida asked.
“He went to an exhibition of Matisse’s work. He’s interested in Henri’s use of mirrors.”
“And I suppose he’s interested in mastering the technique himself,” Ida said, and she and Bella exchanged smiles in shared recognition of Marc’s incessant pursuit of the secrets of other artists, his unbridled determination to emulate and exceed. Like a greedy precocious child, he gobbled up new skills. He would be a ceramist, and a painter; he would work on stained glass and create intricate etchings. He would design stage sets and illustrate fables and biblical tales. His boundless energy and his capacity for work and for the acquisition of new skills aroused both their admiration and amusement.
“Actually, he thought of asking you to go with him,” Bella continued, “because Henri was always so fond of you. But I told him you would probably be too tired. Katya said you came in rather late last evening.”
“Yes. I went shopping and then I visited a friend.”
“Someone we know?” Bella asked cautiously.
“No. A friend I met at the encampment. A doctor. Elsa Liebowitz.”
“Liebowitz?” Bella’s brow was furrowed. “A Polish girl?”
“It didn’t occur to me to ask,” Ida replied coldly.
Her parents’ snobbery irritated her. Marc and Bella cultivated friendships with the intellectual and artistic elite of Paris. The Jewish
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