The Mystery of the Blackbird

In the distance, like two steel cabinets, stand the majestic Twin Towers. I rarely saw them in person when they were standing, but I often visit their successor, the Freedom Tower. I'm walking along West Broadway. The towers still loom over me. As I approach their brother in misfortune, building number seven in the color of weak coffee, my mother appears on the opposite side. She says something and waves her hand, calls, murmurs. I shake my head. Mom steps onto the roadway, gliding through cars, slowly approaching me.       "We lived here for a very long time," she says, looking around at the rooftops of the skyscrapers. "You do understand how serious this is, don't you?" she says, not for the first time, shifting her gaze to me.       "I... Yes. But you do understand how much I'll miss my little girls..."       "Don't worry, it will be very little time," mom touches my shoulder.       "I'm not planning to back down though," I say firmly. Mom touches my head and seals a kiss on my forehead.       This vision possessed Tara when she dozed off in the car. And, of course, she thought only of it as she approached the nursing home. When she entered inside, passing through a heavy white door, room appeared in her head for thoughts about Esther Goldenberg. She knew nothing about the old woman except that she was her childless relative. And as Tara pondered the necessity of her presence, her heart grew even more bitter.       Looking around, Tara tried to understand who to ask for help. On the sides of the small hall with low ceilings stood wide glass booths; McCartney approached one of them. Addressing a dark-haired girl her own age, Tara got an answer and an offer to be escorted. The guest agreed, succumbing to the pleasant voice. "Kind, nice people should work in such places," thought Tara, and this hypothesis was confirmed when her guide emerged from behind the receptionist.       "Come with me," she said politely and smiled. Tara smiled slightly back at the girl with straight chestnut hair and huge black eyes—and everything: her hair, her eyes, her lips were all shiny.       Soon both girls arrived at a white door numbered 285. Tara's consciousness stirred strangely at the sight of this number, although when it was mentioned on the first floor, Tara didn't attach that much importance to it. It was her birthday, which in numbers looked like "28/5."       Everything in the nursing home was white, except for the dark blue carpet and the numbers on the doors. The lights in the corridors weren't lit yet, as evening hadn't arrived yet, so everything seemed drearily gray. Tara's escort knocked on the door, and rustling and coughing were heard from behind it. Tara's heart trembled. A minute passed, and an old woman with thin shoulders, over which lightly curled, bleached hair framed her face, appeared from behind the door. Her small black eyes widened and sparkled, her thin lips quivered. The old woman and her grand-niece couldn't take their eyes off each other.       "Is everything alright?" the employee inquired.       "Yes... Yes..." Esther answered, moving only her lips.       "Then I'll go," the girl smiled. "Mrs. Leviv, please call if you need anything".       The girl hurried away. The clicking of heels echoed loudly down the corridor.       "Let me hug you!" Miss Goldenberg snapped out of her stupor and reached out her hands to the girl. Her head rested on the guest's chest—the woman, unlike her rather tall granddaughter, was small—and Tara heard quiet moans. Esther raised her head, wiped her eyes, and invited the girl into the room:       "Come in, kid..."       Tara, stepping carefully, followed her grandmother. Her heart fluttered when she looked around and realized what place this was: she had seen it in today's dream! The room, where unknown paintings hung, covering the yellow walls, only instead of her mother's, there was someone else's. Antique oak sideboard, cabinet, oval table, wardrobe, and bureau. And on the table—a tea set of transparent Chinese porcelain, through which you could easily see a grain of rice. But it wasn't her mom sitting at the table.       Esther carefully took the teapot handle and tilted it over the cup so the yellowish drink, gurgling, would pour into it. While both relatives felt a little shy around each other.       "Sit down," Esther said kindly, smiling. Tara moved the chair and sat, folding her hands on her knees.       Transparent steam rose from the cups. Esther placed Tara's cup on its saucer in front of her.       "Help yourself to cookies," Miss Goldenberg pushed a basket of kourabiedes closer. "Or would you like a meringue? I can bring some!"       "No, thank you," Tara smiled, and as always, dimples appeared on both sides of her lips, adorning her face. The girl brought the cup to her mouth. The tea burned her tongue.       Esther sighed, looking at her granddaughter.       "How wonderful that you came..." she began her story. She had a slightly hoarse, even creaky, but very pleasant voice. "I would have invited you sooner—didn't want to distract you... You know, I have no children or husband. And the nursing home? They bring in completely helpless, sick old people here, from whose mouths drool comes instead of words... How can you talk with them? I don't like to bother the local girls either—they're all busy, all busy. And now, when I've already reached the edge of the grave..." Esther paused and took a heavy breath.       Tara listened very attentively. Her heart squeezed tighter and tighter, drenched in blood, which these vises squeezed out like juice from a fruit. Tara thought she herself should have taken an interest about her relative, if she had known.       Tara also looked attentively at Miss Goldenberg. She was the same age as Tara's other grandmother—Mary Kristie, who passed away this summer at ninety-four. Esther looked wonderful, one could even say young for her years: Miss Goldenberg took care of herself. McCartney had similar facial features and began to imagine how she would look like in old age.       "We come from a family of long-livers, Tarush," Esther continued, as if reading her granddaughter's thoughts. "That your mom, aunt, grandmom Merlyn left us so early—a pure accident. And as for your poor little brother, oh..." the old woman clutched her heart, remembering Dave. "My aunt Sima, Merlyn's mother, died at ninety-two, and her husband, Iosif—at eighty-nine. My mommy Ella died at ninety-eight, and daddy, Mark—at ninety-three. My sisters, all of them—Sarah, Malka, Eva—are all alive, and they too, you know, are not young, hee-hee," a strange chuckle escaped Esther's throat. "And Merlyn's sister, Anna-Maria, you know her as Mary, she was ninety-four, just like I am now!"       Miss Goldenberg fell silent again. Her eyes darted around, she licked her lips, trying to remember something.       "I've been diagnosed with a terrible disease," — Tara's heart trembled as Esther's voice sounded so vulnerable! — "brain cancer. It's inoperable, and there's no point anyway, just waiting to die here." Esther pursed her lips. "So it's time to tell you about your family, about your roots... Let's start with your grandmothers, my cousins—Merlyn and Mary. What do you know about them?       Tara hesitated, although her mother had told their stories many times in childhood.       "I know that both were born not in England, Merlyn worked as a journalist, was murdered, and Mary worked as an accountant..." Tara herself understood such an answer was quite unacceptable.       "Good." Esther praised the girl with a slight smile. "But that's only a millionth part of what happened to them. Their biographies are shrouded by a thick veil of secrecy, and even I, knowing much about them, know only a tiny fraction of it all."       Tara grew even more interested.       "They were born not in England, but in Poland. I was born in England and moved to America in my youth," Miss Goldenberg lifted a corner of that very veil. "The girls Marina and Anna-Maria Karl didn't have a very peaceful life in a shtetl near Lviv, and they were preparing to escape. They didn't even feel sorry for their parents, wonderful people. They knew that in England, hospitable relatives would always take them in, and they were ready to flee at any moment. The elder, Marina, ran away alone, for unknown reasons leaving her sister behind. Probably, they had an agreement, as Anna-Maria held no grudge against Marina. How your grandmother ended up in England is beyond comprehension! Only she couldn't get to us; she was caught, taken to an orphanage, where she gave a different name. Following her, six months later, the younger sister followed her. She was much more quicker, so she reached our house in the London suburbs and was raised in the family of grandfather Nathan's children.       Merlyn lived in the orphanage until she was sixteen, then lived alone in London. She worked in all sorts of jobs, all sorts of places, and eventually ended up at the newspaper. Just like your mom," Esther looked from the ceiling to her granddaughter and smiled. "She was very talented, very! But journalism didn't hold her in its hands for long, and Merlyn went to Paris. Actually, I don't know why she called herself Merlyn, not Marilyn... well, never mind. In Paris, Merlyn settled down easier, although war was coming, looming like a cloud... And then she met Naum Zami, your grandfather. Handsome, smart, hardworking, though he was ten years older, but love has no age, we all become find out that sooner or later... " Esther's eyes sparkled, she shook her head as if trying to chase away the thoughts trying to steer the story in a different direction. "Their feelings flared quickly, and most importantly—didn't fade! Naum loved her very deeply, no matter how inappropriate his behavior might seem after his wife's death. They married, left Paris, the war began."       Esther fell silent. Tara lowered her eyes. What followed was an equally mysterious part of her grandmother's biography. Tara couldn't believe such things were possible.       "And Mary... her life wasn't as hard as her sister's. She was raised in a good family of immigrants from Russia," Esther's voice began to rasp even more, she cleared her throat, "She graduated from college, met her future husband. Gave birth to Allina, a bit earlier Merlyn had your mother. By the way, your mom and I started corresponding around the time you were born, and right up until her death. And we thought for a long time about whom to tell our secret... Come with me.       Esther, holding onto the table, stood up. Tara followed Miss Goldenberg. The old woman led her to that door which, in her dream, ended the dark corridor. But behind the door was an ordinary bedroom.       Miss Goldenberg went to a huge chest standing in the corner of the room. Esther's movements were cautious, slow. She turned to her granddaughter, who was watching the woman's every move, and, holding onto the wall, continued:       "This chest is now yours by right. You will understand why, but much later. Just don't touch it today, start tomorrow. For now—good night!" Esther moved towards her room. "Make yourself at home, there's your bed, it's made."       "Good night!" Tara hugged her grandmother. Esther didn't expect this but timidly hugged her granddaughter back. She smelled of something familiar, homely, and old.       "Well then," Miss Goldenberg pulled away and hurried to leave. Tara was left alone in the quiet room. It was around nine; the ticking of a grandfather clock could be heard from behind the door. Caught up in Esther's stories, the girl hadn't had time to let her husband know she had arrived safely, and she immediately decided to call home. She dialed Mark's number and waited for an answer. Finally, after long rings, his "Hello?" sounded.       "Hi, dear. Am I interrupting?" Tara asked.       "No, not really," behind Mark's voice, water hissed and Agnes squealed. "How was the flight?"       "Fine," the girl said briefly. "I gather the girls aren't asleep yet. Put them on."       "Hold on," Mark replied, and half a minute later, Jim answered.       "Hello, my sunshine!" Mrs. Leviv's mood lifted. "I'm fine, I'm already there and going to bed soon. And I advise you to do the same!"       "Okay," said Jim. "I miss you!"       "I miss you too, darling," Tara felt she might cry now. "Go to sleep, may you dream of pink plush bunnies. I'll call on video the day after tomorrow. Kisses. Put Agnes on."       Agnes was already sleepy, so the conversation was brief. Then Tara gave Mark a few instructions and only then hung up.       Until ten in the evening, Tara unpacked her things and suddenly realized she was terribly tired and lay down. But sleep wasn't coming; the girl tossed and turned, the sofa creaked. She couldn't understand for a long time what was preventing her from falling asleep until she suddenly realized that two things occupied her thoughts: the children and that chest. McCartney got up from bed and, turning on the light, approached the simple leather chest. Esther had strongly recommended not opening it today; she knew what she was saying. Tara tried to lift the lid, but it wouldn't budge. It dawned on her: it needed a key. Curiosity overcame fatigue, and Tara began searching for it. Her gaze first scanned the entire room, then her attention was drawn to the china cabinet, and the sought-after item—a key with worn gilding—lay there on the top shelf. Tara carefully inserted the key into the lock—it fit! The girl lifted the lid—it gave way!       Clouds of fine gray dust rose into the air, and Tara, unexpectedly for herself, inhaled it. Her body responded, and the girl began sneezing repeatedly, hoping Esther wasn't a very light sleeper. Having calmed down, Tara looked at the contents of the chest. Inside, piles of various papers and photographs lay almost chaotically. Right in the center lay a book in a velvet cover with iron corners. Tara carefully picked it up, sneezed one last time, and went to the writing desk.       Turning on the desk lamp, Tara placed the book on the table and opened the first page.