“You’re not?” There’s curiosity in her voice, and disappointment, too.
“I don’t belong there.”
“You belong where I belong.”
It’s a relief, after all this time, to hear her say so. But I don’t think it’s true. I’m grateful that she has made a new home for herself in India, but it’s not where I’m meant to be.
Go big and go home.
“I’m going to act, Ma,” I say. And I feel it. The idea, the plan, fully formed since last night, maybe since much longer. The urgency to see Kate, who never did show up at the party, courses through me. This is one chance I’m not going to let slip through my fingers. This is something I need. “I’m going to act,” I repeat. “Because I’m an actor.”
Yael laughs. “Of course you are. It’s in your blood. Just like Olga.”
The name is instantly familiar. “Olga Szabo, you mean?”
There’s a pause. I can feel her surprise crackle through the line. “Saba told you about her?”
“No. I found the pictures. In the attic. I meant to ask you about them but I didn’t, because I’ve been busy . . .” I trail off. “And because we never really talked about these things.”
“No. We never did, did we?”
“Who was she? Saba’s girlfriend?”
“She was his sister,” she replies. And I should be surprised, but I’m not. Not at all. It’s like the pieces of a puzzle slotting together.
“She would have been your great aunt,” Yael continues. “He always said she was an incredible actress. She was meant to go to Hollywood. But then the war came and she didn’t survive.”
She didn’t survive. Only Saba did.
“Was Szabo her stage name?” I ask.
“No. Szabo was Saba’s surname before he emigrated to Israel and Hebreified it. Lots of Europeans did that.”
To distance himself, I think. I understand that. Though he couldn’t really distance himself. All those silent films he took me to. The ghosts he held at bay, and held close.
Olga Szabo, my great aunt. Sister to my grandfather, Oskar Szabo, who became Oskar Shiloh, father of Yael Shiloh, wife of Bram de Ruiter, brother of Daniel de Ruiter, soon to be father of Abraão de Ruiter.
And just like that, my family grows again.
Fifty-one
When I emerge from my bedroom, Broodje and Henk are just waking up and are surveying the wreckage like army generals who have lost a major ground battle.
Broodje turns to me, his face twisted in apology. “I’m sorry. I can clean it all later. But we promised we’d meet W at ten to help him move. And we’re already late.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Henk says.
Broodje picks up a beer bottle, two-thirds full of cigarette butts. “You can be sick later,” he says. “We made a promise to W.” Broodje looks at me. “And to Willy. I’ll clean the flat later. And Henk’s vomit, which he’s going to keep corked for now.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’ll clean it all. I’ll fix everything!”
“You don’t have to be so cheerful about it,” Henk says, wincing and touching his temples.
I grab the keys from the counter. “Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. I head to the door.
“Where are you going?” Broodje.
“To take the wheel!”