August 4, 1943

We argued. We argued over Ibsen, of all things. I guess I should have realized I couldn't know a man for more than half an hour without disagreeing about something, but I'll start at the beginning.

Last night, when I got home from the shop, my father was in his study with Mr. Kovacs. It's not unusual, especially these days, for him to be with men from the synagogue until late hours. Such is the life of a rabbi. More often than not, he sends them home with money for their hungry children, whether we can spare it or not. As long as we have food on our own table, he will not hesitate to help the desperate with both his counsel and his resources. I did not see Papa before I took to bed, so I did not tell him about my English stranger.

This morning, I awoke with no small amount of excitement. Perhaps it's evidence of how monotonous my life has become that I felt so much joy over the prospect of seeing Mr. Jarvis again, but I couldn't help it. I wondered what on earth he could mean by wanting to come back to a tiny shop just to see a diminutive, sharp-tongued rabbi's daughter.

I wore pink. The dress is a bit faded now, but what do I own that isn't? The pattern I used to sew it, just before the war, said some nonsense about minimizing the waist and accenting the figure. Well, I am no Claudette Colbert, and no manner of sewing wizardly is going to make me so.

I kissed my father goodbye. He looked tired, as if he hadn't slept well, but he smiled in his usual gentle way. "Is that a new dress?"

I laughed. "Yes, Papa. Three years ago."

He looked hard at me for a second, with his arm around my shoulders. "There's something different. Perhaps it's your face that's new."

I blushed. "Don't be silly, Abba," and I was gone, smiling and blushing as I hurried out the door.

All morning, I waited. I made a few sales of buttons and collars, but my heart wasn't in it. My eyes kept straying toward the door, looking for the tall form of the man who had promised to return.

Finally, just past noon, when I was alone, he came. This time, he was in uniform. I'm afraid I stood and watched him walk in like a short, wide-eyed Jewish statue. He was carrying a bouquet and a stack of books.

"Good afternoon, Miss Anna," he said, stopping in front of me to peer down and smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Jarvis," I answered. He handed me the flowers, which were white and purple Hungarian crocuses. I very nearly asked him what they were for. No one has given me flowers since Peter Olaszs's ill-fated attempt to woo me in secondary school.

"Thank you," I said, trying to force myself to meet his eyes.

"You're welcome," he answered easily. "I also brought you some books. I noticed you had a volume of Ibsen on the counter yesterday, and I assumed you liked to read. I hope I wasn't being presumptuous."

"I do like to read," I answered. "Let me put these in water, and I'll come back." I turned to go to the washroom, glad for a moment to collect myself.

Was it possible, I wondered, that a good-looking man was standing in the front of my shop, had just given me flowers, and was prepared to hand me a stack of books? I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and wondered if he would be gone when I emerged with the flowers arranged in the only thing I could find, a glass coffee mug. Then again, I thought, if it was all a figment of my imagination, the crocuses could hardly be real. But they were, as vibrant and alive as Mr. Jarvis's wonderful eyes.

I took a few deep breaths and came back out into the front room of the store, placing the flowers carefully on the counter. "My name is Edwin," said my visitor, coming to stand close to me. "Will you call me that?"

"Ed-win," I intoned, trying to get the inflection right. "I promise, I read English better than I speak it," I said, since I had noticed that the books he'd brought were in his native tongue.

"Do you like Ibsen?" he asked, picking up my book of plays from the edge of the counter, where I kept it to occupy me when no customers were present.

"Yes," I said readily. "Do you?"

"I don't take such a desperate view of the human condition," he said. "I preferred A Doll's House to Hedda Gabler. There's no denying the beauty of the words, though."

"I see it the opposite way," I said, growing enthusiastic and losing my reticence. "I find A Doll's House irritating and Hedda Gabler inspiring." It's been a long time since I've been able to talk books with someone other than my father, and I'm particularly consumed with the Norwegian playwright at the moment.

"How so?" asked Edwin, leaning on the counter.

"I blame Nora Helmer for her choices," I said quickly. "She chose her life and then blamed everyone else for it. Hedda, on the other hand, took responsibility for herself."

He shook his head. "But don't you think Hedda's final decision is the supreme act of giving up?"

"No," I said sharply, "I don't. I wouldn't make the same choice to end my life, but the intent of the play is that she's strong rather than weak."

The moment I said it, I regretted my vehemence. I get overly excited when I'm talking about books, something I undoubtedly inherited from my father. Here I was, with a pleasant man who was willing to enter into a conversation about Ibsen, of all things, and I was contradicting him with the whole force of my personality. Why, I wondered, couldn't I be demure for even a few minutes of time, until we'd gotten to know each other, at least?

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, feeling myself blushing. "I'm overly opinionated."

To my surprise, the man in front of me laughed lightly. "I haven't had anyone to discuss my reading with for a very long time, and I like strong opinions. Life is a bit insipid without them. Wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," I agreed, smiling.

After that, I brought chairs out of the back room, and the two of us sat down. Mr. Jarvis—Edwin—handed me his books, which consisted of two volumes of poetry, a novel, and a book of philosophy.

"I've finished these," he said. "I—thought you might enjoy them. "

"You plan to come back to find out what I think of them, then?" I asked, growing bolder.

"I do," he answered readily, "if I'm allowed."

"Four books is a priceless gift in Budapest right now," I said seriously.

"I didn't bring them to earn your friendship," he said gently, "but I'd like it all the same."

I looked over at him and smiled, feeling strangely comfortable. "I'd like that too."

We spoke for another hour, comparing our taste in books and plays and films. I soon realized he was an optimist, which conflicted pleasantly with my tendency toward determined realism. We argued extensively, and I enjoyed myself more than I can say.

Finally, when mid-afternoon approached, Mr. Jarvis stood. "I'm afraid I have to get back to my assignment," he said.

I stood up too, noticing again that I didn't even reach his shoulder. "This has been very enjoyable," I said, growing shy.

"I think so too," he agreed. Then, he took his big hands and put them on either side of my face, leaned down, and kissed my forehead. "I would like to spend many more hours arguing with you, Anna."

"Me too," I answered, hardly aware of what I was saying.

As he'd said the previous day, he simply replied, "I'll come back tomorrow." I grinned foolishly as I watched him leave.

There is a man coming to see me tomorrow. He is tall and handsome, and he loves books as much as I do. I like his hands. They remind me of home.