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certificate of commendation from the Czech Medical Association hung on the walls. An imposing, large grandfather clock chimed to sound the hour, and a baby grand piano sat in the corner of the room. On the sofa, Věruška’s mother sat with a piece of needlepoint on her lap. Short and round, Mrs. Kohn wore simple dresses that hid her soft, plump physique. A small pair of reading glasses dangled over her large breasts, and her hair was wrapped plainly and practically in a bun at the nape of her neck.
    Věruška’s father also seemed to wholly contrast with mine. Whereas my father’s eyes emanated warmth, Dr. Jacob Kohn’s were clinical. When he first looked up from his book, it was clear he was surveying whoever stood before him.
    “Lenka Maizel,” I introduced myself. My eyes fell to Dr. Kohn’s two perfectly white hands, the nails meticulously filed and clean, as they unclasped and he stood up to greet me.
    “Thank you for joining us this evening,” he said, his voice tight with restraint. I knew from my mother that Dr. Kohn was a distinguished obstetrician in the community. “My wife, Anna . . .” He touched her shoulder gently with his hand.
    Věruška’s mother smiled and extended her hand to me. “We’re happy to share Shabbat with you, Lenka.” Her voice was formal and exact.
    “Thank you. Thank you for inviting me.”
    Dr. Kohn nodded and gestured for me to sit down.
    Věruška was her bubbly self and plopped down on one of the deep, red sofas. Quietly smoothing my dress over my legs, I sat down beside her.
    “So you are studying art with our Ruška,” her mother said.
    “I am. And I am in good company. Your Věruška is the great talent of our class.”
    Both Dr. and Mrs. Kohn smiled.
    “I’m sure you’re being too modest, Lenka,” I heard a soft, low voice say from behind me. It was Josef, who had walked in and was now standing behind his sister and me.
    “It is a noble trait, modesty,” Dr. Kohn added. He folded his hands.
    “No, it’s true. Věruška has the best eye in our class.” I patted her on her leg. “We’re all jealous of her.”
    “How can that be?” Josef asked bemused.
    “Oh, make him stop, Mama,” Věruška protested. “He’s twenty years old and still taunting me!”
    Josef and I locked eyes. He smiled. My face reddened. And suddenly for the first time in my life, I felt I could barely breathe.

     
    That night over dinner, I could hardly eat a morsel. My appetite had completely vanished and I felt terribly self-conscious with every movement I made at the table. Josef sat to the left of his father, his large shoulders extending past the back of his chair. I am too shy to meet his gaze. My eyes focus on his hands. My own mother’s hands were smooth but strong. Father’s were large and covered in a thin veil of hair. Josef’s hands were unlike the small white hands of Dr. Kohn. They had the musculature one sees in a statue—the wide dorsal, the ribbon of pronounced veins, and the thick strong fingers.
    I watched the hands of the Kohn family closely, as if each pair reflected the emotions running through the room. There was a tension during the dinner that was unmistakable. When Dr. Kohn asked his son about his classes, Josef gripped his knife and fork even tighter. His knuckles stiffened, the veins grew even more pronounced. He answered his father succinctly, without any detail, never once taking his gaze off his plate.
    Věruška was the only animated one at the table. She threw her hands about like a lithe dancer. She peppered the conversation with little bits of gossip: the neighbor’s daughter who had grown so fat she looked like a cream puff; the postman who was caught having an affair with the maid. Unlike her more reserved parents, she took great relish in her every detail. There were great swirls and flourishes in her descriptions. When Věruška spoke, you couldn’t help but think of a rococo painting—all her subjects engaging in clandestine acts of