Annie’s face, already a little pale, whitened. “Close the hotel? You can’t. We can’t. It would kill Papa”
V’nahafoch hu.
Certainly, the two words that the men were singing over and over were appropriate for this year’s Purim celebrations.
Annie looked around her, at the walls festooned with crepe paper and balloons, at the tables, whose staid white tablecloths had been replaced by bright-colored prints. A little hard on the eyes, some of those colors, but she had to admit, attractive in a wild kind of way.
And the biggest turnabout of all was in the large number of men and women who’d come for the night’s Megillah reading. They were now sitting around those gaily decorated tables, feasting on poppy and prune hamantaschen. In the past few years, Purim had been celebrated in the Freed Hotel by a dwindling number of boarders, and, of course, the Levine family. But now there were young people, boys and men in hats and jackets, bringing a surge of holiday energy to the dining room.
Her thoughts wandered back to that blessed Purim 21 years before, when her little baby boy, her Mutty, had been born. The hotel had been full then, too, when Annie had lain upstairs, waiting for the midwife to come as she labored to bring her firstborn into the world. Twenty-one years: It seemed like forever and yesterday.
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