The Postcard

by Anne Berest

“It’s not your fault if your husband is troyerik. It’s because of the air in this country. He’s like an animal, living in a climate that doesn’t agree with his temperament. There’s nothing you can do for him as long as your family lives here.”

“What did they tell their wives, when they went home at night?” “History doesn’t record it.”

“There’s a Yiddish proverb that might give you your answer: A khave iz nit dafke der vos visht dir op di trern ni der vos brengt dikh bekhlal nit tsi trern.” “What does it mean?” “A true friend isn’t the one who dries your tears. It’s the one who never causes them to be shed.”

Jeanine Picabia has always kept a deliberate distance from her parents’ world. Great artists, she has found, usually have egos to match. She’s like the child of a magician who, having grown up backstage, doesn’t believe in the illusion of the performance.

And every day, she returns to the Lutetia to wait for her family.