RE:BOOKS

  Copyright © Sharon Neiss-Arbess.

  All rights reserved.

  www.rebooks.ca

  Published in Canada by RE:BOOKS.

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  First RE:BOOKS Edition: October 2023

  ISBN: 978-1-7389452-4-5

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-7389452-5-2

  RE:BOOKS and all associated logos are trademarks and/or registered marks of RE:BOOKS.

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Cover Design By: Chloe Faith Robinson and Jordan Lunn

  Typeset By: Karl Hunt

  For Lillian z”l

  And her great-granddaughter Liv

  There are no coincidences

  ELIE WIESEL z”l

  Times change, people change, thoughts about

  God and evil change, about true and false.

  But what always remains fast and steady is the

  affection that your friends feel for you.

  Those who always have your best interest at heart.

  MARGOT FRANK z”l

  PROLOGUE

  1950s—Somewhere

  in Montreal

  There’s nothing like a visit to a department store.

  As you see the grandiose mecca in the distance, your heart beats a little bit faster, from the quicker pace of your step, of the anticipation of getting closer. As you reach the marble tiles that frame the entrance way and grasp the elaborate handle, you pull the framed glass doors toward you while a delicious yet prominent scent makes its way to your senses. It’s your mother’s perfume, the maid’s arrival, and a present wrapped in the fanciest wrapping paper and topped with a shiny silver bow that all welcomed you with open arms to the place you had been looking forward to all day.

  “I’m here,” you mutter under your breath while your eyes dart around as you know your surroundings like the back of your hand. You feel comfortable here. You belong here.

  But what about the places where you were encouraged to belong but you really didn’t feel like you did.

  There were days when the nature lover guided you and held a sturdy branch as a symbol of strength and guidance while hearing the loon in a nearby body of water calling to its mate.

  “Listen!” she whispered. “Can you hear that?”

  You nod while letting your eyes expand to show how impressed you are.

  Because you are, right?

  Let’s continue the scene.

  The distinct tap of the woodpecker making its mark on a tree. The inhaled scent of the wet leaves and fresh-cut wood. You are told to admire this God-given beautiful nature, as it is breathtaking. But let’s be honest. Do you really like it here? Among the birds, spiders, snakes, and other creatures that may be crawling up your neck right now. Where do you really want to be? I know. It’s okay. You can say it. Oh, all right, if you don’t, I will.

  You would much rather be standing in the middle of a department store and purchasing a fresh new mascara! As you hold the new glistening tube of plastic and gently twist it to release the wand from its nest to reveal a row of minuscule fibers that are coated in the formula of your dreams that will caress and hug each of your lashes to make them expand like a peacock’s tail. Ah, Yes! You know it. Amazing right? Meditate that manufactured-made beauty goodness and close your eyes to breathe it all in deeply.

  Hail to the fashionista who stands in the center of the department store aisles, holding the statement purse in one hand and the tattooed lipstick coffee cup in the other, which is the fuel for the hunt du jour.

  “Listen!” she heavily whispers. “Can you hear that?” You nod while letting your eyes expand to show how impressed you are. BECAUSE YOU REALLY ARE. BECAUSE THIS PLACE. THIS DEPARTMENT STORE IS AMAZING!

  The sound of the perfected engineered click from a brand-new monogrammed powder compact has closed. The feel of the glossy cellophane wrapped box of hand cream just waiting to be opened and drunk by your sandpaper skin that wears the scars from the daily abuse. The aroma of that new perfume that smells like a vacation.

  Like the nature lover, the fashionista knows where the best views are and what to be careful of—because it’s a jungle out there, even if it’s framed with marble that glistens, mirrors that shine, and the most beautiful things.

  The elegant perfume bottles that sparkle from the fluorescent lights that hang from above and the perfectly stacked cashmere scarves in a rainbow of colors on a nearby shelf are waiting for you to run your fingertips along their fine and delicate fibers that are silky and soft to the touch. The glass countertops are gleaming enough for you to see your reflection, while you tap tap tap on the glass that houses the face cream that you want to buy that promises to erase all your worries.

  The cosmetician who knows your name, your shade of blush, what skin cream gives you the best glow, and what perfume gives you a headache is waiting for you with more patience than your psychologist. There is also the shoe salesperson who not only knows your size but also your style and how high of a heel you can wear. What would look best with that skirt you just bought? And how are you doing with your wedding list, do you have to invite them?

  Bonds of all kinds can blossom at the department store, but the real magic happens beyond what you see. It’s where the employees push the merchandise out from the meticulously designed displays into your hands. There is a bond of their own that developed spending countless hours together in the inventory trenches, holding each other’s hand after a conversation that needed a tissue. While some may be on their mark to outrun, there are a chosen few would not know what they would do if they never met each other.

  This is the story of two women, Lilly and Vivian, who share a most unique friendship that went through a journey during a time that was incredibly challenging, yet full of hope, in The Most Amazing Department Store.

  Vivian: Fashionista Fury 1934, Montreal

  At a small school in a neighborhood called Outremont, Vivian Steiner sat at her student desk, cross-legged, with her hand beneath her chin, staring out of the classroom window completely bored out of her mind, save for a daydream about being in a fashion shoot. No, she wasn’t a model in this dream but was taking charge of the model and all that surrounded her. Like a maestro conducting a symphony, she gave directions to the photographers to do this and the lighting crew to do that as she placed a light blue silk scarf around a model’s neck that brought out the thin turquoise stripes in the charcoal gray trousers that she wore.

  “Vivian … Vivian?”

  Vivian regained her focus and felt peeved at her teacher, who interrupted such a superb scenario that she thought up all on her own.

  “Wha—”

  Vivian responded in a semiconscious trance to her teacher, who was trying to bring her attention to the arithmetic question on the chalkboard. She clearly didn’t understand what her teacher wanted her to do.

  Vivian sighed, completely ignoring both what was on the chalkboard and her very loud teacher, who was desperately trying to drill the process of fractions into her brain. There she was, with her tall and skinny wooden stick hitting the chalkboard on a mathematical problem, repeatedly with such force. And she yelled so loud that her explanation was lost and felt like a different language. The language of noise.

  How could Vivian concentrate on the task while an atrocious vision stood right in front of her? What a dreadful sight, she thought.

  Her shoes. The teacher was wearing a pair that looked like they have been through a war. They were also outdated, covered in scuff marks, and had at least two holes at the toes. Vivian realized that new shoes were not a priority for a teacher, but the scuff marks were inexcusable. Why wasn’t this matter taken care of? she thought. Any twit could get a quick shine with some shoe polish and an old rag. And what about those stockings? Why was there a run up the side? Couldn’t she have stashed an extra pair in her purse for moments like these?

  And why couldn’t they teach how to dress properly instead of silly fractions?

  Day after day, these thoughts ran through Vivian’s head. She couldn’t look anyone in the eye or simply carry on a conversation without analyzing what they were wearing first. Anyone who was in Vivian’s presence was either unapologetically scrutinized or showered with praise for how they looked. At home and to all who knew her, she was the first to be asked if something looked right … or wrong. Nothing got by her keen fashionista eye and talent for detail. Most of them took advantage of this interesting and unique gift, which she had developed at such a young age.

  Six years ago, when Vivian was a toddler, she spent hours playing with all the different fabrics that hung in her mother Miriam’s closet. Her eyes expanded with keen interest as her chubby little hands reached for a pair of shoes, followed by an embrace similar to holding a doll, while she thought about her next move. After scanning the wardrobe like a detective looking for clues, she matched a pair with the proper dress and/or skirt and then squirmed a few inches away to view her creation with great satisfaction.

  Toddler Vivian knew when
her mother was going out, as she would smell her Chanel No. 5 from her bedroom. As fast as her little legs could carry her, she ran down the hall into her mother’s boudoir, so she could watch her get dressed from stepping into her stockings to watching her dip the mascara wand into the dark pressed powder to gently brush her eyelashes with.

  Back to nine-year-old Vivian, stretched out on the living room sofa, as The Guiding Light played on the living room radio. She hardly missed an episode, as she adored this new radio drama so much. She was interrupted by familiar footsteps one floor above that she knew so well. The corners of Vivian’s mouth slowly raised, knowing what was coming—her older sister Marsha—as she barged into the room and posed in her outfit.

  “How’s this, Viv?” Marsha asked in anticipation on one such occasion.

  Vivian had turned her head away from the radio. “Very nice. Don’t care for the scarf. Borrow Mom’s pearls instead.” Marsha zoomed up the stairs to change, no questions asked.

  After the radio program was over, Vivian moved from the living room sofa to her favorite place in the world. The middle of the hallway in her home, where she was beckoned for another consultation, by her mother.

  “Vivian! I’m so glad you’re home!” Miriam Steiner said as she entered through the front door just before 5 p.m. That moment—where she was and what she was doing—was Vivian’s absolute favorite pastime. The Steiner’s had a large, vibrant emerald-green rug with a gold trim that was laid out on the wood-paneled floor. It added so much brightness to the hallway. Vivian loved to lie down on it and caress the fluffy fibers.

  But what the heck did she do on this coveted rug? After a hard day at school, Vivian would dump her books on the floor and collapse like a boxer after the 18th round. Do her homework—or at least try to—and witness all the excitement that was happening around her. Like a train station, everyone was coming and going, and Vivian loved to be smack in the middle of it all while lying on something warm, soft, and beautiful.

  But the one emerald-green-rug activity that Vivian looked forward to the most each month was the delivery of her Vogue magazine. She knew exactly when it arrived, as she counted down the days until the glossy and glamorous magazine was delivered to her doorstep.

  Studying all the pretty models who wore the latest designers sucked Vivian’s attention in like a vacuum cleaner. She found the articles to be quite interesting too. Of course, help was needed to read the bigger words that weren’t a part of a nine-year-old’s vocabulary, which Marsha or her parents were more than happy to help with; but the beautiful, photographed pictures spoke for themselves, and she related to the significance of them with ease—especially the new trend of bringing in casual pajama-like pants into a woman’s daily wardrobe. How could one just wear dresses and skirts all day long?

  The Steiner family was a safe place for Vivian to express her thoughts, and Miriam and Henry were doing the best that they could to shelter their children from what was going on in the world and how they were treated in their very own city of Montreal.

  “Vivian, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Miriam and Henry would ask their daughter, full of hope now that they were safe in Canada. “I want to work for Vogue!” Vivian would exclaim, with her hands up in the air for extra drama, fully aware that she had no interest in making pies and changing diapers. Being in charge of who wore what was right up her alley, and at the age of nine, she was only getting started.

  Vivian decided to keep the details of her career aspirations to herself, as she knew it would cause quite a stir with her parents and sensed that they seemed more uptight than usual. Her mother didn’t smile as often, but when she did, it was forced. Her father kept rubbing his chin and squinting his eyes. The last time her parents acted like this was when Vivian had a high fever and a doctor had to come to the house. They behaved that way because they were worried, as they told her so when she recovered.

  But Vivian wasn’t sick. However, the state of the Jewish people was, and her parents were trying to protect her from knowing this. But Vivian knew that something was wrong—especially because her father began to remove his kippah when he left the house for work.

  Just the other day, Miriam was out shopping for cheese at the market. Standing in line and waiting for her turn, she asked the sales lady for the Havarti in a half pound of slices. The sales lady waited a few moments and then made a quick turn to the back of the store. Miriam waited in anticipation, wondering why the fresh block of Havarti was not taken out of the display case and sliced for Miriam to take home so that Henry could devour his favorite cheese on toast.

  “Here you are!” the woman said, handing her a package that clearly revealed green fuzz.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but this cheese is spoiled. Can you please sell me the fresh one that you keep right here?” Miriam pointed to the block of cheese in the window.”

  “The cheese is spoiled, just like you! You are not welcome here!”

  At the Steiner home, where Vivian wore her fashion police badge, life felt safe, but didn’t go so well once headed outside.

  Back to 5 in the afternoon, in the center of the hallway, where Miriam had requested her daughter’s advice: “Ta dahhh!” Miriam pointed to her shopping bag, which she placed on a nearby chair. She then slipped out of the dress she was wearing and threw it on the floor.

  “Maaa!” Vivian yelled.

  “It’s no big deal. It’s only us.”

  “No, that’s not it—you don’t throw your good dress on the floor! It will wrinkle and get dirty.

  It’s better to pick it up and drape it gently on that chair,” Vivian pointed.

  Miriam shrugged her shoulders and did what she was told and then reached into her bag to put on her new purchase, which was a skirt. “Whaddya think!” she sang as she modeled the skirt.

  Vivian knew within seconds that this was not a look for her mother. It just didn’t suit her hip frame properly. Vivian’s impulse to speak her mind rushed quickly to her brain, even though she had been scolded countless times before to think before speaking, as what came out of her mouth was not always kind, “Please save that for my Halloween costume.”

  “What did we say about speaking kindly?” Miriam asked sternly.

  “Mother, it’s the truth. I cannot tell a lie!”

  Marsha, who was sitting in the kitchen, made sure everyone heard her sigh, loudly.

  “Really?” Miriam asked.

  “Really,” Vivian said.

  “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

  Vivian smiled as she dropped her head back into the pages of her magazine.

  Vivian’s father, Henry, walked into the hallway.

  “That skirt is awful, Miriam. It’s all bunched up at your waist.”

  “See?” Vivian said. “Mom, you can do so much better.” She held up a page from her magazine and pointed to a skirt that was designed by Madeleine Vionnet. “Perhaps consider a skirt that cuts on a bias. You have beautiful hips, and you should show them properly.”

  “She’s right!” Henry said. Miriam nodded, forced a smile and grabbed her dress from the chair and went upstairs to change.

  * * *

  “Why are you wearing that awful dress?” Vivian blurted out.

  A week later, the Steiner family was at a family gathering for a cousin’s birthday when Vivian showed no mercy.

  That fearless yet rude question was asked without a thought, across the hall, to a young woman whom she didn’t know and who was wearing an orange polka-dot dress with puffy sleeves two sizes too big for her tiny figure.

  “Excuse me?” the young woman asked, aghast by the comment.

  “VIVIAN!” her father scolded her.

  “VIVIAN!” her mother yelled to the ceiling with her arms extended.

  “You’re such a pill!” Marsha yelled toward her feet.

  All three comments felt like slaps on her face. What was their problem? The dress was atrocious. Why couldn’t anyone see that? Why couldn’t this young woman see that?

  Vivian just stood there and said, “I needed to tell her.”

  “She’s right. I wasn’t sure about this frock when I put it on this morning, and I should have left it in my sister’s closet, as it is clearly too big for me,” the young woman had said.