Monique Polak - Room for One More

I know it isnt right to listen in on other peoples conversations.

But I cant resist.

My arms go goosebumpy with excitement when I am eavesdropping. Its the same feeling I get when I am making a speech.

I feel about eavesdropping the way my big sister, Annette, feels about new clothes. Or the way my little sister, Esther, feels about doing the long jump. Its how Mom feels about poetry and how Dad feels about Moms Yorkshire pudding, the one she makes from Granny in Englands recipe.

To me, nothings so delicious as an interesting conversation.

The kind of conversation Mom and Dad are having tonight.

They have a guesta man named Mr. Schwartzberg, whose dark, piercing eyes remind me of a foxs. He is small and thin and drags his leg behind him when he walks.

When Mr. Schwartzberg arrived, Dad and Mom called the three of us downstairs to shake his hand, but then they whisked him into the parlor and sent us upstairs with Anne-Marie, our housekeeper.

Off you go, Andy, Ronald, and Eddie, Dad said, patting our heads.

Mr. Schwartzberg looked confused when Dad called us by boys names. So Annette, who is sixteen and enjoys explaining things, explained: Its because Dad wishes he had a son. If Id been a boy, theyd have called me Andy, Rosetta would have been Ronald, and Esther, Eddie.

Mr. Schwartzberg nodded as if all this made perfect sense.

Dad objected, of course. For the record, Mr. Schwarzberg, I want to state that on this August day in 1942, and for that matter, on every other day, I consider myself the luckiest man in all Montreal. Imagine living surrounded by so many talented, lovely females! My darling wife, Irene, devoted wife and mother, and part-time poetess; Annette, our resident artiste and fashion plate; Rosetta, (Dad smiled in my direction) reigning public speaking champion of the grade-six class at Roslyn School; and Esther, our outstanding athlete.

Anne-Marie had trouble rounding us up for bed. Les filles! she said, clapping her hands. Les filles is French for girls. Anne-Marie speaks to us mostly in English. But when she gets upset, she switches back to French, the language she was brought up with.

Annette and I were gossiping. She was critiquing Mr. Schwartzbergs clothing. Has that man never heard of a tailor? she whispered. Those trousers are several sizes too large, and the jacket is unfashionably long.

Are clothes all you ever think about? I asked her. But because I knew that if Annette was angry with me, shed never let me practice my speech in front of her, I added, The new Eatons catalog came in todays mail. I left it by your bed, open to the fall fashions.

You did! Annette squealed. How wonderful! I cant wait to see it!

Esther wanted to go outside to practice her long jump one more time. She also wanted her stuffed rabbit to watch her. Only then she realized she didnt know where shed left him.

Anne-Marie shook her head and muttered, This house has too many girls in it! Il y a trop de filles!

Well, youre one more girl! Esther pointed out, which made all of us laugh, except Anne-Marie. Lately, Anne-Marie has been even more sour than usual. Mom says its because Anne-Marie is worried sick about her big brother, Jean-Claude. Hes part of Le Fusiliers Mont-Royal, and Anne-Maries family has had no word of him since the Canadian troops raided the French port of Dieppe last week.

Maybe thats why when Anne-Marie brought Esther upstairs for her bath, she didnt notice when I snuck back downstairs.

Dad and Mom had shut the double doors behind them, which is how I knew they were going to have the sort of conversation we girls are not supposed to know about.

I slipped into the dining room and hid under Grannys table. Ever since the table, which is black mahogany and has been in Grannys family for generations, arrived, Mom has treated it like a new baby, inspecting it for scratches and warning us not to kick its legs when were seated round it. Mom keeps the table covered with a linen cloth. The cloth has a long overhang, making it hard for anyone to tell when I am hiding underneath.

Since the dining room opens into the parlor, Grannys table is the perfect spot for eavesdropping.

I also come here sometimes for a little peace and quiet. Theres a lot of giggling in a house with three sisters. Sometimes that makes it hard for me to think when I am in my room upstairs. I know I should be grateful that at least I have my own room. My friend Bertha Etkowitz has to share hers with her big sister Tova. Id hate sharing a room with Annette. She is the moodiest person on Earth. Mom blames Annettes age. I just hope that when I turn sixteen, I wont catch whatever it is that Annettes got.

At first, the conversation in the parlor is about the weather. Dad asks Mr. Schwartzberg what he thinks of our Canadian climate. Mr. Schwartzberg has a thick accent, which makes it hard for me to understand him, but the longer I listen, the easier it gets. He explains that he hasnt yet experienced a Canadian winter, but that in Moravia, where he was born, the summers are as humid as the one were having now. He admires our standing fan. There isnt one in the rooming house where hes staying.

When I peep out from behind the linen tablecloth, I see that Mr. Schwartzberg is looking around the room worriedly, as if he half expects someone to jump out and pounce on him at any moment.