The Crimson Cap

The autumn light tarnished the silver—a scalpel, forceps and a filigreed clamp—arranged like a place setting on the white Shabbos tablecloth, which was padded with towels and draped over a card table. A square bottle of kosher wine, still sealed, and an open black leather satchel with instruments and gauze, rested nearby. Outside the window, two pigeons strutted nervously on the ledge.

Nat cradled his son against his white shirt, tie tucked safely inside. In swaddling and a cap that revealed only his reddish face with tiny flat features, the infant seemed cocooned and peaceful, unaware of his father swaying from side-to-side to calm himself, or the hushed crowd of pensive men. Nat had given the day no real thought. To him, religion was a muddle of illustrated Bible stories. Barbara’s mother had made the arrangements.

When Barbara delivered, he’d been in the waiting room smoking and glancing at year-old magazines filled with photos of VE Day. He saw his son hours later, through the blinds of the nursery window. The week since then had been a blur of driving to the hospital every evening, finally bringing Barbara and the baby home, then waking every few hours during the night until it was time to get up for a weary breakfast with Barbara’s sister, Millie, who was there when he left for work and when he returned.

Today, Nat realized, was the baby’s first trip to the outside world. He raised his son close to his face and breathed in the sweet and powdery scent of a...