The Matchmaker's Gift(21)

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After the funeral came the bills.

There was a bill for the coffin—plain pine box that it was—and a bill for the carriages that took the family to the cemetery. Neighbors and friends brought food for the shiva, but there were bills for the liquor and the rented chairs. No sooner had Sara’s father been buried than the doctor sent bills for a year’s worth of visits. Bills arrived next from the local pharmacy for all the medicines the doctor had prescribed.

When Sara’s family first arrived in New York, her father joined a landsmanshaft—a mutual-aid society made up of other immigrants who hailed from the same region in Russia. In exchange for paying monthly dues, every member was given a burial plot. The landsmanshaft was supposed to help its members in case of job loss or extended illness, but the truth was that Sara’s father’s society was one of the smallest and poorest in the city. He had indeed been assigned a plot beside his landsleit, but that was the extent of the available benefits.

In addition to the funeral-related bills were, of course, all the others: bills from the landlord, the butcher, and the fishmonger. A bill from the midwife who had delivered Hindel’s baby. Every day brought fresh invoices, which Sara collected in a tidy stack tied with cotton string. The sight of the stack kept Sara awake at night, thinking of her father and the promises she’d made.

Ever since her father had died, Sara no longer slept in the front room with her brothers. Instead, she was given her father’s place in the tiny room beside her mother. Her sleep had been poor on the cot next to George, but in the room with her mother, it was even worse. For the first time in years, she had a proper bed, but the softness beneath her brought no comfort. The room was too crowded with her mother’s sorrow and the memories of her father for her to breathe. No matter how many times Sara laundered the linens, the scent of her father’s tobacco lingered.

When she did fall asleep, on her father’s pillow, visions of him filled her dreams. Her father had loved her as no one else had. He had praised and encouraged her despite her unusual gift; he had taken her side against the shadchan. Who would she be without his support? Who would she be without his protection? She had promised him she would not make matches again until she was safely married. She had promised him that she would not quit school. But how was she to reconcile all she had sworn with the ever-growing pile of bills?

School was closed for the rest of the summer, so the next morning, Sara paid Rabbi Sheinkopf a visit. Although her mother understood some of Sara’s role in matching Jacob and Miryam Tunchel, only the rabbi knew the full extent of the secret she carried within her. The rabbi had presided over her father’s funeral and visited her home each day throughout the shiva, but Sara had been too heartsick to say much to him then.

When Sara had first met Rabbi Sheinkopf, he had been the leader of a small congregation in a one-room synagogue on Rivington Street—one of hundreds of tiny shuls dotted throughout the Lower East Side. But in the past few years, his congregation had multiplied to include several community leaders and wealthy businessmen. They had all contributed toward the building of a new synagogue, fashioned from a made-over church. The new shul boasted a wood-paneled sanctuary and a women’s balcony that wrapped halfway around the room. From the middle of the grand, two-story ceiling hung a polished brass chandelier. An elevated center platform was surrounded by a carved wooden railing. As Sara entered the dimly lit space, she saw a group of white-bearded men who had gathered to pray.

Rabbi Sheinkopf was not surprised to see her. Sara supposed this was why she liked him—nothing she said or did seemed to shock him. He excused himself from the other men and led her to a corner, out of earshot. “How is your mother?” the rabbi asked. “Please give her my warmest regards.”

“I will, Rabbi. Thank you. She is busy with Hindel’s little ones. They keep her from thinking too much about my father.”

The rabbi nodded. “A growing family is a blessing,” he said.

“It is,” Sara agreed. “But it means we have more mouths to feed. And we have too many bills we cannot pay.”

“Let me ask the others. Perhaps the congregation can help.”

“That is very kind, Rabbi, but I’m afraid we need more help than you can offer.”

The rabbi strummed his fingers against his beard. “You have been considering … other possibilities then?”

She had not thought he would guess her plan so quickly. “I have,” she said. “But my solution is not an easy one. I promised my father I would wait until I was married before I began making matches in earnest. He was afraid of what the shadchanim might do if I went against their wishes.”

“And have you kept the promise you have made?”

Sara lowered her eyes. “Not entirely.”

Again, he did not seem surprised. “And yet, I’ve heard nothing of your intervention.”

“I’ve been making matches in secret. Not even the brides and grooms themselves know the part I’ve played in bringing them to the altar. But now the situation has changed. My father is gone, and our debts are too great. I swore to my father that I would finish school, but if we can’t pay our bills, I will have to quit. I want to honor my promises, Rabbi, but I can’t see any honor in letting my family starve. As far as I can tell, I have two choices—leave school to find full-time work or risk incurring the shadchanim’s wrath.”