The Matchmaker's Gift(30)
Slowly, Abby gathered her notes and made her way out of Diane’s office. She thought about her grandmother and their last few conversations—the way Grandma Sara had taken such a strong interest in her work, the way she encouraged Abby to believe in “soulmates,” and “forever.”
I’m sorry Grandma, Abby thought. But I have to put all of that out of my mind.
SEVEN
SARA
1916
The World Becomes a Brighter Place
With three more weeks until both the public high school and Barnard’s fall semester began, Moishe Raskin invited Sara to join Ida behind the counter helping customers at Raskin’s Pickles. Not only was it the perfect way for her to get to know Ida, but the salary Raskin paid was double what she earned tending babies for her neighbors.
Ida had been raised to work in retail. She was meticulous in making change; she was outgoing and charming with every customer. After spending only one day in the store with her, Sara understood why Moishe Raskin was so proud of his daughter. From the bristly truck drivers delivering barrels of vegetables from the farm to the local housewives buying herring for their families, Ida made everyone feel at ease. She wasn’t a beauty, but she carried herself well, with perfect posture and easy grace. She did not flaunt her prestigious education, but there was no way to spend more than a minute in her presence and not be impressed by her intelligence.
In between teaching Sara how to manage the customers, Ida imparted her knowledge of pickling—from cucumber farming to fermentation to ratios of sugar, garlic, and salt. It was not a glamorous business, she explained, but a necessary one. In the dead of the winter, when vegetables were scarce, a crispy pickle could do wonders—not only for health, but for boosting morale. “Nothing cleanses the palate and the mind better than a bite of a Raskin’s half-sour,” Ida said. After trying one herself, Sara could not argue.
The two young women fell into an easy friendship, one that seemed to make Moishe Raskin happy. Sara did not mention her matchmaking skills, but she was honest about the other aspects of her life. She told Ida about the first time she had worn spectacles—how the textures of the sky and the street and the city had suddenly come into perfect focus. “What a magical feeling that must have been,” Ida said. “It almost makes me wish I were nearsighted, so I could experience it for myself.”
“Mr. Tunchel—he’s the man who sold me the glasses—said the closest thing to it was falling in love. The world becomes a brighter place, he told me. You notice what you never noticed before, and you can’t imagine life without it.”
Ida’s eyes grew cloudy. “Well, that’s two magical feelings I haven’t experienced then.”
“You’ve never been in love?” Sara asked.
“I thought I had, for a moment. But I was wrong. It certainly didn’t feel the way you’re describing. What about you?”
“Me? Of course not!”
“Why are you so shocked? You’re sixteen, aren’t you? You’re pretty and smart. I’d give anything to have a figure like yours.” Ida looked down at the flat front of her apron and frowned. “My mother is always telling me I’m too thin. Maybe that’s why the shadchanim suggest such awful men, and so few of them.”
“It isn’t the number of men that matters,” Sara said. “You only need to meet the right one.”
Sara’s wages, plus the pickles Ida sent home with her each day, helped to ease her family’s burden until September began. After that, it was back to school for both girls. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, on Rosh Hashanah,” Ida promised.
In the days and nights leading up to the holiday, Sara tried to conjure a match for Ida. She thought of the eligible men she knew and pictured them standing beside her new friend. But no matter how many men she envisioned, none of them was right for Raskin’s daughter. No one shone brightly enough in her mind.
The day before Rosh Hashanah, Hindel’s children were feverish. They sniffled and fussed all that night with their colds, and in the morning, poor Hindel looked ready to collapse. Sara stayed home from the synagogue to care for them, while her sister slept until the afternoon. Later, after a meal of soup, challah, and honey, Sara walked to Delancey Street with her brothers to follow the crowds making their way toward the bridge.
From every corner of the Lower East Side, Jews emerged from their apartments and their shuls carrying prayer books under their arms. Men and boys wearing dark coats and hats, women draped in shawls, and young girls in white dresses promenaded together toward the tall steel towers to pray on top of the Williamsburg Bridge.
High above the city’s wide East River, in groups of all sizes, they stood against the railing. The men shook the four corners of their prayer shawls, and the women shook the folds of their skirts and coats. As the crumbs from their festive meals fell off their garments and into the water, the sins of the wearers were cast away.
For a mile across the chasm, the prayers were chanted.
WHO IS A GOD LIKE YOU, FORGIVING INIQUITY AND PARDONING THE TRANSGRESSION OF THE REMNANT OF YOUR PEOPLE? YOU DO NOT MAINTAIN ANGER FOREVER, BUT YOU DELIGHT IN LOVING-KINDNESS. YOU WILL AGAIN HAVE COMPASSION UPON US, SUBDUING OUR SINS, CASTING ALL OUR SINS INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA.
Ever since her first Rosh Hashanah in America, Sara looked forward to this tashlich service on the bridge. From the walkway she could see the other bridges to the south and the great expanse of city and water to the north. There, amid the jumble of cables and girders, she felt an overwhelming sense of replenishment and peace. Wrinkled old men mumbling ancient Hebrew words stood suspended in the sky on a mountain of steel. The scene filled her heart with both comfort and wonder—it was a stunning mosaic of the old world and the new.