The Matchmaker's Gift(32)
“But you can’t go around seeing patients for free! I have to pay you something,” Sara insisted.
“All I ask is that you tell your friends about our practice. We are trying to build our reputation, and the best way to do that is through personal recommendations.”
“I’ll tell everyone I know,” she promised. “In fact, I have some friends I’d like you to meet.”
* * *
On the morning of Yom Kippur, in front of the synagogue, Sara introduced Moishe, his wife, and Ida to the younger Dr. Lipovsky. Every seat in the synagogue was filled as Rabbi Sheinkopf led the service. From their perch high up in the women’s balcony, Sara caught her friend staring down at the dentist. Not long after, Herman looked up to scan the upper tier for a glimpse of Ida’s face.
After the services, Moishe Raskin pulled Sara aside. “Who is this dentist who keeps staring at my daughter? Is he the man for my Ida?”
When Sara confirmed Moishe’s suspicion, the pickle man clutched his beard and moaned. “Why introduce them on Yom Kippur? And here? By the synagogue? It’s too solemn! Too serious! I would have invited him to my home, fed him a meal, given him some brandy…”
Calmly, Sara disagreed. “Your daughter and the dentist are both serious people.”
Raskin wrung his hands in frustration. “What man thinks of love when he’s fainting from hunger? What woman thinks of romance when her throat is parched from thirst?”
“Please, Mr. Raskin. None of that matters. I’m telling you, Ida and Herman were meant for each other.”
“But how can you be sure?”
Sara gave him her most encouraging smile. “I see what I see, and I know what I know.”
* * *
Ida and Herman were betrothed in December, but Ida insisted on a long engagement. The wedding date was set for early June, a few days after her graduation from Barnard. Not long after Dr. Lipovsky’s proposal, Moishe Raskin paid a visit to Sara’s home. He arrived with a basket of delicacies from his store—jars of beets and herring and three different kinds of cucumbers. When Sara’s mother wasn’t looking, he handed Sara an envelope. Inside was a letter of gratitude.
Dear Sara, Rabbi Sheinkopf has informed me of your family’s financial concerns, I have taken it upon myself to pay your landlord the rent money that is past due. In addition, I have settled the debt with your father’s doctor and the pharmacy. Your credit at the butcher has been restored.
For Sara, the letter was a miracle. She had never discussed an amount with Mr. Raskin, but she trusted him to help her and her family. For the first time in a year, Sara slept undisturbed.
Her peace of mind did not last long—the shadchanim began their assault the next day.
The Lewis Street shadchan came in the morning. In the afternoon, Shternberg and Grossman arrived. Representatives from Goerick Street and East Broadway knocked on her door well into the evening. All of them had heard about Ida’s engagement. All of them knew about Moishe Raskin’s visit.
Sara had expected them to seek her out eventually, but she had not anticipated that they would come so quickly. Her brother-in-law asked them nicely to leave. Her brothers were not nearly as polite. The next day, there was a line of them outside her building—angry men wearing dark coats and black silk hats. They came from Hester Street and Canal, from Hamilton and Cherry and up on East Houston. In twos and threes they banged on the door, demanding that Sara come outside to face them. Sara’s mother cried; the neighbors complained. Only Rabbi Sheinkopf was able to stop it.
Like a bearded pied piper, the rabbi led them away from the Glikman apartment to the synagogue. “Come with me, gentlemen! Come with me. You are disturbing the neighbors, your future customers! Let us discuss the matter in private.” Anxious for answers, all of them followed. By the time they were seated, there were more than three dozen.
The first of them to speak was Shternberg from Orchard Street, who’d made the earlier matches for Moishe Raskin’s two sons. Apparently, the fees for those matches had set something of a record on the Lower East Side. It was said that Moishe Raskin was as superstitious as he was successful. In his mind, a generous fee for the shadchan was the best way to ensure a happy marriage. Ever since the second Raskin son had been married, the neighborhood matchmakers had been vying for the opportunity to match the daughter. When Shternberg botched the first engagement, they had circled Ida like hungry sharks.
Shternberg’s face swelled purple with rage. “Who does Sara Glikman think she is? Meddling in our business this way? Her father, may he rest in peace, gave us his word. And now that he’s gone, she has broken it!”
Grossman stood next and shouted over Shternberg. “We overlooked the gossip when the girl was thirteen, but now she is almost a fully grown woman! We must put a stop to her behavior!”
The Lewis Street shadchan tugged at his beard. “We demand to know the terms of her agreement with Moishe Raskin! We demand to see the contract she signed!”
Rabbi Sheinkopf did his best to calm the men down, but their voices only grew louder and more desperate.
“There is no contract.” From the women’s balcony, high above their heads, came a composed and confident voice. From under their hats, the men raised their eyes in unison to the upper tier and gasped. Sara stood twelve feet above them, grateful that they could not see her knees shaking. Despite the distance, she could hear their murmurs.