The Matchmaker's Gift(37)
Had Nathan gone to Columbia then? Abby had no memory of that detail, but when she read the journal entry more closely, that was what her grandmother had written. The last time Abby had heard Nathan’s name, she’d been in her second year of law school. She’d recently ended things with a man she’d been seeing before heading home for her winter break. Over coffee and cake at her grandmother’s apartment, Abby confessed the whole sordid story.
“I thought he was perfect,” Abby moaned. “Handsome and funny. Great in bed, too.”
Grandma Sara raised an eyebrow. “So?” she said. “What was the problem?”
“The problem was that I wasn’t the only one who thought so.”
“He had another girlfriend?”
“Bingo,” Abby said. “Some undergraduate—a psychology major. I only found out because he called her my name by mistake, and somehow, she forced the truth out of him. Then, she looked me up in the university directory and called me up to rat him out.” Abby laid her head on her grandmother’s kitchen table. “I can’t believe I was so trusting,” she said. “I’m completely done with relationships now. Honestly, it doesn’t seem worth the trouble.”
“It will be worth the trouble when you find the right one.”
“Yeah, well, I find that hard to believe. How is anyone supposed to know if they’ve found the right one anyway?”
Her grandmother smirked and put down her fork. “I could tell you, mameleh, but you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Fine.” She pushed her plate away. “But if the brilliant skeptic doesn’t like my answer, I don’t want to hear any complaints.” Grandma Sara closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, the smirk was gone. Her voice grew serious and low. The answer she gave was so nonsensical and odd that Abby immediately dismissed it—though she never forgot it.
“When you weep,” her grandmother said, “the one you are meant for tastes the salt of your tears.”
NINE
SARA
1917?1918
He Bakes Lies Like They Are Bagels
No one in the neighborhood was surprised when Ida’s wedding was written up in the Yiddish dailies, but when The New York Times wrote about it, everyone on the Lower East Side paid attention. Because the article specifically denied that the couple used a matchmaker, the shadchanim lost their standing to complain about Sara in public. Of course, the article did not prevent them from paying a visit to the Glikmans’ landlord. The building owner hadn’t forgotten the commotion the group of men had caused, and he refused to discuss the family’s benefactor. “What do you care who pays the rent?” the landlord said. “Moishe Raskin is a mensch! The man gives charity to everyone!”
Again, the shadchanim could not argue. Raskin was, in fact, a charitable man. Not only did he invite five hundred of his poorest neighbors for a dinner at the synagogue before his daughter’s wedding, but he and Ida personally distributed half-dollar coins to all in attendance. The entire Lower East Side buzzed with the news, and with stories of the lavish feast. Not only pickles and herring, people said. There was meat and fish, kasha and kugels. His wife, God bless her, made the kugels herself.
The wedding spectacle was a welcome distraction from the country’s entrance into the war. Neighbors flooded the nearby streets to watch dozens of carriages make their way to the shul. At the front of the procession was the family of the groom—the men dressed in handsome black silk suits and hats, and Mrs. Lipovsky in a blue satin gown. The final carriage, draped with one hundred white roses, held Ida and her beaming parents.
Amid the more progressive population of the Lower East Side, Ida’s pearly white gown was further evidence that the shadchanim’s assertion about a brokered match was unfounded. The Raskin wedding was a modern affair, not some old-country, out-of-doors, undignified mess. There were traditional elements, to be sure—the wedding canopy and the breaking of the glass—but it was impossible for anyone to believe that Ida was marrying for anything but love. Hers was no negotiated or mercenary marriage. From her dress to the flowers to the red-white-and-blue bunting that festooned the entrance of the synagogue, Ida Raskin was a shining example of an all-American bride.
* * *
Sara’s high school graduation came a week after the wedding. The night before the ceremony, Hindel washed Sara’s hair and tied the damp locks into spirals. In the morning, Sara looked like a different person—an older, more confident version of herself. She wore a pale blue cotton dress, hemmed and cut down from one of Hindel’s. Against the white lace of the collar, Sara’s curls were dark and striking.
Her two younger brothers hollered and clapped as she marched into the courtyard with her classmates. Sara thought she could see her mother crying when she approached the podium to receive her diploma. Afterward, when some girls invited her for ice cream, her oldest brother, Joe, pressed a quarter into her palm. He squinted his cloudy gray eyes and smiled. “Go,” he said. “You deserve some fun.” Sara wondered whether Joe’s sudden appreciation for “fun” stemmed from the fact that he’d recently registered for the draft.
A few hours later, when Sara returned to the apartment, Moishe Raskin and Rabbi Sheinkopf were sitting in the front room with her mother and Joe. Ever since Ida’s engagement last winter, Mr. Raskin had taken a keen interest in Sara’s family. He’d hired Joe to drive one of his delivery trucks, and he had spoken with her mother about bringing her youngest boys to live on his Long Island farm for the summer.