The Matchmaker's Gift(39)

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Barnard College was only twelve miles away, but truly, it was a different world. Compared to Sara’s home on the Lower East Side, the Morningside Heights campus was spacious and serene. There were no crowded tenements, no laundry lines. The air did not smell of onions or borscht.

Sara had never spent a night away from her family. She had never once had a bed to herself. Her room in Brooks Hall should have been a luxury, but instead, it felt disorienting and empty. There were 150 women in Sara’s class, but loneliness filled her long, narrow room, coating every surface like the breath of old ghosts.

Everyone who knew Sara was convinced she would love college. But the truth was, the classes did not particularly interest her, and the socializing tempted her even less. She did not want to study botany or become fluent in French. She did not want to sing in the Glee Club or join the Social Science League. There were far too many teas and readings and performances, too many concerts and plays and competitions. The Greek Games—an annual spring tradition—was, in her opinion, a waste of time. From the elaborate costumes to the choreographed dances and recitations, the exaggerated pageantry of the festival struck her as absurd. She wrote as much in a letter to her brother Joe, after he was sent to France.

I want to be doing something to help with the war, not smearing gold paint on a fake wooden chariot so a bunch of girls in white robes can pretend to be Goddesses.



It was difficult for Sara to reconcile such events with the academic rigor of the school and its students. Her peers, no matter their backgrounds, were the most ambitious young women she had ever met. They were smart and organized, well-read and curious. They were motivated in a way she felt she understood. But she could not relate to their affinity for distraction or appreciate the activities that many of them flocked to for “fun.”

Delores, who lived in the room next door, told Sara that she should try to enjoy herself. “College is supposed to be an adventure,” Delores said.

Delores, Sara knew, was from a wealthy family, with a mother who’d gone to Radcliffe and a father who made his money “in steel.” Sara didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she knew enough to understand that Delores never worried about things like getting evicted or paying doctor bills. It wasn’t that Delores was not committed to her studies. It was that, for girls like her, college was more than coursework. It was four years of socializing, making connections, going to dances, and, of course, looking for a suitable husband.

There were other girls, of course—girls for whom college was a means to a predetermined end; these were the girls who planned to teach, who had mapped out careers as scientists, or writers. They had chosen their future professions, and they were at Barnard to begin learning their trade.

But Sara wasn’t a wealthy dilettante, and she wasn’t at college to find a husband. And though it was true that she wanted to pursue a career, it was certainly not a conventional one. There was no course of study the college offered that could guide her on the path she had chosen. She had known her calling since she was ten years old. But the route was circuitous and the destination unpredictable. Barnard could not help to prepare her for the role.

Of course, Sara could never admit this to her professors or even to any of her classmates. She had made a vow not to reveal her gift or to discuss it with anyone at the school. She was tired of being whispered about, tired of being the subject of scrutiny. She was certain that the other girls would despise her if she told them what she saw and what she knew. She wouldn’t dare tell Delores, for example, that the handsome young man who had picked her up downstairs was a better match for someone else—the sweet brunette who lived at the end of their hall.

There were a few students at the school with a background like Sara’s—Lower East Side Jewish girls, whose parents still remembered the shtetls they came from. Sara hadn’t known any of them from home, and she hoped they hadn’t heard the rumors about her. They were the students most likely to know about the tradition of the shadchanim, but Sara was certain that even they could not imagine the mysterious method she used.

There were other kinds of Jewish girls at Barnard, of course—the kind of Jews the administration preferred. They were the girls from more established families, whose parents spoke English without an accent. Many of them commuted, and those who boarded did not feel guilty when bacon was served with pancakes at breakfast. The majority of girls were from different faiths entirely—Episcopal, Presbyterian, Catholic. They weren’t all moneyed, society girls like Delores, but Sara didn’t feel as if she fit in with any of them.

The first time Sara thought about quitting was in December when Joe was drafted. In April, when Joe was somewhere in France, Sara talked about leaving a second time. “I can be of more help at home,” she told her sister, but their mother insisted that Sara stay and finish out the academic year. “Don’t worry so much,” Hindel had said. “Rabbi Sheinkopf’s niece, Esther, lives with him now. She doesn’t have enough work at his house to keep her busy, so she’s been helping me with the babies in the afternoons.”

Sara went home every Sunday to visit, but she was careful not to leave her family’s apartment or to risk being spotted by the shadchanim. They had finally stopped looking for her around every corner, finally stopped making fresh accusations. Her extended absence had diffused the situation, and Sara did not want to risk provoking them again.