The Matchmaker's Gift(46)

Sara had the beginnings of a headache—the car ride and hot sun had seen to that—but her vague sense of discomfort turned to something more menacing as she considered the blank expressions of her neighbors. She wanted to tell Nathan to restart the engine, to pull away from the curb and drive somewhere else, but all the words she knew were caught in her throat. And then, just as Nathan was helping her out of the car, her sister appeared on the stoop of their building. Hindel’s face was a shocking, sickly white, as if all the color had been drained from her cheeks. On her hip, she held Florence, her oldest daughter. Behind her was Esther, Rabbi Sheinkopf’s niece, who’d been helping with the children while Sara was at school. Esther rested one hand on Hindel’s shoulder, as if she were there to keep Hindel from toppling backward.

For Sara, there was no mistaking the wretched meaning of the piteous tableau. She ran to the steps and stumbled up them, flinging both arms around her sister and niece. Florence smelled faintly of soap and milk, but Hindel smelled of paper, ink, and sorrow. She was still clutching the telegram in her hand.

Deeply regret to inform you that Private Joseph Glikman Infantry is officially reported as killed in action May Fifth.

Her oldest brother had been dead for over a month and still, the world had kept on spinning. Up at Barnard, professors had continued with their lectures; the grass in the Quadrangle had continued to grow. Down on Cannon Street, the ice man still whistled on the corner, and the children still played marbles in the alleyways.

Yet Sara—who prided herself on her intuition—had somehow not noticed that anything was amiss. Incredulity and grief circled her slowly, like a two-headed snake, poised to strike. She stood frozen on the steps, afraid to move or even blink.

Nathan was oblivious to the exchange. He was still on the street, with Sara’s suitcase beside him, waiting politely to be introduced. He must have been watching with increasing apprehension as Sara failed to call him over. Eventually, he approached the hollowed-out steps, climbing them quietly so as not to spook her. She passed the telegram to him, grateful that she did not have to say the words. My brother is dead. Joe is gone.

Ignoring the stares of the neighbors overhead, Sara allowed herself to lean against him. “I’m sorry,” Nathan said both to her and to Hindel. “So very sorry for you both.”

Sara forced herself to move. She turned to Nathan. “I have to go,” she said. “I need to go upstairs to my mother.”

His face went blank for a moment before he understood her meaning. He had expected a different kind of day—he’d hoped to meet Sara’s mother, to shake hands with her brothers, to pet the soft heads of Hindel’s young children. Sara knew he had expected to be invited upstairs, to see the home she had told him so much about. But no matter how kind and comforting he might be, Sara knew that this was not the time for introductions. She whispered her apology, and he promised her that he would return the following afternoon.

“Can I carry your suitcase up the steps, at least?” he asked, his brow creased heavily with concern. “It’s heavy. Will you be able to manage?” But Esther stepped forward and offered to help. “I’ll take it,” she said. “It won’t be a problem.” A lock of black hair fell in front of her eyes.

Sara had met Esther many times. Her parents had sent her from Hartford, Connecticut, to keep house for the rabbi, who had no family of his own. She was a few years older than Sara and half a foot taller, with a ready smile, especially for children. She was, if what Hindel had said was true, a wonderful cook and housekeeper as well. In the nine months that she had been in New York, she and Hindel had become close friends.

Esther swung her arm out to reach for the suitcase just as Nathan was edging it toward her. For an instant, it hung suspended between them—flanked by Nathan on one side and the rabbi’s niece on the other. It revealed itself then—the maddening flash that cut through the haze of Sara’s torpor and grief. It was as if the suitcase were lit from within—filled with candles or fireflies instead of nightclothes and socks. The more Sara attempted to ignore it, the brighter and more brilliantly it shined. Was the loss of her brother not enough? Did she have to lose Nathan today as well?

If the glow had surrounded any other man, Sara would have been happy for him. But in that moment, the beam was a butcher’s knife, cutting the hope from Sara’s future, deftly shaving the golden trimmings away from something that had already died.



* * *



Nathan came the next day, exactly as he’d promised, with a basket of fruit and a note from his parents. Rabbi Sheinkopf had decided that shiva should begin immediately, so the apartment was full of neighbors and friends. Nathan fit into the crowded space without fuss and offered Sara’s mother his condolences.

Malka Glikman patted Nathan’s hand. She wore a simple black scarf over her braided hair and an even simpler long black dress. In the past twelve hours, she seemed to have shrunk, and the dress hung loosely on her tiny frame. It was hard to believe that such a petite woman had given birth to five healthy children.

“You know Yiddish?” she asked, and Nathan nodded. Her face was creased and sunken with grief, but the strength of her voice did not waver.

“Sit here,” she said, motioning to the hard chair beside her. “You go to the university, too?”

“Columbia University, yes.”

“Good, good. A smart boy then. Smart enough to know that my Sara is not like the other girls.”