The Matchmaker's Gift(51)
“Will they do this for my brother, do you think?” Sara asked.
“I believe so, yes. At least the War Department is finally listening to the Board.”
“That is good news.”
“Yes, yes.” He lowered his glasses and studied Sara’s face. “But something else is bothering you. Is it your mother?”
Sara lowered her chin and twisted the fabric of her skirt in her hands. “She doesn’t eat enough, and she has bad dreams. She calls out for Joe sometimes in the night.”
Rabbi Sheinkopf sighed. “Ach, it is a terrible thing to lose a child. War has made mourners of too many mothers. Your brother-in-law, Aaron, was here this morning. He mentioned that your mother seems to perk up whenever Nathan Weisman comes to visit.” The rabbi offered Sara an encouraging smile. “Soon she may have a wedding to look forward to—”
“She won’t,” Sara interrupted. “Nathan is only a friend.”
The rabbi paused to consider her words. “Forgive me then. I misunderstood. When I met him, he seemed quite taken with you.”
“He was, but he won’t be for much longer. That’s why I’ve come to speak with you. I saw something, Rabbi.”
“Ah. Your gift again?”
Sara could no longer hold back her frustration. “Some days, it is no gift at all. Sometimes, it feels more like a curse.”
From behind his spectacles, the rabbi’s eyes softened. “My dear, you bear a heavy burden, one only you can know the weight of. The only way for you to ease it is to share your suffering with someone else. Perhaps this is why you have come to me.” He rearranged himself in his chair and clasped his hands on his lap, waiting patiently for her to speak.
Sara hesitated; her shoulders tensed. She had always been honest with the rabbi. But now, for the first time, she felt embarrassed. She was afraid her story was a foolish one, one that made her sound petty and jealous. Esther was a kindhearted girl who deserved to find love as much as anyone else. Sara should be pleased to be the one to help her find it.
She should be, but she was not, because she wanted Nathan for herself.
Ever since Sara confessed the truth to Esther, she wished that she could take it back. She dreamed of telling Esther that she had been wrong, that she had, in fact, misread the signs. Love was mysterious, after all. It was difficult—if not impossible—to predict. Sara knew that Esther would not object, that she would go along with the new story. Sara could suggest a different young man. She could pick someone handsome and nice enough and convince him that Esther was the girl he should marry. Sara was certain that in the end, none of it would be difficult to do.
Was this the real curse of a matchmaker then: to know that most people were so confounded by love that they were likely to listen to almost anyone who professed to have superior knowledge?
Was this why the shadchanim insisted that anyone making matches must be married? Did they believe that the temptation to use their influence for personal romantic gain was too great? Sara knew that being married was not a guarantee of good or honest behavior. Even without lying outright to their clients, many of the shadchanim she knew were prone to exaggeration, half-truths, and artful manipulation.
But Sara was not like those men. At best, their pairings were based on a mix of good intentions, careful research, and a little bit of luck. At worst, they were based on money alone. Regardless, the goal was always marriage. And marriage was not the same as love.
What the shadchanim could never understand was that for Sara, a match was not something to be made. Either love existed or it did not. What Sara saw, she saw. What she knew, she knew. Her method was as pure and as unpredictable as the first purple crocus to emerge in the spring.
The rabbi was right—her gift could be a burden. But she could not shirk her obligation. She could not keep Nathan for herself. He was meant to be with Esther, even if he didn’t know it yet.
And so, Sara told Rabbi Sheinkopf the entire story. She told him about the shimmering suitcase, her visit to Esther, and her plan. Sara grew teary-eyed when she confessed her fear that she would always be alone. “How will I ever be able to love a man if I’m always worried about what I’ll see in his future? I did not see the truth about Nathan until it was already too late.”
Rabbi Sheinkopf blinked his eyes. “Too late for what?” he asked, half-teasing. “I would argue the contrary. You discovered the truth at the perfect time. And you learned something valuable in the process.”
“I did?”
The rabbi nodded. “Of course. When I met you, Sara, you were ten years old. You were a young girl blessed with the rarest of talents—a gift most of the world could never imagine. Despite your youth, you understood its significance.” The rabbi stopped and lowered his voice. “And yet,” he mumbled.
“And yet what?”
“And yet, my dear, you were still a child. A brilliant child, but a child, nonetheless. Of course, a child is no stranger to love. She loves her parents, she loves her family. She might love her teachers or her friends. But a child cannot know what romantic love is. And so, your talent gave you a false impression. Your gift led you to believe that love was always free of pain, always joyful and uncomplicated. It taught you that love comes in a flash of light, that it is always remarkable and instantaneous. But in all of this, I’m afraid, you were very much mistaken.