The Matchmaker's Gift(56)

FIFTEEN

SARA




1921

If You Stay at Home, You Won’t Wear Out Your Boots




The crowd at the wedding of the Pickle King’s daughter was nothing compared to the crowd at his funeral. On the day Moishe Raskin was laid to rest, nearly five thousand Lower East Siders paid their respects. They waited outside his house and his store. They kept vigil on the steps of his synagogue. A melancholy chorus filled the sidewalks of Rivington Street all the way from the Bowery to the East River, chanting the words of the mourner’s kaddish into the muggy July air.

When the humorist Sholem Aleichem had died, a hundred thousand people lined the streets to watch the funeral procession pass down Second Avenue. Moishe Raskin, of course, was no Sholem Aleichem, but the people who knew him would always remember the wholehearted laugh that came with his half-sours. A sentence from a story was easy to forget, but it took only one whiff of Raskin’s pickled herring for the memory to live on in a customer’s nostrils forever.

When Sara had told him she was transferring to Hunter, she’d worried that he would be insulted. “You’re not upset that I’m making a different choice?” she asked.

Moishe Raskin smiled and patted his stomach. “Ho!” he chuckled. “Where would a man like me be without choices?” He counted off flavors on his fingers. “Sweet, spicy, dill, hot, extra sour. Cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, radishes, onions, cabbage, peppers—the list goes on and on, my dear. Without variety, I’d be out of business.”

He never mentioned it after that, but Raskin continued to pay her family’s bills. When she told him it was no longer necessary, he pretended he hadn’t heard. Sara knew his generosity could not last forever.

And, as usual, she wasn’t wrong.

When Moishe Raskin died, his sons inherited the business. Max preferred working at the farm on Long Island, while Herschel took over the day-to-day operations. When he examined the books with his personal accountant, Herschel identified several payments that seemed to have nothing to do with the business. Ida, who had encouraged her father’s generosity, begged him to speak with Rabbi Sheinkopf before making any decisions.

“My sister says you have answers for me,” Herschel said. He’d appeared early that morning at the rabbi’s apartment without an appointment or any notice. The rabbi led Herschel to his study but left the office door purposefully ajar. Inside, the young man continued to press. “What exactly is my father’s connection to the Glikman family?”

A few minutes into their conversation, the men heard the scrape of a metal key turning in the rabbi’s front door. “It’s nothing,” Rabbi Sheinkopf assured the young man. “A congregant who helps me with the housekeeping, that’s all.”

Herschel Raskin settled back into his seat, waiting for the rabbi to continue.

“As I’m sure you will remember,” Rabbi Sheinkopf said, “it was Sara Glikman who introduced your sister to her husband. Your father was extraordinarily grateful, especially after what Ida went through with her first engagement. He considered Sara to be the shadchanteh for the pair.”

“But Ida has been married for over five years! This is no shadchanus gelt—it sounds more like some kind of … extortion!”

The rabbi’s mouth fell open. “Extortion? What would make you say such a thing?”

“Because what you describe makes no sense, Rabbi. Why would my father continue these payments? A single fee is all that would have been required. The Glikman girl must have been playing some game.”

“I can assure you that there were no games of any kind. You’ve seen where the family lives—it’s certainly no luxury building. Six adults and three children living in three small rooms. If there was anything improper going on, your father would have paid for a more elegant apartment.”

“Maybe…”

“Sara’s eldest brother was killed in the war. Before that, her father passed away. Moishe was trying to help the girl—to supplement the family’s income so she could go to college.”

“From what I hear, she graduated in June.”

“She did.”

“Well then, she achieved her goal. Since you know the family so well, I leave it to you to let them know that my father’s arrangement will be terminated.”

“And what about the two boys? Eli took over the delivery job and George is on Max’s farm for the summer.”

“Tell them to look for other work. I don’t know if I can trust them.”

Rabbi Sheinkopf steadied his voice, but it was difficult to suppress his disappointment and rage. “Herschel, I urge you to reconsider. Think of the effect this will have on the family. Can’t you let the boys keep their jobs, at least? They’re hard workers, both of them. Ask anyone.”

Herschel sighed. “Max can keep George on the farm this summer, but when autumn comes, I don’t want them in my employ.”

The rabbi tugged at his beard in frustration. He saw Herschel out, said his goodbyes, and then walked quietly into his kitchen. Sara stood frozen in the center of the room, having abandoned preparations for the rabbi’s breakfast. An egg was on the counter, waiting to be boiled, and the teakettle sat neglected on the stove.

“You heard?” the rabbi asked, his face etched in a frown.