The Matchmaker's Gift(63)

Not until she hung up with the deli on the corner after ordering a pastrami on rye and a potato knish did Abby finally make up her mind.

Everything about the decision was reckless. Her choice of companion was foolish, at best. The evening would surely be messy and awkward and odd, and she was probably going to regret it for a long time to come. She was certain her grandmother would approve.

For the first time ever in her life, Abby was going to try making a match.





SEVENTEEN

SARA




1921

Some of the Best Shoemakers Go Barefoot




From now on, Sara Glikman decided, she would go about her work in a professional manner. No more hiding what she was doing. No more pretending she wasn’t a shadchanteh. And, most importantly of all, no more working for free.

She’d been keeping secret records of her matches for years—scribbling down details in two mismatched journals, starting from when Hindel first married Aaron. Sara told no one about her writing; she had tucked the journals deep in the bottom of the chest that her family had brought from their home in Kalarash. Now, with the last of her spare coins, Sara purchased a third notebook. She had made up her mind to chronicle her endeavors, to keep careful records of her future successes. When the story of Ida’s wedding was printed, Sara began saving newspaper clippings as well, tucking them between her handwritten pages as further proof of her efforts. With any luck, she would need a fourth notebook soon, and then—God willing—a fifth after that. Her journals, she decided, would be her personal archive—one of hope and of love.

She would begin by visiting Miss Klein, the spirited young woman from Tunchel’s eyeglass store. In an attempt to avoid the “lunchtime rush,” she made her way early to Klein’s Knishes. Delancey Street was already crowded—packed with shoppers and peddlers of all kinds. As Sara passed by the open door of the cigar shop, the tang of smoke and tobacco hit her nose like a slap. Coughing, she made her way across the street, toward the tailor’s shop whose windows were filled with signs handwritten in both English and Hebrew.

Past the tailor’s shop, the morning sun fell across a bright yellow-and-white-striped awning. Even from twenty feet away, the smell of warm dough, butter, and potatoes beckoned Sara inside. The bell on the door rang as she entered, and the familiar young woman from the eyeglass store greeted her from behind the counter. “Welcome to Klein’s,” the girl said with a smile. “One knish, or do you want two?”

“One please,” said Sara, caught off guard. She’d meant to begin her career by collecting money—not by being the one to pay. But she wasn’t quite sure how to start, so she pushed four pennies toward Miss Klein, accepting a steaming hot knish in return. “My name is Sara Glikman,” she offered. “Do you mind me asking—what is your name?”

“Beryl Klein,” Miss Klein told her. “Did you want something else, Sara Glikman? If you don’t mind my saying so, you look nervous.”

Sara tried to brush off the young woman’s words. She had never had to sell her services before. “I’m not nervous,” she corrected. “I’m excited.”

“Excited, you say? And why is that?”

Sara cleared her throat to buy some time. She was going about the matter all wrong—she should have asked to speak to Beryl’s parents first. “Are your parents here?” she asked politely. “I’d like to meet with all of you together.”

“My father is drunk and sleeping it off. My mother is busy in the back. What’s this about? Are you looking for a job? Are you selling something?”

“Neither,” said Sara. “Well, not exactly.”

“Look,” said Beryl. “You seem nice enough. But I have a mountain of potatoes to peel, and my mother will be yelling for me any minute. Why don’t you just say what you want, and then I’ll see if I can help.”

“I’m a matchmaker,” Sara blurted out. “And I have a proposition for you.”

Beryl’s eyes widened. “You’re very young. And I’ve yet to meet a shadchan without a beard.”

“Yes.” Sara nodded. “But I know what I’m doing. I’ve made dozens of matches—fifty, at least.”

“And yet, I’ve never heard of you,” Beryl said.

“The neighborhood shadchanim don’t approve of me. They don’t want me taking away their business. For years, I tried to pacify them—I worked in secret and I took no payment. But now, with my family’s debts piling up, I can’t go on that way any longer. I don’t have the luxury to worry now about what the shadchanim think or say.”

Beryl looked at Sara with newfound admiration. “No one wanted my mother to open this shop,” she admitted. “The landlords kept asking where her husband was, and he was never sober enough to meet them. But my mother is smart and she works hard—harder than any man I’ve known.” Beryl rested her hands on both hips. “As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “we women can do any job we want. Why shouldn’t you be a matchmaker if you want to? Especially if you’re good at it.”

“Thank you,” Sara said.

“Don’t thank me, yet. I support your choice of occupation, Sara, but I’m afraid I have no personal use for it.”