The Matchmaker's Gift(65)
The Alliance building stood on the corner of Jefferson Street and East Broadway. Sara wore her new wool coat for the meeting, and a hat trimmed with green velvet ribbon to match. It was the first new coat she’d ever had; knowing she had purchased it for herself gave her a boost of confidence as she entered the lobby.
She was directed upstairs to the Legal Aid Bureau, where a long line of people had already formed. After giving the clerk her name and address, she took a seat. More than an hour later, her name was called, and she was brought to the office of a pleasant-looking young man who sat waiting behind a wide wooden desk. Stacks of papers covered every surface, including the side table and the windowsill.
“Come, have a seat,” the man said to Sara. “How can I help you today?” His smile was cheerful and sincere. His cheeks, clean-shaven and smooth as glass. Amid the mess on top of his desk was a nameplate that read GABRIEL AUERBACH.
“Well, Mr. Auerbach,” Sara said. “I’m afraid my story is not a short one.” She did not reveal how she went about making her matches, but she gave Gabriel a sense of the number of marriages she had brought about and the lengths to which she had gone to avoid confrontation with the neighborhood shadchanim. “I eschewed my calling for many years,” she explained.
“And now?” Gabriel asked. “What has changed?”
“I won’t let them scare me any longer. The shadchanim are convinced that only a man can do what they do. They think that because I am young and unmarried, I don’t have the right to earn the same living. And now, because I won’t obey them, they’re bringing me in front of a beis din, exactly two weeks from today.”
“Ah,” Gabriel said. “Now I see.” He tapped his foot against his desk and chewed on the end of his pencil. “It’s complicated,” he admitted, taking the pencil from his mouth. “A beis din is a religious court. It has no state or federal authority. Its power is limited only to those who agree to be bound by its jurisdiction. Legally, you don’t have to appear before them, and they can’t enforce any judgment they pass. If they impose a fine, you can refuse to pay. If they say you can’t work, you don’t have to listen. Neither the police nor the court system can hold you accountable for whatever it is that they decide.” He paused and leaned back in his chair. “In other words, it is a court of public opinion.”
Sara pursed her lips together. “In my line of work, public opinion is important.”
“I understand. But I want to make clear that this is not something you have to do. You are not beholden to those men.”
“That doesn’t mean that there won’t be consequences if the panel decides against me. My business could dry up, my family could be shunned. Even worse—the local rabbis could refuse to marry any of the couples I match. In trying to bring two people together, I could be the cause of keeping them apart.”
“Ah,” Gabriel said. “That could be problematic.”
“Yes. That is why I must appear before them.” She opened the sturdy woven bag she had carried to the appointment and pulled out three books of various sizes. “These are my journals,” Sara said, passing the notebooks across the desk. “I’ve kept records of all the matches I’ve made, beginning with my sister Hindel’s. Most of the parties mentioned in these books had no idea of the role I played in helping them to find their spouses. Until recently, I never received a traditional payment. When I was very young, a man gave my father a bracelet. Another man—a cherished family friend—paid my family’s rent and other bills for many years after I introduced his daughter to her husband.”
Gabriel skimmed through the books, stopping periodically to read a few entries more closely. He called out the names he recognized, either in amusement or disbelief. “Jacob Tunchel?” he said. “From the eyeglass store? And Sam, the Grand Street grocer’s son?” He whistled when he came to Ida Raskin and the clipping from The New York Times. “The wedding to the dentist was your doing?” he asked. “But the article specifically says—”
Sara interrupted. “Moishe Raskin, may he rest in peace, was a very well-connected man.”
Gabriel put down the notebook and stared. “In all my years as a lawyer, Miss Glikman, I have never heard a story quite like yours.”
Sara studied Gabriel’s face—the smooth, soft skin and bright brown eyes. “All your years? You can’t be more than twenty-five.”
“I’m twenty-seven. In any event, your story is unique. In fact, you are the first professional matchmaker I have ever met.”
“I’m surprised,” Sara said. “You never sought out a matchmaker’s services then?”
Gabriel chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t believe in such outdated practices. When it comes to finding love, I prefer a more modern method.”
Sara stiffened. “What do you know of my methods, Mr. Auerbach? I haven’t told you how I make my matches.”
“I assume you follow all of the usual criteria.”
“Oh?”
He ticked them off one by one on his fingers. “Appearance, age, occupation, family status, dowry size…”
“You think I’m just like the others then? Those terrible men who care nothing for love?” Suddenly, Sara had had enough of this man, with his condescending speculation and his cynical tone. She gathered her journals from his desk and stuffed them back into her bag. “I should go. I’m sorry to have wasted so much of your time.”