Threads and Flames (23 page)

“It's no trouble,” Gavrel assured her. “And this way, I—the family won't sit up fretting until you're safely home.”

“Well, you don't need to hang around waiting for me to finish class. With all the directions you've given me, I can remember the way back.”

“But I want to wait for you! I won't be bored, if that's what's on your mind. There's going to be a show at the Rooftop Garden tonight with music, maybe a comedian. The Garden is a wonderful part of the alliance, and the show is free. Why don't you come up there after class and find me? I'll save you a seat.”

Raisa smiled at him. “Won't that make us late getting home? Aren't you afraid
that
will make your parents sit up fretting?”

He returned her smile with interest. “Let that be
my
worry.”

 

 

The show at the Rooftop Garden was still going strong when Raisa got out of her first English class and went looking for Gavrel. She spied him sitting at the end of a row of chairs facing the left side of a platform, where a small orchestra was giving a spirited performance of Rossini's
William Tell
overture. All of the seats in the row except for the one next to Gavrel were filled. With a backward glance and a silencing finger laid quickly to her lips, she crept up on him just as the music ended and the applause began.

“Hello, Gavrel,” Raisa said. “Was it a good concert?”

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed, looking up at her. “But it's not over yet. They're going to play Mozart next, something from
The Magic Flute.
Look, there's room; I saved you a seat.”

“Thank you,” Raisa replied, grinning like a cat stuffed with cream. “But we need two.” She stepped to one side and gestured at the girl who had been standing behind her. “Gavrel Kamensky, I'm
very
happy to have you meet my friend Zusa Reshevsky.”

Smiling, Zusa stepped forward and offered Gavrel her hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said in measured English just as the orchestra leader rapped his baton on the music stand before him, calling for the performers to pay attention and the audience to settle down.

“We'd better find seats,” Raisa said. “I see some in the back.”

“I'll come with you,” Gavrel volunteered, rising from his place.

“No, stay where you are.” Raisa laid a hand on his shoulder. “It doesn't pay for you to move when they're only going to play one more piece. Meet us when it's over.”

As they hurried up the aisle to the empty seats at the rear of the Rooftop Garden, Zusa linked arms with her and whispered, “Your boyfriend's a handsome one, isn't he?”

“Gavrel's just my landlady's son,” Raisa said quickly. “He's not my boyfriend.”

“Really?” Zusa squeezed her arm. “Good.”

“Why ‘good'?”

“Oh, no reason.” Zusa shrugged and steered Raisa to the back of the Rooftop Garden faster.

Raisa's jaw clenched with annoyance, though if anyone had offered her a hundred dollars to admit
why,
they would have gone home with the money in their pocket.

THE GOOD WORKER

S
ummer waned and autumn brought a welcome coolness to the city. A new year began for the Jewish community with the celebration of Rosh Hashanah in early October of the Christian year. Raisa and Brina sat with Mrs. Kamensky in the women's section in the balcony of the synagogue, watching with pride as Gavrel was called upon to chant from the Torah.

Raisa ran her hands over her lap, contentedly smoothing the front of her new, dark blue skirt. She spent all day handling fabric at Triangle Waist, but she knew that no cloth could ever feel as splendid as this. The skirt was a surprise from Fruma, begun in secret the same evening Raisa had come home to show off the prettily pleated shirtwaist she'd made for herself on one of the sewing machines at the local settlement house. She'd gone to the settlement house at Fruma's suggestion, because it was a popular gathering place for young people.

The more I spread the word about Henda, the greater the chance that someone will recognize her from my description. Back in the shtetl, there was no better way of making sure that news got around than from lips to ears
.

Raisa's inquiries at the settlement house didn't turn up any leads about her sister, but she did find a welcome refuge in the activities offered there for working girls like herself. It was a relief to her aching heart to be able to snatch a few moments of distraction from her search. Her handmade shirtwaist was proof that she could still make whole garments skillfully, not merely run up seam after seam after seam. It was a reminder that she was more than just another sewing machine girl among thousands, that she was still Raisa, and that Raisa was somebody who mattered.

Now she sat tall and felt as if she was finally a part of New York. As Gavrel's clear, confident voice filled her ears, she felt her heart beating faster. She was only half-aware that her hand was drifting up to touch her mother's circlet of gold and pearls, pinned to the bosom of her shirtwaist. Her fingertips brushed the spot where the single pearl had fallen out of its setting, but the small, empty space held a memory:

Henda hugged her so fervently and so close that the little child squeaked with alarm. “Sometimes things happen, Raisaleh,” Henda murmured. “Big things we can't change. Things like . . . Papa and Mama being gone.” She rocked back on her heels, holding Raisa at arm's length. “But that doesn't mean we can't change
something.
I believe that, Raisaleh. Do you?”

Raisa let go of the broken pearl brooch.
We'll be together again, Henda,
she thought.
That's
my
promise, believe me!

Gavrel finished his Torah portion and received the congratulations of the rabbi and cantor before going back to his seat among the men.

“It's a shame Fruma wasn't here for this,” Raisa whispered to Mrs. Kamensky.

“It wasn't her idea,” Mrs. Kamensky hissed back. “It was that dragon of a future mother-in-law who forced
my
daughter to go to
her
synagogue. If this is how she bullies my precious baby now, heaven help Fruma once she marries into that family!”

“Aren't you
happy
Fruma's getting married?” Brina asked. The five-year-old's notion of a whisper carried well beyond Raisa and Mrs. Kamensky, and the choir of shushing she provoked from nearby seats had no effect on her. “When she told us Morris Zalman asked her to marry him, you yelled ‘At last!' and ‘I thought this day would never come!' and ‘Thank God, little Miss Picky finally realized she's not that young anymore,' and—”

Raisa clapped a hand over the child's mouth and murmured promises of a cookie soon and wedding cake to come.

After morning services, the Kamenskys walked home to a dinner that was a true feast. The mouthwatering smell of a slowly pot-roasted beef brisket filled the apartment. The meat was cooked to such tender perfection that Raisa was able to cut her slice with the edge of a fork instead of a knife.

“I
really
wish Fruma were here for this,” she announced.

“I'm putting a plate aside for her, for later,” Mrs. Kamensky said. “She'll be lucky if she gets a dog's dinner at
that
woman's table.”

“Well,
this
is going to be a jolly wedding,” Gavrel muttered.

“What did you say?” his mother demanded.

“Speaking of putting things aside, do you know what Raisa did this week?” Gavrel talked fast, dodging the question. “For the first time since she came to this country, she had enough money saved to send some home to the woman who raised her!”

“You're a good girl.” Mrs. Kamensky plopped another slice of pot roast on Raisa's plate.

“It's only right. I can never repay Glukel for everything she's done for Henda and me. The letters she has Reb Avner write say she's fine, but he writes to me on his own and says that now she's got nobody in the house to help with the sewing, and sometimes she falls behind and the customers get mad. He's afraid she's going to make herself sick trying to keep up. If I keep sending her money, she won't need to work so hard. Today, in synagogue, I made myself a promise to send her something every two weeks.”

Mrs. Kamensky raised her eyebrows. “Is this a promise you can afford to keep?”

“I'm going to try.” Raisa took a bite of boiled potato.
For Glukel's sake, I have to do more than try. This is the least I can do to comfort her the way she always comforted me.

 

 

At the end of October, the tenement roofs of the Lower East Side sprouted a miniature city of wooden huts, temporary structures where observant families would celebrate the Feast of Tabernacles, Succos. Raisa and Brina were invited to share a meal in the Reshevskys' succah.

As often as she thought about it, Raisa couldn't get over the fact that she and Zusa had been living within two blocks of one another all this time.
Mrs. Kamensky was right,
she thought as she and Brina climbed the steps to the rooftop.
In this neighborhood, everyone
does
live near us!

Zusa's cousin Selig had built a beautiful succah for the family. According to Jewish law, the sky had to be visible through the wooden slats and leafy branches making the roof. Sturdier structures were forbidden, because in addition to being a harvest festival, the holiday commemorated a time when the Jewish people had lived in temporary dwellings after the departure from slavery in Egypt. An acceptable succah had to be easy to take down when the seven days of Succos were over.

A plump yellow citron, the
etrog
, lay on the table beside the bundle of palm, willow, and myrtle branches that comprised the
lulav.
Selig held the
etrog
in his left hand and the
lulav
in his right, recited the blessing, and waved them to the four points of the compass as well as up toward heaven and down toward the earth. He took great care in putting away the
etrog
in a wooden box lined with velvet, then excused himself to go downstairs and use the toilet.

“Now, girls, can I trust you?” he asked, joking. “I don't want to come back and find that one of you is so desperate to have a baby that you've bitten off the
etrog
's stem!”

“Get out of here, you rascal!” Zusa's mother exclaimed, giving him a shove toward the stairs. “Why are you teaching them such superstitious nonsense? And why
now
? First let them find husbands, then they can worry about babies!”

“I think the
etrog
stem is safe,” Raisa said, joining in the jest. “None of us is thinking about marriage.”