“Yes,” I whispered, feeling light-headed. “I do know that name.”
Serakh stood in silence as the meaning of her words sank in. That prayer—the Shema, they called it—was something I recited without thinking. I was expected to say the words, and I did. And now where had those words led me?
“No, this can’t be happening.” I rubbed my forehead, trying to erase my confusion and a rising sense of fear. “Serakh, if this is from the Bible, which it isn’t, but if it is, how can you be alive at the time of Moses and at the time of Joseph? You said yourself that Joseph died a long time ago.” Perhaps logic would put an end to this strange imprint on my imagination.
“I am eighteen,” she said. “I have been eighteen for more than four hundred years. To some, time means everything. To others, nothing.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Serakh turned toward me. “I know,” she said softly. “Even Tirtzah looks at my smooth face and cannot believe that the wisdom of many years has grown inside my heart. Except for the color of my hair, I have not aged one hour since the day I told Grandfather Jacob that Uncle Joseph was alive and in Egypt. Grandfather Jacob prayed that I receive an abundance of years. I cannot explain this, Miriam. It is the will of The One.”
“How old is Tirtzah?”
“Sixteen, she tells me. She grows as a regular person. They all do—her sisters, Moshe, everyone. They grow and they will die, like my beloved Miryam the prophetess and sister of Moshe. Maybe one day I will die, too.”
The Serakh I met at Temple Beth Israel had looked so human hobbling on her high-button shoes. And now?
“Are you an angel?” I asked, as if that might explain everything. Maybe this was more like a visitation than a dream. Do visitations happen to Jews?
Her hazel eyes caught mine. “Are you?”
“Am I what? An angel? Of course not. No matter what you tell Tirtzah and her sisters, I’m just me.”
“I, too, am just me. Come, it is time to return.”
“Yes, definitely!” Let this dream end. I was eager to return to reality.
Serakh helped me to change into my 1912 clothes. She wrapped us in my shawl and twined the corner fringe with the blue thread around her fingers.
“Put your hand on mine.”
I did. The blue glow spread across my fingers. That warm feeling started again. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the pulling—the crushing—the blue lightning—and the darkness.
CHAPTER TEN
Serakh squatted beside me. She was wearing the same clothes she had worn in my dream, but we were no longer in a cave. I was sprawled on my kitchen floor.
“You will adjust,” she said. “It will be easier on your body next time, and on your mind.”
I struggled to open my mouth. “Next time?”
“Yes, you told Tirtzah you will return, remember? Now you must think of ways to inspire her to take a brave step.”
My teeth itched and my head felt like rubber. “Pardon?”
“She and her sisters must go before Moshe and the elders and ask for their father’s land. Tirtzah knows this in her heart, but she is afraid.” Serakh patted my hand. “Would you like me to seat you by the table, Miriam? That is the custom in Port Land.”
I managed a half-smile. “I’ll rest here for a few minutes.”
She lifted my head, popped a licorice nib in my mouth before I could refuse, and then took one for herself. “Let us bring these next time. Makhlah will like them. Poor child, she is so young and so frightened.”
Serakh gently returned my head to the floor. “Close your eyes against the flash.”
I was so weary. As I closed my eyes, I felt her cover me with the shawl. Lightning streaked inside my eyelids. The grandfather clock ticked in the hall. The clock chimed six. Did that licorice she gave me taste extra salty? Was it tainted?
The clock chimed seven.
Eight.
Nine.
“Miriam!” I shaded my eyes against the kitchen light. What was I doing on the floor?
Mama knelt beside me. “Oh, my baby, what’s wrong? The house was dark. You gave me such a fright! What hurts? Did you faint?”
I sat up. The room spun. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Better. I wiped a trickle of moisture from the corner of my lips. “Mama, I had the strangest dream. I must have…I was out for a walk and I stopped by a confectionery, and then…”
“Julius, she’s in here!” Mama called.
My prayer shawl had slipped to the floor—my magic carpet prayer shawl. I wondered what Uncle Hermann would say about my dream. Or was it a visitation?
Struggling, I scrambled to my feet. “Mama, no! He can’t come in yet!”
Uncle Hermann had warned me about not letting Papa see my shawl.
Too late. There he was at the kitchen door. “You should have turned on the front hall light, young lady.”
I grabbed my shawl.
“We came home and…Gott in Himmel!” Papa shouted. God in heaven. What a stupid expression for a man who said he believed in neither!
I clutched the shawl to my chest and lowered myself into a chair by the kitchen table. I tried not to look at the embroidered bag resting on the far corner of the table, so close to Papa.
No good. Papa’s eyes grew enormous. He snatched the bag and crushed it in his fist. Then he sat down across from me and held out his hand.
“That rag you are holding, that cursed rag, give it to me, child.”
I wrapped my arms around the shawl. “It’s not a rag, Papa,” I managed to whisper. “It’s one of the most beautiful—”
“Did my foolish brother give it to you?”
I bobbed my head yes.
“Did he tell you who wore it last and what happened to her?”
I nodded again and hunched over.
“Did he give you permission to wear it?” Papa slammed his fist on the table. “Did he?”
“Uncle Hermann said the shawl belongs to me,” I said, my voice weak and raspy.
Mama rushed to Papa’s side. She smoothed his thinning hair. “Please, Julius, you’ll work yourself into a heart attack.”
Papa brushed her away. “Silence! This has nothing to do with you.”
She retreated a few steps and glared at me. Mama—the very same person who, moments ago, was practically cradling me in her arms like the Serakh in my dreams.
I breathed in the shawl’s warm woolen smell. This couldn’t be happening.
And then it hit me: maybe it wasn’t.
The first part—that Bible part—had to be a dream. So, if I hadn’t flown to some far-off cave in some far-off time, I wouldn’t really have been sleeping on the kitchen floor. This craziness with Papa was still in my imagination.
I have to bring myself back to reality. I have to wake up. Wake up, Miriam!
I curled my right hand into a fist. I closed my eyes and bit down on the knuckle of my right index finger. I bit down hard.
I heard Mama say, “Miriam, get your hand out of your mouth.”
I bit my knuckle harder. It throbbed with pain. Real pain. I released my knuckle and stared at the red flesh. I studied my teeth marks.
This part—this part in the kitchen—this part was no dream.
“Julius, I’m calling the doctor,” Mama said. “Something isn’t right.”
“Sit!” Papa ordered. “We don’t need a doctor.”
And if I wasn’t dreaming about the kitchen part… Impossible!
“Give me the shawl, Miriam.” Papa’s voice rumbled with menace. “It does not belong to you. It brings only evil and death. I should have destroyed it years ago.”
Destroyed? I had to save my shawl. “No, Papa. It’s mine,” I said, my voice growing stronger, despite my confusion.
“You are toying with fire, child.”
Toying with fire? My brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I rubbed my injured knuckle with one of the embroidered flowers on the shawl. It felt better. Yes, definitely better. Toying wi
th fire. That wasn’t right.
“Playing,” I said. “The expression is ‘playing with fire,’ Papa.”
“Julius, no!”
I looked up. Papa was leaning across the table. The palm of his hand hovered inches from my face. I covered my head with my arm and turned away. I felt a tug at my chest. My shawl!
I managed to catch one corner of the shawl, but my grip was too weak. He yanked hard and my shawl swept across the table, tipping over our saltcellar and crock of honey.
I reached across the table. Papa slapped my hand hard. He crushed my soiled shawl under his arm. My heart raced in my throat.
“You have no right!” I shouted. “It belongs to me.”
Papa stood. “Lillian, you take your daughter and you put her to bed. Do not wait up for me. I have to call Hermann.” He ground his foot into the embroidered bag that had fallen to the floor, and stormed out of the kitchen.
Mama turned to me, her eyes narrow, her cheeks flushed with anger. “You should never treat your father that way. Now look what you’ve done—spoiling a perfectly delightful evening for your father and me over a silly shawl. I hope you’re satisfied.”
I glared back. “Satisfied?” My voice rang in my ears and my temples throbbed. I rested my head on my fingertips.
“Yes, satisfied,” Mama hissed. “And now look what you’ve done to your hand. Your hair is a mess, your dress has a smudge on it. And your fingernails—filthy! Miriam, whatever did you do tonight? What has come over you?”
I stared at my hands. Mama was right. Tan and black spots had wedged themselves under several of my fingernails.
I shuddered. This can’t be!
Sand.
The grandfather clock chimed, “Sand…sand…sand…”
Mama put her hands on her hips and frowned. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
I ran past her and rushed up the stairs to my room. Gasping for breath and near tears, I slammed my door, collapsed on my bed, and stared at my fingers. Sand was still there, sand from fetching twigs with Tirtzah, sand from Serakh’s cave, sand from the dream that wasn’t a dream.
I unbuckled my shoes and yanked off my cotton stockings. There, under my toenails. Sand.
I dragged myself to the window, wishing I could find answers—reason, some measure of sanity—in that lunatic moonlight. The day shattered into a million fragments that floated across my mind.
Mr. Olsen greets me at the temple. Charity recites bread and roses, bread and roses. Kirsten tells me about Papa’s VOTE NO card. Serakh sits on my kitchen floor, eating pink fish and licorice. My shawl. The flash!
Serakh tells me do not feel troubled, we are not lost. Tirtzah says that she will not let her sisters be taken into servitude. Adonai Eloheinu. Thabible? Serakh tells me that Joseph and his brothers come from Canaan. Papa takes my shawl. Mama lets him. My shawl. My shawl. My shawl…
I closed my eyes.
The fragments faded into the fog now smothering my brain. Somehow none of it was a dream, not one moment. I should be more frightened than this. Shouldn’t I?
Bringing my hands to my lips, I kissed each sandy fingertip good night. Now I am the one dividing my own life into shoulds and should nots, taking over Mama’s job. I am so tired, so tired. A strange peacefulness overcame me as I drew in one breath and then another. Then I surrendered to the familiar darkness of my bedroom.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hours later, Mama pulled me from sleep. “You’ll have to make do with porridge and coffee,” she said, setting the breakfast tray on my desk. “Your father is going to the Club today, and he expects you to stay at home. How are you feeling this morning?”
How am I feeling? I glanced at Mama, looking for an opening, a way to explain my odd mixture of certainty and confusion. But Mama wore her Dinner Party Look—a mask of blandness with a hint of upturned lips and unreadable eyes.
“Fine,” I said.
She frowned and shook her head. “I trust you will say nothing of last night’s misadventure to Mrs. Jenkins when she comes in this afternoon. It’s none of her business.”
Misadventure? I picked at a frayed seam in the nightgown I must have put on at some point during the night.
“Where did Papa put my prayer shawl?”
Her mask slipped. “Don’t you mention that shawl again, you hear me? You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest, Miriam. When I went to bed, your father was still on the telephone with Uncle Hermann. Speaking in German, no less.”
I winced at the thought of Uncle Hermann getting an earful on the other end of the line. “It’s mine. He has no right to keep it from me.”
“I have no notion where your father put that silly shawl, and I’ll thank you to stay upstairs until he leaves for the Club.”
Mama turned and left. I studied my hands. There was still sand under my fingernails. Something had happened. I curled up in bed and grabbed my feet. My toenails were still sandy, too. And my toes seemed pinker than usual. I peered into the small mirror at my bedside. A slightly pink nose stared back. My face could have gotten a bit of sun at the rally, but not my feet. I had been wearing shoes then. I had worn sandals…later.
My stomach cramped and I rubbed my side. Yesterday was not a dream. As fantastical as my “misadventure” had been, it had to be true. I felt it in my bones. Everything that happened to me on Saturday really did happen.
If only Serakh were here to tell me what to do. Serakh from the time of the Bible. I stared out the window. The Bible—why not start there?
I grabbed Uncle Hermann’s copy of the King James Bible. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy. I’d read part of Numbers the last time, when I was looking for Zelophehad’s daughters.
This time I’d look for Serakh. But where? I had no idea where to begin, so I did the easiest thing: I started at the beginning.
Genesis, chapter one:
1 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
I raced through the early chapters. Adam and Eve. Noah and the flood. How did it go? Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, then Joseph. Serakh had said she was Joseph’s niece, so she was a part of his story. She had to be in Genesis.
Mama interrupted me in the middle of Genesis, chapter nineteen. “You should eat something.”
I nodded. Mama likes to have the last word, and this time I let her. She left. Hungry for answers, I resumed my search.
Jacob married Rachel. Rachel gave birth to Joseph. Serakh’s story had to be coming up soon. I skimmed page after page until, in chapter thirty-one, I read:
I cannot rise up before thee; for the custom of women is upon me.
What? I read that part again and an earlier part that said Rachel stole her father’s idols.
Now Rachel had taken the images, and put them in the camel’s furniture, and sat upon them.
Rachel—that sweet Rachel we learned about in Religious School—told her father she could not get up because of her monthly flow. Whoever thought that would be in the Bible?
I stood and stretched, then returned to Genesis. Joseph popped up in chapter thirty-seven when he was seventeen. He died in chapter fifty. No mention of Serakh. This couldn’t be right. I worked the crick out of my neck and went back to chapter thirty-seven. This time I read every word. Chapters thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two—nothing. Chapters forty-three, forty-four, forty-five—nothing.
Chapter forty-six had another list of unpronounceable names. I read line after line. The sons of Reuben. The sons of Levi. The sons of Gad. Sons and more sons. Until…
17 And the sons of Asher; Jimnah, and Ishuah, and Isui, and Beriah, and Serah their sister;
Yes! There she was, the daughter of Asher. My Serakh. Not spelled the way she pronounced it, but still the same person. Genesis, chapter forty-six, verse seventeen—it was like a birth certificate.
Does the Bible have her obituary as well? And if she lived and died in biblical times, how could she have shown up in 1912? How could time fold in on itse
lf that way?
Mama knocked and then immediately opened my door.
I closed the Bible. “You could have waited for me to answer before you barged in.”
She studied me top to bottom and noticed my untouched breakfast. “Are you sure you are feeling all right, Miriam?”
“I’ll be down in a little while.”
“At least have some coffee.” She put the breakfast tray in front of me. She eyed the Bible and shook her head, watching me while I ate. The coffee was cold and the porridge tasted like paste. Still, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.
“You should scrub those fingernails and get dressed now,” she said. “And come downstairs for lunch. There are fewer salmon cakes left than I thought. Did you eat any while we were away?”
Everything was slipping into place. Everything really had happened, from the moment I first saw Serakh in my kitchen. “A fish that is pink! Yum!” I felt my shoulders relax and a grin creep across my face.
Mama wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Plus there was a half-empty cone of licorice nibs on the kitchen table,” she said. “You didn’t buy it at our regular confectionery, did you? No? Miriam, you shouldn’t wander into strange places and buy unwrapped candy.”
Perfect. I had my excuse, and she’d be satisfied that what happened last night was due to the licorice—which it wasn’t. I managed to look contrite. “Yes, Mama, and I felt awful afterwards.”
“I threw out the rest of that licorice just in case it was tainted,” Mama continued. She frowned and fussed, then finally took the breakfast tray and left me in peace.
I opened the window and leaned out, wishing Serakh might come flying in like Peter Pan. I was the perfect messenger for Tirtzah, she said. Suppose I was my own perfect messenger. What would I tell myself? What would I do now? I had to compose my own line of reasoning, or at least a start at reason. But most of all I had to rescue my shawl.
Determination escorted me to dinner that evening. I smiled like a lady as I passed the tureen of potato soup to the man of the house. I sat with perfect posture and refrained from the childish habit of twirling a lock of hair while my parents babbled at the table—I was, after all, sixteen. I took a petite piece of mince pie and commenced to eat without my usual enthusiasm.
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