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by Ruth Tenzer Feldman


  Sand lifted off the woolen shawl—desert sand. I saved a few grains in an envelope and reluctantly let the rest swirl down the drain. Then I spread the damp shawl and bag over my coverlet and opened my bedroom window to let in the late afternoon breeze. I sat on the edge of my bed and caressed the shawl’s corner tassel with its blue thread. Nothing shimmered, nothing glowed.

  I had no notion of what to tell Mama about the laundry. Still, I had until Friday to figure that out. The shawl was safe for now. It was time to get back on track with Precision Printers and that VOTE NO card.

  I straightened my clothes, tamed my frizz with two tortoiseshell hair combs, draped the shawl and bag over hangers in my armoire where it wouldn’t be seen, and presented myself at dinner. Papa studied my appearance and grunted approvingly. I apologized for oversleeping on a Tuesday morning, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “You can oversleep without worry. I am here to take care of you and your mama.”

  “I’m fine, now, thank you. I’ll be ready to start work tomorrow.”

  “We have you come on Tuesdays.”

  “Only Tuesdays?” I could scarcely hide my surprise.

  “Of course,” Papa replied. “You are not needed every day.” It sounded like I was the cleaning woman, come to scrub the floors. Still, I didn’t argue, lest I make matters worse. I had my shawl, and next week I would have my chance at Precision Printers. Patience wasn’t my strongest quality, but I was almost seventeen after all and had to make an effort. Until then I could help Charity and Prudence with the suffrage campaign as long as I stayed behind the scenes.

  Mama filled her wine glass and chatted about her plans to spend the next morning at Neighborhood House. “There are so many immigrant families in need,” she said. “And since I’ve joined the Council of Jewish Women, don’t you think I ought to support their projects, Julius?”

  Papa grunted again. His body was at the table; his mind was not.

  Mama barreled on. “Mrs. Steinbacher’s chauffeur will motor us over and back. Miriam, let’s bring treats for the kindergarten.” She gave me The Don’t Argue Look.

  I dabbed the corners of my mouth and considered. It would be better to be on Mama’s good side when I told her about the shawl. Plus one of the Jewish ladies might know more about prayer shawls for women.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  Later I slipped into Danny’s old room and put the prayer shawl in the dresser drawer next to Baloo. I figured no one went into that room, and Mama was forever coming into mine. And besides, it just felt right. Surely the shawl would be safe there.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By the time Mrs. Steinbacher’s Packard came on Wednesday morning, I had filled our picnic basket with a dozen apples. Her latest chauffeur ushered me into the front seat, while Mama and Mrs. Steinbacher sat in back—a perfect arrangement, as I rarely got to sit near handsome young men. He reminded me of Richard Broxburn.

  The air felt crisp and clean. Mount Hood dominated the eastern sky, while the snow-capped dome of Mount Saint Helens held court further to the north. Both distant volcanoes stood as quiet as Mount Tabor on Portland’s east side.

  The Packard stopped in front of a three-story brick building at Second and Wood. The chauffeur offered me a hand down, which I gladly accepted. I climbed the steps to the main entrance, and Mrs. Steinbacher pointed me in the direction of the kindergarten. The teacher there set me to work slicing the apples I had brought. While the children munched, she pointed her chin toward a small boy sitting by himself. “How good is your Italian?”

  “Awful,” I admitted, as my Italian was limited to menus and two opera records.

  “A pity. His family just arrived from Naples, and we’re the only free kindergarten in the area. He’ll wind up speaking English with a Yiddish accent.” She clapped her hands for attention. “Now children,” she said, “let us say thank you to Miss Josefsohn for the apples.”

  They shouted something that sounded vaguely like “thank you.” Most were poor Jewish children from Russia and Poland, and I felt as out of place as that Italian boy. When they left for recess, I took my empty basket and wandered down the hall. The walls echoed a sing-song English lesson from one of the classrooms. A woman stopped me near the main office. Unlike Mrs. Steinbacher and Mama, she wore a simple suit and had her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun.

  “You must be Lillian’s daughter, Miriam,” she said. “I’m Gertrude Rosenfeld.” She shook my hand with strong fingers and a warm grip. “If you are free, I could use a hand in the office. Can you type?”

  “Not very well.” I liked her right off.

  “No matter, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” She cleared a place for me in front of an Underwood typewriter that was similar to the one in Papa’s office. “We’re sending a letter to everyone on this list, asking for contributions.” She handed me an ink eraser. “This will take care of mistakes. Don’t bother with carbon copies.”

  I sat on a rickety swivel chair, put a piece of stationery in the platen roller, and felt my shoulders relax. There’s something solid and comfortable about typing words on a page. Almost as good as printing. A while later, Mrs. Rosenfeld brought me tea and a biscuit from the cooking class.

  “You’ve slaved away for over an hour. Let’s take a break. They sweetened the tea with raspberry jam. It’s surprisingly good.”

  She was right about the tea. I stood and stretched. And that’s when I noticed the yellow ink blotter lying on Mrs. Rosenfeld’s desk. I wondered whether the suffragists had come to Neighborhood House on Blotter Day. Maybe Mrs. Rosenfeld was active in the campaign.

  “I’m writing to my mother in Cleveland,” she said, eyeing the piece of notepaper next to the blotter. “Thirty years in this country and she still doesn’t read English. Do you know Yiddish?”

  I shook my head. “My parents prefer French and German. My father is from the Bavarian part of Germany, and my mother’s from Seattle. I don’t know why she loves French.”

  “It’s always good to know a second language.” Mrs. Rosenfeld’s eyes brightened, the way Sister Margaret’s did when she was about to give a favorite lecture. “Here, let me show you.” Mrs. Rosenfeld reached for the notepaper. “I’m writing in Yiddish, which uses Hebrew script.”

  “Um, this doesn’t look like Hebrew lettering to me,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to admit I couldn’t read Hebrew.

  “Ah, right. You would know only the printed Hebrew from the prayer book. This is like cursive. But you know mazel tov, I’m sure. It means ‘good luck,’ but we use it like ‘congratulations.’ I’m congratulating my mother because she won two chickens in a raffle.”

  “Well then, mazel tov,” I said, practically exhausting my knowledge of Yiddish or Hebrew. “Were they roasted chickens?”

  “Live chickens, but that’s another story. See the letter mem at the beginning of mazel? It looks very different from printed Hebrew. But other letters, like this vet at the end of tov looks almost like the printed letter.”

  “I should get back to my typing.”

  But Mrs. Rosenfeld was not through. “Yiddish has a lot of German in it, Miriam. Take the Yiddish word tzvai. Two. Like the German zwei. I’m asking my mother what she plans to do with two live chickens.”

  I stared at the squiggle next to Mrs. Rosenfeld’s finger. “What’s this letter?”

  “Tzadi. It looks like a giant three, don’t you think? A cursive tzadi doesn’t resemble the printed tzadi at all.” I examined Mrs. Rosenfeld’s note more closely.

  “Would you care for another biscuit? I’d be happy to teach you Yiddish if you’d like.”

  “Pardon? Oh, um…yes, please. To the biscuit, for now.” That giant three looked like two of the marks embroidered on my prayer shawl. They must be words. Are they magic?

  ***

  I declined Mama’s half-hearted offer to spend the afternoon shopping with her and Mrs. Steinbacher. The moment I got home I rushed upstairs to Danny’s room and studied my shawl. Som
e of the embroidered letters weren’t exactly like those in Mrs. Rosenfeld’s note, but this had to be Hebrew script. I tore a page from my copybook and wrote each letter as precisely as I could. One slip of my pen might make a huge difference, like turning an O into a Q.

  I commenced to pace and plan. Mrs. Rosenfeld could translate the letters for me, but when would I see her next? Mama thought the shawl was still at the laundry, and I doubted she knew Hebrew anyway. Papa was out of the question.

  That left Uncle Hermann. I strode into Papa’s study and lifted the telephone receiver.

  “This is the Western Electric operator. May I have the number, please?”

  “Main 4786,” I said, practically swallowing the mouthpiece. With luck he’d be home and still on speaking terms with me.

  “One moment please,” the operator said.

  I licked my lips and slid a finger along the telephone’s smooth candlestick base.

  “Josefsohn residence.”

  “Uncle Hermann? I owe you a huge apology. Papa wasn’t supposed to see the prayer shawl. It was all a big mistake.”

  “No doubt it was.” His voice sounded cool and distant.

  “I was wondering if I could stop by with something for you to translate. I think it’s in Hebrew. Maybe Yiddish.”

  “A translation? I’m intrigued.” Curiosity brought out the best in Uncle Hermann, like it did with me. “When would you like to come?”

  “I’ll be right over,” I said, as I blinked at a flash of light in the hallway.

  “Excellent. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Bye,” I murmured, returning the receiver to its cradle. I turned, and my pulse jumped and echoed in my ears. My stomach twisted.

  Serakh had walked into Papa’s study. “Peace be unto you, Miriam. As you see, I wear the garments of my place and time, because we must not tarry. Tirtzah needs you. Are you ready?”

  Speechless, I stared at her and hugged myself. Heaven knows what she must have read on my face. Amazement. Excitement. Terror.

  Serakh smiled. “Still no trust? Come, let us wrap ourselves in your fringes. You will use your eyes and heart to know what your mind struggles to accept.”

  Going once was an accident—I thought I had stepped into a dream. But going twice…even to see Tirtzah? Going when who knew what dangers might await me? And suppose something happened to the shawl? Could I still come back? Serakh touched my cheek. I studied her face. Open. Friendly. Placid. As if we were about to embark on a walk around the block rather than a fantastical flight that shattered all reason.

  I took a great shuddering breath.

  “This trip will be easier,” she said confidently. “Each time will be easier.”

  Each time? I feel in my innermost self that this prayer shawl will change my life, but so soon?

  “Miriam, if you are not ready…if this is too hard for you—”

  “Wait! Don’t leave me.” I sucked in more air and tried to smile. “Please, just give me a minute.”

  “You will be gone and back before a minute passes in your Port Land.” She squatted on the floor beside me and hummed a sing-songy tune I remembered from the last time. Then she looked at me expectantly.

  “I’ll get my shawl,” I whispered.

  She nodded and returned to her humming. I raced to Danny’s room, fetched my shawl, and wrapped the embroidered bag around Baloo. “I’ll be fine,” I told the bear, needing to hear my own words out loud.

  When I got back to Papa’s study, Serakh was eyeing the telephone with suspicion. I sat next to her and pointed to the shawl’s embroidered letters, hoping they might help me take the step I wanted to take but was afraid to. “These are words, aren’t they?”

  “Words? Yes. The letters are not of my place and time, but they speak of justice. Another Miriam once explained her needlecraft to me—Miriam, the daughter of Rashi. She wove the shawl anew after the old one burned in the synagogue fire at Isfahan. Only this single blue thread remains.”

  “So they are not magic words or anything like that?”

  Serakh shook her head. “I do not believe in magic, Miriam, and I am not a conjurer. I believe in The One.”

  “How old was the old shawl, the one that burned?”

  She patted my knee. “So many questions. You ask more than any of the others of your line who have traveled with me.”

  “How many others have there been?”

  “Miriam, let us not tarry. This room smells of your father.”

  I needed a little more time to work up my courage. Clutching her hand, I pleaded with my eyes.

  “There have been many others,” she said. “Some lose their courage to come a second time. While I wait for you to decide, I will tell you about the old shawl, yes?”

  I nodded.

  “The old shawl. Who can say its age? I lose track of time. The Babylonians destroy the great temple in Jerusalem, and we are cast out, but the blue threads stay with us—hidden for the next generation and the next. The Romans destroy the second temple, and we are cast out, but the blue threads stay with us. Fewer threads. I watch a woman weave a shawl of fine white wool. She winds and knots a long blue thread for each corner to remember the words of The One so far from our homeland.”

  I still wasn’t ready to go. But will I ever be?

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “I will pretend to be ready.”

  “Good. Now let us bring those pieces of dark sweetness for little Makhlah.”

  “The licorice? I don’t have any more. No, wait. Mrs. Jenkins keeps a stash in the cupboard. I’ll be right back.”

  I raced to the kitchen. Mrs. Jenkins was still out somewhere. I tore off a piece of waxed paper, reached behind the tin of baking powder, and grabbed a handful of licorice. There wasn’t time to write my usual I.O.U. to her.

  Serakh was staring out the window when I got back. Without another word, she draped my shawl across our shoulders.

  Breathless, I reached for the blue thread and closed my eyes against the flash.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Serakh’s cave surrounded me once more. My body felt like pulled taffy.

  “You are well, Miriam?”

  I rolled onto my back. “Yes, I think so. Just achy.”

  She kissed my forehead. “This time I pray you will trust me as Tirtzah does. Remember that you and Tirtzah will always understand each other if you are touching her while you wear your blue thread. But only in this cave will you understand the others.”

  A young girl’s voice echoed from somewhere nearby. “Peace unto you, Serakh.”

  “Peace unto you,” she called back. “Find a comfortable spot where you are. I will join you shortly.”

  Serakh put Mrs. Jenkins’s licorice nibs by my side. “Tirtzah’s sisters will taste these and will think that you bring sustenance from The One. They will believe that you are wise. Your garments are a few paces behind you,” she said. “When you are ready, come forward.”

  Then she walked away. I crawled to the back of the cave. Struggling against a rising panic, I changed clothes and draped my prayer shawl over my shoulders.

  How could anyone think I was wise, when it seemed so hard just to think of myself as sane? This was all so strange, so beyond belief. I hugged myself and took another deep breath. I. Can. Do. This. Clutching the licorice nibs, I stepped toward the light.

  Tirtzah and her four sisters had arranged themselves on the cave floor in a semicircle facing Serakh. They reminded me of Danny’s tin soldiers, each carefully placed, awaiting instructions. Only Tirtzah looked at me directly. She smiled, but didn’t speak. I wondered if Serakh had instructed her to pretend we hadn’t met before.

  “We are blessed,” Serakh announced. “Our messenger has brought you dark mahn.”

  The smallest girl eyed my licorice. “Do I have to eat it?” She seemed about as old as Albert, her sandaled feet covered in dirt, her face scrubbed clean. Another girl shushed her and looked at Serakh apologetically.

  “Makhlah, you will like th
is mahn,” Serakh murmured. “It is even sweeter than the mahn that The One has provided in our wanderings. I have partaken of it, and it is most delicious.”

  She motioned for me to sit by her side, leaned toward me, and whispered, “This mahn I think you call it manna.”

  Manna. The word was familiar. I doled out the licorice and slipped a nib into my mouth. Its sugary-salty taste felt good on my tongue. The sisters seemed to like the licorice too. As I watched them, I remembered the Passover story about food falling from heaven to feed the Israelites during their exodus from Egypt. Manna.

  Tirtzah kissed the hem of my robe. “These are my sisters,” she said. “Hoglah, Milcah, Noa, and Makhlah.” One by one they kissed my hem. Like Tirtzah, they reminded me of the Indian women I sometimes saw downtown or by the docks: exotic with their dark brown eyes, long straight black hair, high cheekbones.

  Serakh began. “Most welcomed messenger, the father of these sisters was Zelophehad, of the line of Manasseh, a son of Joseph. He died in the wilderness, leaving no brothers or sons to provide for these who sit before you, his daughters.”

  Not knowing what else to do, I nodded and tried to look wise.

  Tirtzah took up the story. “We are honored to have you before us,” she said. She must have kept our first meeting a secret. I smiled at her. So had I. “What has happened to your mother?” I asked.

  “She lives with us among the Manassites, the half-tribe of Joseph. But when the tribes cross into Canaan there will be no place for us there. The elders will give my father’s share away. Our mother prays a man will find her pleasing and take her as a wife. But her new husband will not be required to provide for us. I fear he will take our goats as a bride price and then we will have nothing.”

  “Can’t you and your sisters stay on this side of the river?”

  Tirtzah shook her head. “That is forbidden unless we are taken into the household of a tribesman who remains here. When Gabi takes me as his wife, I will join the Reubenites on this side of the River Jordan. We hope to keep little Makhlah in our household, but he cannot provide for all of my sisters.”

 

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