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by Ruth Tenzer Feldman


  Here was a normal family having a normal day. I tried to act normal too. I met Uncle Hermann in his study and handed him my copybook page. He glanced at it, then eyed me over the tops of his spectacles, his face lined with concern. “Does your father know you’re still interested in the tallis I gave to you?”

  “Neither of my parents knows I have my prayer shawl right now, Uncle Hermann, and I need to keep it that way. I’m terribly sorry if I got you in trouble. I fell asleep in the kitchen.”

  “Why were you wearing it in the first place?”

  I concentrated on a spot in the rug. He of all people might believe me.

  “Miriam, is everything all right?”

  No, I couldn’t take the chance. “Oh, honestly, Uncle Hermann, I meant to hide the shawl as soon as I got it, but I couldn’t resist wearing it once. It won’t happen like that again, I promise you. Can you tell me about these words, please?”

  He ran a finger across the page. “They are definitely Hebrew. I recognize the passage. It’s written in a script that I think was used in Europe hundreds of years ago.” He sat back and stared at the ceiling. “Yes, there’s a chart in my Jewish encyclopedia somewhere.” He got up from his desk and walked towards a crowded bookcase.

  “Perhaps another time, Uncle Hermann,” I said. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” I dared not tell him how exhausted I was. “If you could just translate these letters…”

  He slowly returned to his desk, but he seemed determined to continue with his lesson. “See this fey—this final letter in the sequence going from right to left? We don’t write it that way today.

  “Hebrew lettering has changed over the years. Printers in the Middle Ages used a typeface they called Rashi script. We don’t think Rashi ever wrote in Rashi script, though.”

  “Who was Rashi?” The name sounded familiar. Hadn’t Serakh told me about him?

  “Rabbi Shlomo Itzhaki. He was that extraordinary scholar who lived in France in the eleventh century. Surely they taught you about Rashi in Religious School.”

  I wondered what Papa would have expected me to learn if I had been a son rather than a daughter. Surely I would have learned Hebrew and studied the Torah. Danny would have done that. Then I remembered what Serakh had said about my shawl.

  “Didn’t Rashi have a daughter named Miriam?”

  Uncle Hermann brightened. “So you do know about him after all. Yes, Miriam was his middle daughter. He had no sons. Rashi’s three daughters were scholars in their own right. Mim, are you sure you’re all right? You look a bit pale. Would you like a drink of water?”

  I shook my head and turned to him with a smile. Miriam, daughter of Rashi, just as Serakh told me. The shawl Rashi’s daughter had woven and embroidered was a thousand years old—another miracle, another piece of the unbelievable. She was of that line of Miriams, and I was among them. “I’m fine, Uncle Hermann. Really. More than fine. So these are words, right? What do they mean?”

  Uncle Hermann tapped the copybook page. “See these three letters? They spell the Hebrew word tzedek, ‘justice.’ They are repeated here. Then these four letters spell tirdof, which Rabbi Leeser translates as ‘pursue.’ It’s part of a biblical passage. Tzedek, tzedek tirdof. ‘Justice, justice you shall pursue.’ I’ll get you the exact verse.” This time I didn’t stop him. He pulled a Bible from his collection.

  Justice. My “magic” words were about justice. It makes perfect sense. Justice in Tirtzah’s time. Justice in the time of Rashi’s daughter. Justice now. I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Who said this?”

  “Isaac Leeser. He was a German Jew who lived in Philadelphia. He wrote this translation just before the Civil War.”

  “I mean who said this in the Bible?”

  “Moses, I assume, when he speaks of God’s commandments.” He riffled through the pages. “Ah, yes, it’s in Deuteronomy. Here. Chapter sixteen.”

  I leaned over and read the verse he pointed to.

  20 Justice, only justice shalt thou pursue; in order that thou mayest live, and retain possession of the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee.

  “Scholars argue about whether ‘follow’ or ‘pursue’ is better. The King James Bible you borrowed uses ‘follow,’ as I recall, but I think ‘pursue’ makes more sense, don’t you?”

  I stared at my hands. Justice in my time.

  “Mim? Pursue or follow. What do you think?”

  “Pardon? Oh…um…like in ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’?”

  “Justice and happiness—they’re not always compatible. I’ll have to think about that.” Uncle Hermann smiled and rubbed his chin. “Did you ever find that story about the daughters of Zelophehad?”

  I’ve done more than read the story. I lived it about an hour ago. “Yes, I did,” I said, trying to put my thoughts in order. “Moses made a law that daughters could inherit their father’s property if there were no sons. Tirtzah and her sisters were overjoyed, but a lot of men grumbled to Gabi the Reubenite.”

  “Gabi the Reubenite? I don’t remember reading that name in the Bible.”

  I bit my lip and shrugged. “I must be mistaken. Thank you for the translation,” I said, standing to leave.

  Uncle Hermann touched my shoulder. “Wait a minute and I’ll walk you home.” I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted.

  Two blocks from my house, I could hold out no longer. I had to tell someone, and, except for Sister Margaret and Rabbi Wise, Uncle Hermann was the most religious person I knew. Besides, he told me he heard that someone would ask about my blue thread some day. Maybe he believed in miracles. Maybe the ancient lettering on my shawl was just the evidence he needed. Maybe he wouldn’t think I was insane.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Uncle Hermann paused at the curb to offer me his arm. Before I took it, I picked up a particularly beautiful red and yellow leaf. “You’ve told me that our Torah was inspired by God, but that it was written down over centuries and shouldn’t be taken literally.” I focused on the veins in the leaf. “Some parts could be true, though, don’t you think?”

  Uncle Hermann escorted me across the street. “It’s possible, especially in the later biblical books on kings and prophets.”

  I kept holding his arm, although I avoided looking at his face. “Well, Uncle Hermann, I am certain that the story about the daughters of Zelophehad is true.” My voice shook. “Because the prayer shawl you gave me is magical.”

  “Magical? How is it magical?” He sounded encouraging.

  “It…um…I know you won’t believe this, and it does seem incredible. But that shawl transported me back to the time, across the olam. It was made by Rashi’s daughter Miriam, that’s why I know about her, although I didn’t meet her. I met Moses, the real Moses, and a woman named Serakh who’s hardly mentioned in the Bible, and Tirtzah and her sisters—the daughters of Zelophehad. That’s how I know about Gabi.”

  “I see.” Uncle Hermann replied in a way that meant he didn’t see at all.

  “It’s true. I was there. You have got to believe me! Serakh took me there with the blue thread in that shawl. She was the woman your mother and savta told you about. She’s four hundred years old—or she was back then. Please believe me, Uncle Hermann.”

  “Miriam. Mim. Oh, my dear, Mim.”

  “Listen to me! The blue thread is from Joseph’s coat of many colors. We traveled through the olam, and I stood before Moses and said that Shema prayer we say at services. I went there after I called you on the telephone—well, that was the second time really. That’s why I was late this afternoon. Uncle Hermann, this has been the most amazing experience in my whole life!”

  He cleared his throat.

  I let go of his arm and tore my leaf in two. And in two again. And again. Ragged fragments clung to my skirt.

  Half a block later, he finally responded. “Sometimes our visions, or dreams, or whatever you want to call them…sometimes they can seem very real.”

  “It wasn’t a dream, Uncle Hermann, I swe
ar it was real!” I pleaded.

  “Perhaps I was mistaken in giving you that shawl. I didn’t mean to upset you this way. Please listen to me, Mim. The mind plays tricks on us. Dr. Sigmund Freud says so, and he’s an expert on dreams.”

  “It wasn’t a trick.”

  Uncle Hermann put his arm around my shoulder and kept it there until I’d unlocked the front door. “Get some rest,” he said.

  I pushed him away and went inside, completely defeated. I thought that he, of all people, would believe me. I was wrong.

  “Dinner is at seven,” I heard Mama call after me. “Oh, Hermann, how nice to see you.”

  I shut her out. I shut them both out. I went to my room, closed the door, and curled up in bed. Alone. Lonely.

  ***

  By dinnertime, it had been decided that I was to go with Mama to her bridge game at Mrs. Steinbacher’s the next day. I wondered if Uncle Hermann and Mama had talked about me after I went upstairs—she never invited me to play bridge.

  I was sorely tempted to tell them how much I loathed the idea. Still, I wanted Mama to be in a good mood when I told her I had the prayer shawl. And I wanted Papa to see me as mature and sensible—an asset in the print shop. Most of all, I didn’t want either of them to think I was going insane.

  “I’d be delighted,” I mumbled. “Please pass the salt.”

  The next afternoon I chose a brown and ecru outfit to go with my brown shoes, the only pair that wouldn’t make Mama wonder what had happened to the black shoes I usually wore. Mrs. Steinbacher seemed overjoyed to see me. She hugged Mama, then me, engulfing me in her perfume. “It’s so good of you to join us.”

  Mama’s nose twitched. “Guerlain’s new L’Heure Bleue, if I’m not mistaken. Lovely.”

  “Isn’t it divine? Leave your hats and coats here with Martha, and we’ll introduce Miriam around.” Mrs. Steinbacher released me, then grabbed my hand and dragged me to a tallish, thin woman with curly red hair. “Estelle, I’d like you to meet Lillian’s daughter, Miriam. She’s here to learn bridge. Miriam, this is Mrs. Lowenthal.”

  “Very pleased to meet you,” I lied in that proper sort of way.

  “And you know Mrs. Baum.”

  “Good to see you,” I lied again.

  Mrs. Steinbacher steered me to the sideboard and poured me a glass of Chablis. “Try these Belgian chocolates,” she said. “They’re positively luscious. Here, come sit beside me. I’m playing East, partnering with your mother. Oh, it’s such a treat to have you! I miss my Florence so. Don’t you? Ladies, after we’ve filled our glasses and plates, are we ready?”

  Mrs. Steinbacher studied her cards. “I’ll begin the bidding at one diamond.” She leaned over and pointed to the card in her hand. “See why, Miriam?”

  I nodded, figuring I’d get the hang of it later. The card designs looked like little advertisements for the jack of spades or the ten of clubs. I wondered whether Precision Printers ever made playing cards.

  “Try these.” Mrs. Baum thrust a porcelain bowl of chocolates under my nose. I blinked and thanked her, took a coconut-covered one, and passed the bowl to Mrs. Lowenthal. As the chocolate melted in my mouth, I stared out the window and imagined telling Makhlah this was dark manna with white slivers on top.

  “…a gypsy fortuneteller. What do you think, Miriam?”

  “Pardon?”

  Mama looked annoyed. “Mrs. Baum asked if you’re planning to be a gypsy fortune teller again at this year’s Hallowe’en masquerade dance.”

  “At the Concordia Club?”

  Mama frowned. “Of course at the Concordia.”

  Mrs. Lowenthal leaned toward Mama. “Miriam has a point, Lillian,” she said. “The other social clubs haven’t changed their unfortunate membership policy toward Jews, but our own Neighborhood House is having a party this year. As members of the Council of Jewish Women, we ought to support their activities. Although I must say I am going to the Concordia, too.”

  I silently thanked Mrs. Lowenthal for making me look like less of an idiot.

  “My costume might be biblical,” I said. “Sandals, robes, maybe something with fringes.”

  “What a lovely idea for next spring’s Purim Party at the temple,” Mama said. “Miriam’s been reading my brother-in-law’s Bible recently. His wife just had their second son, Nathan. Very colicky, poor dear.”

  Mrs. Baum reached for another chocolate. “Too bad. A touch of sugar water helps.”

  “Or a touch of brandy for the mother,” Mrs. Lowenthal said. “When I have children, I’ll go for the brandy. And chocolate. Lots of chocolate.” They all laughed.

  “I thought I might go as Mary Pickford, the darling of the cinema,” Mama said.

  “But, Lillian, with your blonde hair you always look like Mary Pickford,” Mrs. Baum replied. “An Oriental look would be more alluring.”

  Mrs. Lowenthal fluffed her red curls and bid two clubs. “I’m going as a suffragist, which is hardly in costume. I’ll hand out VOTES FOR WOMEN boutonnières to all the men at the Concordia. Oregon women had better get the right to vote this year—or else.”

  Mrs. Steinbacher caressed her brooch nervously, and Mrs. Baum reached for more chocolate. Mama rearranged her cards. Were these playing cards the size of that horrid VOTE NO card that Papa had printed? I sipped my wine and said, “What happened in the 1906 election, Mrs. Lowenthal? Wasn’t there a big campaign against suffrage? An anti-suffrage card?”

  She nodded. “I did hear about some scandalous material.”

  Mama didn’t bat an eyelash.

  I took another sip. “What did the card look like?”

  “Well, I never actually saw one, Miriam. Seriously, ladies, it’s about time we got the vote. Abigail Scott Duniway fought this battle for decades and now she’s taken to her bed with rheumatism. Poor Abigail deserves to get the vote in her lifetime.”

  Mrs. Baum dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Estelle, dear, Oregon does a lot for its women without all this fuss over suffrage. We have that law that protects female employees from working more than ten hours a day. Our lawyers defended it all the way to the Supreme Court, and we won.”

  Mrs. Lowenthal shook her head. “That’s all well and good, Lucille, but women should have a voice in these matters, too. We’re not children, you know, or imbeciles.”

  “We can have a voice without the vote,” Mama added.

  I looked at Mama. “But why can’t we have—”

  Mama glared at me.

  Mrs. Steinbacher chimed in. “Ladies, ladies, let’s have a quiet afternoon of bridge, shall we? I bid two no-trump.”

  The game dragged on. My head started to ache from Mrs. Steinbacher’s perfume, which was much more floral than Mama’s. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and remembered Mama’s scent on Baloo.

  No, wait. Danny died years ago, and Mama started wearing that perfume only last summer. My stomach knotted before my brain managed to compose a thought: How could you have been so stupid? She hid Baloo on purpose. She must cuddle with him when no one is looking. I might as well have left my prayer shawl by the hat rack in the front hall.

  “Miriam, your wine!” Mama shot me The Appalled Look as she rushed to blot Mrs. Steinbacher’s rug with her napkin.

  “Oh, Mrs. Steinbacher, I’m so sorry,” I said. “It must have slipped out of my hands.”

  Mrs. Steinbacher called for the maid and gave me a reassuring smile. “No harm done. See? The glass didn’t break and it’s white wine. Martha will fix everything good as new.”

  “Something has gotten into you,” Mama declared as we walked down Nineteenth toward our house. “You are not yourself, Miriam. And you haven’t been entirely truthful.”

  “Mama, I don’t want to talk right now,” I said. Where else can I hide the shawl? Who knows what she’ll do if she finds it? “I’ve had too much Chablis.”

  To my surprise, she didn’t pry. When we got home, she went into the kitchen to speak with Mrs. Jenkins. I made a beeline for the bottom dresser drawer in Danny�
�s old room.

  Baloo was still there. My prayer shawl was not.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Damnation! Mama had spent the whole day with me and had said not one word about my shawl. She knew how much it meant to me. How could she?

  I paced Danny’s room and collected my thoughts. At least it was just the two of us—Papa would have had my head by now if he knew I took the shawl from Han Lee’s. Well, Mama was going to have to deal with me now. Two can play this game, I thought to myself, as I composed a plan.

  I took Baloo and wrapped him in a piece of oilcloth from the pantry. By the time I faced my parents at the dinner table, Baloo was snug and safe inside an extra planter in the potting shed. Bridge games, draperies for the parlor, and the best restaurants in New York City were the main topics of conversation. Not one whisper about the shawl.

  I kept a civil tongue. I nodded, smiled, sipped, cut, chewed, and swallowed. I dabbed the corners of my mouth with the corners of my napkin. I imagined the look of surprise—no, horror—on Mama’s face when she discovered Baloo was gone. She would be miserable, and I didn’t care. She’d know I took him. I felt a bit mean-spirited, since the bear was so obviously a comfort to her. Still, if I wanted my shawl back, I was going to need all the leverage I could get.

  I devoured a double portion of dessert.

  Sitting at my dressing table before bed, I felt so alone. I’d lost the shawl again. How would I ever know if Serakh was all right? If Tirtzah and her sisters got everything they deserved? I commenced to force one hundred brush strokes through my hair. I looked in the mirror…four, five, six, seven…and wished Serakh’s reflection were there…sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Or Tirtzah’s. You’re the bravest girl I’ll ever know, I thought…thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four. You stood before Moses…fifty-nine, sixty…and so did I…sixty-six, sixty-seven…and he changed the law, because you made him see what’s right. Seventy-three, seventy-four…

 

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