I sighed in frustration.
“Oh, but you must marry. How else will the blue thread pass through the generations? Come, are you able to walk now?”
I nodded and covered my head. I leaned against her on the uneven ground. “Tell me about Miriam Seligman, my great-grandmother,” I said, hoping for more answers. “My father hates her.”
“Your father’s hate comes from fear. Do not condemn him. It is easier for him to believe that his savta caused Raizl’s death than it is to believe that he could have saved her and did not.”
“Could he have saved Raizl?”
“No, surely not. Her illness was too grave. His savta forgave him for all that he did after Raizl’s death. He was a boy struggling to do a man’s job.”
I wiped the moisture from my forehead. “But he could have saved Danny. He could have trusted Mama’s instincts and fetched the doctor sooner.”
She nodded. “He knows that. He lives with that pain. He does not have your great-grandmother to share in the blame.”
We had reached the crest of a small hill. She pointed to a tent not far from where we stood. I touched the blue thread hanging at my side. “You once told me that Rashi’s daughter embroidered this shawl, but my uncle said that Rashi lived hundreds of years ago. Tell me how did the shawl get from Rashi’s daughter to my great-grandmother?”
“By ox cart.”
“Serakh!”
She grinned. “I am teasing you. It was a long and wondrous journey. The new shawl went from Miriam to Miriam, from generation to generation. Each traveled as you have done, each with a purpose. Each like you—strong.”
“And where did you travel with my great-grandmother besides Solomon’s temple?”
Serakh shook her head. “Enough of your curiosity! Tirtzah can wait no longer. Drink the water she gives you and let her bathe your feet. She will offer you food.”
“Two bites. Yes, I remember.” Will I ever get the whole story?
The tent smelled of spices and lamb stew. Tirtzah lay in the corner, her belly huge, her hands and feet swollen. The gold ring was gone from her nostril. Still, she looked beautiful. Hurrying to her before she could rise, I fell to my knees and crushed her against me.
“Oh, my sister of the heart,” she said. “You brought me the courage to stand before Moses and the elders. I cannot thank you enough.”
“I’m sorry about Gabi,” I said.
“No matter,” she said. “I am content. I am provided for and so shall my children be. Help me to rise; soon Miryam will be back from the well.”
“Who?”
Tirtzah beamed. “The daughter I have named for you and for the prophet Miryam. Listen, do you not hear her singing?”
A child’s voice sounded outside the tent. I looked at the opening and there she was, hugging an earthen pitcher. Four years old, maybe five—a tiny version of the Tirtzah I remembered from Serakh’s cave. She wore a loose shift, ochre-colored, with a thick blue stripe on one side. As she stepped closer, the blue stripe faded away.
I stared in disbelief. Tirtzah’s daughter smiled at me and spoke gibberish.
“Touch her cheek and greet her,” Serakh said. “She bears the blue threads that came to Miryam the prophetess through the tribe of Levi. As Miryam the prophetess had no children, she wished to pass the blue threads to a daughter of Tirtzah. When this Miryam reaches womanhood, at the time of her first blood, we will weave the threads as fringes into the four corners of her garment.”
“What blue threads? I thought I saw them a second ago, but now…”
Serakh pointed to my prayer shawl. “Now you are the bearer of the one blue thread that remains of the threads of Miryam the prophetess.”
“Wait. You mean…this girl is my great-great-great-great…so many I can’t count…”
Serakh nodded. “Your ancestor, the Miryam of all those Miriams until you. Touch her.”
I bent down and put my fingers on the little girl’s bronze cheek.
“Peace unto you,” she said. “I have brought water for you to drink. Mama will bathe your feet.”
Tears streamed down my face.
The little girl frowned in confusion.
I stroked her hair. “Peace unto you,” I said. “Peace and blessings.”
Then Serakh put her hands on my shoulders. “Miryam the prophetess would have been proud of you. And the many others. And your great-grandmother. Proud of you, as am I, Miriam sweet and strong.”
I drank the water. Tirtzah bathed my feet—it would have been futile to refuse. While she touched my toes, she chatted about good harvests and a kind husband, about a goat lost to a mountain lion, and about the woman who would help her as the new baby struggled into life.
“Another daughter, perhaps,” Tirtzah said. “I would be content. She will own land if she marries within the tribe. For this, I am grateful.”
“It will be a boy this time,” Serakh said. I didn’t doubt her.
Tirtzah smiled at me, her fingers on my ankle. “What shall we name the boy, my sister of the heart?”
“Daniel,” I whispered. “Name him Daniel.”
It happened so fast after that. Tirtzah’s face creased with pain. She put her hands on the small of her back. Serakh told little Miryam to fetch the midwife. She insisted that my time with Tirtzah was at an end—at least for now.
I kissed Tirtzah. “Peace unto you. Maybe one day…”
***
A blue flash. That taffy-pull feeling, and I was back in my bedroom. I heard Mama pounding the piano.
“Be quick,” Serakh said, yanking the headscarf from my shoulders.
“No, wait. There’s so much I still don’t know. I have to ask you—”
“Not now. Another time.”
I grabbed a sandal as hostage. “When? I’m going away today. For a long time.”
She paused. “What of your passion for your father’s printing presses?”
I hugged the sandal. “I did what I thought was right. I pursued justice and now I don’t really know what’s going to happen.”
“Miriam, I cannot stay.”
“Will I ever see you again?”
“I pray it shall be so.” Her eyes seemed older. Sadness creased her face.
I returned the sandal. Serakh stood on tiptoe and kissed my forehead. “May The One shine upon you and give you peace.”
I closed my eyes against the flash.
Mama struck another wrong chord.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I put my prayer shawl in my valise, washed my face, and went to the kitchen to say good-bye to Mrs. Jenkins. She was stuffing freshly baked sweet rolls into our picnic basket. “Now don’t you buy anything from those food sellers at the stations. You can’t trust them. How long is your trip?”
“About twenty-seven hours,” I said, trying to control my nervous pacing. Mrs. Jenkins, of all people, might have believed me if I told her of the longer trip I’d just taken, to the Promised Land. I wondered what would have happened if I had confided in her all along.
“Lordy! Give me back that basket. I haven’t packed enough.”
Charity surprised me at the front door a little after three. “Prudence is sorry she can’t come, but someone has to mind the store.” She handed me a hatbox. Inside was a VOTE FOR JUSTICE card and the gray and navy hat I had admired at their shop.
Tears again. The past weeks seemed to keep pouring over my eyelids. I felt ridiculous.
“We did our best, Charity, didn’t we?”
She nodded. “The morning papers say the suffrage vote is too close to call. Mrs. Duniway says she wouldn’t be surprised if we failed in Portland.”
“Damnation!”
She reached into her handbag. “You take care in California. And come back soon, no matter which way the vote goes.” She handed me an envelope. “Here’s enough for a comfortable berth in the Pullman car. The least we could do is see that you get a good rest tonight.”
“I can’t take your money.”
“Consider it
a payment for your first printing job. The Everybody’s Equal Suffrage League can afford four dollars and fifty cents.”
Mama came to the front hall. She insisted that Mrs. Steinbacher’s chauffeur drive Charity and me to the railroad depot. Sure enough, a few minutes later the Packard was once again in front of our house. I feared for a moment that Mama would come with us, but she didn’t. Instead, she gave me the pearl necklace I’d worn as Marie Antoinette.
“It looks better on you, anyway,” she said. “Don’t sit next to strange men. Order chicken in the dining car. Send a telegram as soon as you get to Oakland.”
The front doorbell chimed. Mrs. Jenkins answered it, and the chauffeur—the handsome one again—took my valise, hatbox, and basket. Mrs. Jenkins squeezed me to her bosom. Mama and I hugged briefly. Musical scales started before I crossed the front porch.
I bought a ticket for the Shasta Limited, due to leave Portland at 5:50 that evening and arrive at Oakland Pier at 8:20 the next night. I begged Charity to leave because I couldn’t stand to see her waiting with me until the last minute. She finally did. I bought a lower tourist berth for two dollars and fifty cents, saving the extra two dollars for food and necessaries. I dabbed my nose with my handkerchief, slouched against the wooden bench in the waiting room and stared at the floor.
Some moments later, I realized that the man who had come to sit next to me was Papa.
“You want to go away,” Papa said, in the same tone he would have used to tell Kirsten to set letterhead in twenty-four-point Caslon Bold.
“Yes, Papa,” I whispered. I straightened my posture, ready to confront him, yet wary of making a scene. “I’ve already purchased my ticket.”
“Tickets can be returned.”
I clenched my jaw.
“You are young and stubborn as a goose,” he said. “No, I am wrong. It is silly as a goose, stubborn as a mule, yes?”
I nodded. Why did he come?
“I was also stubborn when I came to America—a nothing, a nobody with a younger brother to feed and clothe.” He patted my knee. “Stubborn is sometimes a good thing. But do not be too stubborn to ask for help. You will make mistakes, as I have. We care about you.”
“Yes, Papa.” I looked at the station clock. Nearly an hour and a half before the train was due—too much time. I wondered if my parents had told Uncle Hermann I was leaving and if Uncle Hermann would try to stop me. Oh, please no. My resolve might crumble if I saw Uncle Hermann.
“Shouldn’t you be back at the shop, Papa?” I ventured.
He took off his bowler hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Mr. Jacobowitz will handle everything.”
Mr. Jacobowitz—Ephraim. My stomach lurched. He was expecting me on Thursday. What would he do when I didn’t come to the shop? What would Papa tell him? What would he think of my leaving without a word?
“Uncle Hermann does not know,” Papa added.
I closed my eyes and felt my shoulders relax.
“Miriam,” Papa started again.
Then silence.
I said nothing.
“Miriam.” He cleared his throat, so like Ephraim. “You must remember that you will always have a place in my home.” His voice cracked. “And in my heart.” He patted my knee again, but he did not look at me. Then, without so much as a good-bye, he stood and walked toward the depot doors.
I thought of Tirtzah, my sister of the heart, and what it meant to be brave. I thought of Danny, and Papa’s Raizl. My shawl was safely hidden in my valise. I was going away, I was sure of that. Now was my chance. What did it matter if Papa thought me mad? If only he’d listen.
“Papa,” I said, working up my courage. “Papa, wait! Please! It’s about Raizl. Believe me, there was nothing you could do. It wasn’t your fault!”
He kept walking. He didn’t look back.
***
The huge Southern Pacific steam engine pulled in right on time. A porter hefted my valise and showed me to my seat. I put the hatbox on the overhead rack and opened the basket Mrs. Jenkins had prepared. Inside were a napkin and paring knife, a copy of the Ladies’ Home Journal, Mrs. Jenkins’s address, and a bushel of food: hard boiled eggs, cheese, a tin of lemon drops, a salami sandwich, two apples, six sweet rolls, and a paper cone of licorice nibs.
The little girl across the aisle watched me pop a nib into my mouth. “Molly, you shouldn’t stare.” I heard her mother—or older sister—say.
“May I offer you both some licorice?” I said. “They are quite safe.”
The woman looked up from her Bible. Her hands were rough, a farmwoman’s hands.
“Dark manna,” I said. She crinkled her brow. “Begging your pardon,” I said. “I didn’t mean any blasphemy.”
She nodded and took a nib. I offered some to Molly. Her stockings were mended at the knees. “Take five. It’s going to be a long ride.” Her freckles squished together in a smile.
We rolled south. Crawling into the lower tourist berth that night, I settled into the rocking motion of the rails, not unlike the ka-chunk ka-chunk of a printing press. I retrieved my typography book, comforting as cocoa. I took off my shoes and socks and massaged my feet. Not one grain of sand under my toenails, yet Tirtzah seemed nearby. I wished that instructions for designing a fair and just world could be as clear and straightforward as those for printing a well-proportioned handbill. I eased into sleep.
The next morning I stepped off the train at Davis with my food basket, while they switched engines. The day was warm and sunny, as I imagined California would be. Just a few more hours to Oakland and to Florrie. Newsies hawked the Sacramento Bee and San Francisco Chronicle. “England welcomes Wilson victory! Democrats gain big in Congress! Suffragettes win in Arizona, Kansas, Michigan, and Oregon; Wisconsin votes no!”
What? I waved a nickel. The nearest newsie was almost my height, with a hint of brown fuzz over his upper lip and a scar under his right eye. I wondered what he’d had to suffer through to secure such a profitable spot at the depot. And I thought of Ephraim’s nephew. The newsie handed me a Chronicle and I soon found the sentence that set my heart racing.
Suffrage is running behind in the City of Portland, but very incomplete returns from the outside counties indicate that the women are in favor there, and that the amendment will receive good majorities.
Oh, yes, and halleluyah! I sat on a bench and dug into my basket. Sweet rolls always taste better when served with a slice of good news. After my second roll, I closed my eyes and tilted my face toward sun. That’s when I smelled goats.
“Serakh?” I jerked my eyes open and scrambled to my feet. Dozens of people crowded the platform. I grabbed my basket and wove in and out among them searching for her.
“Did you see a bronze-skinned girl?” I asked the conductor. “About my age, long white hair, short and thin, hazel eyes like mine?”
“No, miss.” A few minutes later he called “All aboard.”
I searched the platform until the conductor practically hoisted me onto the train. No Serakh. Yet I felt sure that I had just missed her somehow.
I gave Molly another licorice nib and decided to save the last few to celebrate with Florrie. But first I’d send a telegram to Mama, as promised. And I’d splurge on a “we-did-it” telegram to Charity and Prudence and ask them to hug Kirsten for me. I wished I had Ephraim’s address. I still owed him for the extra cardstock he had bought for the campaign. Perhaps if I wrote to him in care of Mrs. Rosenfeld at Neighborhood House—but what would I say? “Dear Ephraim” would be enough for him. Do I mean that? Maybe.
I looked at my valise and thought of Papa. As much as he infuriated me, he had come to the station to see me off. I did have a place in his heart. I folded the newspaper and stared out the window. Mostly, I saw me staring back in my new hat.
Papa never would have let me run Precision Printers or inherit his shop, I reminded myself. I remembered the “cursed rag” that Papa was afraid to give me. Still, I had asked for my inheritance, and there it was, in m
y valise, tucked safely inside its embroidered bag.
I straightened my suit jacket and opened the newspaper to the employment section.
Shaker Press. Wanted: Printer’s apprentice.
Apply in person. 1473 Channing Way, Berkeley.
Shaker Press. I thought of Serakh. Maybe I’d find her at the Oakland depot eating a cucumber sandwich. Maybe she would stroll alongside me as if she had all the time in the world. Maybe she does.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This book took root when I saw the real picture of the 1908 suffrage banner Miriam sees, the one that reads: LIKE THE DAUGHTERS OF ZELOPHEHAD WE ASK FOR OUR INHERITANCE. It’s the last banner in the parade on the opposite page. I had no idea that American women a hundred years ago still talked about five Israelite sisters whose story was set thousands of years earlier. These sisters are not among the well-known women in the Bible, but are five relatively minor characters. They might have been the kind of sisters who could have lived across the street—the kind you might want to meet across the olam.
Olam. That’s an ancient Hebrew word used in many Jewish prayers. It is sometimes translated as “the universe,” sometimes as “eternity” or “forever.” Time and space collide in that one tiny word. A traveler across the olam could go anywhere in history—or in the future for that matter. You have a spot in the olam, along with your grandmother and your grandchildren.
Hebrew has two main regional accents: Askenazi (“German”), with roots in northern and eastern Europe, and Sephardi (“Spanish”), with roots in southern Europe and the Mediterranean region. Sephardic Hebrew is spoken in present-day Israel, and many American Hebrew schools and Jewish worship services now use that accent. In 1912, Miriam Josefsohn’s congregation—primarily of German immigrants—would have prayed in Askenasi and said Adonoi (“Lord”). For contrast, Serakh speaks to Miriam in English and in Sephardi-accented Hebrew, saying, for example, Adonai. As a magical character, Serakh could have spoken any language.
Blue Thread follows the story of Zelophehad’s daughters fairly closely—although I made up Zelophehad’s widow, Tirtzah’s daughter, and Gabi, as well as the reactions of the crowd. Miryam the prophetess is in the Bible. Rashi and his three daughters did live in eleventh-century France, and it’s possible, though not at all probable, that Rashi’s daughter, Miriam, embroidered a woman’s prayer shawl. Savta—Miriam Seligmann—is purely fictional.
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