Dovid-Froyke in Warsaw, too?”
“He thinks he’s the only man in the world,” Grandma interjected.
“Don’t mix in, old woman! We’re talking serious business.”
I stood wedged against one of Mother’s knees. She kept stroking me, hugging my face, and sighing softly.
“And what else is new?” Grandma broke the silence. “Did you actually get to draw up Tsipele’s betrothal agreement?”
“Yes, Mother. You can wish me mazel tov .”
“May you truly have good fortune. Is he a decent fellow?”
“A brush-maker.”
“A brush-maker?” Grandpa frowned. “A brush-maker, of all things! Why not a tailor?”
“And a tailor has more status than a brush-maker?”
“A tailor’s a somebody, and a brush-maker’s nothing but a brush-maker.”
“He’s not good enough for you?” Grandma turned her steel-rimmed spectacles on him.
“Certainly not.”
“So that’s it. He’s not good enough for Dovid-Froyke.”
“He’s taking her without a groshen,” said Mother softly.
“He’s doing me a favor? Maybe we should pay him.”
“Don’t listen to that fool,” said Grandma angrily. “And where was the betrothal agreement drawn up?”
“At Avrom-Ayzik’s.”
“Why not at Gitl-Hodes’s?”
“Who knows … rich people. Maybe they didn’t think it suitable.”
“Sure! Bring a brush-maker into the family …” Grandpa got in the last word.
Grandma quietly lowered her face. Grandpa plied his needle furiously.
“And how’s poor Avrom-Ayzik? Is he still out of work?”
“Struggling to keep body and soul together. He owes a lot of money,”
Mother replied.
“And how’s his Sime-Leye?”
“Pretty as a picture.”
“Why don’t they arrange a match for her?”
“It just doesn’t seem to happen.”
Grandma sighed deeply. The room grew silent. The three of them sat there with drooping heads, as if they’d just dropped off to sleep.
Poor Avrom-Ayzik. His was truly a sad story.
He was the full brother of Mother, Aunt Miriam, and the wealthy Gitl-Hodes of Warsaw. I knew him well.
Uncle Avrom-Ayzik visited us last year at Rosh Hashanah time. He had a long, thin, blond beard, looked at the world through spectacles, and wore a stiff eight-sided hat, of a sort that nobody before him had ever worn nor would ever wear after him. He talked in a drawn-out, sing-song voice, and on Rosh Hashanah-Yom Kippur he actually led the services in the tailors’ synagogue.
They said that he chanted the prayers so sweetly that one wanted to kiss every word. But what good was that to him if, alas, he couldn’t make a living, or if he couldn’t marry off his beautiful daughter, Sime-Leye, unless the promised money for the dowry arrived from his son in London. But the money was never sent.
Yes, things were certainly sad at Uncle Avrom-Ayzik’s.
That’s what Mother told us while untying the parcel Aunt Gitl-Hodes had sent with her and out of which tumbled a pair of laced shoes, a long-sleeved jacket, a cap with a sharp peak, trousers, and vests. A veritable treasure trove!
But this time I wasn’t thrilled by any of it, especially the cap with the peak.
“I’ll never wear it,” I said, not even wanting to touch it.
“Why not? It’s such a nice cap.”
“No one in our kheyder wears a cap like that.”
“So you will.”
“No, I won’t.”
The clock struck hoarsely. I counted the strikes, fully ten, though the hands only pointed to nine o’clock.
“Have you seen Leyzer yet?” Grandpa suddenly asked
“No,” Mother replied uneasily.
“I actually wondered why you didn’t go straight home.”
“I’ll never go back there again.”
Two dumb-struck faces, Grandpa’s and Grandma’s, looked up at Mother in puzzlement. I, too, didn’t understand what she had just said.
“You’re not going back?” Grandma finally gasped.
“I’ve had enough of that yoke of mine.”
The grandparents’ old faces looked as if they were hard of hearing.
“What, Frimet, not again!” Grandpa
“He thinks he’s the only man in the world,” Grandma interjected.
“Don’t mix in, old woman! We’re talking serious business.”
I stood wedged against one of Mother’s knees. She kept stroking me, hugging my face, and sighing softly.
“And what else is new?” Grandma broke the silence. “Did you actually get to draw up Tsipele’s betrothal agreement?”
“Yes, Mother. You can wish me mazel tov .”
“May you truly have good fortune. Is he a decent fellow?”
“A brush-maker.”
“A brush-maker?” Grandpa frowned. “A brush-maker, of all things! Why not a tailor?”
“And a tailor has more status than a brush-maker?”
“A tailor’s a somebody, and a brush-maker’s nothing but a brush-maker.”
“He’s not good enough for you?” Grandma turned her steel-rimmed spectacles on him.
“Certainly not.”
“So that’s it. He’s not good enough for Dovid-Froyke.”
“He’s taking her without a groshen,” said Mother softly.
“He’s doing me a favor? Maybe we should pay him.”
“Don’t listen to that fool,” said Grandma angrily. “And where was the betrothal agreement drawn up?”
“At Avrom-Ayzik’s.”
“Why not at Gitl-Hodes’s?”
“Who knows … rich people. Maybe they didn’t think it suitable.”
“Sure! Bring a brush-maker into the family …” Grandpa got in the last word.
Grandma quietly lowered her face. Grandpa plied his needle furiously.
“And how’s poor Avrom-Ayzik? Is he still out of work?”
“Struggling to keep body and soul together. He owes a lot of money,”
Mother replied.
“And how’s his Sime-Leye?”
“Pretty as a picture.”
“Why don’t they arrange a match for her?”
“It just doesn’t seem to happen.”
Grandma sighed deeply. The room grew silent. The three of them sat there with drooping heads, as if they’d just dropped off to sleep.
Poor Avrom-Ayzik. His was truly a sad story.
He was the full brother of Mother, Aunt Miriam, and the wealthy Gitl-Hodes of Warsaw. I knew him well.
Uncle Avrom-Ayzik visited us last year at Rosh Hashanah time. He had a long, thin, blond beard, looked at the world through spectacles, and wore a stiff eight-sided hat, of a sort that nobody before him had ever worn nor would ever wear after him. He talked in a drawn-out, sing-song voice, and on Rosh Hashanah-Yom Kippur he actually led the services in the tailors’ synagogue.
They said that he chanted the prayers so sweetly that one wanted to kiss every word. But what good was that to him if, alas, he couldn’t make a living, or if he couldn’t marry off his beautiful daughter, Sime-Leye, unless the promised money for the dowry arrived from his son in London. But the money was never sent.
Yes, things were certainly sad at Uncle Avrom-Ayzik’s.
That’s what Mother told us while untying the parcel Aunt Gitl-Hodes had sent with her and out of which tumbled a pair of laced shoes, a long-sleeved jacket, a cap with a sharp peak, trousers, and vests. A veritable treasure trove!
But this time I wasn’t thrilled by any of it, especially the cap with the peak.
“I’ll never wear it,” I said, not even wanting to touch it.
“Why not? It’s such a nice cap.”
“No one in our kheyder wears a cap like that.”
“So you will.”
“No, I won’t.”
The clock struck hoarsely. I counted the strikes, fully ten, though the hands only pointed to nine o’clock.
“Have you seen Leyzer yet?” Grandpa suddenly asked
“No,” Mother replied uneasily.
“I actually wondered why you didn’t go straight home.”
“I’ll never go back there again.”
Two dumb-struck faces, Grandpa’s and Grandma’s, looked up at Mother in puzzlement. I, too, didn’t understand what she had just said.
“You’re not going back?” Grandma finally gasped.
“I’ve had enough of that yoke of mine.”
The grandparents’ old faces looked as if they were hard of hearing.
“What, Frimet, not again!” Grandpa
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