Portraits by Cynthia Freeman Page A

Instead, he smiled and picked up the basket, and the three of them set off in the cold winter evening to his sister’s house.
    Winded by the four-flight climb, Esther stood in front of Gittel’s flat. “You wait here,” she said. “I want to go in and tell Gittel first. You understand?” Jacob nodded. He waited nervously as Shlomo stood looking up adoringly at him.
    After what seemed an interminable length of time, the door opened and Gittel stood framed in the doorway. For a moment she could not move; it was all too unbelievable. Then she was in his arms, holding him close as the tears tumbled from her eyes. Looking up at him, she explored his face with her hands, touching his cheek. “Oh, Jacob, our dearest Jacob, you’ve come back to us. Mama always knew you would. There was never a day we didn’t speak of you.”
    And there was never a day I hadn’t hoped it would be this way, he thought, too choked with emotion to speak.” He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.
    “Come, my wonderful brother, come,” she said, leading him into the sparsely furnished kitchen.
    Gittel’s husband was seated at the table. He rose for the introduction. “Jacob,” Gittel said, “this is my husband, Hershel.”
    Remembering what his mother had told him about Hershel, Jacob felt a stab of resentment. What had Gittel seen in him? He was a small, thin, joyless man of about twenty-five who looked as if he’d never seen the sun. Why hadn’t Gittel waited? She was so lovely, with honey-blonde hair and eyes as blue as cornflowers. There was a slim delicacy about her, even now with her swollen stomach. As he looked from one to the other, he thought scornfully that Gittel’s husband had never made a living for her, protected her as he would Lotte. And the shnorrer had even allowed his mother, who worked so hard, to pay his rent. Jacob was brought back from his thoughts when his mother said, “Now, sit down, we’ll eat Jacob, you’ll make the blessing.”
    Gittel and Shlomo could not take their eyes from Jacob. There was very little conversation during the meal, but as they drank their tea and ate the sponge cake, there was an avalanche of questions.
    Jacob tried to avoid the bad times, which only left him the time with the Mendlebaums, and Lotte.
    Gittel smiled. “So you’re going to get married. I can’t believe it.”
    “And you, Gittel. It’s hard to believe you’re going to have a baby.” And as though speaking to him, he added, “It seems we were kids ourselves only yesterday.”
    “Yes, Jacob, but we’re together now, thank God. Life is good—”
    “Yes, I guess maybe there’s a reason for everything.”
    As Esther opened the door to the restaurant and took him to the back apartment, he knew the past had to be put to rest and that all that mattered was now. He was home at last.
    Quickly, Esther put clean sheets on the narrow iron cot in Shlomo’s room as Jacob watched. The first bed that belonged to him, the first real home he had ever had.
    As Esther climbed into bed that night, she lay gazing up at the dark ceiling with a grateful heart. God had returned her son.
    It was a night of peaceful, contented sleep for Jacob and for Esther.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    F RIDAY, BEING THE START of Shabbes , was a bad day to look for work, so Jacob cleaned the apartment and scrubbed the accumulated grease from the kitchen walls.
    That night they went to Gittel’s for Shabbes .
    Jacob felt a deep joy as he watched his mother light the candles and say the prayer. Even his dislike of Hershel was overlooked in this moment of rejoicing. Nobody cooked like his mother—the gefilte fish , chicken soup with kreplach , kugel , challah , chopped liver, chicken—it was like a banquet.
    The next morning, as Jacob sat having rolls and coffee with Shlomo, his mother handed him a red velvet sack embroidered with the golden Torah . He did not have to wonder what was inside—he knew. Taking the tallis in his hands, he touched