Portraits by Cynthia Freeman Page B

the fringes reverently. The silk was yellowed with age. When he looked up there were tears in Esther’s eyes. “This was your father’s. Wear it, Jacob, as proudly as he did.”
    Not holding back the tears, he embraced his mother. She felt so comforting in his arms. And she, in turn, felt the strength inside him.
    As they prayed that Saturday in the little shul on Hester Street, his memories came flooding back to him. He looked up to the women’s section and saw his mother’s smile, then went back to his dovening , raising his voice to equal the elders’ as they chanted the hauntingly beautiful liturgy that had been heard for two thousand years. Shlomo stood proudly, swaying with the same rhythm as his brother.
    At three o’clock in the morning there was a frantic banging on Esther’s door. Jacob almost collided with Esther as they both hurried to the front of the store. Opening the door, they found a frightened and near frozen Hershel. He blinked the snow from his eyelashes as he entered. Trying to catch his breath, he said almost incoherently, “Gittel…Gittel needs you.” Without questions, Esther hurried into her clothes, as did Jacob.
    “What’s wrong?” Shlomo asked as he watched Jacob put on his trousers.
    “It’s Gittel. It’s all right, go back to sleep. I’m going with mama.”
    “Me too,” he announced, jumping out of bed.
    “No, Shlomo. It’s not necessary, you go back to sleep.”
    “But I want to go.”
    “If I need you for something I’ll come back, all right?”
    Reluctantly, Shlomo got back into bed as Jacob pulled the covers up under his chin and ran his hand affectionately across the boy’s face.
    Gittel’s contractions were coming so quickly that Esther knew she had to act fast. The midwife who was supposed to deliver the baby had come down with pleurisy. There being no time to find another midwife, Esther took charge. She called from the kitchen to Jacob, who paced the narrow hall outside Gittel’s room. “Yes, mama,” he answered nervously.
    “Go with Hershel to Mrs. Goldstein’s house. She’s the midwife. Tell her about Gittel and ask her to give you the instruments.”
    Within less than fifteen minutes they were back with a paper bag. Jacob felt a wave of nausea as he watched Esther drop the scalpel and scissors into the boiling water. Hershel went out into the hall, shutting the door behind him, and leaned against the wall, dripping with perspiration. He put his hands to his ears to shut out the cries of pain.
    Quickly, Jacob went to Gittel’s room, pulled up a chair and held her hand. He wiped the perspiration from her face with a damp cloth as she writhed in agony.
    “Squeeze my hand…hard…harder…”
    “Jacob?” she cried out
    “Yes, I’m here, I’m here. Squeeze hard.”
    Esther bustled into the room with the midwife’s instruments and looked under the sheet to examine her daughter. My God, her grandchild was about to be born. “Jacob, help me move Gittel around closer to the edge of the bed.”
    As Esther adjusted the pillow under the girl’s head, the last scream was felt almost as much by Jacob, who watched Gittel’s child being pushed into life. At last, it was done, it was over. Jacob stood back and watched his mother. Soon the child was taken out of its veil of placenta, held up and slapped on the tiny buttocks.
    Jacob smiled almost sadly when he heard the baby’s first cry. If he had feelings other than love for his mother, at this moment he realized she too had suffered bringing him into life. Today especially he saw her through different eyes.
    After she had cleaned the child, sponged Gittel, changed the sheets and tidied up the room, Esther stood with the basin in her hand. “Well, Gittela, you’re a mother…now sleep, mein kind .”
    When she turned and started to leave, Jacob took the basin from her hands, placed it on the floor and put his arms around her.
    She looked up. “You’re a fine man, Jacob—like your father, may he rest