Swimming in the Moon: A Novel by Pamela Schoenewaldt

butcher on Forman Avenue. Anna made sausages and was soon producing great quantities for Polish customers, Lula’s tavern, Roseanne, and other boardinghouse keepers. When Anna fell briefly sick, Lula sent over a special “reviving brew.” Her customers wanted Anna’s sausages, she said, and accepted no others.
    After Casimir and Anna moved to a flat of their own, Henryk came to invite us to Irena’s stypa . “They’ll be months repaying the feast,” he predicted, “but it’s tradition. He owes her this honor.”
    “Wear something nice,” Roseanne advised Mamma that evening. “You might snag a fella.”
    “I have work, I have Lucia. Not everybody needs a fella,” Mamma snapped. In fact, her few evenings “walking out” with men who met her at church had ended badly. She came home early, said nothing, and the men never returned. She wore a work dress to the stypa .
    Casimir’s flat was packed with Polish families and customers for Anna’s sausages. Lula came too. “That man loved his sister, but he’s one good businessman,” she noted. “All these folks will remember him.” We’d surely remember the tables heaped with sausages, stuffed cabbage, potato pancakes, smoked and pickled fish. A picture of Irena, young, straight-shouldered, and beaming, hung on a wall. She might have just won a footrace and perhaps already begun dreaming of America.
    Yolanda came with a tall young man whose sandy curls covered his head like lamb’s wool. “This is Charlie Reilly,” she said. “We met in a candy store three weeks ago.”
    “Yes, she’s my little Italian sweet,” said Charlie. His hand strayed to her waist as if he were constantly assuring himself of her presence. “And here I am at a Polish party. God bless America!” Yolanda had spoken mysteriously of a “fella,” never mentioning that he was American.
    When I asked if he was also Catholic, Yolanda looked at me sharply. “Not that I know of,” Charlie said with a laugh. “Actually, my parents don’t even like Catholics, but that’s only because they don’t know Yolanda. Look, little rolled-up pancakes.”
    “Blintzes,” I corrected primly, but they didn’t seem to hear me.
    Charlie fed Yolanda a blintz. Her blissful smile, the soft curve of her body toward his, and the rich freedom of his laughter made a mesmerizing show. I watched them move along the tables, tasting every dish. Yolanda’s face caught the light. In a plain shirtwaist dress transformed by lace, new buttons, and a subtle band of tucks, she seemed as elegant as any young woman on the stretch of Euclid Avenue that people called Millionaires Row.
    “They look so happy,” Roseanne observed. Yes, perhaps, but I couldn’t help being rudely critical of this fella. What would Dr. Galuppi have thought of the slight scoop of Charlie’s temples, the slope of his forehead? Could he be trusted? My teachers said phrenology was a bogus science, best forgotten in this century. I didn’t care. A handsome young man was leaning close to Yolanda while I stood by with my landlady?
    Across the room a slim, dark-haired girl with lavish curls stood with her back to me, talking to Henryk, his father, and Henryk’s friend Abraham. Her rippling laughter skittered over the room. The men seemed bewitched. “Who’s she?” I asked Roseanne.
    “Some Jewish princess from Pittsburgh, just moved here. Look at your mother. Why is she facing the wall?”
    I hurried over. “Mamma, what’s wrong? Come, I’ll get you something to eat.”
    “It’s Polish food.”
    “Yes, everything’s delicious. And there’ll be singing later.”
    “In Polish.”
    “Yes, but you sing in English all the time. What’s the difference?”
    “It’s so crowded with strangers.”
    “It’s a wake for Irena, our friend. I’m glad so many people came. Look,” I said, pointing. “Even the Russian is here, her button dealer.” But Mamma was rigid and her eyes too wide. “Did someone say something to you? What’s