The Girl in the Torch by Robert Sharenow Page A

burner. Piles of uncut carrots, onions, and broccoli were stacked on the counter beside a thick wooden chopping block. Mrs. Lee handed Sarah a cleaver and pointed to the vegetables.
    â€œYou chop. I cook. You chop vegetables before?”
    Sarah nodded.
    â€œBe careful not to cut self. Bloody fingers not taste good. Bring over to wok when you finish.”
    Sarah took the cleaver and moved to the counter. She recalled her mother holding her hands in just the right way. And the memorygave Sarah confidence as she grasped a carrot and chopped in a steady rhythm, curling her fingers to stay clear of the blade. Chop, chop, chop, chop. One, two, three, four. Chop, chop, chop, chop. One, two, three, four. She efficiently made her way through the pile of carrots, forming the cut pieces into a neat pile. Mrs. Lee nodded in approval, scooping up the carrots and tossing them into the wok with a sizzling hiss.
    She gestured inside the sink, where there were two plucked chickens.
    â€œNow take meat off bone and cut into pieces.”
    Sarah’s eyes widened. She had never deboned a chicken before. When her family could afford one, her mother would cook it whole in a pot, so the meat would just naturally fall off and the skin and bones would become part of the broth.
    Sarah held one of the cool, clammy birds, unsure of where to make the first cut.
    â€œSomething wrong?” Mrs. Lee said.
    â€œNo,” Sarah said.
    She didn’t want to expose any weakness in her skills. So she took a deep breath and confidently started to cut away the meat, first chopping the chicken into quarters and then carefully separating the meat from the bone and cutting it into smaller cubes.
    Mrs. Lee grunted approval and then turned back to her own work.
    As Sarah fell into the familiar rhythm of cooking, she unconsciously started to hum one of her mother’s old work songs aboutcooking chicken. Some of the words sprang into her mind: “We never waste a thing, not a thigh, a breast, or wing.” The music emerged naturally from somewhere deep inside Sarah, the melody weaving into the rhythm of the work.
    Mrs. Lee turned when she heard the humming, until Sarah finally noticed her staring and abruptly stopped.
    â€œDon’t stop,” Mrs. Lee said. “I like music. Have Gramophone music box machine. Play Enrico Caruso. You know Caruso?”
    Sarah shook her head.
    Mrs. Lee sang a few off-key operatic bars. “Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto!”
    Sarah giggled.
    â€œOkay. I not good at singing,” Mrs. Lee said, nodding. “You wait here.”
    Mrs. Lee exited the room, then returned carrying a strange-looking wooden machine with a hand crank and a huge horn sticking out of the top. She struggled to settle the heavy piece of equipment onto the kitchen table. As Mrs. Lee vigorously turned the crank, Sarah thought the machine might be used for grinding meat. But a moment later, she jumped back as the sound of an orchestra boomed out of the horn.
    â€œYou see,” Mrs. Lee said. “Caruso!”
    Sarah listened to the powerful sound of the man’s voice, and the aching emotion of the melody. It reminded her of the prayers the men in her village used to chant on Saturday mornings.
    Mrs. Lee returned to her work but swayed along to the melody.Sarah continued removing the chicken meat from the bone and watched Mrs. Lee’s strange little dance out of the corner of her eye. She felt her mouth curl up into a smile. She still wasn’t quite sure what to make of these unusual people, but she felt safe in the kitchen with Mrs. Lee preparing the evening meal while Caruso serenaded them.
    Sarah finished carving and dicing the chicken, and Mrs. Lee added it to the hottest part of the wok. The meat instantly blanched and then slowly browned and crisped along the edges. She mixed the entire contents together with a pile of bean sprouts, then emptied the dish into an enormous serving bowl, sprinkling a