The Invisible Wall by Harry Bernstein Page A

with her when a knock came. I had learned by now that most of her customers came in during the early part of the afternoon, but less to buy than to sit and gossip. It had become a sort of clubroom for them, and some of them would buy a glass of the sour milk that my mother had begun to make and sell, and they would sip as they talked, and in this fashion they would while away a pleasant afternoon.
    I think my mother loved these afternoons, and looked forward to them. It was an escape from some of the unhappiness of her life. Watching her, as I always did, finding a corner for myself when the women began to come in, and seeing the flush on her cheeks as she sat behind the counter with all her customers around her, some sipping at their sour milk, and the room buzzing with talk, I sensed that she was in her element. She had found something in the shop that was perhaps even more important to her than the little money she made out of it.
    There she sat behind that counter, like a queen on her throne, with all her ladies-in-waiting gathered about her. She also made sour cream and potted cheese, and sold them as well as the faded fruits and vegetables. She’d had shelves built along the walls, and if it had not been for the Levines, she would have turned it into a Jewish grocery. But she would never have done that to the Levines, to whom she would always be grateful. Nevertheless, she had accomplished a great deal, and these afternoons were perhaps her biggest reward, the high spot of her day, in a rather sad life.
    This particular day was bleak and cloudy. A sharp wind was blowing, and the women came in one by one huddled in their shawls and shivering. To their relief, my mother had built a fire in the shop. She didn’t always do this, coal cost too much, but today was exceptionally cold, so she had splurged a little with her meager supply of coal, and the glow of the fire in the dimness of the room added to the coziness of the gathering.
    I watched from my corner, hidden by a sack of potatoes on one side, and a sack of onions on the other. Fanny Cohen, my mother’s closest friend and the first to arrive, was sitting on an upturned orange crate near the counter, a thin, bedraggled woman with hair hanging over her eyes, rocking her baby back and forth to keep it from crying and interfering with the talk going on.
    They were jabbering away in a strange mixture of English, with a Lancashire accent, and Yiddish, with an occasional Russian or Polish word thrown in. I scarcely listened. The topics did not interest me. Because this was Thursday, the day Mrs. Zarembar went into the country for her chickens, there was much speculation as to the kind of chickens she would bring; then it was the high prices the kosher butcher was charging for his meat. From there they went on to the trouble the rabbi was having with his son who would not attend the synagogue, and then a rumor that one of the Harris girls was going out with a boy from Manchester. Right after this someone mentioned a name that made me prick up my ears.
    â€œWhat about Sarah?” asked Mrs. Mittleman, a loud-voiced, aggressive woman who lived at the lower end of the street. “What’s doing with her?”
    I listened now.
    â€œYes,” someone else asked, “is she better?”
    The questions may well have been directed at Mrs. Jacobs, a one-eyed woman who lived with her little humpbacked husband and retarded son Rafael in the house next to the Harrises, the one usually best informed on this subject.
    At first, she shrugged, as if to ask why she should know more than anyone else. The fact that the walls separating our houses were paper-thin and you could hear everything that went on in the house next to you didn’t mean that she was listening. She made this clear. “How should I know?” she said. “I see Sarah sometimes, and what else do I know?”
    â€œIs she still sick or not?” insisted Mrs. Mittleman. “I hear