The Invisible Wall by Harry Bernstein Page B

she’s sick, and I hear she isn’t sick. So what’s the true story?”
    â€œI’ve seen her walking outside already,” volunteered Fanny Cohen, shaking her baby up and down this time instead of from side to side. “I saw her even today.”
    The eyes turned questioningly to Mrs. Jacobs again, and still she said nothing, and Mrs. Mittleman exclaimed, “Today? In this weather? So how can she be sick?”
    â€œAnd if she isn’t sick, why isn’t she going to work?” one other woman wanted to know.
    It was puzzling, and it was up to Mrs. Jacobs to explain the matter. After a moment she burst out, “Why should she go to work? Why should she not go to work? Is she sick? Is she not sick? You think I have nothing to do all day except listen to them argue?”
    â€œThey argue?” said Mrs. Mittleman, her voice probing, demanding. “About what?”
    â€œHow should I know?” said Mrs. Jacobs irritably. “Who cares? Let them argue. So the father wants her back in the shop. The mother says no, she is not well enough yet. Sarah herself, all she wants to do is go out and get fresh air. The mother says the air is not good for her, she must lie on the sofa in the parlor. Sarah says this, the mother says that, the father says another thing. So it goes. You think they know what’s best? I know. A long time ago I told them. Sarah needs a husband, not fresh air or a sofa in the parlor. But my Rafael is not good enough for them.”
    An uncomfortable silence fell among them for a moment, and eyes glanced surreptitiously at one another. This situation was an old one, and they understood the bitterness that had crept into Mrs. Jacobs’s tone. She could never see her son as others did, a gawky boy who said foolish things, and whose mouth dribbled like an old man’s. Her attempts to make a match between him and Sarah had been going on for a long time.
    â€œMy son is a good religious boy,” she said, pursuing the matter still further. “He was bar mitzvahed like any other boy on the street, he goes to shul every Saturday, and he makes a living. So he doesn’t operate a machine. He sweeps up and carries bundles onto the lorries, but he works steady and he brings home his pay every week, and what more can a girl want? You tell me.”
    But no one said anything. No one wanted to get involved in her problem. The uncomfortable silence lasted still a moment longer until, to their relief, one woman whose eyes had strayed to the window cried out, “Ah, here comes the Zarembar woman.”
    All eyes instantly went to the window, mine too. Yes, there she was, the fat little woman waddling her way up the street, struggling with her two bulging, squirming straw bags. Everyone noticed too how fast she seemed to be trying to walk.
    â€œShe must be in a hurry to get home,” someone murmured.
    But they were all getting ready to follow her into her house. Those who had been drinking sour milk put their glasses down on the counter, and they all began pulling shawls over their heads. In another few moments the shop would be empty, but, to their surprise, instead of continuing up the street, she turned in at our house.
    We heard the front door open and then close after her. She had never done this before, and everyone looked at one another with puzzled expressions. In a moment she appeared in the doorway. She must have deposited her two bags of chickens in the lobby, because her hands were free, and we could hear the faint cluckings behind her. She stood there surveying us all, turning her head from this side to that and murmuring faint greetings. Her cheeks were fiery red from the wind and cold, and she was rubbing her two hands together, perhaps from the same thing, or was it from a certain suppressed excitement that seemed to emanate from her?
    They all sensed it, and were looking at her curiously. Certainly, this had nothing to do with