it is your mother taught you.” He sighed. It wasn’t fair that a man so full of himself should make her catch her breath with his sigh. It was the mustache. So cheeky.
Emilia clasped her hands around her knees. The ghost was laughing in the tree. “My mother isn’t fond of embroidery.”
“Then I could read you the Romantic poets. Girls like that sort of thing.” The ghost laughed so hard that apples fell and bounced on the ground. It wasn’t at all ladylike. But the dead have no manners.
“If you’re going to be my tutor, you’ll have to learn a thing or two. I won’t be bored by anyone less than a husband. Do you read German?” she asked.
“No, I’m afraid. Only English and French.”
“I prefer German philosophy. Perhaps I should read it to you.” A branch was creaking. The wind was blowing dead leaves.
Mr. Levy stood up straight. “You speak German?”
“Fluently. My mother taught me history, geography, philosophy, and literature in three languages. I speak four.”
“I’m a donkey’s ass,” Mr. Levy said, looking at her again as if he saw deeply and liked what he saw very much. The creaking branch snapped. “If you’ll pardon the vulgarity.” As the branch fell, it slapped his face. “What the …”
“Are you hurt?” Emilia asked.
“It’s nothing. A few scratches.”
“Stay here. I’ll go inside and get something from the maid to dress it.” As she opened the kitchen door, Emilia wondered whether his cheek would be smooth or rough with stubble. Over her shoulder she could see the red point of his cigar under the tree, and the ghost of the first Mrs. Rosenberg dancing on top of the brick wall.
LONDON, 1882
Frying Pan Alley
The grandmothers came. The west wind swept them into the channel, the mist of the river took them up. The newcomers jumped over CommercialStreet, the old divide between Jew and gentile, moving up and down and to the right along roads that turned blue on reformers’ maps as Yiddish signs were hung outside shops. Rents went up. In the backyards were workshops, chicken coops, foundries. There were Yiddish newsstands and Yiddish plays. Coffee houses opened where you could gamble in Yiddish. There were all kinds of chances and they wanted all of them. They had great hopes for their children, who were stringy as roosters, the boys almost as tough as the girls minding babies while waiting a turn to jump rope.
If you could hear a grandmother’s voice, she’d tell you why they came: To argue about stuffed fish. You think that’s crazy? Then listen to me. Some cook it sweet, and the ones that cook with pepper think they’re better than the others. But in the heim, believe me, you would be grateful for anything. People that have plenty don’t leave home for the pleasure of living eight to a room in a house of prostitutes and criminals. A house? A ruin. Rats tear the paper off windows that have no glass. But in the street at least there’s a heimisheh geshmeck, a taste of pickles and smoked fish. Beer! Gin! Feh — what’s that! Someone should have a little schnapps. You write to them, Nehameleh. Just like I’m saying. Tell them how fine it is here. You think for this they’ll leave their home and their business?
But Nehama was sure that her family belonged here. She was saving part of every wage packet, and all that she’d done would be forgiven because it would have been for this: to bring her family to the free land. First Mother and Father, then sisters with their husbands and children. Enough of them to fill a house, a row of houses. She’d teach them all English and save them from lies. She wrote letters home, and her family wrote back with holiday wishes several times a year. If you held the thin paper to the light, words flew into the yellow candle flame. Whenever she wanted to jump away from the sewing machine, whenever the night called her, she thought of them and the roll of savings under a loose board.
In the sixth year of her freedom,
Emilia clasped her hands around her knees. The ghost was laughing in the tree. “My mother isn’t fond of embroidery.”
“Then I could read you the Romantic poets. Girls like that sort of thing.” The ghost laughed so hard that apples fell and bounced on the ground. It wasn’t at all ladylike. But the dead have no manners.
“If you’re going to be my tutor, you’ll have to learn a thing or two. I won’t be bored by anyone less than a husband. Do you read German?” she asked.
“No, I’m afraid. Only English and French.”
“I prefer German philosophy. Perhaps I should read it to you.” A branch was creaking. The wind was blowing dead leaves.
Mr. Levy stood up straight. “You speak German?”
“Fluently. My mother taught me history, geography, philosophy, and literature in three languages. I speak four.”
“I’m a donkey’s ass,” Mr. Levy said, looking at her again as if he saw deeply and liked what he saw very much. The creaking branch snapped. “If you’ll pardon the vulgarity.” As the branch fell, it slapped his face. “What the …”
“Are you hurt?” Emilia asked.
“It’s nothing. A few scratches.”
“Stay here. I’ll go inside and get something from the maid to dress it.” As she opened the kitchen door, Emilia wondered whether his cheek would be smooth or rough with stubble. Over her shoulder she could see the red point of his cigar under the tree, and the ghost of the first Mrs. Rosenberg dancing on top of the brick wall.
LONDON, 1882
Frying Pan Alley
The grandmothers came. The west wind swept them into the channel, the mist of the river took them up. The newcomers jumped over CommercialStreet, the old divide between Jew and gentile, moving up and down and to the right along roads that turned blue on reformers’ maps as Yiddish signs were hung outside shops. Rents went up. In the backyards were workshops, chicken coops, foundries. There were Yiddish newsstands and Yiddish plays. Coffee houses opened where you could gamble in Yiddish. There were all kinds of chances and they wanted all of them. They had great hopes for their children, who were stringy as roosters, the boys almost as tough as the girls minding babies while waiting a turn to jump rope.
If you could hear a grandmother’s voice, she’d tell you why they came: To argue about stuffed fish. You think that’s crazy? Then listen to me. Some cook it sweet, and the ones that cook with pepper think they’re better than the others. But in the heim, believe me, you would be grateful for anything. People that have plenty don’t leave home for the pleasure of living eight to a room in a house of prostitutes and criminals. A house? A ruin. Rats tear the paper off windows that have no glass. But in the street at least there’s a heimisheh geshmeck, a taste of pickles and smoked fish. Beer! Gin! Feh — what’s that! Someone should have a little schnapps. You write to them, Nehameleh. Just like I’m saying. Tell them how fine it is here. You think for this they’ll leave their home and their business?
But Nehama was sure that her family belonged here. She was saving part of every wage packet, and all that she’d done would be forgiven because it would have been for this: to bring her family to the free land. First Mother and Father, then sisters with their husbands and children. Enough of them to fill a house, a row of houses. She’d teach them all English and save them from lies. She wrote letters home, and her family wrote back with holiday wishes several times a year. If you held the thin paper to the light, words flew into the yellow candle flame. Whenever she wanted to jump away from the sewing machine, whenever the night called her, she thought of them and the roll of savings under a loose board.
In the sixth year of her freedom,
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