Thirty-Seven

When Rifke came home, she was helpless. Sarah had to learn to be with her in an entirely new way. Day by day, Rifke began to relax under her care. But, when her mother sat in bed draped only in a towel for her sponge bath, Sarah felt uncomfortable at seeing her nakedness. She lifted the long hair that she had made shine again and ran the sponge in circles over the smooth back. There was a round mole below her mother’s left shoulder that she had never known was there.

Her mother’s lips were returning to their natural rose pink. They were the same color as the stretch marks that ran like thin ribbons of ruffled silk across her stomach. I made some of those, Sarah thought, as she drew the sponge gently over them. One evening as Sarah was helping her put on a nightgown, Rifke ran her hand over the stretch marks. “You were so anxious to kick your way out.”

Each morning Jacob propped open the door between the shop and apartment so he could hear Rifke if she called. Sammy brought his box of wooden horses and soldiers into the bedroom and played on the floor beside her bed. He was reassured when she promised that soon she would be well enough to bake strudel for him.

In the evening Jacob would settle Rifke on the couch and fuss over her. Was the pillow in a comfortable place? Was she warm enough? She protested that he was so good to her she might decide to be an invalid for the rest of her life. He and Sarah would take turns reading articles aloud from the Tribune on women’s suffrage, the World’s Fair, anything that might interest her. The article that surprised them all was about the mayor appointing Jane Addams director of sanitation for their ward.

Sarah puckered her nose. “Isn’t that an awful job?”

“We won’t have to worry about Sammy getting sick from stinking garbage boxes anymore,” Rifke said.

“The air will smell of challah baking.” Jacob sniffed the imaginary bread, closing his eyes in ecstasy.

Sarah sniffed too. “And Mrs. Costelli’s tomato sauce.”

Sammy wriggled in next to his mother for the reading, rested his head on her chest, and fell asleep. Sarah brewed tea, dropped half a sugar lump in each of three cups, and served her mother and father. Then she sat, curled at the end of the couch, slowly sipping. She had come to love these peaceful evenings, her father’s mellow voice reading rhythmically. As her mother’s face softened with contentment, and she took Jacob’s hand in hers and kissed it, thanking him for reading to her, Sarah felt the hardness in her heart begin to soften.

§

The first afternoon that Rifke was able to sit on the couch and do some mending, Sarah asked, “Mama, when Papa played ‘Rozhinkes mit Mandeln’ on his cello, why did you cry?”

Rifke took so long to answer that Sarah wondered if she had heard the question. Finally, Rifke spoke. It was as if her voice were coming from a distant place.

“It was my grandmother’s favorite song. When I became engaged to…the violinist, he would play along with me as I sang it.” She looked at Sarah. “So…that’s another piece of my story.”

“What was your…the violinist’s name?

Silence. Sarah sipped tea.

“Ilya.” Said so softly that Sarah had trouble hearing it.