shamash candle in the cruet. I lit the shamash, used it to light the other two, and sang the blessings. This time I filled my lungs and did a half-decent job.
Each of the blessings started with the same stock phrase I’d sung a million times at temple without thinking: Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam. Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe. Ha-olam. The universe. And olam was more than that. At services I sang prayers that included l’olam. Forevermore.
I stared at the flames. Through every place and all time, Serakh had explained. The olam—as if she’d stepped out of the ancient Hebrew prayers. My mind wandered to that metal triangle with tiny cups of oil. Hanukkah at Dolcette’s. I will show you Dolcette in an instant, Serakh told me. And she did. And she said I would see her again.
A door creaked. I felt someone behind me. I shivered, suddenly afraid. And that’s when Dagmar said, “You having a seacute;ance here in the dark?”
My shoulders relaxed. I grabbed a breath.
She flicked on the light, plopped herself on the couch, and finger-combed her hair. “Is that Chinese food I smell? I’m starved. Got any left?”
”Uh-huh.” Dagmar fills a room, and that’s exactly what I needed just then.
”You’re the best. Is Dad home yet?”
I shook my head.
She glanced at the menorah. “Happy Hanukkah, Hope for the World. Come sit with me in the kitchen,” she said, as she walked away. “I’ve got a bunch to tell you.”
I rubbed the back of my neck and watched melting wax drizzle over the lion’s butt. Sylvester yowled outside. I glanced out the living room window into the darkness. My own reflection shimmered, backlit by a heart-stopping flash of blue.
Serakh! I had to see her again. Frightened or not, I had to have answers. I raced to the front door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The night wind brought a damp chill off the Bay. Lights from the house next door cast shadows around our lilac bushes, deepening the darkness.
Another blue flash. My body twitched as if an electric shock had passed through me. Had she come and gone? Was it because Dagmar was home? Determination drowned out fear. I had to understand what was happening to me.
“S-Serakh, are are y-you still here?”
The lilac bush rustled. Sylvester scrambled onto my shoulder, digging his claws into my sweater.
”Ow! W-what’s with you? D-did you see her?”
Why am I asking? Of course he has. And if he’s come out of hiding, she must be gone.
Sylvester nested in my lap while I sat in the kitchen and half-listened to Dagmar. I curled my fingers around that silver coin and stared out the window.
Dagmar slurped soup from Dad’s coffee mug. “I heard it straight from one of my connections who hangs out with the free speech kids. They’re organizing a huge rally Wednesday in front of Sproul Hall, and I mean huge. Now’s your chance. Forget school tomorrow. Stay home and paint dreidels. I’ll help. You’ve still got a supply of plain ones, right?”
I dipped my chin in the affirmative.
”We’ll do that sales-team thing like we did at the street fair in Alameda. The Jewish kids will buy your dreidels as Hanukkah gifts. The non-Jewish kids, too. I’ll give my spiel about that miracle story with the flask of oil. Everybody likes miracles. Everybody likes tops. We made a mint last week.”
”S-seven d-dollars.” Not exactly a mint. I cracked open the fortune cookie I hadn’t had at dinner. The tiny message inside read: Good things come to those who wait. I wondered when I’d see Serakh again. Was she a good thing?
”We’ll make lots more at the rally. Don’t you need money for your music competition in Seattle?”
”P-Portland. B-but I c-can’t go if if I juh-oin the puh-rotest. School r-rules.”
Dagmar took another slurp. “C’mon, Hopeless. They’ll never catch you with all those kids around. And just in case they do, I’ll explain that you were helping me with sales. My friends really dig your dreidels. The Great Dane will be so impressed with how much money you make that he’s bound to convince Mom to let you go.” Dagmar hugged the mug against her impressive cleavage. She stretched a contagious grin from one hoop earring to another.
I leaned back in my chair. I still had twelve dozen large, unpainted wooden dreidels and another twelve dozen smaller ones. If we sold all the big ones for fifty cents each and the smaller ones for twenty-five cents, that would be seventy-two dollars plus thirty-six dollars, or about a hundred dollars. Dagmar would take her usual twenty percent, which was only fair, as she did the talking. I could nearly double my music festival fund. And if I stayed home, I could keep an eye on Grandpa.
I cleared my throat. “I-I never p-painted so m-many at once. They m-might not dry in time.”
Dagmar took another slurp and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s why God created hairdryers. You do the painting, I’ll be in charge of the drying. Paint lots of birds on them. Birds and flowers. Art!”
Dagmar announced that she was going to soak in our bathtub downstairs, and left. I rinsed out her mug before the gunk inside congealed, and I left it in the sink.
Restless, I called Leona, who almost always puts me in a good mood. I told her I felt fine, and she agreed again to keep quiet about what happened at Barston’s. Then I told her about going to the rally.
Two beats of silence. “Don’t do it. Dagmar is dragging you into trouble again. You should have heard my dad at dinner tonight. This whole protest thing is getting out of hand, like it did in October. I’m telling you, they’re going to call in the police. What if they catch you? Mr. Z is bound to find out.”
I wrapped the phone cord around my finger. “M-maybe I’ll p-paint the duh-reidels and g-g-give them to D-Dagmar to s-sell.”
”Great idea! Hey, I have to go. My mom wants me to wrap Hanukkah presents. Good luck with the painting. See you Wednesday.”
Sylvester followed me downstairs.
Dagmar came out of the bathroom just as I put my prayer shawl on top of my bookshelf. She was towel drying her hair and belting out, “You Don’t Own Me,” and I was sure her new-clothes sensor was shut down.
I let myself sleep until 8:30. Dagmar was in her usual spot, scrunched at the end of her bed, her pillow over her head. I reached down and extracted that coin from its hiding place between my mattress and mattress pad. The silver soon felt warm from the heat of my palm, the way silver does. Nothing magical. Sitting on my bed, I hugged my knees and tried to understand everything that had happened to me since Sunday night. I might as well have tried to sing underwater. Forget it. I was no good at fathoming the unfathomable.
I flung off the covers, put the coin back in its hiding place, and woke Dagmar, so she could call the school attendance office to tell them I’d be out sick. Then I got into dungarees and a paint-stained T-shirt and went upstairs.
Grandpa seemed better, although he wanted breakfast in his room. Dad had finished the rest of the Chinese food, washed his plate and the mug Dagmar used, and folded the dish towel in exact thirds. His on-the-phone voice drifted in from the den, so I left him a note on the kitchen counter explaining that I wasn’t feeling well and had decided to stay home from school.
Dagmar wandered off, promising to be back soon. Sylvester curled up on my bed. I left the door to the upstairs open, in case Grandpa needed me, and I took a can of root beer and a bag of pretzels to the corner of the garage that doubles as my workroom. Mom parks on the street, so there’s enough space on our old kitchen table and shelves for my paint supplies and a family pack of Juicy Fruit gum.
Sunshine swept through the open window on the other side of the garage. I balanced the record player Dagmar and I share on a box of Mom’s office supplies and set three of my favorite LPs on the spindle. Perfect. Singing along with English madrigals from The Triumphs of Oriana, I put a base coat on the first two dozen
dreidels and set them on a rack I’d made from chicken wire fencing. My vocalizing sounded halfway decent. Madrigals are like speaking, only better, with their crisp melodic lines. If I were still going to speech therapy, I would recommend madrigals as a vocal exercise.
All creatures now are merry minded,
The shepherd’s daughters playing…
Dad’s voice yanked me back from Ye Merrie Olde England. “Good morning.”
He sat on the top stair, his coffee cup in his hand, his chin stubbly, and his blond hair—a shade lighter than mine—crying out for a shower and shampoo.
I turned off the record player and put my singing on hold. “G-good m-morning.” I wondered whether Dad was concentrating on some problem in the lab, or whether he enjoyed slobbing out when Mom wasn’t around.
”You must be feeling better if you are working on your dreidels.”
I let my smile answer for me.
”Excellent. I’ll be home until two thirty-five. Then I have a graduate seminar—assuming any students will come to class today—and then I’ll check on things at the lab.”
Which meant he’d probably work late again. “How’s Guh-randpa?”
”Napping. Any idea where Dagmar is?”
I shrugged. Dad took another sip of coffee. Dr. Henrik Friis, eminent physicist, leading expert on the secrets of the universe. I walked partway up the stairs, my heart doing double-time. “D-Dad?”
”Hmmm…. What’s up?”
Say it! “D-do you th-think t-t-ime is… um…fuh-lexible?”
He cocked his head. “That came out of the clear blue.”
I bit my lip and asked again with my eyes.
”Well, the short answer is yes. Time certainly isn’t linear, the way most people think. The universe is more complicated than that. Why do you ask?”
I picked at a fleck of yellow paint on my fingernail. No way could I tell him about Serakh, and blue flashes, and Dolcette. Even if he didn’t drag me to the doctor right away—and who would blame him?—he’d certainly nix any chance of my going to the music festival. “J-just c-curious,” I said.
We let it go at that.
I hummed softly and went back to painting. About half an hour later, Sylvester yowled. The back of my neck tingled. I knew what I’d see when I looked up.
Serakh sat at the top of the stairs, where my father had been. She was eating a cucumber.
She pointed the cucumber at a rip in her robe. “Your cat has the heart of a tiger.”
I stared at her for a full three beats, waiting for a wave of fear that never came. Chomping on a cuke, for Heaven’s sake. How unthreatening is that?
”Your grandmother had such a cooling box. It is very useful. Do not worry. I was careful to close the door to the box after I removed the cucumber, and I did not disturb anyone in the house.” She held out the cucumber. “Would you like a bite?”
”No thanks,” I said, as if this was a normal conversation with a normal person. I chose to believe it was.
She walked down the stairs. I stayed put.
”You ate cucumbers with my grandmother?”
”I have never lost my fondness for them. A pity they are not in season in Dolcette’s time and place.
She stood an arm’s length away, solid, sensible. Her eyes were clear and focused. She seemed to be under the influence of nothing stronger than herbal tea.
”What’s really happening to me? Who are you?”
Loosening her headscarf, she let her thick white braid cascade down her back to her waist. “I am one with an abundance of years and a passion for cucumbers.”
”I’m serious.”
She straightened her shoulders. “I, too, am serious. Who I am does not matter. You are the one who matters. You are of the line of Miriams since the first Miryam, who found water in the desert on our long journey from Egypt. Your grandmother Miriam once stood before Moshe to pursue justice at the river Jordan. Now you bear her name and her birthright—the blue thread—and you are intertwined with Dolcette. You are worthy.”
Worthy? I’d been called sweet, or responsible, or talented, but never worthy. And every time I was with her, I spoke like a normal person. My kind of miracle. Whatever made that happen, I wanted more.
”Dolcette needs you. Perhaps if you see her again, you will discover what we must do to save her baby. You have only to wear your garment of fringes and touch the blue thread as before.”
”This is completely crazy.”
She popped the last of the cucumber in her mouth and wiped her hands on her robe. “Yes, this I have heard from other Miriams, even from your grandmother at first. But Dolcette cannot wait. She is terrified for her child. Trust me. You will return to this very spot on the olam
.” Serakh’s face relaxed into a smile. “Only your brave and ferocious cat will know I have been here.”
”My grandmother stood before Moses?” I knew Serakh would say yes, just as she’d told me that it was true that Moses stuttered.
”The universe is complicated,” I told myself as I covered the jar of modeling paint, soaked my paintbrush in solvent, and headed for my shawl.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
This time it really was easier to make the crossing. And this time I smelled fresh bread. We were back in that same grove of trees at the edge of that same group of houses by the river. I don’t know why I was more excited than afraid. Maybe the aroma of baking bread is always inviting. Maybe the place felt more familiar. Does repetition do that to you, like going to the same haunted house two nights in a row?
The tree I rested against felt warm in the midmorning sun. A horse whinnied. A man shouted, and another man answered him. Church bells pealed. Notre Dame?
Again the robe over my prayer shawl and regular clothes. Again the linen cap with my hair tucked underneath and a scarf to hide my bandages. When I’d caught my breath, I reached down and collected the dimes from my penny loafers to give to Serakh.
She smoothed my robe. “We are going to meet Avram, so you can judge what best to do. You will understand the words of every person that you hear, as you did with Dolcette, because you are with me. Your words will flow in the magic of blended language.”
I stared at her. “Blended what? Is that why I don’t my stutter around you? Because I’m not really talking? But I feel my lips move.”
“I do not know why this happens. You form the words in your mind and perhaps on your lips. I translate them into that which is meaningful. It is a useful skill.”
”Useful? It’s an outrageously amazing skill!”
”Come, our time grows shorter.” Serakh’s forehead creased with determination. No more easy-going banter about eating cucumbers. Now I had work to do. But what?
Picking our way around a dead rat, several foul-smelling puddles, and a maggot-infested glob of who-knows-what, we reached a low stone building with no door. Two bearded men stood inside near a rounded brick oven that looked like it belonged in a pizza parlor. The older, gray-haired man was kneading dough on a flat wooden pallet. He wore a flour-dusted tunic that came to his knees and a pair of baggy leggings. The younger man, with his back to us, was taller and more muscular, with dark brown hair, and a leather vest over his tunic.
”Good day to you gentlemen,” Serakh said. “We are new to Paris. Is this the oven for the Jews?”
Jewish ovens? My brain zipped forward to 1964 and the new ads for Levy’s rye bread. Dad at the kitchen table, showing Mom the ad in The New York Times with the slogan, “You Don’t Have to Be Jewish to Love Levy’s” and the American Indian eating a rye sandwich. Dad joking, “You don’t have to be Jewish to love Rachel.” Mom laughing and then getting her love-you-so-much look, and taking Dad’s free hand in both of hers.
The older man grunted, not bothering to look up. The younger one turned and stepped forward. Except for his short, reddish brown b
eard, he could have been Paul McCartney, straight off the Beatles’ plane from England. Hazel eyes, curly eyelashes. He was drop-dead gorgeous.
”How may I be of service?” Tenor voice as pleasing as his face. “I am Avram of Mainz.”
Impossible. Baby killers don’t look like this.
”Avert your eyes,” Serakh hissed in my ear. “He must not think we are brazen women.”
I blinked. Paul McCartney of Mainz stared at me. I couldn’t help it. I stared back.
Serakh stepped between us. “Kind sir,” she said, “I inquire about the hours when my sister-in-law and I might bake our loaves, and about the oven fee.”
Pretending to pick at a soiled spot on my sleeve, I hid a smile at our invented relationship. Avram stroked his chin and stood silently. Serakh waited.
Finally he said, “And where do you buy your flour, eggs, and yeast?”
Serakh stood taller, as if slightly offended by the question. “From the Jews, certainly. Else how could I be assured of their purity for bread? I buy parsnips and cabbage, and a bit of cloth, from any good farmer’s wife, Jewish or not, as we all must earn a living together.”
I waited for Avram to say something against Christians, since they had attacked Mainz. But he seemed to ignore Serakh’s last sentence. Or maybe he agreed with her.
”I supply the purest flour, good dame,” he said. “My wheat and barley are the best in Paris. My rye I personally transport from farmers in the north. I sell my flour in the market on Thursdays. The yeast you may buy from any of the sellers there. The freshest eggs come from the farm owned by my father-in-law, Rav Judah of Falaise.”
”Thank you for your kind advice. I will visit your stall next Thursday.”
”And I will offer you the use of this oven.” Avram glanced at me with a friendly, open face. I reminded myself that you can’t judge a book by its cover. I longed to let my eyes linger over that cover. Instead, I looked at the floor.
”I am a widow,” Serakh said. “And so is my sister-in-law. She is slow, poor dear, and understands very little. We are two women struggling alone.”
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