And of course, everyone has had to
Years before, when she was six years old, the Nazis had staged a boycott of Jewish businesses. They were new to power then, and their effort fizzled after a few days, but Rashka can starkly recall standing inside Ehrenberg’s Konditorei in the Lindenstrasse, staring out through the glass while a giant storm trooper in his dung-brown Sturmabteilung uniform painted a sloppy Magen David across the shop’s window.
Her eema used paintbrushes too. Sometimes Rashka was even permitted to play with the old ones that had been retired from work. She liked smearing paint on a scrap of canvas in the shape of a hare or maybe a pony with a bristly mane. She liked the feeling of the brush in her hand. She liked the smooth application of the paint, just as she liked the broom of color, thinning into cartwheels as she smashed the brush’s head into a starburst. But to watch this behemoth storm trooper with his fat belly hung over his belt, using a
Frau Ehrenberg was in tears behind the bakery counter, muttering “Eine Kulturschande” over and over. A culture shame!
But Eema was dry-eyed. “Don’t be frightened, child,” she had commanded Rashka at the time, gripping her hand tightly. “Don’t be frightened.” But it was obvious that even Eema was swallowing fear. And Rashka? She was only a small girl, but it both enraged and horrified her down to her soul as she watched the paint dribble down the glass.
A thump of her heart wakes Rachel to the present. She finds herself in the rear of a taxi with Aaron, pulling up in front of Gluckstern’s on Delancey Street for dinner with the Weinstocks. The Barry Sisters sing the jingle over the radio:
It’s just past twilight, when the city takes on the darkness from the ground up. Aaron puffs out his cheeks and straightens his tie as the cab pulls over to the curb. “Okay, so here we are,” he tells Rachel grimly. “Let’s get this fucking ordeal over with.” He had a few beers while they were getting ready. A few beers that nudged him into a surliness that he barely pretends to hide. Frowning, he leans his head forward to the cabbie. “So, buddy?” he asks, yanking out his wallet. “What’s this gonna set me back?”
Inside, the place is full and loud. An undercurrent of thunder thrums through the air as they’re seated at a four-top, the two couples—the Perlmans, Rachel and Aaron, and the Weinstocks, Cousin Ezra and wife, Daniela. Like many of the old kosher eateries, the place has a reputation for prickly service, as well as its corned beef and cabbage. There’s an old joke about a waiter circling through the tables of some neighborhood kosher restaurant asking, “Who wanted the clean glass?” But tonight, their waiter is a middle-aged mensch who seems cheerful, even delighted to have them seated in his section. “H’boy,” Aaron grumbles. “Smiley the waiter. He must have us sized up for big tippers” is her husband’s explanation.
“So thank you for putting up with the menu here,” Daniela says. Daniela Weinstock is the mother of a brood of little Weinstocks and seems to Rachel to have spent the last several years vershtuft. Pregnant. Though