Chapter Eighteen

EIGHTEEN

JANUARY 1924

The happy news of Harriet Dornbush’s condition was revealed on a Friday in early January. Augusta was home from school with a cold when Harriet came to the house for more of Aunt Esther’s soup. As soon as their guest removed her coat, Esther made a clucking sound. “Ah,” she said. “B’sha’ah tovah.”

Augusta knew what the words meant. It was customary, when wishing a pregnant woman well, to refrain from congratulatory language. Mazel tov, Augusta had been taught, was appropriate only when referring to something that had already occurred. Pregnancy, on the other hand, was the expectation of something yet to come, a potential yet to be fulfilled. Esther had chosen the more prudent phrase, which, translated loosely, meant “all in good time.” It was a wish for the future, rather than a blessing for the past—a wish that the pregnancy should be smooth, the baby healthy, and the birth without complication.

Harriet stared at Aunt Esther. “Are you certain?” she whispered. “I suspected, but I didn’t let myself hope. How do you—how can you know so soon? Even the doctor won’t give me assurances.”

“There is a fullness to your figure that I haven’t seen before,” said Aunt Esther. “But I knew even before you took off your coat—your hair is thicker and your skin glows with the joy of what is to come.”

“Will it be a boy or a girl, do you think?”

“It should only be healthy,” Aunt Esther insisted.

Once Harriet left the apartment, Augusta was eager for answers. “She’s been trying for seven years,” said Augusta. “Please, Aunt Esther, tell me the truth. She’s pregnant now because of you, isn’t she?”

Esther tossed her head back and laughed. “I didn’t realize that my great-niece had so little knowledge of conception.” The two of them were alone in the kitchen, preparing for the Shabbos meal. Augusta was slower on her feet than usual—her head was still achy from her cold.

“You know exactly what I mean. Was it the herbs you put in her soup? Was it the boots you made her wear?” Augusta lowered her voice. “Was it the words carved inside of your mortar?”

Esther did not rush to answer. Instead, she opened the door to the oven and pulled out the two challahs she had baked. She gestured to the braided loaves—glossy, warm, fresh, and fragrant. “You see the strands we weave together every Friday for our bread? Why do we not make a simple loaf? Why burden ourselves with complications when there is always so much else to be done?”

Augusta did not understand the change of subject, but she attempted to answer the question. “Mama used to say that the three strands of the challah are meant for truth, peace, and justice.”

“A lovely explanation,” said Esther. “But why not past, present, and future? Braiding is associated with strength, is it not? Why not beauty, honor, and strength? And what of a loaf with more than three strands? Six strands may be the six days of the week, leading up to the day of rest. Eight strands may mean new beginnings, as in the way we circumcise a child on the eighth day after birth. My mother used to make a twelve-stranded loaf, to represent the twelve tribes of Israel.”

When Augusta didn’t answer, Aunt Esther continued. “It is not so simple, is it? I could offer many more interpretations, but the point is, there isn’t one explanation. Things are never as straightforward as we want them to be, Goldie. Why must I choose a single solution when the truth lies somewhere in between them all?”

Augusta’s head reeled from the possibilities. Unable to think of a proper response, she nodded and pretended to agree. It was only later on, as she was drifting off to sleep, that she realized how cleverly her aunt had avoided the question.

Four months later, in early spring, Mrs. Dornbush was back in their kitchen. This time, instead of her slim-fitting dress, she wore a billowy blouse and a long, loose skirt. In place of the rose patent leather pumps were a pair of stiff, nondescript boots, identical to the borrowed pair that had belonged to Augusta’s mother.

Harriet’s face was flushed and full, and there was an unmistakable swelling around her middle. She was nearly six months along in her pregnancy, but aside from her husband and her parents, Esther and Augusta were the only people she’d told. March and early April had been cold that year, and whenever Harriet left her apartment, she’d worn a heavy woolen coat that covered her body, all the way down to her plain brown boots. Because of this, almost no one else knew of or suspected her condition.

“Let me see you,” Esther said, smiling, after Harriet took off her coat. “You’re growing nicely, kinehora. Tell me, how do you feel?”

“Other than the heartburn, I feel good.” Along with the baby in her womb, a quiet confidence had blossomed inside her.

“Honey in warm milk will help,” said Esther, and Harriet nodded obediently.

“Are you tired?” asked Augusta, offering the pregnant woman a chair. “You didn’t have to walk here, you know. I’m happy to bring you whatever you need.” Ever since Harriet found out she was expecting, she had painstakingly avoided the icy sidewalks and slippery steps of her local stores. She ventured outside only when necessary, and she never got very far. Augusta had been bringing her soup every week, along with anything she ordered from the pharmacy.

“Thank you, but after all this time at home, I need some exercise. For months, all I’ve done is rest and eat. It was a wonderful way to pass the winter, but now I want to stretch my legs, feel the breeze, and join the world again.” She placed both hands on top of her stomach. “I haven’t told anyone else, but I’m sure my neighbors suspect. No one wants to ask me plainly.”

“Good,” said Aunt Esther. “Let them wonder. When they hear the baby crying this summer, then they will have their answer.”

The next week, on the first sunny day of April, Mrs. Dornbush came into the pharmacy. She had replaced her heavy woolen coat with a light spring jacket that did nothing to hide her expanding middle. Augusta’s father was in the prescription room, but when he heard Mrs. Dornbush’s voice, he came out front to say hello. He hadn’t laid eyes on her since that awful day when she’d asked him for the arsenic. Now, when he saw that she was expecting, the back of his neck turned a blotchy crimson, and from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, his eyes grew wide with amazement.

“I see there has been a happy development,” said the always proper Mr. Stern. Although he was not as superstitious as his aunt, he knew better than to say more.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dornbush. “A wonderful development, indeed.”

“I’m so glad that the doctors were able to help you and your husband at last,” he said.

“Oh,” demurred a slightly embarrassed Mrs. Dornbush. “It wasn’t the doctors at all.” She placed both hands protectively on her stomach, cradling the gift that was yet to come. “No, Mr. Stern, I am certain that I have your aunt to thank for this.”

That evening, at dinner, Augusta’s father was furious.

“I thought I’d made myself clear! It’s one thing to sell your soup to soothe stomachs or to offer your creams for children’s rashes. But you promised me you would not intervene in the legitimate medical concerns of my customers! I am a highly trained pharmacist, Esther. Doctors rely on me. Customers trust me. Do you know how it looks to have a member of my own family interfering in this way? Peddling nonsense to anyone who is dissatisfied or doesn’t agree with my opinion?”

Aunt Esther slammed the pot of stew she was carrying down onto the kitchen table. Potatoes and carrots quaked in tandem. “I don’t peddle nonsense!” she said. “How dare you disparage my knowledge? I studied for years, the same as you. I worked hard, the same as you. You and your doctors had no answers, so I stepped in to do what you could not. Where I come from, they call that a kindness!”

“Maybe in the old country,” he said coldly. “But here, pharmaceutical study is a science. We follow formulas. We use precise instruments. Our work relies on accuracy and scholarship, not the recipes and spells of superstitious old women.”

“And yet, with all your formulas and equipment, none of you could manage to help her.”

Solomon Stern gritted his teeth. “The doctors said there was nothing they could do!”

Esther rolled her eyes at her nephew. “You put too much faith in doctors.”

“And you should mind your own business.”

“How can I mind my own business when a deserving woman is abandoned? She was desperate, Solomon. You know this. Goldie told me what she wanted to buy at the store.”

Augusta sank into her seat and braced herself for her father’s wrath. She had not forgotten what he said when he first agreed to teach her. Whatever you hear, whatever you learn about a customer, is never, ever to be repeated. If you break this rule, there will be no second chance.

Although Augusta kept her head down, she felt her father’s eyes upon her. Bess gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze under the heavy wooden table, but the weight of Solomon Stern’s disappointment was like a fog that settled on them all.

The rest of the meal was spent in strained silence. Bess tried once or twice to lighten the mood, to offer an observation about a book she was reading or to praise the tenderness of Esther’s stew. But the only contribution the others made was the scraping of silverware on porcelain plates. When the meal was over, Solomon Stern stood up, tossed his napkin onto the table, and left the apartment without another word.

It was long past midnight when he finally returned, smelling faintly of whiskey and cigars. Augusta had waited up for him, and he did not seem surprised to see her there, holding vigil on the sagging sofa in the dark.

“I know you’re angry with me,” she began.

“I’m not angry anymore.”

Relief, like a blanket, warmed her skin. “You’re not?”

“No.” He sat down beside her. “In fact, I owe you an apology. I forgot how young you are, Augusta. I forgot how frightening a situation like Mrs. Dornbush’s can be for someone without the proper experience. I should have realized how much it would upset you.”

“I was so afraid of what she might do. It’s all right now, though, isn’t it, Papa?” Augusta released a shaky breath and leaned closer to embrace her father. “I’m so glad that Aunt Esther was able to help her.”

Solomon Stern stiffened and pulled away. As his anger flared back to life, his lower lip quivered, and his voice grew cold. “Harriet Dornbush’s good fortune has nothing to do with your aunt,” he said. “No one conceives because of old wives’ tales, Augusta. You must never confuse your aunt’s charms and concoctions with real pharmaceutical knowledge.”

Augusta answered in a whisper. “She didn’t use charms…”

“Then tell me, what did she do? What exactly was your aunt’s prescription ?”

Augusta rubbed the back of her head in an effort to remember. “She said the most important thing was for Mr. Dornbush to stop traveling so much. She told Mrs. Dornbush to be sure to eat breakfast, and to rub castor oil onto her belly every day.”

Augusta’s father rolled his eyes.

“There were special herbs for Mrs. Dornbush’s soup—I remember some of the names. Oh, and then there was the matter of the shoes.”

“What do you mean, the matter of the shoes?”

Augusta could tell from her father’s reaction that the topic was one she shouldn’t have raised. Still, it was too late now. “You know Mrs. Dornbush has beautiful shoes, on account of her husband’s job?”

“I suppose I do, yes. Go on.”

“Well, Aunt Esther felt it would be best if Mrs. Dornbush wore plain boots from now on. She thought… well, she said that some people in the neighborhood might be jealous of her, and that perhaps, even without knowing it, they may have unleashed the Evil Eye.”

Solomon Stern’s hands curled into fists. “I knew it!” he said, almost shouting. “The Evil Eye? This is exactly what I was afraid of!”

“But, Papa, Aunt Esther’s way worked, didn’t it? What’s the harm if it actually worked? ” She wanted so much to make her father understand; she wanted him to see all the good that her aunt was capable of.

“The harm, young lady, is that Esther’s rubbish is not only an insult to my profession but a threat to my reputation!” Suddenly his breathing grew ragged; his cheeks turned a bright and furious red . “Listen to me now, Augusta. I can excuse you involving your aunt this time, but I will not be able to forgive it twice.”

Tears filled the corners of Augusta’s eyes. How could her father ask her to choose between the enigmatic splendor of Esther’s work and the solid satisfaction of his own? Between the thrill of a patch of kitchen moonlight and the security of the prescription room? Why couldn’t he see that they were equally powerful? Why couldn’t he appreciate the beauty in both ?

Augusta thought back to Irving’s illness—to his dark, stuffy bedroom and his mother’s strained expression. Could it really be only a coincidence that his fever broke the morning after Esther’s visit?

She contemplated the once-hopeless Mrs. Dornbush and the bottomless well of her despair. Was Augusta really supposed to believe that Esther’s intervention had no effect? That her advice and midnight ministrations had not altered the course of Harriet’s life?

Finally, Augusta considered her mother. What a cruel end she’d been forced to endure, all because the doctors and the scientists couldn’t give her the help she needed in time.

Of the three, only one of them had been lost—the one Aunt Esther had not helped.

What, then, was Augusta supposed to believe?