Chapter Six

SIX

OCTOBER 1922

After word got around about the Lowenstein twins, everyone in the neighborhood wanted some of Esther’s soup. Mrs. Lowenstein told anyone who would listen about its miraculous digestive powers. “I never saw my boys eat anything so quickly. Their appetites are back. Their stomach pains have disappeared!”

Customers asked Augusta’s father for the soup when they came into the store. At first he found the requests amusing, but as they multiplied, he grew annoyed. “It’s only soup, ” Augusta heard him say to a mother who spoke as if it were liquid gold.

“That’s not what Fanny Lowenstein says. She says that Esther’s soup healed her boys. Now they eat everything—except for fish and spinach. Their stomachs can’t handle those foods, apparently. They’re very difficult to digest.”

Solomon Stern let out a groan. When the customer left, he told Augusta, “Your great-aunt is going to put me in an early grave. At the very least, she’s going to give me an ulcer.”

“Should I tell her to make extra soup for the customers?”

Her father sighed. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

On Friday mornings, Esther always went shopping. She was the first one at the kosher butcher in the morning, where she picked out the plumpest, most succulent chickens. She gave the butcher a sweet yellow onion, which he ground into a pound of fresh red meat, to be used for her kreplach filling.

Esther made her soup in the giant stockpot that had once belonged to Augusta’s mother. She added carrots, onions, and celery to the chicken, and filled the pot three-quarters of the way full with water. After the whole thing came to a boil, she threw in a pinch of salt and pepper and a handful of parsley, garlic, and dill. She added other herbs and spices, too, some of which Augusta didn’t recognize. These, Esther macerated herself with a heavy brass mortar and pestle she’d brought to New York in the bottom of her trunk. As she worked, she hummed and swayed. Sometimes she sang the strands of a tune that Augusta did not know.

On the outside, the bowl-like mortar was plain, measuring about four inches across. Inside, faded words were carved into the metal—beginning at the bottom and swirling upward in a single spiral toward the rim. Augusta thought that the letters looked like Hebrew, though she had no idea what they actually meant. Like most American-born girls in her neighborhood, Augusta could understand some spoken Hebrew and Yiddish, but she did not know enough to read or translate. The mortar looked rough and not particularly clean. Certainly it did not seem to be valuable, but it must have been meaningful to her great-aunt, or she wouldn’t have taken such care to transport it from one end of the world to the other.

“My father has mortars in his prescription room, but I’ve never seen one decorated like that. What does the inscription mean?”

“Hmm?” said Aunt Esther, as if she hadn’t heard.

Augusta wanted to press the matter, but her aunt began rolling out the dough for the meat dumplings—the kreplach. As she stood hunched over their wooden table, a different tune, livelier this time, flowed from her lips. She cut the dough into perfect squares and placed tiny dollops of seasoned ground meat into the center of each square. As the old woman folded and pinched and crimped, Augusta could have sworn that she was singing to the dumplings, cooing to them as if they were babies gently being put to bed. Augusta waited until Esther was finished before asking her question again. “What does the inscription mean?”

This time Augusta knew Esther had heard. But instead of answering her great-niece properly, the old woman shrugged and looked away.

“Only words,” Esther said.

On the first Friday that Esther sold soup at the store, Augusta helped to carry the jars downstairs. She placed six jars on the cosmetics counter, but Bess was miffed that they broke up her display. The disruption did not last long, however. Esther charged thirty cents per jar, and, within minutes, the six jars were gone.

On the Monday that followed, Augusta overheard more customers asking her father for the soup. This time, it wasn’t only young mothers asking for their picky children. Mr. Kaufman, a retired teacher in his seventies, wondered whether the soup might help his wife get over a mild bout of bronchitis. The pharmacist replied that all warm liquids were soothing in such situations. “Any tea or broth will be useful,” he said. He gave Mr. Kaufman capsules for the cough and a box of lozenges.

On Tuesday, there were more inquiries. Gertie Feldman cornered Esther and asked whether the soup might be good for her granddaughter’s chicken pox. “The fever is down,” Gertie said, “but the poor thing can’t stop scratching. I suppose the soup can’t help with itching?”

Aunt Esther shook her head. “I have something else for that,” she said. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me?”

When the pharmacist saw his aunt leave with Mrs. Feldman, his face turned an angry, mottled red. “You stay here,” he said to Augusta. “Help the customers if you can. If someone needs me, tell them to wait. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” He stopped Irving on his way out the door. “Wait with Augusta, please. In case she needs help.”

Once her father was gone, Augusta reassured Irving. “It’s okay, you can make your deliveries. You don’t have to stay here with me.”

“I don’t mind,” Irving told her. “Besides, your pop wants me to.”

It was the most the two of them had said to each other since Irving had begun working at the store. For a talkative young man, Irving was surprisingly quiet when Augusta was nearby. He seemed to have no problem talking to her father, to George at the soda counter, or even to Bess. But when it came to Augusta, Irving Rivkin was uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

“I think he likes you,” Bess said one evening when the girls were brushing their teeth in the tiny bathroom.

“That’s ridiculous,” Augusta answered, but Bess raised both eyebrows in mock surprise.

“Is it?” she said. “I don’t think so. Mama always said you were going to be a beauty. Irving has eyes, doesn’t he?”

“He’s two years older than me,” Augusta said.

“So what? Papa was six years older than Mama. And George is three years older than me.” Lately, Bess seemed to be making headway in her quest to get George to notice her.

“Stop teasing,” said Augusta, pretending to be more embarrassed than she was. Meanwhile, that night, for the first time in her life, Augusta dreamed she was dancing with someone. In the dream, she could not make out the young man’s face, but his eyes were the palest shade of blue and his hair stuck up in front like Irving Rivkin’s.

While Augusta’s father was out of the store, two customers came to the prescription counter. Both were picking up medications that her father had already prepared. Augusta answered a few simple questions, handed over their orders, and gave them change.

Irving watched her during both encounters with a look of admiration on his face. “You’re a natural,” he told her.

“Talking to customers or making change?”

“Both,” said Irving. “Everything. You could practically run this whole place.”

Augusta laughed. It turned out that Irving was much easier to talk to than she had thought he would be. “Hardly,” she said. “I want to go to pharmaceutical college one day, though.”

“Aren’t you afraid of all the reading? All the studying you’ll have to do?”

Augusta shook her head and smiled. “I like reading,” she said. “And studying.”

“Not me,” Irving said, lowering his gaze so that he didn’t seem quite as confident as before. “I promised my mom I’d finish high school, but I don’t think I’m smart enough to go to college.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Augusta said.

“My mom says I got all the street smarts in the family, and my older brother got all the book smarts. She said it’s lucky we each got one, because according to her, my dad had neither.”

Irving had never mentioned his father before. “What does your father do?” she asked.

“Dunno,” Irving said. “He left when I was three. Went out one night and never came back. Nobody’s heard from him since.” From the way his eyes dimmed, Augusta knew it wasn’t something he liked to talk about. “I don’t remember him at all. I don’t even have a picture.”

“I’m so sorry,” Augusta whispered.

“What about you? Your pop and your sister are always around, but how come I never see your mother?”

“She died last year,” Augusta told him. She rarely spoke about her mother’s death, but somehow, with Irving, she didn’t mind.

“That’s awful,” he said. “It’s good you were old enough to remember her, though. What’s your favorite memory of her?”

Augusta stared at the rough, skinny boy. No one had ever asked her such a question. Sometimes at night, back when they shared a bedroom, she and Bess discussed what they missed most about their mother. It was always a melancholy conversation, always spoken in the harrowing language of their communal loss. But now Irving had somehow reframed the discussion. His question was not about her grief, but about the lingering joys.

Augusta took a moment to consider her answer. “When she used to take us to the beach. My father usually had to stay back at the store, but she would take me and Bess to Coney Island. She’s the one who taught us to swim. Bess preferred lying in the sun, but I always wanted to be in the water. Sometimes I’d just float on my back. Sometimes we’d race to the shore. Swimming in the ocean made me feel like I was part of something bigger. It made me feel strong. It made me feel…”

“Brave?” offered Irving.

Augusta smiled. “That’s it exactly. With my mother gone, I don’t feel as brave as I used to.” She bit her lip to keep her tears at bay. “I don’t go to the beach anymore.” She had never spoken this way about her mother before. Even with Bess, she couldn’t always explain her grief in a way that the older girl appreciated. But there was something about Irving—his easy manner, his open expression, his willingness to listen—that made her feel as if he wanted to understand. In that moment, she felt as if she could tell him anything.

When Augusta’s father returned to the store, he looked even angrier than when he’d left.

“What happened, Papa?” Augusta asked, afraid of what he might say.

“Your great-aunt is up to her old tricks again.”

“What do you mean? What old tricks?”

He dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. “Some stories my mother used to tell me. It isn’t important right now.” He took a deep breath before he continued. “The point is that I made it clear to Esther that she is no longer allowed to work at the store or converse with my customers.”

“Is she allowed to keep selling soup?” Augusta asked.

“Not in the store,” her father said. “If Esther wants to make some extra money, that’s entirely up to her. But I will not have my pharmacy business affiliated with any of that woman’s nonsense! It’s one thing to give my mother’s sister a home—a place to stay, a roof over her head. But I will not have my reputation sullied because some old woman lures away my customers with superstitions and old wives’ tales!” Augusta’s father punctuated this statement with a bang of his fist on the pharmacy counter.

“Of course, Papa,” Augusta whispered. Irving, sensing it was a good time to leave, scooped up the bags that had been left out for him. “I’ll make those deliveries now,” he said.

When Irving was gone, Augusta followed her father to the stock room, where he pulled a pint bottle of whiskey from the shelves and took a small, careful swallow. When she glanced pointedly at the bottle, her father said only, “It helps me to think.”

Augusta wished that she, too, had something to help process her thoughts. What had her father meant when he said that Aunt Esther lured his customers with superstitions and old wives’ tales? What had he meant when he said that she was up to her old tricks again? Augusta’s father had plenty of creams, plenty of fancy ointments and salves—surely there was one in the store that might have helped Mrs. Feldman’s granddaughter. Certainly Aunt Esther didn’t know more about such remedies—or any remedies for that matter—than Augusta’s own father.

She wished she could ask Aunt Esther her questions, but she wasn’t on the best of terms with her. Besides, although Esther’s command of the English language had been good from the moment she arrived in Brooklyn, she had a way of pretending she didn’t understand whenever she didn’t feel like talking.

In moments like these, Augusta felt her mother’s loss more deeply than ever. What would Irene Stern think of Aunt Esther and the tensions brewing with her father? What would her mother think of Irving—would she have judged him by his rough exterior, or would she have been charmed by his thoughtful observations? As it turned out, the delivery boy had something in common with her great-aunt: both were multifaceted and complex—much more so than they first appeared. Like the ocean, Augusta thought.

Irene Stern had always been a good swimmer—a skill she was determined to pass on to her girls. During one of their afternoon excursions to the beach, the water was particularly calm. Augusta floated on her back, without a single care in her head. Aside from the fact that they were outside, it was almost like floating in the bath. Augusta stared at the peaceful blue of the sky and felt the sun warming her wet skin. In her contentment, she forgot about everything else.

A minute later, a wave broke over her, catching her entirely by surprise. The force of the water flipped her upside down and she found herself flailing and gasping for air. Her mother had been swimming nearby at the time, but although Irene Stern had seen the wave coming, she hadn’t warned her daughter of its approach.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Augusta shouted, rubbing salt water from her eyes and picking clumps of seaweed out of her hair. “At least then I could have braced myself for it!”

“My job isn’t always to keep you safe,” said her mother. “My job is to teach you to keep yourself safe. The ocean can be beautiful and serene, but it’s so much more than that, Augusta. It can be overwhelming. Sometimes it can be dangerous. Its complexity is what makes it so special. There is always another wave forming in the distance. Some turn out to be only ripples, but some may head toward you at full speed.”

Augusta felt like she wanted to cry. She could feel the water she had swallowed sloshing around in her empty stomach. “Maybe I shouldn’t swim anymore. I’m scared of getting knocked over again.”

Her mother’s smile was as bright as the afternoon sun in the summer sky. “You can’t give up something that brings you joy just because it is difficult. Or because there may be a risk. I know how much you love swimming, Augusta. You must promise me that you will never stop. There will always be waves in the distance. With practice, you’ll learn to swim around them.”

Augusta had avoided the ocean ever since her mother’s funeral. Instead, she kept her childhood promise by swimming twice a month at an indoor pool a few subway stops from her apartment. Still, she missed the sunshine and the sea. She missed her mother’s voice in her ear. Inside the hideous, squat brick building, the air smelled like chemicals and sweat. There were no waves, but there was no blue sky, either.

Coney Island was a million miles away.