Read Online Leah's Journey by Gloria Goldreich - Free Book Online
Authors: Gloria Goldreich
Tags: General Fiction
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felt again a stirring of the excitement that had spurred her from her parents’ village to the academy in Odessa. Of course, she must do something, study something. She was, after all, only twenty-three. Sarah was always on hand to look after the children.
Leah looked at David who calmly ate the compote as he read from a propped-up text, his mind riveted to a problem his professor had discussed that day dealing with Freud’s analysis of the root of involuntary action. How good David was, Leah thought, and how he always seemed to sense what she wanted, what she needed. But when he passed her chair and lightly touched her hair, an imperceptible shiver escaped her and he moved quickly on and went to sit with Shimon Hartstein, Morris Morgenstern, and Label Katz, who were angrily arguing against Sam Ellenberg that David Dubinsky and his ideas of trade unionism would mean the ruination of small manufacturers.
On Monday, Leah decided, she would go to the Irvington Settlement House and make inquiries. The determined thought pleased her and she hummed softly as she cleared the table. Aaron got up to help her and when he nuzzled shyly against her she bent and planted a soft kiss on the bright coppery crown of her child’s hair.
3
CHARLES FERGUSON STOOD at the window of his studio on the second floor of the Irvington Settlement House and watched the street below. His fingers were wrapped around a stump of charcoal which he idly moved across the thick white page of the drawing pad he had balanced on the windowsill. Small figures slowly crawled into life on the sheet of paper and now and then the young artist glanced away from the window to see whether his fingers had been faithful to his eyes. Critically, almost harshly, he stared at his work, and slowly corrected it. Using his fingers, he blurred and brushed the figure of the old Jew pushing a wheelbarrow through the streets, hoping that the newly imposed shadow would imply the sense of urgent movement that characterized the old man’s painful progress.
Everyone on the street below was hurrying because it was three o’clock on a wintry Friday afternoon and only an hour or so remained before the Sabbath hush would steal across the teeming, busy streets of New York’s lower east side. Bearded rabbis, their earlocks still damp from their Friday afternoon ritual immersion, hurried homeward, thin white towels tucked beneath their black gabardine caftans. Women dashed by, huddled within thick shawls, clutching straw market baskets. These were the poorest housewives, who waited until the shops were ready to close so that they might buy their food at half-price.
He watched one plump little woman rush from stall to stall. She wore a man’s heavy dark overcoat and her head was covered with a bright-red wool scarf. With the eagerness of a child finding a new toy, she plucked up a large cabbage and tossed it, with surprising skill, into her basket. Now she cajoled the aged fish merchant who leaned against his cart, his beard and once-white apron flecked with scales and blood, a narrow fishbone gleaming on the visor of his work cap. The woman pirouetted before him. She pointed to her cabbage and, digging into her basket, held up a bunch of scrawny baby carrots. With flying fingers and dancing vegetables, she demonstrated the dinner she could cook if only she had one fish head. The fishmonger looked up at the darkening sky and down into the slimy confines of his cart. Shrugging finally, he removed a thick glove, plunged his hand in, and held up a grinning carp head. He wrapped it in sheets of newspaper so thin they were soon stained with blood, but the small woman hugged the package with joy and held out some coins. The merchant ignored her outstretched hand and bent to hoist his cart. Slowly, bent almost double, he trudged on down Bayard Street and the woman arranged her purchases and hurried triumphantly home.
Charles Ferguson’s charcoal stub had swept furiously across his pad during
Leah looked at David who calmly ate the compote as he read from a propped-up text, his mind riveted to a problem his professor had discussed that day dealing with Freud’s analysis of the root of involuntary action. How good David was, Leah thought, and how he always seemed to sense what she wanted, what she needed. But when he passed her chair and lightly touched her hair, an imperceptible shiver escaped her and he moved quickly on and went to sit with Shimon Hartstein, Morris Morgenstern, and Label Katz, who were angrily arguing against Sam Ellenberg that David Dubinsky and his ideas of trade unionism would mean the ruination of small manufacturers.
On Monday, Leah decided, she would go to the Irvington Settlement House and make inquiries. The determined thought pleased her and she hummed softly as she cleared the table. Aaron got up to help her and when he nuzzled shyly against her she bent and planted a soft kiss on the bright coppery crown of her child’s hair.
3
CHARLES FERGUSON STOOD at the window of his studio on the second floor of the Irvington Settlement House and watched the street below. His fingers were wrapped around a stump of charcoal which he idly moved across the thick white page of the drawing pad he had balanced on the windowsill. Small figures slowly crawled into life on the sheet of paper and now and then the young artist glanced away from the window to see whether his fingers had been faithful to his eyes. Critically, almost harshly, he stared at his work, and slowly corrected it. Using his fingers, he blurred and brushed the figure of the old Jew pushing a wheelbarrow through the streets, hoping that the newly imposed shadow would imply the sense of urgent movement that characterized the old man’s painful progress.
Everyone on the street below was hurrying because it was three o’clock on a wintry Friday afternoon and only an hour or so remained before the Sabbath hush would steal across the teeming, busy streets of New York’s lower east side. Bearded rabbis, their earlocks still damp from their Friday afternoon ritual immersion, hurried homeward, thin white towels tucked beneath their black gabardine caftans. Women dashed by, huddled within thick shawls, clutching straw market baskets. These were the poorest housewives, who waited until the shops were ready to close so that they might buy their food at half-price.
He watched one plump little woman rush from stall to stall. She wore a man’s heavy dark overcoat and her head was covered with a bright-red wool scarf. With the eagerness of a child finding a new toy, she plucked up a large cabbage and tossed it, with surprising skill, into her basket. Now she cajoled the aged fish merchant who leaned against his cart, his beard and once-white apron flecked with scales and blood, a narrow fishbone gleaming on the visor of his work cap. The woman pirouetted before him. She pointed to her cabbage and, digging into her basket, held up a bunch of scrawny baby carrots. With flying fingers and dancing vegetables, she demonstrated the dinner she could cook if only she had one fish head. The fishmonger looked up at the darkening sky and down into the slimy confines of his cart. Shrugging finally, he removed a thick glove, plunged his hand in, and held up a grinning carp head. He wrapped it in sheets of newspaper so thin they were soon stained with blood, but the small woman hugged the package with joy and held out some coins. The merchant ignored her outstretched hand and bent to hoist his cart. Slowly, bent almost double, he trudged on down Bayard Street and the woman arranged her purchases and hurried triumphantly home.
Charles Ferguson’s charcoal stub had swept furiously across his pad during
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