Please Say Kaddish For Me by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Author:Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: jewish historical fiction, jewish history european, jewish family life, jewish emigration, jewish family sagas, jewish exile
Publisher: W & B Publishers

Chapter Ten

Far from being the crotchety old man Havah expected, Professor Dietrich had thick sandy hair and a friendly smile defined by deep dimples.

“My friend Itzak tells me good things about you. The job is yours if you want it. You may start whenever you like, today if you desire.” He clicked his heels together, bowed and held his hand out to Havah, speaking Russian with a slight accent. Then he pointed to the shorter man beside him. “But it’s only fair to warn you that picking up after two cranky old bachelors may be a difficult task.”

“Dr. Derevenko?” She bit her lip. “You live here?”

Without the slightest hint of a smile, he bowed. “Mademoiselle Cohen, a pleasure to see you’re feeling better.” He indicated a doorway to his left. “My surgery and apartment are through those double doors. I do my own cleaning, thank you. Unless you need medical attention, stay out. Doh Svedanya. Good day.”

The doors shut behind him and Havah whispered to Itzak in Yiddish. “I don’t like that man.”

“Give him time, Fraulein Cohen,” said Professor Dietrich. “Once you get to know him you’ll find Kolyah to be every bit as disagreeable as he seems.”

At the sound of Yiddish from the tall German’s lips, she started. Where had she heard that accented voice? His sparkling eyes were the most amazing color. They were bluer than summer skies yet iridescent as rain.

“What do you think Havah?” Itzak whispered. “Can you lower yourself to work in a shack like this?”

The dining room, with its high ceiling, boasted an elaborate chandelier dripping with crystal tear drops. A fringed Indian rug covered only part of the highly polished floorboards. High backed chairs surrounded the oak table.

“It’s like a fairy tale.” She tightened her fingers around a cloth sack filled with food. “I brought my lunch.”

“Fraulein Cohen, we have more than enough—” Professor Dietrich stopped and slapped his forehead. “Ach! What a dumkopf. Kosher. As a matter of fact, my kitchen is Kosher. My cook, Anzya, is also Jewish. I hope you’ll be happy here. Feel free to acclimate yourself.”

“Try not to get lost, Havaleh.” Itzak turned to leave. “I’ll be back for you at four o’clock.”

“When you return, Reb Abromovich, bring your family and your music.” The professor grasped both of Itzak’s hands. His voice sounded lonely and pleading. “I’ll have Anzya make her famous noodle kugel. You brought your fiddle?”

Itzak’s slightly swollen lips spread into a grin. “Is the rabbi Jewish?”

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