Ripped Away by Shirley Reva Vernick

Author:Shirley Reva Vernick
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2022-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

10

After I wipe down the insides of the meeting-room windows, Mrs. Diemschutz has me slicing onions in the kitchen while she kneads a ball of dough. Tonight there’s going to be music and a lecture about fair wages. They’re expecting a crowd, and the crowd will be expecting refreshments.

“Is this enough?” I ask.

“Do a couple more. This will be supper for half of them.” She starts mashing a pot of boiled potatoes, adding salt and heaping spoonsful of schmaltz—chicken fat. After a while, she dips a fork into the pot and takes a taste. “You can add the onions now.”

I dump the bowl of onions into the pot, and she stirs them in, along with more schmaltz, some spices, and two eggs.

“Good. Now to roll out the dough.” She sprinkles flour on the table, then she takes out her rolling pin and molds the dough into a long sheet. “All right, now spoon the potato filling on top.”

“Do you always make this much food?” I ask as I work.

“Yes and no.” She folds the dough over the filling, then crimps the seams shut. “We always offer refreshments, but the truth is, I’m worried folks might be afraid to come here after that terrible business in the yard, so I’m sweetening the pot a bit.”

“Well, they say the Ripper never strikes the same place twice, so that makes the club about the safest spot in town.”

“I suppose. I’m just not sure people look at it that way.” She steps back to take in her work. “I’d say this is ready for the oven.”

I nod. “What’s next?”

“The cakes.” She tightens her apron strings. “But that’s a snap. Why don’t you call it a day. Carry these glasses into the meeting room on your way out, would you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I pick up the tray of glasses and head into the main room, my mind far away. Well, not so very far away—just a couple of blocks away, to Mitzy. Still, far enough that I don’t notice the other person at first.

Duvid Kraskov. He’s sitting alone on the last bench, his chin down as if he’s sleeping or praying, I can’t tell which. But why? It’s the middle of the day. He should be at work. Besides, there’s nothing going on at the club until later tonight.

“Mr. Kraskov?” I venture.

He glances up, clearly surprised to see me. “What happened to you?” he grunts in Yiddish.

“I, uh, got caught at Mitre Square.” I run one finger along the tray. “Is everything all right?”

“Am I not allowed to sit here?” he accuses.

“No, no. I mean, yes. But usually you’re at work, aren’t you?”

“Work is fercockt—screwy—today. So I’m taking it off.”

Mrs. Diemschutz walks in carrying a tray of spoons and forks. She stops short when she sees the newcomer. “Oh, good afternoon,” she says in English. “Are you here for the lecture? It’s not until seven o’clock, I’m afraid.”

“I think he just wants to see the place,” I offer. “He’s starting English lessons here next week.”

“I see.” She switches to Yiddish now.

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