As soon as Esther entered the building, she headed to the seventh floor. She stood in the lobby, waiting for the Sabbath elevator to open. She wore all black; a skirt to her ankles, a long-sleeved shirt, a scarf tied around her head. A woman got into the second elevator, there were two, and asked if Esther wanted to get in. She shook her head and pointed, “No, I am waiting for this one.”
The elevator opened and Esther stepped in. It stopped on every floor so she had ample time to reach into her canvas bag with New Yorker written on it in large black letters and find the keys. She got out, turned right, and walked past the small American flag someone had put on the glass ledge across from the elevator bank. She knocked on the door to K703 even though she knew no one was home. That no one lived here anymore. She could smell a faint odor from her body, a sweet onion scent. It was July and humid.
There are many things that Esther is forbidden from doing on Saturdays. She should not press the elevator button. She didn’t. She should not drive. She doesn’t have a car. She should not gather wood. She should not sort, grind, knead, bake, dye or spin wool; she should not warp for the purpose of weaving. She should not separate two threads.
Esther knows she is a “bad Jew,” as her Orthodox mother had often called her, only partly...
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