I hear you are quite an adept seamstress…”
Leora Baum nodded, staring at the steaming tea and the small plate of cookies she had baked, as was customary for arranged meetings with potential grooms. Almost every week now seemed to bring a new proposal by the matchmaker. It seemed there was an endless supply of eligible young men in Kryshenshok, despite the fact that the town was a mere speck in the Kingdom of Poland. They were all the same: acclaimed as the greatest Torah scholars, whose families were dying for them to marry the daughter of the late head of the yeshiva. But they were all the same: awkward, shy, asking her stilted questions about what business she planned to run after the first year of marriage, how many kids she wished to have, and how she planned to manage the household.
“Yes, I sell my textiles at the weekly market. Baruch Hashem, thank God, business has been good.”
She should consider herself fortunate, she knew. At twenty-three years old, she was already a gray braid, an old bride. It was only because of her late father’s status that she was still desirable at all. But the arranged meetings were becoming repetitive and exhausting; it was becoming more and more difficult to imagine that they would ever end in a marriage.
“Well, you know what they say: ‘Love is good, but it’s good with bread,’” the young man quipped as Leora forced a smile onto her face.
Her father. Sixteen years and sixty-seven days had passed since her father had gone to the...
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