The Moscow Expulsion

“May onions grow from his belly button!”

Fania stood in the doorway. Her hat was wilted, her eyes were wild, her skirts spattered with mud. Loose locks escaped from her chignon, and a tornado of curls swirled around her face.

“Leeches should drink him dry!” She held up a rolled-up newspaper, strangling it with her fist.

“Who?” asked Yankel, stubbing out the cigarette he had been smoking before his wife burst through the door.

“The new governor—he should have been born dead!”

Fania threw the newspaper onto the credenza, where it landed with a thwack. She was beautiful when she was angry, which was a good thing because it happened a lot. Her huge, wide-spaced eyes glowed as if a fire had been lit, her olive skin flushed red-gold. There was something vaguely tropical about her, though she’d never left this cold slice of Russia. Something about the way her nostrils flared, the way her thick dark hair pulled back from her face. The high collar of her blouse set off her long neck, the lace trim on her cuffs caressed her elegant hands, and an intricate cameo pin bounced on her bodice like a medal. A real lady.

“He should lose all his teeth except one,” she bellowed, “and that one should ache!”

Well, maybe not always a lady, but who wants a woman to be a lady all the time?

“What is it mayn shefeleh, my little lamb?” Yankel cooed. “What happened?”

Fania struggled and steamed, pulling at her gloves, tugging at each finger as though she were about to remove it from her hand. Her ring finger got stuck. With a mighty yank,...