D

uring the first few days, there hadn’t been much to keep Majorie busy: Mrs. L. spent most of her time in bed, reading, crocheting, praying from a book with tiny Hebrew letters, or sleeping lightly, leaving Marjorie without much to do until the children came home. After clearing up the kitchen and cooking something for dinner, she would spend a desultory hour or two doing her college work.

Marjorie had chosen to major in music, partially because she loved singing, and partially to annoy her parents, who’d hoped she’d major in English and “settle down” (horrible words!) to work in the family’s publishing company. But the major had been a disappointment: too much about music history and ed courses for potential music teachers and not enough — actually, nothing at all — about the emerging styles of rock and folk music that so captivated her.

So she was almost relieved when Perele Schwartz explained to her one morning when she was visiting the hotel that the family needed her to spend some time preparing for the upcoming Passover holiday.

“I went to a Passover Seder once or twice,” Marjorie told her, with rising interest. The Burtons had gone a few times to family friends for Passover. It had been an interesting experience, with lots of talk about slavery and the growing civil rights movement in the South, and their host declaring that some preacher named Martin Luther King was the new Moses.

Mostly, though, the Seder had been about fabulous food, and Marjorie, bored by the mac and cheese and hot dogs that the Levine kids seemed to thrive on, was excited to think about preparing Beef Wellington and scalloped potatoes and pears in wine.

“Oh, Mrs. S., I’m so excited to cook a really beautiful meal for the Seder!” she said eagerly.

“I’m sure the family will appreciate your cooking skills, Marjorie, but that comes later. What we’re talking about now is Pesach cleaning.”

“Huh?”

Hardly noticing her perplexed look, Perele continued. “Dr. Levine told me that Mutty will be too busy studying for his medical school tests, and he won’t be available to help, but Artie and Rabbi Freed will go in to do the heavy work. The family has cleaning help, and Dr. Levine will arrange for her to give some more hours, on the days you have to be in college. Your first job will be to check the children’s toys and closets. And Marjorie,” she continued, “don’t forget to go through the children’s pockets. You’re sure to find chometz there.”

“Chometz?”

Perele gave a quick sigh. “Marjorie, darling, on Pesach, we’re not allowed to own chometz. That’s basically anything made with flour, so we’re talking about cleaning the house from all food. Everywhere. Refrigerators, kitchen shelves, all the drawers. And you won’t believe what you will find in the children’s pockets.”

“Their pockets?” Marjorie repeated, wondering if she’d heard correctly.

“That’s right. Even crumbs from bread or cake. Everything goes.”

Marjorie couldn’t help it. Raising an unbelieving eyebrow, she blurted out, “But that’s so… so silly. I mean, does G-d really care about crumbs?”

Another small sigh. “Darling, yes, He does. But that’s a long conversation, I’ve got lunch to get ready, and I’m no teacher. You’d best speak to Rabbi Freed. He’s a real talmid chacham.”

“What’s that?”

“A Torah scholar. And he’s been a teacher. He can explain a lot better than I can.”

There was none of Marjorie’s usual chatter as she helped Mrs. Schwartz cut vegetables for the soup. She was too busy mulling over the Levines’ strange religion called Judaism.

A

fter finishing her breakfast (two cups of coffee and a Hershey bar; what could be better?), Marjorie walked upstairs to see what Mrs. L. would like to eat.

Annie was lying in her bed, propped up by pillows. Looking at her face, drawn and pale against the blue headscarf wrapped around her head, Marjorie couldn’t help but wonder: Was this the same woman who’d yelled at her when she’d made that dumb mistake with the margarine? That woman, well-dressed and pretty, had seemed confident in her anger, strong in her convictions, and so critical and mean, a real dragon. Very different from this white-faced invalid.

Since Marjorie had joined the Levine household, Annie had been polite to her, making sure to thank her every evening when she’d put the children to bed. Maybe it’s time to be a little nice to her, Marge, cheer her up a bit.

“Good morning!” she said brightly. And she broke into Artie’s song: “Boker tov, boker tov/ Wake up, wake up/ It’s almost eight!” She giggled. “Well, actually, it’s after nine o’clock, Mrs. L.”

Annie’s face gave a thin smile. “It’s so nice, Marjorie, how you… how you and the children….”

And suddenly she was crying silently, tears washing down her face, a waterfall of pain. “Um, Mrs. L., what’s the matter? Can I get you something?” Marjorie’s voice was uncertain, with just an  edge of panic. Criticism, anger — that she could deal with. But a grown woman’s tears?

“Um… is something hurting you?”

Annie breathed deeply. “No, it’s just… just…” Again, those salty rivulets ran down her cheeks.

What should I do? Marjorie thought. Go down to the phone and call Dr. Levine? Bring up some coffee?

Suddenly, blessedly, the sound of the doorbell broke the awkward silence. “I’ll just go see who it is,” Marjorie said, dashing out of the room.

She opened the door, and to her vast relief, found Perele Schwartz standing before her.

“Hi, Marjorie, I’ve come to visit—”

Marjorie broke in. “Please, Mrs. S., come quick!”

“What’s the matter, darling?”

“It’s Mrs. L. She—”

Perele didn’t wait for her to finish. She raced up the stairs, with Marjorie right behind her.

Annie was lying still, hardly making a sound, tears still pouring out of her eyes.

Without a word, Perele leaned down toward the bed. As Marjorie watched, Perele pulled Annie toward her in a tight hug, patting her back and whispering to her. The hugs, whispers, and loving caresses worked their magic, and within minutes the weeping had stopped. Perele took out an embroidered handkerchief and gently wiped Annie’s face.

“I’m so sorry,” Annie said.

“Nothing to be sorry about, Annie.” She turned to Marjorie, still standing quietly in the room. “Marjorie, please go down and make Mrs. Levine a good cup of tea, with lots of sugar.”  Reluctantly — after all, this was a real drama, not like the soap operas Mother liked to watch — Marjorie left for the kitchen.

When she came up the stairs, she could hear the two women talking earnestly. She was about to enter the room with the tea, when she heard her name.

“…and Marjorie is so good with them, and I shouldn’t complain, but Perele, I miss my kids. My life.”

“Of course you do, darling.”

“I never realized it, but I think a mother needs her children, even more than they need her.”

The tea was getting cold, but Marjorie stood outside the door, caught up in the quiet conversation, afraid to walk in and break the spell.

“And then there’s this baby. I love this baby so much, Perele, and I’m so afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“You know, when I was expecting Mutty, my husband was overseas, in combat. I used to be so scared that he would grow up without a father. But now….”

“Now?”

The tears seemed ready to pour out once again. “I’m afraid this baby will not have a mother.”

A gasp. “Darling, what do you mean? Does the doctor—”

“No, Dr. Samuels says I’ll be fine, if I keep in bed for another few weeks. It’s just… I’m not dying, chas v’shalom, but Perele, am I too old to give this baby what he needs?” Her voice became lower, and Marjorie strained to hear.

Annie closed her eyes, in a mixture of weariness and deep concentration. “And Perele, sometimes… sometimes I even….”

If I don’t go in now, the tea will be stone-cold, and I’ll be in trouble. “Here I am.” Marjorie sailed in, keeping her voice determinedly light and putting the cup on the night table.

The moment was lost; Annie lapsed into silence.

When Perele spoke, her voice grew just a little louder, as authority replaced comfort. “Now, Annie dear, you know it’s just your nerves talking. Your husband came home from war and is a fine father. And you will make a wonderful mother, and you are never too old, certainly not to love. Everything will be just fine.”

Annie took a sip, then another. She pulled herself up in bed, ran a hand over her red-rimmed eyes, and gave a smile that was authentic. “Okay, ladies, enough self-pity.” She put a hand in Perele’s. “So tell me, what’s new in the hotel?”

T

hey were chatting quietly, Annie’s hand still clasped in Perele’s, when there was a knock on the door.

“Hi, Mama!” came Artie’s cheery voice, as he walked in. “We’re the cleanup crew, come for some Pesach scrubbing!”

“Hope we’re not interrupting,” Moe said, walking in behind his nephew. He turned to Perele. “Mrs. Schwartz, my father asked if you could come back to the hotel. A well-known chassidic rebbe from Eretz Yisrael has come — he says the Freed Hotel is the most kosher place in New York! — and he’s got a whole entourage with him. Lots of cooking to do. He suggested that Miss Burton come and help you out, so Artie and I figured we’d start the heavy cleaning and keep an eye on my sister.”

Annie gave Perele’s hand a soft squeeze. “Thank you so much… for everything.” She turned to Moe. “Go and scrub to your heart’s content. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, darling,” Perele said, as she and Marjorie walked out of the bedroom, “I know you will.”

They weren’t much of a gang, these three 14- and 15-year-olds from “the projects,” the low-income housing developments that were beginning to dot Coney Island’s streets. But Sammy, Louie, and Jake knew what they wanted — some cash to throw around in the pool hall — and they knew how to get it.

All they needed were two ladies from the Jew hotel: the perfect target.

One block away, Perele and Marjorie walked toward the Freed Hotel.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 857)