Soon, the muddy thoroughfare became a cobblestoned street, and low wooden huts were replaced by two-story buildings. The right side of the street even had a paved sidewalk. People were rushing about for Shabbat—to home or, as the rolled towels under their arms attested, to the mikveh, the communal ritual bath. Batya’s eyes took in the many small stores with goods displayed in their windows or still outside their doors. Merchants lugged in barrels of merchandise; some were already boarding up their doors. Everyone, except her family, had a home to go to.

The carriage stopped in front of the synagogue, a square wooden structure with a pitched roof, under which a Jewish star had been nailed. Men wearing black felt hats and yarmulkes came out to greet Reb Moskowitz, who opened the window, leaned out, and waved to them like a king to his subjects below. Then he retrieved an umbrella from under his seat, climbed down from the carriage, and accepted the well-wishers’ extended arms.

He had such a dignified air with that umbrella hooked on to his arm! The congregants surrounded him, clapping and bowing their heads. One man, probably a tailor, fingered the edge of Reb Moskowitz’s suit and nodded in awed approval. Another bent down and wiped the fresh mud off Reb Moskowitz’s lacquered shoes, while another rolled out a rug so the distinguished guest wouldn’t dirty those shoes in the two steps to the door. The congregants babbled profuse words of welcome as they swept him through the narrow doorway.

“They’ve been waiting for him,” Surale said. “Why?”

“This is his home village, where he’ll be introduced to his future bride.” Batya scanned the street to glimpse the line of beautiful girls, but only two mature women were in sight, hurrying along, surely to prepare exquisite tables at their homes for Shabbat. Batya imagined that after the prayers, when the men returned to their families, Reb Moskowitz would be led to the home of the wealthiest man in the village, whose house would have two rooms, maybe even three. The dining table would be covered in white lace, fine china, and polished silver, and a sparkling crystal chandelier would shine down from overhead on the loveliest lucky daughter of the rich man.

Reb Moskowitz’s horses were led away to be brushed and fed. Batya helped her father unhitch the cart from the carriage and tow it onto a dry mound on the windowless side of the synagogue. She hugged Aggie’s neck and wondered where to turn.

Her father raised his head toward heaven. “Master of the Universe, can You explain to me, why does one Jew get to eat a buttered roll and another gets to eat dirt?” Still looking up, he shook his head. “If You want my advice, You can give me a buttered roll once in a while. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”