“Rabbi Chanina’s wife returned, saying, ‘That’s what I went in to get.’” Batya’s mother smiled broadly. “You see, she was telling the truth. Trusting God, she was so accustomed to miracles that she wasn’t surprised that the coals had turned into challahs.” She paused. “We, too, should trust God and welcome Shabbat right here. Batya, find the Shabbat candles and candlesticks.”

Batya’s stomach rumbled. They might not have a miracle challah, but they did have a wheel of yellow cheese wrapped in hay, an unopened jar of pickles, and the remainder of the loaf of bread the innkeeper had handed them that morning. Nevertheless, giving the miracle one more chance, she scanned the street for their expected salvation.

“Why are you standing there like a tree? Let’s light the candles,” her mother said.

Batya dug her arms deep into the pile of belongings, but couldn’t find the candlesticks. Her search turned frantic. She couldn’t unpack the cart and drop their belongings on the dirt, then repack it all when it was already Shabbat. Yet it was inconceivable not to light Shabbat candles. She felt like crying; God would know that her family had transgressed. “What shall we do without them?”

Her mother tightened her shawl around her head and shoulders. “Let’s go inside and do another mitzvah.” Her tone was brave, yet Batya knew she was hiding her sorrow. No Friday evening had ever gone without her performing the decreed lighting of the candles. Her mother added, “God cares more about us remembering His Shabbat than about the poverty of our attire.”

Formal praying in the synagogue was meant for men; women prayed there only in times of great distress. In their daily lives, they uttered the many prayers and blessings at home. Batya said nothing as she and Surale filed into the synagogue behind their mother and headed to the back. The women’s section was tucked behind a lattice partition, protecting the men from the temptation to turn their heads, glimpse the women, and become inflicted with impure thoughts.

Only half a dozen women sat there, peasants like Batya’s family, but clean, their hair freshly wrapped in kerchiefs, their shoes brushed. Two women buried their faces in their hands, mumbling prayers and weeping.

Batya’s mother drew her book of tkhines from her skirt pocket. Batya noticed that none of the women had this special book of women’s prayers, written in Yiddish instead of the holy Hebrew, which, although using the same alphabet from right to left, most women didn’t understand. She felt a flicker of pride. In spite of her mother’s sorry state—not even washed from the dust of travel—she alone among these women knew how to read.