With Surale on her other side, Batya’s eyes followed the text of the book while her mother murmured the words so as not to disturb the others or, God forbid, allow her voice to reach the men and distract them.

“He who blessed Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah, may He bless every daughter of Israel,” her mother whispered, then went on to embellish a prayer. “We wish to celebrate Your holy day, but we are unable to. We wish to adorn ourselves for You, but we cannot. May You accept our memories of our past celebrations of Your holy Shabbat instead of our failure to light the candles tonight. Please forgive me and my daughters at my side and my husband out there, and cast upon us Your protection and lead us to a safe haven. Amen.”

When the men’s service concluded, Batya grasped her mother’s elbow to usher her out first, before the more respectable women could look down upon them.

Batya’s father emerged from the synagogue a few moments later, his face beaming. “God is with us. We are honored to have been invited to the Shabbat table of a generous cobbler.” He nodded his head toward the synagogue. “We can sleep in there tonight.”

“Since when is it an honor to dine at a cobbler’s table?” Batya’s mother waved her hand in dismissal, and Batya understood that her mother was hanging on to her last thread of dignity. They were the poorest among the poor, yet the status of a dairyman like her father, who filled people’s stomachs with healthful delicacies, was higher than that of a cobbler who dealt with people’s dirty feet and repaired foul-smelling shoes.

“Who are we to complain?” Batya’s father told his wife. “On the other hand, Zelda, He’s God, so He can take a lot more than your complaints.”

“You hear this, Batya? A philosopher I married.”

Batya sensed the tenderness in their bickering. But she couldn’t help feeling shame. In just a few days, her family had turned into beggars who now waited in vain for the charity of the Benevolent Society and who must be grateful for any crumb of kindness they were shown.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Reb Moskowitz being guided toward the street by a man wearing a good hat. Before she had dared address him directly and thank him for his generosity, he was gone. “May God give you ten times your fortune and a hundred times your happiness,” she mumbled a blessing for him, hoping her gratefulness somehow reached its destination.

Chapter Four

The wife of the cobbler clapped her hands at Batya’s family’s arrival. “Oy vey iz mir,” woe is me, she chanted her ambivalent welcome. Her face sour, she moved from the narrow door to allow her husband to enter. “What do we have here?”

Batya wished her parents would turn and leave.