Up From Orchard Street Read Online Free Page A

had a crush on Manya, despite his marriage and his three children. He would have abandoned his waterlogged silks and charred remnants and rattled down the steps for one real kiss from Manya.
    My grandmother tried to impose logic on her son’s fantasy about the shawl. During business hours, they spread white cloths on the large mahogany table that she had bought on Clinton Street with her first earnings and on the folding tables that they put away after dinner. What need would they have in the evening for a luxury item?
    Jack asserted that the shawl was necessary for their souls.
    My father never explained his need for things of beauty, and although his mother realized that the shawl represented art as much as a painting, a vase or the candlesticks she had brought from Odessa, she faced the reality of her limited means. She indulged Jack in every way possible, but an item that cost three weeks of work in her kitchen— well, for once she would deny what she regarded as a temporary fancy. She had not, however, counted on the strength of his desire. Every morning when he brushed his teeth at the kitchen sink and late at night when he piled on two or three sweaters for sleeping, he asked, “Are you getting the silk shawl or not?”
    Business in her restaurant came to a virtual halt on Saturday. The merchants were busy with uptown bargain seekers and stayed in their stores; they didn’t take time out to eat until they closed their shops and went home. The Orthodox wouldn’t handle money on Saturday and always ate with their families. Many of the neighbors criticized Manya for cooking on Saturday morning and serving an occasional customer a snack. She ignored this. She clung to her notion of acceptable behavior as she had done in the years when she worked in Greenspan’s bakery on Saturdays. If men opened their stores on Saturday, why couldn’t she do the same with her restaurant? Still business merely trickled in and Manya regarded Saturday as her day off.
    So it came to pass that one warm Saturday morning, Manya took a thorough wash at the kitchen sink, donned the brassiere that she wore for special occasions, and pulled on her corset from the Orchard Corset Discount Center. Of her two good dresses, she selected the watery blue silk as the best for a stroll down Orchard Street. She took special care with her long white hair, braiding the strands in the front and piling them to the top of her head to form a tiara. With a tiny dusting of Coty’s face powder, she sallied forth in her patent leather pumps to Orloff’s House of Silks.
    My father loped after her. As soon as she ascended the flight of stairs to Orloff’s store he planted himself across the street, shading his eyes against the spring sun and squinting to make out the images through Orloff’s windows.
    At the sight of Manya—unannounced and unexpected—Orloff’s bald head glistened with sweaty excitement and his beady eyes darted. “Manya, Manya, mine libbe,” he cried dramatically and lunged for her lips. She sidestepped; the kiss landed on her jaw. Too polite, she did not wipe off the spot.
    “Hand to God,” Orloff sighed, “the Czarina was never as beautiful as you.”
    “Orloff, you’re a married man with three children. Don’t act foolish.”
    “For you I would be foolish, crazy, stupid, smart. What do you want?”
    “I want a large silk shawl, a light color, with embroidery and fringes.”
    Orloff took a step backward. His pursed mouth, often smelling of garlic and chicken fat rubbed on pumpernickel bread, fell open. “Manya, you need that shawl for the opera? You’re going to the opera, to the ballet?” He pronounced it “bahlee.”
    “No, it’s not for me to wear. It’s for my table, my dining room table.” As if to forestall any comments about so decorative an item on Orchard Street, she added imperiously, “And I’m getting a Persian rug. You’ll help me with both of them.”
    “And what will you give me if I help you?” He