“Nu… is Abba coming?” Mrs. Weinberg’s sing-song refrain will frequently drift towards her. “Can you see him?”
Most days, it being far too early, Meir’ke will call back: “Not yet! You don’t have to rush!”
Then Shifra, or Yudit, or Yankel Weinberg, will check on him at intervals, making sure he stays true to his watch. At other times – though it is a rare thing, to be sure – Rabbi Weinberg will be spotted approaching the gate or even (she shudders at the thought) already crossing the courtyard, in which case Meir’ke will shoot inside faster than a runaway cat. “Hurry, Ima! He’s almost here!” Either way, Mrs. Weinberg never fails to appear at her post, holding on to the railing, perfectly neat, calm and collected, and always, but always, with a dash of red on her lips. Her crystal blue eyes will be following Rabbi Weinberg as he climbs up the stairs, a gentle look caressing her face and a spry dimple twinkling when she smiles.
One day, Perele has promised herself, she too will wait for her husband like that. They will face each other like two pigeons on a branch, same as the Weinbergs do every day of the week, and they will speak ten thousand volumes of steadfast friendship without words.
****
A sudden commotion jostles Perele out of her reverie. Shifra Weinberg is flying down the staircase, tackling the steps two at a time, whilst the wail of an ambulance siren shatters the silence. Gesticulating wildly, Shifra directs the medics upstairs. Perele wonders what this all must mean. Her brothers crowd on the landing, staring unabashed. Perele slouches down into herself, pulling a low-lying branch swiftly across her face. She would make herself invisible if she could. They mustn’t see her here – but she needn’t have worried. The unfolding drama is far more compelling than her pomegranate tree. In a matter of seconds the medics reappear, expertly balancing Mrs. Weinberg’s inert figure on a stretcher. Perele gasps.
The medics start positioning the stretcher for entry, when her neighbor raises a hand. “One minute…” she says weakly.
“What is it, Geveret? Don’t exert yourself! Relax!” But Mrs. Weinberg’s arm beckons Shifra.
“What is it, Ima? We’ve sent for Abba… he’ll follow you to Sha’arei Zedek. Don’t worry about anything!”
Mrs. Weinberg shakes her head slowly. Grabbing Shifra’s arm, she mouths one word. “Lipstick.”
****
The school bell emits a thunderous peal, leaving none in the vicinity in doubt as to where they must be headed. A scattering of weary students head back to their classroom where Morah Tzeinwirth is already at her desk, combing the class register. The girl whose turn it is to lead in prayer begins with Mah Tovu, and the class davens Shacharis in unison. Taking three steps backwards Perele hugs her siddur reveling in the knowledge that Someone Up There is always listening. Even Morah’s staccato directives cannot erode the lingering sweetness of the prayer she has managed to convey.
“Yonit!” Morah sounds astounded. Leaning her head to one shoulder she glares at the student, seated two rows up from Perele. Yonit’s hair is in disarray from attempting to redo her braid. Half was still plaited, whilst the lower half stuck out in all directions; absurdly so, like a decorator’s brush after a poorly done paintjob. “What are you doing, girl?” Morah feigns shock. “Leave the classroom, please! Return when you are fit to be seen!”
Yonit slithers away beneath the teacher’s tunneled gaze. The Morah tut-tuts. “Honestly, people get so engrossed in vanity – they forget themselves.” She presses a pencil by its points, between her thumb and forefinger. “You wouldn’t believe what I saw, girls!” Glancing at the pile of papers before her, the Morah falters. “We have a lot of ground to cover today, but this, I have to tell you.” Twiddling the pencil, she collects her thoughts. Someone coughs.