She left the assignment on the desk and joined the rest of the class at the island just as Miss Levy said, “And now, the finished product. I took the liberty of baking a few in advance, so we’d have enough time to taste them.”
Out of the refrigerator came three perfect pies, one by one. The girls gazed at them in open-mouthed ecstasy. The meringues had been piped in concentric circles atop the filling; they gleamed softly, each dollop of white touched with golden brown at its edges. The girls gathered closer as their teacher cut the pies into even slices, dipping the knife briefly in water between each stroke so that the meringues separated as neatly as clouds. Each girl took a slice of pie and stared in reverence at the gleaming peaks, the sunny yellow filling, the flaking crust. “It’s too pretty to eat,” one whispered.
“Nonsense,” their teacher said with a smile. “It’s meant to be eaten. So, please do.”
They took their first bites, sighing in blissful appreciation—all except for Kreindel, who stared down at her plate. She’d have to say the proper blessing first.
The rest of the room had gone quiet. She looked up at a ring of smirking, expectant faces. They were all waiting for her to say the blessing. To make a spectacle of herself.
Slowly, deliberately, Kreindel pushed the pie away. The plate scraped harshly upon the countertop. For a moment no one said a word. Then, “You dummy,” Sarah Rosen muttered next to her, “it ain’t even treyf.”
Snickers all around. Kreindel felt herself turn hot. Had anyone ever teased her in class before? In the dining hall, yes, they chortled behind their hands—but never in a classroom. Would Miss Levy step in and reprimand her acolytes? But their instructor was silent, her face unreadable.
The bell rang, but no one moved. At last Miss Levy seemed to rouse herself. “Miss Altschul,” she said, “a word, please, before you leave.” And she set to work carrying the dirty dishes and measuring bowls to the sink in the corner.
The others hid their smug smiles as they hung their whites away and filed into the hall. Kreindel waited until they’d all left, not wanting an audience for whatever might happen next. When at last they were alone, she approached her teacher at the sink. “Yes, Miss Levy?”
“I apologize,” the woman said. “I didn’t realize your predicament. In the future, you may be excused into the hallway to say the blessing in private. Would that be suitable?”
No, it wouldn’t, Kreindel thought. To slink off and say a furtive prayer out of others’ sight, as though it were a shameful act—how was that suitable? But then, Miss Levy didn’t have to make the offer at all. By the Asylum’s standards, she was being exceedingly generous.
“I suppose,” she muttered. At least it was better than everyone watching her.
“Thank you, Kreindel,” Miss Levy said. “You’re dismissed.”
Kreindel went to her peg and took off the white jacket and cap and hung them away, resisting the petulant urge to wad them in a ball and throw them into a corner. Hot tears pricked at her eyes—but she wouldn’t let them fall; she wouldn’t. She turned inward, and pictured him there in his alcove, finding her resolve in his strength, his patience. Her constant companion, her beloved Yossele.
A sudden shattering of glass.
She jumped, startled. Miss Levy stood over the sink, head down, bracing herself against the porcelain.
“Miss Levy?” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes! A bowl slipped from my hand. That’s all.” The woman turned and gave her an apologetic smile. “Clumsy of me.”
“Can I help—”
“No! No, don’t risk cutting yourself. I’m going to fetch a pair of rubber gloves. Please, go now. You don’t want to be late.” And with that, Miss Levy strode from the room.
* * *
Sophia . . . Winston.
The desk-clerk at the Hotel Earle had been mulling it over all day long. The woman in 812 had reserved her room under the name Sophia Williams; the Western Union boy had said Williams, too. But the clerk had distinctly heard her say Winston that morning, when she’d called down to say she oughtn’t be disturbed.
Of course, it wasn’t unusual for a guest at the Earle to stay under an assumed name. No one gave a hoot in hell about it, so long as they didn’t cause trouble and paid their bills in full. But the desk-clerk had a sweetheart, Maisie—and Maisie was a nut for the Titanic. She knew everything about the sinking, and even owned a box full of keepsakes: newspapers, sheet music, books of commemorative verse, a cheap lace fan that she said was just like Madeleine Astor’s. But Maisie’s most ardent obsession was reserved for George Winston, the gallant young heir, as the songs had called him. Maisie had discovered that she and George had been born a day apart, which to her suggested a mystical connection of some kind, or even a thwarted romance—never mind that George Winston had sprung from a millionaire’s loins, while Maisie’s father was a steamfitter with the Local 638.
But what the clerk remembered now was something Maisie had told him about George Winston’s sister Sophia, and how she’d vanished years before the sinking. She used to be in the society pages, but then she went overseas and never came back. She ain’t even mentioned in the obituaries. It’s a mystery to this day. He’d snorted at this, sore at Maisie for mooning over a dead boy. Probably ran off with a traveling salesman, he’d said. Some mystery.
Now the clerk turned the register around and squinted again at the woman’s signature. Williams, Winston: it might’ve been either. She’d cabled from Egypt to reserve the room, which certainly counted as overseas. And the high-handed tone she’d used
