Kreindel sighed. “I suppose we ought to.”
“What if they follow us?” one of the little girls said.
“I’ll come with you,” the boy said at once.
And so the Asylum procession reversed its course, this time with the boy wheeling his bicycle next to Kreindel as they walked. “Thank you,” Kreindel said belatedly, wondering why she felt so tongue-tied. “For helping us.”
“You’re welcome.” A pause. “I’m Toby.”
“I’m Kreindel.”
“I’m Rachel,” Rachel said from Kreindel’s other side.
“Kreindel,” Toby said, surprised by the old-fashioned name. “You’re Jewish?”
“Well, yes,” Kreindel said, a touch warily. “We’re from the A.O.H.”
“What’s that?”
“The Asylum for Orphaned Hebrews. On 136th.”
“Oh. I’ve heard of it,” he said.
“You must not be from around here.”
“Nah, I’m Lower East Side. Born on Chrystie Street.” He paused. “When I was little, there was a boy down the hall from us who disappeared one day. I asked my ma what happened, and she said, ‘He went to the orphanage.’ I bet that was your Asylum.”
“What was his name?”
Toby thought. “Can’t remember.”
“They probably changed it anyway,” Kreindel said, a bitter edge in her voice.
“Is that what happens when you get there? They change your name?”
“If they think it ain’t—it isn’t American enough.”
“Huh.” He wondered if Toby would’ve passed muster.
“I didn’t let them change mine,” Kreindel said.
“I wouldn’t, either,” he said at once.
Was he making fun of her? “Why not?”
“Well, names are important. You can’t just go around changing them.”
“Women do, all the time,” Kreindel pointed out.
He considered it. “But that’s different. That’s for a family.”
“You have to change your name when you marry, it’s the law,” Rachel put in, feeling ignored.
“No, it isn’t,” Kreindel said.
“Sure it is. Everyone does it,” Rachel retorted.
“But that’s custom, not law,” Kreindel said. “There’s a difference. Everyone puts salt on their potatoes, but no one goes around making laws about it.”
Toby grinned.
“What?” Kreindel said, frowning.
“I just like the way you talk. You sound like a rabbi.”
It was a compliment; pleased, she took it as such. “That’s from my father, I guess. He was a rabbi.”
Rachel rolled her eyes heavenward. “And she won’t shut up about it, either.”
“Did you know him?” Toby asked, ignoring Rachel.
Kreindel nodded. “I was eight when he died,” she said, wishing she could tell the truth for once.
“So it was your ma who took you . . .” He wasn’t certain how one spoke of these things.
“No, she died when I was born. I didn’t have anyone else, so I was sent to the Asylum.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” Kreindel said quietly.
On they walked down Amsterdam, the younger girls gathering as close as they dared behind their elders, the better to hear every word. By the Asylum’s standards, this was shaping up to be a legendary incident, something to be talked about for months. Already Kreindel could imagine the tale passing from mouth to mouth: the attack from the alley, the young man riding to their rescue. And she’d be part of the story, too. She could feel it with every moment of attention he paid her, every step they took side by side, separated only by the bicycle.
“It’s nice that you knew your father,” Toby said on impulse, feeling as though he had to level the field between them. “I never met mine. I’ve got my ma’s name, not his.” He trailed off, thinking. Toby Wasserman. Who the hell was that, anyhow? Who would he have been with that man’s name?
“Would you change it?” Kreindel ventured. “If she married someone?”
“No,” he said at once. “I like my name as it is.”
She nodded, pleased by this.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Nearly sixteen,” she said, remembering to lie.
“Oh. I’m fifteen,” he said, stretching the truth.
“Really? You look older.”
“I know. People say that a lot.”
“But you don’t like it?” she guessed.
“Ah, it’s fine. It’s just that everyone expects a bicycle messenger to be a little kid.” He sighed. “I figure I’ll give it another year, tops. Then I’ve got to find something else.”
“Is it fun, being a messenger?” she asked.
“I used to think so. I still do, sometimes. This”—he pointed to his cap—“It’s like a key that gets me through any door in the city. Fifth Avenue, City Hall, wherever. And no one looks at me twice.”
“Huh,” said Kreindel. She tried to imagine what that would be like, to slip through the world unnoticed.
He glanced at her. “What about you? When do they let you leave?”
“When we’re eighteen,” she said, morose. “We’re supposed to learn a trade by then. So we can support ourselves.”
“What’ll yours be?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want a trade at all, not like they mean it. I just want . . .” She trailed off. She’d nearly said, I just want to be a rabbi, like my father. But that was absurd. A woman could no more be a rabbi than a man could be a mother. “I just want to study Hebrew,” she said instead.
“Really?” said Toby. He’d never thought of Hebrew as something a girl might study.
“So she can pray more,” Rachel put in. “She prays all the time, it’s ridiculous.” Rachel’s resentment had been building with every word the two exchanged. They’d paid almost no attention to her hurt cheek—and she’d been the one to notice Toby first, not Kreindel. “She wanted an independent study for Hebrew, but they made her take Culinary Science instead. And I heard she’s awful at it.”
Culinary Science? Toby thought.
“Shut up, Rachel,” Kreindel muttered.
“Well, you are. I bet Miss Levy kicks you out of the class.”
Toby stumbled off the curb. The bicycle bumped into Kreindel, who joggled sideways; he reached out, put a hand on her arm to steady her. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Wasn’t looking.”
“That’s all right,” she said, near to a whisper. Behind them, the girls giggled.
The Asylum crept into view along Amsterdam, looking like the biggest, oldest school Toby’d ever seen, or maybe a penitentiary. He’d thought to leave them at the main gate, but now the younger girls sensed their moment. They clustered
