The secretary blinked. “Indeed it is. Please, go on.”
“I decided to begin not with the recipes themselves, but with the basic techniques and principles underlying them. The fundamentals, as it were.”
The secretary’s eyebrows were creeping ever higher. “Such as?”
“Yeasted breads, for instance. It wasn’t enough merely to say that a dough must rise for a certain length of time, and then be punched down before it’s kneaded again. How does it rise? Why must it be punched down?” Mrs. Levy had been sitting rather stiffly; now she grew more animated, her hands rising to describe the shape of a loaf, the folding of the dough. “Once I explained the role of the yeast, they were much more likely to notice if the yeast refused to proof correctly. Since then, in fact, our wastage due to poor rising has been nearly eliminated.” She smiled, in modest pride.
“Very commendable.” There was something odd about the woman—she didn’t blink often enough, perhaps, and the precision of her language clashed almost comically with her accent. Still, she was growing more intriguing by the minute. “May I ask, though—why apply to our program if you’ve had such success at this bakery? It sounds as though you have a natural talent for it. You might even open a bakery of your own someday.” This would be a more appropriate course for her, surely? The Domestic Sciences program had its share of young Jewesses, but these were mainly the daughters of lawyers and businessmen, not girls from the tenements. It was all well and good that Mrs. Levy wanted to better herself—but far kinder, certainly, to dissuade her as gently as possible.
A troubled look had crossed Mrs. Levy’s face. She seemed to gather herself, a marshaling of resolve. “May I speak frankly?” she said.
“Of course,” the secretary said, a touch wary.
“You ask, quite rightly, why I would apply to Teachers College when I’ve found success as a baker. But it’s exactly that success that compelled me to find your program. Here—I will tell you a story. When I arrived in this country, I was alone, and young, and rather frightened. But worse than that, I had no purpose. Then, one day, a friend gave me a copy of The Boston Cooking-School Cook Book.”
The secretary nodded in approval. “A staple in my own household.”
“Then you’ll understand how reassured I was by Mrs. Farmer’s work. It was as though each recipe was saying to me, Put everything else aside for the moment. Do just this one thing. Measure this ingredient. And now take the next step, and the next. And with each step I moved forward. It seems like the smallest accomplishment now, but nothing will ever compare to the moment I took my first coffee-cake from the oven. It was a simple thing, but it gave me such confidence. And now I want to help others find that for themselves. So I promise you, if I’m allowed this chance, I won’t squander it. I will give it my all.”
The secretary was unexpectedly moved by this speech. She blew her nose with a bit more force than before. “Well, my dear,” she said, “you clearly have the motivation. But have you given any thought to securing the means? There are scholarships, of course, but—”
“There’s no need,” Mrs. Levy said. “I can pay the tuition myself.”
The secretary stared at her. “The entire tuition?”
“In advance, if necessary,” the woman said. “I have a nest-egg set aside.”
The secretary coughed. “Goodness. I applaud your frugality, Mrs. Levy. And yes, I expect that an entrance exam for you might be arranged.”
The woman’s eyes brightened. “And if I pass, can I enroll in time for the winter session?”
“One step at a time, dear.” She pulled a form from a drawer labeled Application for Exemption, wrote at the top Levy, Chava, and skimmed down the page to Extenuating Circumstances. “Mrs. Levy,” she said, her voice carefully neutral, “would you say that you were forced to leave your country for political reasons?”
The woman hesitated, an uncertain look in her eye.
Just say yes, the secretary thought.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Levy.
The woman nodded, and wrote, The candidate has escaped persecution in Europe and endured a young widowhood, appears to have considerable natural aptitude, and seems in all ways a credit to her race.
Part II
1911–1914
9.
March 20, 1911
Victoria Hotel, Damascus
Dear Father, Mother, and George:
I write to you from my usual rooms at the Victoria, having returned from Cairo only yesterday. With any luck, my letter from Egypt will have reached you by now. Father, you asked whether I will think Syria to be more plain and provincial after such majesties. It’s true that there are fewer wonders here—but I can’t bring myself to regret it. To return to Damascus from the Nile felt—
Sophia paused. She’d been about to write like coming home.
—instantly soothing in its familiarity. If it’s possible to overindulge in grandeur, so that one’s mind aches from overstuffing, then that is the condition in which I left Egypt.
I’ve sent a number of packages from Cairo, and hope they’ll arrive without too much delay. George, the cylinder seal is from a market-stall in Beni Suef. The seller swore to me that it’s an original dating to the Fourth Dynasty, but I can assure you it’s only a very good reproduction. Mother, the faience vase struck me as something you might like—I remember a summer gown of yours that was very similar in color. Father, your shipment of National Geographic magazines was waiting for me here at the Post Office, for which I thank you. Also waiting for me was a telegram from Mr. D. G. Hogarth, an Oxford archaeologist whose work I’ve read about. He’s leading the excavation of Carchemish, where King Nebuchadnezzar defeated the Egyptians. I’d
