So at noon the next day I walked down Delancey Street, my arm through Jacob’s. Delancey on a Sunday was bustling with life—street peddlers, musicians, the shrieks of children playing tag, and at the far end of the street, the tower of the new East River Bridge reached steely arms out across the river to Brooklyn. Cables were strung across to the far side of the river, but as yet there was no roadway beneath them, so that they looked like the beginnings of a giant spider web in the morning sun.
“This street is busy enough now,” Jacob said. “I don’t know what will happen when traffic from Williamsburg comes streaming across. The city is already jam-packed with people. We should lock the gates and keep the rest out!”
I looked at him and saw that he was joking. I was glad that he was relaxed and enjoying himself. I was distinctly nervous. Being taken home to meet the family was something I was unsure about.
“They do know I’m coming, don’t they?”
“Not exactly, but don’t worry. They’ll be delighted to meet you.”
“I’m not at all sure that they will be thrilled to meet an Irish Catholic girl who goes about unchaperoned in the company of a young man.”
“They like to meet new people. My mother doesn’t get out much. She is still unsure of herself in a new country. It will be good for her, also good for them to see that their son is happy and meeting nice girls.”
“Meeting nice girls by himself,” I reminded him. “Without a proper introduction through the matchmaker.”
“We’re in America. They’ll have to accept that,” he said. “Come on. It will be fine. My mother is a good cook.”
He led me into a solid brick building and up four flights of stairs to the front door of the Singer household. The door was opened by a small, shrunken man who started in surprise or horror when he saw me standing beside Jacob.
“Hello, Papa. I’ve brought a friend with me,” he said. “This is Miss Murphy. Molly, this is my father, Itzik Singer.”
Jacob’s father clicked his heels together with the same little bow that I remembered when first meeting Jacob.
“How do you do? I’m pleased to meet you.” For once I stammered out the words.
“Come in, please.”
He ushered me inside graciously enough. The room was spartan with no curtains at the windows, a rug covering part of a bare wood floor, a simple table, and several chairs. But the table was laid with a white cloth and some good cutlery. Jacob’s father called out something in Yiddish and a woman came scurrying through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron as she came. She looked older than she probably was, with a wrinkled, worried face. I can’t tell you what color her hair was because it was hidden under a scarf, tied tightly around her head. She stopped, gazing at me with mouth open. Again I couldn’t tell if the look was surprise or horror.
“Hello, Mama.” Jacob crossed the room to give her a kiss on her cheek. “I’ve brought a friend to join us for a meal.” A rapid conversation in Yiddish followed and I saw her give me a quick glance. Then she managed a smile.
“Please,” she said, pointing at the best chair. “I sorry. Not speaking good English yet.”
“Can I give you any help in the kitchen?” I asked.
“No thanks, better not,” Jacob answered for her. “Just sit and enjoy yourself. Is there any more of that wine I brought you, Papa?”
“Wine? Now? Before we eat? Okay. I get wine.”
He brought out a wine bottle and glasses on a silver tray.
“What a beautiful tray.”
“We bring—from old country. Many things—must leave behind.”
“My parents haven’t been here long,” Jacob said.
“My son—he send us money for boat,” Mr. Singer said proudly. “My wife—she very shy. Not learn English yet. Please excuse.”
“Nothing to excuse,” I said. “I’ll just have to try and learn Yiddish.”
Another look of astonishment then he burst out laughing. “Learn Yiddish, she say! That’s good.”
Jacob’s mother appeared again at the sound of the laughter and my statement was obviously repeated to her. She didn’t laugh. Any girl wanting to learn Yiddish must obviously have designs on her son—that’s what the expression said.
“Sit down, Mama. Drink wine with us,” Jacob said.
His mother hesitated then perched on the edge of the nearest chair. She took the glass he offered her.
“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass. “How do you say ‘cheers’?”
“L’chaim,” Jacob said, then nodded in approval over my pronunciation of the word. I took a sip. The wine was red and very sweet, but not unpleasant. “It’s good,” I said.
Jacob’s mother fired another question at him.
“She wants to know where you are from,” he said. “I told her Ireland.”
Her look indicated that Ireland was only one step away from the moon.
She said something else, making Jacob smile. “She asks if there are Jews in Ireland.”
“There are, but I’m not one of them,” I answered, and this was relayed to Jacob’s mother. I thought as much, the look said.