The Darkening Dream Read Free

directly into the awkward space hanging between them, switched topic and language.
    “I had a nightmare,” she said in Hebrew. “If God, Hashem, tries to tell you something, wouldn’t He send signs, or dreams?”
    Papa could never resist a theological question.
    “So the Torah tells us, but from a more modern perspective, ‘Every dream will reveal itself as a psychological structure, full of significance.’ ”
    She sighed. Papa had made her read Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams last summer — in German — and she remembered it well enough.
    “But the good doctor also likened a nosebleed to a woman’s monthly cycle.”
    That earned her a smile.
    “You rather the Lord sent an angel to make His point?” Papa said.
    “Would the angel appear as a pretty young boy with wings?” she asked in Greek. She expected points for pairing the word angelos to his Hebrew mal’akh , both connoting messenger.
    “Undoubtedly any angel, even a pretty one, would be smitten by my lovely daughter. However, God, is of Atziluth , of the highest world, and we are anchored in Asiyah the lowest.”
    “Now, what would you say if I stuck Hebrew words in a Greek sentence?”
    “Enough. Mama tells me you’re going riding today,” he said in Latin. “With Anne and Sam?”
    She felt much better. Talking, even so artificially, had returned them to stable footing.
    “The twins and I have a picnic planned.” Sarah settled back into English. “Mama was kind enough to relieve me from laundry duty.” Thank God. She hated chapped hands.
    “You deserve at least a little time with your friends. I monopolize far too much of it.”
    “I don’t mind, I like to study,” Sarah said. Plus she’d eat a wool jacket before letting anyone else get a better grade.
    Papa nodded. “I’m sorry you were unnerved the other night, and I won’t force anything on you, but marriage is a mitzvah .”
    “Can’t we just let events unfold?” she said.
    “I didn’t just pluck any young man off the street, you know. Rabbi Hoffmann and I have been friends for sixteen years and his son is the second brightest young scholar in New England.”
    Sarah made a study of her slippers.

    She entered her mother’s seat of power — the kitchen — wearing taupe riding pants and a ruffled white blouse with a high collar.
    “Sarah, sit down and have some breakfast before you go, and if I thought it was going to make any difference, I’d mention it’s inappropriate to be out in public wearing trousers.”
    Rebecca Engelmann was a plump, pretty woman with soft curves and merry eyes — nothing sharp about her except on occasion her tongue.
    “Mama, everyone goes riding and cycling in pants these days. This is the twentieth century, remember?” Sarah helped herself to a roll and some pickled herring.
    “Well, take a hat at least. Everyone isn’t the only daughter of the Rabbi Josef ben Jacov ben Yitzhak.”
    “He really isn’t a rabbi anymore,” Sarah said. “We can call him Herr Professor Doctor Engelmann instead.”
    “Very amusing,” her mother said. “But watch what you say outside this house. Your father treats you too much like a son, letting you think what you want, say what you want, study the Zohar even. You may be a brilliant scholar, but the effect on your manners is another matter entirely.”
    “It’s pretty obvious why — since he started teaching me after…” Sarah caught the words before they left her mouth, but her mother still flinched.
    “Whatever am I going to do with her?” Mama said. “She has such a tongue on her, learning things no woman has a right to know.”
    “It wasn’t me who took that fruit from the tree,” Sarah said. “I’d have given the serpent a smack on his scaly little tuchus .”
    Her mother tried to hide her smile. “What sort of scholar will want to marry a girl with such a smart mouth? At least when you end up alone, you’ll have your books to entertain you.”
    “Fine with me,” Sarah