The Fruit of Her Hands
The Story of Shira of Ashkenaz
One
Childhood is a garland of roses.
-- the Talmud
One of my first complete memories, when I was about three or four, was sitting nestled on my father's lap in the classroom, answering questions just like the young boys in the Falaise seminary that was my home. A thrill swept through me as my father proclaimed, "My little songbird has given us the correct response! Do you see why her answer is right, boys? She is equal to any one of you!"
I looked at him, delighting in the proud glow on his thin face. But, peering shyly at the boys in the classroom for approval, I saw dour expressions instead. They muttered to one another, a whisper of complaint that made me clutch my father's arm, alarmed and confused.
Perhaps I combine two early memories into one, but it seems I looked away from the aggrieved students to the long, narrow windows of the yeshiva, where several of the neighborhood wives peered in. They clucked their tongues dolefully, shaking their heads at this girl seated where she should not be, studying with boys. Their disapproval made me ... read full excerpt from: The Fruit of Her Hands: The Story of Shira of Ashkenaz ebook
