The bells on the door handle tinkled. Sher had money in her pocket. The old woman turned and something small snapped in Sher, like a twig cracking underfoot, or the snap of a sapling broken in half. She hit the streets hoping she would not have to run. They had to keep the last bit of the money. The rain had subsided. She listened for commotion behind her, the woman yelling down the street after her. Sirens. Men giving chase. There was nothing but the buzz of the city. After a block, Sher glanced over her shoulder.
The woman sat inside her store listening to polkas, chomping pickles, and mulling over her daughter’s recent engagement to a man not only not Polish but also not a Catholic—a blonde German Lutheran, of all things. After all they did to the Polish people— it was terrible, terrib
