Every woman within range of her lilting Yiddish malediction gasped and gave a mighty head-shake. Then stepping back, they cleared a space in the center of which my mother stood alone.
She turned slowly to face Old Mrs. Mokkeh. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” she pleaded. “He’s only a little boy—not even five years old. Take it back.”
Mrs. Mokkeh spat calmly on the stoop. “May it happen ten times over. Ten and twenty and a hundred times over. May he wither, may he rot. His arms, his legs, his lungs, his belly. May he vomit green gall and no doctor should be able to save him.”
This was battle irrevocably joined. My mother dropped her eyes, estimating the resources of her arsenal. She must have found them painfully slender against such an opponent.
When she raised her eyes again, the women waiting for action leaned forward. My mother was known to be clever and had many well-wishers, but her youth made her a welterweight or at most a lightweight. Mrs. Mokkeh was an experienced heavy, a pro who had trained in the old country under famous champions. If these women had been in the habit of making book, the consensus would have been: even money she lasts one or two rounds; five to three she doesn’t go the distance.
“Your daughter, Pearlie—” my mother began at last.
“Oh, momma, no!” shrieked the girl, suddenly dragged from non-combatant status into the very eye of the fight.
“Shush! Be calm,” her mother commanded. After all, only green campaigners expected a frontal attack. My mother had been hit on her vulnerable flank—me—and was replying in kind. Pearl whimpered and stamped her feet, but her elders ignored this: matters of high professional moment were claiming their attention.