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seen as a proper married Jewish woman. I still can’t believe you talked me into attending this shul , Rachel.”
    Rachel stifled a giggle. “What is the harm? Besides, the Blooms have been going to Sherith Israel for ages, right Mrs. Bloom?”
    Mrs. Bloom hesitated before answering. “Yes, but I don’t want to cause arguments in your family,” she said in Yiddish.
    â€œYou cover your hair, Mrs. Bloom,” said Nucia. “Why do you go to a Reform synagogue?”
    Mrs. Bloom brought her hand to her head and smoothed her shawl. “Because I like Sherith Israel and Rabbi Nieto. I like being able to choose how I want to be Jewish.”
    They all stopped at a corner where a trolley was turning in front of them.
    â€œUncovering your hair or even eating food that’s not kosher doesn’t make you less Jewish,” said Mr. Bloom. He had begun selling non-kosher as well as kosher food in his store, because of the demand for non-kosher food from his Jewish customers. “It’s what you feel and believe on the inside that counts.”
    â€œThese traditions are the only link we have to Russia,” said Nucia. “By holding onto them, we are keeping our memories alive.”
    â€œYou can still keep your traditions here in America,” said Rachel “Look around!” Rachel pointed at the myriad of people strolling along the sidewalks on both sides of the street. “There are men with beards and others without, boys dressed in their finest who have come from shul, and yet down the street…” Rachel gestured to the side street on their right, where a group of boys, casually dressed, was throwing balls to one another.
    A horse and carriage drove past, carrying a woman in a pretty, ruffled blouse and a flowered hat, secured with a ribbon around her neck. A group of women crossed the street, coming toward them, speaking in Polish. Right behind them were a Chinese man and woman. The man was holding a small child in his arms.
    â€œDon’t you see how different people look from one another here?” Rachel said to Nucia. “You can dress however you like, speak in any language, practice any religion, be who you want to be here in America.”
    Nucia stared at the vibrant scene unfolding in front of her. “I see, but it is difficult for me to accept these differences. Maybe it’s just hard for me to change.”
    â€œIt isn’t easy for any of us,” said Mrs. Bloom, giving Nucia a maternal hug. “Tomorrow we’ll have you over for supper and I’ll cook some of your favorite foods from home, yes? A herring salad with beets, chicken soup, and gefilte fish.”
    â€œI will help you cook,” said Nucia.
    â€œI will help you eat,” said Menahem.
    They all laughed, Mr. Bloom loudest of all. Rachel wondered why he and Mrs. Bloom had no children. Since arriving, the Blooms had become their closest friends, adoptive parents almost, because of their age and years of experience living in San Francisco. Rachel had asked Mrs. Bloom’s advice about choosing a synagogue and Jacob had sought Mr. Bloom’s opinion about starting his own business. The Blooms lived in a large flat above their shop, and often gave leftover meat and fish from their store to Nucia. Their Saturday evening meals together had become a tradition that Rachel looked forward to every week. Tonight, being the Sabbath, they could not cook, and their evening meal would be bread and cold vegetables. Rachel, resigned to a cold, tasteless meal tonight, began counting the hours until the end of shabes .
    âš“ ⚓ ⚓
    â€œI want to change my name,” Menahem announced in English the next evening during their supper with the Blooms.
    Nucia, who’d been eating soup, sputtered. Her face turned red as she choked on the broth.
    Jacob patted her back until she stopped.
    â€œAre you all right?” asked Mrs. Bloom. She stood at the stove,