Chapter Text
December 1927, New York City’s Lower East Side, Kowalski’s Quality Baked Goods
Jacob Kowalski bent his knees, furrowing his brow as he worked, all the better to beat his new batch of sweet ponchik dough. Outside, snow fell slowly and dreamily, like powdered sugar sifting down from a sieve. It was the beginning of December, and the whole city, from the streets to the shops to the grand Penn Station, was all topped with new snow like a coat of fresh white icing. In a week, the horse-drawn carriages and brand new Model Ford trucks would make the snow would turn black and turn to sludge, but for now it was still pristine and pearly.
It was warm in the shop, the fire in the back burning strong and bright like the upcoming Chanukah lights. Chanukah was Jacob’s favorite holiday - so much food, so many pastries! - and now that he had a bakery to run, he had to work overtime in preparation for the holiday.
Sure, there were the hamantaschen for Purim - in varieties of lekvar, poppy, honey, jam and now, chocolate - and the endless Shavuos cheesecakes, but nothing topped Chanukah baking. Chanukah was famous for the Jews’ outstanding military victory, and for their rededication of the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem after it was ransacked by the Romans, but somehow, in between the story of how the Temple’s menorah had used just one small jug of oil to miraculously stay lit for eight whole days, fried, sweet food had become a traditional treat. And since this was the bakery’s first Chanukah, Jacob was pulling all-stops. There would be ponchiks in every variety and in every shape, the weird, wonderful animals he dreamed up included. He’d make latkes - piles and piles of latkes. He’d make apple cakes and babkas and black-and-white cookies and rugelach and candy, who didn’t like candy?
Smiling at the thought, Jacob dusted cocoa powder into his sweet pastry dough and stirred. Chocolate ponchiks. Who had ever imagined chocolate ponchiks? Jacob’s own bubbe had never made such a delicacy. And he’d make them in the shape of these funny rhinoceros he’d once dreamed of. Yes, if nothing could make a person smile, then this would - a chocolate ponchik in the shape of a magical rhino. He chuckled at the thought, and glowed inside at the joy he knew he’d bring anyone who saw it, or better, ate it.
Tap tap tap.
Jacob set down his bowl and looked up. Had he heard someone at the door or was it just his imagination?
Tap tap tap.
He pulled off his gloves, leaving them by the counter and the bowl. Feeling uneasy, he slowly made his way from the kitchen to the the dark front room.
Tap tap tap.
Even through his winter clothes, and the frosted glass pane, Jacob recognized who it was at once. He opened the door and pulled the boy into the warm room. He shut the door behind him; it jingled.
“David Rosenthal,” he said, placing both hands on the boy’s chilled shoulders. “I promise that your mandelbrot haven't yet come out of the oven.” In fact, it was 3 AM. Bright and early for a baker, but too soon for customers.
David shivered, even bundled up as he was in scarves and mittens, a huge winter jacket, and a warm hat. Everyone knew David. He was slight and fair, the youngest son of Rabbi Chaim Rosenthal of the Eldrige Street Synagogue. Eldridge Street Synagogue was one of the largest shuls on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and it was just a short walk from Jacob’s bakery. As the Lower East Side’s up-and-coming baker, Jacob had quickly gotten to know all the main community players, including Rabbi Rosenthal and his family.
David pulled the scarf from his mouth and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kowalski, but it’s urgent. You see,” he said, “my sister’s getting married.”
At that Jacob had to sit down. No wonder David had come in such a rush. “Pull up a chair, David. You’re telling me that Sadie’s getting married?"
David was pulling off his mittens and hat, revealing the black suede kippa underneath. He ran a hand through his curly, pale hair. “Sadie? Sadie’s barely past bat mitzvah. No, it's my older sister, Ida. You know - Chana Leah.”
“Oh, Chana.” Now this made much more sense. The last Jacob had heard, Chana had been studying at Barnard College. “How did I not hear about this?” The boy shrugged, and Jacob decided he just must have been out of the loop. “Well, mazal tov, David! Who’s the lucky guy?”
David’s hazel eyes crinkled. “It’s Samuel Faber, you know, Moshe Faber's son.”
Jacob did know. Moshe was the owner of the sefarim store down the block. Back in Lublin, he had been an orthopedist. How had he not heard the news? “Sam was at Hunter, wasn’t he? Studying math?”
“Yes, he graduated last spring. Now he’s going for smicha.”
“Two rabbis in the family!” On instinct, Jacob got up and pulled out a bottle of red wine from a shelf. He uncorked it, produced two glasses, and offered one to David. “L’chaim.” They drank. As the community baker, he’d quickly learned he had to have a bottle of wine on hand for any eventuality, for news both good and bad, a mazel tov or a baruch dayan haemet. He was a baker; he knew better than anyone else that more than a counselor or a rebbe, sometimes, people just wanted a slice of strudel, or a glass of good wine.
David was mid-way through the glass of wine when he set it back again on the table. “The only problem is, Jacob,” he said, his voice slightly hushed. “they’re getting married in two weeks.”
Jacob set his own drained glass down, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He was feeling as warm and as comfortable as though he'd just slipped into a hot bath. "What's the problem? Sounds like a simcha.”
David scratched his arm uncomfortably. “Well, you see,” he said. “They forgot to order a wedding cake.”
Jacob nodded slowly, but his thoughts spun faster than egg whites whisking into meringue. “So. Are you asking me to bake a cake for your sister’s wedding day?” The boy nodded tentatively. "For how many people?"
"Five hundred. All of my family, plus all of Sam's, and everyone from the community that can come."
Jacob’s face split into a wide grin. “It would be an honor,” he said simply.
“Well, it’s not just that,” the boy continued. “Chana Leah and Sam are getting married on the last night of Chanukah, and they don’t want an ordinary wedding cake. They want a cake made entirely from ponchiks.”
Why did the boy ask him that in the same tone one might ask for Shabbos meal plans 5 PM on a Friday afternoon? Jacob had meant it when he said he was honored. “David, how long have we known each other? We’re neighbors. Two weeks is no problem! If you had asked me the night before, we could have worked this out, too. Any particular flavor she likes?”
The boy pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket and read it over. His eyes narrowed as he considered. “Dad wrote in Yiddish. Raspberry jam, I think.”
Jacob clapped David on the shoulder. “Anything else?”
“That’s all. Nu, thanks.”
After offering him a hot pastry, Jacob walked David out the door. He returned to the kitchen, now in a state of bliss. A wedding cake made from a tower of raspberry jelly donuts, fit to serve each distinguished member of the Faber and Rosenthal families, and all the congregants of Eldridge Street Synagogue, too. It would be topped with powdered sugar, white as snow, and so very wedding-like. And the fact that after less than a year of business that Rabbi Rosenthal would ask him, Jacob, to prepare the dessert for his own daughter’s wedding...well, it was very exciting indeed. He would make the best wedding ponchik cake there had ever been. It would be an occasion for simcha like no other.
What he didn’t know was that he and David hadn’t been quite alone during the conversation. In fact, there was another who had overheard everything. And that person wasn’t quite as pleased as Jacob Kowalski that he had been appointed the baker for Ida Chana Leah Rosenthal’s wedding.