O'Brien's Desk. Ona Russell

       Celebrating a break in the oppressive humidity that lasted nearly the whole month of July, Sarah had decided to walk rather than take the streetcar home. The courthouse gradually disappeared as she strolled past Adams, Monroe and Madison to Summit, where she had an unobstructed view of the Maumee, the deep ribbon of water that wound its way through the industrialized southeast section of Toledo and emptied gracefully into vast Lake Erie. Framing the city skyline— a cluster of domes and uneven box-like structures—the Maumee served as the harbor of Toledo and a major port of the Midwest. In recent years several new draw bridges had been constructed over it, including the steel and concrete Cherry Street Bridge with a lift span to accommodate large ships. As in much of the country, these were booming years in Toledo, and the Maumee, though only navigable for about twelve miles from its mouth on lake Erie, contributed greatly to the city’s economic prosperity.

      When Sarah looked out and observed the relentless flow northward, she felt a sense of continuity, a belonging to something larger than herself. Gazing out at the water’s soft swells she was temporarily transported in time and space. At moments like this, the inner workings of the city, the quest for money, and particularly the corruption that accompanied it faded from view, and she could almost imagine turning around to find the buildings replaced with the lush primeval marshland upon which they were originally built.

      She sighed. But, of course, the river had its dark side, too. Flooding had repeatedly occurred during spring thaws, steamers had broken away from their moorings while docked on its shores, and people in despair had used it as their last resort.

      Sarah continued walking, past her beloved Madison bookstore with the scandalous new work by F. Scott Fitzgerald in the window, past Steton’s Shoe Shop, past the full stock of Victrolas on display in Grinnell’s. A Citizen’s Ice truck, parked in the street for a delivery and lilting like the Tower of Pisa, halted the elegant glide of a jet black Paige Fairfield “Six-46” and momentarily blocked her own path. After maneuvering around it, she picked up speed. The exercise and fresh air had sparked her appetite for the home-cooked meal she knew would be awaiting her. A relaxing dinner and perhaps a game of cards with her brother and sister with whom she shared a small house on Fulton Street was just what she needed after a long week in court.

      First she would light the Sabbath candles, since the sun had already begun to set. Sarah partook in this weekly ritual not because she was devout, but rather to honor her parents who had long ago passed away. God, she felt, was subject to interpretation, Judaism no more or less correct than any other religion. But, as German-Jewish immigrants, her parents had experienced episodes of vicious antisemitism, and Sarah felt that if she abandoned her traditions entirely, their suffering would have been in vain. Besides, the history of her people served as a continual cautionary tale. As someone born a Jew, she could never become complacent. Although she had found a level of acceptance in Toledo, many in the city were vehemently antisemitic. As others had done in the past, they would seize any opportunity to blame the Jews for the ills of the world.

      As head of the Women’s Probate Court and now probation officer of the Juvenile Court as well, Sarah had followed the lead of other Jews at the time, who, while discouraged from serving in medicine, law, and other professions, were welcomed and often rose to power in local government. For a woman of her background, she had accomplished a great deal, certainly much more than either of her siblings. Her older brother, Harry, was at one time department manager of Lamson Brothers, a retailer of dry goods, clothes, and millinery, but he lost his job several years ago due to illness. Her younger sister, Tillie, never held a job. Lacking Sarah’s ambition and burdened with a slight limp from a bout with polio, she was designated the family’s domestic, a role with which she was content.

      The three appeared to live a rather odd life; none had married, and all were in their forties. But in the main, they functioned as normally as any other family, perhaps even more so because despite variances in personality and intelligence, they enjoyed each other’s company immensely. To be sure, they had their conflicts. Harry and Tillie demanded a great deal both financially and emotionally from their sister, and at times Sarah tired of the responsibility, at times she resented her siblings’ dependence on her. She always hoped, in fact, that she would one day have a different kind of life, one that would involve a husband and perhaps children of her own. But as the years passed, the suitors who were once plentiful became scarce. Many had been put off by her commitment to her work, especially when she told them that if she ever were to marry, she would want to keep her job. Others found her political activism—her support of suffrage, membership in the NAACP and the like—unfeminine, and still others, even those who considered themselves open-minded, saw her religion as a stumbling block to the development of a long-term relationship. Yet it really wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because none of her gentlemen callers had been what she sought either. To be more exact, none had quite matched the fantasy that she had secretly held since the time she had met O’Brien O’Donnell. And when word eventually got around that Miss Sarah Kaufman was too hard to please, they simply stopped trying.