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Updated: June 14, 2025
The Weinbergs, as befitted their station, sat in the third row at the right, and Bella had to turn around to convey her silent messages to Fanny. The evening service was brief, even to the sermon. Rabbi Thalmann and his congregation would need their strength for to-morrow's trial.
McKenna, "to think of taking this here country out of the hands of William C. Whitney and Grover Cleveland and J. Pierpont Morgan and Ickleheimer Thalmann, and putting it in the hands of such men. What do you think about it?" "I think," said Mr. Dooley, "that Cassidy lied." "Why aren't you out attending the reunion of the Dooley family?" Mr. McKenna asked the philosopher.
Kirsch, sociologist and savant, aquiline, semi-bald, grimly satiric, sat in his splendid, high-backed chair, surveying his silken flock through half-closed lids. He looked tired, and rather ill, Fanny thought, but distinctly a personage. She wondered if he held them or they him. That recalled to her the little Winnebago Temple and Rabbi Thalmann.
He swore a deep inward "Damn!" as he saw her straight, slim figure disappear down the steps and around the corner, even while he found himself saying, politely, "Why, thanks! It's good to BE back." And, "Yes, things have changed. All but the temple, and Rabbi Thalmann." Fanny left Winnebago at eight next morning. "Mr. Fenger will see you now." Mr.
There settled about her mouth a certain grim line that sat strangely on so young a face. The service marched on. There came the organ prelude that announced the mourners' prayer. Then Rabbi Thalmann began to intone the Kaddish. Fanny rose, prayer book in hand.
Come, Fanny." He took a great, fat watch out of his pocket. "It is time to go." Mrs. Thalmann laid a detaining hand on Fanny's arm. "You will come often back here to Winnebago?" "I'm afraid not. Once a year, perhaps, to visit my graves." The sick eyes regarded the fresh young face. "Your mother, Fanny, we didn't understand her so well, here in Winnebago, among us Jewish ladies. She was different."
"I'd forgotten about it," she said. The heavy crape fell about her shoulders, mercifully hiding the swollen, discolored face. She went down the stairs. There was a little stir, a swaying toward her, a sibilant murmur of sympathy from the crowded sitting-room as she passed through to the parlor where Rabbi Thalmann stood waiting, prayer book in hand, in front of that which was covered with flowers.
Just as Fanny remarked this, there was a little moment of hush in the march of the day's long service. The memorial hour had begun. Little Doctor Thalmann cleared his throat. The congregation stirred a bit, changed its cramped position. Bella, the guilty, came stealing in, a pink-and-gold picture of angelic virtue. Fanny, looking at her, felt very aloof, and clean, and remote.
She would drop in at Doctor Thalmann's house and walk with him to temple, if he had not already gone. "Nein, der Herr Rabbi ist noch hier sure," the maid said in answer to Fanny's question. The Thalmann's had a German maid one Minna who bullied the invalid Mrs. Thalmann, was famous for her cookies with walnuts on the top, and who made life exceedingly difficult for unlinguistic callers.
Fanny sat down. A feeling of unreality was strong upon her. Doctor Thalmann cleared his throat and opened the book. After all, it was not Rabbi Thalmann's funeral sermon that testified to Mrs. Brandeis's standing in the community. It was the character of the gathering that listened to what he had to say. Each had his own opinion of Molly Brandeis, and needed no final eulogy to confirm it.
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