A girl goes from her father’s home to her husband’s. If she cannot live in either of those homes, what place does she have in the world?
Morning. Bilhah wakes not to the whistle of finches or the raucous cry of the blue jay bickering over worms, nor to the dull thud of the printing press, as the type is inked and the platen descends and a new page is printed.
Instead, voices. Women’s voices. The only woman’s voice at home is that of Rosa, the servant, and every word of hers is a screech.
Papa’s voice is always hoarse, and when he raises it, there is a grind in his throat. His voice and those of his workers, full-bodied and rough, as if they need to be sandpapered into smoothness, can always be heard from the workshop, located in the stable next to their home in Salonika. But that noise is low, and here there’s a shrillness that hurts her ears.
She blinks. Around her, women are rising from their sleeping mats, rolling them with a crack and a swish. But she lies, listening to the layer upon layer of voices, high and gentle and husky and all of them, all of them women.
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