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“I know. But, Bess, I keep on wondering … what if there was something else that Mama could have taken? Something that would have made her better, too?” Bess glared at Augusta with a feral intensity, as if she had crossed some invisible line. It was one thing to contemplate Irving’s illness and their great-aunt’s role in his recovery. But to suggest that their mother could have been saved so easily—to imply that her suffering might have been avoided if only they’d had the right powders or prayers—was an affront that Bess could not bear.
“Is that true?” “Probably not. But for now, at least, she believes it is. I’ll talk to her husband when he’s back from his trip.”
I have a group I meet on Tuesdays—open-water swimming for us old folks. You should come—you’re in great shape. I’m sure the others would love to meet you.” She shook her head. “Thanks, but I stick to swimming pools. I haven’t swum in the ocean for years. I don’t like the way the bottom keeps shifting, the way your feet get sucked into the wet sand. And don’t get me started on the waves—at my age, the last thing I need is to get tossed around.” Nathaniel shrugged. “Suit yourself. As for me, I like the sand. I even like getting tossed around a bit.” He thumped one fist against his chest. “Helps
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“I’ll work harder than anyone,” Augusta insisted. “But if I want to learn from you, does that mean I shouldn’t go to pharmacy college?” “Of course you should go to college!” Aunt Esther snapped. “When I was young, I had no such opportunity. My brothers were sent to study in Lviv, but my sisters and I were not allowed to go.
If I had been born a man, they would have called me an apothecary. Perhaps even a doctor, if I’d had the training. But because I was born a woman, they called me a witch instead. To ignorant men, every gifted woman is a witch.”
To ease the pain of those who suffer To repair the bodies of those who are ill To restore the minds of those in need
“Words can do anything,” she said. “A kind word can fix a person’s spirit. A cruel one can break a person’s heart. Wicked words have caused wars, and honest words have made peace. Why shouldn’t they be able to heal?”
“He didn’t take money.” “What was it then? Whiskey from your bootlegging father-in-law?”
But tell me what Nathaniel took that was so terrible.” “It wasn’t a thing. It was more like … a moment.” Augusta stared at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
All that was left were two sad blue eyes staring at her as if time had reversed. As if he were still her father’s delivery boy, still her dance partner, still her best friend.
“Anyway, Irving and I were friends as kids, and then, when we got older … well, there’s not much to say. We were dating, and I thought it was serious. I even thought we were in love. But he must have been seeing Lois behind my back, because after one of our dates, he disappeared. He didn’t show up for work at the store, and then a week later, he and Lois were engaged. Lois’s family moved out to Chicago, and Irving went with them to work for her father. I never heard from him again.”
Esther made a clucking sound. “Ah,” she said. “B’sha’ah tovah.” Augusta knew what the words meant. It was customary, when wishing a pregnant woman well, to refrain from congratulatory language. Mazel tov, Augusta had been taught, was appropriate only when referring to something that had already occurred.
Tears filled the corners of Augusta’s eyes. How could her father ask her to choose between the enigmatic splendor of Esther’s work and the solid satisfaction of his own? Between the thrill of a patch of kitchen moonlight and the security of the prescription room? Why couldn’t he see that they were equally powerful? Why couldn’t he appreciate the beauty in both?
did my Richard Simmons video yesterday, but I didn’t go around telling people. For all we know, after his laps, Irving goes home and does a bunch of sit-ups.”
“Do you really want to know?” she asked. Shirley nodded. “I do.” Augusta leaned back in her seat. “I’ll begin at the beginning then. When my mother died, I was fourteen years old.”
Like almost every other woman her age, she’d been taking Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound for assorted female complaints,
“Can I say them in English?” Augusta asked. “The Yiddish never sounds right when I say it.” “As long as you feel the words in your heart, the language you say them in should not matter.”
Esther tried to reassure her. “I believe you are gifted,” she said. “That is why I agreed to teach you. But you are young, and you must learn patience. I do not doubt that you will work hard, but you are still searching for the easiest answers. You still think illness can be cured with a pill or a powder and a few old words. You still think that the outcome is something you can control.” “But isn’t that true? You do control it! I’ve seen what you do—things the doctors couldn’t, things no one can explain. You saved Irving! You gave a barren woman a child! You made Bess know she wanted to marry
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“Then what is the point? Why do this at all?” “Because there is still good that we can do. Because sometimes our remedies can cure. Because we can bear witness to a woman who suffers when her doctors refuse to see her pain. Because even when we cannot heal, a bowl of chicken soup can offer comfort.”
“I will teach you, but we must progress slowly and with the greatest care. I do not want you to make my mistakes. You have opportunities that I did not have, Goldie. You must make the most of them.”
That was the nice thing about spending time with a person you’d known for almost all of your life—the memories you shared grew even more vivid when you remembered them together.
When Jackie got older, there were trips to the library, movies, plays, and countless sleepovers at Augusta’s tiny apartment. When Augusta finally sold the Brooklyn store, her niece was already in her early twenties. It was Jackie who collected the newspaper ads for rental apartments on the Upper West Side.
“But what about the drink she made for my mom?” “Esther would have said that the elixir could only give your mother clarity about her feelings. It couldn’t change the feelings themselves.”
“Clarity can be a wonderful gift. To see something so unambiguously, to be free of all doubt—who wouldn’t want that?” “You’ll get no argument from me,” said Augusta. “But sometimes clarity reveals difficult truths. Not everyone is as lucky as your mother was.”
She was so flustered by the woman in the mirror that she could not put her feelings into words. Her reflection was a kaleidoscope of buried memories. The sapphire fabric was the evening sky outside her half-open Brooklyn window, it was Esther’s silk robe in the kitchen at midnight, and the bottles of Higgins inks on her father’s store shelves. The trim at the edges of her skirt and sleeves was the silver in Esther’s graying hair, the giant stockpot on the kitchen stove, and the band of her sister’s wedding ring. In the mirror, Augusta’s pewter eyes were the same as her mother’s before she got
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Past and present, joy and sorrow mingled together in the shining glass. Augusta wasn’t merely her eighty-year-old self—she was fourteen and sixteen, two and twelve. She was a child swimming in the ocean with her mother and a young woman watching her aunt make soup. She was a curious girl who asked too many questions. She was a grieving daughter at her mother’s funeral and a maid of honor at her sister’s wedding.
Oh, how she wanted to be that woman again—a woman who, yes, had suffered losses, but whose heart had not yet been broken beyond repair. A woman who was curious and hopeful and who still believed in the glimmers of magic that made their way quietly into the world.
As she pressed her frozen lips to his, there was a sense that everything had changed between the two of them. Together, they had kept each other warm. Together, they had turned something dark into light.
The next few months were filled with stolen kisses—between the shelves of the local library when no one else was around to see, and in the stillness of the prescription room when her father was taking care of customers. These were the places she was most at ease. These were the places, Irving told her, where her beauty most overwhelmed him.
Irving could not believe what he was hearing. He’d been angry about that evening for so long that the rage had become a part of him. He could feel it sometimes, just below his skin, like a stinger from a bee that would not be drawn out. The poison had become a permanent reminder of the punishing twists and turns life could take. “I told you I was going to propose to Augusta. I told you I had the ring in my pocket. And then, before I had the chance to ask her, you led Evie out onto the dance floor and got down on one knee yourself! The whole place went crazy—everyone cheered. I couldn’t ask
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On the morning of Augusta’s eightieth birthday, she woke to the smell of chicken soup. At first she thought that she was dreaming. Augusta hadn’t made soup for sixty-two years.
Not only did Irving fail to propose that night, but he simply disappeared after Nathaniel got down on one knee.
“Sweetheart, I appreciate everything you’ve done—refurbishing the case, hauling everything down here. But this isn’t some kind of geriatric fairy tale where everything gets magically fixed in the end. Trust me, it isn’t going to work.”
“Because the last time I used those—the very last time—it wasn’t to make the powder for Irving. The very last time, what happened was worse—much, much worse than a lost romance. The very last time I used that mortar, it was a matter of life and death.” “What happened?” Jackie whispered. Augusta lowered her gaze. “I tried to make Esther well,” she said. “I was convinced that I could help her. I thought that I knew everything, Jackie. But I didn’t. And I failed.”
“Do you think women like us can ever have both? Can we have our work and have love? Or will we always have to choose?” Esther’s voice grew tired and faraway. “I do not know the answer,” she said. “I can only hope that this new world is kinder to women like us than the old one.”
The scents grew stronger, swirling around her like a benevolent tornado. Augusta shut her eyes to sing. To pray. To plead. To beg of the moonlight. But when she opened her eyes, the scents fell flat, the candles sputtered, and the room turned cold. She emptied the contents of the mortar onto a square of Esther’s muslin. The powder was wholly unremarkable, but she saved it anyway.
“I’ve taught you well, Goldie,” she whispered. “When I am gone, you will take my case. You will take my mortar, my pestle, my robe. You will learn everything you can at school and be the best of both your father and me.”
She would never eat another bowl of chicken soup again.
“Wait a second,” she said as she struggled to catch her breath. “If you wanted to ask me to marry you, why did you walk away that night? Why did you cheat on me with Lois? How could you leave for Chicago without even saying goodbye?” She crossed her arms over her chest and took a step backward, away from him.
As Irving described Mrs. Diamond’s threats, Augusta reached for Jackie’s hand. Nathaniel’s face turned white as a sheet. “What a monster!” Shirley said. “Horrible!” Nathaniel agreed.
“Jackie, did you … No. No. It isn’t possible. You couldn’t have known … there’s absolutely no way.” “Surprise?” Jackie said with a sheepish smile. “Promise me you won’t be angry.”
But Irving had pulled her into his arms and kissed her with the fervor of a man half his age. “How many times do I have to tell you? It isn’t too late for anything, Goldie.” “Do you really think it’s a good idea?”
There were so many women who wanted her help, so many women who felt overlooked by their doctors. They see an old woman with gray hair, said Brenda, and they assume we’re all exaggerating. Meanwhile, when my husband goes for his appointment, they treat his cold like it’s the bubonic plague!
To amplify the details of living in Brownsville, I turned to the following sources: Brooklyn in the 1920s (Images of America) by Eric J. Ierardi; Brownsville: The Birth, Development and Passing of a Jewish Community in New York by Alter F. Landesman; and Brownsville, Brooklyn: Blacks, Jews, and the Changing Face of the Ghetto by Wendell Pritchett.
In order to flesh out Zip and Mitzi Diamond, I read both The Rise and Fall of the Jewish Gangster in America by Albert Fried and Our Gang: Jewish Crime and the New York Jewish Community, 1900–1940 by Jenna Weissman Joselit. I also found a 1922 article from The Saturday Evening Post called “Inside the Bootleg,” which was helpful in understanding how a bootlegger might start his or her business.
The Love Elixir of Augusta Stern is a reminder that age doesn’t change who we are, that second chances are always possible, and that it is never too late to try to recapture the lost magic of our youth. It is a story that explores whether ambition and love can ever truly co-exist, and whether a woman can have both a profession and a partnership (I hope Augusta shows that she can).
