“She’s not a goy,” Karl said stiffly as his uncle Jack leaned in for a handshake, saying gruffly, “Name’s not very Jewish, this Marthe. His aunt Ida embraced him, saying again, “She’s my new goy greenhorn niece, eh?” His mother, Rae, led the tittering inspection brigade, all eyes now on Marthe’s tailored gray suit, fashionable hat at a rakish tilt, stylish brushed leather shoes, Paris fashion on parade. Ida’s eyes danced mischievously behind horn-rims. “She’s not a goy,” he muttered, voice low. His tiny aunt Ida tossed off the cheerful accusation, “Where’s your shiksa wife?”-somehow missing Marthe three feet away, perhaps because of Marthe’s polished Paris look. Karl Cohen had just passed through the immigration office with his new bride, Marthe, when the family descended. Not yet an hour on the ground back home in America, and already he was in trouble. When you’re born and when you find out why.
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