Three Daughters

Three Daughters

3.3 8
by Letty Cottin Pogrebin

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The Wasserman sisters couldn't be more different-but somehow, they must find a way to come together. Shoshanna, the control freak, falls to pieces in the shadow of an impending big birthday. Leah, the brilliant English professor, crusading feminist, and passionately conflicted wife and mother, faces the prospect of losing the husband she has always taken for

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The Wasserman sisters couldn't be more different-but somehow, they must find a way to come together. Shoshanna, the control freak, falls to pieces in the shadow of an impending big birthday. Leah, the brilliant English professor, crusading feminist, and passionately conflicted wife and mother, faces the prospect of losing the husband she has always taken for granted. Rachel, who has papered over her losses with an athlete's discipline and a pragmatism bordering on self-sacrifice, watches her world crumble but finds her destiny in the ruins. Confronting old wounds and forging new bonds, these three daughters of a complicated, charismatic father slowly unite as a force to be reckoned with as they struggle to break their parents' silence and understand their past.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Augmenting a prolific career as memoirist, commentator and editor (she was a founding editor of Ms.), Pogrebin has crafted a first novel that embraces her favorite themes. (Her most recent nonfiction titles Deborah, Golda and Me: Being Female and Jewish in America and Getting Over Getting Older could serve as subtitles for this book.) The eponymous daughters are the progeny of Rabbi Sam Wasserman, whose impending return from Israel to the States for his 90th birthday proves a defining event for his family. Leah, the oldest, born of Sam's first marriage to crazy Dena, knows it's now or never to reconcile with her father. Brilliant and brooding, a dark star of second-wave feminism, Leah touchingly metamorphoses into a different brand of strong woman, able to appreciate and lean on her less doctrinal sisters. Rachel, the second in line, is Sam's stepchild, the daughter of Sam's second wife, Esther, who was his great love. Adopted and adored by Sam, Rachel has inherited his ardor for the Torah. As the novel progresses, she is transformed from a needlepoint-working, factoid-spouting rich man's wife into a flinty divorcee heading for the seminary. As for Shoshanna, the youngest, born to Sam and Esther, "[her] challenge was simply to accept that the woman she was was the woman she would likely remain intrepid, cautious, decent, and fundamentally content with her lot." Talky, smart, hopeful and empathic, this will be a must-read for Pogrebin's contemporaries. Agent, Phyllis Wender. (Oct. 17) Forecast: Pogrebin already has a well-established public persona and can count on a built-in audience for her first novel. Her recent tenure as president and spokesperson for the Authors Guild and a 22-city author tour should garner her additional recognition. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Of course these three daughters are estranged, but crusading optimist Shoshanna intends to smooth things over with brilliant, angry Leah and withdrawn Rachel. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
The co-founder of Ms. (Getting Over Getting Older, 1996, etc.) fashions a hectoring, including-the-kitchen-sink debut novel about three Jewish stepsisters' feminist coming-of-age and then aging amid parental deceit. The pages of her Filofax blast off the car roof on the Henry Hudson Parkway in New York City, leaving almost 50-year-old Shoshanna Safer (née Wasserman), who runs a business ordering other people's lives, desperate to reestablish control over her own. Among the salvaged items: her aged rabbi father's letter from Israel mandating that the entire family be present for his year's-end lifetime achievement award, including his estranged daughter, Leah, whom Sam abandoned 50 years before in favor of a second marriage and stepdaughter Rachel. Leah is the juggernaut of this obsessively detailed family history, a soured, unrepentant founder of The Feminist Freethinker who became young Shoshanna's role model and liberator from middle-class values. Now a professor surrounded by worshipful Schmendriks, Yiddish-spouting Leah no longer speaks to Rachel, the "fact fetishist" and properly religious older sister who, at 64, still lives out a fantasy of domesticity in her Long Island mansion-until her husband Jeremy's web of philandering is finally exposed. Leah's own past catches up to her when her two floundering sons desert her, and her husband, Leo, begins a sad slide into depression, while goody-goody Rachel embarks on a long-postponed career of becoming a rabbi. Over meals at chichi New York restaurants and a consciousness-raising Seder, Pogrebin lectures the reader on, among other things, Israeli policies, feminist history (First Wave, Second Wave), The Woman's Bible, and thepolitics of circumcision, all the while peppering her dialogue with quotes from T.S. Eliot, Anaïs Nin, and Sarah Grimke. The story's fighting spirit dissolves into a manifesto for modern Jewish living as the Wasserman family moves toward end-of-the-century reconciliation. Is this a novel or doctored Filofax pages from a lifetime of hoarding and culling? Author tour

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Product Details

Penguin Group (USA)
Publication date:
Edition description:
First Edition
Product dimensions:
5.40(w) x 7.94(h) x 0.89(d)

Read an Excerpt

The driver of the Dodge caravan gave Shoshanna the finger, gesticulating furiously through his windshield like the villain in a silent movie.

You couldn't blame the guy. She was a horrific sight — a wild-eyed middle-aged virago in a mud-splattered coat racing across the Henry Hudson Parkway to snatch a piece of paper from the pavement. She rammed the paper into her pocket and ran back to the shoulder of the road, unflustered by her close call, then dropped to her haunches and studied the oncoming traffic. That was the nerve-racking part, waiting for the right conditions, the perfect moment to lunge. A station wagon roared past, revving up the wind. In its wake, a momentary lull, an open space, plenty of time to sprint out, snatch up another scrap, and fly back to her redoubt at the edge of the highway before the next car rounding the bend in the distance could reach her. She'd timed it perfectly, her road dance.

Wait. Run. Retreat.

Wait. Run. Retreat.

Shoshanna might have passed for a litter-phobic environmentalist but for her periodically emptying her overstuffed pockets onto the back seat of her Volvo and smoothing each bedraggled sheet with the tenderness of a poet saving love letters from the flames. The salvage from the highway was, however, unromantic — the tattered remains of her Filofax, which, despite manifestly hazardous working conditions, she'd succeeded over the course of the afternoon in repossessing piece by piece. More surprising to her than the virtuosity of her performance was the fact that it was necessary at all. That she herself had triggered this paper chase, this anarchy in the afternoon, made no sense. Such things happened to otherpeople, not to the archenemy of disorder, the ultra-organized Shoshanna Wasserman Safer, for whom chaos was anathema and mindfulness next to godliness. Losing track of something as important as her Filofax was consistent with neither her sense of self nor the profession she practiced with a rare blend of doggedness and delight. Shoshanna made a living straightening out other people's messes. She systematized, organized, solved problems, averted crises. Keeping Things Under Control was both her obsession and her job. She tamed the wildness, knowing better than most how quickly chaos can overtake one's life when given the slightest opportunity.

Thirty years ago, on a California beach, she'd seen a joyful day turn tragic simply because she and her best friend had not been paying attention. The Evil Eye — that stalker for whom human contentment is an affront and bliss an incitement to riot — had leapt into the breach and the worst had happened. Ever since, she'd been keeping an eye on the Eye, studying its wily ways, noting how effortlessly it could transform a carefree walk in the woods into a deadly struggle against nature, a marshmallow roast into a conflagration, or a healthy pregnancy into a nightmare of loss. She knew its habits: laughter was its lure, pleasure its call to action, good fortune its invitation to havoc. The Eye could sneak up from behind and give a person a hard shove into chaos as easily as a car might stray across the white line on this highway. Because she understood this, Shoshanna had become a stalker of the stalker, guarding against the fall of its shadow across her path, tuned to its footsteps in the dark.

This compulsion, she'd learned to her dismay, she shared with Charles Lindbergh. The renowned aviator, WASP avatar and Nazi sympathizer, was hardly the soul mate she'd have chosen had she not read in his daughter's memoir that he was "ever on the alert for dangers, though the dangers were unspecified. 'It's the unforeseen . . .' he would warn us. 'It's always the unforeseen.' " Shoshanna Safer had become a watchdog of the unforeseen, an expert on preventable chaos, and because nothing dire had happened in her orbit since that desolating day on the California beach, she'd come to believe that the only force capable of defeating her was divine whimsy — a flash flood, a letter bomb, the freak accident like the one that sent a construction crane plummeting forty stories to land on her neighbor's leg. Random strikes were beyond her capacity to predict or prevent. But today's accident couldn't be blamed on God's caprice or the stalker. This was a mess of her own making.

Wait. Run. Retreat


Whirling on and off the highway, scavenging pages, she struggled to reconstruct how she'd lost track of the datebook in the first place. Remembered having it at the breakfast table that morning when she'd flipped through it in search of a free weekend. (She and Daniel had been trying to get away together since New Year's.) And when she went downstairs to her office, coffee cup in one hand, datebook in the other, always a two-fisted journey. (Running a business from the garden floor of their brownstone had greatly increased her productivity once she'd figured out how to keep work and family separate, with the help of the Filofax.) Had it when she'd called her cousin Warren to congratulate him on his promotion (thanks to the reminder her secretary, Fiona, London's gift to a Jewish compulsive, had written in the 10 a.m. slot). And when she'd grabbed a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich at her desk and a dollop of strawberry jam dripped on today's page — Wednesday, February 17, 1999. Ash Wednesday. The day she lost control. The day order turned to ashes.

Could have left the book behind on her desk, its sticky spot drying in the sun; but no, she remembered it lying on the passenger seat exactly where it belonged, open to the route directions Fiona had clipped to the calendar page to facilitate the drive to Riverdale. The new client had been waiting on his porch when Shoshanna swung into his driveway.

Blue jeans, cashmere V-neck the color of moss, moccasins with no socks, though it was about 30 degrees out. His jeans, she'd noted, were pressed. An ashy smudge marked the center of his forehead. Perversely, it reminded Shoshanna of the Star of David her sister Rachel wore on a chain around her neck as proudly as if it were the Croix de Guerre. Rachel's trademarks were the Jewish star and the double strand of pearls she wore virtually every day of her life, though the pearls came off now and then — say at the beach or on the treadmill — while the Magen David never left her chest. Shoshanna, discomfited by public displays of religion, had a mezuzah tacked to her doorpost, but that was it. Why stir up the anti-Semites? The smudge on the client's face seemed to shout "Catholic! Catholic!" and she'd wondered if her naked forehead was shouting back "Jew! Jew!"

In his wood-paneled study, Venetian blinds sliced the winter sun into gauzy slats. Dust motes floated lazily on bars of afternoon light. Fresh-squeezed orange juice glowed in crystal goblets. A woman notices when a man does something like that. Then again, after years of monitoring the stalker, Shoshanna noticed everything. She'd registered how neat he was, how orderly, and his study even more so. Tidy stacks of magazines squared off on the coffee table like troops on review. Diverse interests — Time in one pile, Men's Health in another, The New York Review of Books, Travel & Leisure, Foreign Affairs. A pyramid of green apples rose from a wooden bowl. Beside an upholstered wing chair stood a small table bearing a phone and a notepad with the words Milk, Eggs, Brillo, Post Office written in a fine hand. Clearly, he wasn't one of those newly divorced men who need help stocking their pantries, a task she'd been called upon to perform more than once. So what did he want her to do? Test-drive his Viagra?

"Retired this year. Widowed. Wanna join a gym," he'd announced in a flat staccato, and handed her a sheet headed Health Clubs. "Check these out, would you? And be exacting." He wanted her to evaluate six local gyms — compare their facilities (state-of-the-art equipment? climbing wall? pool?) and their classes (varied? crowded? good hours?); interview personal trainers (low-key? hyper? motivating body types?); survey the locker rooms (clean carpets? thick towels? wide lockers?); and sample the fruit smoothies.

"Details under each category, please," he'd added, pointing to his ruled columns. "I'll review your findings and join the best one. Clear?" "Yes, sir!" She'd felt an impulse to salute.

He'd risen from his chair, a client after her own heart, a man who knew when to end a meeting. (If hell existed, Shoshanna was sure it would turn out to be a meeting.) Still in the moss sweater, no coat, he had accompanied her out to the Volvo, and as they stood there on the passenger side, she'd extended her hand and said, "Looking forward to working with you." Stock line, only this time she'd meant it. Being spectacularly sedentary, she might even shape up on his dime. "So, when do you need this?"

"How's six weeks hence?"

Hence? Who'd he think he was — Alistair Cooke? She'd flipped the pages of the Filofax to March 31 and, bracing the book against her fender, had written Health club report due (in perfect penmanship, in case he was watching). She was about to open the passenger door and toss the Filofax on the front seat as usual, the way she always did, when he'd tugged at her arm like an excited kid.

"Hey! Before you go, come see the view."

Shoshanna had interrupted herself mid-gesture and — because she always indulged her clients — set the book on the car roof, and followed the man around to the back of his house, where a wide lawn, pock-marked with old snow, sloped to the banks of the Hudson River. Dried poufs of hydrangea blossoms clung to bare branches. Tall pines swayed with the breeze. It was hard to believe they were only minutes from Times Square; the Edenic hush, the water gleaming like molten glass in the glow of the late-afternoon sun. Even the dour outlines of New Jersey seemed incandescent.

Copyright © 2002 Letty Cottin Pogrebin

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Meet the Author

Letty Cottin Pogrebin is the cofounder of Ms. magazine, a nationally known journalist and lecturer, and the author of eight books of nonfiction. Three Daughters is her first novel.

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Three Daughters 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 11 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Story was excellent, however, without a minimum knowledge of Yiddish and Hebrew, the reader can get lost in the dialog.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
toothfairyln More than 1 year ago
When I was reading this book I felt the author was being paid by the word. Nothing in this story was unusal. No two children are the same. My mother-in-law is the baby of 10. No two siblings were similar. I wouldn't recommend the book toothfairyln
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Guest More than 1 year ago
I loved this book. I had read a review on it, and loved it even more than I imagined and was disappointed only when I had no more pages to read. I thoroughly enjoyed the play of relationships among the sisters and their self-conflicts. I look forward to her next novel.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Disappointing. Read like it was aimed only at the Jewish population. Boring, dull, mired in explanations and history of the Jewish religion and politics. The story seemed to get lost. Took forever to finish. No real resolution for any of the characters.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Three Daughters takes a look at a typical family. As it is said, adulthood is spent recovering from childhood. The three sisters in this story prove this, and make them easy to relate to once their layers are peeled. Through pain and loss in adulthood, the women come to terms with the pain and loss in their childhood. On the surface, I can't relate to the protagonists, but as their characters developed, I began to relate in a very deep way. Their pain is pain that everyone has suffered, and they overcome in a way that is admirable. Read this book. You will learn something about yourself, or want to.
harstan More than 1 year ago
To celebrate his ninetieth birthday, Rabbi Sam Wasserman returns to New York City from Israel. Sam demands that his three daughters attend his gala event even though he has had some differences with them over the years. His oldest daughter Leah from Sam¿s first marriage, though sixtyish, still retains feelings that he abandoned her five decades ago when he remarried. Though successful as a left wing English professor with a community commitment, she still desperately wants to reconcile with her father, but can she forgive him? His second daughter Rachel is actually not of his seed having come from the first husband of his second wife, but is the one who embraces the religion with a fervor that matches Sam. Her world is changing from pampered trophy wife to divorced seminary student if she has the courage to go for what she desires. The youngest sibling Shoshanna believes she can accomplish almost anything, but fears failure of achieving what she most wants in life. She desires a reconciliation of her entire family. THREE DAUGHTERS is an engaging character study that digs deep into the contemporary Jewish philosophies that compete amidst the religion today. Each daughter represents a corner of the triangle of Judaism (community, Torah, and family). The strong story line is at its best when the squabbles between the three women provide the reader with a deep look into the religion, but loses momentum when the plot becomes a rallying cry for modern Judaism. Harriet Klausner