The Death Beat

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  Mimi looked over the rail of the ferry and saw the rich ladies and gentlemen climbing into motorcars and horse-drawn traps. She noticed the young blonde woman who had tried to help Estie on the first day. She had kind eyes, Mimi remembered. And there she was with her friends: the young dark-haired woman with the boyish haircut, the short man, the old lady in the wheelchair, and her silent companion. They were laughing and chattering as they watched their trunks being lashed to the back of a small cortege of yellow motorcars. A pang of jealousy shot through Mimi’s chest. Their journey was over; hers was not. She clutched her right hand around her left ring finger and felt the pearl press into her palm. Then, as the ferry pulled away from Battery Bay towards Ellis Island, she closed her eyes and conjured up an image of a smiling Anatoly, lying on the beach at Yalta, his clothes piled beside hers. I’m coming, my love, she whispered. Please wait for me.

  CHAPTER 12

  What was called Ellis Island, in the singular, was in fact made up of three interconnected islands, with much of the geo-structure man-made. The ferry docked in the small harbour created by the islands on three sides. Mimi, Estie, and the rest of the passengers were ushered off the boat and into a large, imposing double-storey entrance hall. They were instructed to leave their luggage on the ground floor and then go upstairs to another hall. Once there they joined a queue that snaked its way through a maze of channels demarcated by railings. It was efficient and organized, and despite the babel of voices around her, everyone seemed to understand the direction they needed to go in.

  They were funnelled through a channel edged on either side by men and women in white tunics who had clipboards and were making notes. Occasionally they would mark one of the passengers with chalk on their clothing. Mimi wondered what the chalk marks meant and became increasingly worried when Estie, too, was selected to be chalked. The younger woman touched the chalk mark with her fingers and then tasted it. She grimaced and stuck out her tongue.

  By the time they got to the front Mimi was hungry, thirsty, and sick with worry. She had seen two chalked people taken away, their family members crying out after them. She held Estie’s hand tightly. Estie was also hungry and thirsty and had been saying so, loudly, for the last five minutes. Mimi prayed to God that her sister would not have an emotional outburst before they got through the immigration control.

  All the passengers had been given name tags including their manifest number when they were still on board the Olympic, so as the sisters stood in front of the processing desk, the clerk was able to see their name, their nationality, and whether or not they required the services of a translator. He ran his finger down the list and then called out: “Russian!”

  Mimi and Estie’s mother tongue was actually Yiddish, but Mimi was fluent in Russian. Estie less so, but rather than requesting an additional Yiddish translator, Mimi said she would translate whenever necessary.

  Via the translator, Mimi was asked the same questions that were on the manifest while the clerk checked to see that her answers corresponded with those given in Southampton. Then he frowned. “What did you say was the name and address of the person you will be staying with?”

  “Anatoly Pushtov,” said Mimi. “One Times Square.”

  “Toley! Toley!” said Estie, her head flicking from left to right, looking for the man.

  “Shhh, Estie.”

  The clerk scowled at Estie over his half-moon spectacles, then turned his attention back to the older Yazierska sister.

  “Are you sure of that address?”

  Mimi thought for a moment, then nodded. Yes, that’s what Anatoly had said. One Times Square.

  “Well, Miz, I think you are mistaken. One Times Square is the address of a newspaper building, not a private residence.”

  A newspaper? Mimi did not know what to say. “I – I – I’m sorry, that’s the address he gave me.”

  “And who is this man?”

  Mimi flexed the fingers on her left hand to show the clerk her ring. “He is my fiancé.”

  “Your fiancé.” The man made a note. “And do you have any letter of invitation from your fiancé that I can see?”

  “A letter? No, I do not have a letter. He told me this in person. The last time we were together.”

  “Hmm,” said the man and made another note.

  “Estie need pee-pee!” said Estie and started doing a little dance.

  Mimi bit her lip. “I’m sorry, sir, but my sister needs to use the toilet; is there somewhere she can go?”

  The man looked at the younger woman and nodded. “I was coming to that. She is chalked with an X. We will need to examine her further.”

  “Pee-pee! Pee-pee!”

  “Can she use the lavatory there?” asked Mimi.

  “She can,” said the clerk. “You, however, will need to stay here until we sort out this business with your fiancé’s address.”

  He motioned for a guard to escort Estie. The man took hold of her shoulder; the girl screamed and pulled away from him.

  “She cannot go on her own, sir!” said Mimi. “Can we finish our conversation later?”

  The man let out a long breath and checked his notes. “I have a lot of people to deal with today, Miz; you will have to go to the back of the queue again…”

  “I will,” said Mimi, who noticed a little puddle forming around her sister’s shoes. She grabbed Estie’s arm and followed the guard out of the hall. As the door closed behind them she heard someone shout in English: “Janitor!”

  “But the man said she could come!”

  A man and a woman sat on the opposite side of a table to Mimi and Estie and the Russian translator. Estie was drawing pictures on the back of a sheet of paper – the very sheet of paper that she had failed to read. It was a literacy test, and no one, including Mimi, was surprised she had failed. Estie had never been to school. Did one need to have been to school to come to the United States? No one had told her that. But it wasn’t just Estie’s lack of literacy that was the problem. Her interrogators came to the conclusion that the “X” chalk mark on Estie’s shoulder was indeed correct. The Jewish Ukrainian girl was most definitely feebleminded, possibly even a moron.

  “She will have to go back to Southampton,” said the man and stamped a sheet of paper with the word “Denied”.

  “Southampton?” said Mimi, desperately trying to get her head around what was happening, wondering if something had been lost in translation. She tried again, explaining to the translator: “Southampton is where the man was who said Estie could come. And then he was on the ship. I saw him there. He said if we pay a fine she will be able to come. He said simple people had to pay more money. But he didn’t say they couldn’t come.”

  The translator repeated her comments in English.

  “And what man is this?” asked the male official as his female assistant took notes.

  Mimi listened to the translator and replied, “Jow-ness,” hoping she had pronounced the unfamiliar name correctly.

  The man behind the desk looked puzzled. “Jowness?” he asked, looking for confirmation from the translator. “Who is Jowness?”

  “He – he – was the registration clerk on the Olympic,” Mimi replied in Russian, reaching across the table and poking a finger at the copy of the manifest. “He was the man who wrote that.”

  The man listened to the translation, then turned to his colleague and whispered something. She whispered something back.

  “I’m sorry, Miz Yazierska. But there is no way we can let your sister into the United States. She will have to go home. You, on the other hand, are free to join the queue again in the registration hall.” He cocked his head towards the door.

  Mimi listened to the translation then swallowed hard. She looked at her sister, who was much calmer now that she had been to the toilet. The girl was drawing a childish picture and humming a little tune.

  “Please, sir,” whispered Mimi in English, trying to hold back the tears. “Please ask for Mr Jowness.”

  The man’s
face softened. “I’m sorry, Miz, I cannot do that. Whatever this Mr Jowness told you was incorrect. I shall pass on the information to the captain of the Olympic – and if one of his crew was taking bribes he must deal with it – but it does not change the fact that your sister cannot enter the United States. It’s up to you whether you stay or go.”

  Tears streamed down Mimi’s face as the translator repeated the words in Russian. Estie stopped drawing and looked at her sister, then reached out her hand and touched a damp cheek. “Mimi sad? Why Mimi sad?”

  “I’m sorry, Miz,” said the man again, clearing his throat. “Rules are rules.”

  But rules apparently weren’t rules for everyone. That night, after Mimi, Estie, and a few other undesirables were fed and given a place to sleep, someone came to visit. It was the female assistant of the man who had declared Estie feebleminded. She gently shook Mimi awake and whispered to her: “If you want to come to America, come now. You understand?”

  Mimi looked around her, confused. Had she understood properly? Her English was not very fluent. “We go America?” she asked. “Mind change?”

  “Yes,” said the woman and put her finger to her lips. “But secret, yes? Just you and your sister. Not the others.”

  “Why not others?” asked Mimi, aware of a large Polish woman beside her, mumbling in her sleep.

  “Secret,” repeated the woman.

  Mimi sat up, careful not to disturb Estie, who was lying beside her, sucking her thumb. “Me and sister? Not just me?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, you and your sister. Are you coming? If you are, you must come now. There is no other time.”

  Mimi thought for a moment. There was something funny going on. But she wasn’t sure what. However, if it really meant they were going to America, and the chance of seeing Anatoly again… She made up her mind. “Yes,” she said. “We come.”

  The ferryman lit a cigarette and waited. He heard the crunch of gravel that signalled footfall at the top of the stone steps. A woman in a black coat and two young women, their faces pale and fearful in the swirling fog, approached him. Two more immigrants who had been turned away from the front door; two more who would get in through the back.

  As the girls sat huddled under a blanket in the bow of the rowing boat the woman in the black coat handed over some money to the ferryman. He weighed it in his hand then pocketed it.

  “Their names are Mimi and Estie. The younger one’s a moron but the older one won’t come without her. Take them to the usual place.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” said the ferryman and pushed his vessel away from the shore.

  CHAPTER 13

  FRIDAY, 12 APRIL 1921, NEW YORK

  Poppy, Delilah, and Rollo climbed into the back of a bright yellow taxi cab. Aunt Dot was already safely ensconced in another cab from the same company, with her wheelchair squashed into the back seat beside her, and Miss King in the front seat next to the driver. Poppy thought it strange that the steering wheel appeared to be on the wrong side of the vehicle and was even more alarmed when they headed out of Battery Park and onto the main road called Broadway on the wrong side of the road. She mentioned as much to her companions and they broke into fits of giggles but failed to tell her why their lives were not in imminent danger.

  Both Rollo and Delilah were in buoyant moods, having left their worries at the immigration desk. And both tried to outdo the other, pointing out to Poppy this or that landmark on their ride through lower Manhattan. On their right, apparently, was the Financial District, and as they passed the intersection to Wall Street Rollo told her that his brother Frederick – known as Freddy – worked there.

  “I think I’ve met your brother. The last time I was here with Uncle Elmo,” said Delilah. “It was at one of those outrageous Long Island parties – we all jumped into a champagne fountain!”

  “That sounds like Freddy,” said Rollo with a grin. “When he’s not in champagne fountains, he works just down there at the New York Stock Exchange.”

  Poppy was a little puzzled. Champagne fountains? Wasn’t alcohol banned in New York? She asked her friends and was again met with a giggle from Delilah and a snort of derision from Rollo. “The sale of it, yes, and the production of new liquor. But at these sorts of parties they don’t sell it – not officially anyway – and it comes from the host’s private stock. Thank all that’s mighty the Drys haven’t managed to stop people drinking in the privacy of their own homes… yet,” he growled.

  “Oh look, Poppy, over there, on the left – that’s the Woolworth Building!” chirruped Delilah.

  The yellow cab had stopped at the intersection of Broadway and Barclay, and Poppy looked to where Delilah was pointing. She gasped. Towering above them was the tallest building she had ever seen. It was designed like a Gothic cathedral, but towered far, far higher than any European church steeple. She opened the window and looked out, craning her neck as far back as she could, and still she couldn’t see the top.

  “They call it a skyscraper,” Delilah informed her. “Because, I suppose, it scrapes the sky!”

  Rollo chuckled. “Superbly deduced, Miz Marconi.”

  Despite his teasing tone, Rollo too appeared impressed. “I rode the elevator to the very top when President Wilson opened it in 1913. I covered it for The New York Times. Sixty storeys up! You can see right across to Montauk, Long Island, on a clear day. If I’d had a telescope I bet I could have seen my family’s house.”

  This was the second mention Rollo had made of his family this morning. Poppy noted that whatever tension she’d detected the other evening when he was speaking to Theo Spencer had gone. She wondered whether she’d get to meet Rollo’s family – his mother and his brother. She hoped so. She was intrigued to find out more about her mentor and what made him tick.

  The cab pulled off again and proceeded north on Broadway. They passed the City Hall on their right, whose white marble façade and Georgian architecture reminded Poppy of something from the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Gothic on one side of the street, French Renaissance on the other: Poppy was struck by the hodgepodge of Old World styles – all of them bigger and more impressive than anything she’d seen before. And in between were spanking new buildings in the latest Art Deco style. Poppy’s neck was beginning to ache from trying to take it all in.

  Rollo looked at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Miz Denby, there’ll be plenty of time for sightseeing.”

  But Poppy couldn’t keep her eyes off it all: block after block. At Madison Square Garden, the cab forked onto Fifth Avenue and a few blocks after that Delilah squeaked: “There’s the Waldorf Astoria! That’s where they’re going to be recording my radio show – I did tell you, didn’t I, that the director saw me in London and said I didn’t need to audition?”

  Poppy said that she had.

  “Isn’t the radio station out of town?” asked Rollo.

  “Yes, in Schenectady,” answered the effervescent actress. “But they’ve also got a studio in the hotel!”

  “Golly!” said Poppy. “A real radio show. How exciting for you. I’d love to see how they go about it. Do you think I might be able to sit in on one of the recordings? And, Rollo, do you think the Times might be interested in an article on it?”

  “They might be,” he said. “I’m not really sure of the set-up there at the moment. We’ll find out who’s who and what’s what on Monday. But it’s always wise to have something in the bank just in case you’re asked for a story idea. Just like you did the first day we met? Do you remember?”

  Poppy did. And ironically, it was a story that involved Delilah too.

  “I was very impressed that you weren’t waiting around to be told what to do. Editors like go-getters, Poppy.” Rollo smiled at his protégé. Poppy smiled back.

  “Thanks, Rollo. As long as that’s all right with the people at the radio station, Delilah.”

  “I don’t know why it wouldn’t be,” answered the young actress. “They’d be fools to turn down free publicit
y – but, like Rollo, I’ll have to wait and see what’s what on Monday. I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you,” said Poppy, then looked over her shoulder to see if Aunt Dot and Miss King’s yellow cab was still behind them. It was.

  Poppy pursed her lips as she thought about her aunt. She hadn’t voiced her concerns yet to anyone, but she was a tad worried about Dot.

  Dot, being Dot, was as effusive and jolly as ever. But on the voyage over Poppy had watched her aunt when the older woman thought no one was looking, and a pall of sadness came over her. Poppy wasn’t surprised; there was a lot for her to be concerned about. Primarily, of course, there was Grace – Dot’s long-term companion, who was now in prison for perverting the course of justice. Dot and Grace cared deeply for one another and Poppy knew that Dot’s heart was breaking not being able to see her. There was talk that Grace might have her two-year sentence commuted – and Rollo’s sweetheart, the solicitor Yasmin Reece-Lansdale, was working on it – but for now the former bookkeeper and suffragette remained in Holloway prison.

  Then there was Elizabeth Dorchester – the woman who had been at the centre of Poppy’s first big story. Elizabeth had stayed briefly with Aunt Dot when she was finally released from the mental asylum she had been kept in for seven years, but during the short stay the two women had not had a chance to talk through all the bad blood and misunderstanding that had developed between them over the years. Dot carried a lot of guilt for being unaware of Elizabeth’s suffering for so many years, and for the inadvertent role she had played in it. Dot needed to make things right between them, but, Poppy knew, she feared Elizabeth would spurn her efforts at reconciliation.

  Poppy feared the same. Elizabeth’s sudden departure to New York had been heralded by barely more than a scrawled note left on the kitchen table of Aunt Dot’s Chelsea townhouse. Elizabeth, no doubt, had wanted to distance herself from the people and places associated with her confinement. And that, Poppy suspected, included her former friend Dot Denby.