Rachel's Roses

by Ferida Wolff

  “No. I have…something to do.”

  “I’ll play jacks with you, Simcha,” said Mollie. “And I’ll beat you, I bet.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “I can do eightsies.”

  “Not all the time.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve been practicing too.”

  They went home arguing as usual.

  “I have to find a job,” Rachel told Sophie as they walked on. “To pay for you-know-what.”

  “Good luck.”

  After stopping at home, Rachel asked at the egg store, the grocer, and the bakery if they needed delivery help. No one did.

  She stopped to talk to Phil at the fruit cart.

  “We don’t deliver, Rachel,” said Phil.

  Rachel hung her head. She looked so sad that Phil reached into his cart. “Here,” he said. “This will help you feel better.” He gave her a pear that was too brown to sell.

  Rachel was sitting between the pushcarts eating the pear when Izzy came by with his shoeshine box.

  “You’d better not pull my braids,” warned Rachel.

  “Why would I do that?” Izzy teased.

  But instead of pulling her hair, he scrunched down beside her.

  “You look worried,” he said.

  “I need to earn some money but no one will hire me.”

  “Why do you need a job?”

  Rachel was about to tell him about the buttons but then thought it might sound silly. How could something as little as buttons be so important? She only knew they were.

  “It’s a surprise for my mother for Rosh Hashanah.”

  “I shine shoes before and after school,” said Izzy. “Maybe you can shine shoes too.”

  “I don’t have enough money to buy a brush and polish.”

  “Maybe you could sell one of your braids,” said Izzy.

  “Never!” said Rachel. She knew some ladies sold their hair to wigmakers, but she couldn’t imagine doing that.

  “Or you could watch my little brother so I don’t have to.”

  Rachel shook her head. She had enough trouble watching Hannah, and Izzy’s little brother, Jacob, was more than a handful. Izzy was always running after him.

  “Well, then I’ve run out of ideas. Sorry.” Izzy got up and continued down the street.

  Rachel threw the pear core into the basket at the end of Phil’s cart. Soon her mother would ask for the buttons again, buttons Rachel didn’t have. Never had the holiday seemed to come so quickly.

  Rachel went upstairs wondering how she would ever get those buttons. Maybe Bubbie could help.

  When Rachel entered, Bubbie was busy in the kitchen with the laundry bundles.

  “Here, Racheleh. Bring this over to Mr. Bloom at the drugstore. It’s his shirts. I promised them for today.”

  This was no time to ask Bubbie anything. Rachel started for the door, the brown bundle cradled in her arms like a baby.

  “Take me!” yelled Hannah.

  “Do I have to, Bubbie? She’s so slow.”

  “Speed is only good for catching flies,” said Bubbie.

  “Let’s go,” Rachel told Hannah.

  “I made my own braids today, Rachel,” Hannah said as they walked to the drugstore at the far end of the street.

  Rachel looked at the two tangles of hair hanging down Hannah’s back.

  “They’re a mess,” she said.

  “Bubbie said they were nice.”

  In the drugstore, Rachel gave Mr. Bloom his shirts. He was just thanking her when the telephone rang.

  Mr. Bloom had the only telephone on the block. It was a big wooden box that hung on the wall. Everyone got calls there. A telephone call meant news. Sometimes it was good. Sometimes it was sad. It was always exciting.

  He went to answer the phone’s jangling cry.

  “It’s for Mrs. Miller,” he said. “Quick, Rachel, run and tell her she has a call.”

  Rachel ran out of the store with Hannah right behind her.

  “Don’t forget me, Rachel!” her sister panted.

  “Well, hurry up.”

  They raced across the street to Mrs. Miller’s building. Rachel sped up the first flight of stairs. Hannah tried to keep up but her little legs couldn’t go as fast.

  “Wait, Rachel!” she called.

  Rachel reached back for Hannah’s hand. She pulled her up the rest of the stairs.

  When they got to Mrs. Miller’s apartment, Rachel banged on the door.

  “Mrs. Miller, you have a telephone call!”

  Mrs. Miller quickly opened the door to the two breathless girls.

  “A telephone call!” she said.

  Mrs. Miller grabbed her purse, took out a penny, and pressed it into Rachel’s hand. Then she hurried down the stairs. Rachel stared at the penny. She hadn’t known that people gave pennies for telephone messages. If she could deliver telephone messages every day for Mr. Bloom, she could get lots of pennies. Then she could pay Mr. Solomon for the buttons!

  “Come on, Rachel,” said Hannah. “Let’s see who it is.”

  Hannah held on to Rachel’s hand and they both rushed down the stairs after Mrs. Miller.

  In the drugstore, Mrs. Miller shushed everyone so she could hear better.

  “It’s my brother,” she announced. “His wife just had another boy.”

  “Mazel tov!” said Mr. Bloom.

  Everyone in the store sent Mrs. Miller’s brother congratulations.

  While Mrs. Miller talked into the phone, Rachel figured out if she gave three messages a day, by the end of the week she would have fifteen pennies. With the six cents she had saved and with Mama’s nickel she would have twenty-six cents, one penny more than she needed for the buttons. She could give her mother the extra penny to help with her dream.

  She carefully put the penny into her clean white handkerchief and tucked the handkerchief into her skirt pocket. She needed two more messages today. She pushed her sister toward the door.

  “Go home, Hannah,” she said.

  “Come with me,” said Hannah.

  “I can’t. I have something to do.”

  Hannah started twirling her braid. “I’m scared to go by myself, Rachel.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Rachel.

  As Rachel hurried home with Hannah, she saw Mrs. Miller leave the drugstore. Rachel imagined the telephone ringing loudly with no one there to take a message.

  When they got to their apartment, Rachel said, “Here. You can go in by yourself. And tell Bubbie I’ll be home before supper.”

  As soon as Hannah entered, Rachel turned and went racing back to the drugstore.

  “Did anyone else call, Mr. Bloom?” she asked.

  “Not in the three and a half minutes since you were gone,” said the druggist.

  Rachel sat on a stool at the soda fountain. She twirled in circles on the red-padded seat as she waited for the telephone to ring. For a while it was fun. Then she got dizzy and stopped. She traced her finger along a coffee stain on the counter but soon got tired of that. She stared at the telephone. Ring, she thought. Customers came and went but the telephone remained silent.

  “Why doesn’t the telephone ring, Mr. Bloom?” she asked.

  “Because no one is calling,” he said.

  “But someone has to call,” said Rachel. “I want to give a message.”

  “And maybe get a penny?” said Mr. Bloom.

  Rachel blushed.

  Just then the phone did ring. Mr. Bloom spoke into it.

  “It’s for Herschie at the fish store. Will you get him, Rachel?”

  Rachel ran as fast as she could up the street and around the corner. She found Herschie—Mr. Herschel—head down in a fish barrel in front of his store. She cupped her hands and called out to him.

 
“Mr. Herschel, you have a telephone call.”

  “Ach, it couldn’t have come at a worse time,” he said.

  He popped himself up and a handful of herrings came with him. He shook them off, then rubbed his herring-smelling hands on his apron.

  “I suppose it might be important,” he said. He yelled into the store to his helper, “Watch the store,” and strode away.

  Rachel had to run to keep up with him. When they got to the drugstore, she waited impatiently for Mr. Herschel to finish his call. She hoped maybe he would give her more than a penny because she’d had to go so far to get him.

  But when he finished, Mr. Herschel left. He didn’t give Rachel anything.

  “That’s how it is with telephone messages—sometimes you get a penny, sometimes you don’t,” Mr. Bloom said.

  “I need that penny, Mr. Bloom!” cried Rachel.

  “So who doesn’t?” said Mr. Bloom.

  Rachel remembered her mother’s dream. How many pennies would it take to buy a sewing machine?

  “Will you let me stay by the telephone tomorrow, Mr. Bloom?” she asked.

  Mr. Bloom shrugged. He went back to his powders.

  Rachel waved goodbye. She finally had a job. She hoped there would be more people like Mrs. Miller to take messages to than people like Mr. Herschel. She would keep the pennies she earned safely in her dresser drawer until she could buy her roses.

  Rachel held on tightly to her handkerchief and skipped home.

  • seven •

  WORKING HARD

  “Find a job yet?” Sophie whispered in line at the schoolyard.

  “No talking,” said the girls’ line monitor.

  It was time to go in. Rachel whispered, “I did. Tell you about it later.”

  As the row monitors checked for clean fingernails and handkerchiefs, Rachel daydreamed about her roses. She could almost see them shining on her skirt. It was only the beginning of the day and already she couldn’t wait for school to be over.

  She felt a tug at her hair.

  “Wake up,” Izzy whispered. “Where’s your hanky?”

  Rachel reached into her pocket. It was empty. Where was her handkerchief? She checked her notebook and her desk. It wasn’t there. Then she remembered—it was tucked around a penny in her dresser drawer.

  “What is the delay, Isadore?” Miss Conway said.

  “Um, er, Rachel is looking for her handkerchief, Miss Conway.”

  “Speak clearly, please. Is Rachel prepared today or is she not?”

  “I forgot my handkerchief, Miss Conway,” Rachel said.

  “I believe I asked Isadore. You are the row monitor?”

  “Yes, Miss Conway.”

  “Then I repeat, is Rachel prepared?”

  “No, Miss Conway.”

  Rachel hung her head as Miss Conway put a demerit in her book.

  “You will stay after school, Rachel, and wash the board.” Miss Conway looked around the room. “Is anyone else unprepared?” she asked.

  Rachel hoped someone else would have to wash the board with her. It would take less time. The room was silent. The board was all hers.

  Miss Conway marked papers at her desk after school while Rachel washed the chalky white dust off the front blackboard. She was halfway through when Sophie peeked in.

  “Tell Bubbie I’ll be late,” Rachel whispered.

  “This is not a social hour, Miss Berger,” said Miss Conway.

  Rachel worked as quickly as she could but Miss Conway was fussy. Even a tiny square of chalk dust meant another trip to the janitor’s sink down the hall.

  At last Rachel was allowed to leave. She raced home to drop off her books. Homework could wait until later.

  When she finally got to the drugstore, all the stools were taken so she stood against the wall by the telephone. She didn’t want anyone else to get to it first.

  Rachel felt sure there would be a call right away but there wasn’t. She shifted from one foot to the other and back again. She tapped her shoe against the wall to a tune she had learned in school. All the waiting made her fidgety.

  Izzy came in with his shoeshine box.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “What business is it of yours?” she said. She held on to her braids. She wasn’t feeling too friendly toward Izzy just then.

  “None, I guess.”

  Izzy went to the counter just as someone got up from the seat. He ordered an egg cream. Rachel watched as Mr. Bloom’s assistant poured chocolate syrup into a tall glass. Then he added milk and stirred. When he put in the seltzer, it foamed up to the top of the glass. Rachel could almost taste it. There was nothing better than a cold, fizzy egg cream.

  Izzy put two straws into the glass.

  “Want to share?” he asked her.

  Rachel was ready to forgive him for reporting her but before she could answer, the telephone rang. It was a call for Sophie’s house. The egg cream would have to wait.

  “Thanks, Izzy, but I have to go,” she said, already regretting the lost egg cream.

  Rachel ran down the street. She was in such a hurry she tripped and fell. She tore a hole in the elbow of her blouse. Her mother would be mad but she couldn’t stop now.

  “You’re my first call today, Mrs. Gross,” she told Sophie’s mother. “I came as fast as I could.”

  “Thank you, Rachel,” Sophie’s mother said.

  “Oh, I hope it’s Pa telling us he’s coming home,” said Sophie. Her father was still selling his wares down south.

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” said Sophie’s mother. She was about to leave when Sophie said, “Didn’t you forget something, Ma?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Gross.

  “Rachel came all the way from the drugstore to call you.”

  “Oh.”

  Mrs. Gross reached into her purse.

  “Here is a penny for your trouble, Rachel.”

  “Thank you,” Rachel said. She placed the penny in her pocket. Now she had thirteen cents.

  When Mrs. Gross left, Sophie handed Rachel a walnut she had just cracked.

  “We’re making strudel for the boarders,” she said. “They’ll never miss one walnut.”

  Rachel quickly ate the nut.

  “I’d better go, Sophie,” she said. “I don’t want to miss any calls. Thanks for the nut.”

  Rachel got back to the drugstore just as Mrs. Gross finished with her call. From the look on her face as she rushed out, Rachel knew it wasn’t Mr. Gross calling. The telephone rang again right away as if it were trying to help Rachel. There were four messages and three more pennies before Rachel had to go home for supper. That made sixteen cents. She only needed nine more pennies.

  Mrs. Golden was standing in the small front room as Rachel entered. She was having a fitting for her dress.

  “This is not quite what I had in mind, Mrs. Berger,” she said. “I wanted the sleeves to puff at the shoulders and be narrow at the wrists.”

  “But the styles are changing, Mrs. Golden. Those puffy leg-of-mutton sleeves are dated. Set-in sleeves look so much more elegant.”

  “Really? I won’t pay for anything that isn’t in the latest style, you know.”

  “Rachel,” said Mama with a sigh. “Where are your manners? Say hello to Mrs. Golden.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Golden.”

  Mrs. Golden looked over at Hannah, who was playing with a top by the front window, then back at Rachel.

  “So this is Hannah’s big sister.”

  Rachel gritted her teeth. Was Mrs. Golden comparing them?

  “My name is Rachel,” she said.

  “Well, Rachel, it looks as if your mother needs to make you something better to wear. Ah, but you know the old saying: A shoemaker’s children always go barefoot.”
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  Mama’s face burned red but she just smiled and bent toward her needle. The metal thimble that protected her finger flashed in the tiny ray of sunshine that came in through the open window.

  Rachel tried to hide her torn sleeve. If Mrs. Golden thought Mama wasn’t a good dressmaker, she wouldn’t recommend Mama to her friends and Mama wouldn’t get enough work to buy a sewing machine. Where would Mama’s dream be then? Mrs. Golden was Mama’s first customer. She was like a fierce wave. Maybe the next wave to come would be gentle. Rachel hoped so.

  • eight •

  SECRETS

  The next day Rachel made sure she had her handkerchief. She didn’t want Miss Conway to give her another detention.

  When she went to the drugstore after school, Mr. Bloom gave her a different job. He paid her a penny to deliver some cough medicine to a man over on the next street. That and the penny she made with one phone message added up to eighteen cents, helping her get closer to the roses. When she closed her eyes, Rachel could see them already shining on her skirt. It made her smile. But there was no time to waste. She felt as if she were in a race with her mother, and her mother was a fast worker.

  At supper one night, Mrs. Berger said, “Please get me the buttons, Rachel. I’ll be ready to sew them on the skirts tomorrow.”

  Rachel felt her stomach crunch like the accordion Uncle Duvid played at family gatherings. Except the accordion would go in and out, and Rachel felt as if her stomach was crunched forever. She couldn’t tell her mother that she was still saving money to buy the buttons. Mrs. Berger would say she had been foolish for spending so much when she could have settled for the perfectly nice buttons on a card.

  “Did you finish Mrs. Golden’s dress yet, Mama?” Rachel asked.

  “Not yet, but soon.”

  “When you finish, I’ll give you the buttons for both.”

  “Why not now?” asked her mother.

  “Because, because…,” Rachel said.

  “You didn’t lose the nickel I gave you?” asked Mrs. Berger.

  “No, Mama. It’s just that—”