by Rhys Bowen
Jacob’s atelier was in a loft on Rivington Street, which was in the more prosperous side of the Jewish quarter. Here the houses were built of solid red brick, trimmed with white brick around the windows, and there was a lively trade going on in the many stores that lined the street. I was about to ask how they could be allowed to open on Sundays when I realized that Saturday was the Jewish Sabbath and Sunday only another ordinary day. I found myself wondering if Jacob observed Jewish rituals and went to worship at a temple.
He came down to greet us and escorted us up the stairs, past doors from which came the smells of fat frying and the sounds of a violin being played and up to the top floor. His studio was stark but neat, with a kitchen sink and scrubbed pine table at one side, a bed behind a screen, and the rest of the space taken over with photographic equipment and photographs he had taken.
“I am so glad you could come too, Miss Murphy,” he said after he had greeted Gus and Sid. He was dressed in a Russian worker’s garb, a high-buttoned black tunic that suited him well. His black curly hair was freshly washed and slicked down in an attempt to tame the curls.
“We must be outside Greenwich Village, since I have reverted to being Miss Murphy, or have I in some way offended you?” I said, and was rewarded by his blush.
“You must forgive me. I was raised to a strict code of behavior. My parents lived by every rule society ever invented.”
“Your parents are still in Russia?” I asked, expecting to hear that they were dead.
“No, they are here. I managed to bring them to the New World soon after I arrived here. They live a street away on Delancey and think me a bad son and a terrible sinner because I do not choose to live with them. That an unmarried son should branch out on his own is unthinkable. Why, he might even entertain unchaperoned young women and then who would want their daughters to marry him?”
We laughed together at this absurdity. Living with Sid and Gus had made me forget that the rest of the world still adhered to strict rules of conduct.
“So will you allow the matchmaker to select your wife, like a good Jewish son?” Sid asked.
“I could throw the same question back at you, Miss Goldfarb.”
“Touché. But one only has to look at me to know the answer. You still choose to live in a traditional area and wear a beard.”
“Then to answer your question—I still adhere to the basics of my religion, but only when it does not conflict with reason and the twentieth century. I attend the occasional seder with my family, but see no reason to observe dietary restrictions which were created for a desert lifestyle. My parents think I am lost beyond hope. And you, Miss Murphy—are you still a good Catholic girl?”
“I never was. When I was a small child I used to slip out during the middle of mass to raid the priest’s blackberry bushes. There was always too much emphasis on the fires of hell for my liking. I think my God would be more forgiving and have a better sense of humor.”
“Then we worship the same deity,” Jacob said. “Forgiving and humorous. The world would be a better place if such was the tenet of life.”
Gus had already started to wander around the room. “These photographs are magnificent, Jacob. Nell was right. You do have a great talent.”
“I’m merely a novice, Miss Walcott. Still learning my trade.”
“But you’ve captured the life of the city perfectly,” Gus said. “Come and look at this, Sid and Molly.” She held up a large print of some scruffy children, playing among lines of drying laundry on a rooftop. There were scenes in crowded streets, and ominous back alleys.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “this is the alley that the Eastmans frequent—and, if I’m not mistaken, those are members of the gang, lurking in that doorway. How did you manage to take their pictures, Jacob?”
“I am amazed that you are so familiar with gang members,” Jacob said. “You do lead a dangerous life, Miss Murphy.”
“My visit there was accidental, but you must have lingered long enough to set up your exposure.”
“I was there with Nell. She was writing one of her exposure articles on the worst slums in the city. This was one of the sites she chose.”
“She is remarkably fearless,” I said.
“I would rather say foolhardy,” Jacob answered. “Sometimes her lack of regard for her own safety worries me.”
“And so you go on assignments with her to take pictures, but also to act as her protector,” I said.
He gave me a long hard look. “You are remarkably perceptive, Miss Murphy.”
“Molly.”
He inclined his head. “Molly.”
We drank more coffee then Sid got to her feet. “I’m afraid we have taken up too much of your time, Jacob. I am delighted to have made your acquaintance and look forward to inviting you to our future soirees.”
“And I will be delighted to accept, Miss Goldfarb.” Jacob gave that curiously foreign bow. He escorted us to the door and down the stairs.
“We should hail a cab as soon as you see one, Gus dear,” Sid said. “Or we may be late for lunch with the Wassermans.”
Jacob touched my sleeve lightly. “Are you also expected at the Wassermans, Miss Murphy?”
“No, I’m not, and when will you get it into your head that my name is Molly?”
“In that case, maybe you would allow me to escort you home.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m quite comfortable on these streets and it’s broad daylight,” I said and watched his face fall. “But if you’ve a mind for a walk on such a fine breezy day, then I wouldn’t say no to the company,” I added hastily.
“In that case, I’ll grab my hat,” he said and bounded up the stairs again.
“I think you’ve made a conquest there, Molly dear,” Gus said quietly.
“Oh, no. It is Miss Blankenship who has his heart. He is merely being gentlemanly,” I said, and felt myself blushing furiously.
Jacob and I set off, along Rivington until we struck the Bowery. This broad thoroughfare was full of life on a sunny Sunday. Theaters were just opening, many of them offering plays in Yiddish. Cafés were doing a brisk trade. Jacob paused in front of one small theater that advertised moving pictures. COME AND EXPERIENCE THE WONDER OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY, the billboard proclaimed. YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE YOUR EYES!
“Now that is something that truly interests me,” Jacob said. “Photographs capture a moment, but moving pictures—that is the way of the future, Molly.” He looked at me expectantly. “Would you like to go to a performance with me?”
“Now?” I asked. “Why, thank you, Jacob, I’d love to. If you’ve nothing you should be doing at this moment, that is.”
“Nothing better than this. I’ve been twice already, but the scenes never fail to fascinate me.”
“I’ve heard about moving pictures, but I’ve never seen them yet.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” He took my arm and escorted me to the ticket booth.
We joined the crowd inside the darkened theater where an organist was playing in front of red velvet curtains. I was conscious of Jacob sitting close beside me in the dark, and it disturbed me how aware I was of his presence. Then even this closeness was forgotten. The curtains parted to reveal a screen.
Words appeared on the screen. “Ladies and gentlemen. Prepare yourselves for an outrageous journey of entertainment and delight. Hold onto your seats, folks, and ladies, do not be alarmed. What you see is only an image on the screen. It cannot harm you.”
The organ music increased and suddenly an image appeared on the screen. It was an ocean with waves breaking. My, but it was so real, you could almost smell the salt in the air and hear the cry of seagulls. The waves came closer and closer. Suddenly a giant wave came crashing at the screen. I heard screams and several people leaped to their feet. I touched my own face, half expecting to be wet. I could see Jacob grinning in the darkness. “A good illusion, wouldn’t you say?” he whispered.
The next scene was of a group of inept p
olicemen chasing a car. This was most amusing and the theater resounded to laughter. Then the car changed direction and drove directly at the camera. Again people leaped to their feet, then laughed in embarrassment when they realized it could not reach them. Then the scene changed again. The title appeared on the screen. The Kiss. We were in a lady’s boudoir. A young man stole in through the open French doors. The young damsel, seated at her vanity, seemed amazed and delighted to see him. He took her into his arms. They gazed into each other’s eyes and then there was a gasp from the audience as his lips fastened upon hers. The scene only lasted for a few seconds and then it faded. The show was over. The audience rose, still muttering in horror at what they had just seen.
“What did you think?” Jacob asked as we were jostled toward the exit.
“It was so real. Almost as if we were there.”
“If I ever make any money, I plan to build myself such a camera,” Jacob said.
“And make a moving picture called The Kiss?” I teased.
He shook his head. “I have other plans. I could take my camera back to Russia and bring back living proof to the world of the cruelties and injustices going on there. I could take it to the Boer War in South Africa and show the world what war is really like. If ordinary people knew what was going on, we could change the world.”
“That’s a wonderful notion, Jacob, but an awful risk for yourself.”
“Someone has to take risks or nothing changes,” he said.
We stood blinking in the bright sunlight.
“I almost forgot that it was daylight outside,” I said.
“Should we take the trolley or do you feel up to walking?” Jacob asked.
“Do I look like a frail young thing who might faint at any moment?” I demanded.
“No, I’d say that you looked most robust and healthy.” His frank gaze made me blush again.
He had barely uttered those words when Nell Blankenship appeared, like magic, from a café.
“Jacob. Molly. What a surprise,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on me and her expression indicated that she wasn’t overjoyed to see me.
“Hello, Nell,” Jacob said. “A lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Sid, Gus, and I have been viewing Jacob’s photographs. He is very talented,” I said hastily.
“He is indeed,” she said. “So where are Sid and Gus? I should like to thank them for last night.”
“They had a lunch appointment and had to make a hasty departure,” Jacob said. “I am escorting Molly home.”
“Ah,” Nell said. Her gaze passed from Jacob to me and back again. “Well, much as I would like to stay and pass the time of day with you, I also must hurry. I’m due at my parents’ home for lunch—my weekly penance and lecture session. Please excuse me.” She rushed to jump on an already moving electric trolley. “I’ll try to send you news about where your heiress worked as soon as possible,” she called as she swung herself aboard with agility. “I’ll start on it tomorrow!”
“Do not take any foolish risks, remember!” Jacob shouted as the trolley bore her away.
“Fiddle faddle,” she shouted back, laughing.
I looked at Jacob. “Now I feel guilty. I hope she won’t think badly of me.”
“Why should she think badly of you?”
“Because I was dallying with her young man.”
“Her young man? Nell and I are friends, nothing more.”
“But I thought—I saw the way she treated you with such familiarity.”
“She may well want a more intimate relationship,” Jacob said, “but not I. I admire Nell. I think she is the most courageous woman I have ever met. But I would not choose such a woman for my wife. Sometimes she frightens me with the intensity of her dedication and fire.”
Why did I feel absurdly happy at this statement?
“I see you are smiling,” Jacob said. “Could it be that you’ve just heard some good news?”
“I can’t think what you are talking about, Mr. Singer.” I tossed back my hair and set off at a lively trot.
“Jacob,” he said, keeping pace with me.
Sixteen
Knowing that a young man was interested in me certainly added spice to my life. And such a fascinating young man too. We had talked all the way home, touching on every subject under the sun. Daniel and I had been comfortable with each other, but we had never really discussed deep matters. Jacob and I thrashed out religion and royalty and socialism and communism and even birth control. I was amazed that I could talk about such things with a man. I had pretty much taken life for granted until I left Ireland. I knew that conditions were unfair and that the Irish were treated poorly in their own country, but I had considered those who fought for change to be rabble-rousers and hotheads, spoiling for a fight. In Jacob I saw someone who cared passionately and believed he could make a difference in the world. When he told me some of the things he had done as a member of the Bund in Russia, I was amazed. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen at the time, but he had risked his life almost daily.
After we parted, I went to my room and stood at the window, watching him walk away. “Now that is truly a fine fellow,” I said out loud. He wouldn’t forget to mention that he was engaged to another girl or lack the courage to break off an engagement to a girl he didn’t love. Thinking of Daniel reminded me that I had to write a note to him, purely professional, of course. I took out pen, ink, and blotter and started to write. I asked him for any details of Katherine’s death that he could find—the point at which she was taken from the river, estimate of how long she had been in the water, where she might have entered, description of what she was wearing, any dressmaker’s labels on the clothes to indicate where they were made, any jewelry, any sign of foul play—bruises, wounds, etc. I almost signed it, “Yours, Molly,” until I remembered that I was not his and most probably would never be his. But the thought was no longer as painful. In fact I felt a great lifting of the spirit, as if I had awakened after a long hibernation.
I sent the message to the Mulberry Street police station with Shamey and waited for a reply, knowing it might not be until Monday, if Daniel had his weekend free. The moment I thought about Daniel’s weekends, scenes flashed through my mind—Daniel and me strolling by the lake in Central Park, eating ice cream at a soda fountain, Daniel kissing me under the leafy boughs of the Ramble in the park. I knew then that I wouldn’t get over him so easily, however diverting the fascinating Mr. Singer might be.
As it happened, Daniel didn’t have the weekend off. That evening a note was delivered by a uniformed constable.
I’m writing this at work, so forgive the terse tone of this message.
The young woman you think may be Katherine was pulled from the river below the Brooklyn Bridge. She was spotted from the deck of a docked cargo ship. Since she was in midstream, it is unclear where she fell in. She may have jumped from the bridge, which has become a popular suicide site. Her clothing is recorded as a print muslin dress. No mention of dressmakers labels, laundry marks, etc. No mention of any jewelry (and that would include wedding ring—hence the motive for suicide?). Also no suggestion of foul play.
I’m sorry I can’t help you more. I trust that your reason for wanting these facts is to satisfy the curiosity of her family, and that you do not entertain any absurd notion of investigating her death. I need hardly warn you that you have had several lucky escapes recently. Do not test the fates again.
Daniel
His lack of information gave me nothing to investigate, I thought angrily as I reread the note. To be truthful, I hadn’t expected any jewelry, but she was married, or pretending to be, so the lack of ring was strange—unless someone had removed it along with any other means of identification. Of course, it could have slipped off a cold, dead finger in the icy East River, and I didn’t think that the New York police would be above even pocketing a wedding ring. But I had been hopeful that an observant policeman might have noticed an unusual label on her clothing or something tha
t didn’t fit the picture. Even if she chose to dress simply, her underwear would still be top-quality English, maybe even from Paris. Ah well, it was too late to do anything about that now. The poor girl was dead and buried. I just wished there had been some proof that this was Katherine Faversham. How awful it would be for her parents, never quite knowing what had happened to her. In spite of Daniel’s warning, I hoped that Nell would come up with some small fact that could start us on the road to filling in the pieces of this puzzle.
Monday was another rainy day that found us garment workers huddled together, wet and steaming in the warmth of Samuel’s Deli at lunchtime. Rose took the opportunity of speaking to the girls about the union and the plans for a walkout.
“So who’s going to feed my kids while I’m on a picket line?” one of the older women demanded. “And who is going to tell my Leon when I get the boot?”
“But nobody should be treated the way we are,” I said, joining Rose. “You can’t like working in such conditions.”
“Of course we don’t like it, but we have no choice if we want to feed our families,” the woman snapped.
“We have to make them sit up and notice that we have power,” Rose said.
“Power, schmower,” the woman muttered. “My mother’s canary has more power than we do, and it lives in a cage.”
“But don’t you see,” Rose insisted, “if our timing is right, then we do have power. You know how Mr. Lowenstein likes to get his clothes into the store before his rivals. If we walked out on the very day that he wanted us to get busy on the new line, I believe he’d listen to us.”
“She may have a point, Fanny,” another girl said. “If he’s not first in the stores, who would want his shoddy clothing? You know how he skimps on the fabric and it’s the cheapest quality too.”
“It might be worth a try, Rose. Tell us what we have to do.”
Suddenly the girls were all around her. “You tell us when, Rose. You give the word. We’ll show him we’re not made soft like butter.”