Jews flourished in Odessa, along with French businessmen, Italians and Greeks, and Armenians. The opera was renowned, the days long and sunny. “Like God in Odessa,” went the Yiddish saying, bringing contentment and prosperity to mind. Sophie and Jacob were prominent citizens, enjoyed the opera and the large house Jacob had built on a hill overlooking the harbor. And then came the Easter riots of 1871. The Easter “amusements” they were often called by the Gentiles who perpetrated them.
It started on a Sunday. There was a rumor that some Jewish students had thrown a dead cat upon the altar of a Greek church. Within hours, twenty or thirty roving bands were searching for Jewish victims. Jewish businesses were looted, Jewish women raped, synogogues burned to the ground. Jacob was in his offices, alone, so he did not hear the news for some time. Sophie was home alone. Jacob ran through the streets, running through broken glass and debris, papers and ledgers, for the marauders had left nothing. He passed the Jewish bank where he did business every day and saw that every window was destroyed, and that on a balcony laughing men were throwing down books, accounts, ripping them into small fragments which fluttered down to the street like snowflakes. Now Jacob could smell fire, and the fear moved his legs as he ran, dodging down the alleys that he knew so well, the side streets, in as straight a line as he dared to take toward his house.
When he reached his house he saw, through the broken windows, men in the upstairs room. A group of them stood on the balcony, tugging at Sophie’s beloved piano. A window shattered and the glass fell in the street. And then with a roar, the piano went over, splintering on the cobblestones with an awful cry. With his heart in his mouth, Jacob ran to the back and opened a cellar door. He went down the dark stairs and found Sophie, sitting on the dank floor, half-dressed, her blond hair loose and hanging down her back. She would not speak, and he picked her up like a child and half-carried, half-dragged her a few blocks away to a friendly baker who lent them his cellar at peril of his life. They ate bread and pastries for three days and emerged at last to find the Jewish quarter devastated, every window broken. Dazed, they walked through streets that were full of feathers, for it seemed every bed in the quarter had been ripped open. It looked as though a heavy snow had taken place, the streets were so white. They walked through the feathers past the burned-out shells of houses, not daring to hope. When he saw his house standing, Jacob wept. He did not care, at that moment, that all the precious things Sophie loved and cared for were broken or missing. And when he heard of the mother who had tried to prevent the rape of her daughter and had her ears cut off, then bled to death, he thanked God for his wife, whose empty eyes would surely fill with love and hope once again, please God.
Jacob never felt safe in Odessa again, but it was his home, and he loved it, so he said to all who would listen that the riots had been an aberration. He talked of moving his money to France but never did. Jews were too important to the economy of Odessa to destroy their businesses, he said. The czar would protect them. He rebuilt his business and refurnished his house, and he went on and prospered as before, slowly but surely. Marguerite was born in December of 1871, and though Sophie had been depressed during her pregnancy, she seemed to revive at the first sight of her pretty daughter. Life began anew.
Marguerite loved Odessa. She spoke fluent French, Yiddish, and Russian. She was a privileged child, cosseted by her mother, adored by her father. She still remembered her childhood as whole years of sun and warmth, good food, loving arms and generous kisses. She grew up, a beautiful child, with perfect white skin and her mother’s dark blue eyes. Her hair was of the deepest black, unlike Sophie’s, which was blond, and her father’s, which was a dark red. She took after her paternal grandmother, who had been renowned for her beautiful hair, like sable, her father said, showing her a miniature of his mother. He called Marguerite “little raven,” and he indulged her every whim.
On March 1, 1881, czar Alexander II was assasinated by terrorists. The czar had been known for his modest reforms, his liberalism toward Jews. Within days, a riot began in Yelizavetgrad, then spread to the neighboring cities, reaching Kiev on April 26th.
This time, news reached them, and Jacob saw it coming. He could not quite believe that it would spread as far as Odessa, but he made plans. He bribed a captain on one of his ships to take Sophie and Marguerite on the next run to France. He gave Sophie a purse full of gold, but he had no time to transfer money from the bank. He sent them away on the morning of May 3rd, just as trouble began in the streets, but Jacob stayed with his home and his business. Marguerite remembered the smoke and the cries from the city as they sailed away, hiding among bales of wheat. She remembered how her mother trembled as she held Marguerite too tightly.
The captain was supposed to hire someone to deliver them straight to Lille, to Sophie’s aunt, but he dropped them off at the pier in Marseille and never returned to Odessa with the ship, saying he had had enough of dealing with Jews.
Jacob never spoke of what happened during the riots, but he lost everything. Nothing was salvagable, nothing remained. Consoling himself with the thought of his wife and daughter safe with her relatives, he booked passage for America. It was the only way, he wrote Sophie. Many Russian Jews were going. In America, Jews were safe. He had no money, but he would make it again. Other Jews would help him.
Sophie showed an unexpected strength on the pier in Marseille. She got them to Lille, chattering about the great adventures they were having. She exclaimed over the new house they would live in in Lille, though it seemed small and dank to Marguerite after the grand house in Odessa. And she laughed and sang while she peeled potatoes and dug in the garden.
Marguerite spent four years in France. Her aunt and uncle were not rich, and they weren’t very kind, but Marguerite was happy much of the time. She hardly missed her father after a few months, for Jacob, in the past years, had been rarely home, trying to build up his business to what it had been before. Now without a governess, she became closer to her mother. Sophie seemed to blossom without Jacob, and even grew to be a gifted gardener. It came as something of a shock for both of them when Jacob sent the fare for their passage to America.
Still, it was another adventure, and though Marguerite didn’t want to leave France, America loomed as a romantic place, full of possibility. Sophie and Marguerite spent days sewing and packing and making sure their wardrobes were perfect for the trip. They scraped together some money so they could both have new hats.
They were blessed with good weather for the passage, and they felt lucky, with second class accommodations, compared to steerage. But their good spirits faded upon their arrival in New York. Marguerite would never forget the shock of seeing her father at the pier. Looking at her mother, she knew Sophie was shocked, too. Jacob was old.
At first, he had tried for a good job uptown, his hopes moving downward from manager to accountant to clerk. Nobody wanted him. He was a Russian Jew, no matter that he had been born in France, and he found that German Jews looked at him with distaste, thinking him a peasant. They would give him a chance, some said, but times were bad. For some reason, he could not hold onto any job he took. Later, Marguerite realized that Jacob was a good employer but a bad employee. He had lost his spirit and his hope, and he was not willing to do menial work. He grew affronted at slights, he lost his temper, and he was often fired. The job as a clerk in a store had given him a burst of optimism and he had sent their passage. But in the time it took for them to make ready and cross the ocean, he had been fired again. Jacob was at his lowest ebb; he was a peddler.
Marguerite was no longer a privileged child. She was sent to school, but it was a public school filled with peasant children. Her mother sewed, and they took in boarders. And instead of the adoring father she dimly remembered, a thin stranger stood in his clothes, a stranger who, after her fifteenth birthday, told her flatly that she would turn out to no good. Things were never the same for Marguerite. She had another year of hell, and then she moved out. She put on her clean shirt
waist and her black skirt and took the El uptown, all the way to Fifth Avenue. She put on her French accent, for she had picked one up in France, called herself Marguerite Corbeau—raven, in French, a nod to a time when her father still loved her—and got a job as a maid. She’d suffered there for two years until Columbine had rescued her.
But her mother was still trapped. Marguerite looked around at the grayness her mother lived with. She remembered the fresh flowers her mother would insist on having all around her in Odessa, and even in Lille. She remembered Sophie, her blond hair spilling out of her bun, her cheeks flushed with triumph over the success of her tomatoes. Now, Sophie would never think of wasting a nickel and taking the El up to Central Park.
“Mama,” Marguerite said impulsively, “if I came down and met you, would you take a cab with me uptown to the Park? You could see trees and grass. It’s so lovely, Mama.”
“Oh, I don’t know. That would take a half a day, wouldn’t it? I couldn’t take the time.”
“But I have money, Mama. I could give you the money you’d make that afternoon. Papa wouldn’t have to know. Will you think about it?”
Sophie touched a fleeting hand to her hair. “But I have nothing to wear, cheri’.” She laughed. “You forget I am French.”
“I’ll buy you a new hat, a beautiful hat, with feathers and flowers, whatever you want.”
Sophie stared at her penetratingly. “And where will you get the money for such a hat?”
Marguerite briefly considered telling her about Edwin, but decided to wait until she was actually married. “I’m taking singing lessons, Mama. Remember how you told me I sang like a bird? My teacher says I have great talent. I’m going to audition for William Miles Paradise in a few weeks.”
“Who?”
“William Paradise,” Marguerite said impatiently. “The most famous theatrical producer in New York, Mama.”
Sophie frowned. “On Second Avenue? What kind of a name is Paradise?”
Marguerite shook her head. “Not Yiddish theatre, Mama. Real theatre. He put on The Girl from Abeline, and Maisie’s European Tour, and, oh, so many plays. And he does revues, too. He knows everyone—Lillian Russell, Edwin Booth, John Drew …”
“He must be a great man. But Marguerite, how are you paying for these lessons?”
Marguerite looked away impatiently. “I have a job, remember? I’m living with Columbine Nash, and I work in her office.”
“You never had fine silk dresses from that job,” her mother observed.
“You sound like Papa,” Marguerite said grimly.
Sophie hesitated. “No. But I’m your mother. I know how men take advantage …”
“And what if I take advantage of them?” she tossed out with a laugh.
Sophie withdrew her arm and turned to her. Her blue eyes were sharp with censure. “You are still a child, Marguerite, not a woman. When you are a woman, you will show respect to your mother. Do you think I am without wisdom, without experience? I’m not a peasant, not an uneducated woman. Do you think I am just the meek little wife, running after my difficult husband? You forget how long I was without him, how I made a life for you, alone. And now you toss away my words like chaff in the wind. Don’t be so smart, little one.”
Marguerite decided not to point out that they had lived with Aunt Mariette and Uncle Max in Lille. Sophie had not exactly been alone. “No, Mama, I don’t forget,” she said in a concilatory tone. “Let’s not quarrel. I have to leave you, and I can’t if you’re frowning at me.” Marguerite dug into her bag and pressed all the money she had in her mother’s hands, leaving some change for a cab. “Buy some meat this week. Some medicine for Papa’s chest, though he doesn’t deserve it.”
Sophie blushed as she took the money. “I didn’t tell you, but things could be looking up. There’s a rumor—this rich man, Baron de Hirsch, he’s asked how many immigrants are on the East Side. He’s counting the Jews, and they say he’ll give one hundred dollars to each person! Jacob is sure of this. Won’t that be wonderful?”
Marguerite looked into her mother’s eyes. She could see that her mother did believe it. “No one is going to give you anything, Mama,” she said. “Don’t you see that it isn’t worth it, to do piece work, to live like an animal? You have to take a big step, a big risk, to get anywhere.”
Now her mother was annoyed again. “What do you know of risks? It doesn’t take much courage to risk when you’re young and pretty. That’s the danger of it.”
Marguerite pulled on her gloves. “All right, whatever you say,” she said, not listening. “I’ll bring more money next time. And Mama, I’m not what Papa thinks I am. I promise.”
Sophie looked down at the money in her hands. “But what are you?” she asked slowly.
Marguerite pretended she hadn’t heard. She kissed her mother and walked quickly away. What, indeed? she thought. But she smiled while she thought it.
Thirteen
FIONA DEVLIN REFUSED to meet Elijah at her home, so they met halfway at a restaurant on Charles Street. It was mid-afternoon, and they were the only customers. Elijah ordered two coffees from the bored proprietor, who poured out two mugs and then returned to nap in front of the coal stove.
While Fiona blew on the coffee and took her first sip, Elijah studied her face underneath the brim of a black hat. For this age, the feminine ideal was of lush womanhood, bosomy and fullhipped in elaborate gowns. Fiona would not be thought terribly attractive. She was a working woman in a shabby black dress; she looked underfed.
But some future age might call her beautiful, Elijah thought. She had a strong, striking face, and he admired it. The nose was straight and long, the jaw a bit too prominent. One of her front teeth overlapped the other slightly. Her skin was pale, but it did not have the creaminess that some women of fair coloring had; it was thin and translucent, skin that would show any change in temperature or emotion. Her eyes were extraordinary, icy green, and in the left one, there was a tiny triangle of deep gold. Next to the skin and the eyes her hair was tangerine colored, wild, extravagant. It was thick and very long, the kind of hair that it is impossible to tame, wavy, kinky and curly by turns, and always unruly.
“Do you see something you like, Mr. Reed?” she asked him mockingly.
He had been caught, and Elijah regretted his rudeness. It was not a good way to begin. “I didn’t mean to stare. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Devlin.”
She shrugged and cupped her coffee. Her hands looked red and cold; the cuticles were cracked, and one knuckle was skinned. “It’s all right. What do you want? Are you writing another article about the poor and downtrodden?”
“No.” Elijah remembered now how blunt she was. She had no time for anyone who bored her. “I learned something recently that I thought you should know.”
She looked at him over the thick rim of her coffee mug. There was no curiosity in her eyes. She would wait for the information, then decide if it was worth knowing or not.
“I’m afraid that Mrs. Nash’s position might have been misrepresented to you,” he said. “She has agreed to testify for you, should you wish to bring a lawsuit against Ambrose Hartley.”
Fiona blinked, the only sign that this information had interested her. She put down her mug very slowly. She picked at a cuticle, then put her hands in her lap. “She agreed, you say?”
“Yes. From the first. I wanted you to know that.”
She nodded several times while she took in the information. “Well, it doesn’t matter. My Jim won’t go through the bother and expense. We don’t expect justice, why would our case be any different from the way things are? And with Mr. Hartley having that heart attack, no judge would rule for us anyway.”
“I agree, the chances are not good. But I would help in any way I could, should you wish to proceed. I’m sure I could find counsel who wouldn’t charge a fee, or wait until the settlement to take any money.”
She waved a hand, then reached behind her for her coat. He noticed how the stitching near the armho
les was coming out. A benefactor, indeed, Mr. Birch. “I have something else to tell you,” he went on. “An offer, actually.”
She paused, then let her coat drop to her lap. “Yes?”
“Mr. Van Cormandt is looking for a domestic worker. A parlormaid. He asked if you would be interested in taking a job.”
With an impatient jerk, she turned her head sideways, then glanced at him. “I never did upstairs work. I always was in the kitchens.”
“Mr. Van Cormandt is aware of that.” Elijah leaned across the table. “He’s more liberal than most, Mrs. Devlin. You and Mr. Devlin could live in, or out, as you choose. Sundays and one other afternoon off, and Mr. Van Cormandt is often out of town these days, and doesn’t entertain. He said he could use another stable worker, too. Isn’t Mr. Devlin up and about?”
She nodded shortly. Her mouth twisted. She looked over Elijah’s left shoulder, into the distance. “A one-armed man in a stable?”
“I’ve seen Mr. Devlin. He’s a good, strong man, stronger than most. What do you say, Mrs. Devlin? Would you like to talk to Mr. Van Cormandt?”
She stood up abruptly, surprising Elijah, who reared back as her chair skidded across the tiled floor. The proprietor woke up and looked at them with new interest.
Clutching her coat in front of her, she leaned over the table and locked eyes with Elijah. “I wouldn’t work for that man if he danced barefoot to my doorway over broken glass and knelt on his bloody knees at my feet.”
Elijah hesitated, then nodded. “A compelling image, Mrs. Devlin. But I do get your point.”
Fiona pulled on her coat, thrusting her arms into the sleeves stiffly. Adjusting her hat, she started toward the door.
“Mrs. Devlin?”
She turned. “There’s more, Mr. Reed?”
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