by Kalyan Ray
“He said that?” I asked, smiling now for the first time.
“Frankie wanted to explain things to Maeve and you, Giuseppe told me,” Josephine said. “But there was too little time.” She held her finger up and added, “It was a Sunday, so Giuseppe could be with Frankie the entire day. On that one day Frankie he had before sailing off, he wrote this letter to your mother, Mrs. Maeve Sztolberg,” Josephine said, “that’s what Giuseppe told me.”
“What!” I did not understand at all. Frankie knew how Mama resented him. “No, Josephine,” I asserted, certain that she had misunderstood, “he must be mistaken.”
“But that is precisely what he did, Bibi, believe me,” Josephine insisted. “Maybe I understand immigrants better, neh?” she added. “He had done this to show respect to your mother: The first hopeful step to honor her in his new family.”
“And he didn’t write to me!” I was not sure I was hearing right.
“No, Bibi, listen,” said Josephine, with quiet emphasis, “he did write to you, asking Giuseppe and Nicolina for advice as a married couple, telling them exactly what he had put in his letter.”
Giuseppe had said that Frankie’s letter to me was short, because he felt sure that I would understand, without preamble or argument. I was his soul, his alma, he had written, and if life on the farm was what I wanted, he would stay there; he wrote that Lucia would love that too. “This is going to be my final voyage, I swear,” Giuseppe said Frankie had written. Then he put both letters in a single envelope, inscribing both the names, Mrs. Maeve Sztolberg and Miss Bibi Sztolberg, above the address of the farm. Giuseppe had mailed it for him the very next day.
I was thunderstruck by what my mother had done.
• • •
OUR TEA HAD long been finished.
“How much time does it take to go to Italy, find someone, and bring her back?” I asked Josephine. I moved my empty cup beside the saucer, then put it back restlessly.
“That is not what is most important,” said Josephine softly, almost in a whisper.
“What can you mean?” I said so loudly that I startled myself. “I’m sorry,” I said, lowering my voice, “I don’t understand.”
“Bibi, think hard. Italy is a long way away. You never know what might have happened on the way, or over there. How Papa and Uncle Arthur came from Slovakia . . . you cannot begin to imagine the ordeals, Bibi. They could not tell from day to day where they were going, or if they would even survive.”
“But Frankie has only to go by sea and back.”
“Look, Bibi. Think of what Frankie said to Giuseppe. He loves you, neh? But he needs to do this thing before he comes to you. Can you understand, yes?”
“Well, there is one thing I can understand only a little, but another thing I don’t understand at all. Okay, maybe it is harder than he expected to find Lucia.”
“Yes,” said Josephine, firmly. “Wouldn’t your own father have gone back to find his sister Tirzeh, if he had the chance?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” I said, “Maybe Lucia is sick. Maybe he ran out of money. Perhaps he could not easily find her. But why does he not write to me? He owes me that much.” I stopped momentarily, adding bitterly, “Maybe he does not want our baby.”
“Wait, Bibi,” said Josephine, “how do you know he has not written? And he does not know about the baby, no?”
I agreed feebly. “But why doesn’t he return?”
“I don’t know, Bibi,” said Josephine almost to herself. “But he loves you. You are lucky to have that, neh?”
Josephine stared at the empty cups. I noticed her capable hands, unadorned by any trinkets, and began to sense the core of loneliness that Josephine Grunwald guarded. She was a union worker, a secret organizer, the target of hired thugs like Ijjybijjy Malouf, a staunch friend of her coworkers, a much-loved daughter and niece, and nothing else. She was generous and thought nothing of sharing her room with a virtual stranger, a room full of books and pamphlets and a narrow bed. I understood that it would be somehow hurtful to Josephine if I were to apologize now, at this moment. Josephine’s clear intelligent eyes exuded an unsettling honesty. Few men would ever attempt flirtation with Josephine Grunwald, never getting to her deep reserve of strength and real humor that I already understood and loved.
“You know what I would be lucky to have?” I said impulsively, rushing on. “A job, like you do, making enough for a small place of my own. I would be doing something besides just waiting for Frankie to come back. I would save every penny,” I said wistfully.
“The baby? Who would take care of him?” asked Josephine levelly.
“My mother can take care of him. She already does. That is all she likes to do. More than anything else.” My bitterness spilt out of me. “If she could nurse him, she would, till he is twenty.”
“And is that all you can say about her?”
I made myself face Josephine’s direct gaze, but could not quite meet it. “She loves us . . . me,” I conceded in bitterness, “very much. Too much.”
Josephine did not answer immediately. I could not stop my tears now. “I miss my baby, but what else can I do?”
“And what is the other thing you do not understand at all, Bibi?” said Josephine, already knowing the question which I had not been able to ask.
“Why did my mother never mention the letters?”
Josephine’s smile was ironic, but her words were gentle. “Surely you know the answer yourself, neh? You told me how she does not allow anyone, including the old man—Brendan?—ever to speak of leaving. She has waited all these years for her father to come to her. She never realized she had all the father she could have asked for. Your mother—she did not want another woman, her own daughter, in the same household, waiting, waiting like her.”
“So, should I not wait, if my truth is to wait?” I asked defiantly. “Why can’t I choose for myself? She always has.”
“Yes, Bibi,” said Josephine, “but you are alike in too many ways to agree with each other—yet. Mothers and daughters often walk a hard path.” She stood up. “Come, let us go. It’s getting late.” The thought of Ijjybijjy Malouf came to my mind suddenly, and I looked anxiously at the shadows on the afternoon street.
“Don’t live in fear, Bibi,” said Josephine, as if she could read my mind. “Besides, I have my weapon, neh?” she added, patting her small umbrella, which, I noticed only now, had a hideous point.
“Are you good at sewing?” she asked as we strode briskly.
“I am indeed,” I replied proudly.
“We shall see how good, yes?” Josephine said, “I’ll teach you some tricks of the trade in the next couple of days. Then I’ll explain where to go for an interview. I’ll tell you what pay to expect. Don’t accept anything less.”
“Oh yes.” I was brightening immediately. “Yes!”
“And don’t mention you know me,” said Josephine pragmatically. “They know I’m a union girl. Then they wouldn’t hire you.”
I nodded happily. Linking our arms, Josephine walked to her own beat. “We bargain for our wages together. If the owners are unfair to us, we quit work together. When they want us, we go together to work—if we agree—on our terms, fair and square. We are human beings, neh? Well, some of the owners are not.” She chuckled at her own joke. “I’ll give you some pamphlets by and by. But first, the sewing tips. I need to see not only how good you are—but how fast and accurate. And for how long. We work many hours, see.”
I said yes to all this. A question was forming in my mind. Josephine read my look and simply said, “Of course, you’ll stay with me and Papa and Uncle Arthur until you’ve saved enough. They have already grown so fond of you, I should be jealous, neh?” She chuckled and asked, “Shall we go visit Uncle Arthur at his hotel now and tell him? Shall we go right now? Are you tired? Can you walk?”
“Of course,” I agreed, and we headed uptown.
We amused ourselves by watching the fine shops as we walked up Madison Avenue. I admired t
he mannequins, spangly bags, and hats with feathers, and longed to pause and gawk, but did not want to hold back Josephine, who never broke her stride. As we turned right to go toward Park Avenue and the big hotel where Uncle Arthur worked, Josephine asked me, “Will you write to your mother before or after you find your job?”
“After,” I replied firmly.
“How long after?”
“As soon as I can show her I can survive on my own.”
“She will worry. So will the old man Brendan. See, Frankie is not the only one to worry others.”
“Yes,” I demurred. “Okay, a month after I get my job.”
And then we were in front of the grand hotel.
“Let’s go down and see Uncle Arthur,” said Josephine.
“Down?” I wondered. We peeked in through the grand entrance where uniformed doormen stood like deposed kings in mufti. They just ignored us, as if they had been trained to see from a long distance the amount of money anyone carried. Smooth marble columns and huge potted palms rose from the most gleaming floor I’d ever seen. Tall floor lamps glittered amid plush sofas. I felt even the air was different, balmy and warm, without noise, just a hush with a few sounds of the tinkly kind, of fine china and wineglasses, rippling bars at the piano. One of the uninformed bellboys glided up to Josephine.
“Come to see your uncle, Miss Grunwald?” he said with a quick smile.
“Yes, Moishe,” she said.
“It’s Morris here,” he reminded her.
I followed Josephine through a discreet side door, clattered down some steep iron stairs, until she pushed open a great big door with the painted sign that read BOILER ROOM. Off to one side of the very warm cavernous room were a few partitioned spaces, waist-high, with a foot or so of framed glazed glass above. In one of these, under a lamp that was suspended from a very high ceiling with flaking paint, I spied the familiar balding pink head adorned with a banker’s green shade. Uncle Arthur sat at a cheap wooden desk, his jacket draped behind his chair. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a cylinder of ash suspended precariously as he leaned over a large ledger, looking intently at columns on a page, a seasoned general inspecting his troops.
He broke into a grin, his face creasing like crumpled paper, clapped his hands, and called out, “Seymour, Seymour.” Uncle Arthur whispered something to the nearsighted young man who appeared, adding as he left, “Tell Maxie Shapiro in the kitchen.”
In a few minutes, Seymour reappeared, carrying a tray laid with the most immaculate white linen, and on it, two splendid desserts. The spoons were monogrammed, as were the serviettes. For Uncle Arthur he had brought pale tea in an old porcelain mug.
“Peach Melba,” Arthur said with a flourish, “meet Miss Bibi Sztolberg and Miss Josephine Grunwald!”
• • •
“YOU’LL BE JUST fine, Bibi,” Josephine told me at the packed elevator door, giving my cold hand an encouraging squeeze. “You sew far better than most beginners here.” She went up the stairs one more floor where they worked on special orders.
I felt breathless as I walked through the heavy door into what seemed to my eyes like a world unto itself. So this was the clothes factory. I can barely remember who directed me to my seat amid the hectic clackety-clack of machines, smell of cloth, chirpy or sharp talk among the girls, the sudden quiet when the two owners came by. The girl next to me pointed them out: short, dark Mr. Harris, and then the broody, pale Mr. Blanck with his stiff black hair. The quips that followed after a safe interval, between her and the older woman next to her, were funny and bitter at once.
“I’m Annie,” the girl spoke a thick brogue, “Annie Starr. And this is Julia Rosen.” But Julia went on working, barely acknowledging me.
I felt a little apprehensive around the stolid middle-aged women, or the bent older ones who fretted about getting slow or their tired eyes. The cutters were all men and, being better paid, thought the world of themselves, Annie told me. I noticed too, how the boys in the cutting and shipping sections made eyes at pretty girls, some of whom giggled or snapped back pert answers.
Oh, there was plenty to watch, but little time, as I focused on my job, sewing linings on a pile of coats dumped beside me. Twice that afternoon, our supervisors, Anna Gullo and Lucy Wesselofsky, came up to me, pointing out this or that wrong stitch or bent seam. Oh bother those two!
As we walked home that evening, Josephine noticed I had my head bent, eyes fixed on the sidewalk underfoot. “Bibi?” she said, “it is that bad, yes?”
“No, no, it is not,” I said, gritting my teeth, and then conceded, “I just have to keep thinking of my first pay, and it gets easier.”
Josephine laughed. “The workers of the world are all united on that one issue, neh?”
• • •
BUT THE SECOND and third days were easier. Crowded together, sharing tools and materials, I made new friends among my co-workers, even some who spoke little English but chattered among themselves in Yiddish, Italian, or Polish, but they all tried their English on me. On the second day, Rebecca Feibisch gave me two pierogies from her lunch and said something nice to me in Yiddish. Although I did not comprehend what all her words meant, I had already begun to pick up words and phrases from Josephine and her family, feeling a deep connection to the language, touching my father through it.
Rebecca spoke often to me, as did Sarah Sabasowitz, a thin girl with bright, mismatched eyes. Poor Julia Rosen was bent and aged before her time, although she was probably thirty and seldom talked or smiled, unlike Sarah Kupla—young Sarah never could stop giggling—and plump Ida Kenowitz almost always got her started. Sarah and Ida were inseparable and shared everything: tools, scissors, lunch, and confidences. Ida joked that they would end up marrying the same man!
By the end of the week, I had begun to learn a lot about rapid stitching from Julia Rosen, although she had a temper, and also from plucky little Vincenza Bellota, who, though only sixteen, had to take the ferry early each morning all the way from Hoboken, where she lived with her gruff uncle Ignazio. Vincenza’s high Neapolitan laugh was unmistakable, and she made me her friend, offering to teach me Italian words once she came to know that my Frankie was from Boscotrecase.
My back and eyes hurt by the end of each day, but I already knew better than to complain. Josephine had told me that for each one of us—almost a hundred and fifty who worked here, on the ninth floor—there were dozens of others working the same or worse hours in basement sweatshops, damp back rooms, often the prey of violent employers. Here, at least, that did not happen.
Mr. Blanck did the ledgers, grinding us for each penny, while his partner Mr. Harris knew about the actual cutting and sewing. “He is always cutting corners,” I whispered to Vincenza, who loved my joke. What he liked best was to come up with ways to dock our pay. He was so fearful of anyone taking the smallest scrap that he had the doors to the roof locked, so no one—even on a break—could take a breath of fresh air.
Huge open windows to the east and south opened to a fine view of Washington Square Park for those who worked on the tables around those windows. But even for beginners like me who sat far inside, there was enough natural light, for which I thanked God ten times a day.
The day I walked back with my first pay, I was elated, but then it hit me that this would go on, without the novelty, week after week, for months, and then years. In the street, for an instant, I felt a momentary revulsion for the already familiar mixture of the smells of fresh starch, new cotton and wool.
How Josephine managed tirelessly to do all she did, I marveled. Apart from the grind of daily work, she went to the Alliance, a stone’s throw from the Bialystoker Synagogue, to take classes in history and learn to play the piano. She had already taken me to the Cooper Union to hear a free lecture on workers’ rights. Afterward, she walked up and talked to a man she said I must meet: It was Mr. Abraham Cahan, the editor of the Forward. Josephine felt she could talk to everybody in the world. And she went to union meetings with her friends Clara
Lemlich and Yetta Ruth, and brought back bundles of pamphlets, some of which she secretly gave to fellow workers.
On my third week at work, one of the supervisors slapped stoop-shouldered Julius Roth, who had protested loudly that he had been docked part of his pay for a mistake someone else had made. He left by the stairs after being fired.
We rode up, packed tight on the freight elevator, only when we reported for work. Mr. Zito, the operator, always hummed some show tune or other under his breath.
Every little movement has a meaning
all its own—unh-ha
His hands were known to wander in the crowded elevator. After each trip, he wiped his palms on either side of his Brilliantined head, as if coaxing that chinless balloon to stay glued on his round shoulders. He chewed mint all the time. But everybody knew another story about him: how he had taken a half day off, without pay, to help a sick seamstress, supporting her down all nine flights of stairs—the elevator was out of bounds to employees except for going up at the beginning of the shift—then propped her home to her mother.
Each week, a man called Max Schlansky came by and went away with a packet. This Schlansky wore a black homburg and spoke to no one, but there was about him an air of malicious power.
“What does he do?” I asked Josephine at home.
“Schlansky? He breaks strikes. He breaks people,” she replied, making a face.
One day, another man came by—for a smaller packet. A shiver ran through my frame, but I kept quiet. He was not treated with the same wary respect by Mr. Harris or by his assistant, who gave him the packet. This man also did what Mr. Schlansky never did. He counted the money. Then he spat on the floor, conveying his dissatisfaction before leaving.
It was Ijjybijjy Malouf.
• • •
WE BENT OVER our work, twelve hours a day, surrounded by the sounds of our trade, but found ways to chatter, bantering and gossiping, while our fingers were flying, scissors snicking, steam hissing and rising like local clouds where the girls did the pressing. Some, like Sarah Sabasowitz, struggled to keep pace with the seasoned ones like Annie Starr, who could finish lining a suit jacket every six minutes. I had been at my job about two months now, and could already finish eight in an hour. Fifteen-year-old Bessie Viviano with her nimble fingers finished eleven, but because she had no head for figures, she got short-changed each time. I told her to keep count by putting a small colored string in her pocket for every ten she finished, a trick I had thought up for myself.