*
The next day burned hot. My clothes were instantly soaked with sweat when I took to the streets, and they had begun to smell, though I rinsed them nightly with soap. Thank God Thursday was just a day away.
We arrived in plenty of time for the meeting, and Rosalie greeted the receptionist, Lillian, warmly, introducing me as her cousin.
“That’s a pretty name,” I said, which made her smile, the first sign she didn’t hate me.
She led us to a room where two dozen women were assembled. They were all nicely dressed and coiffed, and some had elaborate hairdos which announced the fact that their hair was plaited by servants. They turned and stared at us, but Mrs. Bloomfeld, who was running the meeting, didn’t pause. “Next piece of business,” she said.
Lillian pointed to two chairs and we sat down as quietly as we could.
“The Sukkot committee will need to be chosen by the end of the month. Please consider volunteering, either to chair the event or to work on a subcommittee. Traditionally, these have been delivering meals to the homebound, feeding poor children, and helping to plan the celebration.
“Also, it has come to my attention that the account from which we give boys their siddurim when they become bar mitzvah is sadly low. We’ll need to have a fund drive to replenish it. So if anyone has any ideas, please let me know.”
Next to Mrs. Bloomfeld, another woman was taking down minutes, scribbling furiously. She obviously didn’t know shorthand, and I knew that she would invariably miss some of what was said if she tried to record it word for word.
“And now we have…your name again, dear?”
“Frances Frank, Mrs. Bloomfeld,” I supplied, before Rosalie could answer, which surprised her. “Nice to see you again.”
“And you,” she said. “This is your cousin?”
“Rosalie,” I said. We had agreed that Rosalie would plead our case, as she could talk a polar bear into moving to Florida, but she was struck dumb, and I already knew Mrs. Bloomfeld.
“Ladies,” I said. “We are orphaned cousins, just arrived from…Minneapolis.” I didn’t want to give our real hometown in case someone had relatives there. You never knew. “We are looking for work. And a home. And also, I don’t have any clothes.” This was inelegant, I knew, but I wasn’t a gifted orator like Rosalie. In fact, this might have been the largest group of adults I’d ever spoken in front of. Luckily, my ineloquence jarred Rosalie out of her stupor and she took over.
Rosalie should have been a novelist. She wove a tale so subtly sad and moving that I nearly reached into my own empty pockets to donate money to us. The story involved Mr. O’Rourke, but it was Rosalie’s mother who was the victim, and all in the service of providing an education for her daughter and niece (my mother was disposed of early). Rosalie’s mother died dramatically—here she borrowed liberally from Les Misérables, and I hoped none of the women present had read it. Several were weeping by the end, and we had the offer of a place to live (in the fancy neighborhood of Douglas, no less) in exchange for Rosalie taking care of the woman’s elderly mother, a Mrs. Klein, during the day. I was to come to a specific address the following afternoon where someone’s daughter had piles of clothes that should fit me. (Was she built like a roofing board as well, I wondered?)
We heard a lot of “You poor dears,” and many cakes were shoved at us, as though we were Dickensian street urchins who had never been properly fed. I had never known a day of hunger in my life, and Rosalie never knew an hour of it, but she ate greedily to keep up appearances.
We left laughing and jolly, excited at our new lives.
*
Mrs. Klein’s home was dreary to say the least. Heavy drapes covered the front windows. When I drew them back, they opened to a shower of dust, little bits floating in the lamplight, dancing on the currents. The house was enormous, seven bedrooms with at least as many bathrooms. I went upstairs only once. Its eerie silence and stillness (I had never heard a house so quiet) spooked me.
And yet Rosalie and I were crowded into the maid’s room near the kitchen. “Never mind,” Rosalie said. “We can sneak out the back stairs and we have our privacy. And our own bathroom!”
I had never shared a bathroom with just one person. Always there was someone knocking at the door, anxious to take his turn. The three families on our floor shared two communal commodes. There was one bathtub, and we had a once-a-week family rotation.
Mrs. Klein’s, though, had unlimited hot water. The kitchen was a dream, with a new gas oven and a large sink that held all the dinner’s dishes for washing. There was even an entire room devoted to laundry, with another basin large enough to contain a washboard, and a pulley system that held damp clothing up in the air where the warmth sped it dry. The hallway was so long you might have played basketball in it, with smooth shiny boards (that I hadn’t realized I’d have to polish). The bathrooms were ornately tiled, with a border of engraved porcelain that spanned the entire length of the room. Each had a claw-foot tub, and one even had a showerhead! I dared myself to try it one day when Mrs. Klein was out.
But Mrs. Klein never went out. Apparently, until recently, she’d been very active, attending luncheons and walking in the park. She had suffered an attack, though, which left her in the hospital for several weeks. She had full-time nursing care until recently, when her disagreeableness chased the last one out. Her daughter had convinced her she was doing us a favor, and hoped that the motivation of tzedakah—charity—might overcome her irritability.
Our room was wallpapered with tiny fleurs-de-lis, peeling near the one window. It looked out into the alley, across which other people slept in maids’ rooms and other kitchens belched cooking smells and steam into the air. There was something comforting about the proximity, everyone going about their lives the same way we were.
We were only half a mile from the lake, and I walked there daily to look at the water, which changed, like Rosalie’s moods, now frothy and violent, now placid, crystalline.
*
Our lodging settled, I had to resume looking for a job. I spent the next day down by the piers, stopping in at shipping companies and presenting myself as an experienced secretary. I went to the smartest company first, whose offices were neat and nicely appointed. They took up the entire upper floor of the warehouse.
It was noisy at the receptionist’s desk, and I kept having to repeat myself. Finally I got it across that I was looking for work. She looked me up and down. “It’s very hot,” I said, by way of excuse, which must have struck a chord, for she replied, “Ya, ya, very hot it is,” her words truncated by an accent I identified as Eastern European. Her features, too, looked like they might have been created in my parents’ home village. I took a chance.
“Tu bist ein Landsman?” I whispered in Yiddish.
“Vah?” She leaned closer.
“Landsman!” I said, loudly. Literally, are you a countryman? Are you a fellow Jew?
“Meir zeinen gants landsman aher,” she said, matter-of-factly. We’re all landsmen here. As if that weren’t notable. She said, in English, they weren’t looking for any girls at the moment, but she’d be glad to inform me if they had any work in the future.
I wrote down Mrs. Klein’s address. As I turned to walk out, I heard her yell, “Vartn oyf!”
I turned.
“My sister-in-law Elsie works for a business that might be looking for someone,” she said in Yiddish. “I’ll write you down the address. I’ll see her tonight and let her know you’re coming if you want to stop by there in the morning tomorrow.”
I was so grateful I nearly wept. “Thank you! This means so much, you have no idea…” I began to babble, but a loud buzzer rang and the woman snapped to her feet, gathering a pad and pencil at the same time. “Here,” she thrust a sheet of paper at me.
That night, I told Rosalie about my lead.
“That’s great. What’s the business?”
“I couldn’t ask,” I said. “She was called away, but who cares?”
“What if it’s a diamond-smuggling company?”
I laughed. “Or a private-investigation firm?”
“Lion-tamer training school.”
I couldn’t think of anything stranger than that, so I continued to laugh. “What did you do today?”
Rosalie’s face drained of color and smile. “Nothing.”
“Did something happen?” I asked.
Rosalie was like a different person. “No, nothing.” She shook her head, trying to dislodge a thought.
Something had obviously happened. I couldn’t even think about what it might have been, to make her turn to stone like this. When she did this, pulled away, she seemed so remote. She was leaving me, and I hated it. There were parts of Rosalie that would forever remain unknowable to me, perhaps to anyone, maybe even herself. It made her seem older, wiser.
I took off my blouse and skirt and hung them up, standing in only my chemise and slip, as we usually did inside to save the clothing. Only then did I notice that Rosalie was wrapped in a shawl. “It’s so hot,” she said, though she pulled it closer around her. “And I have a headache.”
“Lie down,” I said. “I’ll get a cold cloth.”
I ran a washcloth under the tap in our room and wrung it out. She lay on the bed with her eyes closed. I placed it on her forehead. She sighed deeply, and said, “Thank you, Bear,” which is what she used to tease me with when we were children, because I wanted to add honey to everything. I kept changing the cloth until she fell asleep. I spent the evening reading quietly near the open window, hoping for a breeze.
*
The next morning I went as directed to see my Yiddish-speaking friend’s sister-in-law, Elsie. She greeted me warmly. She had the curliest hair I’d ever seen, like a Negro’s though hers was light brown, and eyes that were close set. She had rouged her cheeks, which I found tremendously chic. She spoke to me in English, and when I peppered my dialogue with Yiddish phrases, she looked at me strangely so that I understood that she knew none of the old tongue.
We sat in the lobby, on an uncomfortable bench. I had to turn awkwardly to face her. My new skirt had a tag that scratched my hip. I’d never had store-bought clothing before, and so far I was not overly impressed.
“If we take you on, it’ll have to be a real commitment,” she said. “You’ll have to interview all the way up the ladder. Yes, even for a secretarial position.”
The sign on the side of the building said MAYS SHIPPING. I asked her now what it was that the company shipped.
“Let’s say paper. Yes, paper, in a way. You seem like a nice, bright girl. Where did you say you come from?”
“Duluth. I mean, Minneapolis.”
“Which is it?” She smiled at me. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t really need to know. See? Now everything with me is on a need-to-know basis. I don’t ask my husband any questions anymore, and you know what? Our marriage is the better for it, would you believe? And you went to secretarial school?”
I was surprised to learn she was old enough to be married. She looked so young. “My certificate was lost in a fire and the school has since closed, but I can prove to you that I know shorthand and typing. I worked at a shipping company before, so I can fill out manifests, reconcile inventories—”
“Here, take down what I’m saying.” She proceeded to dictate the very speech we learned how to take shorthand on. So even though my shorthand was excellent, this demonstration of my talent was impeccable. Then she had me type a letter in carbon copy on the typewriter, which I did in two minutes and fourteen seconds. “Not a record, but quite respectable. And you corrected the spelling here. Nicely done.”
I’d done it unconsciously. I smiled. I enjoyed the praise. I started to think that perhaps my parents hadn’t done me such a disservice when they made me attend secretarial school. My chest clenched, a spasm of guilt about my parents. I pushed it down.
My next interview was with my direct supervisor. He didn’t stand up, and when he extended his hand, his arm was so short I had to lean to reach across his desk. His skin was the same dull brown as his chair and his suit, so that he was camouflaged against it, sinking into the leather.
“Well, I’ll leave you, Mr. Andrews. Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you, Elsie.”
She closed the door softly behind her. Mr. Andrews made no attempt at conversation. He turned back to the papers on his desk and began to organize them. I sat quietly, unsure what to do. This detente lasted a couple of minutes. Finally he spoke.
“Good, then, you can stand silences. I abhor people who can’t stand silence. Silence is natural. Talking is what is unnatural. Don’t you agree?”
I nodded.
“You can speak, though, yes?”
“Yes,” I said. “Sir,” I added.
“Splendid. What is your position on the Thirty Days’ War?”
I’d never heard of the war he spoke of. “I have none,” I said. “I tend to be interested in history rather than current events.”
“Perfect. You may go. Obviously, I won’t see you out.”
I stood up, trying to display my disappointment. I noticed that the room was completely devoid of any photographs or portraits. The walls were covered with bookshelves and maps. One wall was bare, with a light rectangle where a picture must once have hung, and for some time, but there was nothing there now.
I returned to Elsie’s desk. “How did it go?” she asked brightly.
“I’m not sure,” I said. Obviously I hadn’t gotten the job. Mr. Andrews thought I was an uninformed idiot.
“Don’t ever ask about his legs. I should have told you that.”
“What about them?”
The telephone rang. “Mays Shipping,” Elsie answered. “How may I help you?” She nodded and wrote something down on her pad. “I’ll let him know. Thank you for calling.” She hung up. “I’ll just stick my head in and see how it went. Can you answer the phone if it rings?” I nodded.
Elsie disappeared down the hall. I ran my fingers over her desk, solid mahogany. The feet were curved and decorated, the top inlaid with gold leaf. I would love to have a desk like this. My desire to be Elsie was so strong that I impulsively sat in her chair, held the edges of her paper.
Just as I was reaching for her pencil, the door burst open and in ran a young man about my age, very tall, dressed in dungarees, his fingers stained with ink. “Hello, who are you?” he asked. I struggled to determine how to answer, but he didn’t give me a chance. “Are you the new girl?” he asked. “I need to see Mr. Andrews. Is he disposed?”
Without waiting for me to answer, he followed Elsie down the hall. I heard him knock on the door, then Mr. Andrews saying, “What is it?”
Elsie came back out. “Well, Mr. Andrews likes you, but why on earth did you let that boy barge in? Couldn’t you have stopped him?”
Just then a very loud buzzing started, in pulsating bursts of deafening sound. I put my hands over my ears automatically. “Break time!” Elsie sang. “Come on, let’s get a coffee.”
She took my hand and pulled me down the stairs to a large canteen area where men were lining up for coffee and a roll. Elsie smiled and cut in front of one of the men near the head of the line. He pantomimed pinching her bottom, and I held my breath, but it appeared it was all in good fun because she turned and shook her finger. “Now you know I’m a married woman—”
“Marriage don’t got nothing to do with it.”
I was shocked. I had never heard anyone speak that way to a lady. But Elsie shook her head as though he were a little boy who had gotten into some harmless mischief. She whispered to me, “They’re a bit rough here, but it’s all talk. You’ll get used to it.”
When the coffee and roll were offered, I turned them down. “Come on,” Elsie said. “It’s free.”
My surprise must have shown on my face.
“Here,” Elsie said. “Sit and I’ll explain.”
We sat at a picnic table in the corner of the
large room and ate our rolls. Elsie said, “Mr. Mays runs his company according to the principles of Adam Smith. Are you familiar with him?”
I shook my head no. The coffee was strong and hot. My hairline began to sweat.
“I’d never heard of him either. But we’re all supposed to be reading him. Not that people do. Half of them can’t read. And I couldn’t follow it at all. It was like reading the telephone directory. But the gist is that workers and management are all on the same level, it’s just that each one is doing what he does best. So, for example, I can’t lift a heavy pallet, can I? But I can take shorthand. Jorgensen there can’t write his name, but he can load a container so that no square inch of space is wasted. We each have our talents and mine is no better than his.”
This made sense to me, though I had always been raised to understand that a life of the mind was infinitely more important and desirable than liveliness of body. The body was a mere vessel to contain the exalted mind. But why? Why was the mind so important? It can live without nourishment, when the body cannot.
“So,” Elsie continued. “Every day at ten o’clock we break for coffee and a roll. At noon we have half an hour for lunch. That you have to bring. And at two thirty we get an apple and a cup of tea with milk. It’s an expense, sure, but Mr. Mays has the loyalest workforce there is. Everyone is fed so everyone works hard. No one ever takes from him, no one ever shirks.”
I looked around the canteen. Men were laughing and smoking, enjoying themselves. At work. My father always returned home beaten in both body and spirit.
“Mr. Mays is a bit of a…what’s the word? He thinks we can achieve paradise here…”
“Idealist?” I offered.
“No, it’s a strange word, foreign…”
“Utopia?”
“That’s it!” Elsie said. “You’re a smart one! Yes, he’s trying to create a utopia.”
“Admirable,” I said.
“Yes.” Elsie sighed. “He’s really quite something. You’ll meet him directly.”
Enchanted Islands Page 7