“Tell us about school, Albert,” I said, steering the subject away from big brothers.
Albert wiped his fingers on his knee pants and commenced to recount his adventures in first grade. A moment later, Mrs. Jenkins called us to dinner. Excellent timing.
“This new cook is Lutheran,” Papa told Uncle Hermann, “but she makes chicken soup better than any of our Jewish cooks did. And her apple strudel is the best since you and I came to America. You will taste it tonight. Delicious.”
During dinner I asked Uncle Hermann about Tirtzah. He was helping to settle the new Russian and Polish Jews who had come to Portland, and Papa always said how Uncle Hermann took his Judaism so seriously—maybe he knew something useful. Uncle Hermann tapped his fork in contemplation. “I am fairly certain she was one of the daughters of Zelophehad. Julius, where is your Bible?”
Papa sipped his wine. “My brother the scholar, fresh from Yom Kippur services at Ahavai Sholom, because Temple Beth Israel is too modern for him. Satisfy your thirst for knowledge another time, Hermann. I have had enough religion for one day. For one year even. Lillian, kindly refresh our glasses.”
Uncle Hermann raised his wine glass. “Here’s to my brother, the part-time Jew and full-time American businessman.”
Mama winced, but Papa didn’t seem to mind. “Every penny I earned, ja? From scratch I started and now look. Beautiful house, beautiful wife, beautiful daughter.” He counted out each accomplishment on his fingers. “When your Albert and little Nathan own Precision Printers one day, you will thank your penny-punching brother.”
Penny-pinching, I thought, annoyed at his English and his attitude. But I didn’t correct him. Papa hates to have his English corrected, even in private.
“Nah-uh! I’m going to be a fireman,” Albert announced. “Tell them I’m going to be fireman, Aunt Lillian.” He sounded not the least bit interested in the printing business, part of which should come to me. I tried to remind myself it wasn’t Albert’s fault I was born a girl—he was only a child, the little twit.
“Albert will be a fireman,” Mama placated. “By the by, Hermann, Miriam is free these days, and I’m sure she’d enjoy helping Sophie with the new baby.”
I crushed my napkin against my lap and answered Uncle Hermann’s puzzled look. “I was supposed to go away to boarding school with Florrie Steinbacher, but at the last minute Papa said no. Now I don’t even get to go back to St. Mary’s here in Portland.”
“Well, this is a surprise.” Uncle Hermann eyed Papa, who continued to eat as if we were chatting about the weather. “St. Mary’s Academy is such a fine school, Julius. Even a religious Jew like me would send his daughter there.”
Papa stabbed at his creamed cauliflower. “Ah, but you do not have yet a daughter, nor the expense of providing for her in the proper manner.”
My temper flared. “Didn’t they tell you? Mama is grooming me for New York society this winter. Papa can afford a month for Mama and me in a posh Manhattan hotel, but not another term at St. Mary’s.”
Papa scowled. Mama fiddled with her wedding ring and said, “Miriam, let’s not start this again. The decision has been made.”
That decision and millions more. Stop controlling every jot and tittle of my life! I cleared my throat and reached for the pickled beets. I thought of Serakh and those fringes, and a chance to have an adventure my parents knew nothing about. Uncle Hermann smoothed his mustache and smiled at me. “Please stop by to see us anytime. You’re always welcome.”
I dabbed my lips with my napkin. “Thank you, Uncle Hermann.” Who knows what kind of mischief I might get into this fall…
***
“Have you read about someone in the Bible named Tirtzah?” I asked Mrs. Jenkins as I sat in the kitchen later that night, nibbling strudel crumbs. “She has sisters,” I said. “My uncle thinks she might be a daughter of someone called Zelo…um…”
“Zelophehad. Gracious me, I didn’t know you were interested in Scripture. Yes, Zelophehad’s five daughters. They are in your Old Testament. The Book of Numbers, I believe. But I must run, or I’ll miss the last streetcar.”
I thanked Mrs. Jenkins for dinner and called a “good night” in the direction of my parents. In my room, I lounged against the feather pillows on my bed and read Serakh’s article. It came from an Iowa newspaper dated October 31, 1908, and reported on a Dr. Anna Shaw and suffrage marchers. A faded photograph showed women waving signs and holding banners. I leaned closer to the lamp and focused on one banner in particular:
LIKE THE DAUGHTERS OF ZELOPHEHAD
WE ASK FOR OUR INHERITANCE
This banner had to be what Serakh wanted me to see. Of course, if the Tirtzah I was supposed to meet was Zelophehad’s daughter, she would be in the Bible, and that made no sense at all. Serakh surely meant someone with the same name, maybe someone from my temple. We didn’t usually go to services, so it was quite possible there was a Tirtzah in the congregation. What would be the harm in finding those fringes and meeting her?
CHAPTER THREE
Mrs. Jenkins had most of the day off on Sundays, abandoning me to leftovers until dinner and to my parents from morning until night. I took my time coming downstairs to face them in the library.
Mama studied me head to foot and stopped cranking the Grafonola. “Good morning at last.” She had an edge to her voice. “Rigoletto or Carmen?”
I headed for the tea biscuits and lemon curd. “Carmen,” I muttered, although to me one opera record was about the same as another. “It’s only half past ten. Are there plans for today?”
Papa turned a page of The Morning Oregonian without looking at me. “Your mama wishes for an outing to the Washington Park Zoo in the Oldsmobile. I will indulge her until a quarter before two, when I go to the Club.”
Even though Papa grumbled about muddy roads and every-man-for-himself intersections, he kept his word, and we left shortly after breakfast. I had no say in the matter and felt as caged in as those poor grizzly bears at the zoo. We also stopped at the statue of Sacajawea striding westward with her baby on her back. I read the inscription aloud: “Erected by the women of the United States in memory of Sacajawea, the only woman in the Lewis and Clark Expedition. And in honor of the pioneer mother of old Oregon.”
I pointed out that Sister Margaret said Abigail Scott Duniway and a whole passel of suffragists attended the statue’s unveiling at the 1905 Lewis and Clark Exposition. “Even Susan B. Anthony was there,” I told my parents. Not that it did any good. Oregon women still couldn’t vote.
Papa looked at his pocket watch. “Sister Margaret filled your mind with useless politics,” he said.
I clamped my mouth shut and climbed into the Oldsmobile. Papa cranked the motor and we bumped our way back home.
As soon as we arrived, I headed upstairs in search of those fringes Serakh said my parents should have given to me. Gold tassels, not blue ones, dangled from Grandma Goldstein’s silk shawl. Forget that. I tiptoed into the guest bedroom, breathed in the sweet cedar aroma of Mama’s hope chest, and commenced to rummage through it. Buried under a bolt of brocade were two silver candlesticks, an embroidered linen tablecloth, and several lace doilies. No fringes, nothing in blue.
Mama stayed home the rest of the day, making it impossible to snoop around. Frustrated, I suspended my search and composed a letter to Florrie. Even though she was far away in California, Florrie felt closer as soon as I set out my ink blotter and picked up my pen. Using my favorite blue-black ink and ecru linen stationary, I began:
Dearest Florrie,
I met the oddest girl at services this week. She’s got something to do with votes for women, and—it’s the strangest thing—she insists I have a shawl with a blue thread. I’ve started to search for it, but so far no luck. Honestly, I’m not quite sure why I’m searching—I just feel as though I must, somehow. At least it’s something to do while you’re away.
There’s not one whit of progress with Papa about school. Mama takes his side—doesn’t she
always? He refuses to let me go to St. Mary’s this term because he wants Mama to take me to New York City for the winter season. You know how I hate to be pushed in front of “good prospects,” and this is going to be ten times worse than when she foisted that banker on me at your mother’s garden party. “Bad prospects” are so much more fun! I still miss Richard, our favorite bookstore clerk, don’t you? No doubt clerks like Richard fall into Mama’s “bad prospects” category.
Two suffragists own the new hat shop—Charity Osborne and her sister, Prudence. You’d like Charity. She’s about twenty, I should think. Prudence looks older and rather tired. They’re both Plain Janes like me, except with brown eyes instead of hazel. I don’t dare get involved in the suffrage campaign, because I don’t want Papa to be angry with me. He might refuse to let me work at the shop, when I finally get the courage to ask him. But if he thinks women are too dimwitted to vote, how am I ever going to convince him I can run Precision Printers someday?
I must end my letter here. Take care, Florrie, and please write me back soon!
In friendship forever,
Mim
***
Mama insisted on taking me shopping Monday for more clothes for the New York trip. She bought me a hatpin with a pearl stud, yet another pair of white gloves, and a lacy handkerchief. Accoutrements she called them—French for doodads. We dined out for lunch, though, and for dessert I ate an entire éclair—which is French for the most delicious pastry on Earth.
The smell of fresh bread lured me to the kitchen the next morning. Mrs. Jenkins was adding something to sourdough starter. “I feed you up good, Miss Miriam, but you never gain an ounce.”
“Keep trying,” I joked. I took two sweet rolls from the sideboard and reached for the crock of butter. I figured my luck with staying slim made up for my prominent nose and blotchy complexion.
Mrs. Jenkins asked, “Did you read about the daughters of Zelophehad?”
“Not in the Bible, not yet. But I read an article about a suffrage march and it mentioned those daughters. I don’t know why. Voting rights for women is on the ballot in November. Do you think it will pass this time?”
“Can’t rightly say.”
I offered Mrs. Jenkins one of her own sweet rolls. “Well, do you want it to pass?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, meaning the roll. She set the starter aside and served us coffee. “Ladies’ Home Journal is against women voting. Big magazine like that, who am I to say otherwise?”
I added evaporated milk to my coffee and imagined Sister Margaret lecturing Mrs. Jenkins on the need for women to think for themselves. “What did Zelophehad’s daughters do? The ones in the Bible I mean.”
“As I recall, they wanted a place of their own in Canaan—the Promised Land.” Mrs. Jenkins took two lumps of sugar. “When Mr. Jenkins and I came to Oregon in 1898, we called our farm New Canaan. We were so blessed!” She dabbed her eyes with her apron. “He passed away two years come December. Our boys have the farm now.”
I offered her my handkerchief. “Do you have any daughters?”
“Married off, thank the Lord. Ethel’s in Oregon City and Harriet moved to one of them new homes in Laurelhurst.”
Marrying off daughters. Not my favorite subject. I finished my roll, excused myself, and headed to the parlor, where Mama was playing the piano. She raised her cheek, and I kissed it while she continued to play.
“This sonata is impossible to master by Thanksgiving,” she said. “I should never have agreed to that benefit recital.”
Mama was playing fine, as far as I was concerned. I followed along on the sheet music and turned the page when she nodded. When she finished the sonata, she started on scales again. I wondered about Tirtzah, and those daughters, and the fringes Serakh insisted I had.
“May I borrow your wedding Bible? I don’t think Papa has a Bible in English.”
“It’s packed away with my bridal gown. Why do you want it?”
“Just to look up something.” I picked at a fingernail. My search for that shawl had turned up nothing. Perhaps Mama had it. “Is…um…anything else packed away for me? Another shawl, perhaps?”
Mama didn’t skip a beat. “There’s not another shawl, but I have started on your wedding trousseau.”
“Mama!” Was MARRIAGEABLE MAIDEN stamped on my forehead today?
She glanced my way without stopping her scales. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady. You’ll meet some very charming gentlemen this winter—Guggenheims and Schiffs. You should keep an open mind. You’re nearly seventeen, as old as I was when I met your father. He was already a successful businessman, cultured, debonair…he was my German Prince Charming.”
I’d heard it all before. She neglected to add that Papa had been thirty-two—nearly twice her age—and losing his hair. Time to escape. “I’m going to the Stark Street Library today,” I announced, determined to sound as sure of myself as that odd girl at the temple. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Mama started back in on the sonata with renewed fervor. “We’ll take the streetcar together. I have a luncheon with friends at the Portland Hotel.”
“It was perfectly fine for me to take the streetcar to St. Mary’s and back every day for three years,” I said. “Now you never let me go anywhere alone.”
“Young women do not go gallivanting around the city. You should know by now how important it is to avoid a compromising situation.”
I couldn’t help my temper. I knew it was useless to talk back to Mama, but the thought of being chaperoned everywhere until I could be suitably settled with some “charming gentleman” set me on edge. “Oh, jolly. I’ll be a prisoner in my own house until you and Papa marry me off.”
Mama pounded out one last chord. I crossed my arms over my chest. One long moment of silence wedged itself between us.
“We’ll go to the library together and you’ll come straight home on your own.”
“Fine,” I said, although I didn’t mean it.
CHAPTER FOUR
You would think a library, of all places, would have a Bible. You would be wrong. The librarian explained that the Front Street Mission had Bibles, but she doubted I’d want to go there. I asked whether she had any new books on typefaces and design.
She shook her head. “Have you tried Hopewell’s Bookstore?”
My face answered for me. “I imagine you have. A pity Mr. Hopewell no longer has that fine clerk. Such a nice and intriguing young man—what was his name?”
“Richard Broxburn,” I mumbled, and I could feel my cheeks turning pink in spite of myself.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Broxburn. What a breath of fresh air…” She touched a cameo brooch at the base of her throat. “Now then, are you a Jane Austen fan?”
“I prefer fantastical fiction and mysteries.”
“We have a new one from Arthur Conan Doyle. The Lost World. Mr. Broxburn would have liked it, and I imagine you will, too.”
If Richard had told me to read Encyclopedia Britannica I would have done so gladly. Still, when I started The Lost World on the streetcar, I knew I would enjoy the book. The first chapter was about a young woman who wasn’t ready to get married. Good for her!
When I got home, Mrs. Jenkins told me Papa was in the back garden. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe today is the day to ask about the print shop, I thought as I straightened my posture, retied my hair ribbon, and headed outside. Without Mama around, Papa might pay more attention to me. Maybe he’d realize I could be both a proper lady and a competent businesswoman.
After the expected pleasantries, I said, “How is our new printing press, Papa?” I ignored his frown and kept going. “Uncle Hermann says we took delivery of a 1911 Chandler & Price. It’s supposed to be safer than our old presses. What do you think?”
“I think our plum tree does well this year. I hope this new cook makes plum pudding.”
“I should like to see the new machine in operation,” I persisted, my heart pounding. I addresse
d Papa with as much authority as I could muster. “Since I’m no longer in school and it’s the start of the fall social season, I should like to assist you at Precision Printers. I can make myself useful typing, filing, and taking messages. I already have some knowledge of typefaces and print design, having studied Mr. Gress’s typography book.”
Papa decapitated a wilting aster. “Not this week, Miriam. Mr. Jacobowitz and I are reorganizing our records, so I do not have one extra minute.”
“But Papa, I have a lot to offer you, and I’m eager to learn every aspect of the printing business. Surely I can be of assistance. I could help Miss Svenson.”
Papa shook his head. “She will be as busy as the men. One woman in the shop is more than enough, except that her small fingers are useful.”
“You let Danny and me spend hours at the shop, dozens of times.”
I remembered when Papa gave us tiny bits of old metal type with pictures of flowers or crowns, even a skull and crossbones. I made scrapbooks from old printer’s proofs, and Papa called me the apple of his eye.
“You were a child, Miriam, with an older brother to care for you. The shop is not a playground, and Mr. Jacobowitz does not have time to keep an eye on you.”
I don’t need a babysitter. And Mr. Jacobowitz is as exciting as an algebra lecture in an overheated room after lunch. “I have no intention of playing, Papa. If I’m old enough to leave school and old enough for you and Mama to look for a suitable match for me, then surely I am old enough to—”
His annoyance darkened into anger. “Not this week, I tell you.”
I answered him with silence and left him to his precious garden.
At dinner, I managed to be polite. I asked Mama about her luncheon and offered to help Aunt Sophie the next day. Mama pronounced my idea “excellent.” Papa complimented me on my initiative and generosity. I silently congratulated myself on finding a way to get out of the house and to borrow a Bible from Uncle Hermann’s collection. If I couldn’t go to the print shop, I could at least find my shawl and read about those daughters of Zelophehad.
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