“Absolutely!” Charity beamed. “We’re so glad you can come.”
“Before we go anywhere, I could use an extra pair of hands,” Prudence said. She brought me several hats and hatboxes, tissue paper, and a ball of twine. “We’re shipping these hats to Roseburg.”
Charity answered my puzzled look. “Most of our business is by mail order. Prudence says it will take another year before we can compete with Meier & Frank and the other big stores.”
“So, why did you move to Portland?” I asked, genuinely curious.
Charity told me about how she and Prudence wanted to help with the suffrage campaign. She talked and talked, like Florrie does when she’s describing her latest boyfriend. I didn’t mind. That’s what friends are for.
When we finished with the hatboxes, Prudence closed up the shop and proposed that we walk to Union Depot rather than take the streetcar. Mama would have been appalled.
“The iron works puts out an awful smell,” I said, trying not to sound surprised at the prospect of crossing the railroad yards and factories on the way to the depot.
“We go the bakery way.”
I had no notion what that meant.
Charity handed me a VOTES FOR WOMEN sash and studied my hat. “It needs something a little extra,” she said.
“Charity, it’s fine. I prefer handbills fancy and hats plain.” But she was already fussing with it behind the counter.
The end result was a narrow burgundy-and-navy ribbon gathered around the crown with a simple hatpin and a burgundy rosette.
“The burgundy matches the highlights in your hair and complements your hazel eyes,” she said. “Like it?”
I glanced in the mirror. The same scrawny me with the same small chest and frizzy hair glanced back, but the hat did make me look professional. “Definitely,” I said. “When I saw Mrs. Steinbacher’s hat…um…” I didn’t want to be rude, but Charity just laughed.
“Well, you should have seen the things we didn’t put on,” she said. “Mrs. Steinbacher wanted every doodad, geegaw, and whatsit in the shop. That one hat must have paid a week’s rent.”
Prudence touched my shoulder. “I’m sure you won’t say anything to Mrs. Steinbacher, Miriam, Charity and I need all the customers we can get. It will be a miracle if we manage to make ends meet this year.”
The bakery way turned out to be down Seventeenth to Glisan, then east toward the river. My nose soon reminded me how close we were to the Pacific Coast Biscuit Company at Twelfth and Davis.
Charity chatted about her uncle’s farm in Indiana. She told me how her father had died in a threshing machine accident and how her mother later succumbed to pneumonia. She explained that Prudence yearned for big-city life in Chicago and refused to leave her behind to work in the fields.
“Prudence promised she would make a better life for us,” she said. “We worked in a millinery factory and squeezed six cents out of every nickel until we saved enough to start our own shop here. You don’t know how lucky you are to have parents who can provide for you.”
“How long were you in Chicago?” I asked, feeling a little guilty about how easy my own life seemed in comparison.
“More years than I’d like to remember. I’m nearly twenty-one now, and Prudence is twenty-nine. We started at the factory when I was fourteen. Thirteen actually, but we lied to the foreman. Prudence never let me handle the blocking solutions or the dyes. They still sicken her.”
What could I say? I had never met anyone who worked in a factory. I concentrated on stepping across a patch of uneven cobblestones. “Charity, you must let me pay for the ribbon and rose you added to my hat.”
“It’s my gift. Please. I’m happy you like it.” Charity offered an encouraging smile, sealing our friendship.
It was nearly five when we crossed Seventh Street and joined the crowd at the depot. Parked nearby was an empty automobile festooned with yellow roses and VOTES FOR WOMEN streamers. I supposed it was waiting to take Dr. Shaw to her rally at the Multnomah Hotel. Everyone seemed in a festive mood, as if the Ringling Brothers’ circus had come to town. There were banners everywhere, including one that read COLORED WOMEN’S EQUAL SUFFRAGE ASSOCIATION.
“That’s Hattie Redmond holding the banner,” Charity pointed out. “She’s the president of their association.” Charity was in a jolly mood, as if these people were all her best friends, although she and Prudence had moved to Portland only two months ago. She told me about Suffrage Day at Oaks Amusement Park the previous Sunday. And she explained in detail how Esther Pohl Lovejoy had persuaded Dr. Shaw to come to Oregon. “Well, they are both physicians, Miriam, so it stands to reason. Isn’t this exciting?”
Charity’s enthusiasm enveloped me. I linked my arm in hers and took it all in. The people around us commenced to recite a poem and Charity joined in, her voice high-pitched and clear. Prudence touched my sleeve. “This poem has been popular since the textile strike this past winter.” She searched my face. “In Lawrence, Massachusetts? The strikers there kept walking in a picket line. They didn’t stand still, so they couldn’t be arrested for loitering. Clever women.”
I nodded, unwilling to admit to Prudence that I didn’t know about that strike.
“I remember hearing about that terrible fire in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in New York last year,” I said. “Dozens of women died.”
“One hundred forty-six to be exact,” Prudence replied. “Mostly girls, Miriam. Many of them were Jewish girls even younger than you.”
I nodded again and shuddered, remembering the newspaper account of them jumping to their deaths. We all stood together as Prudence, Charity, and the rest of the crowd recited the last lines of the poem:
As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days.
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life’s glories: Bread and roses! Bread and roses!
Charity wiped her cheek. Then I heard a familiar voice say, “Miriam Josefsohn, what an unexpected pleasure!” I nearly jumped out of my skin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kirsten Svenson, the only female employee of Precision Printers, was waving and walking toward us, accompanied by a burly man with a pockmarked face. With their matching straight blond hair and blue eyes, they could have been brother and sister.
“Kirsten, I didn’t see you,” I said, catching my breath and forgetting my manners.
Charity leaned forward. “I’m Charity Osborne, and this my sister, Prudence.” I could almost hear Mama telling me I should have made the introductions.
Prudence extended her hand to Kirsten. “We own the new millinery shop at Seventeenth and Marshall. We’d welcome your business.”
Kirsten shook hands. “How nice to meet you. Kirsten Svenson. I work in Mr. Josefsohn’s print shop. This is Nils Kuula, my…intended.” Her face reddened.
Nils touched Kirsten’s cheek. “Soon Kirsten here will be Mrs. Nils Kuula, staying at home with our beautiful babies.”
I looked at Kirsten, who pursed her lips. Prudence coughed. Charity frowned. Nils seemed quick to realize his mistake. “Kirsten can stay on if she wants to. I am a modern man.”
“Does my father know you’re leaving Precision Printers?” I asked.
“Not yet. I’ll stay until at least late June, after the Rose Festival invitations.”
“How long have you worked in the printing business?” Prudence asked.
“I started with Mr. Josefsohn six years ago, right out of school. He has been very kind to me.”
Papa? I found that hard to believe.
Nils chuckled. “Remember those VOTE NO cards in ’06? You were so mad, Kirsten.”
“What cards? Vote no for what?”
“It’s nothing,” Kirsten said. “Nils, you are embarrassing me. So, Miss Osborne, you have a hat shop?”
Prudence gave Kirsten a sympathetic look and commenced to describe life in the mil
linery business. By the time she was through, Nils had excused himself to check on the train, Kirsten seemed relaxed, and Charity looked bored. I was still wondering about those VOTE NO cards.
Nils came huffing back and reported, “The train from Pendleton is late. At least another hour, maybe two. There’s nasty weather in the Gorge.”
Charity wrinkled her forehead. “The Columbia River Gorge,” I explained. “It gets very windy there; here, too, sometimes. Just wait until winter.”
Charity practically snorted. “It can’t be a bad as Chicago.”
“One day I’ll find out for myself,” I said. “I’ve never been out of Oregon except for a few trips to Seattle.” I didn’t mention my upcoming trip to New York City. Marriage markets don’t count.
Nils suggested we while away the next couple of hours over a soda or beer. I looked at my watch. “You’d best go on without me. I’ll have to miss Dr. Shaw. My parents…” I bit my lip, feeling foolish and quite young. They were grown and I still lived at home. Kirsten smiled. “The way your father acted at the shop on Blotter Day, I am surprised you had the gumption to come in the first place.”
“Suffrage lost here in 1906,” I said, gratified to show Prudence I knew something about politics. “Did those VOTE NO cards refer to that?”
“I’m afraid so,” Kirsten said.
I winced.
“Oregon will come through this time,” Charity asserted. “Women have the vote in Idaho, Washington, and California. We won’t take no for an answer.”
Prudence cocked her head. “It’s going to be a tough fight.”
“Nils and I will do what we can,” Kirsten said.
“Me too,” I added. And I meant it, especially since Papa had printed that VOTE NO card. “May I keep the sash?”
“Certainly.” Charity seemed pleased.
Nils laughed. “Don’t show it to your father.” Kirsten cuffed him, but she laughed too.
***
I would have liked to stay and see Dr. Shaw. Annoyed at my own worries about antagonizing Papa, I decided to cheer myself up on the way home. I sipped water from Mr. Benson’s new outdoor bubbling drinking fountain by the depot and discovered a new confectionery, Rose City Candies. I bought a cone of licorice nibs—an indulgence Mama says I shouldn’t buy unwrapped from a seller I don’t know. She says you can’t trust what might be in licorice, which is never served at the best of bridge games or dinner parties.
The house was still quiet when I returned. I put my sash in my hatbox in the hall closet, lest Papa see it. Then I put the rest of my nibs on the kitchen table—and there she was, sitting on the floor in front of the open icebox.
“Ah, Miriam,” Serakh said, rising to her feet. She wore a loose-fitting caftan and sandals. She stretched her hand toward me. In her palm was a half-eaten salmon cake. “I have never eaten such a food.”
“Serakh!” I leaned against the table, my heart pounding. “How did you get in? The door was locked!”
“I had no trouble getting inside.” Serakh licked her lips. “A food that is pink—in all my times and places this is new.”
“It’s just salmon,” I took another step toward the hall. “Is a window open?”
“Perhaps. Salmon is a lentil?” Her voice was friendly and soothing, as if the nicest people barged into empty houses, opened the icebox, and made themselves at home talking about pink foods.
“Salmon is a fish,” I said. Who didn’t know that? Serakh took another bite and offered the rest to me. “No thank you,” I replied, as if this were dinner-table conversation, as if everything were perfectly ordinary—which it wasn’t. I paused to collect my thoughts, then ventured, “I have the shawl, Serakh. My uncle had it locked away in his safe.”
She stroked the end of her braid. “He understands the value of your tzitzit.”
“My uncle has heard about you. And he says my father was afraid to give the shawl to me.”
She nodded. “Poor man.”
I was getting nowhere. “My aunt Raizl died in the shawl. She died, Serakh. What’s the mystery? I have to know.”
“Much in this world we cannot explain,” she said with a sigh, as if Aunt Raizl was none of my concern. “I will finish this tasty fish while you get your tzitzit,” she said. She eyed my hat. “You have added small ornaments to your head covering. Is that a custom here, like the woman with the many feathers where you pray?”
“Mrs. Steinbacher? No, not really. Mrs. Steinbacher’s hat is…um…exceptional.” I took a deep breath. Probably Mrs. Jenkins had forgotten to lock the back door. Serakh’s clothes were odd, and so were her manners. Maybe she really did come from Persia or Afghanistan. Perhaps I was feeling anxious for no reason.
“Serakh, please sit at the table. That’s the custom in Portland.”
“I will do as you say, Miriam. I am eager for another portion of pink fish.”
I put a salmon cake on a plate, closed the icebox, and handed her a fork.
Serakh ignored the fork. Even Cousin Albert had better manners, but I really didn’t care about her table etiquette at the moment.
“Where are your fringes?” she asked again.
“Stay here, I’ll be right down.”
My shoulders tensed as I climbed the stairs, and I wondered whether to ask Serakh to come back another time. Still, if I was old enough to leave school and old enough to go to a suffrage rally, I was old enough to have another girl come calling, even a strange one like Serakh. Besides, questions were piling up in my mind faster than I could count, and I wanted to satisfy my curiosity.
When I returned with the shawl, Serakh was sniffing my licorice nibs. “What is this?”
“Licorice. Try some. You pop it in your mouth or bite off a piece and chew. Like this.”
She followed my instructions. “Excellent!”
“As tasty as cucumbers?” I teased, easing my discomfort.
She smiled. “Cucumbers are pure delight.”
“I’m that way about sweet rolls.” I opened the embroidered bag and spread the shawl on the kitchen table. Serakh’s hazel eyes glistened. She kissed the embroidered edge and draped the shawl around her shoulders and mine. My whole body relaxed as if I were soaking in a warm bath. Then she wrapped the corner fringe with the blue thread around her fingers.
“Many Miriams of your line have worn this shawl. Many have traveled.”
“Pardon?” The thread commenced to gleam as brightly as a filament in Mr. Edison’s light bulbs. My heart lurched.
“How did you do that?”
“No matter, Miriam. Are you ready to visit Tirtzah? You have only to touch this thread.”
I willed my hands to stay at my side. Surely this parlor trick had a rational explanation. “I have to be back before my parents return.”
“We shall take no time at all.”
“Oh, does Tirtzah live around here? The only Tirtzah I’ve heard about is supposed to be in the Book of Numbers.”
“I do not know of such a book.” Serakh hummed to herself. She looked longingly at the licorice nibs, but didn’t ask for another piece.
The grandfather clock ticked in the hall. Serakh stroked the blue thread with her free hand. “Miriam,” she said softly, “I cannot make you touch this thread, so I ask again for the sake of Tirtzah and our people. Tirtzah struggles to share in her father’s dream. Will you come?”
I thought of Papa and that VOTE NO card. “I have problems with my father, too.”
Serakh frowned. “Of that I am sure.”
I was curious—who wouldn’t be? And it wasn’t as if Serakh was forcing me. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? I could still outrun her if things got any stranger, and we hadn’t even left the house yet. She gestured to the shawl again.
I reached for the blue thread.
An eerie blue glow spread over my fingers. I stared at her as I fought an urge to let go of the thread. “Who in heaven’s name are you?”
Serakh didn’t answer. Instead she kissed my forehead
and covered my hand in hers. My stomach felt queasy and a great crushing feeling squeezed my chest.
Blue lightning crackled before my eyes.
My world turned black.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Everything ached.
“Do not rise yet,” Serakh murmured somewhere in the darkness. “The olam is not easily traveled. Let your body rest.”
Blackness dissolved into grays and browns. I shut my eyes, then opened them slowly. Stone walls—a cave. I lay on a rough woolen blanket, my shawl folded neatly by my head.
“Do not fear, Miriam.” Serakh squatted by my side and smoothed my hair. “I will take you back across the olam when we are done. Perhaps I will stay for more pink fish.”
“Across what?” I struggled for breath. My throat burned.
“The olam—the path through every place and all time.”
“The path through what? Where am I?”
She kissed my forehead again, smothering me with that goat smell I remembered from our first meeting. “Let your mind rest for now.”
I clutched my shawl and shivered. The blue thread had lost its glow. “What’s happening to me? Who are you?”
“I am the same Serakh who traveled to Port Land. I am Serakh, daughter of Asher. Serakh bat Asher. You might hear Tirtzah say bat. Bat means daughter. My gift of language does not always translate names. Have no fear, Miriam. You chose bravely, and now you are safe so long as you remain with me.”
My hands felt like ice. My legs started to shake. “Not your name, Serakh. I mean what kind of a person are you? Where am I?”
“I am a good person, believe me. And we are not far from the River Jordan.” She handed me a pair of well-worn leather sandals, an ochre-colored shift with blue and ochre fringes, and an ochre robe with a crimson stripe. “Here. We must hide the clothes of your place and time. These garments I have saved and honored for this occasion. You must put them on quickly.”
I pushed the clothes away. “No. I will do no such thing until you tell me what’s happening. None of this makes sense!”
Serakh pressed the palms of her hands together and touched her fingers to her lips. She seemed to will her eyes into unaccustomed softness. “I shall try to explain in the short time we have. My father was a son of the man you call Jacob and a brother of the man you call Joseph. You and I are kin through the line of Joseph, my uncle. The daughters come from the line of Joseph directly, through Joseph’s son, Manasseh.”
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