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by Ruth Tenzer Feldman


  He cleared his throat. He was forever clearing his throat in front of me. “I’d…ah…I’d…with the rain and all this excitement, if I might renew my offer to escort you home…”

  “Here’s the streetcar,” I said. “I’ll be careful. Thank you for the loan of your umbrella.”

  I tried not to be annoyed as he watched me board the streetcar. He gave me the sweetest little wave, which I couldn’t help but return. I assigned a piece of my brain to watch where I put my body as I headed home. I greeted Mrs. Jenkins, counted myself lucky that Mama was out, and carried a tray of sweet rolls and coffee to my room. I moved Uncle Hermann’s Bible to make space on my desk. If only Serakh and Tirtzah could see me now, pursuing justice. I longed for the prayer shawl that Rashi’s daughter had made.

  Suddenly my mind designed the perfect VOTE FOR JUSTICE card. I got out my copybook, my typography book, and my best fountain pen, and commenced to put it on paper.

  Heavy cardstock, high gloss ivory

  Vary typefaces between Bodoni Poster Compress and Bodoni Book Italic

  Front text:

  "JUSTICE, JUSTICE SHALT THOU PURSUE" [blue ink]

  —DEUT. 16:20 [blue ink]

  VOTE YES ON AMENDMENT 1 [red ink]

  Front image:

  Roses (for Bread and Roses poem) [red ink]

  Reverse side text:

  GOVERNMENT OF THE PEOPLE, BY THE PEOPLE, FOR THE PEOPLE [blue ink]

  VOTE YES ON AMENDMENT 1 [red ink]

  Yes, this will do nicely. I wanted to print six thousand, which was a thousand more than Papa had. The Osbornes could help with distribution.

  I could hardly wait to show my design idea to Kirsten on Thursday. I propped my head in my hands and stared out the window. Kirsten was right, though—if Papa found out that I designed and printed these VOTE FOR JUSTICE cards, he’d be furious. Maybe he’d never let me back in the shop again.

  A pair of geese headed south, escaping to make a new life in another place more to their liking. But what do you do when the life you want is only a streetcar ride away, within reach, if only they thought you were good enough to invite you inside?

  I sat at dinner later, concentrating on my food, my head pounding. “You are quiet this evening,” Papa said.

  I put down my knife and fork and settled on a simple, “I’m fine.”

  Relaxing in the bath that night, I thought even more kindly of Mr. Jacobowitz’s actions. Richard had been so exciting, but he’d never been…sweet. I slathered rosewater lotion on my arms and legs, remembering Tirtzah staring at my feet that first time in Serakh’s cave. “I am going to make a difference here, Serakh,” I muttered to myself. “I promise you.”

  ***

  Mama was waiting in the kitchen for me the next morning when I came downstairs. “Mrs. Lowenthal lent me the perfect costume for you for the masquerade dance. Marie Antoinette! After your breakfast let’s go up to my dressing room and try it on. You’ll be the hit of the Concordia Club.”

  Hallowe’en was the last thing on my mind. I leaned against the kitchen wall and put my arms across my chest. “Why should I dress up as the queen who got her head cut off in the French Revolution?”

  “Because she was beautiful, and you’ll look beautiful, too. Mrs. Lowenthal went out of her way to lend this to you. The least you can do is see how it fits.”

  “At least Mrs. Lowenthal is going as a suffragist. Are any of your friends besides her working on the suffrage campaign?”

  Mama smelled of the perfume that lingered on Baloo. “I don’t get involved with politics, Miriam. You should know that by now.”

  “Why?”

  Mama put her hands on her hips. “Do you like playing croquet?”

  “No.”

  “There you have it. I don’t like politics. Now, I’ll be in the parlor practicing for the benefit concert. Tell me when you’re ready to try on the costume.”

  An hour later we trooped upstairs. I had to admit the dress was stunning. Yards and yards of green and gold brocade, with a low, tight bodice that showed off what passed for my bosom. But I refused to wear the wig.

  “It looks ridiculous, Mama. And it probably has fleas.”

  She stood behind me as I sat at her dressing table and looked in the mirror. She piled my hair on top of my head, leaving a few curls to fall down the side of my neck and onto my bare collarbone.

  “No wig then. We’ll get fancy feathers and ribbons from the Osborne sisters for your hair. Hmm…and we’ll have to add some lace to hide your alluring décolletage or your father will have a seizure.”

  She fetched a strand of pearls. “Here, let’s put these on…oh, my, yes, they do look lovely, don’t you think? Miriam, you’ve hardly cracked a smile.”

  “I’m fine, Mama.”

  “All you say these days is ‘I’m fine’ when clearly you are not. Are you worried about our train ride to New York? You shouldn’t be. The travel agent assured me that the rails are clear of snow, even in December. At least we’re not going overseas. The Titanic was such a shock. I can’t imagine how the Steinbachers have the courage to make the crossing next spring.”

  Mama put her hands on my shoulders. “There’s something else that’s bothering you. You should know it hurts us both when you keep secrets. You can unburden yourself with me.”

  I kept my eyes on the mirror. I had let her play dress-up with me. And I hadn’t groused about that ridiculous trip to New York City. Mama was in a good mood. Maybe she was ready to listen to reason about my prayer shawl.

  “You know, Mama, I’m not the only one in this family who’s hiding something.”

  Mama toyed with her earrings. “Life is full of compromises, Miriam. You can’t always have what you want.”

  “Not even if it belongs to me?”

  She arched her eyebrows.

  “You don’t have to do everything he says, Mama. You have as much right to make decisions as he does.” I wanted her to understand so badly.

  She left the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Waiting in the front hall the next morning, I wondered what Papa’s face would look like when he saw me in the Marie Antoinette costume with my hair up and my shoulders bare. I commenced to pace and mutter to myself about giving him a taste of his own medicine and showing him some petticoat—the flouncing kind that was on his VOTE NO card.

  “Miriam, I expect a proper good morning when I see you.”

  I jerked my head toward Papa’s voice. How long had he been standing in the hall? I smoothed my skirt and avoided his gaze. “Good morning, Papa. I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

  He put on his coat and gloves. As I handed him his bowler hat and umbrella, he shook his head and scowled. How could Mama ever have imagined him as her German Prince Charming?

  After the employees’ morning instructions, I tried to return the umbrella to Mr. Jacobowitz, but he insisted I keep it in the shop as a spare. When I asked Kirsten for help with buying the samples album, Papa interrupted with, “Miss Svenson, you are to finish the first inking of the menu for Miss Failing, and then you may accompany my daughter. Tell me as soon as you pull the printer’s proof.”

  Kirsten lowered her gaze. “Yes, Mr. Josefsohn.”

  When Papa disappeared into his office, I leaned toward her. “I want to tell the Osbornes about our…plans, after we shop for the album. Shall we meet them around noon where Burnside Street meets the North Park Blocks?”

  She nodded, and I headed for Mr. Jacobowitz. Or, more precisely, I headed for the telephone on Mr. Jacobowitz’s desk.

  “You wouldn’t mind if I made one short call from your telephone, would you?” I asked. “I don’t want to trouble my father with using the telephone on his desk.”

  “By all means, Miss Josefsohn,” he said, gazing up at me with a smile. He busied himself by the front counter—to give me privacy, I suppose. I called Osborne Milliners, and arranged to meet with Prudence. When I was through, I smiled at him—polite but not inviting—and scoo
ted toward the office door.

  At half past ten, Kirsten told Papa the first inking was done. I collected my umbrella and shopping sack, and we were on our way. The sun shone through the clouds as we walked toward the stationers on Alder Street, but the sky had turned gray over the West Hills. October in Portland—sunny one minute, rainy the next.

  Kirsten walked as fast as I did. She chattered happily about going to a dance with Nils and about her plans for their wedding, but when we got to the stationers, she was all business.

  “This is Miss Josefsohn from Precision Printers,” Kirsten told the woman behind the counter. “She is interested in your albums.”

  The woman turned to me. “Are you looking for a more traditional album, with green or beige pages, or one with the new black pages?”

  “Black. With white photo corners,” I said confidently. “And an album that opens flat. Something in leather, with an insert for our company name. Put the purchase on my father’s account, please.”

  We looked at six styles and agreed on one with maroon leather and a thin silver strip around the edge. The woman wrapped up the album, a small box of photo corners, and a dozen extra pages. “Photographs look particularly good with white ink titles on black,” she said.

  “We’re using the album to show customers samples of our work,” I explained. “That way they can pick the design features they like best. And with the photo corners, customers can take out the samples to see the reverse side and to feel the weight and texture of the stock.” She seemed to approve.

  “You have the makings of a businesswoman,” Kirsten said, after we left—music to my ears. We waited for Prudence on a park bench under a large elm tree.

  “Precision Printers at your service,” I called out when I saw her coming up the path.

  Kirsten shushed me. Prudence looked puzzled. “What’s this all about? Charity said you told her something about suffrage cards.”

  I modulated my voice. “Do you remember how Kirsten had to print VOTE NO cards in 1906? Well, wouldn’t the suffrage campaign like VOTE YES cards this time around?”

  From the look on Prudence’s face, you would have thought I had given her the keys to the city. “Definitely! The more information, the better our chances. The suffrage leagues here are using posters, broadsides, handbills, newspaper ads, anything and everything. We’ve even designed a cartoon to project at the cinema. How many cards could you print?”

  I looked at Kirsten. “Maybe six thousand.” I said. She didn’t object.

  “That’s quite a handsome amount. But isn’t your father against suffrage for women?”

  “We have to be careful, that’s all.”

  Prudence shook her head. “I couldn’t let you do that. If he ever found out…”

  “That’s what I’ve tried to tell her,” Kirsten said. “But she’s not listening.”

  I barreled on. “You’d have to buy the cardstock, Prudence. My father would know if that much paper went missing from our supplies, and we shouldn’t use his account at the stationers. What about ink, Kirsten?”

  “We have enough in-house,” she said. “I’ll use a popular color; no one will notice.”

  Prudence and Kirsten eyed each other. “I have to do this,” I said.

  Prudence clasped my right hand in both of hers. “In that case, I won’t stand in your way. We’ll raise the money for whatever supplies you need. How soon can you print these cards?”

  “It depends on when we can get the presses,” Kirsten said.

  “Any time up to Election Day—November 5th. But the sooner the better.”

  Kirsten frowned. “And another thing, Miriam. If your father ever sees this VOTE YES card, he’ll know it came from his shop. He knows the printing quirks of our machines. Even if he’s not certain, he’s bound to guess you’re the one behind this—and me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I wasn’t about to give up my suffrage cards, but I didn’t want to get Kirsten in trouble with Papa. Who knew what he might do?

  I fiddled with my gloves and watched two squirrels chase each other up the elm. “Well, a vote is a vote and this is a statewide election. We don’t have to distribute them in Portland. Couldn’t we ship the cards out of the city?”

  I watched my idea catch hold. “Certainly,” Prudence said. “We’ll batch them and send them in hatboxes to our pro-suffrage customers. And we’ll get them to suffrage leagues in Eugene, Salem, and Pendleton—maybe even Astoria, Hood River, and La Grande.”

  “It’s settled then.” I practically floated back to work.

  Papa examined my supplies. “Navy and silver for a cover would have been better, but maroon and silver will do. Let us see what it looks like with the samples.”

  “You made a good choice,” Uncle Hermann said. “I like the black paper.”

  “Me, too,” I replied, choosing to ignore Papa. “I should finish selecting samples by early next week. Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday,” Papa said. “You do not come to the office Mondays.”

  Not yet. But one day.

  ***

  Friday I was back at Osborne Milliners, which was beginning to feel more like home than home did. I pretty much ignored the hats, but I was becoming an expert at making yellow bows. Charity showed me an article she’d cut out about the Duniway festival.

  “It says two senators will speak at Mrs. Duniway’s birthday because Rabbi Stephen Wise can’t attend. He’s a great supporter of suffrage for women. Doesn’t your temple have a Rabbi Wise, Miriam? His wife bought a hat from us last week.”

  I nodded. “Stephen Wise used to be our rabbi, but the one we have now is Jonah Wise. I don’t think they’re related. When is Mrs. Duniway’s birthday?”

  “October 22nd. We’re staging a big rally for all the work she has done. By the by, Mrs. Lowenthal called again. She’ll pay us extra to make up boutonnières for the Concordia Club masquerade dance. Thanks to Mrs. Lowenthal, we managed to pay our rent this week.”

  “Why don’t you buy the shop? Don’t you plan to stay in Portland?”

  Prudence put her hands on her hips. “We’re renting because we haven’t the means to buy,” she said, as if that were obvious. “It’s hard enough for a married woman to get a bank loan, but an unmarried woman…that’s practically impossible.”

  Charity put the kettle on for tea. “Are you going to this dance, too, Miriam?”

  “My parents insist. Mrs. Lowenthal lent me her Marie Antoinette costume. Yards and yards of silk brocade—and all for a costume. Ridiculous.”

  “Maybe next year we’ll pull a bit of a party together. When times are not quite so tight. What do you think, Pru?”

  Prudence brushed a strand of hair from her face. “That would be lovely.”

  Stupid me. “Would you like to come to the Concordia Club? I’m sure I could arrange it,” I said, although I doubted I could. I was technically coming as Papa’s guest.

  “That’s kind of you,” Prudence said, wearing a close resemblance to Mama’s Dinner Party Look. Maybe she thought I was a spoiled brat. I hoped not.

  I pressed a yellow bow to my chest. “Can you imagine Mrs. Lowenthal sticking boutonnières on all those men?”

  Prudence laughed. A genuine laugh. Still, at dinner that night, I wondered whether Charity and Prudence ever went to bed hungry.

  ***

  Saturday I got a letter from Florrie—finally! She was on cloud nine, writing paragraph after paragraph about Anna Head Boarding and Day School, which, I admit, made me envious. Then she added:

  You would love Berkeley as much as I do. We’re just a ferry ride across the bay from San Francisco. Imagine being so close to the home of Ghirardelli chocolates! You can stay at my aunt’s with me—she has rooms to spare. Everyone talks about San Francisco rising from the ashes after that earthquake and fire, and it’s true. You must visit me. I miss you terribly.

  Next weekend Jeremy and I are going to the moving pictures. I wrote
to you about him, didn’t I? He’s even nicer than Harold. Are you still swearing off fellows since Richard headed for Los Angeles? That was months ago, Mim. Forget about him.

  I don’t think I’m coming up to Portland for Thanksgiving. Sorry. I haven’t told Mama yet, but it’s so much lovelier down here. I hope you’ll understand.

  In friendship forever,

  Florrie

  Had Florrie gotten my last letter, she would have asked about the suffrage campaign and my prayer shawl. Berkeley felt as far away as the South Pole.

  Florrie was a friend by birth, our mothers being close friends before we were born, two months apart. I never knew a world without Florence Steinbacher. Sometimes I thought she merely tolerated me, although she wouldn’t dream of saying so. But I didn’t ask for much, and Florrie trusted me to keep her secrets. She kept mine as well, including my enchantment with Richard Broxburn. I started a letter back to her:

  Nobody interests me the way Richard did, so there’s nothing romantic to report. How could I ever have gotten so sweet on him? Well, you know how! I wonder if he ever made it to Los Angeles and if we’ll ever see him in the cinema. Thinking about him still gives me goose bumps.

  Papa’s clerk, Mr. Jacobowitz, is making eyes at me—can you believe it? Maybe he means well. Maybe he’s watching out for me for Papa’s sake—or on Papa’s orders. I’m not sure what to think.

  I told Florrie everything about the petticoat card and my VOTE FOR JUSTICE card. And I assured her that we weren’t distributing the cards in Portland, lest Papa find out.

  Each time I used Charity’s yellow blotter to set the ink on my letter, I yearned to get started on my cards. I had more questions for Kirsten than there are letters in the alphabet. How hard is it to set up a job with two typefaces? How long must the first inking dry before you do a second? How often do you have to stop the press to clean and re-ink it? I wedged my fingernail between my teeth. It would take weeks to figure this all out, and we didn’t have that much time. I had to learn faster than Kirsten expected.

  Sunday dragged along as usual, pouring down rain. Dutiful and bored, I sat in the library listening to records on the Grafonola and reading The Morning Oregonian. Papa took the front section and gave the rest to Mama and me. The society page had a spread on advice to women from Sarah Bernhardt.

 

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