Blue Thread

by Ruth Tenzer Feldman

  And to top it all off:

  11 For Mahlah, Tirzah, and Hoglah, and Milcah, and Noah, the daughters of Zelophehad, were married unto their father’s brothers’ sons:

  Oh, for crying out loud! I was sorely tempted to hurl the Bible across the room, but you don’t do that to holy books. I slammed it shut and commenced to pace. If Tirtzah and her sisters wanted their land, they had to get married. Plus they had to marry their uncles or cousins. Tirtzah had fought so hard, and in the end she lost Gabi the Reubenite, who was not a member of her tribe. Who knows what oafs she and her sisters got stuck with?

  At dinner, it was as if nothing had happened the day before, as if the flash of blue and Papa’s raving were long dead and buried. I studied my knife and fork and listened to my parents’ polite conversation. I thought about families and tribes, and how little things had changed between men and women since Tirtzah’s time, when men enjoyed “the inheritance of their fathers.” I stabbed at my buttered baby turnips. Two of them skittered off the plate.

  Tirtzah wanted me to be with her for that second decision, and I had let her down. Would Serakh have let me interfere, to stand before Moses again? Probably not. Could I have made a difference then? Probably not. But Papa was not going to stop me from making a difference now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  On Tuesday, Papa drove us to work in the Oldsmobile. “I will be away with Mr. Jacobowitz most of the day. I leave you in the care of Miss Svenson.”

  He swerved to avoid a horse and wagon plodding across the intersection. The horse wore blinders. Maybe Papa did, too. “How are you feeling?” I asked. I hoped that we might talk about what had happened the other night.

  “Fine,” he snapped. “I will be back by three. Do you have money for lunch?”

  “Yes, Papa.” We rode the rest of the way in silence.

  After Papa left, Uncle Hermann made a quick round of the production floor and then retired to the office to read The Morning Oregonian. I followed him in, closed the office door, and sat on the edge of his desk. I decided to be direct.

  “I just want to ask you one thing about that prayer shawl.” I barreled on before he could object. “What happened after Raizl died?”

  Uncle Hermann folded the newspaper. He fiddled with his fountain pen.

  I waited.

  Finally, he said, “I was too young to know the details, but I shared a bed with your father and often he woke up screaming. After Raizl’s burial, the rabbi came to the house and there was an argument. The rabbi asked Savta for the shawl. She refused. Then the shawl seemed to have disappeared. Rumors spread. People turned their backs on Savta. Merchants refused to sell her their wares. She stayed at home and helped Mama, Frida, and me. By then Julius was apprenticed to a printer. That had been our father’s trade.”

  “What happened to your father?”

  “He was killed when I was a baby. He…well, it’s a long story, Miriam. Let’s save that for another time.”

  “No more blue flashes?”

  Uncle Hermann frowned with confusion. I struggled to strip away any emotion except curiosity. “Papa mentioned something about a blue flash,” I said. “Who was Frida?”

  “Frida? She was—is—our sister. There was your father, then Raizl—they were close. Then Frida, who is five years older than I. She married well, and later Mama and Savta went to live with her. The family decided your father and I should go to America.”

  “And that’s when you got the prayer shawl?”

  Uncle Hermann nodded. “We had no idea Savta still had it. She gave it to us at the train station. Savta said she would die soon. She pleaded with us to name a daughter Miriam in her memory and to give that daughter the prayer shawl.”

  “And you kept the prayer shawl because Papa was afraid to give it to me.”

  “Yes.” He put his hand on my knee. “Let matters rest, Mim.”

  I slid off his desk and gave him a quick hug. “Thanks, Uncle Hermann. Everything’s starting to make sense. I’d like to work with Miss Svenson today.”

  His smile was wide and welcoming. “Just be sure you are off the production floor by the time your father gets back. I’m in enough trouble already.” Cousin Albert was lucky to have him for a father. “It should be an easy day,” he added. “We’ve delivered most of the Hallowe’en work and there’s no rush yet for Thanksgiving.”

  Hallowe’en.

  Perfect.

  “I’d wager Albert would like his very own Hallowe’en cards. Miss Svenson and I can make them if there’s slack time today.”

  Uncle Hermann was keen on my idea. So was Kirsten when I explained my plan to use the Osborne’s extra cardstock and learn how to compose, set type, and run the press.

  She smoothed her apron. “I can give you the basics and test which ink works best on this cardstock. Hmm…I just used a black cat image for Mrs. Pettygrove’s dinner party menu.”

  “When can we start?”

  “A little after one, I should think.”

  At four minutes after one, I was at Kirsten’s side. We stood next to the large cabinet in the center of the room. “This is called a California job case,” she said. “Don’t ask me why. Every letter and punctuation mark has its own little box, see? All the majuscules—the capital letters—are in the upper part of the case and the little letters—the minuscules—are in the lower part. And here are the rest, Miriam—strips that go between the lines, em spaces that go between the words, and slugs for other kinds of spacing.”

  “I get it. So that’s why capitals are called upper case letters and the smaller ones are called lower case.” Sister Margaret couldn’t have given me a more approving smile. I handed Kirsten a scrap of paper. “Here’s what I’d like on the card.”

  The goblins at dark eerie meetings

  On Hallowe’en send you their greetings!

  “And let’s put that black cat at the bottom.”

  “Good. Now watch this.” Kirsten held a ruler-like gadget with a tiny shelf on the bottom edge. She picked up majuscules, minuscules, punctuation marks, and spacing leads and placed each line—with the letters backward—onto a marble slab, then into a heavy metal frame she called a “chase.” She added the cat image from Mrs. Pettygrove's print job, extra pieces she called “furniture,” and two pressure adjusters, called “quoins,” for the vertical and horizontal aspects of the frame. I turned a quoin key to lock everything into place.

  This is like my life. Odd pieces in a frame. Serakh and the blue thread are my quoins, holding me together.

  The bell over the front door jingled. Papa was back early. Kirsten collected the chase, and I rushed to Papa’s office. I’d have to finish with Kirsten later.

  ***

  Hallowe’en was the big topic at Neighborhood House the next day. A sign on the wall read:

  COME TO A JOLLY HALLOWE’EN PARTY

  GAMES AND DANCING

  ENTERTAINMENT FOR THE YOUNGER SET

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 31st

  7:30 p.m.

  Hallowe’en decorations hung from the kindergarten windows. The teacher pointed me toward a girl who had refused to join the others in making party hats and masks. I grabbed a piece of paper and colored pencils, and walked over.

  “I’m Miriam Josefsohn. What’s your name?”

  “Bella Jacobowitz.”

  “Oh! Do you have a relative who works at Precision Printers?”

  Bella frowned.

  Perhaps not. “Don’t you want to make a party hat?”

  “Mama says Hallowe’en is about dead people. I won’t go to a party with dead people.”

  “There won’t be dead people, Bella. Let’s make a special crown to protect you.”

  Bella’s eyes widened. “Do you know magic?”

  “Somebody once called me a witch, but I’m a regular person, just like you.”

  “I’m not a regular person. I’m going to have a magic crown.”

  I wished I had a magic crown too. And my prayer shawl. After I finished with
Bella, I checked in the office. No Mrs. Rosenfeld. She wasn’t in the clothing donation room either. I’d brought a bundle of outgrown clothes in which I’d hidden the shoes Serakh brought back from…when…where…I hurled them at that horrid man. Someone could use them and Mama would notice if I kept both pairs of black shoes.

  Leaving my bundle on the donation table, I wondered when Mrs. Steinbacher would tire of her atrocious hat, and which poor immigrant woman would dare to wear it next. A familiar gray dress hung near the men’s trousers. I stepped closer until I was sure, until I smelled goats. I pulled the dress from its hanger and crushed it to my chest.

  I felt a tightness at the corners of my eyes. Was Serakh gone forever now? Had she given up on me because I didn’t have my prayer shawl? What would happen if Papa got his way and the blue thread went up in flames?

  I don’t know how long I stayed in that donation room, waiting for answers that hovered out of reach. A woman came in once, said something in a foreign language, and walked out. I finally composed myself, fed Mama a tiny lie about sorting dusty clothes, and climbed into the front seat of Mrs. Steinbacher’s Packard. I sat next to a new chauffeur who smelled of mothballs and had hair growing out of his ears.

  I didn’t ask Mr. Jacobowitz about Bella the next day. Maybe it was a common enough name. Besides, curiosity could not overcome my recent discomfort in his presence. While Papa was holed up in his office, I watched Kirsten insert our Hallowe’en chase into the press and align a piece of cardstock against tiny pins on a flat part she called a “platen.” She put a pile of blank cardstock on the right side of a platform at the front of the press and opened a can of ink that looked like blue molasses.

  “It’s got to be thick to stick to the rollers,” she said. “And to spread an even surface on the inking disc.” She spread two lines of ink on the disc, moved a large lever forward, started the flywheel with her left hand, and pumped the treadle with her right foot. The press seemed to fold up on itself—ka-chunk—while forcing the chase against the platen and inking Albert’s card.

  “I already adjusted the packing under the tympan, and pulled a proof,” she said.

  I had no notion what she meant, but I nodded nevertheless.

  “Stand away from the press,” she continued. “See? My left hand removes the printed card to the left side of the platform. I separate the good cards from the ones that weren’t inked properly. My right hand takes a blank card from the pile on the right side of the platform and inserts it against the pins.”

  She made it look easy. Ka-chunk. The press inked and printed another card.

  “Some presses close up on you fast; we call them ‘alligators.’ You have to be very careful, Miriam. Once you engage the motor and start the treadle, the press keeps moving. Even if you pull the braking lever and disengage the motor, the press will finish that cycle.”

  “Here, I’ll take a turn.”

  Kirsten folded her arms across her chest. “Didn’t you hear me? You’re not ready. Your father doesn’t even want you on the production floor, remember?”

  “I’m not exactly waiting for his permission. Besides, Papa won’t know.”

  Another compositor asked Kirsten a question, and I saw my chance when she stepped away to answer him. This was like sewing class—you learned by doing. How hard could it be to print a few cards?

  Operating the lever and the flywheel I ever so carefully printed one good card, then another. But the third piece of cardstock went in crooked. I reached in to fix its alignment. The machine began to close, and I pulled back—not soon enough. My index finger went numb, then flashed with a burning pain when the machine opened again.

  I stood there, staring at my finger. Kirsten rushed me to the storage room. She told me later that I kept yelping like a kicked dog, but I didn’t remember any of it.

  “Ice!” she shouted. I sat on a little bench, biting my lip against the pain. I squeezed my eyelids shut. The pain surged deeper. When I opened my eyes, Mr. Jacobowitz was wrapping my hand in a wet cloth with slivers of ice from the icebox at the back of the room.

  “Let me look at your hand. Please, just for a second.” His palms were sweaty.

  “Don’t tell my father!”

  “I won’t,” he said, touching my hand as if it were made of the most delicate porcelain. “Ah, the nail is still attached. No bones crushed. You will heal and be whole, thanks be to God.” Slowly he looked from my hand to my face. There was such kindness in his eyes. Without thinking, I put my free hand on top of the one holding my injured one.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  He blushed, and I admit I felt my cheeks grow warm. Silly me, how unprofessional is that?

  “I’ll take care of her now,” Kirsten said, coming over with fresh ice.

  Mr. Jacobowitz didn’t argue, but as he left Papa appeared suddenly in the doorway.

  “Gott in Himmel, look what you’ve done!” He cradled my injured hand in his own.

  “She’ll be fine, sir,” Kirsten said. “Nothing is broken, I assure you. I am so terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have let her near the presses. It’s entirely my fault.”

  The vein in Papa’s temple throbbed. “Miss Svenson, you will tell Mr. Jacobowitz to call my brother to bring his automobile to the shop. You will accompany Miriam home. When you return, you will empty your personals box, collect this week’s pay from Mr. Jacobowitz, and leave.”

  I clutched his sleeve with my good hand. “No! Don’t fire Miss Svenson, Papa. It’s not her fault.” I waved my injured hand in his face. “Look,” I lied, “my finger hardly hurts now. By tomorrow it will be perfect.” Poor Kirsten. How could I have been such a clumsy fool?!

  “By tomorrow it will be black and blue and swollen, and you will not keep that nail. Is that not so, Miss Svenson?”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “May I have until the end of the day to finish Mrs. Bloom’s birth announcement?”

  Papa jerked his head yes. After Kirsten left, he grabbed my shoulders. “You sit here and keep ice on your hand. Not one more word. Ach! Such foolishness.” He stomped out.

  That’s when the shakes began. I’d ruined everything.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  On the ride home, I pleaded with Uncle Hermann to see that Kirsten kept her job. He said he’d do his best. Mrs. Jenkins puffed her way down the front walk. Uncle Hermann got out of his automobile to talk to her.

  While we were alone, Kirsten whispered, “Look in your personals box in the storage room. I’m at Mrs. Hardwick’s boarding house on Third and Harrison. Ice your hand tomorrow. I am so sorry.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  Mrs. Jenkins smothered me as if I’d broken my arm and come down with typhoid fever in the same instant. Later I let Mama bathe my hand in tincture of iodine, which stung like blazes. I dined in my room, which was just as well. Otherwise, I might have thrown something at Papa.

  The next morning the top third of my index finger had turned an ugly bluish-black. But Papa was wrong—the nail didn’t fall off. Mama scrutinized my hand and finally pronounced it on the mend. She produced a pair of white leather gloves with lace trim. “They’re for the masquerade dance,” she said. “Your hand might still look bruised.”

  She held me at arm’s length and studied me like a printer’s proof. “A hint of rouge and you will look stunning. A pity you have your father’s nose instead of mine, but your eyes are captivating, and your skin is improving. You’ll be the toast of the Concordia Club.”

  “I’m going to the party at Neighborhood House,” I announced. “They need me.” Whether they needed me or not, I refused to parade on Papa’s arm now that he’d fired Kirsten.

  “After all the trouble Mrs. Lowenthal went through to lend you her costume?”

  “Poor people can’t appreciate Marie Antoinette?”

  “Don’t be impertinent, Miriam.”

  I was not about to back down. Papa had gone too far. She finally agreed
to have Mrs. Steinbacher’s chauffeur fetch me at Neighborhood House at half past ten.

  Mama brushed a stray curl from her forehead. “I’ll ask Mrs. Steinbacher when we have tea with her this afternoon. You’d better come along, Miriam. I’m not about to leave you alone today. There might still be an infection under that fingernail.”

  I let Mama have her way, and I’m glad I did. As I visited Mrs. Steinbacher’s guest commode, I overheard Mama ask about “that embroidered item.”

  “It’s in my armoire,” Mrs. Steinbacher said. “I’ll go get it for you.”

  “Heavens no, Hilda. Julius still has a notion to burn it, and I’m not about to do that with a family heirloom.”

  My shawl! Safe. After we left, Mama remarked on my jolly mood at tea. I told her how much I enjoyed visiting the Steinbachers. I don’t think she believed me.

  The next day, I convinced Mama I was well enough to visit the Osbornes. Charity bubbled over with news. Mrs. Duniway’s birthday rally was apparently a huge success. “And you should have seen the crowds at the Lincoln High School debate last night,” Charity added. “Colonel Miller represented the Oregon Equal Suffrage League and he was fabulous.”

  Prudence yanked a spool of yellow ribbon off the shelf. “So was Judge Corliss from the State Association Opposed to Equal Suffrage. A judge, mind you. Plus, the liquor interests in this state think women will shut down the saloons. We’ve got powerful enemies.”

  “Why would we shut down the saloons?”

  “Ask the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union. They’re huge supporters of suffrage for women. I wish they would hold their tongues until this election is over.”

  I explained what had happened with poor Kirsten. “But, don’t worry,” I said. “She showed me how to print the VOTE FOR JUSTICE cards. I’ll make sure you have some. May I use your telephone?” I rang Uncle Hermann and asked to borrow an extra key to Precision Printers. I told him that Kirsten had left something for me.

  “I can pick it up for you on Monday, Miriam,” he said.

  “Uncle Hermann, don’t you think women should have the right to vote?”