“Certainly. But what does that have to do with a key to the shop?”
“I don’t want to lie to you, and I don’t want to get you into any more trouble with Papa. But I have to get into the shop tomorrow.”
Silence. I clutched the receiver and stared at the ceiling.
Then he said, “There’s a loose brick near the ground directly below our nameplate. We always keep a spare key there. I’m bringing a food basket to Miss Svenson tomorrow. If you can arrange it with your parents, I’ll take you along.”
“Absolutely!” Thank you, Uncle Hermann.
***
When Uncle Hermann and I arrived on Sunday, Mrs. Hardwick’s boarding house smelled of mildew and cooked cabbage. The furnishings seemed unchanged since the Civil War. Kirsten met us in the parlor, the only place she said guests were allowed. Mrs. Hardwick’s place, she explained, was listed as wholly “moral” on the new map that the mayor’s vice committee had just published.
“This is extremely kind of you,” she told Uncle Hermann. “I do have a little put aside for next month’s rent, so I’ll manage.”
She examined my finger, now a greenish yellow and tender only to the touch, and we three chatted about nothing in particular. Then I asked Uncle Hermann to take a slow walk around the block so Kirsten and I could be alone. Kirsten cautioned him to watch his wallet. He was barely out the door before I asked her what she’d put in my personals box.
“Before I left, I managed to set up the VOTE FOR JUSTICE chase for you and printed the first batch of cards. Are you sure you can print the rest? I don’t want you getting hurt again.”
“What choice do we have?” I gave her a wry smile. “My father can’t fire me.”
Kirsten smoothed her skirt. “All right then. Watch closely.” She moved her hands and feet as if she were operating an imaginary press. “Now you try. Feel the treadle. Take your shoes off, if it’s easier. And mind your fingers!”
Uncle Hermann returned in the middle of my forty-third imaginary card. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were dancing that newfangled turkey trot.”
We didn’t explain, and he didn’t ask questions. Neither did he question me when I asked him to stop by the shop so I could pick up a package. I wrapped the printed cards in the brown paper we used for customers. My shoulders ached and the back of my legs burned from my dance with the imaginary press. Still, I hadn’t had such a satisfying Sunday afternoon in ages.
Monday morning, I delivered Kirsten’s package of cards to Osborne Milliners. “I’ll print more this week,” I told Charity, although I wasn’t sure how I’d manage it. She showed me a gray and navy hat she’d made. “It’s simple but elegant, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. I really like it.” I tried on the hat and admired myself in the mirror.
“I have a favor to ask,” I said, returning the hat. “I need to be at Precision Printers as much as possible this week. Could you come tomorrow and admire my samples album? If customers are interested in the album, then I’d have an excuse to be at the shop.”
Prudence looked up from her ledger. She agreed to come and to ask several other suffragists to help. On the way home, I imagined a long queue of women winding around the block waiting to admire my album.
***
As promised, Charity presented herself at the shop on Tuesday at half past ten. I made a great show of presenting the samples album to her. As Papa walked to the front counter, Charity thrust her hand toward him. “It’s such a pleasure, Mr. Josefsohn. I am so impressed with the way Precision Printers has organized its offerings. I could have chosen any number of printing establishments, but now I shall tell all my friends and acquaintances about your friendly service.”
She extended her hand again, and Papa shook it. “Good day to you, sir, and to you, Miss Josefsohn. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”
After Papa and Charity left, Mr. Jacobowitz walked over to me. “What did Miss Osborne order?”
Why the sudden curiosity? “Nothing yet. But she will, I can assure you,” I said.
An hour later he stood in the doorway to the office. “There are two ladies asking for Miss Josefsohn,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. I smiled at Papa, who didn’t seem to notice. “You needn’t escort me to my clients, Mr. Jacobowitz.”
He gave me an odd look and returned to his desk.
“Hello from Prudence,” one of the women whispered when I reached the counter. Then she added in a loud voice, “You have an excellent selection. We’ll be back after Election Day to purchase thank you notes.”
The other woman muttered, “Or condolence cards.”
Several more women came to the shop throughout the day and admired the samples album. Papa didn’t say anything, but they must have caught his attention.
As we were closing the shop, I put my hand on Papa’s arm and he looked at me expectantly. “Seeing as so many people are interested in the samples album, I’d be happy to come in tomorrow, Papa.”
“No, you are Tuesdays and Thursdays. Leave the samples album on the front counter. Mr. Jacobowitz will handle the customers.”
Mr. Jacobowitz rushed to help me with my coat. “I will be as helpful as I possibly can with your new customers, Miss Josefsohn,” he said. “You can rely on me.”
Rely on you to do what? Watch out for me for my father’s sake? For yours? For mine? I remembered Papa’s comment that Mr. Jacobowitz was not the caliber of husband he and Mama had in mind for me. He’s nice enough when he’s not hovering, kind even. But I’ve yet to decide what caliber of person Mr. Jacobowitz is, let alone what caliber of husband. I put on my gloves, reached for my purse, and let him escort me to the door.
Wednesday I was back again at Neighborhood House. I told Mrs. Rosenfeld that I planned to come to the Hallowe’en party the next evening.
She arched her eyebrows. “I assumed that you would join the more prosperous members of the Jewish community at the Concordia Club.”
“Frankly, I’d rather be here.”
“Well then, I’m glad to have you.” She looked at me, as if she were deciding whether to tell me something. Then she gazed at her wedding ring and said, “We do have some very promising young men who come to Neighborhood House, but most of them aren’t American citizens yet.”
I stuck my hand under my chin. “Mrs. Rosenfeld, I’m up to here with my mother’s talk about promising young men. I won’t get married any time soon. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Clever girl,” she said. “But you should know there’s a federal law stating that when an American woman marries a man with foreign citizenship, she gives up her citizenship for his. The law applies only to women, not to American men who take foreign wives.”
“That’s ridiculous. I had no notion my government was so unfair.”
***
I also had no notion Mrs. Jenkins made candy, since it was the first Hallowe’en that she had worked for my parents. The kitchen smelled like a confectionery when we got home. I worked out some of my frustrations by whipping nougat, pulling taffy, and cracking walnut shells.
“My brother Danny used to love Hallowe’en,” I told Mrs. Jenkins. “He died of tetanus when he was ten and I was seven,” I blurted out.
“Oh, I am so sorry.”
I gave her a reassuring smile, having glossed over the painful details. “Danny would have adored your taffy. If he were alive now, he’d be in heaven.”
We both laughed at how that came out. “Miss Miriam,” she said, “he is in heaven.”
I wasn’t sure I believed in such a place, but maybe Mrs. Jenkins was right. Maybe my steadfast tin soldier was waiting there for his paper ballerina.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Hallowe’en dawned bright and promising. I paced the front hall, eager to get to Precision Printers. When the clock chimed nine, I knew something was wrong. Papa was never this late.
I strode back into the kitchen and headed for the sweet rolls. S
everal long minutes later, Papa made his appearance in slippers and a dressing gown.
“I’m so sorry you aren’t feeling well, Papa.” I swept crumbs from my skirt.
He shook his head. “There is nothing the matter with me, Miriam. I gave everyone a holiday. I won’t be going to the shop today.”
“You what?”
Mrs. Jenkins took one look at my face and bustled out of the kitchen.
“Lower your voice, Miriam. My men have worked hard and tomorrow we start our Thanksgiving orders. So today the men get a holiday. Unpaid naturally.”
“How could you?”
“Do not question my business practices, Miriam. I’ll make it up to them with a Christmas bonus if business is good.”
“I mean how could you give everyone a Thursday off and not tell me? Tuesdays and Thursdays are my workdays. Now I’d wager you won’t let me go to work tomorrow because it’s Friday.”
“Young ladies do not wager. How many times must I remind you?”
“Papa, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I told them at the shop yesterday. Didn’t I tell you last night at dinner? No matter. You are dressed for the day, so take a nice outing before we are forced into our costumes.”
My jaw tightened. “That’s not the point, Papa. I had plans for today. Things I…um…things I need to finish.”
“They will wait until Tuesday. Election Day. You should be proud I am a good American. I give the men an hour off work to vote. With pay, even. Many employers give no time off.”
I willed myself not to strangle him. “Don’t you want to get any work done there before the Hallowe’en party?”
“Not today. Your mama wishes to dress me as Napoléon Bonaparte, but first I spend a quiet afternoon at the Club.” Papa poured a cup of coffee and walked toward the library.
I steamed off toward my room. Halfway there I cooled down and reconsidered. No one would be at the shop today. I’d have the presses all to myself. “I think an outing is a great idea,” I told Papa while he sipped his coffee and leafed through some papers. “Please tell Mama I’ll be back by three.”
“Where will you be?”
“I haven’t decided yet, Papa. But it’s such a sunny day. Perhaps I’ll stroll downtown.”
He nodded and returned to his papers. Maybe he thought I was more mature than Mama did. Maybe I was making progress.
The key to Precision Printers was right where Uncle Hermann said it would be.
I sat at Papa’s desk. The photograph by his pen-and-ink stand showed Mama and Danny and me having a picnic. I was all in white, and I was squinting in the sun and trying to look straight at the camera. My hair hung in stiff ringlets and I wore a big white bow, like a gift ready to be delivered—Papa’s little girl in pretty little petticoats. I’m not a little girl anymore, Papa.
I eyed the machines. Neither Papa nor the presses were going to intimidate me today. I put on Kirsten’s apron, cuffed my sleeves to my elbows and smeared cerulean onto the inking disc. I locked the chase in place and set up the pins for the cardstock. I practiced pumping a pretend treadle while feeding cardstock with one hand and removing it with the other. Step—put—ka-chunk—take—put—ka-chunk—step. It had seemed so easy at Kirsten’s boarding house.
In practice, I was terrible.
Hours later, my reject pile had grown as fast as my keep pile. Still, I had done nearly another thousand acceptable cards, even with one bum finger. I cleaned the rollers and chase with kerosene, hid the cards and chase in my personals box, put the key back under the brick, and caught the streetcar home.
Later, Mama paraded me in front of Papa in my costume.
“Lillian, don’t you think it is too revealing?”
“Julius, she’s a young lady now,” Mama said, as if I weren’t in the room. “Imagine how lovely she will look in her holiday gowns in New York.” Papa blushed.
We piled into the Oldsmobile, and they drove me to Neighborhood House. After I took off my coat, Mrs. Rosenfeld escorted me to the punch bowl. Two men stood nearby, dressed as peddlers. Or perhaps they weren’t wearing costumes. Their eyes bored into my bare shoulders.
“You look lovely,” Mrs. Rosenfeld glanced at the peddlers. “Perhaps a little too lovely.”
I fetched a shawl from the donation room. Serakh’s gray dress was still there. I breathed in the faint goat smell and resolved to concentrate on the suffrage campaign. Serakh would have wanted me to.
As I walked back toward the festivities, a girl shouted, “There’s the witch. She’s dressed like a princess.” I turned and saw that kindergarten girl who worried about dead people. She tugged at a masked man dressed as a cowboy, dragging him to where I stood. A tin foil crown topped her everyday clothes, and her lips were smeared with chocolate. I squatted down to hug her, then looked up at the man’s mustard-colored mustache.
No, it can’t be.
“Miss Josefsohn,” he said.
“Good evening, Mr. Jacobowitz,” I said, although I wasn’t sure anything good was going to come of the evening.
Bella was wide-eyed. “You know Uncle Ephraim?”
“Run along to the apple-bobbing, Bella,” Mr. Jacobowitz said. “I have something very important to discuss with Miss Josefsohn.” He cleared his throat.
Oh, damnation. Have I been too forward?
Bella scampered down the hall. I hid my bare shoulders in the borrowed shawl.
“Whatever business you have to discuss with me can wait until I’m in the office next Tuesday, can’t it?”
He smoothed his mustache. “Pardon my insistence, but next Tuesday is Election Day, as you know. That’s too late.”
My stomach twisted. “What’s Election Day got to do with me, Mr. Jacobowitz?”
“Please, Miss Josefsohn, I am not stupid. I am not without eyes and ears, or brains. Miss Osborne provides cardstock, but doesn’t tell us what to print on it. Women look at the samples album, but order nothing. Miss Svenson uses cerulean ink, when the only job scheduled for her that day was Mrs. Bloom’s announcement for a baby girl. The ink for that is deep rose with gold flecks, not cerulean.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My heart pounded.
He gazed at the floor. “Then I am forced to mention the items in your personals box.”
“What? So this is the caliber of person you are? This is what I can rely on you for? You sneak! You’ve been spying on me for my father!”
“No. I assure you, it’s not like that. I happened to see you operating the presses today,” he said. “I restrained myself from entering the shop as you were there alone and that would not be appropriate. But now opportunity brings us together this evening.”
He’s saved the worst until last.
“Please.” Mr. Jacobowitz reached a hand toward me. I stepped back. “I was not spying,” he said. “I went to check some invoices at the office. When I came to this country, your kind uncle helped me settle with my sister and her children. He and your father gave me a good job. They bought me English lessons. I appreciate everything they have done for me.”
I glared at him. “Now you will prove your loyalty to my father by exposing Kirsten and me. You are a true cad, Mr. Jacobowitz. I have nothing more to say.” I strode down the hall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Wait!”
I heard Mr. Jacobowitz shuffle toward me in his ridiculous oversized boots. “With Miss Svenson gone, you must be under considerable pressure.”
Still furious, I turned and faced him. “That’s none of your business. Sneak!”
He removed his cowboy hat and fiddled with the brim. His hair stuck out every which way. “My intentions are honorable, I assure you. You can put your trust in me.”
“Trust? You must be joking.”
“I think you are printing cards for the suffrage campaign—and, yes, women should vote. I do not discuss this with your father; I need my job because of my sister.” He stood taller. “This does not matter to you, I know, but
Bella is one of her three children. Their father was killed in the 1906 pogrom in Bialystok. So many Jews die for no reason. You know of this?”
I lied with a nod of my head.
“Your father assures me that Germany would have been a fine place for Jews now, that we did not have to come to America, but I think he is wrong. Still, life here is not easy. My sister’s oldest is only eleven—a newsboy. Every week he has a black eye or a bloody nose, defending his corner to sell to businessmen who do not even bother to look at him.”
Newsies. “What is it you want?” I asked in a softer voice, my anger turning to confusion.
He cleared his throat again, and I waited impatiently. Tell me the worst already!
Mr. Jacobowitz took off his mask and smiled, revealing a chipped tooth. “I’m offering you a chance to print more cards. I am not as fast as Miss Svenson, but—if you will forgive my saying so—I am far faster than you. I think what you are trying to do is brave. I want to help.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“Mrs. Rosenfeld will watch Bella,” he added. “You do not have to leave Neighborhood House. I can do the printing job on my own.”
“And how do I know you’ll do what you say? How do I know you won’t dump Kirsten’s chase in the river?”
He winced. “Your doubt is understandable, Miss Josefsohn, but I beg you to give me a chance.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. I studied his pale face and stooped shoulders. He waited. He let me think. He didn’t tell me what to do. That was something in his favor, I had to admit. Maybe he was telling the truth.
“I am not about to have you go to the print shop without me, Mr. Jacobowitz. However, we haven’t much time. My parents are sending an automobile here at half past ten to take me to the Concordia Club.”
His brown eyes took on a sparkle I’d never seen before. “I’ll have you back here by a quarter past. Better yet, I’ll drive you to the Club by then. It’s closer to the shop. We’ll have more time.”
He seemed so intense, I had to look away. “You told me once I could rely on you, Mr. Jacobowitz. Is this what you meant?”
Blue Thread Page 19