Then I saw Papa. Huddled under his umbrella, he might have gone right by me. I made my decision then and there.
“Mr. Josefsohn,” I said, stepping in front of him with my packet of VOTE FOR JUSTICE cards.
“Miriam, what are you doing here?” He looked dumbfounded, astonished, as if it weren’t obvious. I took a deep, shaky breath and repeated my lines the way I had to dozens of men before him. Then I handed him a card.
He stared at the card. He drew closer to me so that we were both under the umbrella. “This looks like it came from my presses. Where did you get it?”
I stood as tall as I could under that umbrella. Papa was not going to intimidate me. “The paper is not from our stock. The ink is one we used on another job. I might have printed this particular card myself, Papa. As God is my witness, I hope I did.”
He clenched his jaw. “Come home with me now.”
“No, Papa. I’m not finished here.”
“You make a fool of me standing by the polls, wearing politics on your coat.”
“And you didn’t make a fool of me, Papa, when you printed the VOTE NO cards in 1906?” I heard myself getting louder and shriller. Prudence said not to argue, but Papa was too close. I felt stifled under that great black umbrella, with the smell of his pomade and cigars. I wanted to keep everything under control for the sake of the campaign. But my stomach twisted. I felt fury growing inside me.
He grabbed my arm. “You will do as I say. You should be grateful I put a roof over your head and give you everything you could want. Dance lessons. French tutors. A girl’s academy. Instead you act like a spiteful child who knows nothing of this world.”
“Nothing? Did the big breweries make it worth your while, Papa? Or was it just a business deal, like printing a dinner party menu?”
His grip tightened. “How dare you insult me! I printed that card at my own expense. I am my own man.”
“And I am my own woman, Papa. A businesswoman one day, despite you.” With my free hand I raised my skirt a few inches above my ankles. “Take a good look at that petticoat, Papa. Petticoat government, is that what you’re so dead set against? Women who might challenge your opinions or question your judgment?” I hiked my skirt higher.
Papa let go of my arm. “Brazen hussy,” he growled.
He slapped my face. “What decent man would wish to marry you?”
My cheek burned and my mouth turned sour. “It’s always about men, isn’t it? As if I couldn’t survive without someone in trousers. As if I couldn’t manage without his money—or yours.”
“I would disown you if it wouldn’t break your mother’s heart.” Papa’s accent thickened and his face was livid.
“You can’t disown what you don’t own,” I said, deliberately twisting his words. “You don’t own me, Papa.”
I willed myself not to cry. I was no longer his little girl. I was Serakh’s Miriam, Tirtzah’s Miriam. Brave Miriam, sweet and strong.
I wrenched myself away. “Leave me alone!”
The grocer from across the street came out of his shop and strode toward us. “She’s my daughter,” Papa called out to him.
“In that case, I wish you luck, sir. She’s quite a handful.”
I marched up to that grocer and slapped a VOTE FOR WOMEN card against his chest. “I wish you luck, too, sir,” I hissed. “When you have to pay fair wages to everyone, keep rats and vermin out of your store, and send your children to school!”
My heart pounded in my throat. I wanted everything to change for the better—right now. I turned back to take my place at the polls, but Papa stood in my path.
“I’ll help you get her home,” the grocer told Papa. “Now, missy, let’s be reasonable,” he said to me, taking a step closer. Angry and frightened, I dodged both men and ran down the street. A newsie slouched against the doorway of a warehouse, a grimy woolen scarf half covering his equally grimy face.
“Want to make fifty cents?” I asked.
He was on his feet in half a second. You’d think I had offered him manna from heaven.
“Take these cards and hand them out to every man you see. Say ‘Vote for justice, sir.’ Don’t forget the ‘sir’ part. Here are your quarters. I trust you won’t throw these cards in the gutter.”
He grabbed my money and my cards and dashed away. I heard footsteps behind me. It was Papa. The grocer was gone. I stood my ground.
“Foolish girl,” he said, catching his breath. “You’ve wasted my hard-earned money again. You eat sweet rolls, thanks to me. I have worked since I was thirteen for my family. I kept my mother in bread, and my brother and sister. They thanked me for every crumb. Not once did they throw my money away.”
I rounded on him, eyes blazing. “And your grandmother, Papa? What did you do for her? Call her crazy? Accuse her of killing Raizl? Turn your town against her? Oh yes, Uncle Hermann told me all about that.”
“Hermann knows nothing.”
I paced in front of him as he stood under his umbrella. I felt like a lioness in her cage. “You’re the one who knows nothing, Papa. You ruined Savta’s life, I won’t let you ruin mine. Your sister Raizl wanted to wear that shawl. She begged to wear that shawl. She yearned to see Jerusalem and she got her dying wish.”
Papa’s eyes narrowed. Jerusalem. I sucked in my breath. Prudence had warned me against acting hysterical. Now, without thinking, I’d gone too far.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I looked at the cobblestones and softened my voice. “I’m sorry about Raizl,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t ask about Jerusalem. “I understand how you must feel. I lost Danny, too—remember? He wasn’t just your son—he was my brother. But I’m not sorry about printing those cards, Papa. And I’m not sorry about wanting to learn the printing business and wanting to join you in your shop. Don’t wrap me up in petticoats and then a wedding veil and pass me along to another man. I’m not a job you can finish and present to a satisfied customer. I’m me!”
He shook his head. “You are not a job, you are my daughter. I love and protect you. I want only the best for you, to give you away to another man who will do the same when I am gone.”
“Miriam Josefsohn, marriageable maiden…I am sick of it! I’m more than that, Papa.”
He took a step closer. I stepped back. He was not Moses. He was my father. I refused to wait any longer for the blessing I wanted, the blessing that would never come. I gathered up my skirts and rushed away.
The rain seeped through to my shoulders and down my back. I hugged myself and kept walking, down alleys, across streetcar lines, past warehouses. I stayed away from the main streets, lest Papa try to track me down in his Oldsmobile.
I walked past houses, churches, and corner shops. I stopped in front of Osborne Milliners—dark now—and wondered where Charity and Prudence might be waiting for the election returns. I fetched a handkerchief from my soggy handbag and wiped my nose.
Sweet rolls got the better of me. Cold, wet, and hungry, I finally headed for home.
By the time I reached Nineteenth and Johnson, the light was on in our dining room. Mrs. Jenkins met me in the front hall.
“Look at you! Mr. Josefsohn said you’d be right along, and that was over an hour ago. Get out of those clothes before you catch your death. I’ll put the kettle on for tea.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll have dinner in my room tonight.” Papa was not about to ruin one more meal.
By the time I got into dry clothes, Mrs. Jenkins had left a dinner tray on my desk. Beef stew. Sourdough bread. Poached peaches. Chamomile tea. A regular meal for me, a feast for that newsie.
I had a walk-think in my bedroom. Seven strides to the north wall. Old World ways—ha! I’ve been back to a biblical world far older than Papa’s Bavaria. Turn. Ten strides to the south wall. I wasn’t born to be passed along from father to husband. Turn. Ten strides to the north. I’m me, Miriam Josefsohn, the daughter of Julius, but also a person in her own right, a person who aims to be a typographer. Ten strides to t
he south. And if Papa won’t let me work in his print shop, I shall have to find another printer who will.
Four strides to my bedroom door. I stomped downstairs. My parents had closeted themselves in the library. I fetched a valise from the basement and returned to my room to pack.
“You barely touched my stew,” Mrs. Jenkins said when she collected the dinner tray. She glanced at the valise. “Now don’t you do anything foolish, Miss Miriam. I expect you to be here come morning.”
“I’ll be here,” I assured her. But I had already made up my mind. I strode into Papa’s upstairs office, reached for the telephone, and wondered how much money telephone operators earned.
“Western Electric. What number, please?”
“Long distance, please. Berkeley, California.” Was Florrie staying with the aunt on her mother’s side or her father’s? “Steinbacher residence,” I guessed.
“One moment please, and I’ll connect you.” I had guessed right.
“Good evening, Mr. Steinbacher,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “This is Miriam Josefsohn, a friend of your niece Florence. May I speak with her please?”
“Certainly. I’ll fetch her from the back garden.”
She took forever.
“Miriam!”
Florrie’s cheerful voice was too much to bear. “I’ve got to come see you,” I said, my voice cracking. “I can’t stay here a moment longer.” I told her everything. Well, almost everything. Serakh and the blue thread would have to wait until I could speak to her in person. I couldn’t bear to hear any doubt or hesitation in Florrie’s voice now.
A quarter of an hour later, I hung up, dried my tears, and counted my rainy day fund. Fourteen dollars. It would have to do. The valise was packed full to bursting, but I could still manage it. I shoved it under my bed.
The grandfather clock chimed eleven. Mama knocked on my door and let herself in before I answered. “The election returns for president should be in by now,” she said, her voice ragged. I followed her to Danny’s old room.
Papa was there, his back to me. I doubted that we three had been together in that room since Danny died so many years ago, but Danny’s window gave the best view of the Journal Building.
Red lights on the corners of the building’s massive tower flashed the signal that Mr. Wilson had won the presidency. The red and white lights on The Morning Oregonian tower and the horizontal sweep of searchlights across Council Crest confirmed the news. Papa muttered “Gott in Himmel” and left the room. I grabbed Mama’s hand as she turned to follow him.
“Wait. I have to talk to you.”
“If it’s about that disagreement with your father, I have heard enough. I’m tired. Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”
I blocked the door. I could see the weariness in her face, and I knew she’d rather be any place else in the house than in Danny’s room. Still, if Danny hadn’t died, maybe things would have been better. Danny had made us a four-square family. Now I was the odd one out.
“Mama, this is very important. Très important.”
The corners of her mouth curved up slightly at my French. She leaned against the windowsill. Now that I had her attention, I wasn’t sure where to begin. So I started in the middle.
“I’m buying a train ticket tomorrow for Berkeley. Well, for Oakland, actually. To see Florrie. She knows I’m coming, and I have a place to stay.”
Mama pursed her lips. I waited until she composed an answer. “You’ve never traveled anywhere alone,” she said. “You’ve never even set foot in California. You haven’t the slightest notion of what you’re getting yourself into.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “You said yourself I’m nearly seventeen, Mama. I’ll manage. I’ll write when I’m settled.”
“Settled?” She looked away. When she turned back, her face was pinched and pale. “Surely this is just a visit to Florrie—and a well-timed one, I should say. You and your father have got to calm down. I expect you’ll be traveling back to Portland with Florrie when she returns for Thanksgiving.”
“Florrie’s not sure whether she’s coming home then.”
“Well, you’ll just have to travel home regardless. There’s our trip to New York City. It’s all arranged. And I’ll see to it that you can re-enroll at St. Mary’s when we return.”
Her offer surprised me. I bit my lip and thought a minute. I loved St. Mary’s Academy. Still… “And after that, Mama? What happens after I leave St. Mary’s for good? I’ll never get to work in the print shop. You and Papa will still want to marry me off and make me another man’s responsibility.”
“It’s not like that, Miriam. Please stop pacing.”
I willed my feet to stay in one spot—my tiny spot on the olam, my here and now, my life. “I need to be on my own,” I said.
Mama’s voice was flat. Distant. “Where will you stay?”
“With Florrie’s aunt and uncle in Berkeley,” I repeated. “They have a spare room.”
Suddenly Mama seemed to wilt completely. Stuck in Danny’s room, maybe she was remembering Danny’s last days, the smell of the doctor’s carbolic acid. Maybe she was remembering Danny’s face in a tight grimace, his jaws locked, his back arched, his legs shaking. I can’t imagine she was worried about me.
Nobody had worried about me on the day after Danny died. The windows were shut tight. Grandma Goldstein took Mama for a long walk. Papa was on the telephone. Mrs. Steinbacher was in the kitchen. I snuck into Danny’s room and found his favorite tin soldier. I wrapped the soldier in my best paper ballerina doll and cradled them all the way to the fireplace in the library. Then I kissed them and threw them into the flames.
Mama’s soft sniffling brought me back to the present. I shuddered, and then stared at her bowed head. Maybe Mama was worrying about me now. About losing me, as she had lost Danny.
“Wait here,” I told her. “I’ll be right back.”
I returned with Baloo. Mama buried her face in his tattered fur.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I whispered. “I was so little. I didn’t know Danny could get hurt jumping out of the window.”
She looked up at me. “Who ever said Danny’s death was your fault?” She wrapped her arms around me, crushing Baloo between us. “Oh, my dear Miss Marmalade, it was never your fault. Not ever. How could you believe that?”
I stood there, feeling hollow inside. I searched for a way to make her understand what these last nine years had been like for me with Danny gone.
At last she released me. “You’ll have your prayer shawl in the morning.” She kissed my cheek.
“Thank you,” was all I managed to say.
***
Mrs. Steinbacher’s Packard arrived shortly after Papa left for Precision Printers. By the time I finished bathing, there were six five-dollar bills on my coverlet and two new petticoats with money sewn into a seam. The embroidered bag with my prayer shawl inside slouched against my headboard. I kissed the bag and packed it in my valise. And I made room for Mr. Gress’s typography book. Now that I had the blue thread, I might stay in California for quite some time.
Mama was practicing the piano when I came down to breakfast. Mrs. Steinbacher was gone. “Telephone us when you get to Florrie’s,” Mama called from the parlor, as if I were going on a long-planned vacation.
Mama made mistake after mistake with her music, but she kept at it. I remembered how she banged on the piano for hours each day after Danny died, leaving me to muddle through those first weeks with Grandma Goldstein.
I called Osborne Milliners. Prudence answered the telephone.
“Any news about the suffrage amendment?”
“Frankly, I’m not optimistic, Miriam. Would you like to join us for tea? Charity could use a bit of cheering up. And I would enjoy your company too.”
“I…I’m going away for awhile. I’m taking the train to visit my friend, Florence Steinbacher, in California.”
“A well-deserved break. When will you be back?”
&
nbsp; “I’m not sure. It’s a long story, Prudence.”
“Your father?”
“Yes, and I don’t want to go into it now.”
“I see,” she said softly. I gave her the details about the train, and she wished me a safe journey. I returned to my room.
And just like last time, there she was.
She sat next to my valise. Beside her were the robes and sandals I had worn twice before in the back-there-and-then.
“You look pale, Miriam. Are you ill?”
I shook my head and tried to get my thoughts in order. Serakh embraced me—Serakh, with her precious smell of goats. I clung to her for a full minute.
“Can you come with me now to see Tirtzah?”
I simply nodded. I didn’t ask how she knew this was the perfect moment to come back. I unpacked my prayer shawl and shed my 1912 self, piling my clothes on the valise.
“I have a train to catch,” I said, reaching for the headscarf. Then I felt a grin pull at my cheeks. “No matter,” I said. “I know this will take no time at all.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Serakh shaded my face. I blinked my eyes and caught my breath, taking in the high desert country she called Canaan.
“I promised Tirtzah you would return,” she said. “But our meeting must be brief. She is great with child, and I do not wish to tire her.”
I rubbed my forehead. “How long have I been away?”
“Through many harvests. Tirtzah and her sisters have wed among their cousins—even little Makhlah, although the custom of women is not yet upon her.”
“That’s terrible! I’m so, so sorry. If only I’d had my shawl, I could have persuaded Moses to let them choose anybody they wanted to marry. Tirtzah could have had Gabi.”
She patted my shoulder. “No, Miriam. Had you come for the second ruling, you would only have been an observer. The daughters of Zelophehad won a great victory. One step in the pursuit of justice, and then another. Tirtzah and her sisters married well, as will you one day.”
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