pleading.
Back to your station,
the foreman shouts.
Please,
she says,
I will be quick.
You can wait till lunch
for a trip to the toilet
like the rest of them.
If you can’t wait, you must be ill.
If you’re ill, you can go home—
just don’t bother
coming back.
Her face is white
as the waists
before us,
her back erect
as she walks to her seat
struggles to feed the cloth
straight
through the machine’s
hungry mouth.
Ten minutes later,
the sound of sobs
a foul smell
rise above the din.
This time
the machines do not even slow
as the foreman unlocks the door
throws the girl out.
None of us
has the heart
to watch her go.
say nothing
In Russia
it was the Christians
we had to be wary of.
Centuries
of lies
and fear
turned us somehow
into the enemy.
But here
the bosses are Jews, too.
We are their neighbors
their nieces
their people.
There is no reason for them
to work us so hard
to strip
our dignity from us.
I am not so good
at being a good girl.
In this country
where all are free
to speak
their minds
it is becoming difficult
to say nothing.
tense
I
walk
you
walk
he / she / it
walks
they
walk
we
walk
yesterday I
walked
tomorrow I
will walk
today I
wish I could walk
out of the doldrums
the dead air
that is this shop
into a life where my mind
is unmoored
set adrift
free to steer into the
wild, whipping winds.
bleary
Mama leaves a plate for me
when I come home at night
she would rather wait
and have the meal together as a family
and she would rather I come straight home from work
and that I not stay until my eyes are red and bleary
and I cannot read another word.
I can stand her disapproval.
I can bear Papa’s condemnation.
I can even shoulder my brothers’ scorn.
What I cannot bear
is the thought of
this
only
more of this
the rest of my days.
make ready
Summer is coming to a close.
Even in this petrified forest of gray
upon gray
upon gray
the bluebirds are busy
gathering bits of ribbon
and twigs
to line their nests.
They know every shop
on the Lower East Side.
They wait
on the drainpipes
and lintels
for a door to swing open
and swish closed
letting loose a dervish of dust
and lint
and thread.
They dive from their perches
tittering and
twittering;
speeding their treasures
off to hidden places.
make it right
The foreman
pinches us
touches us.
Today he grabbed Nadia’s backside
when both her hands were full
carrying her finished waists
to the presser’s table.
He laughed
at her protests,
her red face.
I could not
look away
anymore.
I spoke to the boss,
sure he would make it right.
Hardly lifting his eyes
from the ledger sheet
he said,
There are dozens of girls
fresh off the boats
who would be more than happy
to work in your place
without complaining.
Fired.
Just like that,
with no pay
for the week’s
work.
rise and fall
Throngs of people stroll the streets
as if nothing of consequence
has happened.
Walking home in the middle of the day
the autumn sun heats the back of my head
until it pounds
in counterpoint to my footsteps
that speed
and slow
as my mind turns
and churns
and stutters to a stop.
Papa will be angry,
of course,
but he is not the one
working day in,
day out
to keep us out of the poorhouse.
I do not know how I will find the words to tell Mama.
I make myself
put one foot
in front of the other
across the narrow tiled entry
up the creaking stairs,
gaslight catching
on the tin ceiling
reflecting its moody light back at me.
The door handle
is cold to the touch.
Mama is in the kitchen
dropping potatoes into a pot of boiling water
her face red and blotchy
her hair wet
with sweat
and clinging to her cheeks.
What is it, Clara,
she says,
why are you not at work?
My mouth is dry
my tongue sticks
to the roof of my mouth.
A mound of potato peels
slides to the floor
as I try to explain.
Mama reaches a hand to the table
to steady herself.
But you worked
Sunday and Monday and Tuesday,
she counts the days off on her fingers,
you should be paid
at least for that!
My shoulders rise and fall
Whatever the boss decides
is law, Mama.
There is nothing I can do.
She drops the last potato into the po
t
wipes her brow
with the back of her hand
blows a breath of air
toward the ceiling.
Both hands reach out
beseeching,
But why, Clara,
did you have to speak?
It was not you
who was mistreated.
No, Mama,
I say,
not today.
But it has been me
before.
It will be me
again.
I take my mother’s hands
in my own.
Would you have me stay silent
while those around me suffer?
She says,
If you do not stay silent
you cannot work.
If you do not work,
how will we eat?
It is only then
I see Marcus and Nathan
in the parlor
listening to every word,
questions
accusations
in their eyes.
at home
I work the dough with my palms.
Thrust and lift, fold and
thrust.
I thought things would be different here.
Thrust and lift, fold and
thrust.
But not for girls. Not anywhere.
Thrust and lift, fold and
thrust.
I move to the window
gulp sour air
dense with yeast.
Outside, buildings press together
like gulls fighting for a perch
on a bobbing buoy.
Clouds shuttle past the tips
of distant buildings
privy to private currents of air.
I wipe the sweat from my brow
careful not to touch anything
with my dough-scummed hands,
careful not to disturb
Nathan and Benjamin
as they bend over their books
as they mutter and pray.
A burst of hot breath,
back to the kitchen.
Thrust and lift, fold and
thrust.
wrestle
I wrestle with my own mind
and heart.
I worked for months
in that shop
day in
day out
without a single penny
for myself.
Every week,
I gave Mama all my earnings
so she could care
for the family.
I see now how this family values
my contribution:
while Mama fetches a bucket of coal from the cellar
in the backyard
my brothers pray
while Mama washes the clothes
my brothers study at the table
while Mama scrubs the floor
my brothers pray
for a second time
while Mama prepares the dinner
my brothers memorize Torah
while Mama does her piecework
by the light of a single lamp
my brothers pray
for a third time.
Would it really make them
any less holy
if they cleaned a dish
beat a rug
carried the wash water to the sink
in between prayers?
Work in a garment shop
is a particular misery
my brothers will never know.
I cannot do it
only to fund such a life
anymore.
I wrestle with my own mind
and heart.
The time has come
to take
what I need
for myself.
When I find a new job
I will hold some money back
each week
for myself
for textbooks
for tuition.
not one word
I found another shop—
worse than the first,
but I have given up
my chance
to be choosy.
I know enough
this time
to keep my mouth shut
in front of the boss.
The machines punch away in the stuffy workroom
stitch, gather
stitch, gather
stitch, gather
stitch, gather
I make only four dollars a week
and I have to pay rent
for the stool
I sit upon.
But if I finish my work quickly
I can help the drapers.
The toilet is indoors
but still, we are only permitted
to use it once in the morning
and once again after lunch.
It backs up,
overflows into the workroom
at least twice a week.
There are children in this shop
Benjamin’s age
sewing buttonholes
trimming threads
schlepping piecework
back and forth to the tenements.
The girls my age squint
like old women,
the hazy gaslight
the flashing needle
straining their eyes.
Not one word.
Not a single word.
Clara, you must not say
one word.
So far I have obeyed, but it helps
that the boss who lords over this dusty shop
struts like a common moorhen
with sprawling yellow feet
drab feathers
an ugly red nose.
When he stalks the aisles
clucking his disapproval
I see the mighty chicken of the swamp
shin-deep in muck,
ducking his head for a tasty
water skipper
or frog.
It helps,
(when I want to scream
when I want to march out of that shop
linking arms with every miserable
girl inside)
it helps to imagine the moorhen’s warble
burbling from his lips.
night classes
Tonight,
heat
fills the classroom
with a drowsy haze
it feels like
the greatest struggle
of my life
just to stay awake.
I prop my eyelids open
with my fingers.
English is a willful language
stubborn
refusing to follow its own rules.
When class is over
and they let us out
onto dark sidewalks
I trace this new
curving alphabet in the air before me
as I walk,
my finger lifting and swirling
like a maestro commanding
a host of musicians.
school
A truancy officer
came to the apartment yesterday
while I was at work.
Benjamin and Nathan,
he said,
must go to school.
The rest of us are too old
for the law to bother with us.
/> The state of New York
may have given up on me
but I am only
getting started.
Coney Island
At lunch,
the girls talk of how
if they save their lunch money
all week,
if they eat nothing but bread
and a glass of milk
they can purchase the nickel fare
to Coney Island
when the slow season begins
and the shop closes
for a day
here and there.
In the shtetl
I loved to swim
in the streams
in the last days of summer.
I loved to watch the traveling shows
that came through town
but here
I cannot spare
the pennies.
When my education is behind me
when I am a doctor at last
then maybe I will have money
for a holiday.
tuition
The director at the free school pulls me aside
after English class
and says,
Every year
the Educational Alliance asks
for the name
of a student worthy
of a college scholarship.
My eyes blink like a barn owl
startled by the bright sun.
Am I dreaming?
Am I so tired
my mind
cannot tell
when I am awake?
With a wry
twist of her lips
she continues,
Of course,
to be awarded funds
for tuition, room and board,
you will have to gain
high school equivalency
by the time the term begins next fall.
Though I have not yet
been able to make my joy
form a single word
she must see it
all the same.
Yes,
she says,
I thought you were the right choice.
The colleges require
sixty points for admission,
more than two dozen exams.
Here is the schedule;
I’m sure
I don’t need to tell you
how rigorous this time line
will be.
I take the paper
grasp her hand
in mine.
Thank you.
exams
If I could only take the exams in Russian
I know I could pass
Audacity Page 9