They argued back and forth about what to give the bridge ladies. Malka suggested a nice cold chicken salad, but Mrs. R. said she was tired of nice cold chicken salad. So I said if she was tired of Jewish food, I could fry up some pork chops. The look she gave me! Malka, too! It was as if I’d proposed to give the bridge ladies a dead man’s hand, or some kind of cannibal feast — though that is the sort of metaphor that Miss Chandler never favored. She once told me that my metaphors were too forceful and that I should try to quiet them down.
At any rate, it seems that some treif — like oyster patties — is less treif-y than other treif, and pork chops are completely treif and repulsive to both Malka and Mrs. R. I am calling her Mrs. R. because she hurt my feelings and I begrudge her the dignity of her full name. She was very cool and superior. She began by saying that if I wanted to be a good servant, I must learn not to put myself forward so much. And I mustn’t interrupt.
I said, “I’m sorry, ma’am,” but that wasn’t the end of it, because she said she’d been meaning to speak to me. She was pleased by my efforts to improve my personal appearance, and she hoped I would take equal pains with my deportment. It seems that my deportment does not please her. She says I walk with too much bounce, and my strides are too long, and I shouldn’t swing my hands. She wants me to keep my hands hanging limp at my sides when I walk — not stiff, you understand, but relaxed. And she wants me to talk in a softer voice, more subdued. Especially when there are guests.
I could feel my cheeks burning. It was like the day Miss Lang spoke to me about not being fresh in my person. I felt ashamed, even though I haven’t failed in any of my duties. When you’ve done something wrong, you expect to be scolded, though you dread it, and you feel sore afterward. But if you’ve done your best, and someone rebukes you, it’s worse. I thought Mrs. Rosenbach liked me. But now I see she’s like the girls at school and thinks of me as a big, clumsy ox.
While I was still reeling from her insults, she said that Mr. Rosenbach had invited me to join the family for Shabbos dinner this week. He told her I’d been asking questions about Judaism, so he wanted me to be present. It took some of the blush from my cheek to know that Mr. Rosenbach still likes me.
On the way down to the kitchen, I started to cry. I couldn’t help it; I think it was partly the heat. Malka caught me at it, and it was no good telling her I had a cold. That’s a funny thing: people in books are always saying they have colds when they’re really crying, but having a cold and crying are two separate things, and I don’t know why people in books haven’t noticed this. In real life, no one would fall for such a weak lie.
At any rate, Malka didn’t. But she was nice and said she doesn’t know what gets into the mistress sometimes. Usually on Mondays I give the kitchen floor a good scrubbing, but today Malka said it would be good enough if I just mopped it. I had a feeling she was more interested in talking about Mrs. Rosenbach than in having a clean floor. She poured out two glasses of cold lemonade, and we settled down in the cozy corner and she told me about some of the times when Mrs. R. hurt her feelings. Of course I’ve heard some of those stories before, because Malka likes to tell them and relive how indignant she was.
After a little of that, Malka asked me if there was any particular reason why Mrs. R. might have been so chilly with me. At first I couldn’t think of one, but then I told her — Malka, I mean — about going with Mimi to Rosenbach’s Department Store. Malka exclaimed in Yiddish and said of course, that was what was the matter. She said no lady would want her daughter going out in public with the hired girl. She seemed to think I was crazy not to have known this.
I guess I was crazy. But the Rosenbachs seem so nice — at least, Mr. Rosenbach is nice and Mimi and Mr. Solomon. It didn’t occur to me that they’d look down on me for being the hired girl. The truth is, most of the time, I don’t think of myself as the hired girl. I think of myself as somebody disguised as the hired girl. After all, I’m not going to be a servant all my life. It’s temporary. At some point I’m going to get an education and become a schoolteacher, just as Ma planned.
It isn’t as if I was born to be a servant. Heaven knows Father’s a miserly man, but he owns his own land and has no debts except the mortgage; he’s no one’s servant but his own. And besides, this is America, and if Mimi doesn’t mind going out with me, why shouldn’t I go with her?
Friday, July the twenty-eighth, 1911
Thanks to Mr. Rosenbach, I have attended Shabbos! It was a mitzvah — that means a good deed — for him to invite me. Until tonight, I almost felt as if I knew more about Shabbos than Mr. Rosenbach; I don’t mean the holy parts of Shabbos, but the unreligious parts, like cooking and cleaning the house. There’s a lot of work preparing for Shabbos, and most of it is women’s work. The men do only the holy parts: the praying and going to temple.
Now I’ve seen how the holy parts and the women’s parts fit together, like two clasped hands. I think that’s a good simile. Two other metaphors for Shabbos are the Bride and the Queen.
I just stopped writing this in order to examine the sole of my foot. The toe of my stocking has a hole in it, and it’s been driving me crazy all day. The hole kept lassoing my big toe and strangling it, and there was no time for me to unlace my shoe and fix it. Then the wrinkled part of the stocking crawled under the ball of my foot and made a blister. I really need new stockings, but I haven’t recovered from all the money I spent last week. But I shouldn’t be writing this, because talking about money on Shabbos is forbidden, and even though I’m not Jewish, I feel a little bit holy.
Just before sundown this evening, I ran upstairs and put on my robin’s-egg dress for Shabbos dinner; you’re supposed to look nicer than usual on Shabbos. Malka lent me an ugly little brooch made to look like a bunch of grapes, so I could look more dressed up. For once my hair went up perfectly, and I didn’t have to cover it with a cap, because I was a guest.
When I went downstairs, I saw that Mrs. Rosenbach had on a beautiful dress, black lace over mauve silk, and Mimi was in pink organdy with a green satin sash. I felt plain next to them, but I tried to be very careful with my deportment. I took short steps and didn’t move my arms.
Mrs. Rosenbach covered the table with a white cloth, and she set out two loaves of fresh-baked bread, which have an embroidered cover of their own — Mrs. Rosenbach stitched it herself, and her needlework is exquisite. Then she lit the candles. She shut her eyes and made passes through the air. Her face was still and reverent, and she whispered the blessings in Hebrew; I couldn’t understand them, but they sounded mysterious and poetical. After she lit two candles, Mimi went about the room lighting more. The candlelight made the whole room seem quieter and somehow expectant.
Malka and I set the table. It wasn’t yet sundown, but the candles have to be lit before sundown, because once Shabbos begins, you’re not supposed to light any more fires. While we were putting the finishing touches on the table, Mrs. R.’s oldest daughter, Anna, arrived, with her little boy, Oskar, and baby Irma. Baby Irma is a beautiful child with curly hair and her grandmother’s dark eyes. When Mrs. R. saw her, she held out her arms. She took Irma into her lap and dandled her and kissed her. I never saw her so affectionate before. I wouldn’t have known her for the same woman who criticized my deportment.
But all that fuss over the baby made Oskar jealous. He is a changeling of a child, frail and clever looking, with a shock of coppery hair. He reminds me of Paul Dombey in Dombey and Son. I guess he liked the look of me, because he came to me and yanked my skirt. “Come sit down,” he commanded. He has a funny, hoarse little voice. “Then I can sit on your lap.”
I was flattered. Here I was, a stranger and a Gentile, but he wanted to be close to me. He didn’t care if I was only the hired girl. I let him lead me to a chair, and he climbed into my lap. When he nestled against me, he felt soft, and he smelled like Pears soap.
He took his thumb out of his mouth long enough to speak. “Tell me a story.”
I began, “Once upon
a time —” but he shook his head.
“Not a fairy story,” he said. “No princesses, no kings.”
I’d planned to tell him “Thumbelina,” but I knew my feelings would be hurt if he didn’t like it. “What kind of story do you want? What about?”
“Snakes,” he answered. “Bad snakes.”
The truth is, I don’t know much about snakes, but I took a deep breath. “Once upon a time,” I began, “there was a very large, very bad, poisonous snake.”
He nodded gravely. I could see I was on the right track. “How big?” he prompted me.
“Enormous,” I answered. “He was so big he could wrap himself around this whole house. He had pointy teeth, and he was hungry all the time.”
“What did he eat?”
I hesitated, but only for a moment. Inspiration came to me in a blinding flash. “He ate little boys.”
“Ohhhh,” said Oskar rapturously, and snuggled closer. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and gazed at me with his heart in his eyes.
From that moment on, he was mine. I told him all about that terrible snake, and the little boys he ate, and about one special boy named Oskar, who was clever enough to escape from him. It was like seizing a thread and unraveling a piece of knitting; once I had the thread, the story moved right along. By and by, I realized that the others had stopped talking and were paying attention. Mrs. Rosenbach looked amused, but approving. Mimi sidled over to a nearby table and pretended to leaf through the photograph album.
I knew she was listening. The funny thing was, I think I was worth listening to. Oskar was spellbound. The snake was in its death throes when the men came back from Temple. Oskar slid off my lap and ran to hug his grandfather, who picked him up and spun him upside down.
When we went into the dining room, Mr. Rosenbach blessed his children in Hebrew, starting with Anna and ending with baby Irma. He caught his wife’s eyes, smiled at her, and began to sing. He has a fine voice — rich and resonant; Malka told me he was singing from the Proverbs of Solomon, all about the worth of a good woman. It’s a Jewish custom for a man to praise his wife for all the work she does for Shabbos. I thought it was splendid for a husband to praise his wife every single week, but I also thought it would be more to the point to praise Malka and me, because we were the ones who did the shopping and cooking and cleaning.
After the song, we sat around the table. There was a big cup of wine at Mr. Rosenbach’s place, and he blessed it and drank from it and passed it to the others; even Oskar had a sip. At first I was on edge, because the way he held it reminded me of a priest, and I was afraid the Jews copied the ritual from the Holy Mass, which would be blasphemy. But then I remembered that Mr. Rosenbach said that Our Lord was a Jew, so the kiddush — that’s what the wine blessing is called — probably came before the Holy Mass and not the other way around. Now that I’m writing this, I wonder if Jesus was saying kiddush at the Last Supper. I shall ask Mr. Rosenbach; I think it is quite an intelligent question, and perhaps he will be pleased with me.
After the kiddush, we washed our hands, and Mr. Rosenbach blessed the bread. But in the middle of the blessing, Irma spat up, just as Mimi says she does. She was like a little volcano; I wouldn’t have thought such a tiny creature could make such a mess. Mimi jumped out of her seat with her fingers pinching her nose. Mr. Rosenbach made Jewish noises of sympathy, and everyone started passing their napkins to Anna — whom I should really call Mrs. Friedhoff because she’s married to a Mr. Isaac Friedhoff, who travels all the time because he’s in railroads.
I seized the opportunity to prove myself. I commanded, “Don’t worry, I’ll fix everything!” I seized the dirty napkins and plates and silverware and rushed them downstairs to the kitchen. I ran a bowl of soapy water and put the water and towels and clean plates and a clean tablecloth in the dumbwaiter. Then I ran back upstairs and set the table — luckily, none of the food had been served. After the places were set, I took off Irma’s dress — she was just fine in her petticoat, it being so hot — and ran the dress downstairs to soak. I felt like kind of a heroine, because the Rosenbachs aren’t supposed to work on Shabbos, and if I hadn’t been there, they would have had to choose between having that mess and breaking Shabbos.
When I came back into the room, Mrs. Rosenbach raised her eyes to the ceiling and said, “What did we do before Janet came here?” At first I glowed with pride, but then I saw that it was an unlucky thing for her to say, because it put Malka in a bad humor.
It was a beautiful dinner. The food was delicious — soup with dumplings, and baked stuffed fish and roast chicken, and bread (but no butter), and red cabbage and cucumber salad and applesauce, and raspberry pudding and meringues for dessert. There was singing, too — some of the songs are kind of melancholy, but everyone seems happy when they sing them. I was happy, too: after I fixed up Irma, I felt that I belonged, even if I wasn’t a Jew.
After dinner I had the cleaning up to do: a five-course dinner for eight people — nine if you count baby Irma, who didn’t eat much but certainly made her share of the mess! I took off my shoes and stockings — oh, what a relief to get rid of that stocking! — and washed the dishes in my bare feet.
The sight of me dealing with a mountain of dirty dishes seemed to restore Malka’s good humor. Before I came, she could only rinse the dishes in cold water and set them aside to be washed after Shabbos. But I’m allowed to use hot water and a sponge because I’m a Gentile. Malka sat in the rocking chair and kept me company. She had the Thomashefsky cat on her lap, though you’re not supposed to stroke an animal on Shabbos. Malka swears that Thomashefsky is more set on being petted on Shabbos than at any other time, and he butts her hand until she renders his due portion of caresses.
Once the dishes were washed, Malka let me go upstairs to read — I’m reading a very thrilling book called The Moonstone. At one point, the heroine says, “I ache with indignation, and I burn with fatigue”— or maybe it’s the other way around.
I love that. I think I will start saying that.
Monday, July the thirty-first, 1911
I want to read tonight — The Moonstone is very exciting and funny, too — but first I want to write about two important things. One is that starting tomorrow I’m going to have religious instruction with Father Horst.
I asked him yesterday. It seemed brazen to go right up to a priest and ask to become a Catholic. Father Horst has a worn-out, irritable look to him when he isn’t smiling, and I was afraid he’d think I was presuming too much. But I told him how I long to take the Sacrament, and his face broke out in a smile of true benevolence. When I asked him where I might buy a missal, he gave me one. He said someone left it in the pew a year ago, and no one’s claimed it, and he’s been saving it for the right person, which is me.
It’s a dainty little book with black-and-white plates and thin pages edged in gold. It always opens to the Seven Penitential Psalms, so I guess whoever owned it before was either very wicked or very good. I don’t much like those psalms because they’re mournful. I turned to the Litany of the Virgin, because I’d forgotten parts of it. It’s so poetical: Tower of Ivory, House of Gold, Morning Star, Mystical Rose. I love that. I told Father Horst I have a great devotion to the Blessed Mother, and that made him smile again.
We agreed that I should see him for an hour on Tuesday afternoons. His face darkened when I explained to him that sometimes I might not be able to come because of Mrs. Rosenbach’s bridge ladies. He asked me if my employer was the Mr. Rosenbach who owned the department store, and I said yes, and he said he hoped that living in a household of worldly Jews wouldn’t keep me from holding fast to my faith. I don’t think that was anti-Semitism, because I guess there are some Jews who wouldn’t want me to have a good Catholic faith, but the Rosenbachs aren’t like that. I told Father Horst how good they’ve been to me and how Mr. Rosenbach lends me books. Father Horst looked worried and asked which books. I didn’t want to mention The Moonstone, because it’s a little sensational, so I said Ivanhoe
. It wasn’t exactly a lie, because Mr. Rosenbach has a copy of Ivanhoe and I’m sure he would lend it to me if I asked him. Father Horst seemed relieved and said he was especially fond of the works of Sir Walter Scott.
The other important thing happened this morning, and I’m still thinking about it. I was polishing the brass fittings on Mr. Solomon’s desk, and one of the drawers wouldn’t go in all the way, so I took it out. There was an envelope wedged behind it.
I didn’t mean to read what was written on it. I don’t think I’d have read it if it had been a private letter, but the thing is, it was verse. It began, Oh, Nora, when I see your radiant face — and after that, I had to read on.
Only I guess he didn’t like that line, because he crossed it out and wrote instead:
But he didn’t like that any better, because he crossed that out, too. Then he changed it to:
Which I thought was better. Then the poem goes on:
Then he crossed that out, probably because he already had breast in there. He wrote tumultuous chest, and he must have hated that, because he crossed it out so hard I could scarcely read it. Then he had a stroke of inspiration, because he wrote:
And then I guess he got stuck, because underneath he wrote:
And then, up one side of the page he wrote:
There he ended and the envelope was crumpled up as if he’d crushed it in his fist. I sympathized with him because there’s not much that rhymes with love except dove and glove and the stars above, and in my opinion, the stars above are a little shopworn.
My heart beat fast when I read that poem, and divers sensations throbbed in my breast. First there was the sensation of invading Mr. Solomon’s privacy, which was shameful but thrilling. Then I felt envious, because he wrote Nora a love poem, and that’s so romantic. I declare, if anyone wrote a poem and called me a fragile nymph, I would swoon dead away. Though it isn’t likely that anyone ever will, because I’m an ox of a girl.
The Hired Girl Page 15