Beside the sketchbook were two envelopes, one filled with willow charcoal — David says it’s the best kind for drawing — and another with six colored chalks in it: blue and red and purple and green and orange and yellow. They must be from David’s personal supply, because the tips weren’t sharp but rounded.
He remembered, he remembered! I don’t believe David Rosenbach is a suitable person for me to think about, but he did remember, and oh, I am glad, and I’m going to draw a cup!
Thursday, September the seventh, 1911
I have had such a fascinating conversation with Mr. Rosenbach! Now that I work here, I understand how Jane Eyre felt about Mr. Rochester. I don’t mean being in love with him, but finding him more interesting than anybody else at Thornfield Hall. Jane was a servant, with no one to talk to but the housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax. It’s the same with me, except Malka is a lot more aggravating than Mrs. Fairfax.
What happened was this: Malka took in the post this morning, and there was a letter for me. The minute Malka saw my name on the envelope, she asked me if I had a young man, because if I did, I wasn’t allowed one.
I was frying fish at the time, and I felt her question was tyrannical. I said indeed I did not have a young man, and I didn’t want one, but if I ever did want one, I didn’t see what business it was of hers — and then, right in front of me, she tore open my letter and read it!
It flashed through my mind that the letter might be from David, and my heart stood still. Then Malka said, “What’s that priest been saying to you?” and I realized my letter must be from Father Horst. I snatched it from her and ran my eyes over the lines. Oh, how repentant I felt! He began by saying that he hoped his letter would find me in good health. He’d missed seeing me at Mass and for my weekly instruction. He feared he was to blame for my absences, and that what he’d said about the Jews had been a stumbling block for my faith. He’s prayed about it, and he wonders if he was wrong to try to persuade me to leave the Rosenbachs; he even wrote that perhaps I’d been right to rebuke him for his prejudice against the Jews. At the end of the letter, he said he believed my Faith to be genuine and that he hoped nothing would diminish my desire to be received into the bosom of the Church.
I do think that was kind. And I think it was very humble of him to say that he might have been wrong. I felt kind of consecrated, having a priest say that my faith was genuine. But to Malka, of course, his letter was nothing less than a confession of anti-Semitism. She forbade me ever to speak to him again.
I said I had every intention of speaking to Father Horst again. Then Malka said I would have to choose. She said I’d have to choose between a lying priest and the family that took me in off the streets and gave me the clothes on my back.
Well, of course, that’s true, but my blood was up. I said it seems to me I work pretty hard for the clothes on my back. That’s when we smelled the fish burning. Malka gave a cry as if she’d seen the murder of a child and grabbed the handle of the frying pan. She burned herself on it and ran to the sink to put her hand under the cold-water tap. Both of us were yelling by that time. I don’t rightly recollect what I said.
Then Malka seized Father Horst’s letter and said she was going to show it to Mrs. Rosenbach. I was frightened because I know Mrs. R. doesn’t like me. I implored her, but to no avail. Like an avenging Fury she charged upstairs — I couldn’t believe how quickly she moved with her bunion.
Thank God, it was Mr. Rosenbach who stuck his head out the library door and asked what the noise was about. Malka shoved my letter into his hands so that he could read it. Malka lamented that she’d known how it would be once they let a shiksa into the house, and that I’d been telling tales about the family to an evil-minded priest.
I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. I said Malka had no business reading my letters, and that Father Horst was a good man, and that nobody had a right to persecute me because of my religion.
Mr. Rosenbach’s head shuttled back and forth, listening. Then he handed the letter to me and nodded toward the library to signify that he would talk to me there. He said, “Malka, mamele,” in a coaxing and tender voice, and put his arm around her so that he could steer her downstairs. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, because it was in Yiddish, but he was trying to soothe her. It wasn’t working very well.
I withdrew to the library. I reread Father Horst’s letter and felt a great wave of relief when I read the last part. Ever since our quarrel, I’ve been afraid Father Horst would bar me from taking the Sacrament. I was afraid I’d lost my chance to receive the Body and Blood of Christ.
When Mr. Rosenbach came back, he said, “Sit, sit,” though I was already sitting. He sat opposite me, perching on the edge of the chair the way he does. He spread his hands and looked sorrowful — he is nearly as good at looking tragic as Malka is. I braced myself.
“Miss Lovelace, I beg your pardon.”
“You do?”
“I do,” he said. “Malka had no right to read your letter. I shouldn’t have read it, either. You are quite correct: no one has a right to persecute you for worshipping God in your own way. This is America.”
Am-ehr-ee-kah. He makes it sound so beautiful.
“Malka is a child of the Old Country. When she was young, a servant had no privacy. If she had a letter, the housekeeper could read it. Malka forgets that we are in the New World, where even a servant has rights. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive her.”
He paused so that I could say I would. I want Mr. Rosenbach to think I’m sweet-natured and forgiving, even if I’m not. After a moment, I said grudgingly, “She’s been having an awful time with her bunion.”
He smiled and leaned forward a little. “Miss Lovelace, may I ask —?”
“Yes?”
“It’s none of my business.” He linked his fingers and looked down at the carpet. “You don’t have to say a word. But I find I am devoured by curiosity. What exactly did you say to the good priest, when you rebuked him?”
Well, I didn’t mind answering. “I told him he had anti-Semitism.”
His face broke out in a broad grin. He tried to suppress it; he put up his hand to groom his mustache, but there was no hiding it: he was delighted with me. “You accused a priest of anti-Semitism?”
“Yes, I did,” I said staunchly. “He wanted me to work for a Catholic family named the Possits. And I said I wanted to stay here, because you’ve been good to me. Then he said I was obstinate, and I said I’d rather be obstinate than have anti-Semitism.”
“Yet he apologized,” Mr. Rosenbach pointed out. “That surprises me. By worldly standards, he is your superior in age and sex and station. I think perhaps he is a good man, this Father Horst.”
“Yes, sir, he is,” I said gratefully. “He’s taken a lot of trouble with me. He’s giving me religious instruction, and he gave me a prayer book. It’s a nice letter, don’t you think?”
“Very nice,” Mr. Rosenbach agreed. “Father Horst has a good reputation. I believe he is very active on behalf of the poor in his parish.”
I knew that was high praise, because Mr. Rosenbach is also very active on behalf of the poor. He’s a member of the Hebrew Benevolent Society, and he’s on boards and things.
Mr. Rosenbach asked, “So he’s giving you religious instruction? I thought you were already a Catholic.”
“I am, really,” I explained, “on the inside. My mother was a Catholic. But I’ve never been confirmed.”
Mr. Rosenbach leaned back in his chair. “Interesting, isn’t it, how often we inherit our religion from our mothers? In Judaism, you know, the birthright of faith comes from the mother. A Jew is the child of a Jewish woman.”
I said, “Yes, sir,” but my mind had gone on ahead. I wondered if this might be a good time to broach the subject of the True Faith. I hadn’t planned on talking about it so soon, but here we were, talking about religion. I might not get so good an opportunity again. I said hesitantly, “Father Horst says the Jews deny Christ.”<
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“That is true,” Mr. Rosenbach said serenely. “I believe your Jesus lived, of course. He was a real man, and I’m sure He was a good man. But I don’t believe He was God, and I don’t think He was the Messiah.”
It took me a minute to figure out that word Messiah. I always think of it as Mess-EYE-uh, but he pronounced it Mss-SHEE-ock. My eyes rested on Mr. Rosenbach as I worked it out. He’d kicked a footstool into place, and he was regarding me with interest, as if he was enjoying our conversation. And yet — it struck me then, and it struck me cold — hellfire yawned before him. “Mr. Rosenbach,” I said urgently, “don’t you ever feel that Jesus Christ was the Son of God?”
“No, I don’t,” answered Mr. Rosenbach. “I believe in one God, only one God. But you raise an interesting question, one I have often pondered.” He crossed his legs and gazed up at the ceiling. “Can the truth be divined through intuition? In other words, when we feel something is true, does it follow that our feelings are trustworthy? Plato, of course, tried to establish a method of argument based on geometry —”
I was curious about Plato, but I wasn’t going to be led off the track. “Mr. Rosenbach,” I persisted, “have you ever gone off by yourself and tried to feel that Jesus Christ is your Savior? Maybe if you were to go somewhere quiet, and sit still and open your heart to Him, you might be saved from damnation. Don’t you think it might be a good idea to try?”
“Miss Lovelace,” said Mr. Rosenbach — he spoke kindly but laughter lurked in his eyes —“have you ever gone off to a quiet place, and sat very still, and tried to imagine that Jesus Christ is not your Savior?”
“I couldn’t do that!” My hands flew up; I found I was clutching my heart. “Not after He died for me! It would be awful! It would be treachery.”
Mr. Rosenbach bowed his head. “Religion has much to do with loyalty.” He was quite serious now. “I can never decide if loyalty is a different substance from faith, or the same thing. Please understand, Miss Lovelace: I’m not asking you to betray the God you worship. I’m only asking you to put yourself in my shoes. I am as convinced of the truth of my faith, and as bound to be loyal to it, as you are to yours. I don’t think either of us should turn apostate.”
I didn’t know what an apostate was, but I looked it up this evening. I thought it would be like an apostle, but it’s just the opposite. An apostate is someone who turns his back on his faith.
I said, “But what if you — I mean, where will you go when you die?”
“We Jews do not worry about hell. Nor do we talk much about heaven. It’s enough for us to know that God keeps faith with those who sleep in the dust.”
I thought that was a beautiful phrase. I tried to imagine a life that wouldn’t end in heaven or hell or Purgatory. It seems to me that if there were no hell, you wouldn’t have to behave yourself too much. The funny thing is that the Jews do behave themselves. They go to a lot of trouble for their God, keeping kashrut and putting money into all those little charity boxes. There’s something very fine and disinterested in being good when there’s nothing to be gotten out of it. I blurted out, “I think Judaism is a noble religion.” And I do, but I also think it’s not very profitable. I’d rather go to heaven when I die.
Mr. Rosenbach looked pleased. He left his chair and went to the bookcase. “I wonder if you’d like Plato? His Socratic dialogues are like little plays. I think you would find them stimulating. Tell me, how did you enjoy Marcus Aurelius?”
I was tempted to lie. “Not very much,” I admitted. “I couldn’t seem to get through it. I thought Marcus Aurelius was awfully stuck on himself. And he never got excited about anything.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Rosenbach. It was that throat-clearing kind of ah that reminds me that he’s German. “Of course! You are a romantic, and the temperament of Marcus Aurelius does not accord with that. All the same, you might like Plato.” He plucked a volume off the shelf. “Here we are. Theaetetus. It seeks to explore the difference between knowledge and wisdom. Would you like to try it?”
Of course I said I would. I can’t seem to resist trying to please Mr. Rosenbach. I was glad to see that the book was thin, though, because I’m in the middle of The Dead Secret, which is thrilling. I opened the book and read a page or two. It seemed puzzling, but not dull. In fact, it piqued my curiosity.
When I looked up, Mr. Rosenbach was gazing at me in a most melancholy way. I said, “Mr. Rosenbach, what’s the matter?”
It wasn’t the kind of question a hired girl should ask her employer, but Mr. Rosenbach didn’t seem to notice. “I was wishing my Mirele were more like you.” He grimaced. “Every night I force her to read to me from Little Women. My daughter Anna read Little Women when she was ten, and she couldn’t get enough of it. But Mirele stumbles over every other word. She hates it. I’ve asked her again and again, ‘What would you like to read?’ Do you know what she says to me? Nothing, Papa, I don’t like to read. I went to the bookstore and the clerk recommended The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. He says it’s trash, but all the children are crazy for it. But Mirele doesn’t like The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. My friends and I are creating a new school, a magnificent school —” He gestured toward his desk, which was covered with papers. “The children will learn because they want to learn, not because they’re afraid of being punished; they will be encouraged to think and feel and create. We will have classrooms in the open air; the children will study nature in the park —” He threw up his hands. “But Mirele, my Mirele! I’m afraid she will be as great a dunce as she’s been in every other school.”
He began to pace, talking under his breath. He had forgotten I was there. “And yet she is intelligent. I would swear to it. When she was little, I thought she was the quickest of all my children. So funny, so curious, so clever — and yet, this child of my body will not read.” His left hand closed in a fist, and he hammered the air. “Even The Wizard of Oz she will not read!”
An idea flashed through my mind. It wasn’t a single idea, more like a series of pictures: Mimi standing well back from the mirror so that she could admire herself; Mimi squinting at her watch and getting the wrong time; Mimi frowning over a silver bracelet and saying it was too plain. My mouth fell open. “Mr. Rosenbach, what if she can’t see?”
He stopped in mid-stride. “Can’t see?”
I nodded. “Up close. What if she can’t see? She told me that reading makes her head ache. She can’t do sums on paper, but she can add up money in her head. And on Tuesday, when we were in your store, I saw a silver bracelet engraved with flowers — I liked it, but Mimi said it was too plain! What if she can’t see little things, close-up things? Reading would strain her eyes —”
He looked at me with such hope. “But if she has trouble seeing, why hasn’t she told me?”
That was such an easy question that I almost laughed. “Because she’d have to wear glasses! You know how vain she is.” I guess he didn’t, because he looked dumbfounded. “Maybe I shouldn’t say that about your daughter. But Mimi’s as vain as a peacock, and I bet she’d die rather than wear eyeglasses.” I realized I was telling tales and was ashamed. “The truth is, Mr. Rosenbach, I’m just as bad. I think about clothes all the time. I never had any pretty things till I came here, and, well, I just think about clothes a lot. And Mimi’s the same way. I guess it’s because we’re about the same age”— I saw a vast abyss open at my feet, but I leaped over it —“I mean, we’re growing up. Both girls, I mean.”
He came to me and grasped my hands. “Miss Lovelace,” he said, squeezing so tight that my fingers stung, “if you’re right, I will thank you a thousand times.”
“Mimi won’t,” I said. “Even if her eyes are bad, she won’t want to wear glasses.”
“She’ll wear them,” said Mr. Rosenbach so grimly that I wondered if I’d done Mimi a bad turn. He released my hands. “Miss Lovelace, I am indebted to you. This is the second time you’ve opened my eyes to the lives of my own children. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
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bsp; He spoke so heartily that I began to worry. What if I was wrong about Mimi’s eyes? “I’ve meddled again,” I said anxiously. “After what happened with Mr. Solomon, I promised I’d never meddle again. Now I’ve meddled.”
“You have my permission to meddle,” said Mr. Rosenbach. “I give you carte blanche.”
I didn’t know what carte blanche was, so he spelled it for me and explained it. I thanked him, and he thanked me back, and I saw that it was time to leave. I was almost in the hall when I remembered Malka. She’s a maddening old thing, a little black fly with a bunion, but I turned back.
Mr. Rosenbach had seated himself at his desk and was glancing over the plans for his school. “Well, Janet?”
“Sir,” I said boldly, “I’m going to meddle again. I think Malka ought to have an electric carpet sweeper.”
To my surprise, Mr. Rosenbach knows about electric carpet sweepers, because he’s thinking of selling them in his store. There’s a new model called the Hoover that has a brush inside that spins around and around and sucks up the dirt. It’s supposed to be better than all the others, and it costs sixty dollars — what a dreadful price! I don’t believe Mr. Rosenbach minded about the money, but when I told him that Mrs. Rosenbach had already said no, he started to shake his head. It seems that Mrs. Rosenbach is in charge of all the household decisions, and he doesn’t like to go against her.
“I bet Mrs. Rosenbach’s never taken up a carpet,” I said. And I explained to him, point by point, how you have to move the furniture and pry up the carpet tacks, and roll up the carpet and sweep the floor. Then there’s the business of lugging the carpet down those steep back stairs, and hauling it over the clothesline, and beating it until your arms ache. And then you have to roll it up and drag it back up the stairs and hammer it down again. “I’m not lazy,” I said earnestly, “but there are fourteen carpets in this house, not counting the runners on the stairs, and most of them can’t be carried by a single person. And Malka’s old. I don’t think Mrs. Rosenbach knows what she’s asking.”
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