—I don’t think so.
—I’d love to find her, he said, and for a moment Ruben thought Deborah was missing. A week later, he began to talk about the artist as soon as Ruben got into the car, as if they’d had one unbroken conversation. I found that article about her, from the Jewish magazine. It was in a file at the office. I made you a copy, and then I forgot it.
—What does it say?
—Oh, it’s all about the strike. This would interest you.
—Why? Because I’m Jewish?
—In part. But it’s terribly interesting.
—Why? said Ruben. Why do you need to find this old lady? Do you want to see her sculptures?
—I just want to talk to her, Jeremiah said. We’d have a lot to say.
—I suppose you tried the phone book?
—Of course.
Ruben said, Listen, does Deborah know you bring in other people’s drawings?
—Of course not. All these cars. It’s disgusting.
Now he was changing the subject, but she didn’t much care. She said, You’d prefer trolleys, of course.
—Naturally trolleys. Why not trolleys? The irony is, said Jeremiah, people believe in public transportation. They don’t know they believe in it, but they do. You know about Bernhard Goetz?
—The man in New York who shot the kids in the subway.
—Right, said Jeremiah. Black kids. They asked him for money and he shot them. Now, why do you think this is a big story, huge outcry, so forth and so on?
—I read that he was acquitted, said Ruben. Just recently.
—I know he was acquitted. Disgusting. But why? Why the outcry? Why disgusting?
—Because he was a racist, said Ruben.
—No, said Jeremiah. Not because he was a racist. Or only in part because he was a racist.
—Then why?
—Why. Because it was in the subway. People feel safe in the subway. There is to be no shooting in the subway!
—But nobody feels safe in the subway!
—Oh, yes, said Jeremiah. Public transportation is a big womb. We are carried. We do not drive ourselves. The engineer takes care of us. That’s why stories and songs about trolleys and trains are cute. But if something goes wrong on public transportation, it’s much worse than anyplace else. Why is crime on subways so scary? Because trains are our mother. Somebody holds up the train, he’s killing our mother. Think about it.
Ruben didn’t want to think about it.
At the break he said, Tell me how to talk about pictures.
—Pictures? Oh, the drawings.
—We have a woman who comes into the office once a week, Jeremiah said. Payroll. She does the best drawings.
—Jeremiah . . .
—I need to be able to talk about them, said Jeremiah.
—Okay, okay, say you’re interested in the volumes of the shapes. Say volumes. Gregory keeps saying volumes.
And a few days later, just to see if she could, in one evening she taught Harry to draw, hid his best effort, and gave it to Jeremiah.
A young woman said, I drew my dog, and brought out a charcoal drawing of a dog.
—Cool, said Gregory. Anybody else?
—The view from the back window, said Jeremiah, but it was the view from the Rubens’ back window, drawn by Harry.
—Interesting how you did the bushes.
—At first they seemed just to be part of the background, said Jeremiah, but I wanted them to be important. I wanted them to have volume.
—Excellent, said Gregory.
Jeremiah and Ruben winked and shook hands as they set up the easels. Ruben’s arm was giddy with this childishness, and she drew rapidly and gorgeously, swirls and flowing circles of ink. That week it was ink.
—Think of Anna Karenina, said Jeremiah at the break.
—Anna Karenina?
—Threw herself under the wheels of a train. Why a train? Much more awful that way. Much more terrible. Public transportation. Didn’t you ever read that book? She comes to Moscow or St. Petersburg, one or the other, I forget. She comes on a train and sees her lover for the first time in the station. And everyone’s upset because someone’s been crushed under the wheels of the train, a guard or a peasant. And then she herself—when that same lover grows cold to her . . .
—Anna Karenina, said Ruben to Deborah, a few days later.
—Anna Karenina? Deborah had said Jeremiah never read books.
—He was talking to me about Anna Karenina.
—Then there must be a trolley in it.
—Well, a train.
—I’m glad you’re friends with Mr. Impossible, Deborah said. Toby says, Toby says . . . That’s all I hear lately. They were drinking wine in Deborah’s kitchen, though it was only three in the afternoon. But it was Deborah’s birthday. Ruben had brought her the bottle of wine.
—You’re kind of annoyed with him, I detect, said Ruben, wondering whether Deborah had found out about the drawing fraud, which seemed embarrassing at this distance from the school.
—Oh, he’s all right. Mr. Folk Songs. Mr. Fuck Songs. Mr. Fuck Brain.
Mac the smiling yellow dog came in looking expectant. You’re not Mr. Fuck Brain, Deborah said, pulling him toward her and stroking his side. You’re Mr. Noodle Brain. Mr. Doodle Brain.
—Mac has a nice smile, said Ruben. He looks like Mary Grace. They both have those smiles from underneath, as if they’re pretending they don’t know they’re smiling. Mary Grace and Rose were out in the backyard. Mac went out, scratched at the door and came in, scratched and went out again.
Ruben was cold. Deborah’s house was full of wooden planks—the floor was made of them, and so was a partition between the kitchen and an old playroom where nobody played—and somehow wind came through all the chinks between them, even the indoor chinks. She sat in Deborah’s kitchen wedged between the shellacked wooden table and a big yellow dresser, once a changing table, now cluttered with mail and papers and paintings. She ran her hand across its much-painted side, detecting air bubbles under the paint. The door-bell.
—I thought the kids were in the back, said Deborah, but the person at the door was Janet Grey with a wrapped birthday present. She said, Do you mind my just turning up? Happy Birthday, Deb. Oh, Toby, hi, I should have known I’d find you here. Toby Laidlaw. Deb’s wife. Janet looked to make sure Ruben didn’t mind the joke, then said, Could I possibly borrow a child?
Janet wore a gray coat, like her name, and a silk scarf arranged around her shoulders. Her eyes were gray, too, Ruben noticed, or they looked gray in this early December light. The room was light, but it was cloudy outside. Looking from her corner, between table and dresser, Ruben told herself to like Janet’s humorous but limited eyes.
—Just one child? said Deborah. We have a sale right now. A three-for-one sale.
—Just one. Janet explained that she was going Christmas shopping for her niece. She wanted a consultant.
—May I open this? Ruben was upset that Janet Grey called her Toby Laidlaw, but also pleased, and impatient that Deborah had asked if she could open the present. Why do people ask that? What else would they do with a present? It had a bow. Ruben’s present, the bottle of wine, had no wrapping of any kind, but came with a note and a drawing of Deborah that Ruben had copied nervously from a photograph. It was better than what she’d have done a few months ago, but it looked childish. Janet’s present was a wonderful pair of red-and-yellow socks, and Ruben coveted the socks and the brains to buy the socks. Deborah took off her shoes and her gray socks and put them on.
—Thank you! Kiss! said Deborah, which was something Deborah would not say. She offered one, wide-armed. Janet mimed a hug and a kiss from across the room, then thought better of it and stepped forward to Deborah, who stood waiting in her big cream-colored sweater, and they kissed.
Ruben wouldn’t have let her children go shopping with Janet Grey. Deborah’s girls were playing picturesquely in the back-yard, scrubbed by the glorious cold air, and why should th
ey be squashed in cars, sent out on the dangerous, smelly roads, corrupted by cynical stores offering gaudy rags?
But Deborah said placidly, That would be nice, and called, Kiddos! opening the back door. Jill came down from upstairs. She raised her long arm and rested her hand on the door jamb, taking up the doorway but coming no closer. What is it?
Apologetic flutters from Janet Grey, who didn’t mean Jill.
—I’m too busy, anyway, said Jill.
But Rose and Mary Grace came inside with cold flying off their cheeks and their hair tumbly, and demanded diet Cokes, of all things.
—I wonder if one of you ladies might, began Janet Grey.
Both of them wanted to go. Janet Grey said, I think just one, and Deborah chose Rose. Mary Grace cried. Janet apologized. I’m just not used to children!
—It’s fine, said Deborah, and then the doorbell rang again as Mary Grace cried harder. Pray for something distracting, Deborah said, hurrying.
—We wondered if our mommy was here, Ruben heard. Peter’s precise talk, on days he wasn’t wild. In he came, he and Stevie and Granny. Stevie said, There’s something wrong with Granny.
Mac wagged and sniffed while Granny wagged and sniffed and peed on the floor. Nothing was wrong with her.
—But she was holding up her foot!
Deborah looked over Granny’s feet. She said, Maybe she had a pebble between her toes. The prayer had been answered, and Mary Grace looked over Granny’s feet and Mac’s feet. Soon everybody was on the floor playing vet. Now Janet and Rose climbed over the dogs and children, and left.
—Oh! said Deborah. I shouldn’t have let her go. She has homework.
—Why did you let her?
—I was flattered, laughed Deborah.
—I don’t know what you see in Janet Grey, said Ruben, feeling guilty because of the socks. She’s so fussy, with her little scarf around her neck and spread out on her shoulder.
—We should wear scarves like that, said Deborah. Let’s go shopping and buy silk scarves and wear them spread out on our shoulders.
—I don’t like shopping.
—I love shopping, said Deborah.
—But I’ll go with you, if you mean it, Ruben said. Deborah did mean it. Real silk, okay, not polyester? Good colors. Do you want to go now? Wouldn’t it be fun to go now? Maybe we’ll run into them. Where were they going?
—But I’m so comfortable, lied cold Ruben. And what about all these children?
—Jill is here.
—Jill! Jill won’t baby-sit. I’m scared of Jill. I wouldn’t even ask. When she came down I thought she was going to preach a sermon at us.
—Just now she’s religious, it’s true, said Deborah. She’s probably mortifying her flesh up there.
—You mean hurting herself? said Jewish Ruben.
—I am kidding, Toby. I am kidding.
But Jill turned friendlier and they did go shopping. Giddy from their half glasses of wine, they drove to the mall and with exaggerated enthusiasm picked out two big silk scarves, expensive, swirls of green (Ruben’s) and yellow (Deborah’s). Ruben’s went with her coat. She looked like an old lady with her glasses and the scarf, which wouldn’t, in the mirror, appear artfully arranged. It just looked as if she was cold. But she let herself be persuaded. One alluring midgreen blob was almost blue. She couldn’t resist having a present on Deborah’s birthday. They paid for each other’s scarves. Ruben’s cost a dollar more. Ruben carried her scarf home in Deborah’s car, feeling it on her lap in its plastic bag, so pleased she couldn’t look at it. That bluish green was certainly her favorite color.
—So some things she does are all right, said Deborah.
—Janet Grey? Lots of things she does are fine. She’s just a little boring.
—But what makes her boring? said Deborah. Are we boring? Ruben said, Maybe we’re boring to her.
—Obviously not. You just said that out of guilt.
—That’s right. Deborah abruptly turned right and took a brisk shortcut around a cemetery and an old factory. Ruben said, You’re not boring because you go straight where you’re going. You don’t futz around.
—That’s what I always think about you. It’s true, she has to stop and hold little observances.
—Does she really like her niece, or is she talking herself into it? said Ruben.
—Oh, I think she does, said Deborah, turning again. Or maybe not. She never says a bad thing about that niece. Nobody’s that wonderful. She must not like her.
They drew up to Deborah’s house, where every light was lit and children could be seen racing past uncurtained windows. With self-satisfaction they made their way up on the porch, arm in arm.
Ruben said, Oh, we’re just the way we’re supposed to be! and they laughed at their audacity, but meant it. In the hall, they shouted names of children and dogs and eventually every-body appeared, including Rose, who had been properly returned. Then juice had to be drunk, but at last coats went on. Ruben snapped the leash onto Granny’s collar and took her scarf and they finally departed in the cold and dark, she and Stevie and Peter and Granny. Peter held Granny’s leash but then Stevie began whirling and staggering, whirling and staggering, and Peter handed the leash to Ruben so he could whirl and stagger and bump into his little brother. They shrieked and laughed down the block in the twilight, but then Deborah and Mary Grace came running after them.
—We were supposed to give you this! Jeremiah said I should give you this! called Deborah, hair flying.
—Elephant platypus! screamed Mary Grace.
Oh. Yes. The article about the anarchist. She hugged Deborah hard and took the folded sheets of paper. Deborah and Mary Grace ran back home—no coats!—and Ruben and the boys walked on.
—Elephant platypus! the boys screamed after Mary Grace. Then, Elephant giraffe! Elephant orangutan. In the dark, they spun in circles again and staggered forward and spun in circles, a taller and a shorter one, outlined like the dark trees.
—Porcupine, they gasped, giraffe, platypus.
—No, no, platypus, elephant platypus.
—Elephant platypus! When they spun past her, she reached to touch their hair. Each boy in turn stopped and then they took the leash from her and she walked between them and again touched a hand to each head. Their hair was fine and silky, with snags and tiny roughnesses, and she felt a few hairs for nits—two years before, all of Deborah’s girls and both her boys kept giving one another head lice; Deborah said, You’re in our nitwork. But now everybody was clean. Nobody had any troubles at all. There were no troubles anywhere on earth.
THE LITTLE ANARCHIST
GUSSIE LIPKIN AND THE BOYNTON TROLLEY WRECK
[The article, unsigned, was from Jewish Monthly, November 1972, pp. 24-28. It was accompanied by photographs, one of a woman and one of a trolley car, but they had been photocopied and were hard to see.]
“The Boynton Herald, Miss Lipkin, reported that ’wrenches, auto cranks, paving blocks, bottles, coal, and missiles of all description’ were thrown at the strikebreakers. Miss Lipkin, did you throw bottles and paving blocks?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Did you throw anything, Miss Lipkin?”
“Mud, sir.”
“You threw mud?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how did you acquire this mud, Miss Lipkin?”
“I knelt in the yard of the trolley company and scooped it up in my hands, sir.”
“In your hands?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Miss Lipkin, this event took place on January ninth, did it not?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“And there had been a snowfall the night before, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet you ask us to believe that you scooped up mud in your hands?”
“The yard was in the sun, sir. The snow where I was standing had melted.”
“I see. And did some of this mud fall on your dress, Miss Lipkin?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, sir.’
“Miss Lipkin, you are nineteen years old, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir.’
“And you are Jewish, are you not, Miss Lipkin?”
“Objection, your honor. The defendant’s religion . . .”
“Objection sustained.”
The above quotations—which I discovered by chance one rainy afternoon in the Boynton, Massachusetts, Public Library while doing research for a graduate dissertation on the history of the New England textile mills—are from the transcript of a long-forgotten but fascinating trial that took place in October 1921 in the grimy Massachusetts mill town of Boynton: the trial of a young Jewish girl, daughter of an illiterate immigrant mother and a father who loved to read, a trial not for mud throwing, it turns out, but for murder. “The Little Anarchist,” as Gussie Lipkin was called by that very same Boynton Herald, or sometimes “the Emma Goldman of Boynton,” has nearly been forgotten by Jewish historians, by feminists, and by historians of the radical left, but she might well be of interest to all of these. Bright though uneducated, this woman at fifteen joined an anarchist cell that had met briefly in her parents’ living room. Three years later she was apparently its leader and spokesperson. Short, plump, and not attractive—judging from the single surviving photograph—with a low forehead and rather thin, cropped hair, Gussie Lipkin had been born in Boynton in 1902 to Jewish immigrants from Russia who went on to have two other daughters. They had landed at Ellis Island a year before her birth, and were drawn to the small, desperately poor Jewish community in Boynton by the prospect of work in the mills. By the age of eighteen, Gussie Lipkin had become estranged from her parents and lived briefly as the common law wife of a factory worker and union leader who was rumored to have left a wife and child behind in Europe.
In 1921, Warren G. Harding became president of the United States. Hitler’s storm troopers were becoming active. The first radio broadcast of a baseball game was made from the Polo Grounds in New York. And, though the “Red Scare” was dying down, Sacco and Vanzetti were found guilty of murder. Just a year earlier, national hysteria about possible Bolshevism in America had led to extreme measures, including the deportation of a shipload of radical aliens, including Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman. In January 1920, Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer ordered raids on leftist organizations. Known radicals, aliens, and unlucky bystanders were illegally rounded up, held under appalling conditions, and in some instances deported.
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