He stood quietly seething, glaring his disapproval in the face of the horror that she, his only daughter, would be making a spectacle of herself by crossing into the adults-only territory of the dance floor. Terror slithered into Emma’s chest and tightened around her heart. She gasped sharply, preparing for the bolt of lightening that would surely explode through the chandelier and strike her dead on the spot.
“Elliot, we have to stop!” Emma insisted, digging her fingernails into Elliot’s coat sleeve and feeling her stomach flip as the music segued into the Viennese Waltz.
Her savior was the most unlikely of people. As the crowd stepped back to allow the significance of his presence to be known and with the slightest tap on her brother’s shoulder, Sir Rodman Roblin, premier of Manitoba, smiled down at her, offering a deep bow and asking, “May I have the pleasure of a place on your dance card Miss Willows?”
Emma snapped her gaping mouth shut. She smiled weakly in reply and forced her eyes to travel across to her father who, to her utter relief, smiled broadly.
Rupert could hardly contain himself. What a charmer that Emma was turning into. He beamed with opportunity and desperately hoped to pass it off as a look of pride in his unusually gifted daughter.
Saved from certain death, she accepted the invitation of the premier with a feminine flutter of her fan. She arched into a graceful posture as he took her spinning about the room, in a polished and awe-inspiring display of talent. Applause rose around Emma and her esteemed dance partner. Her heart pounding with happiness, she finished the waltz by dropping into an exaggerated bow, inspired by one of the ballet performances she had attended and was escorted back to her father. She did all of the things she knew mother would expect. She smiled at her father, she thanked the premier, then bobbed into a curtsey for a quick exit as her father slipped into a discussion with Sir Rodman about current building projects of Willows and Sons.
On the second floor she found a chair near the powder room and sat down to recover from the shaking in her knees. Only when her heartbeat returned to normal did she hear the voices of the women around the corner.
She recognized Mrs. Anderson’s voice. She had been to tea at Ravenscraig on more than a few occasions. Mother once commented to Emma that Mrs. Anderson had more jewelry than any other woman in the city.
“Surely, what we hear is exaggerated,” Mrs. Anderson said with distress in her voice. “Children are no longer dying of Red River Fever. We have improvements everywhere in the sanitation system. If there were a problem my husband would know about it.”
“Mrs. Anderson, I implore you. Red River Fever is a dressed up name for typhoid,” a soft and cultured voice replied. “By the spring thaw we think we are going to see a terrible number of cases, yet again. If women like you and your friends were to take an interest in helping, we would save many lives.”
“Dr. Yeomans, I am afraid I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Dr. Yeomans? A woman is a Dr. Yeomans? Emma’s eyes widened as she leaned toward the corner doorway to better hear the conversation.
“Mrs. Anderson, if you would be generous enough to host a gathering of some of the women in your circle, perhaps I could come with Dr. Crawford, Dr. Mary Crawford, and talk with them about the wretched conditions that exist just a short distance from this home.”
Mary? Two women doctors? Had she heard right? Emma slid off the chair and edged her way to the doorway.
“There are houses with just three rooms where four families are crammed in tight, fighting for air,” continued Dr. Yeomans. “They are desperately poor and they live in overcrowded, filthy conditions that are impossible to imagine. They are cold, they are hungry, and they won’t ask for help.”
“You’re talking about that awful place we read about, New Jerusalem. I’ve heard it called in the Winnipeg Star.”
“New Jerusalem, the foreign ghetto or the tenement slums. It doesn’t matter what it is called. These are all names for a dreadful place that you wouldn’t allow livestock to live in.”
“But the people who live there are the Hebrews and those Galicians. They don’t even speak English,” protested Mrs. Anderson, her voice taking on a whine.
“They are simply people who need help.”
“Dr. Yeomans, I don’t know.” Emma could hear the anxiety rising in Mrs. Anderson’s voice. “My husband wouldn’t like it. He told me stories about drinking and disease and bad things that happen over there. Violent things. Forgive me, but Dirty Jew and Bohunk are the kinds of expressions he has used. No, I don’t think he would like it,” Mrs. Anderson slowly shook her head.
Dr. Yeomans pushed on. “Please, Mrs. Anderson. You have children. Please don’t close your mind and your heart.”
With warmth and dignity and an understanding that came from many, many conversations just like this one, the doctor eased into her closing.
“Thank you for being so gracious as to listen to me. I’m sorry I took so much of your time.”
Emma peeked around the doorway and glanced up at the red face of Mrs. Anderson. She watched as the regal woman bowed her head and closed her eyes very tightly. Then she did the most amazing thing Emma could have imagined. Mrs. Anderson slipped her diamond bracelet off her wrist and pressed it into the hand of Dr. Yeomans.
Chapter Nineteen
To Be a Jew
April 25, 1900
Every day before school and most days after school, Isaac hawked newspapers for the Winnipeg Star. He had been selling papers for almost three years now, ever since his family’s arrival in Winnipeg. The morning edition was the big money maker, and if Isaac got up early enough, he had no trouble securing a prime street corner, such as Main and Bannatyne in front of Ashdown’s Hardware Store. A great many office workers, tradesmen, candy makers, and garment workers passed by Ashdown’s on their way to their Exchange District jobs and there was considerable competition among the newsboys for this particular corner.
Suddenly a new attraction caught the attention of all the boys. Mr. Ashdown had placed a brand new bicycle in his shop window and Isaac, at fourteen, was instantly burning with desire to own it.
When he went into the store to get a good look at it, Mr. Ashdown happily pulled it out of the window and explained all of the bike’s features. Manufactured by the Canada Cycle and Motor Company, the CCM two-wheeler was the epitome of modernity. He encouraged Isaac to touch it, to sit on it, to examine the fine bicycle chain and the leather seat, and to admire the updated design of the diamond shaped frame carrying two wheels of identical size. So much safer, he explained, than high-wheeled bicycles and much more comfortable than the teeth-rattling vehicles, known as “boneshakers”, that had started the craze for bicycles.
Isaac was so enthralled he couldn’t speak. He ran his hand over the frame and imagined riding it. Mr. Ashdown pointed out the convenience of the large basket on the front and an endless list of other impressive details. With all of that, it was the smell of the tires that proved of greatest appeal to Isaac. Mr. Ashdown was amused and shook his head as he watched the intense young man close his eyes and touch his nose to the pneumatic tire, breathing in the smell of the new rubber as if he were drawing in the scent of freshly baked cookies. The storekeeper promised him a special price of fifty dollars, and Isaac’s heart sank. He might as well have said five hundred; it was so far beyond a newsboy’s reach.
Mr. Ashdown seemed undaunted, however, and spoke as though he fully expected Isaac to be back to buy the bike.
“Isaac, as plain as I can see the nose on your face, I can see that you are worried about how you ever might pay for the bicycle.”
Flushed with embarrassment, Isaac dropped his eyes.
“I’ve known you, for at least three years, Isaac, standing out front, selling your newspapers, and what I see is a hard working young man, determined to make something of himself. That’s all you really need in life, son. You’ll find a way to earn your way to acquiring the bicycle. I’m certain of it.”
Isaac m
et the gaze of the dapper storekeeper and found his voice.
“Thank you, Mr. Ashdown, but with respect, sir, I don’t think you know what it is like to be, well, I mean …” Isaac’s words caught in his shame.
“Poor?” the storeowner asked gently.
“Yes, poor. I have to walk everywhere I go and, well, I can’t imagine with all of your success that you have to walk anywhere you don’t want.”
James Ashdown clapped his hands together and laughed until tears came to his eyes, leaving Isaac to twist his cap in his sweaty hands, mortified and perplexed.
“Isaac, please understand that I am not making fun of you. I need to tell you something, son. When I first got to Winnipeg there were just a hundred people or so living here. That was more than thirty years ago, before Manitoba was a province and when Winnipeg was a tiny settlement called Fort Garry. Imagine it. No railroad, no roads. How do you think I got here?”
“Riverboat?” Isaac offered.
“No, sir. I walked. I walked for nineteen days next to a string of Red River ox carts all the way from St. Cloud, Minnesota. Grasshoppers were so thick in the air that summer that we were almost breathing them in. And I can tell you that I sincerely doubt that ever in your lifetime will you have to walk that far to get somewhere you wish to go.”
“I’m sorry, if I was rude, Mr. Ashdown.”
Isaac considered telling him about the walk out of Russia, but thought better of the idea. He had learned it was best to not discuss his background with people who weren’t from the old country.
“Nothing rude about it. We are all quick to make assumptions based on what we see. You’ll go far in life, Isaac, if you learn to look past a first impression. I can tell you most people don’t, and they miss opportunities because of it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Isaac watched as Ashdown lifted the bike and placed it carefully back into the window.
“And from my own experience, I can tell you that if a man wants something badly enough, he’ll find a way to get it.” He smiled and shook the boy’s hand. “You’re a smart lad, Isaac. You just need a little gumption, I’d say.”
Isaac spent hours thinking about what Mr. Ashdown had said to him. He thought of his father’s and grandfather’s gumption in leading them out of Russia. Every morning, he stared at the bike through the window between selling papers. He admired every spoke and bolt on the shiny black machine and ached with envy at the very sight of it. It suddenly seemed that bicycles were everywhere in Winnipeg. Every time he turned his head he would see another jaunty cyclist speeding expertly down the street atop the two-wheeled wonder. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself flying down the roadway with the wind in his face enjoying the magic of traveling so quickly. And he couldn’t help but also think of his admiring friends and how it would raise his stock with girls he never dared approach, girls like Bessie Greenberg who were too beautiful to notice boys like Isaac Zigman. It was overpowering. To own such a vehicle would completely change his life. He would be free to travel anywhere he wished, anytime at all. But the hard truth remained. The cost was so great it would take him months, even years, to save the money. He was already putting aside money for university and just could not see finding the additional time to earn what was needed for this extravagance.
He awoke thinking of the bicycle and fell asleep dreaming about it. Three days after first seeing it, Isaac was completely preoccupied with the matter during his long walk home from school. He was obsessed with figuring out how to earn the needed money. He could do his homework faster and sleep less. Maybe he could work as a hot-walker at the racetrack. Then, imagining what it would be like to control a lathered horse fighting to regain its breath after a race, he dismissed the idea. Besides, a lot of the races were on Saturday, and his father would never permit it. Maybe the newspaper needed extra people to clean the office after hours, or Mr. Gunn might need help in the bakery. So deep was his concentration on his problem that he didn’t notice the boys behind him. He heard the voices before he understood the words.
“Hey, Jew boy. Hey, Kike, I’m talking to you.”
Ace Patterson, tall and gangly with pimply cheeks and sunken, red-rimmed eyes was yelling at him. Isaac stepped back; he could see what was coming. He knew all about Ace, a local tough guy who was known to be lucky at cards and skilled at shooting pool. His father owned one of the lower class saloons on Main Street, a joint called Hangman’s Bar. The story was that his old man first taught Ace to shoot craps when he was just six. Isaac also recognized Ace’s sidekick, Vic Stanky, another troublemaker who had dropped out of school the year before. But the third boy, short and dirty with thick green snot clotted in his nostrils, was new to him.
“Hey, leave me alone, eh?” Isaac shrank into his coat and moved along a little faster.
“Leave you alone? Why, Jew boy?” Stanky thrust his jaw out. “You goin’ home to count your money?”
The boys looped behind and surrounded Isaac as Ace dived for Isaac’s books and yanked them out of his grasp.
“Dirty Jew. I see that long line of folks goin’ into your family’s restaurant everyday. You must be loaded with money by now. Rich dirty Jews. I guess that makes you filthy rich, right?” Ace found his witticism hilarious and started to snort at his own humor.
The new kid slipped in and kicked the books to the side before Isaac could grab for the strap that held them together.
Stanky came up into Isaac’s face and sneered at him while working a large wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek.
“You folks Jewing them customers of yours out of their hard earned money?”
Isaac’s muscles tightened as he circled with the boys, looking for an opening so he could break through and run away.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. It’s a restaurant. People pay for meals,” he said evenly, not wanting to further agitate his aggressors.
Ace moved in close and cracked his knuckles.
“Jews are all cheats,” he said calmly. “I’ll bet y’are cheatin’ your customers. I’ll just bet y’are, just like Solly Silverstein stole money from my old man, Jew boy. My pop lost everything we had. He was so mad he bust up the house and my ma took off and ain’t come back yet. Ya think that’s fair? Eh? Ya think that’s fair?”
Ace was screaming now. Isaac said nothing, but his heart pounded and he began to pant as the boys worked him back into a corner between a garage wall and a woodpile.
“Somebody’s gotta pay for that, and it may as well be you, Kike,” Stanky spat out the words as he pushed his face into Isaac’s, the black tobacco juice running like blood from the corners of his mouth.
The first punch landed solidly on Isaac’s rib cage under his left arm and forced him off balance. Three or four hard blows left him staggering; he swung wildly to defend himself. The boys moved in, jeering and laughing. Tightening his small frame, Isaac ducked one punch and took a second on his shoulder. Then a third hit him squarely on the nose and blood gushed from his face.
Stanky laughed, pointing. “If I hit you, do you not bleed, Shylock?” he taunted.
Anger rose in Isaac as never before and unleashed a power he didn’t know he had. He sprang like a wounded tiger, kicking fiercely at the hands scrambling to get a grip on him. His legs were knocked from under him and he went down on his back. As he fell, his boot clipped the side of Ace’s head, knocking him into the garage wall.
“My teeth! Son of a bitch! He broke my tooth!” Ace was spitting blood.
Stanky reached into his boot. The glint of steel caught Isaac’s eye and he scrambled to his feet. He sidestepped the thrust of the blade and smashed a swinging blow into Stanky’s jaw, knocking him off his feet. The snot-nosed kid saw the knife and stepped back out of the way. Isaac bent to grab his books but before he reached them, Stanky lunged at him with the knife raised to strike. Isaac grabbed his attacker’s arm with both hands and fought to keep the blade from his face. Locking his grip on Stanky’s elbow, he twisted his ar
m back with all his force, and slammed his knee up into the kid’s crotch. A piercing shriek filled the alley and the knife flew from Stanky’s hand as he doubled over. Gulping for air, he fell, writhing in the dirt like a snake with a severed head. With the others momentarily glued to the horror before them, Isaac shot through the opening. Snatching his book strap in full flight, he cleared a fence and tore for home.
The family supper at the Zigman home was electric with tension. Everyone was silent in the aftermath of Isaac’s terrible story. Each had much to say, but they were all quiet for fear of setting off Mama. The dinner table was not the place for the Zigman men to sort out the many complexities of such an attack. Thoughts of revenge raged beneath the surface, but were kept in check by Hannah’s vehement opposition to acts of retaliation. She had been close to hysterics the last time Isaac had suffered a schoolyard beating.
Unexpectedly, it was little Mendel who broke the tension and bridged the emotions around the supper table.
“I want to talk, I have something to say!” Mendel announced loudly.
Zev motioned to his youngest child to go ahead.
“Teacher says we should all be Christians and we would have no more problems!” Mendel, who was attending the neighborhood kindergarten, was brimming with his good news. “She was talking about Jews today. She says we should come to church, then we can get free food and all kinds of stuff. Even clothes! Wouldn’t that be swell? She says that in Canada we are all supposed to be Christians now.”
“What?” cried Mama. “Why would she say such a thing?”
“Because they want to get rid of the Jews.” Zaida Baruch measured his words. “The same thing could happen here as happened in the old country.”
“Papa, it would never happen,” Zev spoke quietly, with respect for his father. “Here, it is different. Too many people suffered terribly in the old country. Those attitudes will never grow here. Not in the same way. This is a new world. The government would not allow Jews to be pushed away from Judaism.”
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