“I’ll show you a picture of him, Papa, if you like,” Essie said, and reached for her notebook that lay on the kitchen table. “I made some drawings of him in the class.”
Her father took the notebook, and flipped slowly through the pages.
“Drawing pictures!” her mother said. “When you should have been writing down everything that your teacher said.”
Looking at Essie’s sketches, her father muttered “Shtadlonim” once more. But then his face brightened somewhat. “Esther, I didn’t know you could draw like this,” he said. “When did you learn to do this? Who taught you this? Minnalein, do you know that I think our Esther has talent as an artist? Think of it! Do you think an art school, maybe?”
The sketches seemed to have brought the family quarrel to an end. Minna Litsky rubbed her hands firmly across her apron front, and said, “Well, is anyone else starving to death for supper? I know I am.”
Little Abe, grinning broadly—surely he had been able to hear absolutely everything that had gone on, every single word through the thin partition—was released from the back room, and everyone gathered at the kitchen table. It was the beginning of the Sabbath, and the candles were lighted. Sam said the blessings, sliced the loaf. Then Minna served her family’s dinner.
Throughout the meal, the talk was small and inconsequential. But after dinner, Essie heard her mother say in a low voice to her father, “Sam, I think the time has come to look for a husband for our Hadassah.” Her father gave her mother a stern and disapproving look. It was improper to discuss such matters on the Sabbath.
But Essie knew that things were serious whenever her mother used her Hebrew name.
Essie had begun to take an interest in Jake Auerbach’s weekly lectures, now that she knew that the topics interested him not at all. It was a wonder that he could get up on the platform, week after week, and take such pains to illuminate a subject he cared nothing about, simply because he thought it might do some poor soul some good. Now she was listening with rapt attention as he applied himself to today’s theme, which was Our Friend Electricity.
“Now you will hear many false rumors and superstitions about electricity,” he was saying. “When many people think of electricity, they think of electric storms and bolts of lightning which come out of the sky and split tree trunks in half and even occasionally kill people. Domestic electricity, which is spreading rapidly into homes throughout America, is of an altogether different kind. It is not dangerous. Perhaps you have heard that if an electric light bulb is not screwed tightly into its socket, the electricity will leak out into the room, or that if an electric plug is not plugged into every outlet in your house the same thing will happen. None of this is true. The electricity goes into the light bulb only when the bulb is screwed into its socket, and the switch is turned to ‘on.’ On the other hand, it is dangerous to place your fingers in an empty socket or to place pins or other objects into an electrical outlet. You can give yourself a very nasty shock that way, which will hurt you and burn you because your body then becomes what is called the ‘conductor’ of the electricity … like any friend, we must respect Our Friend Electricity … electrical engineers foresee the day when not only our homes in America will all be lighted by electricity, when all our cooking will be done by electricity, when our homes will be heated by electricity, but when electricity will also be used to power locomotives, automobiles, huge ocean liners. The uses of electricity are many … Here is a typical incandescent lamp bulb, which was invented by Thomas Alva Edison … The first to recognize the potential—does the class know that word? Potential? It means power. He was a man named Benjamin Franklin. One day, while flying a kite …”
“That was so interesting!” Essie said to him afterward. “I didn’t know any of those things.”
He smiled. “Did you enjoy it? Frankly, I’m beginning to look forward to the summer recess, when I can take a holiday from all of this.”
Essie did not want to think about the summer recess, which would mean the last of school for her. Their walks home to Norfolk Street had become a weekly ritual, along with the stops at Mr. Levy’s for egg creams. But after the first time, she had warned him that there were to be no more kisses by the front door. He winked at her and said, “Why not?”
“Everybody gossips so on Norfolk Street. My mother heard about it before I got inside the house.”
“Then I’ll kiss you on Hester Street,” he said, and did it again. “See? Nobody noticed.”
She had shivered. “Don’t be so sure. Everybody comes here.”
“In this crowd, who’d pay any attention?”
In the process of their weekly walks, she had learned a bit more about young Mr. Jacob Auerbach. He was twenty-three years old, and had graduated from Columbia University, where he had studied history. He was an only child, and he lived with his parents at 14 West 53rd Street, Uptown. Essie herself had been Uptown only once or twice in her life, on school trips, and where the numbered streets and avenues began she was still confused about which way the numbers ran, and about which avenue separated East from West. He explained it to her, but she knew that if she ever went up there by herself she would certainly get lost.
His parents were German, but they were not quite top-drawer Deitche. His parents were not rich but, though he did not come right out and say so, she gathered that there were relatives who were. His father worked for some of these relatives, who had the men’s clothing store, where—he told her with a laugh—he was able to buy his nice clothes “at family prices.” His father was pressing him to go into the family business, but Jake Auerbach was resisting. He had not yet made up his mind, he said, as to what he wanted to do with his life. “Plenty of time,” he said, and while he waited for his mind to be made up he did this social work. He also worked for the Henry Street and University settlement houses. And part of the weekly ritual, too, became the little kisses, stolen Essie could never predict where, but always in a crowd, and never on Norfolk Street. It became their little joke. February passed that way, and March, and in April you knew that spring was coming because there were more pushcarts than ever in the streets.
One afternoon, at Mr. Levy’s, she said to him, “You were frightened when you first saw Hester Street, weren’t you?”
“My first thought was—pickpockets. Believe me, when I had you on one hand I had my other on my pocketbook, all the way.”
“There aren’t any Jewish pickpockets,” she laughed.
“Ha! Don’t you wish that were true? There’s a Jewish everything, and you can be sure that Jewish pickpockets are better at it than any other kind.”
“That sounds like riches talk,” she said.
“Riches? What does that word mean?”
“As though you didn’t like the Jews.”
He laughed. “How could I not like the Jews? I’m Jewish myself.” Then he changed the subject. “I’m studying your face,” he said. “Do you know that you’re very beautiful?”
She lowered her eyes and concentrated on her egg cream. She wanted to tell him that she thought he was beautiful, too, but she said nothing, feeling him continuing to look at her.
The following week, as they started out, he said, “Instead of Mr. Levy’s, why don’t you let me take you out to dinner? I know a nice place, and my Uncle Sol just gave me my birthday check.”
“Is today your birthday?”
“No, that was months ago, but Uncle Sol takes his time about giving out his birthday checks. So how about it? Straight home, and I’ll pick you up in front of your house tonight at seven.”
“Oh, but not tonight. We couldn’t possibly go out tonight.”
“Why not?”
“The Sabbath begins at sundown. Did you forget?”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s right, I did forget.”
“Don’t you observe the Sabbath?”
“Oh, yes—sometimes, not always. As I told you, we’re not all that strict about things like that. But I try to go to temple at least twice a
year—at Christmas and Easter.”
“Christmas and Easter?”
“That’s supposed to be a joke. I mean Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Haven’t you heard about Reform?”
“Of course, but Papa says—” She decided not to tell him what Papa said about Reform. “Papa is very strict,” she said.
“I guessed as much. But don’t you see—?” He left the question unfinished. “Well, how about Sunday, then? Sunday for lunch.”
“All right,” she said quickly, hoping that her shock at some of the things he had said did not show too much.
“I’ll pick you up at your house at noon.”
“No. Let’s meet in front of Mr. Levy’s.”
She was about to tell a lie to her mother. “Mama,” she said, “the school is having a trip on Sunday, Uptown to one of the museums.”
“How much does this one cost?”
“It’s free, Mama.”
“Oh, they’ll want something,” Minna said. “Wait and see, they’ll send a letter home, wanting something.” Then she said, “You’ve been seeing him again, haven’t you, the young Deitche? You think people don’t talk? You think people don’t tell me things?”
“He walks me home on Fridays, Mama.”
“But no funny business?”
“Of course not, Mama. So—can I go on the trip?”
“Well, if it’s free, why not?” her mother said. “As Mrs. Potamkin says, ‘If it’s free, take two.’”
The restaurant was called Saltzman’s, on the “good” end of Delancey Street. Essie had seen Saltzman’s curtained, plate-glass windows from the street, but had never been inside, and it all seemed very large and grand, with shiny china and silverware, white linen napkins, and waiters in black mess jackets with clean white tablecloths wrapped around their waists. There was even a large bouquet of fresh flowers in the center of the room. She dreaded to think what this meal was going to cost him.
“I was going to take you uptown, to Delmonico’s,” he said, “but then I remembered. For you it has to be kosher, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
“This was the best I could find of that variety, I’m afraid.”
“But Saltzman’s is famous!”
A waiter handed each of them a menu. It was large and long, and contained many dishes Essie had never heard of. She had decided not to tell him that she had never been in a real restaurant before, and so she said, “Why don’t you order for both of us?”
“Let’s try the veal tenderloin,” he said.
“Do you mean that you don’t keep kosher, either?” she asked when they had ordered.
“Of course not. My favorite lunch is a ham sandwich with a thick slice of cheese—and lobster—”
“Lobster? You’ve eaten lobster, and it didn’t make you sick?”
“We had lobster for dinner last night, and I’m here, aren’t I? You see, Essie—” He hesitated. “You see, I don’t want you to think I’m criticizing the way you were brought up, but a lot of the things you Russian Jews are taught are based on nothing but superstition. The dietary laws, for instance.”
“But the Talmud—”
“The Talmud was compiled thousands of years ago by scholars who had no access to any of modern science. Don’t get me wrong. There are many wonderful, beautiful things in the Talmud—what it teaches about morality, righteousness, social responsibility, caring for the needy, about love—all that is fine and wonderful, and I agree with it. But the rest of it—all the ritual—is based on circumstances that haven’t existed since the Middle Ages. This is America, Essie, and it’s the twentieth century—a whole new century ahead of us, new discoveries every day. Maybe, back in the fifth century B.C., when there was no such thing as pasteurization, maybe it wasn’t safe to put milk and meat together in the same dish. Maybe the combination caused bacteria, or microbes, to grow, and this made people sick. But that can’t happen anymore, where everything’s tested, inspected, sterilized. I like what Rabbi Wise had to say on the subject—‘There is a law which stands higher than all dietary laws, and that is: Be no fanatic.’”
She decided not to tell him what her father had to say about Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise.
He laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m back on my lecture platform, aren’t I? But it’s just that I believe so strongly that these new Jews who have come to America, like your family, have got to adapt to this country, have got to join the mainstream of American life. They can’t come to a new, modern country and carry the traditions of the old country around with them on their backs like peddlers’ packs. If they do, they’ll never get anywhere. They’ll be stuck here forever, on the Lower East Side.”
“Someday I’d love to hear you arguing with my father.”
“I’d love to do that, I really would. But anyway, enough of that. Let’s enjoy our kosher lunch.”
Afterward—it was a bell-like clear spring day—they walked northward, hand in hand, and before they knew it they had reached Union Square. Union Square was a great oval with tall trees that were springing into bud, with acres of green grass, with an ornamental iron fence that ran around it, circled by a wide drive, and with three huge fountains splashing at the center. It was one of the city’s showpieces, and nearby were Tiffany’s, Stewart’s, Lord & Taylor. They window-shopped the closed, expensive stores.
“I suppose your mother’s store was closed yesterday, but is open today,” he said.
“Of course.”
“You see? That’s what I mean. This is America, and Americans love to shop on Saturdays. But the Orthodox Jews refuse to do any business on a Saturday. They won’t even lift a pencil or button a shirt. What’s the point of it? They gain nothing. Instead, they lose. What difference does it make—in all eternity—what day of the week a man celebrates his religion on? Isn’t religion supposed to come from the heart? The heart can celebrate what it believes whenever it wants to, can’t it? But there I go again. Lecturing again.”
“But I like it when you lecture,” she said. “You teach me things. This has been one of the nicest days I’ve spent in my whole life.”
They decided to take the streetcar back.
The following Friday, Essie hurried down the corridor to the auditorium where his lecture was to be, but when she got to the door the topic of his series, Living With Our City, had been changed to something called Putting Up Jellies and Preserves on the easel to announce the lecture. He was not there. He had sent her no word, and she had no idea—she had forgotten his Uptown address—of how to reach him. All at once she knew that she would never see him again. She leaned against the door, her temples pounding, and a strange visceral pain surged upward from her stomach and into her chest and throat. She thought she was going to be ill, that she was going to faint. And on top of all these violent feelings was a kind of blind rage—how could he do this to her? She leaned against the door jamb, thinking that this is the way it must feel to die—anger, nausea, loss, betrayal, impotence—all those things in one final, hopeless rush. Then she realized that the thing she had read about, the thing she and her friends had talked about and wondered about and giggled about had actually happened to her. She had fallen in love with him.
And the next week he was back.
“I missed you,” she said, suddenly shy with him.
“At the last minute, Uncle Sol wanted me to do some work at the store. It’s inventory time. But I didn’t know how to reach you.”
“And I didn’t know how to reach you, either.”
“Well, now we’ve reached each other,” he said.
They started down the street toward Mr. Levy’s.
“They keep trying to turn me into a businessman,” he said, “but it isn’t working.”
“What do you want to do, Jake,” she asked him, “if it isn’t business?”
“Oh, something of the sort of thing I’m doing now, I guess. Teaching. Social work. Some sort of public service work, helping people, helping the poor. I want to do something where I can help enlight
en people, bring them into the twentieth century. Yes, that’s it. I want to enlighten people—people like you, Essie.”
“‘Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.’”
“That’s it.” He took her hand, and that strange, violent, swelling, hurting, fainting feeling came back again. She took a deep breath and quickened her pace to keep up with him. Arched and ready, she felt her body poised for that leap with him.
At the kitchen table, Essie sat opposite Ekiel Matoff, where they were sipping tea in glasses. Ekiel Matoff was a landsman, from Volna, and he was even some sort of relative—one of Papa’s cousins had married one of Ekiel Matoff’s mother’s cousins. Ekiel was twenty-one, not tall, about Essie’s height, and not bad looking, but rather angular and pale, with wide, rather frightened-looking dark eyes which looked even blacker against his too-white face, framed with dark sidecurls and the black skullcap on his head. He looked starved for sunlight. Even Essie’s brother, Abe, who had learned to swim when a gang of rowdy Micks tossed him bodily into the East River, looked ruddier and healthier than this. Ekiel Matoff, Essie was certain, had never learned to swim.
Ekiel Matoff worked for his father, who was the proprietor of a shoe-repair shop on Orchard Street. Essie had passed it often, and had noticed the sign MATOFF SHOE COMPANY over a set of steps which led down to a dark basement, where Ekiel Matoff and his father had their business. In winter, she could imagine, snow blew down the steps and through the crack above the doorsill, into the shop. In Ekiel Matoff’s wintry pallor, Essie felt she could read, as in one of her books, the entire story of the Lower East Side: the cobbler’s son who himself would have a son who would be a cobbler, from one generation to the next of the family trade that had been theirs in Russia. The walls of the Matoff Shoe Company would be their prison, keeping the Matoff generations perpetually tilted toward the past. No light ever came into their little shop, and, because they had carried the Old World with them like a peddler’s pack, they would never see the Other Side, much less yearn for it. In Ekiel Matoff’s ashen, sunken face, his lips solemnly pursed as he lifted his tea glass, in his averted eyes, there was no thought of escape, no thought that the possibility of escape existed.
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