Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  Patricia thought so too. The explanation was no less riveting for sounding rehearsed, as if Eleanor had delivered it before. The Christ-killer epithet was familiar; Patricia had heard it before and had never thought much about it one way or the other. Yet look at how deftly, and convincingly, Eleanor had dismantled it.

  “Here’s another thing I’ll bet you don’t know. Jesus’s trial and crucifixion took place during the Jewish festival of Passover.”

  “What’s Passover?”

  “It comes around Easter and it’s an important holiday. No Jewish courts would have convened. Instead, the Romans tried Jesus. And the Romans killed him. The Jews just got blamed for it.”

  “So Jews weren’t powerful back then,” Margaux said. “Or rich.”

  “No,” said Eleanor. “They weren’t.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess things are different now.”

  “I think we’ve had enough of this subject,” Patricia said. The conversation was once again veering off into unpleasant territory. “More than enough, really.”

  “What do you mean?” Eleanor ignored Patricia and spoke directly to Margaux. It was as if she were addressing an equal, not a child.

  “My father says all Jews have lots of money,” Margaux said. “And that behind the scenes, they control just about everything.” She looked at Eleanor, clearly assessing the modest suit, its lapels a bit shiny from wear, and added, “But I don’t think you’re rich.”

  There was a long, excruciating silence. This child had gone completely beyond the pale and Patricia could hardly bring herself to look at their guest, let alone apologize for her daughter.

  Eleanor said nothing but sat still, hands splayed and pressed flat against the table. “Some Jews are rich. Some—in fact most—aren’t. But in any case, you shouldn’t be promoting those old stereotypes. It’s hurtful. And rude.”

  Margaux, who had been lolling back in her seat in a most irritating way, sat up straight. Her abrupt movement jostled the table, tipping over her glass. The pale green linen place mat could not wick up the spilled lemonade quickly enough, and it began to drip down the side of the table, onto the carpeting.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” Patricia, released from the acute mortification that seemed to render her speechless, finally spoke. “Henryka,” she called sharply in the direction of the kitchen. “Henryka, could you come in here right now please?”

  As Henryka cleaned up the mess, Patricia made a show of scolding Margaux. But secretly, she was grateful for the accident and the diversion it provided. Yes, Wynn sometimes said those kinds of things about Jews but never to anyone outside their circle. Never, for heaven’s sake, in front of them. Margaux would have to learn this; Eleanor Moskowitz had just given her the first lesson.

  After everything was cleaned up, Margaux reached for her walking stick so she could rise from the table. Patricia so badly wanted to help her but she knew the fury with which the gesture would be met, so she only watched as her child struggled until she finally gained purchase with the stick.

  “It was interesting to meet you,” Margaux said.

  “It was interesting to meet you too.” Eleanor stood. “I hope our conversation gives you something to think about.” Despite her swollen lip and bloodstained blouse, she seemed poised and in control.

  “Maybe it will.” Margaux sounded surprised by her own admission.

  At the door, Patricia tried to press a five-dollar bill into Eleanor’s hand but Eleanor refused to take it. “Please,” Patricia insisted. “So you can take a taxi home.”

  “Thank you, but I live only three blocks away,” her guest said.

  “I’d like to apologize for Margaux.” Patricia folded the bill in half, and then in half again, fingers smoothing the creases as she did. “Ever since her illness she’s become so rude. Unmanageable. I’m terribly sorry if anything she said hurt your feelings.”

  “She just said what a lot of people think. But wouldn’t necessarily say.” Despite the warmth of the day, her jacket was back on and buttoned, and her hat was firmly in place.

  “As I said, it’s the illness, it’s kind of unmoored her.”

  “Maybe if you’ve been through something like that you become—unmoored. And it takes time to find your way back,” Eleanor said. “Thank you for lunch.”

  Patricia waited until Declan appeared with the elevator, and watched as Eleanor stepped in and the doors closed behind her. It was only hours later that she noticed Eleanor’s umbrella, still sitting in the brass umbrella stand. She could leave it with the doorman; Eleanor would no doubt remember where she’d left it and come back for it on her own. Or Patricia could contact her about it. Eleanor had mentioned that she lived on Eighty-Fourth Street, just a few short blocks east; it would be easy enough to track the girl down. Did she want to bother? She thought of the way Eleanor had handled herself during lunch. Quietly confident. Unapologetic. Altogether, an intriguing little person, Jewish or not. Yes, Patricia decided. She did.

  Three

  Eleanor stood before the mirror in her bedroom, unsuccessfully trying to camouflage her wounded lip. Even though the swelling had subsided in the past three days, the tear in her skin had not fully healed and there was a dark scab that face powder and lipstick did not fully cover. In the mirror’s reflective surface, she saw her mother behind her in the doorway, holding a pink silk rose. “I thought this might look nice on your dress.” Irina did not wait to be asked into the room. “There’ll be a lot of other girls at that employment agency and you want to stand out.”

  “Pretty.” Eleanor took the rose. She was well aware of the importance of making a good impression, but she didn’t say this, and instead submitted to her mother’s fussing about the placement of the flower.

  “I don’t understand why you left a perfectly good job without another one lined up,” said Irina. Her English was excellent, with only a slight trace of her Russian roots; she had worked very hard to get it that way.

  “Are you going to bring that up again?” Eleanor felt she could not stand any more of her mother’s frequent and poorly disguised inquiries; she was worried enough about being unemployed. But the wounded look that instantly came over Irina’s face made Eleanor contrite. “No one else will have such a beautiful rose,” she said. “I’m glad you thought of it.”

  “I know,” Irina said, mollified. “The color is perfect.”

  She wanted, Eleanor knew, to have her talents acknowledged and admired—such admiration was compensation both for what she’d lost and what she’d never had. She wasn’t an educated woman and she wasn’t a wealthy one, but she was an expert hatmaker. She no longer blocked, sized, or dyed the hats in her shop, though she had done all those things in the Danbury factory where she’d worked before she met Eleanor’s father. “I was a good coner,” she had told Eleanor. “They paid by the piece and I could make a hat in fifteen seconds. Everyone wanted to be paired with me.” She sounded so proud.

  “Were these roses from last season’s hats?”

  Irina shook her head. “Next season. You’re getting what’s new, not what’s left over.”

  Eleanor unpinned the rose and set it carefully on her dresser. In addition to coning, Irina had been trained in sizing, which had required her to spend the day with her hands immersed in steaming water that sloshed all over her dress, her shoes, and the floor. But coning and sizing were preferable to dyeing, which left indigo, cinnabar, or charcoal stains that took months to fade. She’d also had a brief stint sewing in linings and attaching hatbands, until a freak accident caused a needle to become embedded in the skin of her wrist. There had been no money then for a doctor to take it out, and even years later, when she could have had it removed, Irina chose to leave it where it was, a silent, steely reminder of her factory days.

  At Forty-Second Street and Grand Central Terminal, Eleanor was disgorged from the subway car by the press of people behind her and made her way out onto Lexington Avenue toward the Chrysler Building. The bright, glittering spir
e was a fantastic oddity amid the buildings that surrounded it. Crescent-shaped semicircles of chrome-plated steel went up the surface, giving it the look of a stylized sunburst. Underneath, steel gargoyles of eagles’ heads stared down at the city below. Her father had brought her here in 1930, when the building first opened. Eleanor had told him the building looked like a freshly sharpened pencil; he’d laughed at that. Afterward, he had taken her to Schrafft’s, where they had sat on high, chrome stools and shared a hot fudge sundae. She missed her father, a mild, gentle man who sold men’s suiting fabric for a living; he seemed free of the incessant worry that animated her mother. Irina was the one who, in addition to making hats, cooked, cleaned, and made sure Eleanor got to school on time; her father was more a playmate, engaging her in rambling conversations about trivia he’d read in the newspaper or taking her for walks in Central Park.

  The lobby of the Chrysler Building, three stories high, was altogether dazzling, with its burnt sienna floor, red marble walls, and decorations of onyx, blue marble, and still more steel. Eleanor darted to get into the crowded elevator before the doors—adorned with inlaid wood and enormous golden lilies—closed. By the fifteenth floor, the crowd had thinned and she was the first one out.

  When she entered the employment office, every seat in the waiting room was filled with young women wearing summer suits or dresses, their handbags perched on their laps or set on the floor beside their feet. One read a paperback while she waited, another picked at the remnants of her nail polish, and a third was powdering her nose with the aid of a bright, gold-toned compact.

  Eleanor approached the receptionist. “I’m here to see about a job,” she said. “I have an appointment.”

  The woman gave her a cursory once-over before handing her a printed form attached to a clipboard. “Have a seat and fill this out,” she said. “Pencils are on the table.”

  “But there aren’t any seats,” Eleanor said.

  “There will be,” the woman said. Eleanor took a pencil, and retreated to the far wall to fill out the form. The room was warm, and now that two of the young women waiting had lit cigarettes, it was also smoky. As Eleanor completed the form, the door behind the receptionist opened and a woman walked out; another went in and Eleanor claimed her seat. She waited for more than twenty minutes, watching as women continued to walk in and out. Some looked elated, others dejected. There was a stack of Life magazines on the table and Eleanor reached for one. On the cover, Jane Greer looked up at the camera with a fey expression; one eye was partially obscured by a soft lock of wavy hair. Finally, Eleanor heard her name called. She gave the clipboard to the receptionist, and walked through the door just like she had seen the others do. Beyond the door was another, open doorway and a seated woman motioned for Eleanor to come in and sit down. On one side of her desk was an ashtray and on the other a small sign that read RITA BURNS. She was about forty, with faintly pitted skin, cranberry lipstick, and a tightly fitting white blouse whose buttons gaped as they strained to cover her ample chest. Eleanor was reminded of Ira’s beloved Miss Kligerman, and felt a new surge of loss.

  “You can give me the form,” said Miss Burns. “So you’re a college graduate.” She reached for a box of cigarettes from a drawer. “And a pretty fancy college at that.”

  “It was a very fine education,” Eleanor said. She didn’t like the insinuation, as if Vassar were all surface and no substance.

  “I’m sure it was.” Miss Burns extended the package of cigarettes toward Eleanor, who just shook her head.

  “It says here you studied Latin, along with English literature and typing.”

  “Not at the same time,” Eleanor said. Rita Burns rewarded her with a smile. “My mother thought typing was a good skill for a woman to have,” Eleanor continued. “She said it would help me get a job.”

  “She’s right,” said Miss Burns. “But it looks like you took a teaching job instead. You didn’t need to type there.” She inhaled on the cigarette and blew smoke rings in the air above her head.

  “No,” Eleanor said. “I didn’t.”

  “Brandon-Wythe. That’s pretty fancy too.” One of the smoke rings drifted toward Eleanor and Miss Burns waved it away. “Why did you leave?”

  “I wanted to go in a different direction. Professionally, that is.”

  “I see,” said Miss Burns, looking skeptical, and Eleanor felt a tiny prick of panic; it seemed that Miss Burns did not believe her. “You taught English literature and composition. So maybe you’d be interested in something in publishing? Books or magazines?”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” she said eagerly.

  “We might be able to place you in an entry-level position,” said Miss Burns. “A degree from a good school, a background in literature. Recommendations, I presume?” She looked at Eleanor, who nodded. Mrs. Holcombe’s letter was in her purse. “You’ll have to take a typing test, of course.”

  “I’m a good typist,” Eleanor said.

  “Good typists are always in demand. How about steno?”

  “Some,” admitted Eleanor. “But not my strong suit. I might be able to improve the typing though. If I did, what kind of salary could I expect?”

  Miss Burns looked her over very carefully; Eleanor did not like the scrutiny but did not shrink from it either. “That depends,” Miss Burns said finally.

  “On what?”

  “I might be able to get you thirty-eight, maybe even forty a week,” said Miss Burns. Eleanor sat up straighter. She had only earned thirty-five at Brandon-Wythe. “But there is one thing . . .” Eleanor waited. “The name Moskowitz is not going to open a lot of doors. At least not the ones you want.” She pulled on the cigarette again. “You should consider changing it; Moss would be good. Or Morse. That’s even less obvious.”

  Eleanor felt slapped. Should she agree? Argue? Leave?

  “Don’t take it the wrong way,” Miss Burns was saying. “I know what I’m talking about—”

  “I’m sure you do,” Eleanor interrupted, not caring if the woman detected the edge in her voice.

  “There’s no need to get so huffy,” Miss Burns said. “I’m only trying to help.” She let the ash accumulate at the cigarette’s tip as she spoke. “I’ve seen it before—bright girl like yourself, nice education, good references, presents herself well. And goes exactly nowhere. The position has been filled, they say. Or, You’re not quite what we’re looking for. But after an easy little name adjustment, presto, everything changes.”

  “Oh,” Eleanor said. “I see.” And she did. She didn’t like what Rita Burns was telling her, but she knew it to be true.

  “No, you don’t,” Miss Burns said. “Not yet. But you will.” She stood. “Are you ready for that typing test now?” She led Eleanor into a room that had been divided into a dozen cubicles. Each contained a desk holding a large black Remington Rand and a kitchen timer. Some, though not all, of the cubicles were occupied by young women clattering away on the keys. Eleanor sat down, placed her bag near her feet, and awaited further instructions.

  “The test is five minutes.” Miss Burns handed her three handwritten sheets. Two were office memos and the third was the first page of a quarterly report. “You’ll start when I set the timer, and stop when it rings.” Eleanor nodded. “I deduct a word from your final score for each error. Are you ready?”

  “Ready,” said Eleanor, lifting her hands over the keyboard.

  “Then go.” Miss Burns set the timer.

  Eleanor typed as quickly as she could, hitting the carriage return with smart, efficient smacks. When she had completed the test, the tips of her fingers were tingling, and she waited in Miss Burns’s office while the results were evaluated.

  “Seventy-seven words a minute,” said Miss Burns when she returned. “That’s excellent. And it’s all the more reason to consider the name change—”

  “You already mentioned it,” Eleanor said huffily.

  “Yes, but you still don’t get it.” Miss Burns got up and closed the door to her
office. “This isn’t something I say to many people. But I’m saying it to you. My name isn’t Rita Burns. It’s Rachel Bernstein.”

  So she was Jewish too. “I appreciate you telling me, but I’m not sure that changes anything for me. I don’t like the idea.”

  “Do you think I did?” Miss Burns paused. “Just consider it, all right? I’m doing you a favor, even if you can’t see it now.”

  On her way to the subway station, Eleanor thought about what it might mean to change her name. Hers was not an observant family, and the few rituals her parents had adhered to had fallen away after her father died. So it wasn’t deep belief or daily practice she was being asked to hide. Yet there were the occasional Yiddish words that slipped from her mother’s lips, the challah that she made once a year, on Rosh Hashanah; the yahrzeit candle that sat on the kitchen table on the anniversaries of the deaths of her grandparents and her father.

  And there was something else too, something that emerged only after the war. The news of the camps, the tattoos, the gas chambers, the multitude of tortures tailored and perfected for Jews. Adolf Hitler had systematically tried to annihilate her people. He hadn’t succeeded, but his murderous goal made her want to ally herself more closely with those who’d survived. Moskowitz was the shorthand for the connection she felt, the thing that announced who and what she was. By giving it up, she’d be giving up a part of herself too.

  Or would she? She wouldn’t change inside, no matter what she chose to call herself. A rose by any other name, and all that. And she needed to get a job, to leave Brandon-Wythe behind, and start moving in another direction. Eleanor Moss. Eleanor Morse. She said the names aloud, to see how they sounded.

  The uptown train came quickly and she was able to get a seat. The job at the Markham School had already been promised to someone else; it turned out the interview had been a courtesy only, and there was nothing else available. When she got off the train at Eighty-Sixth Street, Eleanor turned west rather than east toward her home. Yesterday she’d received a phone call from Patricia Bellamy telling her she’d left her umbrella at the Park Avenue apartment and that she could stop by at her convenience to pick it up from the doorman.