Beloved Enemy, The (House of Winslow Book #30)

by Gilbert, Morris

  She turned the corner and headed down River Street, along the murky East River. When she got to the building with a sign reading McCauley Mission, she saw that the food line was even longer than usual, snaking all the way down the block and around the corner. Kefira had heard that the mission fed the homeless men who roamed the streets of New York during these dark days of the Depression. She saw no women in line and wondered why. As she made her way down the other side of the street, she kept glancing at the men in line. They were bundled up in old torn and patched clothes, with dark hats pulled low over their heads and rough shoes or boots. They all looked more or less alike—some taller than others but all pale and thin and without hope. Some turned to look at her, but none called out. She wondered again why there were no women, but then the Christians, like the ones who ran the mission, were a mystery to her. She did not like any of them, for when she was only a little girl, she had been chased by boys who had called her “Christ killer.” She was often struck with a strong curiosity to look inside the mission, but she was afraid and kept her distance from the place.

  Ten minutes later, when she was almost at the shop where she worked, she passed a man standing in front of a wooden box. On it were four apples, three of them rather large and edible and one past its best day. The hand-painted sign blazoned the price of five cents. She started to pass by, for there were many such stands like this in New York City and, from what she had heard, all across the United States. Men were starving, trying to get enough money to stay alive. She wondered what a man would feel when he had a family he could not feed.

  Inadvertently she met the eyes of the old man at this apple stand. White hair stuck out of his hat, and his face was wrinkled, especially around the eyes. He had no teeth, and his mouth was puckered. His entire face was blue with the cold. He wore a pair of worn gloves with most of his fingertips exposed.

  Kefira looked into his eyes and wondered what had brought him here. He once had a mother who loved him, she thought, and a father. They dreamed great things for him, as all parents do for their babies. Perhaps they saw him as a successful lawyer or a doctor. Maybe a politician or a teacher. And now here he is old and wrung out and starving. Would they have brought him into this world if they had known it would come to this?

  Impulsively Kefira reached into her pocket and pulled out the few coins there. She handed the man a nickel. He smiled at her, more with his eyes than with his lips, and said, “Thank you, daughter.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  He handed her the apple, then said, “May the Lord God bless you a thousandfold.”

  The words surprised Kefira. She paused for a moment, then returned his smile. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I hope you have a good day.”

  The old man reached up and clasped his hands together for a moment, then nodded. The smile in his faded eyes was genuine. “Jesus will take care of me.”

  Kefira stared at him, and a thought rushed into her mind. Jesus isn’t doing such a good job for you. But instead she merely nodded and turned away. For some reason his words troubled her. She put them out of her mind but knew she would not forget the man. She seemed unable to forget anyone she met. It was almost startling how she could see a person only one time, then six months later see them again and remember them vividly, usually even remembering the circumstances under which she had first seen them.

  She came to the three-story smoke-stained building where she worked and entered, climbing up to the second floor. About fifteen women in all worked in the manufacturing shop of Adolph Kurtz. The German immigrant managed to stay in business during the Depression by charging less for his goods. He was able to do this because he paid lower wages for his workers, a considerable feat considering the already low pay scale in New York City. Many came here to work, but few could withstand the long hours, low pay, and grim setting.

  Kefira stepped over to some pegs on the wall, where she hung her coat, keeping her shawl in place about her shoulders in the chilly workroom. She was making her way to her work station when a large hand landed on her shoulder. Startled, she turned to see Adolph Kurtz, a big man with a broad, brutal face and a pair of small blue eyes. He had a thick German accent, and now he said, “You are early dis morning. Gut for you.” He did not remove his hand but squeezed her shoulder, and only when Kefira pulled away and nodded did he remove his hand. As she moved toward the bench where she worked, she could feel his eyes on her. He was a known womanizer, a fact she knew well from the other workers, especially the young, pretty ones. He had touched her before, seemingly by accident, but this was no accident. She seated herself at her workbench and at once began to work. She was paid by piecework, and her job was simply to make stacks of cloth, pin a pattern to them, and cut them to fit. She clipped these pieces together with a pin and laid them on a table where a putty-faced young boy came by and picked them up. He took them, she knew, to another place, a larger factory where the pieces were sewn together.

  She worked steadily, hardly ever lifting her eyes. There was little to lift one’s eyes for. The building was cold and cheerless and dirty. Working methodically, she could isolate her mind. While her hands were busy cutting out the pieces, her mind was going over something she loved to think about. Usually it was a book she had read, for she was an avid reader. Or she would think of the pleasant times she and Chaim had spent with their father, watching the ducks in the park on a sunny summer day. Those were the good days of her life, and now as her fingers flew rapidly, she reveled in the imagery.

  She worked steadily, speaking from time to time with one of the women who came by, and at lunchtime she joined Agatha Swartz and Millie Johnson, the two women in the shop she knew the best. They sat by a grimy window in the back where they could look outside, although there was nothing too exciting to see. But at least they could glimpse a patch of blue sky, and they enjoyed watching the pigeons huddled on the outer windowsill waiting for handouts. When Mr. Kurtz wasn’t watching, they’d push the window open slightly and slide a few crumbs out to the shivering birds.

  As Kefira shut the window she winced at the pain in her back, then realized her right hand ached as well. She flexed her hand and said, “You know I’ve heard of people who can work equally well with either hand. I sure wish I could do that.”

  “So do I,” Agatha agreed. “But I can’t keep my cuts straight with my other hand.” She was a thin, pale young woman who lacked any attractiveness. She’d had a succession of boyfriends, but none serious, it seemed. Millie Johnson had traces of beauty, though the weariness of the work had drained most of it from her. She was silent now, which was unusual for her. Normally she was the most talkative of the three. When they had eaten their sandwiches, Kefira brought out the apple. She fetched a knife and said, “I know how to cut an apple in two, but how do you cut it in three?”

  “Oh, don’t do that!” Millie said quickly.

  “It’s nice and fresh,” Kefira said, “and I’d like to share it with you. I bought it from a sad-looking old man on the street corner.” She cut the apple into three roughly shaped pieces and the women bit into them, quietly enjoying their portions. “I’m going to see my brother tomorrow,” Kefira said.

  “Aren’t you afraid to go in there with all those criminals?” Aggie exclaimed.

  “Of course not! I go to a visitors’ room, and they bring my brother in. And there’s always a guard standing close by.”

  “When will he get out?” Aggie asked.

  “He has another year and a half to go. That’ll be the happiest day of my life.”

  Millie had said nothing, and finally Kefira looked up and saw with surprise that tears were running down her face. Quickly she asked, “What’s wrong? Are you sick, Millie?”

  Millie shook her head, her thin lips pressed tightly together.

  “What is it, then?” Aggie demanded. “Has someone been mean to you?”

  “I … I’m going to have a baby,” Millie gasped, her body shaking, and more tears wetting her cheeks
. “My father will kill me,” she whispered. “He’ll kill me.”

  Kefira and Aggie exchanged glances. Both felt the young woman’s sadness, and it was Kefira who said, “No, he won’t kill you. He’ll understand.”

  “No, he won’t!” Millie sobbed. “He’ll throw me out of the house. I’ll be on the street. What will I do?” She looked up suddenly and whispered, “I’ve got to get rid of it. Do you know anyone—?”

  Kefira blinked with shock. An abortion was not part of her world. No Jewish girl would think of such a thing!

  Aggie, however, put her hand out and took Millie’s. “I know someone,” she said. “Do you have any money?”

  “A little.”

  “We’ll go there after work. You’ll probably miss a few days’ work. How far along are you?”

  “I don’t know. Not very.”

  Kefira listened, and her mind rebelled. She had heard of this many times, but never had it happened to a friend of hers. She longed to beg Millie not to do it, but what did she have to offer instead? She certainly could not take her in. Or perhaps she could. She was toying with the thought when the whistle suddenly blew, and Kurtz came yelling, “Back to verk! Back to verk!”

  ****

  Quitting time came at different times for different women. Needing money to buy medicine and being stronger than most, Kefira worked until she was left alone. She was almost startled when she looked up and saw that the sky was dark. She had been lost in her thoughts of a picnic she and her family had gone on once. Now, however, she put the last bundle of cut pieces on the table, looked at the stack, and went to find Kurtz. At the end of the day, he would come and count each woman’s work, carefully recording the numbers in a little book he carried with him at all times. Kefira watched him closely as he counted, knowing that he often shorted them. She leaned over to see what number he was writing in his book, but he snatched it away, turning his back to her as he finished recording her day’s work.

  Controlling the anger in her voice, she said, “Good night, Mr. Kurtz. Remember I won’t be working tomorrow.”

  She started to leave but found suddenly that he had blocked her way. He reached out, put his beefy arms around her, and ran his hands up and down her back. Panicked at being alone with the man, she broke away from his grasp and screamed at him with her eyes flashing, “Don’t do that, Mr. Kurtz!”

  Kurtz merely laughed. “Vhat a touch-me-not you are! I don’t mean anything by it.”

  Kefira knew very well that he did, but she simply said, “Good night,” and left, yanking her coat from the wall peg on her way out. She ran down the steps, her heart pounding, hoping that he was not following her. Exiting the building onto the street, she relaxed a little seeing that he was not behind her.

  She hated walking home after dark, and on the way she noted many homeless people. She knew it was dangerous for her to be alone, but there was no other way. She often had to work late to make enough money for her mother’s medical care. She walked as fast as she could, thankful for the streetlights and for the knowledge that at least she had a place to call home—a roof over her head, a little warmth, and a meager supply of food. It was better than nothing.

  When she reached the tenement she ran up the stairs, and when she stepped in, she saw that her mother was not up as usual. She quickly went to the bedroom door, opened it, and saw her mother lying in bed. Hurrying over, she put her hand on her head and found she was feverish. “Don’t you feel well?”

  “No, not very.”

  “I’ll fix you something to eat. You’ll feel better.”

  She prepared a meal and helped her mother to the table. Rachel tried valiantly to eat, but Kefira saw that it was no use. She talked as cheerfully as she could, but finally her mother whispered, “I think I need to lie down again, Kefira.”

  After she helped her mother back to bed, Kefira went next door and knocked. The door opened at once, and Mrs. Simmons, a heavy middle-aged woman, nodded. “Hello, Kefira.”

  “Mrs. Simmons, I need to be out of town tomorrow. Would you check on my mother please, at noon? I’ll try to be back by dark.”

  “Of course. Is she worse?”

  “She’s not very well. Thank you, Mrs. Simmons.”

  She went back to her apartment and began to heat some water. When the kettle was boiling, she took it to the bathroom down the hall and used it to scrub out the grime. She heated more water, poured it into the clean tub, and tempered it with cold water from the faucet. Making sure the door was locked, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shallow, but delightfully warm, water in the big tub. Enjoying the sensation, she leaned back and imagined herself luxuriating in a tub filled to the brim with warm water and fragrant soap bubbles. Her dream wasn’t to last long, however. The old man from the other side of the hall was pounding on the door, demanding his turn, so she hastily rinsed with cold water, threw her clothes back on, and returned to her apartment.

  Next she tackled the kitchen, cleaning away as much of the coal-smoke grime as she could from the floor and countertops and stove. Every greasy spot attracted the coal dust in the air like a magnet, but, Kefira reasoned, at least it was easier to tell where the grease was. After this last chore of the day, she dropped into bed, completely exhausted. She dreaded her visit tomorrow to Sing Sing, but she had to see Chaim.

  She fell asleep almost at once, and instantly, it seemed, she was having another one of her dreams. This time nothing was familiar. She was in a bleak land with no grass, and the sky overhead looked hard enough to scratch a match on. The barren land stretched off into the distance seemingly forever, and there were strange buildings she did not understand. Dark-skinned people wore odd clothing and spoke in a language she had never heard. Everything was different—even the trees and plants—and she did not like it. She woke up with a start and thought about the dream. She whispered, “I liked the one I had last night better,” then closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sing Sing

  As the train pulled up to the station platform, it emitted a huge gust of hissing steam, the suddenness of it frightening Kefira. She had ridden on a train before, but only three times, and still its massive power alarmed her. Glancing down she saw a boy, no more than six years old, who was grinning and waving his arms and shouting at the engine. I guess if he’s not afraid of it, I don’t have to be, she told herself.

  The huge wheels revolved more slowly, and then there was a series of miniature crashes as the cars slammed against the engine, each one echoing down the track as it was struck from behind. Almost at once a conductor in a black uniform stepped out of one of the cars, placed a moveable step onto the platform, and turned to reach his hand to a woman who came hesitantly down. As the passengers disembarked, Kefira stood back, waiting until the way was clear. After the last one was off, she joined the other passengers who were surging forward to board. The conductor, a tall, gentlemanly sort, offered his hand and she took it, keeping the box she carried securely under her left arm.

  “Be twenty minutes before we leave, miss.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mounting the steps, she turned and walked into the car, which was already half full with passengers. She took a seat by the window and watched as the milling crowd moved like ants. Soon the car was three-fourths full, and in a booming voice, the conductor bellowed, “All aboard!” Kefira watched as he swung on board easily, and the train jerked forward roughly, then began to move more smoothly out of the station. Despite her anxiety about the huge machines, it fascinated Kefira to be on a moving train. It appeared to her that the train was standing still and the people and the buildings outside were moving by.

  They passed smoke-stained factories and unpainted buildings, gaunt and gray under a bleak winter sun. As the train rumbled through the inner city and into the industrial section, the bleakness of the scenery so struck Kefira that she looked away from the window.

  She saw a newspaper on the seat beside her and picked it up
and began to read it. Most of the political news items meant little to her, but she did find an interesting story on the inside pages about an elephant stampede in London that had injured fifty people. What in the world would elephants be doing in London? she wondered. They should be in Africa. With a giggle, she tried to picture elephants stampeding down Fifth Avenue in New York, then felt guilty for laughing when so many people had been hurt.

  She turned the page and read with shock that eight thousand people had been killed by rebels in Shanghai. The story had a strong effect on her, and moved by the plight of these poor people, she laid the newspaper down on her lap and stared out the window. They were in open country now with farms and trees, which fascinated her, yet she couldn’t stop thinking about the terrible tragedy that had happened all the way around the world. Like many children she’d had the idea when she was very young that if you dug through the earth and reached China, people there would be standing on their heads. Now as she pondered the immensity of eight thousand people dying, her thoughts sobered. Every one of those people had a life that was precious to them. I’ll never know any of their names or what they looked like, but all of them had a childhood with the joy and sorrow that comes with that time of life. Many of them fell in love and married, had children of their own. They all had their dreams and longings, and now they’re all dead. Yet it doesn’t mean much to me. I can’t think of eight thousand people! I have to see one before I can really be involved in hurting for them.

  She shook off this thought and read the story that appeared on the front page. President Hoover had said in a speech that the nation must prevent hunger and cold for those in real trouble. She wondered wryly how he could prevent cold. I suppose, she thought, he means to buy clothes for them. Hoover had named a committee to draw up plans for combatting unemployment, a terrible problem across the entire country. His proposal had to do with a joint venture of public and private industries collaborating to spur industry. Hoover was very positive about the whole thing. Kefira could not help but think about the toothless old man from whom she had bought the apple and wondered if the president’s plan would do anything for him. She did not think so, and finally she read the rest of the paper. Her mind moved ahead to the meeting with her brother, and she both longed for it and dreaded it. She loved Chaim dearly, but visiting him in prison was such a depressing experience she could hardly stand it.