I swallowed down a sob. “If you’re trying to make me sweet on him, you’re doing a lousy job,” I said. “Why would I want to marry a man like that?”
“Do you have a choice?”
I looked at my Sun Rose nails. In the low light of the apartment, they’d lost their luster, looking a sickly brown. “I have a plan.”
Zelda’s eyebrows shot up. “Nu?”
Wiping my nose again, I said, “Abe and I go to Camp Eden this weekend. I seduce him.”
Zelda cocked her head. “Oh, sweetie. Do you really think that will work?”
I nodded my head vigorously. “It has to.”
“Of course,” she said. “Of course it will work.” But she seemed doubtful.
“Far a bisel libe, batsolt men miten gantsen leben.” For a little love, you pay all your life. “Let me splash some water on my face,” I said. “I need to get home to help with dinner.” I made my way to the small washroom. The cold-water tap sprayed out quickly, and I patted my face till the swelling of my eyes subsided. If I walked home slowly, I would look presentable. Tired, but presentable.
I came out and Zelda wrapped me in her arms. I let myself sink into her, comforted by the smell of flour and cleaner and baby. It was the smell of home. She hugged me silently. When we broke apart, I looked at the couch and moaned loudly. “The hat. I forgot about that hat!”
“Shhh,” Zelda said. “I’ll return it to the store for you tomorrow.”
Grateful that at least one problem was solved, I said, “Thank you.”
Leaving the apartment, I braced myself for another evening at home. I had to hide this from my mother for another week. After the weekend, the problem would disappear. Abe would be the father. And we would finally marry.
Rose
Monday, August 19
DINNER was in the oven, the kitchen floor sparkled, and I sat at the table with my tea and Forverts. Which meant, of course, a knock on the door. “Oy vey iz mir,” I muttered, heading to the door. “Is it too much to ask, dear Lord, to be left in peace with my paper?”
Opening the door, I looked down to greet my visitor. “Ah, Max,” I said, seeing Deborah’s young son. “Eugene is out playing. I’m sure you’ll find him on the street.”
“I alreadys saw Eugene,” Max said in the broken English of a child not yet in grammar school. “My ma told me to tell that the Kogens is bein’ kicked out today.”
With a sigh, I said, “I’ll be right there.”
Without another word to me, Max ran off.
The evictions had seemed to be decreasing, but the past year was bad, and once again more of the landsmanshaft were having difficulty making rent. With the men at work, at least those who had jobs, it fell to us women to keep families in their homes, to stand guard against the marshals tossing furniture and family onto the street. We blocked the doorways, and if the marshals still made it past, then one by one we lugged the pieces of furniture back up again. It was costly for the landlords to hire the marshals over and over, and eventually they would simply give up, and the families could stay in their apartments.
Picking up my hat, I headed down the stairs, the going slow. Stairs were the hardest for me when my leg acted up, and not for the first time, I cursed that we lived on the fourth floor. I wasn’t sure I could manage hauling furniture today, but I needed to speak with Perle. When I’d gone to visit her after breakfast, her neighbor said Perle was at Zelda’s, seeing her grandchild.
Grandchild. How unfair that Perle was able to enjoy a grandchild while I was starting all over again.
I was barely out on the stoop when I heard my name. “Roseala!” It was an endearment only Ben would typically use, but Perle and I often slipped into youthful sentiments with each other.
I turned and saw her hurrying toward me, out of breath.
“You heard?” Perle asked.
“You think I’m out here for my health?” I said.
We fell into step easily.
“Toibe told me you were looking for me this morning.”
“That woman is such a busybody.” Although it was unreasonable, I was annoyed that Perle was so difficult to get alone.
“So nu?”
“Oh, Perle.”
“What?” she said. The alarm came through clearly. “Is someone—God forbid—is someone sick? Is something wrong at the garage?”
I shook my head and looked up at the sky, trying to gain strength to speak the words aloud. Talking about it with Ben was one thing; he was excited for the new baby. Admitting it to Perle meant admitting how I truly felt. With Perle, there were no secrets.
Our steps were in sync with each other; that’s how well we fit. Perle clutched my arm. “Rose, tell me. You’re frightening me.”
I stopped and turned to face her. All around us was the tumult of every day, women hustling to and fro with marketing baskets, peddlers pushing their carts, children darting every which way. But standing, looking at Perle, I sometimes felt as if we were still young girls back home on the quiet dirt streets of Bratsyana. “Perle,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”
The widening of Perle’s eyes displayed her surprise, even as she tried to keep her voice even. “That’s . . . That’s . . .” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “B’sha’ah tova,” she finally said, giving me the traditional expression of congratulations on a pregnancy.
I snorted. “That’s the best you can do?” I turned and began walking again, and Perle stood for a moment before catching up.
“How can this be?” Perle asked.
“You need a lesson on how babies are made?” I asked.
“Rose Krasinsky, don’t you get fresh with me. You forget, I know exactly how old you are.”
“Apparently, I’m not old enough.”
“Forty-two and with child. Oy vey.” With Perle I didn’t need to explain; she simply understood.
“Tell me about it.”
“So, nu? What are you going to do?”
I looked at her, surprised. “Do? There’s nothing to do. I’m going to have a baby.”
“But there are . . . ways.” Perle’s voice dropped, speaking things that should be left unspoken.
“Perle!” I said.
“Look at your walk. Will you even make it to the Kogens’?”
“Of course I’ll make it.” But the truth was, sweat pooled at the waist of my dress and my leg ached with misery.
“There are ways to not have a baby,” Perle said.
I shook my head. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. For starters, Ben is pleased. It would devastate him if I lost this baby. Second . . .” I hesitated. “Second, and perhaps most important, I don’t have that kind of money.”
“So you have considered it.”
“No. Why would I consider it? I’m just saying that if it had been a thought, it isn’t something I can afford.”
Perle chuckled. “You make no sense.”
“I make perfect sense.” I indignantly stood taller and straightened my hat. Perle and I, we were so modern, refusing to cover our hair when we were married as our mothers did. I didn’t even know the true shade of my mama’s hair, as it was always hidden by a scarf during the week and a wig on Shabbes. But was I so modern I could consider what Perle was suggesting—what in truth may have crossed my own mind?
“So you’re ready to go through all those years again?”
I shook my head. “I thought I was done with all that.”
We walked in silence for a block, each in our own thoughts. “Does this pain you?” I asked. My voice was gentle.
“Not anymore.” Perle’s strength, I knew, was a front. I was the one who had sat with her, year after year, when her courses never stopped coming, and when they finally did, I was the one to help clean her up after a terrible, late miscarriage. I was the one toting Zelda around with my kids when Perle
was too sad to get out of bed. When Perle turned thirty, she declared enough, and she threw herself completely into her political work. But I saw the torment in her eyes each time I rounded with child. This time seemed no different.
“I have more important work to do,” Perle said. She peered deeply into my eyes. “Don’t you?”
Once again I was startled to see an older woman looking at me. When I was with Perle, it was as if we were the same children we’d been back home, and I expected to see a girl in dark braids with smooth skin and twinkling eyes. But Perle’s hair was dusted with gray, and lines snaked from her eyes and the corners of her mouth. When had Perle turned into this woman? When had I? “I suppose this part of my life, having babies, isn’t meant to be over. It isn’t yet my time.”
“A woman’s duty is to populate the world, bring more Jewish souls into existence,” Perle said, a statement that must have been painful for her to utter.
“I have fulfilled the commandment,” I said bitterly. “‘Be fruitful and multiply.’ I produced a son and a daughter long ago.” Guilt swept over me as soon as the words were voiced. For Perle, this commandment would forever remain undone.
“Who are we to know God’s plan?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, and I knew she spoke for both of us.
“It’s not like being a mother is so difficult here in America,” I said. “I’ll manage. Even at thirty-nine.”
Perle smiled at my lie. But it was true that life in America was significantly easier. In all the twenty-one years I lived at home, never did I see my mother rest. By the time I woke each morning, Mama was dressed and scurrying, having already milked the cow and stoked the fire. She would hurry me to take the cow to pasture while she baked the day’s bread, and when I returned, I’d watch the younger children, who wanted only to be under Mama’s feet, while my sister Eta worked at the sewing machine and Tateh ate a leisurely breakfast. Even on Shabbes, Mama didn’t rest, praying as her body swayed to and fro, in her only opportunity to be at shul. Never had I witnessed Mama sleeping or even sitting down with her feet up. Yet, here in America, I moan if I miss my tea and paper. Unheard-of luxuries to Mama.
As soon as we could hold a broom, Eta and I were expected to do everything our mother did, cooking, cleaning, milking the cow, and hauling water, but we didn’t have her patience. Tateh constantly scolded us for not being like Mama and threatened us with the stick when we talked back or bucked against chores. “A woman should be like the moon,” Tateh would yell in his booming voice. “She should shine at night and disappear during the day.” Mama would always calm him with a whispered “Shah, shah,” while pushing us out of the house to avoid being beaten. Tateh blamed our stubbornness for his inability to find us husbands, when Eta and I knew all along it was a matter of not having the dowry.
When I went to bed, Mama would stay up late, daintily sewing in the corner of the house the dresses she made for women in town, earning money in order for Heshie and the younger boys—and, when she could afford it, me and Eta—to attend school.
Did Mama want all those children? Eleven of us underfoot. And then there were the lost pregnancies. Were those a relief or a heartache? Did she rejoice or despair as she swelled with each new child? Did she ever long for a moment to herself, to contemplate her world, imagine something more?
“This baby,” I said to Perle, “will honor my mother, of blessed memory.”
“So would your work,” Perle said, as she came to a stop.
Perle was right. Mama would have taken great pride in knowing I was learned and laboring to help others. All those years ago, Tateh fumed and threatened to beat me after I went to the demonstration. But Mama coddled me, placing herbs and bandages on my leg, keeping Tateh away from me until it healed. She was the one who found the money to send me to America. “If the world will be redeemed, it will be through the merit of children,” she used to say to me. I wanted to be worthy of my mother’s dreams.
We were across the street from the Kogens’ home. Marshals were already pulling furniture from the apartment.
Giving me a sad smile, Perle said, “You can’t stay here.”
“Whyever not?”
“It’s not safe for you.”
“Shah!” I said. “I’m as fit as a horse.”
“No,” Perle said firmly. “It is too dangerous if the marshals become unruly. Besides, you are going to carry furniture up those stairs? With that leg? And with what you could do to the child? No, you cannot stay.” Perle shook her head again. “I will come by to report when it’s all over.”
So I stood on the corner and watched Perle cross the street, to do things that were surely more significant than bringing yet another child into this troubled world.
Dottie
Tuesday, August 20
“THERE’S a letter for you,” Ma said as I sat at the breakfast table. She tossed me an envelope with a raised eyebrow. “Do you care to tell me why Molly Klein is suddenly corresponding with you? This is the third letter from her this summer.”
Avoiding eye contact, I snatched the familiar envelope while making a show of chewing to stall for time. Not that I actually ate any egg—though my stomach was feeling better at the moment, I was determined not to put on any extra weight—but I was pretending while moving the food around on my plate. Ma stood with hand on hip, looking down her nose at me. She was already dressed and fed, and had started the baking. The woman never rested. Finally I responded with the first lie I could think of: “Mrs. Klein is looking for young women to join a charitable committee, to bring food to Hooverville.”
“She is?” Ma’s head tilted to the side. “That woman never had a charitable thought in her life and suddenly she is heading a breadline?”
“Who knows?” I said, with an exaggerated shrug, looking down at my plate.
Ma stared a moment longer, as if trying to suss out my lie. “Wouldn’t hurt you to do some relief work,” she finally said, returning to the kitchen to pull out food for the boys, who were slowly making their way out of bed.
“Who has time?” I said. “Especially if classes are going to start soon.” It was a poor tack to take, reminding Ma of the classes that would be impossible for me to attend, but I needed to dig myself out of that hole.
Luckily, Ma let it go, and shouted into the next room, “Izzy, if you don’t get out of bed this instant, you are going to lose that job. Do you know how many people are desperate for work?”
“Coming, Ma!” came a groggy voice from the boys’ bedroom.
“Aw, be quiet. Can’t the rest of us sleep who don’t gotta be at work?” Alfie called.
“Why, you little pisher,” Ma said, as she headed into their room to drag the three of them from their beds.
Taking advantage of the commotion, I slipped the note into my clutch and headed to work.
• • •
NO opportunity presented itself that morning to read the letter. I ran to the streetcar, which was so packed I stood sardined between a man in a crisp suit who reeked of Aqua Velva and another who smelled vaguely of whiskey. The mixture of odors made my head reel. Once in the office, I took my seat at the head of the room, and dove into work. I had to open all the incoming mail, allocate the work each girl would do, then double-check everything they did all while continuing my bookkeeping duties.
The girls filed in and took their seats before the eight a.m. bell. Florence dallied as she set up her desk for the day, and I shot her a menacing glance. I needed to instill in them the same respect for me that they’d shown Mr. Herbert.
When the clock ticked to eight fifteen and Florence still hadn’t picked up her pen, I stood. Straightening my dress—Ma’s girdle felt a touch more snug today—I walked to stand beside Florence.
“Do you need assistance getting started?” I asked, using the primmest schoolteacher voice I could muster.
“I’m almost ready,” Florence said
. Her smile could chill the icebox.
“When the bell rings at eight, you should be prepared to begin the workday.”
By now all the other girls were looking at us expectantly. Self-consciously, I tugged at the belt of my dress.
“What’s the matter, Dottie?” Florence asked. “Your dress a little tight today?”
“My dress is none of your concern,” I said.
“I’ve noticed,” Florence continued, ignoring my response, “you’re a bit fuller all over. Wouldn’t you say, Irene?”
Irene, who had studiously watched us, quickly looked down, picked up a pen, and ran a finger over a column in her ledger. “I noticed nothing,” she said, without raising her eye.
“Funny,” Florence said. “I have.”
“That’s enough, Florence.”
“Is that what you said to Abe? Or rather, what you didn’t say?” She raised an eyebrow at me.
My instinct was to slug her. It wouldn’t have been the first time I hauled off and thumped someone—I’d grown up in a house full of brothers, after all. But I was head bookkeeper. A young woman. So instead I balled my fists at my side, took a deep breath, and said, “Florence, you better get to work. There are plenty of women out there who would love your job.” I heard Ma’s voice coming from my lips, echoing what she’d yelled at Izzy that very morning.
Florence’s smile widened. “Whatever you say, Dottie.”
I gave her my own wicked grin to hide the lump in my throat. “That’s ‘Miss Krasinsky’ to you, Florence.”
As I returned to my desk, I could hear her gasp.
• • •
I threw myself into my work as never before, burying myself in numbers. Those beautiful, wonderful, predictable numbers. I swam among the integers, basking in the digits. Like a machine, I made my way through not one but three stacks of invoices. The more I tabulated, the better I felt, until a calmness settled over me.
Modern Girls Page 11