Florence. Florence, who paraded her new status, knowing her job was safe. Florence, who, I was sure, would wait patiently for Mr. Dover to propose, who clearly didn’t read the Times, which last weekend had announced his engagement, a spring wedding in Connecticut. A few weeks ago, I would have flaunted the paper, shown up Florence as just another girl who got herself into a bad place. But now, oddly, I was sympathetic, even a little sad for her. Although as bad as Florence had it, it wasn’t nearly as low as where I was.
I needed to make one more try. One last-ditch effort. When the office cleared out for lunch, I picked up the phone. “Operator, please get me the offices of The New Yorker.”
The phone rang long enough that I feared no one would answer, but finally a woman picked up. “The New Yorker. Finest magazine that apparently cannot afford a receptionist. How may I direct your call?”
Momentarily confused, I said nothing.
“Hello. I haven’t got all day. Is someone on the line?”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I said. “Is Willie Klein available?”
“May I tell him who is calling?”
“Dottie Krasinsky.”
I heard a muffle on the other end and then the woman’s voice calling out, “Klein! There’s a dame on the phone for you.”
After a moment, a rustle and then a masculine voice. “William Klein here.”
“Hello, Willie. It’s Dottie.”
Another rustle and voices in the background. “Dottie!” Willie was clearly startled. “What a surprise. I thought— Well, I’m enchanted to hear from you.”
“I’d like to meet up. We need to talk.”
Willie hesitated, and finally said, “I would love to see you. Did you mean—”
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
“Talk.” Was that disappointment in his voice?
Panicked he would refuse, I added, “I hurried out hastily on Monday, and I feel we left things . . . unsaid.”
He chuckled. “I would be delighted to talk, but I don’t have an abundance of time. I need to prepare for my trip. Do you want to meet after work on Friday?”
Another one of his silly tests. He knew I would be rushing home for Shabbes on Friday night. Besides, Friday night was too late. Trying to put a purr in my voice, I said, “What about this evening?”
Silence on his end. Clearly he was wondering what I was up to.
“Hmm,” he said, and I could hear tapping, as if he was rapping a pencil against the receiver. “Sure, I could see you tonight.” I could hear people chatting in the background. “I’m putting together a piece on the Fernand Léger exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. Meet me there and we’ll see where the night takes us.”
Sickened by his assumptions, I merely played along. “That’s perfect. What time?”
“Five fifteen.”
“Till then,” I said, trying to force a seductive lilt to my voice.
• • •
AT exactly five fifteen, I waited nervously in front of the Museum of Modern Art. I wasn’t acquainted with this museum, which was only about five years old. When I was a child, Tateh had often brought me to the Metropolitan Museum, and I loved losing myself in the sumptuous building and the stories in the paintings.
But the town house that contained the Museum of Modern Art didn’t have the gravity that an institute of art should maintain. Instead of a grand staircase, four simple steps led to a regular door. As a museum, it was as out of place as I.
Midtown bustled as well-dressed folk streamed past, men hurrying home, women with a click-clack of heels dancing past me on their way to meet friends or beaus. These were the people for whom Ma made clothing when I was younger. I could still picture Ma hunched over the garments, the needle flying rhythmically. In those days, I longed to help, begged Ma to teach me. But Ma refused. “You are too good for this,” Ma told me, many times over. “You will do great things. You will never need to sew for other people.”
Glancing at my watch, I saw Willie was ten minutes late. It took every ounce of willpower to keep from pacing the sidewalk; it wouldn’t do to look anxious when he arrived. I tried for nonchalant, although my body longed to give in to fatigue, to plop indecorously on the front stoop like a rag doll tossed aside, tired and worn and discarded by all who used her. Where was Willie? “Fashionably late” was all the rage with the swell set, but I fretted that he’d changed his mind.
At half past five, Willie casually strolled up the sidewalk. “There you are,” he said, as if I were the one behind schedule. If he’d been Abe, I would have given him a piece of my mind. But of course, he was not Abe. Willie kissed me on the cheek. “Shall we go in?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice to hide my irritation, and I let Willie take me by the arm. As we walked in, he said, “I think you’ll be impressed by the exhibit. Are you familiar with Léger’s work?”
The lack of grandeur in the front hall disappointed me, and I debated momentarily if I should fake knowledge before admitting, “No. He’s new to me.” Willie led me up the stairs to the second floor.
“His work is probably unlike any you’ve seen before. His aim is to create ‘democratic art’ for and about the working class, with bold color and, as he calls it, ‘mechanical’ form.”
We reached a closed door at the top of the stairs. As Willie went to open it, a guard spotted us and said, “I’m sorry, sir. That exhibition isn’t open to the public yet.”
Willie tipped his hat and said with a tone that was both authoritative and colluding, “My dear friend Mrs. Crane would have called ahead granting me permission for a preview.”
The guard stood a little straighter. “Mr. Klein, I presume? Of course.” He walked over with a set of keys and unlocked the door, holding it open for us. “The museum closes in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you, my good man,” Willie said, turning back to the door.
“Who is Mrs. Crane?” I whispered to him.
“Mrs. Crane of the paper company? Her husband was a business associate of Father. She’s a member of the museum’s board of trustees. Come, let’s go in.”
As we walked into the room, I gasped. Willie was right. This art was like nothing I had seen before.
Willie watched me carefully as I meandered from painting to painting. The colors were muted—gray and yellow and black—yet dynamic. I was drawn first to a painting of three women lounging in a living room. They were nude, but not like the nudes I had seen at the Metropolitan. Their bodies were plush and rounded yet strangely disjointed. From behind me, Willie spoke softly, intimately, in my ear. “What do you think?”
His voice made me shiver in a delicious way and for a moment, I was simply a girl out with an incredibly handsome boy at an exclusive exhibition, and I was in heaven. His hand slipped onto my waist, and I panicked he would note the extra flesh, but it also felt good, so I let it sit. We were alone, so it felt safe. “It’s remarkable,” I said, “how they are so feminine and oddly beautiful, yet completely masculine.”
When Willie was silent, I turned to look at him and saw him appraising me. “Yes,” he said, and I was pretty sure I had passed another test.
The closeness suddenly made me uncomfortable, reminding me of how I’d gotten into this situation in the first place. Where Abe was warm and sturdy, Willie reminded me of my times in the back alleys with Lefty—all sizzle.
To gain a little space, I walked to the next painting, forcing his hand to drop, and asked, “So what is your story about?”
Willie straightened, adjusting his hat. Was it possible I flustered him as much as he flustered me? “Are you aware that Hitler has denounced Expressionist art? And that he’s decreed there’s no room for modernist experimentation in the Third Reich?”
I shook my head, spellbound by a painting that completely dominated one wall. The signs for many of the paintings weren’t up yet, but thi
s one had a tiny plaque identifying it as La ville. A city gone mad, it was even denser than the lower East Side. Lines overlaid lines; billboards were sliced in half; scaffolding angled in the distance.
“Art must be ‘pure,’ according to Hitler,” Willie continued. “His artistic tastes are insensate. My piece explores what is so ‘ignominious’ in these paintings.”
I looked up, surprised. “But you don’t find them ignominious, do you? I mean, look at this one! Both claustrophobic and expansive. So contradictory. Yet mesmerizing.”
“Yes, exactly,” he said, moving behind me and dropping his hand onto my shoulder. “I like the way you put that. I might borrow your words.”
The physicality of his body pressing against mine sent shocks of electricity through me—and reminded me why I was there. I had forgotten my nerves in the pleasure of the art and his company. I wondered if Abe could ever be enticed into coming to the Museum of Modern Art. In my heart, I knew he would find the work too shocking.
Abe. Willie. These paintings, which suddenly made me feel confined in the lines and the colors. I became warm, breathless. I trembled. Willie could feel it.
“Are you all right, Dottie?” he asked. His voice held genuine concern.
Barely nodding, I asked, “Tell me again. When do you leave?” My voice quivered, and I cursed myself for my fragility.
“Two weeks from tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you worried about heading into Europe?” I kept my eyes on La ville, though I could feel his gaze boring into me.
“Worried?” Willie chuckled. “Worry is for mothers and weaklings.”
“I would think your family would worry sick about you,” I said.
“My mother frets about hangnails.” Willie took me by the waist and drew me to a bench at the side of the room. “Of course she’s worried. But my father understands—or at least pretends to, which is good enough. At some point my parents will expect me to settle down, start a family, but this is my time. And it’s not so easy for a parent to meddle when you’re thousands of miles away.”
He sat me down and really looked at me. My smile was frozen, but tears taunted the corners of my eyes. I blinked rapidly, willing my expression to change.
Willie’s eyes narrowed a touch as he tilted his head. “Dottie?” His gaze was fierce, and all I wanted to do was cower in the corner. “Why did you want to see me?”
My mien didn’t change. I stared at him, blinking, blinking, blinking. I forbade the tears to fall, but like with everything else, I was powerless, and they dripped inelegantly. Dismayed at my lack of grace, I pulled my hand from his and tried to cover my face. This was not how I’d planned to present myself.
“Dottie, what’s wrong?” His voice held both pity and disgust. I could imagine what he was thinking: He was looking for a carefree romp, and instead I was crying on his doorstep.
I couldn’t look at Willie, instead staring at the walls.
For a while I didn’t speak, trying to keep my terror under control.
After what seemed an infinitely long time, Willie spoke again. “Dottie, why did you want to see me?” But his tone was resigned, as if he knew exactly why I was sitting there, with him, in the Museum of Modern Art, trying not to sob like a schoolgirl.
“That night. At Camp Eden.”
Willie tensed. “It was lovely.”
With an uneven breath, I steeled my nerves so as to look Willie in the eyes. “It’s still with us.”
“Still with . . . ah,” Willie said. “You are sure?”
I nodded.
He paused, trying to formulate the words. “But you have a boyfriend. . . .”
I shook my head. “It’s not his.” My voice was ragged around the edges. “I even tried . . . I wanted Abe to think it was . . . but . . .”
With raised eyebrows, Willie said, “You mean you two have never?”
“Never.” My voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Damn puritan.”
I longed to defend Abe, to protest this slur, but unfortunately, Willie was right. Damn puritan. Ruining my life.
Gently, Willie took my hand back in his. Speaking in an untroubled voice, he said, “I’m leaving for Europe.”
I nodded.
“I—” He hesitated. “I know people.”
Jerking my head up, I stared at him, dumbfounded. Not him, too!
Gently stroking the back of my hand with his fingers, he spoke soothingly, as if appeasing a small child. “It’s not pleasant, I know. But there is a way to take care of this. I know a doctor. I can pay for it. The recovery isn’t too bad; you should be able to return to work in a day or so. Or if you need to take extra time off, I can help with your wages for that week.”
Willie’s words settled over me. Dear God. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Taken women to doctors.”
His silence was all the answer I needed. He continued to stroke my hand. What kind of man was he?
“I—no,” I said, trying to be firm, trying to muster a shred of dignity.
Willie took my chin in his hand and gently turned my face so I was looking directly at him. “I know this is difficult. But I am leaving for Europe on the twelfth. You need to take control of this situation. You need to fix it.”
Letting go of my face, he opened the left side of his jacket, reached into his pocket, and retrieved a gold monogrammed money clip that held a wad of bills. He counted out all that was there. “This is forty-five dollars. It won’t be enough, but I can get you more. I can arrange things for you, if you’d like.”
I stared at the money in revulsion. “I am not a working girl.”
“Of course you aren’t. You’re a good girl in a bad situation, and I want to help you out of it.”
“A bad situation that you put me in.”
“Now, now,” he said, a chill entering his voice, “I don’t remember you discouraging me.”
Mortified, I turned away.
The door opened, and the guard poked his head through. “Mr. Klein, you have five more minutes until the museum closes.”
“Thank you, sir,” Willie said. Turning back to me, he said, “You need to take care of this. I don’t see a choice.” From under my arm, he removed my clutch and snapped it open. It looked so delicate in his hands. He took the money and slid it inside, as if he were a husband giving his wife her weekly allowance.
I wanted to take the money and throw it at him. I wanted to yell at him to take responsibility. I wanted to lunge into his arms and have him hold me tight and say everything would be all right.
“I can make the arrangements,” he said again.
Words wouldn’t come, so instead, I took the coward’s way out, grabbing my purse, running through the room, pushing open the door, and scurrying down the stairs out onto the street. Come after me, I prayed. Come find me. Do the right thing, Willie.
But as I stood on the sidewalk, tear-streaked and out of breath, I was alone. Completely alone.
Rose
Wednesday, August 28
DOTTIE’S seat at the dinner table was empty.
“I have a meeting tonight,” Ben said, shoveling calves’ liver into his mouth. “Mechanics’ union.”
Ben was as bad as the boys, all of them racing to eat, as if there wouldn’t be enough. There was always enough. “Slow down. All of you. That food took me hours to prepare and it disappears in seconds.”
With a full mouth, Alfie said, “But it’s so good.”
I removed the serving plate from the table before Alfie could grab more. “Save some for your brother.”
“Where is Izzy?” Ben asked, spearing another bite with his fork. “And Dottie has been out quite a bit.”
“Izzy is working double shifts,” I said. “And Dottie? Who knows where that girl goes?”
“Probably with Abe,” Ben said. He
grabbed a hunk of bread to mop up the mushroom sauce on his plate.
Probably not, I thought. But I was concerned she wasn’t home yet. Tomorrow was her appointment. I wanted her to get a good night’s sleep.
At close to eight, as I was finishing the washing up, the front door banged open.
“Don’t slam the door,” I said. I assumed it was the boys, returning for more pillows to make a cozy nest to sleep on the roof. In these brutal days, the roof was the only relief from the torrid heat, though little good it did. “You need what?” I called out.
When I didn’t get a response, I wiped my hands on my apron, and walked out to see Dottie sitting on the couch, hat still on, purse in hand, looking straight ahead but not seeing anything at all.
I sat next to her, taking her hand in mine. For moments we sat in silence. Finally, I said, “You are frightened.”
Dottie didn’t respond. She sat rigidly, staring forward. I knew she feared that if she spoke, the tears would start and never stop. I knew this because I felt it. That if I didn’t remain strong, I would shatter into a million pieces.
I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “You will survive, my bubelah. You will go on to be an accountant, get married—” Although to whom? I couldn’t tell her about my conversation with Mrs. Rabinowitz, couldn’t bear to break her heart any more than it was already broken. “—have many, many children, if you so desire.”
She swallowed loudly. In a whisper of a voice, she said, “I do. I do desire.”
I nodded. “You will have them.”
She turned her face to me and I saw big wet drops brimming in her eyes. “What if I can’t?” she said. “What if they mess up? I’ve heard stories. I’ve heard of women . . .” And with that, she buried her head in my shoulder and sobbed.
“Hush, my bubelah, hush. God will guide you. He won’t abandon you. You will have children. You will be up to your ears in diapers and feedings. When the time is right.”
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