Modern Girls

by Jennifer S. Brown

  When I came to, I was on the bench in the lobby. “Now, now, miss,” the doorman said. “You gave me quite a fright there.” The doorman’s accent was rich and Irish, and I wished I could listen to it all day and make the rest of the world go away.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” I said, beginning to rise, but the doorman grasped me.

  “Now, you sure you are okay to stand up, miss?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said, although I wasn’t. My legs were shaky and I blinked to make things appear in focus.

  “Is there something I can help you with, miss?”

  Before I could allow the fear to overwhelm me again, before I could allow myself to change my mind, I said, “I’m here to see Mrs. Klein.”

  With a raised eyebrow, the doorman asked, “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Kindly tell her Dorothea Krasinsky is here to see her about a very important matter.”

  The doorman gave me a little nod and walked to the telephone. My light-headed feeling gave everything a strange glow, amplifying colors. I noticed the way the doorman’s red uniform contrasted with the pale marble lobby, the way the buttons on his golden epaulets reflected the light.

  I could hear him saying my name. “Dorothea Krasinsky. One moment, while I check.”

  The doorman appeared disconcerted as he turned to me. “I’m sorry—could you tell me to what this is in reference?”

  “Please tell her I’m Dottie. Rose and Ben Krasinsky’s daughter,” I said. “Zelda’s friend. I have an urgent matter to discuss.”

  The doorman repeated my words into the phone, then nodded and hung up the receiver. “Mrs. Klein would be happy to see you. This way.”

  He rang for the elevator, which soon arrived at the lobby. The door opened and a colored man sat inside, wearing a similar, but less fancy, version of the doorman’s outfit.

  “Please take Miss Krasinsky to Mrs. Klein’s apartment.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the man perched on a squat wooden stool. I stepped in and the man closed the door and pulled a lever. With a jolt, the elevator rose. As it ascended, I thought about what I would say to Mrs. Klein.

  I didn’t have long before we bounced to a stop. “Watch your step, miss,” the elevator man said, as he opened the door. The elevator was an inch or two shy of the floor. Only a mild step up and yet I still stumbled, catching myself before tumbling to the ground. “Careful, miss. Apartment 6A, miss,” the man said.

  The hallway was broad, with a pair of doors at the end of the floor, one marked 6A and the other 6B. The walls leading to the Kleins’ apartment held giant mirrors on both sides, so I saw myself reflected infinitely: a scared young woman slouching beneath the weight of her fear. I forced my shoulders straight. A lush carpet lay on the floor beneath me. And this is just the hall! I thought. I knew Willie’s father was successful, but I’d had no idea the family was so well-to-do. I should turn around right now, I once again decided. I would leave and never come back.

  I was halfway to the elevator, when the door to 6A opened, and a voice called out, “Miss Krasinsky? Mrs. Klein will see you in the parlor.”

  With a deep breath, I turned back. The servant was a young girl, also with an Irish accent. She wore a crisp uniform of black and white, her hair tucked in a bun. She held open the door, and with an inelegant gulp, I entered.

  The apartment was even more magnificent than I’d imagined. A large oil painting graced the wall opposite the front door, an almost life-sized portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Klein, with Willie as a young boy.

  “This way, miss,” the housemaid said, and she sashayed to the next room.

  As I followed her into the parlor, I took in shelves filled with elegant pieces of porcelain. A table with a lovely vase, white with a blue floral design. An overstuffed couch. Mrs. Klein sat in a chair by the window with a small piece of cloth in her hand and an embroidery needle. It had been a few years since I’d last seen her, but her hair was still an unnatural light brown, without a hint of gray, and it was perfectly coiffed, not a stray hair flying out, unlike Ma’s hair with its frizzy halo around her bun. Mrs. Klein’s face was lightly made up, with a faint sheen of powder dusting her nose in an elegant, Vogue-like way. The room seemed mammoth, with high ceilings and broad windows that overlooked Park Avenue. The apartment even smelled different. It took me a moment to place it; there were no odors of liver frying or chicken roasting or fish stewing. The only scent was the vague fragrance of lilies.

  “Dottie,” Mrs. Klein said, not bothering to stand, forced cheer on her face. “What a surprise to see you. Or do you go by Dorothea now?”

  “Dottie is fine.”

  “Please,” Mrs. Klein said, stretching her arm toward the sofa. “Have a seat.” Her voice was thin, unwelcoming beneath the pleasantries. Mrs. Klein nodded toward her maid, who left the room.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said, as I sank into the plump cushion covered in a lavender toile.

  “Were you looking for William? He’s already left for work.” She shook her head. “You’ve heard of his cockamamy plan? Going to Europe to be a writer? His father and I are appalled.”

  “Willie mentioned it to me.” I could hear the catch in my voice and I tried to hide it. “It sounds like quite the adventure.”

  Looking into Mrs. Klein’s face, I realized she heard the same catch, and the older woman’s eyes narrowed. With a slight scowl on her face, her resemblance to her son was unmistakable.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Mrs. Klein . . .” I fumbled for the right words.

  Her face was now plastered in suspicion. “Yes?”

  With a deep breath, I fixed my eyes on the country landscape hung over the fireplace. The Impressionist painting looked familiar. Could it be an actual Monet? Pretending to be lost in the fields, I closed my eyes, and said, “Mrs. Klein, I am in a situation.” At the lack of response, I plowed on. “I am with child.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath, then, “And what does this have to do with me?”

  Opening my eyes, I forced myself to look directly at Mrs. Klein and hold her gaze. Now was not the time for weakness. I was not going to cower. I needed to prove myself Mrs. Klein’s equal. I asked, “Do you truly need me to explain myself?”

  Mrs. Klein broke eye contact first, and I silently heaved relief.

  “No,” she said, returning to her embroidery, “I’m afraid you don’t. You are not the first girl to appear on my doorstep.”

  Horror must have been reflected in my face.

  With a sardonic chuckle, Mrs. Klein said, “I am sorry to disillusion you, my dear. Did you think you were the only one?”

  I thought of Willie and his knowledge of doctors. I shook my head.

  “Did he not offer to take care of it? I am well aware my son has his . . . connections.”

  I nodded. No tears threatened this time. Perhaps I was cried out. I was grateful for small mercies. The hitch in my chest, though, threatened to engulf me, to swallow me whole. I peeked up slightly and noticed Mrs. Klein evaluating me.

  “I take it that you do not wish to have the situation taken care of?” she said briskly.

  Not trusting my voice, I shook my head.

  “I’m curious, dear. You are not typical of the . . . of the girls with whom William has had difficulty. I thought you were such a good girl, Dottie. How did this occur?”

  Toying with the belt on my dress, I said quietly, “At Camp Eden. Last May.”

  “At Camp Eden!” Mrs. Klein said. “At Camp Eden,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I always said sending him there was utter nonsense, but my father-in-law insisted, said William needed a connection to Judaism, to Zionism. Now look at what it’s done. Given him this ridiculous idea that he needs to ‘save the Jews’ and . . . this.”

  Daring to glance up, I saw Mrs. Klein gnawing on her lower lip,
her lipstick chipping off and lodging on her front tooth. She stared out the window. Her eyes held a faraway gaze that was unreadable. “That greenhorn mentality. Camp Eden was supposed to instill strong values in William. And look what he does.”

  The minutes of silence stretched until finally she said, “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised by William, but I will say I’m surprised at you. I would have thought you came from better stock.”

  I straightened my spine. With the lipstick on her tooth, Mrs. Klein seemed less formidable. “I come from excellent ‘stock,’ I’ll thank you,” I said. “I didn’t intend for this to happen. It was a onetime occurrence, an evening that clearly got out of hand. Despite what you may think, this is not what I would have chosen for myself. I was planning to marry another and have a family with him, but alas, that is not to be anymore. My intended will not have me in this condition. Willie has a responsibility.”

  With a raised eyebrow, Mrs. Klein gave the tiniest hint of a smile. “Have a streak of spunk, do you?”

  Staring Mrs. Klein dead in the eye, I said, “Willie told me I need to take control of the situation. Which is precisely what I am doing.”

  Mrs. Klein looked out the window. She thought for a few moments before asking, “What does your mother say?”

  When I didn’t respond, Mrs. Klein glanced back. “I presume your mother is aware of the situation?”

  I nodded.

  “And?”

  I tried to keep the firmness in my voice. “She thinks I should make the problem go away.”

  Mrs. Klein nodded. “Your mother has always been a sage woman.” She finally set her embroidery down on the carved and polished table next to her. I could see the beginnings of cross-stitched birds. “I take it from your appearance today that you have chosen not to take your mother’s advice.”

  I nodded even though I was still unsure. If this went poorly, I’d hop a subway downtown and meet Ma as planned. But Mrs. Klein didn’t need to know that.

  “If you did as your mother wished, it would be as if this problem had never happened. No one need ever know.”

  “I would know.”

  Once again, Mrs. Klein surveyed me. Her eyes first took in my shoes, a new fashion with a strappy front piece that revealed slices of my foot. They’d seemed so stylish when I bought them at Mays in the beginning of the summer, but now they felt clunky and cheap. I watched as her eyes moved to my legs, covered in the stockings that seemed to rip at the mere thought of a snag, then to my dress. At least that was smart and stylish, thanks to Ma’s handiwork. I was never more grateful for how she could make a store-bought dress look like the ones in the magazines.

  I willed my hands to be still in my lap. “I’ll be frank,” Mrs. Klein said. “You are not who I intended for my son. But . . .” She pursed her lips in thought and I sat in silence, fearful of saying something foolish.

  “Perhaps,” she said at last, “we can be of assistance to each other. Ah, but where are my manners?” She rang a bell and in a moment the parlor door opened and the maid entered.

  “Yes, ma’am?” she asked, eyeing me with open curiosity.

  “Please bring in some tea. And cake.”

  “Right away, ma’am,” the girl said, closing the door behind her.

  “You must keep up your strength, mustn’t you?” Mrs. Klein said, her eyes twinkling maliciously. “So, we seem to have a bit of trouble here.”

  “I do not mean to cause trouble.”

  “You may not mean to, but it most certainly appears to have followed you here.” Her smile gave me a chill.

  The maid returned with a tray holding a tea service and a cake, which she set on the table before the sofa. The water must be kept to boil in the kitchen at all times for it to have come out so quickly.

  “You can leave those, Fiona. I’ll pour.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Fiona said, clearly preferring to eavesdrop.

  Mrs. Klein noticed. “Be sure to clean the upstairs well, Fiona,” she said. “I noticed dust gathering beneath the beds.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I was a little surprised she didn’t curtsy before leaving the room. But then I thought about Mrs. Klein’s words: upstairs. Imagine an entire second floor for one family. It was hard to fathom.

  My reverie was interrupted when Mrs. Klein placed a slice of coffee cake on an elegantly flowered plate and handed it to me with a slim silver fork before pouring the tea into matching cups. They were dainty china teacups, not the plain glasses we drank from at home. “Eat, eat,” she said, gesturing toward the plate in my hand. The words relaxed me ever so slightly. Mrs. Klein may have been an uptown woman, but she was still a Jewish mother at heart, and I knew she’d want what was best for her son.

  I realized I was ravenous, having skipped dinner last night and breakfast that morning. I took a bite of the cake. It was soft and airy, not like the dense loaves Ma baked. I felt guilty, as if I were betraying Ma, but as lovely as her cakes were, they suddenly seemed old-fashioned and Old World, with a heaviness this American cake didn’t hold. I longed to devour the slice but compelled myself to take slow, small bites.

  Mrs. Klein watched me and shook her head slightly, a hint of a smile forming. Leaning over, she cut a second, larger slice, which she placed on my plate. “I remember. I was always starving. Eat more.”

  Not wanting to appear greedy, I continued to cut delicate pieces, but I was thankful for the small kindness.

  With a cup of tea held gracefully, Mrs. Klein took a sip. “As unlikely as it may seem, perhaps we could make this work to both our advantages. It’s safe to say, I believe, that you do not wish a mamzer.” I flinched at the Yiddish word for bastard, but nodded. “And I”—Mrs. Klein placed her cup upon the table and leaned forward, as if to take me into her confidence—“do not want my foolish son returning to the land we fought so hard to leave.”

  For the first time, I looked hopefully at Mrs. Klein. I forced myself to put down my plate, the cake unfinished, although I longed to lick up every crumb.

  “Let me be clear,” Mrs. Klein said. “You are not my choice. But you are sturdy and Jewish and come from a decent family, and, to call it as it is, you are white.”

  I gasped. I thought the rumors about Willie were merely idle chatter. But if even Mrs. Klein heard them . . .

  Mrs. Klein shook her head. “Let’s not be naive, dear. In the lot of them, you are certainly the best who has come along. You shall do.” With growing determination, Mrs. Klein repeated, “Yes, indeed. You shall do just fine. And William, for once and for all, will have learned his lesson.”

  “I am to be his lesson?”

  “There are worse things you could be.” Mrs. Klein stood and paced as she gnawed on her lip again. “He plans on leaving soon for Europe, so there is not a moment to lose. You will return tonight. Five p.m. sharp.”

  “Tonight?” I repeated in confusion.

  Mrs. Klein smiled broadly at me, but it held no warmth. “We must solve this little problem of yours quickly, of course. Now, run along. I’ve a lot to do.”

  “Shouldn’t Willie be consulted? This is his situation as well.”

  “William was consulted last May at Camp Eden. You may show yourself out.” And with that, Mrs. Klein left the room, bellowing to her maid, “Fiona! We have our hands full.”

  As I let myself out the front door, Mrs. Klein called back to me, “Five o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  Rose

  AT twelve thirty exactly, I arrived at the address. Had I really just been here on Monday? Years had passed in this one week.

  The avenue was busy, with hawkers and carts and children playing in the streets and women bustling about, doing their shopping, pausing to gossip with friends. On one stoop, boys were shooting craps, yelling loudly as they rolled the dice, arguing over who owed what to whom. The scene was exactly like the one on my street, but here it had an omi
nous overtone, as I knew what else lived on this street. In my own neighborhood, Alfie often played craps, betting the pennies he earned selling firewood. What a ridiculous waste of time and money, but no use telling Alfie that. Izzy was the same. I used to forbid Izzy from gambling, imploring him to study, but he only found new ways to evade me. Yet he still kept up with his schooling, so who was I to complain? If only Alfie had half the brains of his older brother, I wouldn’t have to worry so much about him. Strange how my kinder were so utterly my kinder, yet also these foreign creatures. My children were . . . What was the word I was looking for? It struck me. Americans. My children were Americans.

  How Yussel would have loved these stoop games and stickball. I couldn’t shake my image of Yussel as the twelve-year-old I left behind, the boy who woke early for shul, spent his mornings learning, and then his afternoons apprenticed to the bridle maker. When Yussel had sent me a picture of his family, I could barely see the boy beneath the man. I tried to swallow the knot forming in my throat. It would do no good to think of Yussel now. I had more immediate concerns. My hand instinctively went to my belly.

  My head was beginning to throb like my leg, so even though I would never do something so undignified on my own street, slowly I lowered myself to sit on the front stoop of the building next door to . . . the place. My eye took in the street, the rows of tenement buildings so different from my home. Back in Russia, our little house was cramped, and even though it was tidy, dirt from the floor covered every surface, no matter how my mama tried to chase it out. Mama and Tateh slept in one room, all us girls in another, and the boys in the main room. But it was all ours, with windows on every wall. And when you stepped outside, there was sunlight. I had a hard time getting used to the darkness of America, the apartments so small and suffocating, with hardly a place to take a breath. Even in the streets, the buildings fenced you in, closed you off, kept themselves between you and the sky.