Mama was sweet and mild, not like the loud, outspoken girls to whom she gave birth, girls who were forever getting themselves in trouble with their mouths. Eta and I were mischief-makers, not so different from Alfie. I remember when the teacher would smack Yussel’s hand with a stick when he read too slowly. How it infuriated us. One afternoon, Eta and I made a pretense of visiting the teacher’s house to inquire of his wife, who was cooking Shabbes dinner, if she needed anything sewn. Eta distracted her while I slipped a small field mouse into the closed soup tureen. As we snuck away, we could hear her shrieks.
I blessed Mama’s memory for making sure we received an education, such as it was in that little room with so few desks I had to sit in the corner on the floor, not that I minded. When the money was short and there wasn’t enough for me to take a lesson, she made me practice my letters anyway, tracing them over and over in the dirt. I was so proud of those letters, and I wanted Mama to learn them, too, to show her how they went together to make magic. “It’s too late for me,” she used to say, “but you have all the time in the world.” Even as Tateh grumbled that it was a waste of time to educate girls, that the money could be better spent, Mama always did whatever she could to save a few kopecks to pay the teacher.
I blessed her memory again for stopping Tateh before he beat me to death after I attended that rally. “Do you want her to end up in Siberia?” she asked, as loudly as I’d ever heard her speak.
Before I left, I was a confusion of emotions. I was like the whip Tateh used on the horse, flying free in the air one moment, coming down hard on the hide the next. At night, I clung to Eta, as if trying to fix in my mind the curves of her body, the feel of her hair, the scent of her skin. As much as I wanted to go, I wondered if I should stay with my family. Wait for Shmuel. I feared desperately I wouldn’t see my family again.
The day before I left, I was watching Mama sew for me, hiding things in my skirts, ensuring my clothes would last, and my dread washed through me. “Mama, how can I leave you?” My voice cracked.
Mama put down the cloth and needle and opened her arms to me. “What is there for you here? You want to live the same life I live?”
“What’s wrong with your life?” I asked, even though I knew my answer to her question was no.
“You are destined for greater things than what Bratsyana can give you. Go to America.”
Choking back sobs, I said, “I don’t see how I can leave you.”
With a sly smile, Mama said, “Leave me? Or leave the hope that Shmuel will return?”
I was shocked. “What do you mean?”
She laughed. “I saw how you used to sneak looks at him in the market and at shul.”
I exhaled, relieved she didn’t know the extent of the sins Shmuel and I had committed.
“Shmuel is gone. He may never come back. You need to forget him. In America, you will be someone new. Here, your father would never have permitted a love match.” With a gentle squeeze of my hand, she said quietly, “But your father will never know what you do in America. It’s a fresh start. In America, you can have your politics and find yourself a good man. You will raise a family. Start anew.” With Mama’s words in my head, I pushed Shmuel from my mind, and allowed myself to fall in love with Ben.
Where was Dottie? I looked at my wristwatch. The minutes dragged on, and I held the timepiece up to my ears every few moments to make sure it was ticking.
I’d told her twelve thirty; I was sure of that. I didn’t want to be late, didn’t want to miss the appointment. And I longed to speak to her, to make her realize I understood. I wanted to assure her that one brokenhearted moment wasn’t going to ruin her future. And what a future Dottie had. She’d become educated, be an accountant. She would marry. Have a houseful of children when the time came and plenty of money with which to take care of them. Maybe they’d even move out of the neighborhood, to Washington Heights, or a nice apartment building in the Bronx.
On the street, a young woman trotted down the sidewalk, one hand holding her clutch in front of her, the other keeping her hat from flying off her head. Finally! I stood to greet her. But as the woman came closer, I realized it wasn’t her. This woman was squatter, with lighter hair, and I couldn’t imagine how I’d mistaken her for Dottie. Impatiently, I willed Dottie to come along faster. What on earth was taking her so long? Sometimes the elevated would stop for no apparent reason; today, of course, that would happen, the day it was so important for the elevated to not stop for no apparent reason. Dottie must be stuck, panicking, waiting for the train to begin moving again.
I sat back on the stoop and continued my wait, yet in my heart I was coming to believe it was futile.
I looked around at the stores, the fashions, the children playing: After all these years in the Goldene Medina, I still marveled at what went on around me. For so long, I’d had nothing and it felt like enough; poor Dottie had everything, but it was never adequate.
My children roll their eyes at my stories of the Old World, of how we had a wood fireplace for cooking and oil lamps for the evenings. They see nothing miraculous about electric lights.
I had never seen a city until I got to Hamburg, where I would sail to America. I thought it was so busy, so big. But that was before I saw New York. Closing my eyes, I could still picture Hamburg, that huge ship with the roaring smokestack, the tiny windows, and the masses of people. A ship that was bigger than my entire village.
While waiting to board, I saw the most curious thing—a young boy had a long yellow object. He broke open the top, and pulled down the sides, revealing a white-fleshed fruit, which he ate in large bites. When he was done, he threw the yellow part on the ground, and moved with the crowd toward the ship. Looking around to make sure no one saw me, I bent over and picked it up. It felt strange: On one side it was thick and smooth, almost like the leather strap on Tateh’s horse, and on the other it was mushy and stringy. I held it to my nose, but all I sniffed was a bitter scent. Tentatively, I bit into it, but the taste was sour. My face puckered as I looked up, only to be embarrassed at the amusement of a nearby man. “There is a reason he threw that part away,” the man said. His Yiddish was tinged with the accent of a country that wasn’t Russia, and I couldn’t place it. The mere fact someone spoke my language but in such a different way startled me. “The inside is the good part. It’s like an orange. You eat the inside and toss the peel.” My face must have looked blank, because he laughed and said, “You’ve had an orange, haven’t you?”
“It’s a color, no?” I asked.
The man chuckled. “It’s a color, yes. And a fruit.”
Back in the present, a church bell rang one o’clock and startled me out of my memories. No Dottie.
The thought that Dottie wasn’t coming took firmer root in my mind. Yet it didn’t elicit the anger I would have expected. Dottie wasn’t coming. I craned my neck to look both ways down the street, and with certainty, I understood. Dottie wasn’t coming. I said it aloud. “Dottie isn’t coming.”
The idea settled on me in a comfortable way. I had known, hadn’t I, that Dottie wouldn’t be coming? Dottie wasn’t meant to give up her baby; I was. Dottie wanted her baby; I didn’t want mine. That’s what my mama would have done: sacrificed herself for her child. Mama would understand that I needed to give up a potential child to save my existing one.
If I were to have the procedure, then, yes, we would go away, have Dottie’s baby in secret, and I would still be saddled with her child, but it would be only temporary, wouldn’t it? We would settle this ridiculous Kraus nonsense once and for all, and Dottie and Abe would marry—in their own sweet time, when they had enough money. A pretense could be given—my leg worsening; an illness could be fabricated. The baby could be given to Dottie for care. I would only need to sacrifice, what? A year? Maybe two? I could have my freedom. But more important, I could take care of my baby, my Dottala. That was what my mama would have done. I
t was what I would do.
I heaved myself to a standing position, and made my way down the stairs to the basement apartment. It was one o’clock. It was time.
Dottie
FROM the Kleins’, I rushed back downtown, heading straight for Zelda’s.
When I arrived at her house, I was breathless, but full of hope. The baby. I was going to keep my baby. Nothing else mattered, because my baby would be mine. I wanted to jump and sing and dance and scream my joy out to the world.
“What do you think Mrs. Klein is planning?” I asked Zelda in a rush.
“Why, your wedding, of course,” Zelda said, and she laughed happily.
I didn’t relish forcing Willie into marriage, but it wasn’t the worst thing. Hopefully he’d see that, too. True, I wasn’t the best cook, but I’d learn. And who knew? Perhaps, with the kind of money Willie’s family had, I’d be able to hire a nanny. And then with the free time, maybe accounting school wasn’t a fantasy.
I was getting ahead of myself. But could I be blamed? In one morning, my life had turned completely around.
“Oh, Dottie,” Zelda said. She was kneading bread dough on the counter and flour flew everywhere. Zelda might not have been a great cook, but she was certainly enthusiastic. “We’ll be related. Cousins!”
I picked up Shirley with a grin. “You’re going to have a playmate.” Bringing the baby close to me, I inhaled deeply. “Zelda, we’ll shop together and the kids will play together and we’ll—”
Zelda interrupted with a laugh. “Hardly. You’ll be living the swell life uptown, while I swelter away in this pit.” She opened her arms broadly, indicating the cramped space and the foul smells, raising a cloud of flour as she did so.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” But I wondered if there was a shred of truth in what she said. When one of our neighbors did make it out—by marriage, because someone’s father made good—she rarely came back. The one left behind felt out of place uptown and the one who made it out, well, she generally didn’t want reminders of where she’d come from. But I’d be different. I’d never leave my loved ones behind.
“Do you think we’ll have an actual wedding?” I asked. “With bridesmaids and all?”
“Maybe,” Zelda said, folding the dough over itself and pushing down.
“You’ll be my bridesmaid.”
Wiping her sweaty forehead with her arm, Zelda left a streak of white powder across her forehead. “I’m no maid.”
“Okay, my bride’s matron. I don’t care. You and Edith and Linda. Although—I don’t know. Think it will be a sore point with Linda?”
“You like to dream big, don’t you? You’ll never get Edith in a dress.” Zelda punched the yeasty mess in front of her. “Say, what will you wear? I suppose white is out of the question.”
I grimaced. “I’m sure Mrs. Klein will have some ideas.”
“That woman is going to run you ragged,” Zelda said. “Aunt Molly is a forceful woman.” She looked at me as Shirley’s hands squeezed my nose. “You want me to come with you tonight? Stand up for you a bit?”
Never had I loved Zelda as much as I did in that moment. “Would you?”
“Let me first get the bread made. Stanley won’t be home till after nine anyway. I’ll leave Shirley with Ma.”
Ma. That was the one thought that sent my stomach into loop-de-loops. I pictured Ma, waiting at the abortionist, furious I didn’t show up.
“Not your ma,” I said.
Zelda looked at me quizzically before she realized what I was thinking. Perle could keep nothing from Ma, especially concerning me. Her ma would go running immediately to mine. I wasn’t ready for that. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll leave her with my mother-in-law. Will you let your mother know where you’re going?”
With a glance at my watch, I realized that at that very moment she’d be waiting for me. I shook my head. “She’s not home right now. I’ll tell her after Mrs. Klein has made our plans. No need to worry her needlessly now.” This plan would not be to her liking. Giving up college, marrying a man of whom she thought little. The money wasted on the unused procedure. So many things she wouldn’t like. I didn’t want to face her anger, her disappointment. I would make everything work out, and then present it to her with pride. I was a grown woman. I was taking care of things.
Rose
I made my way down the steps, back to the basement door, and rapped, tentatively. The door swung open and I stepped inside.
“You’re late,” the girl said.
“Just a few minutes,” I said. “Did . . . did anyone else come?”
Her eyes narrowed at me. “Who are you expecting?”
Clearly she didn’t remember I had made the appointment for someone else. “No one,” I said.
Standing there in that little room, I felt strong and confident for the first time in weeks. I was always the one meant to be here, not Dottie. Images danced in my head: Mama, illiterate and alone, for all the good Tateh was, practically a slave in her own house, caring for a thoughtless husband and chained to the children who kept arriving year after year; Dottie and the life she was meant to lead, which was now a different life, but a good one yet; Joey, whom I longed for every day, his sweet smile, his soft breath; Eugene, who deserved so much more in a mother than the tired, unhappy woman I was becoming. I thought of Ben, and how hard he worked at the garage, such long hours to give us all such a good life. I thought of the stench of the boat ride from the Old Country and all the sweet bananas I’d eaten since then, and how now I knew an orange was not just a color but the perfect way to brighten a dull gray day, with the delicious tang on the tip of the tongue as the juice slid down my throat. I thought of my glass of tea and the Daily Forverts. I thought of Perle and the work we had yet to do.
“Ready, I am,” I said in English.
“Do you have the rest of the money?”
I opened my clutch and pulled out ten dollars. I handed it to her, and when I looked down to shut my purse, I was startled by the girl’s attempt to pull a cloth across my face.
Jumping away, I said, “What are you doing?”
“Blindfolding you. That way you can’t tell where you went.”
Dread swept through me. “It is not done here?”
“Course not. We’d have the cops breathin’ down our necks. I put this on you—then I take you out the back door. A car is waiting to take you to where you need to go.”
“A car!” In all my years in America, I had yet to ride in a car. A streetcar, yes, but not an honest-to-goodness car. Ben drove cars at the garage, fetching them for customers, moving them around so he could work. He’d taken all the kids for rides in them at various points, but I always refused. Such silliness. Now I was ashamed to admit the idea of riding in a car terrified me as much as what I faced at the end of the ride.
The girl moved again to place the cloth around my head and I submitted. It was made of rough cotton, and it itched my nose. But when I went to scratch, the girl snapped, “Don’t take it off,” so I pulled my hand down, lest she get the wrong idea.
The girl took me by the elbow and walked me to what had to be the back of the office. She smelled of jasmine, and it saddened me when I recognized it as the same scent Dottie wore.
As I lost my footing on a step, the girl said, “Watch where you walk. More stairs ahead.” Her tone hinted she enjoyed watching me stumble.
The sounds in the alley were muted. I could still hear noises from the street, but they seemed to come from a distance farther than the other side of the building.
I heard the creak of a door opening, and the girl, none too gently, pushed me into the backseat of the car. I bumped my head on the doorjamb and cried, “Ow.”
“Shhh!”
I slid onto the seat.
“Lie down,” the girl said. “We don’t want you seen back there.” The door slammed shut.
As best I could, I leaned over into a horizontal position, my feet awkwardly draped to the floor while my head bumped against the other door. The fabric was pitted and smelled of cigarettes. Reflexively, I put my hand out as the car jolted forward, and I met the back of the front seat, which I leaned against to steady myself. The windows of the car were closed and smoke wafted from the front seat.
Forcing myself not to cough, I tried not to slip into hysteria. What in the name of Hashem had I gotten myself into? The car bounced up and down, jouncing me in the seat, and I thought I would roll onto the floor. My legs cramped from being bent and the roar of the car was frightening.
For this I came to America? I thought, overwhelmed with doubts about what I was doing. For this my family suffered so I could live the dream? Was this the dream? Back in Russia, I knew of women who brought their courses on, either on their own or with the help of a midwife. It was nothing like this. What if I didn’t survive? Who would make sure Ben had his livers on Sunday or that Alfie and Eugene made it to heder? Who would make Izzy continue his studies, get his law degree? And, most important, who would guide Dottie through this mess she was clearly making of her life?
But then I had a second thought: Better I suffer this than Dottie. I clutched the seat tighter.
After five minutes or thirty—I had no way of telling—the car stopped. I heard the door open, and I gratefully breathed in the flood of fresh air. A female voice, different from the young girl’s, said, “C’mon out now.” This woman took me by the arm and helped me into the building. She was kinder, and told me about the steps before I reached them. Her voice was gravelly and comforting, her scent a more familiar one, like that of baking bread.
Once we entered the building, the woman tugged at the back of my head and pulled off the blindfold. I was shocked to see she was brown, brown as the milkman’s mare. I had seen colored people, of course; they lived in nearby neighborhoods, walked the same streets I walked. But folks tended to keep to themselves, Jewish, Irish, Italian, Negro. Everyone had his own problems.
Modern Girls Page 24