• • •
AT ten to noon, I stood in front of the JDC, nervous that Willie would be late. But at exactly five minutes to noon, he came bounding up the sidewalk.
“Are you ready?” he asked, placing an arm around my waist.
“Absolutely,” I said, even though I was buckling-at-the-knees nervous. This simple interview now held the weight of my marriage.
Walking into the foyer, I gave my name and asked to see Mr. Bechoff. We were led into a cramped office, with wooden chairs and a desk covered in files.
“Mr. Bechoff is finishing another meeting and will be with you momentarily,” the secretary said, before exiting.
Two chairs in front of the desk were piled high with papers. Willie had no compunction about picking up the folders, sliding them to the floor, and taking a seat. Unsure of what etiquette required, I remained standing. I walked around the small office, looking at the binders in bookcases and the loose papers scattered on the desk. One contained a sheet of numbers, seemingly a list of donations. My eye immediately flew down the page. The total was wrong.
The door burst open and in scurried a balding man, round about the waist, but containing the shadows of what must have been a handsome youth. Willie stood as he entered.
“Sit, sit,” the man said, taking the papers from the second chair. “You’re Edith’s friend? Mrs. Klein?”
He slid around the desk and plopped in the seat.
“Yes, Mr. Bechoff. I appreciate your taking this meeting.”
“Who’s that?” he said, nodding toward Willie.
Willie proffered an outstretched hand. “William Klein, sir.”
“Right, right. Mr. Klein. Okay, so what am I meeting you about?” His eyes were cast toward the sheet of numbers and he tapped a pencil on it repeatedly.
“My husband and I will be moving to Europe at the end of this week, and I was hoping to procure a position helping refugees with the JDC.”
That got his attention. “You’re moving to Europe?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I gripped my clutch tightly.
“You know we’re trying to get people out of Europe. Going to Europe is the very definition of insanity.”
I looked nervously at Willie, but he smiled and nodded at me. “My husband is a writer for The New Yorker, and he will be writing about the political situation in Europe. He wants to raise awareness of the threat of National Socialism, not only to Jews, but to all of Europe. I thought that while I was there, I’d make myself useful.”
Mr. Bechoff tented his hands, placing his index fingers on his chin. He looked more closely at Willie. “Foreign correspondents are being expelled from Germany, you are aware?”
“I am,” Willie said, “which is why we will begin in Paris and see where we are able to go from there.”
Mr. Bechoff released his fingers and said, “Please make sure to stay in touch with the Joint. You might be of use to us as well.”
“And what about volunteer work for me?” I asked, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. This was about my future, not Willie’s.
“Yes, we are in grave need of help. People who can distribute food and clothing, provide minor medical treatment until nurses are available. Most definitely.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Willie grinning. This was better than I had hoped. “That sounds wonderful, Mr. Bechoff. I am delighted to serve the JDC until the baby comes.”
Mr. Bechoff’s eyes widened and he leaned back in his chair. “You’re expecting?” His voice acquired a whining tone. “No, no. This is physical work. We cannot have an expectant woman working with the refugees.”
I glanced at Willie and saw disappointment plain upon his face. Panic overtook me and my voice came out shrill. “I’m sure I can handle it! I’m quite fit.”
Mr. Bechoff stood to show us out. “It’s not proper. It wouldn’t reflect well upon the JDC to have a—a woman such as that in the field.”
Willie and I stood, and I fought back tears. My one hope for work. Gone.
“I apologize, Mr. Bechoff, for wasting your time. Thank you for meeting with me.”
He walked us to the door, when I remembered the sheet on his desk. “Mr. Bechoff, if I may be so bold, before we go, I noticed an error on your tally sheet.”
Mr. Bechoff halted his step. “What?”
I was sure he’d chastise me for prying, but I couldn’t let it go unsaid. It was an affront to my numbers. “Here, look.”
Mr. Bechoff returned to stand behind his desk, and I moved next to him. “This says you are forecasting a six percent increase in donations. Yet, here”—I pointed to a number in the middle of the page—“you’ve multiplied by point six, which is actually sixty percent.” My finger slid down to the total. “Giving you the wrong projection.”
“I thought the number was high,” Mr. Bechoff said.
“You need to multiply by point zero six, so the actual total is . . .” I looked off so as to see the numbers more clearly in my mind. I mumbled to myself, “Let’s see, $5,365 times point zero six is . . .” I realized my fingers were waving a bit in the air as I carried numbers from column to column. Looking back to Mr. Bechoff, I said, “It’s $321.90. Plus $5,365 is . . . a total of $5,686.90 for next year.”
Mr. Bechoff, working the calculation with pencil and paper, feverishly scribbled for a few minutes before looking up, astonished. “You’re correct!” He looked at me carefully, as if I were hiding a tabulating machine somewhere on my body. “How did you do that?”
Willie stood at the door, evaluating me silently.
“I’m excellent with numbers, sir.”
He waved his hand and said, “Sit back down, please. What do you mean by ‘excellent’?”
Smoothing the back of my skirt, I returned to the other side of the desk and took my seat again. “Top of my class in mathematics in high school. Head bookkeeper at Dover Insurance.” I hesitated, but thinking I had nothing to lose at this point, I said, “My plan is to study accounting.”
No one asked when, to my great relief. Willie had his head cocked, and his eyes were penetrating. My hands shook.
“Can you type?” Mr. Bechoff asked.
“Forty words a minute,” I said.
Mr. Bechoff switched to Yiddish. “Can you speak Yiddish reasonably well?”
Without missing a beat, I responded in Yiddish, “I am American born, but Yiddish was my first language. I speak it as comfortably as I speak English.”
Willie looked between the two of us, confused.
Smiling, I added, still in Yiddish, “My husband, however, doesn’t understand a word.”
Mr. Bechoff raised his eyebrows. “And he is going to report on Jewish refugees?”
“I will help him.”
Switching back to English, Mr. Bechoff said, “The Paris JDC office needs a secretary. It’s not accounting, mind you. But they need someone who can speak to both the English-speaking donors and the incoming refugees. Typing and minor bookkeeping are part of the job. It doesn’t pay much—twelve dollars a week—but it’s necessary work, and something you can do while you’re in the family way, especially as they are having a difficult time filling the position. Do you want the job?”
A quick glance at Willie’s pleased smirk, and I said, “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
Mr. Bechoff stood again, but in a more kindly manner, and said, “You leave for Europe when?”
“This Thursday,” I said.
“Time is of the essence, then. Can you return in an hour and pick up a letter of introduction from my secretary? I’ll wire the Paris office and let them know of your imminent arrival.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bechoff!” I didn’t try to disguise the relief in my voice.
“Make me look good for recommending you,” he said.
“Of course, sir,” I said.
&
nbsp; “And,” he added, looking from me to Willie and back, “keep your wits about you. It’s a dangerous time for a Jew to be in Europe. Be safe.”
“Of course,” Willie said, as he led me from the office.
• • •
ON the sidewalk, I turned to face Willie straight on. He took me by the waist, lifted me, and spun me around. Despite my growing girth, I was light in his arms and I wanted him to spin me forever. But he set me down, laughing, and said, “That was marvelous!”
Giggling, I let myself be a happy newlywed.
“That couldn’t have turned out better,” he continued. “Look, there’s a diner across the street. Let’s get lunch before I have to hurry back to the office and you have to go back for your letter.”
Opening the door to the tiny shop, I was relieved to see a KOSHER sign in the window. I knew once we were in Europe—once we were on the ship, in fact—treif would be unavoidable. But I’d deal with it when the time came.
We took a seat, and Willie ordered us both coffees and a corned beef sandwich for himself. I asked for the kishkes.
“So,” Willie said, taking my hands in his. My first instinct was to pull them away, but then I remembered, This is my husband. Holding hands in public was permitted.
“So,” I said back with a smile.
“I had no idea you were good with numbers.”
Shrugging, I said, “Why would you? There’s not much call for arithmetic at the Second Avenue café or at Camp Eden.”
Chuckling, he said, “True, true.”
When the coffee came, I was sorry, because it meant Willie had to pull his hands back to make room for the cups. His hands had felt nice on mine.
“This job will be a boon for us,” Willie said. “You’ll be privy to all sorts of information. You’ll be my best source.”
Pleased, I sipped the coffee. “I’m looking forward to it. I’ll be doing charitable work and earning an income.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. “Not that we need my income, of course.”
Willie laughed. “Do you think my masculinity depends on my wife not working? If the job works out, perhaps we’ll use that money to hire a girl to watch the baby once he’s born.”
Startled, I sloshed my coffee.
“Are you opposed? I mean, of course you can quit when the baby is born, but it seems a shame to lose valuable contacts because of a child.”
On the one hand, he saw the child as an impediment, and it was hard to envision someone else taking care of my baby. On the other hand, this was the first time he had alluded to us as a married couple after the baby was born. Divorce wasn’t on his mind. As long as I remained a source of information for Willie, he’d want to keep me around. The work did sound exciting. And if the precedent was set of having a girl watch the baby, perhaps one could continue to do so when we returned to America and I could study accounting. Shaking my head slightly, I had to remember not to get ahead of myself. One step at a time.
“Why don’t we see what happens when the baby comes?” I said. “Who knows what Europe will be like and where we’ll be?” I tried to imply that if we weren’t in Paris, perhaps we’d be in London or Amsterdam, when really I was hoping we’d be back in New York.
“Yes, of course.” Willie added, “But a possibility?”
Setting my cup down, I placed my hand on Willie’s. “A definite possibility.”
Willie’s tone took on a dreamy quality. “I’ll write brilliant exposés with the inside dope you bring me.” He paused for a moment, listening to the chatter at the next table. Leaning in, he whispered, “Listen. The Germans are everywhere. Do you hear that couple at the next table?”
I glanced over and saw a couple, not much older than us, looking at the menu in seeming confusion. They sat stiffly, and it was clear from their movements that they were greenhorns.
“Do you think they’re talking about Nazis?” Willie whispered.
I listened to the man and woman briefly and patted Willie’s hand. “They’re a real threat to democracy! Discussing whether they should just split a pastrami sandwich or splurge and also order chicken soup.” I laughed, but stopped quickly as Willie sat back hard in his seat. What did I say to upset him?
The food arrived. Self-consciously, I cut my kishke. “Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked Willie, who was still sitting back, staring at me. I nibbled at my food.
“You don’t actually speak German, do you?” he said slowly. “You were guessing at what they said.”
“You’re right. I don’t speak German.” I took the napkin and dabbed the corners of my mouth.
Willie looked crestfallen.
“But,” I said, taking another bite, “I understand a good deal of German.”
He perked up again. “How do you mean?”
“You know that Yiddish and German are similar. I’m helpless if I have to speak German, but I can usually make out some—not all, mind you—of what’s said.”
“Can you read a German newspaper? Eavesdrop on conversations?”
“I won’t get every word, but, yes, I can.”
Willie looked as if he had won a prize. “Well, isn’t that something? What an asset you’re turning out to be.”
Willie couldn’t stop smiling, and it was contagious. Picking up his sandwich, he said, “I think bringing you to Europe is the best idea I’ve ever had!”
I prayed the feeling would keep.
Rose
Wednesday, September 11
MY fingers were raw with all the sewing, but Dottie’s wardrobe would be first-class.
“Ma,” Dottie said, “you’ve done enough.”
I ignored her. “Dottala, move that light closer to me.” I strained to see the grain of the fabric.
Picking up the lamp, Dottie tried to angle it in such a way to shed more brightness, but it did little good. “Ma, I have plenty. Stop working.”
“A little more won’t hurt,” I said. My voice was gruff, but it had to be. Nothing would be simpler than crawling into bed and mourning the loss of my baby girl. Nothing would be easier than succumbing to the ache that reminded me of losing Joey, of the miscarriages, of the dear soul that had departed only two weeks ago. Sewing required enough concentration that it kept the images from invading my head, images of my daughter, alone in Europe, becoming a mother without me. It was easier to stay up all night than to sleep, where nothing could keep the dreams away.
I nodded toward the credenza. “You will take Yussel’s last letter? It has his address and his plans, so you can use it to assist him.”
Dottie took the letter and placed it in her clutch. “I will keep this safe with me the entire time, Ma. I promise I will do whatever I can to get him out of Europe.”
My daughter made me so proud. It was difficult to contain my emotions, but I didn’t want another evening to dissolve into tears. “I’ve taken the rest of the money from the tin,” I told her, “and sewn it into the lining of your suitcase.”
She started to protest. “But you could use that money for Izzy’s schooling or save it for when Yussel comes—” I cut her off.
“It’s for your return trip. Promise me if anything goes wrong, you’ll be on the next boat back. No hesitations. You and the baby. If Willie wants to come, fine. This isn’t enough for a third-class ticket, but if you start to save right away, you’ll soon have enough to get you back to New York.”
“Money isn’t going to be a problem for me. Willie’s allowance may seem small to him, but it’s enough for us to live in luxury.”
“I know,” I said. “But you know it doesn’t hurt to have a stash on the side. Just for you and the baby. Enough for you to come home.”
“I will keep it, just in case,” Dottie said. “But understand, I don’t want to come home. I am going to make my marriage work.”
“Then you’ll make it wo
rk.” Considering a moment, I said, “In some ways, Willie reminds me of your tateh.”
Dottie’s eyes widened. “How?”
“Your tateh was a hothead. Passionate about that union work as your Willie is about reporting.” I smiled, reminiscing. “But I convinced your father to be sensible. He still attends union meetings, works himself into a lather occasionally, but he’s no longer putting himself in danger. Remember, women make the decisions. We just can’t let the men know it.”
Dottie chuckled.
“Oh,” I said, remembering. “The phone! You remember our phone number?”
“Yes, Ma. Tompkins 64562.” Her voice was soft enough to alarm me, to make me look up from my needle.
“Dottala, you will be fine. I know it.”
Her voice broke as she asked, “Ma, how will I do this?”
I don’t know, I wanted to say. You shouldn’t. You should stay right here with your mama, where you’ll be safe and I’ll take care of you and the baby. But that wasn’t the right thing to say. So I did the best I could. “You just do it. You cannot think about it too much. You just act.” I returned to my sewing, my hand moving up and down rhythmically. My motion was as smooth as any machine. “It’s like prayer,” I said. “You say the words over and over whether you feel the prayer or not. And then, in those rare quiet spaces, suddenly the prayer embraces you, and you see the truth of it. We do the actions and hope for the meaning. Sometimes it comes sooner. Sometimes we have to wait for it. But we keep praying. We keep doing.” I looped the thread into a knot. “You go with Willie. You raise your son or daughter. You will find the meaning.”
Dottie slid her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “What if I don’t?”
I shrugged. “Then you don’t. But still you must live.” I looked my Dottala in the eyes, those big sad eyes. “You will always have your mama and your tateh here. Remember that. Let it keep you strong.”
Picking up a collar I wanted to embroider, I squinted. “Ah, my eyes are too old for such small work.”
“Your work is as beautiful as ever, Ma.”
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