Modern Girls (16 page)

It was over tea that I met Ben, a young labor organizer, a
union man. After giving a rousing impromptu speech, mixing both English and Yiddish, about the benefits of workers banding together, he sidled up to me.

“What do you do?” he asked me in English.

The words were basic enough that I could understand them, but I replied in Yiddish, “I don’t respond to men who don’t speak to me in the
mame-loshen
.” I tried to appear coquettish as I said this, when in reality, English made me feel stupid.

Ben grinned and repeated the question in Yiddish. As a union man, Ben made himself useful with his fluency in English, Yiddish, and Russian. He, and often he alone, could communicate with the various groups.

“I do piecework,” I told him.

“And do you belong to the International Garment Association?”

“I belong to no one,” I said coyly.

With that, Ben gave me a broad smile. He was a short man, perhaps even an inch shorter than me, but he had deep brown eyes and a furrowed brow that gave him an air of intelligence. I took an instant liking to him.

“In that case,” Ben said, “would you care to accompany me to the theater?”

I raised an eyebrow at him. I had never attended the theater before. I had never gone out in public alone with a man. I thought back to Shmuel. He was gone and yet I felt as if I were betraying him.

“The Yiddish theater,” Ben added, with the grin that would become so familiar to me. “That is, if your parents will allow it.”

“I am a woman of”—I hesitated for the barest of seconds, seconds in which I chose to leave Shmuel behind in the Old Country, to reinvent myself as an American—“eighteen. I require no one’s permission.” A small lie. Three years shaved from my age. I didn’t want Ben to think I was a spinster. This was a fresh start in a fresh country, and I wanted to start it as a young woman, not an old maid.

Ben and I knew each other four weeks before we announced
our intention to marry. And two weeks after that, with a quick visit to the
rebbe
, with only the newly arrived Perle and my cousin Yetta as witnesses, as my brother couldn’t miss a day of work, we were married. Just like that, I no longer lived on the settee with Jeanette.

Ben and I lived with his parents in a one-bedroom apartment where the walls were so thin that I reddened when I saw his mother in the mornings. But Mama Krasinsky always smiled at me, saying little. She was a caring woman, but she wasn’t my mama. I dreamed of bringing Mama to America, of giving her this life where girls were expected to learn their letters and marry for love and join in the political conversation without fear. When news arrived of Mama’s death, I cried for six days. I named my firstborn, Dorothea, for my ma, Deenah.

Until Dottie was born, my primary concern was earning enough money for my family back home, and Ben’s was saving enough for our own apartment. In the summer, the work wasn’t so bad. I was extremely mindful not to let a drop of my sweat taint the fabric; I was expert enough to keep my cloth pristine. In the winter, though, the work was miserable. The sewing was too intricate for me to wear gloves—I couldn’t make fine stitches if I didn’t have complete movement of my fingers—so while the rest of me sat bundled in coats, my fingers were bare. Fingers that were icy hurt that much more when accidentally pricked with a needle. And my fingers were constantly raw from the chill, so I had to take great care not to snag the wispy fabric. Heat was nonexistent. A tiny flicker of warmth seeped out of the stove, but it didn’t make much difference. Visiting the toilet meant a trip down a dark, dank hall to the unheated room that was shared with the other three apartments on the floor. It was almost as bad as the outhouse back home, even if I didn’t have to go out in the rain or snow.

My fingers never recovered from the work, and I was still a youngish woman in my twenties when they first felt the pain of arthritis.
Never,
I promised myself,
never will my own children
work with a needle and thread.
My children would use their wits to make their way in the world. And true to my word, I made sure I never taught my children—especially Dottie—more than the basics, kept from them the skills that helped me to survive in this strange New World.

While our days were backbreaking, we enjoyed all the East Side had to offer at night. We continued going to speeches and cafés, and on a few occasions, Ben was the lecturer. How proud I was to sit in the audience and listen to his inspiring talks on the labor class and the capitalist machine. A Jewish man speaking politics in the open with nothing to fear! It amazed me. I strutted like a peacock on those evenings. Yet as much as I believed in the theories he espoused, I worried about Ben’s day-to-day involvement with the union—people were known to get hurt doing what he did. But Ben brushed off my concern, and went out from early morning often until late at night, canvassing workers, imploring them to unite, joining picket lines, occasionally coming home with a bruised eye or a sore rib, which he would dismiss with a wave of his hand. But I was not a woman to be easily dissuaded, and after few years of marriage, I convinced Ben he must think of our future, of the second child we were expecting. Ben needed a job that paid better. So Ben borrowed money and purchased a garage with his cousin, who had recently returned from Detroit, where he’d worked at an auto factory. They made good money housing and fixing the cars that were rapidly taking over the streets—enough to repay his debts and for us to move into the apartment we live in today—and although they often stayed late washing and servicing the cars, I stopped fearing for his safety. By the end of many years, Ben and I had saved up a nice bundle of money, and we sent over enough for various members of both our families to make the journey to America. My
tateh
, though, refused to come, as his own mother was too ill to travel. Besides, he didn’t want to leave Yussel alone—Yussel, who would be denied an international passport until he passed the age of the draft.

I continued to do garment work during the day, but Perle and I—with children in tow—always found a few hours every week to visit the cafés to discuss the garment union with new immigrant women or to distribute flyers outside the sweatshops. We spent many hours marching for suffrage and were disappointed we couldn’t attempt to vote, as we were not yet citizens. We were prepared to be arrested with the other women. Ben’s garage was successful enough that I was poised to leave the needle trade behind and take a lower-paying position in the union. “In the office, where it’s safe,” I’d say testily to Ben, when he teased me about entering the world that I had made him leave.

And then the twins became sick. Nothing else mattered. Alfie, thank God, recovered quickly, and even the telltale polio limp disappeared in a year or so. But Joey. I spent every day with Joey even when, toward the end, he was taken to the hospital, which had the new machine, the iron lung. But for Joey, it was too late. And by the time he passed, I felt it was too late for me. A spark had been extinguished. I buried myself in the children, focused my efforts on procuring a visa for Yussel, tried to do good works in the neighborhood. My life was filled, too much for me to reflect upon my place in the world. But every now and then—when the children were sleeping, with Ben at the garage and the bread baking in the oven—I thought of Russia; of
Tateh
, toiling to care for my grandparents; of my mama, who died without me by her side. I longed for my older sister Eta, who had left Bratsyana shortly after I, headed for Palestine. “I’m a
halutz
,” she wrote when she arrived, a pioneer. Her big ideas and sturdy frame were exactly what the country needed, but selfishly, I wished Eta had chosen America.

I continued sending money back home every month, money I hoped would pay for firewood, for food for the harsh winters, until
Tateh
wrote that my envelopes were arriving opened, the money gone. At that point, I put aside every extra cent in the name of my daughter. For my daughter to make something of her life. To go to school. To become an American.

Was this what an American was? Unmarried with child?

Now
Tateh
had returned to Mama, Yussel was trapped with his family in Warsaw, and I, with child yet again, felt infinitely alone.

Just when I thought my arms couldn’t take any more, the dough became pliable, soft. Using both arms, I scooped it back into the tub and, covering it with three dish towels, left it to rise.

Looking out the window, I could almost see a few stars. Closing my eyes, I prayed to the heavens that Dottie would get this right, that she would make the right choice.
Be smart, Dottie,
I implored.
Please,
Hashem
,
guide her.

Saturday, August 24

I couldn’t shake the bad feeling from my talk with Ma on Thursday night, and it put a pall on my eagerness for the weekend. I packed listlessly, the trip taking on funereal tones. If I didn’t succeed, it was the end of my baby.

Abe received a shipment to unload at the store late Friday afternoon, so we decided to leave Saturday morning. The knock on the apartment door came soon after
Shabbes
early
minyan
would have ended. Ma jumped at the sound. I shot her a look. Nothing could be amiss. This was a normal weekend away.

“Gut Shabbes,”
Abe said as he entered. His smile was broad and he gave a slight bow as he said, “Is Mademoiselle ready to go?”

My laugh felt forced, and Ma stood at the kitchen door, wringing a cloth in her hands. I willed her to bring up Europe or rent strikes or FDR or any of her other topics that drove me crazy, but she stood mute. I needed to get Abe out before he realized something was off.

“We should hurry along. Don’t want to miss the train.”

“Yes, yes,” Ma said. “Off you go.” She retreated quickly to the kitchen. Abe gave me a questioning look and I shrugged. Why did Ma abandon her tirades now?

“Let me get your bag,” Abe said, reaching for my small suitcase. Lifting it, he said, “Yikes, what’s in here?”

With a light smile, I said, “Oh, the usual. My iron. Alfie’s baseballs. A roasting pan.”

Abe’s laugh calmed my nerves and we headed out.

On the way to Grand Central Station, I tried to pretend nothing was awry. Just me and Abe off for a ruckus on a summer weekend. We bantered, but I felt more like an observer than a participant.

Stepping up to board the train, I thought again of tripping, of falling. If I dove from the train, would I die instantly or would I be racked with pain? What would the baby feel? What would she say when she greeted me in the world to come?

No!
I chided myself as I followed Abe to empty seats. He lifted my bag and placed it upon the mesh shelf above us. We sat next to each other and I curled my body into Abe’s as the train pulled out of the station. He was warm and soft and comfortable. Sweet Abe, who was as familiar to me as the couch in my living room. He molded to me, fit me in all the right places. I watched the scenery pass, trying to forget the importance of this weekend. But it occurred to me, if my plan worked, this would be my last trip to Camp Eden. Forever. I couldn’t go if I was expecting and once I had a child . . . well, everything would be different then, wouldn’t it?

My life was about to take a sharp turn, and I’d never come down this path again. Whether I married Abe or did as Ma said, the break was final. Before and after. I’d either be a wife with a home and a child or be a career gal with the ghost of what could have been. No longer innocent and carefree, I’d cross a line, become an adult. All I wanted to do was mourn for the life that was spent.

The trees whisked by the window, blurring into a mass of green. I said to Abe, “How many trees do you think we pass on our way to Cold Spring?”

Abe laughed, as he paged through last week’s
New Yorker
. “I don’t know, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

My finger idly traced on the window, outlining the trees as they whizzed by. “Well, if there is a tree every four feet, then there would be one thousand three hundred and twenty trees in
a straight mile. How many miles do you think it is from Grand Central to Camp Eden?”

Abe shrugged. “Fifty? Sixty?”

“If it’s fifty miles, then it would be sixty-six thousand trees. If it’s sixty, then seventy-nine thousand two hundred trees.” I tilted my head back against Abe and considered. “Although they wouldn’t be evenly dispersed. Fewer trees in Manhattan, more in the Hudson Highlands.”

Abe kissed the top of my head. “My brilliant mathematician.” Closing the cover of the magazine, he held it out to me. “Would you like to read this? There’s a piece on Paris fashion.” I went to take it, but he playfully pulled it out of reach. “But don’t go getting any ideas. Your raise won’t cover—whatshername? Vanilla Chanel?”

“It’s Coco Chanel,” I said, but looking up, I realized he was teasing me. I laughed, but to my ears, it sounded off.

“Coco Chanel, then,” he said, picking up
The Nation
magazine.

I scanned the article, but frankly, it held little interest, given the state I was in. Concentrating was nearly impossible. I flipped through the pages and noted the articles, all light and fluffy: a letter from Paris by Genêt about nothing more controversial than the Tour de France, a favorable review of Mrs. Lindbergh’s book
North to the Orient
, short stories, an article called “The Advance of Honorifics,” whatever that was, and a report on the races at Saratoga. Thinking of Yussel and the argument between Abe and Willie, I looked for something—anything—about what was happening in Europe. In all its sixty pages, the only hint that trouble stirred abroad was two sentences hidden in “Of All Things”: “As we understand it, Goering and Goebbels are Hitler’s G-Men. Their job is to stamp out the pernicious churchgoing element.” That was it. Our world was falling apart overseas and it was comedy for
The New Yorker
.

Abe must have seen something in my face, because he asked, “Are you okay?”

Banishing my thoughts, I smiled broadly, saying, “I can’t wait to arrive.”

I tossed the magazine aside and curled into Abe. This weekend would be a success.

•   •   •

A baseball game was ending as we arrived. “Shall we hurry and join them?” I asked. I needed to please, to make Abe happy.

“Nah,” he said. “There’s always tomorrow. I want to relax.”

We separated into our own tents. Abe’s was shared—it was cheaper that way—but I’d splurged on a tent of my own, the better to make good on my plans.

Before dinner, I took extra care. Normally I cultivated a casual look at Camp Eden, making myself look pretty without appearing to have tried. But tonight I took more time, with a less outdoorsy look than usual, applying a little lipstick, trying to look refined, my hair flawless. Instead of the slacks I usually wore at dinner and around the campfire, I put on a new skirt. I struggled to button it and finally gave up, leaving the top button undone. How could my stomach have blossomed so? With my blouse untucked, no one would notice and the skirt showed off my legs to my advantage. When I peeked down at my bosom, my first instinct was to hide how it had begun to swell of late. But then I chastised myself for such a priggish notion, and instead undid one clasp on my top, just enough to emphasize my roundness. I surveyed myself as best as I could without a mirror. Lovely and ripe, I thought. Abe might not notice the difference, but he would sure notice me.

Camp Eden was a haven, a place to simply be. The first time I’d ever come was with an older cousin, who was now married and no longer escaping to the country. I was fourteen and I’d never spent the night away from my parents, never slept without the sounds of the streets in my ears, away from the noise of the neighbors through thin walls. Even the train was an adventure, its Pullman cars with sleepers and luggage racks above the seats to stow my small suitcase. I dreamed of a time that I’d travel far enough to lounge in a Pullman.

When the cityscape gave way to open rural space, I could only stare in awe. Land. With no one on it. My entire life subsisted between the monoliths of New York City, where people lived on top of people, in apartments piled high on crowded streets. I had never seen a place where space existed without people. When I described the scenery to Ma, a faraway look entered her eyes, and I knew she was thinking of her home.

Once we arrived at Camp Eden, my cousin led me to the tents, and I was amazed at the idea of sleeping outside where there was no smog, no smelly bodies pressed against my own, no street noise below. Sleeping in the woods—with only a thin layer of canvas between me and the heavens—was as far removed from sleeping on my roof at home as Schiaparelli gowns were from the
shmattas
the women of the neighborhood wore. I didn’t sleep a wink that first weekend, mesmerized by the sounds of nature. Who knew such a different noise belonged in the world?

Ah, such a time of innocence. No more. Tonight Camp Eden was not to be a haven. It was a duty. I had one job: make Abe think this baby was his.

Yet, as much as I dreaded what I needed to do, a part of me thrilled at the idea. In all this misery about the baby, I hadn’t allowed myself to think about what had put me in this position. That night. With Willie. I knew I should feel ashamed thinking about it, but I didn’t. I felt, well, lustful. And I longed to share that with the man I truly loved. To feel Abe’s hands caress me, to feel his kisses deepening. I craved the touch of his hand, sliding up my side, stroking my breast. The mere thought of his body pressed against mine gave me a warm determination.

At dinner I laughed at his every joke. I held his gaze for moments too long. I needed to be in control of the night. When he put a distance between us, I flirted with the boy next to me. Nothing made a woman more desirable than being wanted by someone else. And it worked.

Sitting around the campfire, when the flask passed my way, I
took a long swig before handing it to Abe. Though I tried to coquettishly ignore him, I couldn’t help but notice Abe’s hearty gulps of the amber liquid. A young man played his guitar, and the boy with whom I’d flirted at dinner asked me to dance. I stood but had barely entered his embrace when, as expected, Abe was soon at my side.

“May I cut in?” Abe asked.

“Ah, cork it,” said the boy, and I laughed a little drunkenly.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the boy, “but I’m all his.”

I turned to Abe and rested one hand on his shoulder, and he took hold of my other hand. The guitarist played “Don’t Fence Me In,” and one of the girls sang as more dancers dotted the grass.

The music was seductive, enhanced by the bourbon, and I pulled nearer to Abe, allowing him to lean in and kiss me. As we glided, we sidled into the shadows of the trees, which cast long, lean markings on the ground in the moonlight. We danced and kissed, oblivious to those around us. As the kisses deepened, I carefully brought myself close enough to Abe that I could clearly feel how much he wanted me. My hand tightened on his neck, and I pressed my breasts against his body, grateful for the way they spilled out of my blouse.

The magic of the night was taking over. I was lost in the moment, happier than ever before, my body humming in such an intoxicating way that I couldn’t wait for what was next. I was drunk on the music, the stars, the alcohol, and Abe. Together we moved even farther from the others, till we were hidden by the woods and he leaned me against a tree. The bark dug into my back, but I ignored the discomfort as his body moved rhythmically against mine. I pulled up my skirt so I could feel him, through his pants, on the skin of my thigh. My hands teased the top of his pants, working the buttons, and I slipped my hand, tentatively, slowly, between his pants and his waist.

My body was alight, my head spinning with arousal, and I needed to feel him inside me. In that moment, that singular moment, I knew perfection. Me, Abe, the moonlight, the only sounds the ones of our lust. This was the moment I would hold with me the rest of my life,
the moment I would retreat to whenever there was trouble, disappointment. This exquisiteness made me delirious with happiness. This was the moment that would sustain me, the moment when the world was just right, and I knew in my heart I was about to get my happily ever after.

And I clung to that thought. I clung to it like a drowning woman to a life preserver; I clung to it with every hope and every breath even after he began to gyrate at a quicker pace, even after he gave a violent thrust against me, even after he groaned loudly, calling out my name in a deep rumble. I held on to the thought even as I realized it was too late, that my thigh was damp from him, that my plan had failed utterly. For once it was me who had been too slow.

My body still needed to be touched, still needed him. I hoped to recapture the moment, to arouse him again, so, fighting the desperation in my voice, I whispered, “Abe,” as I nibbled on his neck. I needed his hands upon my chest, between my legs. I needed. But he pushed himself away, disgusted. “Oh, Dottie,” he said, refusing to look me in the eye. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I said, my voice still raspy with desire. I pulled him back, drawing his hands toward me. “Just don’t stop.”

“Dottie,” he said. “I’ve sinned enough for one night.” I could hear the embarrassment in his voice. “
We’ve
sinned enough.”

“How can it be a sin when it feels so right?” I attempted to kiss him on his earlobe, but he shook his head and took a step away from me and the tree.

“Dottie, we can’t,” he said. “This was wrong. I can’t be trusted around you.”

“But why?” I asked. I tried to keep the pleading notes from my voice, but I feared I was failing. “We are in love. We will be married. And it feels so . . . nice.” I took a step toward him and stroked his face, but he pushed away my hands.