Modern Girls (20 page)

AFTER I stormed out of the apartment, my head was swimming. My physical symptoms might have abated, but my head was a flurry. How could Ma say no? How could she want to see this life ended?

For an hour, I walked the streets, trying to make order in my mind. Playing gin rummy at Edith’s sounded like an atrocious idea, but given I had nowhere else to go, it’s what I ended up doing. I bought a
knish
at Yonah Schimmel’s for my dinner and walked till it was time to meet my friends, my mind reeling at what I was going to have to do. How had it come to this?

Before entering Edith’s building, I tried to pull myself together. I needed to give the appearance of a carefree girl, even though I would never be one again.

Edith was the youngest of three, her older brothers both married. One of them lived with his wife’s family; the other was fortunate enough to have his own place. On Monday nights Edith’s parents went to the
Arbeter Ring
, working up their socialist fervor, so we had the apartment to ourselves.

At the top of the stairs I gave my hair a final pat and let myself into the apartment. “Hello, hello,” I called. “I’m ready to play.” My voice sounded tinny to my ears.

In the old days, the cardplayers gathered and broke off into games of two, but of course with Zelda busy with the baby, we
were now a threesome, so we ended up playing the more awkward three-person round-robin version.

“Now you join us? After standing us up last week? Where have you been?” Edith said from the kitchen.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said. “Ma and
Tateh
went to a lecture and Eugene didn’t want to be home alone.” It was a lie made easy by the fact we didn’t have a phone; I had no way to get in touch if I wasn’t going to make it.

“Well, you’re here now. Sit,” Edith said. “I’m getting the refreshments.” The coffee Edith inevitably burned was the last thing my stomach needed, but I poured myself a cup from the percolator on the table anyway. I sat in one of the dining chairs as the front door opened again.

“I’m here,” Linda said.

I gestured to the center of the table. “I’ll pour you coffee.”

Linda hesitated before whispering, “Did Edith make it or her ma?”

I took a sip. Wrinkling my nose, I said, “Edith.”

“None for me, thanks,” Linda said, as she sat next to me.

Edith came out smiling, holding a platter. “Sweets.” On the platter were the most misshapen, lumpy cookies I ever saw, not to mention blackened at the edges.

“They look . . .” Darling Linda, searching for something kind to say. “Homemade?”

“Damn right they’re homemade,” Edith said. “Ma said if I didn’t learn how to do something domestic, she was going to send me to the Educational Alliance to learn to cook.”

“Don’t swear, Edith,” Linda said, her voice soft. “It’s not becoming.”

“Since when is Edith ‘becoming’?” I picked up a cookie and banged it against the table. It didn’t crumble a smidgen. “So light and delicate,” I said. “Forgive me if I pass. I’d like to keep my teeth.”

“What about you, Linda?”

“They do look so lovely, but I . . . um,” Linda said.

“Aw, hell.” Edith fingered a cookie. “I’ll save these for
Tateh
. He’ll eat ’em.”

I doubted that.

“I think Ma has a package of Lorna Doones around here somewhere.” She popped back into the kitchen, where we heard lots of rattling of cupboard doors.

“God help the man who marries her,” Linda said. Her tone was mournful, which was out of character for our Pollyanna. I looked closely at her, trying to read her, but she looked away.

“Okay,
store-bought
cookies. Are your teeth happy?” Edith plopped the cookies on the table.

“Delighted.” Since Edith wasn’t going to do it, I removed the Lorna Doones from the package and spread them nicely on the plate.

“Who’s dealing?” Linda asked.

Edith shuffled, offered the cards to Linda to cut, then dealt.

“What’s with your mother’s sudden interest in you learning to cook?” I asked.

Edith shrugged as we all gathered our cards in our hands. “She wants me to learn the domestic arts. Thinks it will help me when I move out.”

I snorted. “You move out? How on earth would you pay the rent?”

Edith worked at the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union, although I wasn’t sure it counted as work when Edith was paid less than the women for whom she advocated. After high school, she’d started a liberal arts course at Hunter, but dropped out because she thought the classes too bourgeois and began working for the union, thus guaranteeing she would live with her parents indefinitely.

“Exactly! And Ma is an excellent cook. Who would do the laundry if I moved out?”

Linda said, “Someday you’ll need to cook and clean and do the laundry for your family.”

To my ear, Linda sounded bitter, but perhaps it was my own feelings coloring what I heard. I nibbled on the plain buttery cookie without too much difficulty. I should have been famished after the episode at the Stork Club—a
knish
and a cookie did not a meal make—but my appetite had diminished.
Is that good or bad?
I wondered.

Edith said, “Linda, how many times do I need to tell you, I don’t ever intend to have a family?”

The cookie crumbs were dry in my throat, and as disgusting as it was, I took a swallow of the coffee to wash them down. How I longed to discuss my predicament with my friends, but I didn’t dare. Edith might be sympathetic on a political level, but she’d be disdainful on a personal one. Linda would be horrified.

“It’s unnatural not to marry,” Linda said. Her voice broke, and I looked up, startled.

Edith placed her hand on Linda’s. “It’s going to be okay, sweetie.”

“Uh,” I said, “did I miss something?”

Edith glowered at me. “Don’t miss a gin rummy night and expect—,” but Linda cut her off.

“It’s okay.” Looking at me, her eyes brimming, she said, “Ralph received a job offer last week.” She batted her eyelids quickly to keep the tears at bay. “In Baltimore.”

“Oh,” I said, my surprise clear. Ralph had been trying to find work for months. A bright man, he’d struggled financially to earn an engineering degree at MIT, one of the few Jewish men to make the yearly quota. Jobs for a Jewish engineer, though, were few and far between.

Linda looked at her cards and discarded a four of hearts. Without looking up, she said, “He needs to leave in a week. He wants us to marry so I can go with him, but I can’t abandon
Tateh
.” Mr. Tewel had been ill for ages, infected with painters’ sickness, but a year ago June, he became bed-bound. All year he seemed to be near death, but he never gave his family the relief of actually passing away. The family relied on Linda’s typing wages and on
the small amount her ma made cleaning at night. “I marry and desert my family. Or I never marry. It’s as simple as that.”

“Well, what if—”

“There is no ‘what if’!” she said. “I’ve thought of every possibility and in none of them does it work out.” She tossed down her next card almost violently. “Can we talk about something else? I’d prefer not to think about it for an evening.”

We completed another round of choosing and discarding cards in silence, searching for a safe topic.

Finally, Edith spoke. “Actually, I have news to share.” She cast off an ace of clubs, which helped me not at all.

“Do tell.” I nibbled at another cookie.

“Word on the street is Willie Klein is headed off on assignment in Europe.”

I gagged.

“You okay?” Edith pounded my back. I took another sip of the god-awful coffee, trying not to cough.

“Fine, fine,” I managed to say. “Went down the wrong way.” I swallowed more coffee.

“Europe?” Linda said, gathering the cards in her hand. “How terrible.” Her voice was back to neutral. “What did he do wrong that he’s being sent there?”

“Wrong?” Edith said. “This is a plum job! Don’t anyone repeat this, but I applaud the man for it.”

“You do?” I asked.

“Sure,” Edith said. “I plead with workers all day long to stand strong, join the union, but they don’t seem to want to improve their lives. Willie is actually
doing
something that could make a difference. And that leads to my news: I was so inspired that I inquired today about a job at the Joint Distribution Committee. I start next Monday.”

“The what?” Linda asked.

“The JDC. It’s a relief organization that helps Jews around the world. After the war, they provided loans to Jews in Eastern Europe
to stimulate the growth of the Jewish communities. Now they—or rather
we
—are raising funds to help German Jews emigrate.”

I perked up a moment. “The JDC? Will you have connections? Will you be able to help Uncle Yussel get a visa?”

Edith pursed her lips and placed her hand on mine. “I’m sorry, sweetie. The priority right now is Germany. If things get worse . . .” She trailed off and gave my hand a halfhearted pat, before going back to her cards. “Well, let’s hope it won’t get any worse.”

“Sounds very noble,” I said, trying not to appear as deflated as I felt. “Will you earn more money than you did at the union?”

Edith looked abashed. “Well, less, actually.”

“Less?” I chuckled. “Is that possible? How will you survive?”

Edith grinned. “Didn’t you hear me? Ma is an excellent cook.”

“Don’t you think Willie’s putting his life in jeopardy?” I worked hard to keep my voice even, as if my concern were no different from nor any greater than theirs.

“Probably,” Edith said. “But that’s a risk he has to take if he’s going to do great things.”

The numbers on my cards danced before me. I had three
threes
. Three plus three plus three equaled nine. Three squared? Nine. That stupid number, nine. Why should I care if Willie was risking his life? I was going to take care of my situation, and Willie would be of no concern to me. Yet, something in me ached with worry, and I was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the baby.

I picked up a card. Another
three
, which completed the set. I put down the match and drew a queen.

“Isn’t anyone going to congratulate me on my new job?” Edith said.

“Congrats,” I said. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll be paying your employers soon.”

Edith laughed good-naturedly. “Well, while I still have a few pennies left, why don’t we go to the pictures this Sunday? There’s a new Jean Harlow that
The New Yorker
liked.”

“I suppose,” Linda said, before announcing, “Gin.”

“Aw, I was so close,” said Edith. “Your deal, Dottie.”

I grabbed the cards and shuffled. So much to think about: Linda losing Ralph; Willie putting himself directly in harm’s way; little hope for Yussel. Little hope for
me
. As I passed out the cards, one by one, I wondered when we’d stop being dealt losing hands.

Tuesday, August 27

DOTTIE spoke no more than two words at a time to me: “Yes, Mother.” “No, Mother.” The
Mother
was new. Apparently I’d lost the right to be called
Ma
.

I served the boys’ breakfast, keeping an eye on her. She bypassed my food and simply lopped off a hunk of bread, at which she barely picked.

All three boys were at the table, which was unusual. Izzy normally left early for his work as a clothes presser. “Why are you still here?” I asked him.

Dottie rolled her eyes.

“Hirsh Weinstein got his hand caught in the mangle yesterday. Since we’re short a man, Mr. Silberberg told me to work a double today: afternoon and night.”

“Dear God! Mr. Weinstein, he is all right?” I asked, my hand flying to my mouth.

Dottie shot me a scornful look. “
Him
you worry about?”

“Oh, Dottala,” I said. “The man may have lost his livelihood.”

She threw down her napkin. “But he has his life.”

With that, she grabbed her clutch and hat and, without even putting the hat on her head, stormed out of the apartment.

I looked to the heavens.
Oh,
Hashem
,
guide me.

Walking back into the kitchen, I heard footsteps behind me. Izzy.

“Here, dry,” I said, handing him a wet dish. He took a cloth and wiped the plate. Izzy was so meticulous. Dottie was careless, leaving streaks of water behind, but Izzy was thorough.

“Ma,” he said, but then stopped.

“Nu?”
I scraped the pieces of shell from Ben’s egg cup into the garbage pail.

He placed the dish in the cabinet and waited for the next. He wanted to say something. I wouldn’t rush him. Izzy came to his thoughts in his own time.

“Ma,” he said again. With the yolk finally scrubbed off, I ran a soapy dish towel around the cup. Another rinse, and it went to Izzy.

Finally he spoke again. “I’ve . . . I’ve heard things.”

I froze, the cold water running from the tap, the bucket of hot water cooling next to me. “What things?” I asked without looking at him. My eyes were trained on the sliver of sunlight coming in the small window.

“About Dottie,” he said quietly.

I nodded. Odd how I could sweat so and still be chilled. “About Dottie,” I repeated stupidly. “Who says things?”

From the corner of my eye, I could see him shrug. “Just on the street. No one important. One kid said something.” Izzy appeared bashful.

“What did you do?”

He shrugged again. “I slugged him.”

Smiling was too painful, but the image of my little Izzy—well, not so little, I suppose—punching someone for his sister’s honor pleased me. “What exactly are they saying?”

“Ma, the dishes,” Izzy said.

Willing my body to move, I picked up the next plate soaking in the warm tub. “What are they saying?”

Izzy shifted from foot to foot. “Nothing real specific.”

I turned to look at him dead-on. “What are they saying?”

He stared at his feet, reminding me so much of the little boy
he once was, caught skipping
heder
or sneaking a piece of
kuchen
before dinner. I reminded myself that he was a grown man of seventeen. The mere thought took my breath away.

“They say she’s a bit of a piece.”

“A bit of what? Look at me when you’re speaking.” I put my hand under his chin, surprised at the stubble, and lifted his face so I could peer into his eyes.

“Dottie has been having some fun lately. That’s what they’re saying.”

“Fun with who?”

“No one specific,” he said, but I was pretty sure he was trying to protect me.

Rather than push it, I let go of his chin. “You hit a guy for that?”

He nodded silently, waiting to be scolded.

“Next time you hear something like that”—Izzy looked chagrined—“make sure to punch him even harder.”

Izzy grinned, relieved.

“Now go. Make sure your brothers aren’t causing any more trouble than usual this morning.” I gave him a peck on his head and he ran out. I finished cleaning up as I turned his words over in my mind. Did people know things for sure? Or was this simply the talk that happened, the bored meddling that exaggerated and created stories for entertainment? Either way, it would have to stop. Either Dottie would get rid of the baby and live such a pure life that no one could doubt her moral nature, or she would marry Abe and the talk would die off of its own accord.

After everyone left, I sat with my tea and newspaper out of habit, but I had no interest in the
Forverts
that day. My mind couldn’t focus on the world at large, not when my world within was falling apart so rapidly. The frustration I felt. I should have been worrying about what might happen to Yussel with Hitler’s influence spreading east in that backward Old World, not what might befall my daughter in the modern age of the
Goldene Medina
. It was time to take matters into my own hands.

I headed down the stairs at a slow pace. My dress that morning was snug. Luckily it was belted and I was able to loosen it two notches. But soon I would need the larger sizes that still lay in the back of my bottom drawer, those dresses I’d worn countless times during my pregnancies. Even without my saying a word, just putting on those old dresses would announce my current state to all my friends.

With my cloth bag in hand, I turned toward the Rabinowitz market. I didn’t shop there often; they charged thirty cents for a five-pound bag of flour, when if I walked two blocks more, I could buy the same flour for a quarter.

The door was open to allow for a little breeze. The space inside was tight, with cans and boxes piled everywhere. Mrs. Rabinowitz sat behind the counter, chatting with a woman I recognized from the street. They made small talk while I waited patiently. Mrs. Rabinowitz was small, but squat, as if her body had melted into itself, all those hours she spent on that stool behind the counter. If you asked me, the woman was lazy. Abe did all the heavy lifting, and Mr. Rabinowitz either worked on the books or studied Torah. Mrs. Rabinowitz took great pride in reminding folks that her husband was a learned man.

The woman finally left, and I approached the counter.

“Ah, Mrs. Krasinsky,” Mrs. Rabinowitz said. “We haven’t seen you in a long while.”

I nodded. “I usually send the boys to do the errands.” This was a lie, but I hoped it might ease the awkwardness of my not shopping there regularly.

But of course, Mrs. Rabinowitz was not one to allow the easy way out. “Hmm, I don’t recall seeing them.”

Changing the subject, I asked, “Where is Abe?”

“Off at the piers, retrieving a shipment of goods.”

I had hoped to speak to Abe directly, to learn of his intentions, but time was of the essence, so Mrs. Rabinowitz would have to do.

“With what may I help you?” she asked.

I didn’t want to buy much, given the inflated prices. But I needed to purchase something. “I’d like a dozen eggs, please.”

She turned to a box behind her and pulled them out. “Is that all?”

My smile was forced. “Yes. My last two were bad and I was in the middle of a recipe.”

Mrs. Rabinowitz’s body stiffened. “Well, I’m sure you didn’t buy them here. All our eggs are good.”

“Of course, Mrs. Rabinowitz,” I said. “I came now because I know how fresh your eggs are.”

Appeased, Mrs. Rabinowitz placed the eggs in my bag. “That will be thirty-five cents.”

I dug the coins out of my purse. Thirty-five cents. Ridiculous. But I smiled as I handed over the change.

“So, Mrs. Rabinowitz,” I said, as if making random small talk, as if a thought just popped into my mind. “Abe and Dottie have been sweet on each other for a long time now.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Rabinowitz gave a sigh that I couldn’t decipher. Was it frustration? And if so, with what? With Abe’s slowness? Or that he was with Dottie?

I couldn’t allow myself to become ruffled, so I continued. “Don’t you think it’s time the two married?”

Mrs. Rabinowitz stared at me with shrewd eyes. “What’s the rush?”

“Rush?” My shoulders squared themselves of their own accord. “It’s been three years and Dottie is now nineteen. She will be an old maid soon. I would hardly call that a rush.”

Fingering the papers on the counter, Mrs. Rabinowitz spoke, seeming to choose her words carefully. “I am sure when the time is right, Abe will decide on marriage. But he has many things to consider first.”

Consider first? What was there to consider? “I know money is a concern,” I said. “If it’s simply a matter of financing a home, I’m
sure Mr. Krasinsky and I could help with an apartment. And perhaps you and Mr. Rabinowitz could assist as well.”

Mrs. Rabinowitz nodded, idly playing with the receipt pad. “Well, yes, finances are always a concern. But there are others.”

The confusion must have been plain on my face, so she continued. “You are aware our family has been quite close to the Kraus family for many, many years. And Mr. Kraus is very successful in his garment business.”

The Krauses! “But . . .” I was speechless. Was this Mrs. Rabinowitz speaking? Or Abe?

“Mr. Kraus and Mr. Rabinowitz have been discussing an expansion of the store. Perhaps we will begin to sell clothing.”

Words were difficult, so offended was I for my poor Dottala. “Thank goodness we no longer live in the Old Country, where children were married off like chattel for family betterment.”

Mrs. Rabinowitz’s eyes narrowed to slits. “When Abe is ready to marry, I am sure he will take many things into consideration. Including the opinion of his parents. He is a good boy, that Abe.”

My Dottie. How much insult could one child take? This was ridiculous. “My Dottie is a wonderful girl,” I said, more defensively than I would have cared.

“Of course she is,” Mrs. Rabinowitz said. “Good day.”

That was it? I was being dismissed? I forced a nod at Mrs. Rabinowitz and bid her a “good day” as I marched out of the store.

My poor Dottala. Her choices had run out. It was the appointment on Thursday or a lifetime of shame. I wondered, though, if she could survive either one.