Modern Girls (33 page)

Monday, September 2

THE invitation arrived in the afternoon mail, the same heavy cream card stock and the same engraved return address on the back flap. But instead of being addressed to Dottie, this card came to me.

I gently opened the flap and ran my finger over the lining. Never had I touched such rich paper. Such luxury put one in more pleasant spirits.

Pulling out the note, however, erased my good cheer. “The nerve of that woman,” I said.

Hovering anxiously at my shoulder was Dottie. She was making me a little crazy the way she didn’t want me to do anything. But I was fine. A couple days of rest and now it was back to work. And so much work there was, preparing for Dottie’s departure. But this, I knew, wasn’t about my overdoing it; she recognized the envelope.

“What? What did she say?” Dottie asked.

Disgusted, I tossed down the note. “She invited us to dinner. Tomorrow. Not even for
Shabbes
.”

Dottie fell with a
plop
on the couch, and for a moment I thought she fainted, but quickly realized she was only being melodramatic.

“She wants . . . us? All of us? To dinner?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Do you think . . .” Dottie paused, carefully weighing her words.
“Do you think you should be going all the way uptown? You’re not yet fully recovered.”

So worried about her mama.
Feh.
That girl was worried about how we would look, how we would act in Molly Klein’s fancy-shmancy uptown apartment.

“I can’t sit on a streetcar? Lift a fork to my mouth? I’m recovered enough for a dinner uptown.”

I continued my stitching. I had much to do if Dottie was going to have a proper trousseau to take with her to the Continent.

Dottie picked up the letter and scanned it for herself. “Why did you accuse her of
chutzpah
?”

My fingers ached slightly, but my stitches were as delicate as ever. Something in which I could still take pride. “I invited the Kleins here.”

“You did
what
?” Dottie leaped up and paced the small room.

“She’s too good to come to us?” I finished the corner of the linen I was working on, tore the thread off with my teeth, and then switched to the next side. “Remember, Molly is Perle’s sister-in-law. I knew that family well. Too good for our home?
Chutzpah.
”

“I still don’t see why you had to invite her here!”

Dottie glanced around, and I knew she was trying to picture the Kleins here. That Dottie, she could be a prideful one. Our home was lovely; she didn’t appreciate it.

“You’re making me dizzy with this back-and-forth. Sit.”

Dottie sat in the chair next to mine. “Why did you invite her?”

I set my sewing in my lap and cupped her chin in my hand, forcing Dottie’s gaze to my own. “Because meeting with your daughter’s in-laws is the proper thing to do. That Molly Klein would never have done the right thing on her own, and while I don’t relish an evening with her, it’s what’s required. They are our
machatunim
now, and we need to have them over.” As I released Dottie, my eyes grazed the note that was still in her hand. “Ridiculous!”

“Of course,” Dottie agreed. “It’s insulting! We should not go. That will teach them.”

I arched an eyebrow. “What, I was born yesterday?”

She had the common decency to appear chagrined.

“We will go,” I said. “Of that you can be sure.”

•   •   •

THE next afternoon, while Dottie awkwardly sewed linens, I dispatched Alfie to the garage to remind Ben to come home early to clean up.

“I need to run an errand,” I said, putting my work aside and standing. My body felt stiff and my abdomen ached, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.

“Absolutely not,” Dottie said. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Don’t go rushing off.”

“Who’s rushing?” I said.

“I’ll go,” she said, getting up.

“No. I’m just going to Perle’s. I’ll be fine.”

“If you need Perle, I’ll get her and bring her back here.” Dottie’s eyes scanned my body as if she was waiting for it to fall apart. Her concern was sweet. And annoying.

“I am going to Perle’s.” Looking at the cloth in her hand, I sighed. “Rip out those stitches. They are too wide. They’ll never last.”

Despite her protests, I made it out of the apartment and over to Perle’s. Not that I would ever admit it to Dottie, but I was nervous about dinner at the Kleins’. What would I wear? What would we talk about?

“Don’t you worry about that old biddy,” Perle said to me when I arrived and after she admonished me about making the journey. But sitting in my apartment made me cranky, and the fresh air did more for me than all that bed rest. “My sister-in-law has a fear of her Old World roots being exposed. Remember her father was a horse trader back home. The lowest of the low.” Perle laughed maliciously. “If it weren’t for Ira, Molly would still be living in the mud. Now, let’s see to your outfit.”

Perle went through her closet, looking for something elegant.
As a representative for the Workers’ Alliance, she sometimes had occasion to dress well. She found a deep green suit that, while a smidgen short and a tad snug in the bosom, did the job nicely.

“You look high society,” Perle said.

“What happens when I open my mouth? What if I embarrass us?”

“That woman should be trying to impress
you
. Don’t you worry about what she thinks. She needs to show you that she’s worthy of the Krasinsky family.”

I nodded and studied myself again in the mirror, bending this way and that to try to see myself in my entirety. I looked good. Uptown. For the first time, I could
almost
understand Dottie’s concern with clothes. There was something nice about feeling so elegant. Perhaps I should sew myself some new clothes. Through my sadness for Dottie and the baby, one thought had been furtively lurking: I was free to resume my work. As soon as Dottie’s trousseau was prepared, I would purchase some cloth for myself. I’d have new things to wear when I met with officials for the Women’s Conference. To wear when I worked for the union again. Because I had decided. It was time. I would return to the union. It needed me.

“You look nice.” Perle put her hands on my shoulders. “You will do fine at the Kleins’. The only thing you need to remember is to use the silverware from the outside in.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked.

Perle laughed. “You’ll see. She’ll have enough silverware for four meals at that one dinner. From the outside, in.”

I glanced again at myself, pleased. “From the outside in.”

Tuesday, September 3

AS we entered the building, I kept a sharp eye on Ma, trying to gauge her reaction. But she showed no emotion as I gave our names to the doorman, entered the elevator, and walked down the endless hallway to the apartment. Ma looked sharp in a green suit I’d never seen before. When I asked where it came from, she just gave me a sly smile. But I was pleased she was trying. I was also relieved that Ma had suggested the boys stay at home—the
boom boom boom
of the Allied planes would not go over well at the Kleins’—but as much as I tried to suppress it, I was self-conscious about the smell of oil and gas that hovered about
Tateh
. He had scrubbed himself in the tub—an unheard-of luxury for a Tuesday evening—but the smell would never completely disappear, and his hands advertised the inky black of his profession.

When the maid opened the door, Ma nodded at her, as if she were accustomed to servants, and held her head haughtily as she walked in. If I hadn’t known better, I would never have guessed that four days ago she was bedridden.
Tateh
handed his hat to the maid, who disappeared with it into another room.

“Ah, Rose, Ben. So good of you to join us,” Mrs. Klein said in English as she walked into the foyer to greet us in a beautiful dress of pale peach chiffon. Her words were welcoming, but her bearing was stiff. She shook Ma’s hand and then barely grasped
Tateh
’s, no doubt concerned the dirt of the garage would soil her. At that moment, I despised her. But I willed myself to smile.

“Dottie,” Mrs. Klein said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. The gesture was almost warm, almost convincing.

“Mrs. Klein,” I said.

“Ours is the pleasure, Molly,” Ma said awkwardly in English. “Where is Ira?”

“He’ll be joining us shortly,” Mrs. Klein said. “Delayed by business.”

Under his breath,
Tateh
muttered in Yiddish, “But
I
had to leave the garage early?”

“Shah,”
Ma whispered back.

“Why don’t we step into the parlor? Willie will fix us cocktails.”

Mrs. Klein led the way as
Tateh
barely contained his laughter. “‘Cocktails,’” he whispered. “La-di-da.”

Ma was trying not to giggle. “Behave yourself, Ben.”

“Of course, my dear,”
Tateh
said, placing his arm about Ma’s waist.

“Ma!
Tateh!
” I said. “Please.”

Ma gave me a wink as we followed Mrs. Klein. I was alarmed that Ma was not taking the evening seriously.

The parlor was every bit as intimidating as I remembered, but this time, I noticed the flaws: the crack in the wood by the fireplace, the way the fabric on the backs of the chairs didn’t match the fabric on the fronts, the uncracked spines of books that were clearly meant only for show. Was it possible that imperfections made it even more perfect? It was so . . . high society.

“How do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Krasinsky?” Willie said, standing to greet us. He came over to shake
Tateh
’s hand. I noticed Willie wince as
Tateh
grasped a touch too firmly. I longed to scold
Tateh
, but didn’t dare.

“We are family now,” Ma said to Willie. “We are Rose and Ben.”

“Rose, then,” Willie said, kissing his new mother-in-law’s hand.

“Darling,” Willie said to me, kissing me gently on the cheek. Then he whispered into my ear, “If I keep the cocktails extra strong, we should be able to get through this.”

I forced a giggle that I hoped sounded conspiratorial. I looked toward Mrs. Klein, waiting for her to ask me to call her Molly. Nothing. To nudge her, I asked, “Mrs. Klein, shall Willie make you one of his famous drinks?” but Mrs. Klein merely replied, “That would be fine, dear.”

“What can I make you, Rose? Ben? A Ward Eight? A champagne cocktail?”

“A Manhattan is nice.” Ma’s accent was thick but understandable. Where did Ma learn about Manhattans?

Willie splashed liquids from various bottles into a glass and, using a long silver spoon, stirred, making the ice clink. As he poured a second for
Tateh
, Mr. Klein came into the room.

“Good to see you,” he said, shaking hands with my parents.

Willie handed out drinks, and
Tateh
took a hearty gulp of his. I tried to mentally convey to him to drink more slowly.

“Please, have a seat,” Mrs. Klein invited, gesturing around the room.

Ma and
Tateh
sat on the couch. As
Tateh
leaned back, he sank into the plush cushions, tipping his drink. My eyes widened, but Ma saw, too, and she shifted her body so as to cover the damp spot.
Tateh
inched his way to a more dignified position.

The six of us remained in uncomfortable silence, and I frantically tried to think of a safe topic of conversation. Mr. Klein jumped in first, though. “So, Ben, what do you think of this cockamamy idea of moving to Europe?”

This was
not
a safe topic. Luckily,
Tateh
said, “I confess it distresses me greatly, but I’m sure they will manage just fine.” Bless
Tateh
. If I could have given him a big kiss on the spot, I would have.

“Manage? Our grandchild is going to be born in a
shtetl
!” Mr. Klein said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Father,” Willie said. “We will be in real cities. Paris. Rome.”

“It will be a grand adventure,” I said.

“Of course it will,”
Tateh
said. “As long as you’re sensible. Things aren’t looking good in Europe. Promise to get out before things escalate.”

“But that’s when it’s going to get interesting,” Willie said, causing a knot to form in my stomach. There was going to be no talking Willie out of this ridiculous idea.

“Returning to Europe is a step backward,” Mrs. Klein said. “Next thing you know, you’ll be working as a storekeeper, as my father did in the Old Country.”

Ma registered surprise. “A horse dealer, your father was.”

Mrs. Klein’s entire face flushed a blood red. “Nonsense. He was a storekeeper.” Mrs. Klein’s hands tapped the base of her glass in irritation.

I caught Ma’s eye and saw she was biting back laughter. I confess I was rather pleased to see Mrs. Klein brought down a peg. Park Avenue’s Mrs. Klein the daughter of a horse dealer? Now who was too big for her britches?

The maid entered the room. In her Irish brogue, she announced, “Dinner is ready, ma’am.” I leaped to my feet, relieved to move the evening along.

As Mrs. Klein guided us into the dining room, I sent up a silent prayer that nothing
treif
would be served. Ma was doing well, but fireworks would erupt if crab salad emerged from the kitchen.

The grandeur of the setting—of the large mahogany table, the high-backed chairs, the silver gracing the center of the lace tablecloth—gave me a shot of pleasure. As fancy as our previous dinners had been, Mrs. Klein had pulled out all the stops tonight. The dining table was set for royalty. If I was going to be forced to live this life, I might as well revel in the beauty of it. I fought an urge to pick up a plate and check the underside to see if it was Wedgwood.

When the maid served us each salad, Ma reached for the fork to the far left. Both
Tateh
and I watched and mimicked her movements. In all situations Ma moved with an assurance I envied. Yet Ma’s fork hovered over the plate. I looked down. The leaves of lettuce were drenched in a creamy sauce, not much different from mayonnaise. Dreadful.

Speaking in Yiddish, Ma said, “When you return from the Continent, we shall have to throw a proper party to introduce you as a couple.”

Silence washed across the table. The Kleins looked as put out as if someone had passed gas. Was Yiddish such a crime?

“I apologize, Rose,” Willie said. His stiff bearing showed his distaste for the Old World language. “I never learned to speak Jewish.”

“No,”
Tateh
said. “How can that be?”

Mrs. Klein’s smile stopped short of her cheeks. “We speak English in this house. Always.”

I hadn’t noticed before how tight Mrs. Klein’s skin was, like a canvas stretched across a frame. I wondered what creams she used.

“But your grandparents?”
Tateh
said to Willie. I knew
Tateh
would be doing most of the speaking that evening, with his perfect English. “How do you converse with them?”

“You know my parents passed years ago,” Mrs. Klein said.

“But Ira’s parents?”

“Oh, we don’t see much of them.” Mrs. Klein spoke breezily. “They live in Brooklyn. A nuisance to get out there.”

“And they don’t relish the journey to civilization,” Mr. Klein said. He cleaned his salad plate, leaving a
schmear
of dressing on his mouth.

My shock was as great as Ma and
Tateh
’s, but to my relief, they didn’t say anything. But it did make me wonder: Did Mr. and Mrs. Klein expect me to leave my own parents behind? To live a life like theirs and toss my parents aside like a bundle of rags?

Ma repeated, in English, her offer of a party, as the maid came to clear away the salad plates.

“I’m not sure how practical that will be,” Mrs. Klein said. “After all, Dottie will be far along by the time they return.”

“Far along?” Willie said. “Don’t be ridiculous. By the time we return, we will have our son.”

“Or daughter,” I said, my stomach rolling at the thought of being away from my family for so long.

Willie gave me a humoring grin. “Of course. But it will be a son.”

“For how long do you intend to be on the Continent?” Mr. Klein asked.

“For as long as it takes to expose the Nazi threat and to make my name as a writer.”

“Say your good-byes now, dear,” Mr. Klein said to his wife. “It seems our son will never return.”

A wave of embarrassment for my husband washed over me, and I rose to his defense. “Willie is an excellent writer. Have you not read his work? I wager he’ll succeed in time for us to be home before the baby’s
bris
.”

For the first time since the wedding, Willie gave me a truly appreciative look, a look that bespoke a kindness—or was it thankfulness?—that I hadn’t seen from him before. For a moment, I was grateful for this dinner, which had given us an opportunity to be something new: allies.

“Who has time to read?” Mr. Klein said.

“Well, you should,”
Tateh
said. “That book review Willie wrote in last week’s
New Yorker
was impressive.”

“You read it?” Willie asked, sounding pleased.

The maid returned carrying plates filled with something that resembled chicken.

“I’m curious,”
Tateh
said to the table at large. “If Willie is going to ‘expose the Nazi threat,’ how will he do so without speaking Yiddish?”

“Willie speaks perfect French and Spanish and highly passable
Italian. Why on earth does he need to know Yiddish?” Mrs. Klein said, delicately cutting her chicken into tiny nibbles.

Willie shoveled large bites into his mouth and spoke without swallowing. “We’re starting in Paris. The relief organizations there operate in French and English. If we move to Spain, my Spanish is excellent and I can even make out Portuguese.”

“But the French and Spanish Jews aren’t the refugees.”

“Diplomats speak French. And Spanish. And English.”

“But won’t you gain more from speaking to the refugees escaping the German Reich? Those refugees are coming out of Eastern Europe and Germany. I can’t imagine they’ll be speaking even imperfect French, Italian, or Spanish,”
Tateh
said.

Willie paused midbite, considering. Self-consciously, he chewed and swallowed what was in his mouth, preparing to speak, but I smiled broadly for the room and placed my hand on Willie’s forearm. “Willie’s thought of that, of course. One of the reasons he asked me to join him in Europe is because I’ll be able to assist him. He will speak to politicians and dignitaries in the Western languages. I will speak to the refugees from Eastern Europe in Yiddish. I will translate for him.”

Ma shot me a look and raised an eyebrow.

Willie turned to me and gave me a thoughtful appraisal. “Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what I had thought.” I could feel his eyes lingering on me, and it was pleasant.

Changing the subject, Mrs. Klein said, “Dottie, remind me before you leave tonight, I picked up some darling baby clothes at Lord and Taylor.”

“Baby clothes?” Ma exclaimed at the same time that I said, “Lord and Taylor!”

“No baby clothes,” Ma said in her halting English. “The bad luck.”

“Oh, pish,” Mrs. Klein said. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”

“Why invite the evil eye?” Ma said.

“I thought you were freethinkers,” Mr. Klein said. His voice was slightly teasing, but not in a kind way.

“Ma, it’ll be fine. I’m going to need things for the baby. Might as well bring them with me.” But even as I spoke, the fear in my chest solidified. No one bought baby things before the birth. Ma was right. It simply wasn’t done. But what could I do?

Mrs. Klein rewarded me with a nod. “Practical thinking, my girl.”

Silence returned. The sound of forks tapping against plates was deafening.