Modern Girls (35 page)

Friday, September 6

MUCH needed to be done, but first things first. When I arose early on Friday morning, before I started the
challah
, before I began on Dottie’s clothes, I sat at the kitchen table. With a piece of paper and a fountain pen I had taken from the credenza, I wrote a letter.

Dear Yussel,

Dottie is coming.

Dottie would get Yussel out of Europe. Of that I was sure. But that didn’t mean Yussel couldn’t watch out for Dottie in the meantime.

•   •   •

FOR the rest of the day, I sewed. All I could do was sew. I sewed her dresses, embroidered her collars, monogrammed her linens. Each stitch was an amulet, a bit of protection. It was all I could do for her now. Sew.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I had yardage of wool to make a coat for Dottie, one that would last through her pregnancy. If I were near to her, I’d simply let it out every month. If I were near, I’d do so many things.

A knock at the door startled me. I expected Dottie, but she
didn’t knock. Perle too would simply bound in at this hour. Sweet Perle, who ran errands for me, jumping up for thread when I ran short, for needles the moment one broke.

Pushing the fabric to the side, I hauled myself up from the table. No leg twinges, no abdomen pain. I was back to my normal self.

The knock came again. A male voice called out something, but I couldn’t understand him.

“Excuse me?” I said, opening the door.

A man in a uniform, holding a toolbox and odd equipment, stood there. In English, he said, “Bell Telephone, ma’am. I’m here to install your phone.”

“My what?” I was dumbfounded, unsure of what he was doing.

He looked at his paper. “This the Krasinsky place? I got an order from a Ben Krasinsky for a phone.”

A phone! With a laugh, I let him in. “A phone!”

Looking over the apartment with a critical eye, he asked, “Where do you want it?”

I pointed at the credenza. “Is good there.”

The man went to work as I continued my sewing. Perhaps I wouldn’t need the stitches as my amulets; I would have a phone. Didn’t I read about transatlantic calls? They were possible. I was sure of it. If Dottie was truly in trouble, she could call her mama for help.

Though good stitches wouldn’t hurt.

Monday, September 9

IN our bed at the hotel we planned our day, as had become habit over the past week. Or rather,
I
planned the day. Willie’s day consisted of going to his office and God-knows-what-else. He didn’t keep me abreast of his schedule, just threw me tidbits here and there. I looked over the list I made.

“Your mother ordered monogrammed stationery for us. I’ll pick that up this morning. And then I need to help my mother with my European wardrobe.” Better to say “European” than “maternity.” No need to remind Willie that I would soon be fat.

“Mm-hmm,” Willie said, turning the page of the newspaper.

Glancing at the clock, I saw it was close to nine a.m., and I was antsy to start the day. “Willie.” I put down my list and looked at my husband.
Husband.
The word still felt exotic. “Didn’t you tell me you have a ten a.m. meeting with Mr. Ross?”

He glanced over the top of his
Tribune
toward the bedside clock. “Oh, good God, you’re right.” He leaped out of bed, downed the last of his room service coffee, and headed to the bathroom. I blushed as I watched him go; would I ever get used to seeing a naked man?

While he prepared for the day, I dressed in a skirt and blouse. Skirts were easier than dresses because I could leave the blouse untucked and the skirt unbuttoned. My belly wasn’t that big yet, but I was bloated enough for dresses to be snug.

As I was brushing my hair, the hotel phone rang, startling me. Willie came out of the bathroom, wiping the remnants of shaving cream off his face, a towel around his waist, and he hurried to answer it. Who did he think it was? When he picked up the receiver, I watched his face change from concern to mirth. “Hey, Edie,” he said. “Calling to gossip with the new Mrs. Klein? Hang on.” He held the phone out to me.

I took the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, Dottie, it’s Edie.”

Hearing her voice on the tinny line was strange. Never, in all our years, had we ever spoken on the phone. “Edith, hi,” I said, uncertainly.

“Listen, doll, can’t talk, but you have an appointment to see my boss, Mr. Bechoff, at noon. Can you make it?”

“Yes!” I said, my eyes darting nervously to Willie. I hadn’t mentioned my idea to him yet, didn’t want to upset him when it wasn’t a certainty. “I’ll be there.”

“Great,” Edith said. “When you get here, ask for him. I put in a good word for you.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Thank you, Edith.”

Hanging up the phone, I was aware of Willie’s eyes on me. “That was too fast for any good gossip. What was she calling about?” he asked.

Smoothing my skirt, I turned to look at him, putting on what I hoped was a charming smile. “I had the idea I might volunteer with the Joint Distribution Committee when we’re in Europe.” Noting the look on his face, I hurriedly added, “I would of course make sure it doesn’t interfere with my taking care of our home. But I thought it might be good for me to not be idle. Edith has made an appointment for me to meet with her supervisor today.”

He pursed his lips. “The Joint Distribution Committee?” He nodded his head, agreeing with some unspoken thought. “The JDC. That would be . . .” He looked at me and smiled. “That would be aces!”

“What?” I said. This was not the response I had expected.

“If you work for the Joint, you’ll have access to refugees and all kinds of information. You’ll be an incredible source! This is a fantastic idea,” he repeated. “What time is your appointment? I’d like to join you.”

“Noon,” I said hesitantly, unsure about this turn of events. Dared I be hopeful?

“I’ll meet you in front of the JDC at five to noon.”

“All right.”

He threw on his suit and, within moments, looked the crisp, handsome professional man. Looking at him made me long to touch him, but I knew he had to leave. “You better hurry. You’ll be late for your meeting.”

Willie grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, before turning back. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re a handy little schedule keeper.” Taking me in his arms, he gave me a deep kiss that I felt in my stomach. It was the first time he’d kissed me like that when it wasn’t for show or as a prelude to making love. This was a kiss of affection just because. “I’ll see you close to noon.” He rubbed his nose against mine before leaving.

As the door shut, I put my finger on my lips, trying to hold on to that kiss.

•   •   •

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.

“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
.