Threads and Flames (24 page)

“Not the little one, but you two girls are another story. I wasn't much older than Zusa is now when I met her father,” Mrs. Reshevsky countered.

“Yes, but the only reason you met him was because your parents arranged it,” Zusa said. “That's not how it works over here.”

“Listen to the Yankee!” Zusa's mother said sarcastically. “Less than a year in this country and you're an authority on America. Keep it up and someday you'll be an old-maid authority! What, you love that job of yours so much that you want to work there until you die?”

“I didn't say I wasn't going to get married,” Zusa replied serenely. “And I know my job's no bargain.”

She and Raisa exchanged a quick, conspiratorial glance. Raisa already knew her friend's plans to leave her present job as soon as possible. “
I'm not looking for the Garden of Eden,”
she'd confided in Raisa. “
Just somewhere the foreman's not a snake. And a snake with hands! Pinching, touching, squeezing—I've had enough. I haven't said a word about it at home because cousin Selig would want to go over there and
do
something about it. My foreman used to make a living doing bare-knuckle boxing down in the Bowery, so I know how that would end! I'm going to have to take care of this myself.”

“So what are you saying, then?” her mother persisted.

“Just that when it's time for me to get married, I'll be the one to say when and where and who.” Zusa smiled like someone hiding a sweet secret.

“I know who!” Brina cried out. “She means she wants Gavrel! She always looks at him funny whenever she comes over to our house. She did it last week, when we had a special honey cake for Fruma.”

“For what, the engagement?” Of course Mrs. Reshevsky knew all about that, or believed she did. “I thought the Kamenskys made a nice
oneg
Shabbos for that at their synagogue already.”

“This was just for Fruma's new job,” Raisa said.

“She's leaving Triangle?” Zusa pricked up her ears.

“She got a job that pays a little better at another shop, but nothing long term,” Raisa explained. “She doesn't mind. It's going to bring in more money before the wedding, and her fiancé says she won't need to work after they get married.”

“Now
that
is a
smart
girl,” Mrs. Reshevsky said, pointing the words straight at her daughter.

“Zusa's smart, too,” Brina said loyally. “I think it's
very
smart to want a nice man like Gavrel. But she can't have him. He likes Raisa better than he likes her, and he likes
me
best of all!”

Zusa looked at Raisa. “Remind me why we took care of this one on the ship.”

“There was nothing else to do,” Raisa said, and they both laughed until Brina began to cry and Mrs. Reshevsky ordered them to act their age and stop teasing children.

Raisa sat at her sewing machine at Triangle Waists, listening to the first November rain pour down outside. It would have been nice to see the patterns that the raindrops made, but the garment-factory windows were thick with grime inside and out. The rain could do only so much to wash away the dingy film of smoke and dust.

Just as well,
Raisa thought, running the side seam of a shirtwaist under the swiftly bobbing needle.
This is no place for day-dreams.

It hadn't taken long for her initial joy at securing a job in such a big, modern garment factory to wear off. Even though sewing at Triangle was better than slaving for Madame, the work was still monotonous and tiring. She knew that the shirtwaist makers had gained some advances in the wake of the big strike, including a fifty-two hour week and other benefits, but in spite of that, the way that she and the other employees were treated seemed aimed at making them all feel less than human.

We're packed together at these tables like canned sardines swimming in sewing machine oil,
she thought.
Then when it's quitting time, we turn into sheep, herded together to wait our turn at the exit while they search us, one by one, to make sure we haven't stolen anything.
She finished another seam and sighed.
Thank God for Zusa! She always cheers me up when we get together. Things are the same at her shop, but she's got the gift for finding something to laugh about, and that makes it easier.

When the quitting bell sounded, Raisa headed for the cloakroom with the rest of the crowd. As she donned her coat, she heard her friend Gussie calling her name from the crush of bodies in the far corner of the room.

“Raisa! Hey, Raisa, Jennie and I are going to the moving-picture show tonight. Do you want to come with us? My treat!”

“Oooh, you hear that?” one of the other girls butted in. “Get a load of the big shot!”

“Oh, shush, you,” Gussie shot back good-humoredly. “Can't a girl save a little money for herself, too? I send plenty back home every month, so once in a while I do something for me.” She smiled at Raisa. “And my friends.”

“Well,
I
think it's a good idea,” a third young woman said. “It's nice to remind ourselves that we're not just a bunch of cogs in a great big sewing machine. Even if that's what the big men upstairs
want
us to be.”

“What are you, a troublemaker? Better watch your mouth or you'll be out of a job. If the bosses hear so much as a
whisper
of union talk—” the first girl said.

“Don't be a goose; those days are over. They can't fire us for joining the union,” said the other.

“Maybe not, but they can be real good at finding another excuse!”

While the two women argued, Gussie wormed her way to Raisa's side. “Whew! All I wanted was to invite you to the picture show, not start a war.”

“Thanks, Gussie, but I can't go. My friend Zusa and I have plans.”

“Something fun, I hope. You're always so
serious,
with the night school and all.”

“Well,
some
of us weren't lucky enough to be born over here, Gussie,” Raisa said, smiling. “We have to learn English the hard way.”

“Not
too
hard for you,” Gussie replied. “I've heard you trying it out on some of the girls who don't speak Yiddish. You're good!” She linked arms with Raisa as they made their way to the line of workers waiting to have their belongings searched before they were allowed to leave the shop floor and go home. “So, what are you and Zusa doing?”

“We're going to a reunion.”

“Oh, Raisa, you found her! You found her! I'm so happy for you!” Gussie's shriek of glee turned heads. Raisa had told her about Henda long ago, as she told everyone else whose path she crossed, always in the hope that once—just once!—Henda's name or description would kindle a spark of recognition in somebody's eyes and at long last Raisa would hear someone say,
You know, I think I know that girl. I've seen her. Let me tell you more. . . .

“No, Gussie,” Raisa said. “Not her; not yet.” She pushed down the hard knot of failure that burned in her chest, and forced a smile. “This is a reunion with a friend.”

 

 

Going to Mulberry Street was like going to a different world. Raisa and Zusa strode arm in arm along the sidewalk, taking in everything with the captivated gaze of brave explorers venturing into virgin territory.

The rain had stopped, which was a mercy. Given the hour, the streets were filled with workers heading home as well as preoccupied housewives rushing to do some last-minute marketing. The stores remained open, their proprietors eager to accommodate customers until no more came by. The smells in the air were not much different from those Raisa encountered in her neighborhood, though when she and Zusa walked past a fishmonger's shop and saw the beady black eyes of silver-gray shrimp and the curling tentacles of little purple-red squid, she couldn't help jumping back just a bit.

And everywhere was the sound of Italian!

Though they knew the name of the grocery store they were seeking, neither Raisa nor Zusa knew how to say “grocery store” in Italian. When Zusa said, “Delvecchio, Delvecchio!” and mimed eating an apple, she got some nervous looks, some mocking laughter, and no help. One old woman grabbed the cross around her neck and made a hand sign that Raisa was willing to bet served to ward off the evil eye.

They finally found the place by trial and error, walking along Mulberry Street with their eyes sharpened. Raisa gave a happy cry when she spotted the sign. “Look, Zusa, I think that's it!” she exclaimed.

Zusa cocked her head and sounded out the letters: “Delvek-chee-o. Well, that's not how Luciana pronounced it, but it is a grocery. I guess they got a good deal from a sign painter who couldn't spell as well as
you,
Miss Professor.”

They entered the little store and breathed deeply, filling their nostrils with the beautiful aromas of fresh herbs and wholesome greens. Raisa couldn't help picking up a bunch of basil and inhaling its rich scent as if it were a bouquet of flowers. As she was putting it back down, a familiar voice greeted her.

She turned to face Luciana's brother Paolo. The young man stared at her for an instant, then his face transformed with happy recognition. “Ah! I know you! You are the friend of Luciana, yes?” he exclaimed in English. Then, almost shyly, he added, “It has been some time. You understand English?”

“Who does not?” Zusa replied with a nonchalant flourish of one hand.

He strode to a doorway at the back of the shop, calling loudly,
“Luciana! Luciana! Vieni e vedi!”

There came the sound of light footsteps from above followed by a clatter of shoes on an inner stairway, and then Luciana burst through the doorway into the shop. She threw her arms around her shipboard friends, but instead of a torrent of unintelligible Italian, Raisa and Zusa were joyfully surprised to hear Luciana welcome them in now-familiar English: “Oh, my friends, my friends! You come see me. Too long, yes? But so happy you come now!”

As the three girls hugged and laughed and cried and babbled at one another in the language they now shared, Paolo approached his sister with a question in Italian. Luciana frowned at first, then smiled, nodded, and turned to Raisa and Zusa. “I ask you upstairs for coffee and cake but—Mama is sick. Not bad, but not good. Paolo says I take you to good place near here for coffee and cake instead. Wait.” She disappeared through the rear doorway again, to return wrapped in a thick shawl. “Now, come.”

Luciana brought her friends to a little storefront café. Raisa felt strangely exultant to be having a real conversation in English—even if some of it was broken English. It made the language seem like a true part of her life at last instead of something she just practiced in the classroom.
If I can use it like this, to talk to Luciana, I can use it with other people, too. I can go somewhere besides the shtetl Protective and Benevolent Association and ask for help tracing my sister! They won't treat me like just another greenhorn if I can speak to them directly in English.
A new door opened and fresh hope streamed through it, filling Raisa's heart with confidence.

The first reunion of the three shipboard friends had to be a brief one. Luciana needed to go back to take care of her mother; Raisa and Zusa had to go home for dinner.

“I am sorry I eat so much cake,” Raisa said. “If I do not eat dinner, Mrs. Kamensky will take my head off.” She was very proud of herself for using such a complicated turn of phrase in English.

“Take off head?” Luciana was alarmed.

“A joke, a joke!” Zusa reassured her. “Raisa is ...” She searched for the right words, finally gave up, turned to Raisa, and asked in Yiddish, “How do you say ‘a big show-off' in English, Miss Professor?”

Raisa nudged Zusa with her elbow. “Stop making fun of me,” she said in Yiddish. To Luciana she said, “Zusa and I learn English in school. Ed-u-ca-tion-al Al-li-ance. Where do you learn it, Luciana?”

Luciana shrugged. “Here. There. Renzo helps. Paolo, too. But I think I need school.”

“You should come to our school,” Raisa said.

“Ah?” The Italian girl looked uncertain. “Is it not for—for your people only?”

“I have heard more than one person there speaking your language, after class. And others.” It might have been a different story if Luciana still spoke only Italian, but since she obviously knew some English, Raisa couldn't imagine the teachers being unable to communicate with her and turning her away.

Luciana nodded. “Good. I try. In my old shop, better for girls who know English.”

“Shop? You make clothes?” Zusa mimed using a sewing machine.