Modern Girls (10 page)

I slid over and made room for Abe.

“What are you discussing?” Abe asked.

Was it my imagination or was Willie nervous around Abe? The thought bolstered my confidence.

“Willie wrote an insightful article about the Nazi movement in America,” Edith said. When Willie smiled, Edith added, “Well, it wasn’t
that
insightful.”

I forced a laugh, trying to be my casual self.

Abe shook his head. “The Nazis can’t be taken seriously. Hoodlums looking for attention.”

“How can you say that?” Willie said. “In Berlin, just this month, two hundred Nazis beat Jews on the street, pulling Jews out of cafés and cars. And that was in the Kurfürstendamm, one of Berlin’s most fashionable neighborhoods. Restrictions are being placed on Jewish businesses. Yet Hitler is deporting foreign correspondents, so we don’t even know the extent of it!”

“May God strike me down, but I actually agree with Willie Klein,” Edith said. “Hitler is eyeing Europe, and the Jews are a minor impediment of which he’s looking to dispose.”

“Goebbels instigated the riots with his ‘If I were God’ speech, and—,” I said, but I faltered when I saw the withering glare Abe gave me.

“I need a beer,” Abe said, looking around. But no waiter came our way, so he said, “I think you’re making too much of it. Give it time and the Nazis will prove to be no more than a German fad. They will pass. But what’s
not
passing is Torah. If the Jews simply turned to
Hashem
, then—”

The uproar drowned out the rest of his sentence, with Edith, Willie, and Willie’s buddies all talking over one another. Linda and I both sat quietly, but for different reasons. Linda hated an argument. I hated an argument where Abe was in the wrong. How could he be so stubborn, so—dare I think it?—idiotic? I longed to dive into the fray, but I didn’t want to risk Abe’s wrath.

So instead, I stood and put a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Why don’t we go for a stroll? Just you and me?”

“I just got here,” Abe said. “It was a long day at the store. I’d like to get a beer.”

A grin twitched at the corners of Willie’s mouth. I swallowed back the taste of panic.

“But some fresh air would be nice,” I said, leaning into him. Abe’s scent was musky; he wasn’t one to disguise his hard work with aftershave. The tart smell of his skin, tinged with the slight pungency of sweat, was more enticing than any manufactured cologne. When I breathed it in, the tension in my belly released ever so slightly.

“One beer and then we can go,” Abe said.

Embarrassed, I stood there, unsure of what to do. First, Abe’s naive view of the world. Now he’d humiliated me in front of Willie. Of course, Abe had no idea, so could I really blame him? Tears formed in the corners of my eyes. I looked quickly toward the light, trying to discreetly bat them away. I rubbed my eyelash as if a piece of mascara had accidentally gotten into my eye.

With a sly look, Willie said, “Dottie, if you’d like fresh air, I’d be more than happy to escort you on a walk.”

I looked at him sharply, eyebrows pinched. But not as quickly as Abe, who seared Willie with his glower. “Excuse me?” Abe said angrily, standing back up. “Are you trying to step in?”

Willie quickly took a step backward and lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Of course not. But if the lady wants fresh air, I’m just trying to accommodate.”

The two men stared at each other. Willie was a good five inches taller than Abe, but he lacked Abe’s physique. He was a writer with the build of a writer. Not like Abe, who spent his days lifting and hauling bales and crates. Edith and Linda couldn’t keep their eyes off the men; Linda was horrified, Edith amused.

Abe turned and took my arm. “Why don’t we go for that stroll?”

I realized I was holding my breath. I exhaled. “Thank you,” I said quietly.

Abe steered me toward the door as I called out good-byes to my friends.

“We’ll see you tomorrow for gin rummy,” Edith said.

We walked out the door, Abe pulling me along, slightly roughly.

Out on the street, we walked silently for a block or two, before Abe snapped, “What was that?”

The stores we passed were shuttered for the night, but plenty of people were out; groups of kids, couples, late-night laborers filled the sidewalks.

“What was what?” I said as innocently as I could manage. Now that we were out of the café, my breath returned to normal and I felt the color return to my cheeks.

“Why didn’t you back me up? Surely you don’t believe that political nonsense Willie spouted.”

I couldn’t afford a fight, but I didn’t know how to let this go. “Abe, my uncle is trapped in Poland. The Jews in Europe are in trouble. The Nazi threat is real.”

He threw his hands in the air before stopping and spinning around to face me. “I’m not going to argue politics with you. But was that why you were making eyes at Willie? His great political intellect? Is there something I should know?”

Could he hear my heart beating three times its normal speed? My chin jutted up in feigned indignation. “What are you saying, Abe Rabinowitz? Are you accusing me of something?”

He pierced me with his stare. My stomach reeled, but I couldn’t let it show in my face. My best defense was to turn this around on him.

“Why are you so suspicious?” I went on. “Is it because you’re feeling guilty? How is Sadie Kraus these days?”

He rolled his eyes, but at least he turned, took my arm, and continued the walk home. “Sadie Kraus has nothing to do with this.”

“I’m simply wondering, why these accusations? They often arrive when Sadie is about to come to town.”

Abe was silent, and I realized my aimless punch was dead-on.

“Sadie
is
coming?”

“The family will be in town next week.”

I stopped short. “I knew it!” Sadie Kraus was the only person on this earth whom I truly despised. She was the one who’d started all of my problems. The Kraus family had been friends with Abe’s family since their days in the Old Country. Mr. Kraus had made good money in the coat business and moved his family out to Paterson, New Jersey, to be near the textile mills. But they returned to the city frequently, and when they were here, Mrs. Kraus made no secret of the fact that she wanted Abe for Sadie. Even Sadie’s brother, Nathan, promoted the match, creating ways for Sadie and Abe to find themselves alone. The Krauses ignored me, treating me as if I were merely a minor hiccup on the way to Abe and Sadie’s inevitable future. Mr. Kraus frequently implied that he would set up Abe and Nathan together in business, if Abe were so inclined.

“I have no interest in Sadie Kraus,” Abe said. But how could I believe him? No matter how he protested, I was certain he and Sadie had played the same kind of games Lefty and I had played. How could they not? Sadie had luscious curls that needed no perm and her skin was porcelain. Her eyes were such a vivid blue that I wanted to stab them with a fork every time I saw her. I could picture Sadie kissing Abe, seducing him in all the ways he resisted with me. Of course he would give in. He’d be a fool not to, with such a beauty. “But this has nothing to do with the matter at hand. Why did Willie think you might take a walk with him? Were you flirting with him?”

“Of course not,” I said. If there was one truth to the entire night, it was that I was most definitely
not
flirting with Willie Klein. Not tonight. And never again.

We were approaching my street, and our argument wasn’t abating. It needed to stop. Abe and I
had
to go to Camp Eden this coming weekend. Especially given that Sadie Kraus was coming to town. Swallowing my pride, I pulled Abe closer to me, both my hands clutching his arm, and whispered in his ear, “You are the only one with whom I care to flirt.” My right hand slid down his arm, over his belly, gently grazing the top of his thigh.

Abe looked at me, and as I let my fingers stroke him, I could feel his anger melting. Stepping over the children sleeping on the front steps, Abe walked me into the entry of my building, and inside the darkened hallway, he brusquely pulled me in and kissed me with ardor. I could hear Mr. Baum moving about his apartment and I sent up a quick prayer that he didn’t emerge.

My fingers combed through Abe’s hair as we necked on the stairs. In these hours, I was grateful for the darkness that encompassed the building. His hands roamed my back and sides, never straying too far out of the bounds of propriety. I longed to push Abe a little further, greedy to feel yet more, but after a few minutes I pulled away. No need to rush things. I didn’t want to scare him off. The important thing was to get him to Camp Eden next weekend.

“I should go upstairs, check on Eugene. Ma and
Tateh
are out.”

“Mmm,” Abe murmured, nibbling on my neck.

“We’ll have more time next weekend. At Camp Eden. Right?” I said as he moved to my earlobe.

“Absolutely,” he said.

I gave him one last kiss and headed upstairs, pleased with myself. This would work. It
had
to work.

SUNDAY evening after dinner, I went with Ben to Perle’s apartment for the men’s card game and the women’s social time, carrying a
kichel
I’d made earlier in the day.

“Rose, how is it you walk so fast in your condition?” Ben asked, trying to keep up.

“Shah!”
I spit on the ground. “You want to tempt the evil eye?”

“Ridiculous superstition,” I heard Ben mutter.

“What’s that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

He looked at me and smiled. “Nothing, dear.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said, quickening my pace even more. My leg hurt, but not enough to keep me from hurrying.

“You’d think you hadn’t seen Perle in weeks, the way you’re moving.”

“I want to catch a moment to speak with her privately.”

But of course, as luck had it, we were far from the first ones there. The men were already in the living room, playing cards around the table, and the women were gathered in the kitchen. I gave Ben a nod of my head as I left him to his kaluki game.

“Have a cup of coffee,” Perle said by way of greeting, pouring me a cup from the percolator.

“Thank you,” I said.

Lana and Deborah were both already sitting at the table, and Lana jumped up to offer me her seat. I tried to wave her back down,
but she insisted. It embarrassed me when people noticed my lame leg, and now my limp was more pronounced. Yet I took her seat and she pulled a new chair from the other side of the room for herself.

These women were my people, my
landsfroyen
, those of us from the same region of the Old Country. I had known Perle since I was a babe, known Deborah since I could toddle. Lana came from a nearby town, and while I hadn’t known her at home, we were related by geography. We all had the same memories: sewing under the watchful eye of a grandmother, secret meetings in the fields with handsome young men, the
rebbe
droning on in the town’s only
shul
. For that alone, we would always remain united.

These Sunday evenings we sipped our coffee and gossiped. Gossip important and catty, local and international—everything was covered in these gatherings at one another’s homes: tenants’ rights, Hitler, Stalin, who was seen out with whom, who didn’t have enough for rent, who splurged on a new dining set. So soothing to speak Yiddish in a room full of people who weren’t going to reply in English. We all understood Russian, and we were proficient in English, but Yiddish was home.

Taking a sip of coffee, I announced, “So, my little Dottala? A promotion at work.” I could feel myself sitting slightly taller with pride. “Head bookkeeper!”

Bayla, who had just walked in, said,
“Mazel tov,”
as she pulled a chair in from the living room and plopped herself down.

“A nice raise, too,” I said.

“Now maybe she and Abe can save enough to get married,” Perle said.

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” I said. “Those two, they move like the milk cart in a blizzard.”

We chitchatted about our families, slicing slivers of the pastries we’d all brought. Most of the sweets went to the card table in the next room, where we could hear the men’s roar of conversation as the smell of their cigars wafted into the kitchen.

As the conversation moved toward politics, I said, “I’ve received
a letter from Yussel. He has given up hope, it seems, of coming here. He is now trying to leave for Cuba. You have all written your letters this week?” That afternoon, Dottie had sat with me for over an hour, making sure my most recent letter to Senator Copeland sounded properly American.

An awkward silence descended upon the room. Blood rushed to my cheeks. “You must write your letters! Those of us who are citizens
must
write our representatives to repeal the Johnson-Reed Act.” Passed in 1924, that immigration act had introduced such severe quotas that barely any Jews could now enter the
Goldene Medina
, the golden land.

“We’re writing, we’re writing,” Bayla said. “But surely there are other more pressing things to which we should turn our attention.”

“More pressing than our brothers and sisters starving in Europe?” Standing up, I had to fight to control the volume of my voice, which wanted to burst through the ceiling.

“Yussel isn’t starving,” Perle said.

“No,” I said, “but others are. And the Jews are being deprived of rights and stripped of their dignity. And we just sit here and let it happen?”

“We don’t just let it happen,” Perle said, “but we help those whom we can actually help.”

“I’m not helping our comrades here? Who’s helping Esther Friedman’s women’s conference, managing the correspondence and assisting at the event? I agree, it’s important. But our people in Europe are being denied jobs.
Killed
in riots. I know most of you have your families here, but some of us are sick with worry about our relatives stuck in the Old Country!” I realized I was yelling when the men from the next room shot worried looks our way. I rolled my eyes at Ben and he shrugged and went back to his cards. This was not a new argument.

Perle walked over and placed a hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me back into my seat. “I write my letters, Rose. And yes, you do much. Yet perhaps you could do more, right here at home.
Conferencing is good. But
doing
is better. So much more needs to be done to feed and clothe and house the families in our own city of New York.” She rubbed my arm, as if appeasing an angry child. “I am going to a meeting of the Workers’ Alliance tomorrow to formulate our plan for the Workers’ Rights Amendment. Come with me.”

Waves of exhaustion poured through me, and my whole body sank into the seat. I was fatigued. I was achy. I was pregnant. This was all too much for me. I said much more quietly, “There are lives at stake in Europe.”

“There are lives at stake here,” Perle said. “People need to earn a living wage to feed and house themselves.”

Even if I had the energy to attend a meeting, I knew it was pointless. Why become involved in something new when I’d only have to quit again when the baby came? As it was, I wasn’t sure if I could follow through with my commitment to help with the conference. I could already tell: Being pregnant at forty-two was going to be nothing like being pregnant at even thirty-two. But I wasn’t going to share that with everyone. Not yet.

Nodding, because it took too much effort to do anything else, I said, “I am sorry, but I am unable to attend the meeting.”

Returning to her chair, Perle looked at me quizzically, but I didn’t elaborate. “Fight for whatever you feel is important,” Perle said. “But actually
fight
. Writing letters and getting coffee for
others
who are speaking is busywork. You need to speak for yourself, Rose.”

Embarrassed, I looked away.

Perle and I had practically shared a cradle; our mothers were childhood friends. Perle, my older sister Eta, and I were the only girls who occasionally attended lessons at the tiny school, which bound us even more tightly to one another. Perle’s daughter, Zelda, was just months older than Dottie. But where I continued to have children, Perle was unable, so she threw herself into politics. She was the neighborhood’s leading member in the Socialist Party, organizing rent strikes and food strikes and sit-ins with the
Unemployed Council at the Home Relief Bureaus. With babe in arms, I tried to follow, all the political fervor I’d possessed in Russia not just returning but growing. This was America! We could make changes! My Dottie, Izzy, Alfie, and Joey spent their childhoods handing out leaflets, parroting slogans, my older two marching beside me, the toddlers clutching pamphlets in their carriage. That all stopped when the twins became ill. I left the work behind as I sat by my boys’ sickbed. I knew there was more I should do now. It was time to throw myself back into the movement. But, as if to remind me, my leg spasmed, and I remembered, now was
not
the time. A new burden was arriving.

Oh, if only I could “actually fight.” But I couldn’t risk it. The one time since the boys’ illness that I’d tried, it had ended badly.

Three and a half years ago, when Eugene was still in short pants, the
landsmanshaft
learned of a Communist rally in Union Square. Even though we were firm in our socialist beliefs, we all agreed to go. Dottie, Izzy, and Alfie were in school, so I had no choice but to bring Eugene. We walked to Union Square, astonished to find thousands of people crowding in, signs everywhere reading “Work or Wages” and “Fight—Don’t Starve.”

At the base of Union Square stood William Foster, the general secretary of the Communist Party, who had organized the steel strikes. I’d read about him in
The Nation
, a magazine Ben brought home
.
“Demand food!” Foster was shouting. “Demand unemployment insurance. Demand wages. We must organize!”

Entranced, I allowed myself and Eugene to be pulled into the morass. Waves of people swelled, and I looked around, strengthened by the faith of those around me. Feelings that had long lain slumbering rose in me—a heated passion, a longing for revolution that
I
helped bring on—and I was flooded once again with the convictions I’d held in my youth, back in the days before the twins were sick, the confidence that I, myself, could change the world.

Eugene clung to my side, and I felt a rush of tenderness for his little being, but at the same time, I grasped his shoulder eagerly,
wanting to be in the middle of it all. He held my leg, making it difficult for me to move into the crowd. “No, Mama!” he cried, and glancing down, I saw the fear on his face. I tried to imagine what all these bodies looked like to the tiny boy, and I experienced a pang of sympathy and a slash of impatience at the same time. “Mama, please,” he said.

Straining to hear Foster speak, I ignored Eugene at first, but as his pleas became more intense, I yielded. “Come, then,” I said, and holding him by the arm, I walked quickly out of the crowd, standing at the back, where I could barely hear what was being said, but where Eugene could stand comfortably. Even in the protests in Russia, I never saw a horde like this. The entire square was filled from avenue to avenue with bodies, some cheering, some shouting, all struggling to hear Foster speak. I tried to follow what he said, but the noise was so loud and the English so quick that I managed to understand only a little.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement on the edge of the crowd, something looming over the throng. In an instant, I realized what was happening; it was the same as that moment in the Old Country. In a split second, I needed to make a decision: to stand my ground with my comrades or to get my son safely away.

At four, Eugene was too old to be carried, and yet I swept him into my arms. The crowd was so vast that even on the edges of Fourteenth Street, it was difficult to pass. I pushed my way through the mob, struggling under the weight of my son. My gimp leg started to throb.

Unused to being coddled by me, Eugene buried his head in my shoulder, and he dug his fingers into my neck.

As I broke free of the crowd, I saw the movement on the edges increase, and mounted policemen rode straight into the protesters in the square. The horses whinnied and for a blink of an eye, I was frozen, back in the town square, the czar’s soldiers on their mounts advancing. “Horsies,” Eugene called, which was enough to awaken me. I ran, gasping, my leg in terrific pain, and
I squeezed Eugene tightly enough that he cried out. “Hush,” I said. “Hush!”

Refusing the temptation of Lot’s wife, I ran the four blocks, not once looking back. When finally I arrived at Avenue A, I set Eugene down, and plopped onto a stoop in an effort to regain my breath. Eugene stood silently, curiously. To him, I was inexhaustible. If only he knew.

At the moment, sitting on a stoop like a common housewife, I cursed myself.
What happened to the Rose who had no fear?
Then I looked at my son and knew exactly where that Rose had gone. The hopelessness of my situation, my inability to be both a revolutionary and a mother, filled me with rage. Was this what I was destined to be? Not a fighter, standing up for her beliefs, but a coward running at the first sign of trouble? No, not a coward; a mother. Angrily, I stood, took Eugene by the arm, and walked at a pace that was just this side of too fast, back to our apartment. A mother could bear only so much loss; I couldn’t risk another child.

Since that day, my political life hadn’t gone further than handing out pamphlets, listening to speakers, writing my letters, and arguing with Ben and whoever came for
Shabbes
dinner. No longer did I march in picket lines. No longer did I stand firm in protest against cops and thugs. No longer did I sneak into factories and sweatshops to leaflet the workers.

And now. Now, just when Eugene would be starting
heder
, his afternoons filled with Torah and Hebrew, now when he no longer needed his mama, now I would be starting all over again. A bitterness filled my heart, a bitterness that caused only guilt, fear, and fury. What kind of a woman felt like this? Was I a monster?

The chatter of the
kaffeeklatsch
continued. Deborah related the neighborhood gossip—Mayer was taking his family to California where a job was waiting; Milton had received a pink slip—and Perle refilled coffee cups. Bayla lounged in her chair, and Lana cross-stitched while interjecting her own tidbits.