Modern Girls (24 page)

I straightened my spine. With the lipstick on her tooth, Mrs. Klein seemed less formidable. “I come from excellent ‘stock,’ I’ll thank you,” I said. “I didn’t intend for this to happen. It was a onetime occurrence, an evening that clearly got out of hand. Despite what you may think, this is not what I would have chosen for myself. I was planning to marry another and have a family with him, but alas, that is not to be anymore. My intended will not have me in this condition. Willie has a responsibility.”

With a raised eyebrow, Mrs. Klein gave the tiniest hint of a smile. “Have a streak of spunk, do you?”

Staring Mrs. Klein dead in the eye, I said, “Willie told me I need to take control of the situation. Which is precisely what I am doing.”

Mrs. Klein looked out the window. She thought for a few moments before asking, “What does your mother say?”

When I didn’t respond, Mrs. Klein glanced back. “I presume your mother is aware of the situation?”

I nodded.

“And?”

I tried to keep the firmness in my voice. “She thinks I should make the problem go away.”

Mrs. Klein nodded. “Your mother has always been a sage woman.” She finally set her embroidery down on the carved and
polished table next to her. I could see the beginnings of cross-stitched birds. “I take it from your appearance today that you have chosen not to take your mother’s advice.”

I nodded even though I was still unsure. If this went poorly, I’d hop a subway downtown and meet Ma as planned. But Mrs. Klein didn’t need to know that.

“If you did as your mother wished, it would be as if this problem had never happened. No one need ever know.”

“
I
would know.”

Once again, Mrs. Klein surveyed me. Her eyes first took in my shoes, a new fashion with a strappy front piece that revealed slices of my foot. They’d seemed so stylish when I bought them at Mays in the beginning of the summer, but now they felt clunky and cheap. I watched as her eyes moved to my legs, covered in the stockings that seemed to rip at the mere thought of a snag, then to my dress. At least that was smart and stylish, thanks to Ma’s handiwork. I was never more grateful for how she could make a store-bought dress look like the ones in the magazines.

I willed my hands to be still in my lap. “I’ll be frank,” Mrs. Klein said. “You are not who I intended for my son. But . . .” She pursed her lips in thought and I sat in silence, fearful of saying something foolish.

“Perhaps,” she said at last, “we can be of assistance to each other. Ah, but where are my manners?” She rang a bell and in a moment the parlor door opened and the maid entered.

“Yes, ma’am?” she asked, eyeing me with open curiosity.

“Please bring in some tea. And cake.”

“Right away, ma’am,” the girl said, closing the door behind her.

“You must keep up your strength, mustn’t you?” Mrs. Klein said, her eyes twinkling maliciously. “So, we seem to have a bit of trouble here.”

“I do not mean to cause trouble.”

“You may not mean to, but it most certainly appears to have followed you here.” Her smile gave me a chill.

The maid returned with a tray holding a tea service and a cake, which she set on the table before the sofa. The water must be kept to boil in the kitchen at all times for it to have come out so quickly.

“You can leave those, Fiona. I’ll pour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fiona said, clearly preferring to eavesdrop.

Mrs. Klein noticed. “Be sure to clean the upstairs well, Fiona,” she said. “I noticed dust gathering beneath the beds.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I was a little surprised she didn’t curtsy before leaving the room. But then I thought about Mrs. Klein’s words:
upstairs
. Imagine an entire second floor for one family. It was hard to fathom.

My reverie was interrupted when Mrs. Klein placed a slice of coffee cake on an elegantly flowered plate and handed it to me with a slim silver fork before pouring the tea into matching cups. They were dainty china teacups, not the plain glasses we drank from at home. “Eat, eat,” she said, gesturing toward the plate in my hand. The words relaxed me ever so slightly. Mrs. Klein may have been an uptown woman, but she was still a Jewish mother at heart, and I knew she’d want what was best for her son.

I realized I was ravenous, having skipped dinner last night and breakfast that morning. I took a bite of the cake. It was soft and airy, not like the dense loaves Ma baked. I felt guilty, as if I were betraying Ma, but as lovely as her cakes were, they suddenly seemed old-fashioned and Old World, with a heaviness this American cake didn’t hold. I longed to devour the slice but compelled myself to take slow, small bites.

Mrs. Klein watched me and shook her head slightly, a hint of a smile forming. Leaning over, she cut a second, larger slice, which she placed on my plate. “I remember. I was always starving. Eat more.”

Not wanting to appear greedy, I continued to cut delicate pieces, but I was thankful for the small kindness.

With a cup of tea held gracefully, Mrs. Klein took a sip. “As
unlikely as it may seem, perhaps we could make this work to both our advantages. It’s safe to say, I believe, that you do not wish a
mamzer
.” I flinched at the Yiddish word for
bastard
, but nodded. “And I”—Mrs. Klein placed her cup upon the table and leaned forward, as if to take me into her confidence—“do not want my foolish son returning to the land we fought so hard to leave.”

For the first time, I looked hopefully at Mrs. Klein. I forced myself to put down my plate, the cake unfinished, although I longed to lick up every crumb.

“Let me be clear,” Mrs. Klein said. “You are not my choice. But you are sturdy and Jewish and come from a decent family, and, to call it as it is, you are white.”

I gasped. I thought the rumors about Willie were merely idle chatter. But if even Mrs. Klein heard them . . .

Mrs. Klein shook her head. “Let’s not be naive, dear. In the lot of them, you are certainly the best who has come along. You shall do.” With growing determination, Mrs. Klein repeated, “Yes, indeed. You shall do just fine. And William, for once and for all, will have learned his lesson.”

“I am to be his lesson?”

“There are worse things you could be.” Mrs. Klein stood and paced as she gnawed on her lip again. “He plans on leaving soon for Europe, so there is not a moment to lose. You will return tonight. Five p.m. sharp.”

“Tonight?” I repeated in confusion.

Mrs. Klein smiled broadly at me, but it held no warmth. “We must solve this little problem of yours quickly, of course. Now, run along. I’ve a lot to do.”

“Shouldn’t Willie be consulted? This is his situation as well.”

“William was consulted last May at Camp Eden. You may show yourself out.” And with that, Mrs. Klein left the room, bellowing to her maid, “Fiona! We have our hands full.”

As I let myself out the front door, Mrs. Klein called back to me, “Five o’clock. Don’t be late.”

AT twelve thirty exactly, I arrived at the address. Had I really just been here on Monday? Years had passed in this one week.

The avenue was busy, with hawkers and carts and children playing in the streets and women bustling about, doing their shopping, pausing to gossip with friends. On one stoop, boys were shooting craps, yelling loudly as they rolled the dice, arguing over who owed what to whom. The scene was exactly like the one on my street, but here it had an ominous overtone, as I knew what else lived on this street. In my own neighborhood, Alfie often played craps, betting the pennies he earned selling firewood. What a ridiculous waste of time and money, but no use telling Alfie that. Izzy was the same. I used to forbid Izzy from gambling, imploring him to study, but he only found new ways to evade me. Yet he still kept up with his schooling, so who was I to complain? If only Alfie had half the brains of his older brother, I wouldn’t have to worry so much about him. Strange how my
kinder
were so utterly my
kinder
, yet also these foreign creatures. My children were . . . What was the word I was looking for? It struck me. Americans. My children were Americans.

How Yussel would have loved these stoop games and stickball. I couldn’t shake my image of Yussel as the twelve-year-old I left behind, the boy who woke early for
shul
, spent his mornings learning, and then his afternoons apprenticed to the bridle maker.
When Yussel had sent me a picture of his family, I could barely see the boy beneath the man. I tried to swallow the knot forming in my throat. It would do no good to think of Yussel now. I had more immediate concerns. My hand instinctively went to my belly.

My head was beginning to throb like my leg, so even though I would never do something so undignified on my own street, slowly I lowered myself to sit on the front stoop of the building next door to . . . the place. My eye took in the street, the rows of tenement buildings so different from my home. Back in Russia, our little house was cramped, and even though it was tidy, dirt from the floor covered every surface, no matter how my mama tried to chase it out. Mama and
Tateh
slept in one room, all us girls in another, and the boys in the main room. But it was all ours, with windows on every wall. And when you stepped outside, there was sunlight. I had a hard time getting used to the darkness of America, the apartments so small and suffocating, with hardly a place to take a breath. Even in the streets, the buildings fenced you in, closed you off, kept themselves between you and the sky.

Mama was sweet and mild, not like the loud, outspoken girls to whom she gave birth, girls who were forever getting themselves in trouble with their mouths. Eta and I were mischief-makers, not so different from Alfie. I remember when the teacher would smack Yussel’s hand with a stick when he read too slowly. How it infuriated us. One afternoon, Eta and I made a pretense of visiting the teacher’s house to inquire of his wife, who was cooking
Shabbes
dinner, if she needed anything sewn. Eta distracted her while I slipped a small field mouse into the closed soup tureen. As we snuck away, we could hear her shrieks.

I blessed Mama’s memory for making sure we received an education, such as it was in that little room with so few desks I had to sit in the corner on the floor, not that I minded. When the money was short and there wasn’t enough for me to take a lesson, she made me practice my letters anyway, tracing them over and over in the dirt. I was so proud of those letters, and I wanted Mama to learn
them, too, to show her how they went together to make magic. “It’s too late for me,” she used to say, “but you have all the time in the world.” Even as
Tateh
grumbled that it was a waste of time to educate girls, that the money could be better spent, Mama always did whatever she could to save a few kopecks to pay the teacher.

I blessed her memory again for stopping
Tateh
before he beat me to death after I attended that rally. “Do you want her to end up in Siberia?” she asked, as loudly as I’d ever heard her speak.

Before I left, I was a confusion of emotions. I was like the whip
Tateh
used on the horse, flying free in the air one moment, coming down hard on the hide the next. At night, I clung to Eta, as if trying to fix in my mind the curves of her body, the feel of her hair, the scent of her skin. As much as I wanted to go, I wondered if I should stay with my family. Wait for Shmuel. I feared desperately I wouldn’t see my family again.

The day before I left, I was watching Mama sew for me, hiding things in my skirts, ensuring my clothes would last, and my dread washed through me. “Mama, how can I leave you?” My voice cracked.

Mama put down the cloth and needle and opened her arms to me. “What is there for you here? You want to live the same life I live?”

“What’s wrong with your life?” I asked, even though I knew my answer to her question was
no
.

“You are destined for greater things than what Bratsyana can give you. Go to America.”

Choking back sobs, I said, “I don’t see how I can leave you.”

With a sly smile, Mama said, “Leave me? Or leave the hope that Shmuel will return?”

I was shocked. “What do you mean?”

She laughed. “I saw how you used to sneak looks at him in the market and at
shul
.”

I exhaled, relieved she didn’t know the extent of the sins Shmuel and I had committed.

“Shmuel is gone. He may never come back. You need to forget him. In America, you will be someone new. Here, your father would never have permitted a love match.” With a gentle squeeze of my hand, she said quietly, “But your father will never know what you do in America. It’s a fresh start. In America, you can have your politics
and
find yourself a good man. You will raise a family. Start anew.” With Mama’s words in my head, I pushed Shmuel from my mind, and allowed myself to fall in love with Ben.

Where was Dottie? I looked at my wristwatch. The minutes dragged on, and I held the timepiece up to my ears every few moments to make sure it was ticking.

I’d told her twelve thirty; I was sure of that. I didn’t want to be late, didn’t want to miss the appointment. And I longed to speak to her, to make her realize I understood. I wanted to assure her that one brokenhearted moment wasn’t going to ruin her future. And what a future Dottie had. She’d become educated, be an accountant. She would marry. Have a houseful of children when the time came and plenty of money with which to take care of them. Maybe they’d even move out of the neighborhood, to Washington Heights, or a nice apartment building in the Bronx.

On the street, a young woman trotted down the sidewalk, one hand holding her clutch in front of her, the other keeping her hat from flying off her head. Finally! I stood to greet her. But as the woman came closer, I realized it wasn’t her. This woman was squatter, with lighter hair, and I couldn’t imagine how I’d mistaken her for Dottie. Impatiently, I willed Dottie to come along faster. What on earth was taking her so long? Sometimes the elevated would stop for no apparent reason; today, of course, that would happen, the day it was so important for the elevated to
not
stop for no apparent reason. Dottie must be stuck, panicking, waiting for the train to begin moving again.

I sat back on the stoop and continued my wait, yet in my heart I was coming to believe it was futile.

I looked around at the stores, the fashions, the children
playing: After all these years in the
Goldene Medina
, I still marveled at what went on around me. For so long, I’d had nothing and it felt like enough; poor Dottie had everything, but it was never adequate.

My children roll their eyes at my stories of the Old World, of how we had a wood fireplace for cooking and oil lamps for the evenings. They see nothing miraculous about electric lights.

I had never seen a city until I got to Hamburg, where I would sail to America. I thought it was so busy, so big. But that was before I saw New York. Closing my eyes, I could still picture Hamburg, that huge ship with the roaring smokestack, the tiny windows, and the masses of people. A ship that was bigger than my entire village.

While waiting to board, I saw the most curious thing—a young boy had a long yellow object. He broke open the top, and pulled down the sides, revealing a white-fleshed fruit, which he ate in large bites. When he was done, he threw the yellow part on the ground, and moved with the crowd toward the ship. Looking around to make sure no one saw me, I bent over and picked it up. It felt strange: On one side it was thick and smooth, almost like the leather strap on
Tateh
’s horse, and on the other it was mushy and stringy. I held it to my nose, but all I sniffed was a bitter scent. Tentatively, I bit into it, but the taste was sour. My face puckered as I looked up, only to be embarrassed at the amusement of a nearby man. “There is a reason he threw that part away,” the man said. His Yiddish was tinged with the accent of a country that wasn’t Russia, and I couldn’t place it. The mere fact someone spoke my language but in such a different way startled me. “The inside is the good part. It’s like an orange. You eat the inside and toss the peel.” My face must have looked blank, because he laughed and said, “You’ve had an orange, haven’t you?”

“It’s a color, no?” I asked.

The man chuckled. “It’s a color, yes.
And
a fruit.”

Back in the present, a church bell rang one o’clock and startled me out of my memories. No Dottie.

The thought that Dottie wasn’t coming took firmer root in my mind. Yet it didn’t elicit the anger I would have expected. Dottie wasn’t coming. I craned my neck to look both ways down the street, and with certainty, I understood. Dottie wasn’t coming. I said it aloud. “Dottie isn’t coming.”

The idea settled on me in a comfortable way. I had known, hadn’t I, that Dottie wouldn’t be coming? Dottie wasn’t meant to give up her baby; I was. Dottie wanted her baby; I didn’t want mine. That’s what my mama would have done: sacrificed herself for her child. Mama would understand that I needed to give up a potential child to save my existing one.

If I were to have the procedure, then, yes, we would go away, have Dottie’s baby in secret, and I would still be saddled with her child, but it would be only temporary, wouldn’t it? We would settle this ridiculous Kraus nonsense once and for all, and Dottie and Abe would marry—in their own sweet time, when they had enough money. A pretense could be given—my leg worsening; an illness could be fabricated. The baby could be given to Dottie for care. I would only need to sacrifice, what? A year? Maybe two? I could have my freedom. But more important, I could take care of
my
baby, my Dottala. That was what my mama would have done. It was what I would do.

I heaved myself to a standing position, and made my way down the stairs to the basement apartment. It was one o’clock. It was time.