The Hired Girl (16 page)

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dull,” she said, very firmly. “Like Anna. She was never very much fun, but now that she’s married, she’s too dull for words. Half the time, her husband’s away on business, and she has these awful babies. Oskar is my nephew — he’s
really
awful — and baby Irma does nothing but cry and spit up. I know it’s not nice to talk about spitting up, but both of Anna’s babies were born with something the matter with their stomachs, and
all they do
is spit up. And all Anna does is worry about them and change her clothes and wipe down the walls. That’s not how I want to spend my life.” She stopped for breath. “What about you? Why won’t you get married?”

I thought about Father and Ma. “Because I don’t like being bullied,” I answered. “And I want my own money. I want my own home and my own job. I guess I want my whole life for my own.”

“But your whole life is being a hired girl,” Mimi protested. “Don’t you hate being a servant?”

“I won’t always be a servant.”

“What will you be, then?”

“A teacher,” I said, but she wasn’t impressed. In fact, she rolled her eyes and moaned. “Or maybe a great writer, like Charlotte Brontë. What are you going to be?”

“A concert pianist,” said Mimi. “Maybe. I’d rather sing opera, but my voice isn’t very big. But I could be a concert pianist — except I hate practicing — and wear beautiful dresses and be very famous. Or I could be an actress, like Sarah Bernhardt. She’s a Jewess, you know. She’s Catholic, but her mother was a Jewess, so she’s really a Jew. Or I could run Rosenbach’s Department Store. I’d like that. Solly won’t take over the store, and I don’t believe David will, either. Why can’t girls run department stores?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but if you’re going to run a department store, you’re going to have to learn arithmetic.”

She wrinkled her nose at me. “That was a low-down, grown-up thing to say,” she said accusingly. “How would you like it if you had to do this horrible arithmetic? I bet you couldn’t.” She shoved her paper in my direction.

I took it. The sums weren’t difficult; there were long columns of large numbers, but it was simple addition, nothing more. “I could do it with one hand tied behind me. And the first one’s wrong. You carried the numbers in the wrong column.”

She made a noise like
fffftttt
and snatched the paper out of my hands. Her cheeks were pink, and I was sorry I’d been so boastful, because I saw that she was ashamed. Then her face lit up. “I know what! If you’ll do my sums for me, I’ll give you a quarter.”

I shook my head. “That wouldn’t be honorable.” I’ve never been offered a bribe before, and I must say it made me feel superior to decline it. Of course, she only offered me a quarter. I might have been tempted to sell my integrity for a great fortune, but I’d certainly never sell it for a quarter.

Then I relented. “I could help you with your arithmetic,” I offered. “It isn’t difficult. It’s just facts. Once you know your numbers —”

“I
do
know them!” she said irritably. “I can say them; I just can’t get them right on the paper. Oh, now, don’t get cross and leave —” because I had picked up the tray and was halfway to the door. “We were getting on so well! If you
must
teach me, I suppose I could put up with a little of it — only you’ll have to let me try new things with your hair. I think we should be friends. Neither of us wants to get married, and I’m interested in you. I bet you’d like to have a friend your own age, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re not my age,” I said. But I was taken aback. It was uncanny how easily she seemed to see inside me. I
had
enjoyed talking to another girl. “I’m eighteen, remember? That’s six years older than you.”

“All right, so you’re eighteen,” Mimi said impatiently. “We’ll agree on that. But we’re still both girls, and neither of us is going to get married. Will you agree to call me Mimi, and be my friend?”

I smiled at her; I couldn’t help it. “Mimi,” I answered, like a promise, and I was still smiling as I went downstairs.

Friday, July the fourteenth, 1911

Another long day preparing for Shabbos, and more fancy cooking in honor of Mr. Rosenbach. My feet ache. I can’t imagine how Malka’s feet must hurt — she has a terrible bunion. She’s been surprisingly cheerful these past few days — I suppose because her little Moritz is home, and she likes spoiling him with all his favorite foods.

I have seen her little Moritz. He’s a Bantam rooster of a man — short and stout and loud. He always seems to be shouting. I can’t distinguish the words, but the sound thunders and reverberates. No wonder Mimi is worried about doing badly at school. And no wonder Mr. Solomon is afraid to tell his father that he wants to be a scholar.

I wonder if all fathers are tyrants.

I feel for Mr. Solomon, because now that I know he’s in love, I notice things I hadn’t seen before. For example, he is absentminded and leaves books all over the house — some of them in Hebrew and German, but also books of poetry. Malka fussed one night because he forgot to change for dinner and came in his regular clothes. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I can see that these are signs of lovesickness. True lovers are careless like that. Either they dandify themselves, like Mr. Toots in
Dombey and Son,
or they forget what they have on.

I think Miss Himmelrich is cruel and shallow to despise her true lover because he doesn’t want to run a department store. Perhaps she’s like Gwendolen in
Daniel Deronda,
who is beautiful and heartless. I think I’d like to be beautiful and heartless for a while, just to see what it’s like. It must be very heady to wear lace and pearls and have men admire you but not pay any heed to them. I would be mocking and capricious and
wild.
But that is the kind of behavior a girl can only get away with if she’s beautiful.

I’m afraid I’m going to have very dull love affairs when I’m grown up — that is, if I have any. If any man ever falls in love with me, he’s going to be one of the dull ones; I just know it. Likely it’s indelicate for me to think about love affairs, but pretending to be eighteen is making me grow up very fast. I’m afraid Miss Chandler would think I’m growing up
too
fast and that the Rosenbachs are worldly. I know it would sadden her that Mimi talks slang. She used to say that it’s one thing for a young man to talk slang, but it’s unwomanly for a young girl. All the same, I can’t help liking Mimi. On my next day off, she’s going to show me how to catch the streetcar to Rosenbach’s Department Store. She wants me to buy a wire rat for my hair so we can try out a new style. I think it’s ever so kind of her, but I don’t know what Mrs. Rosenbach would say about her daughter going out with the hired girl. Mimi says her mother won’t mind, but I think Malka might, so I haven’t exactly mentioned it to her.

I am
so
tired tonight. When I first came here, I thought the housework would be easy, because of not having the laundry to do, or sweeping out the ashes from the stove, or cleaning the privy. And it
is
easier, and far less dirty. I’m getting the knack of managing the gas stove and the electric iron, and it’s ever so much quicker to clean the carpets with a carpet sweeper instead of a dustpan and broom. When I finish cleaning, things look
nice,
which is so satisfying and so different from the farm.

But in some ways, there’s more work to do, because Malka is so particular. The house is bigger — so many stairs — and we sweep and straighten and dust every morning. The city air is dirty, so the extra dusting is necessary. Then, downstairs, the food is fancier and there’s
kashrut
to consider. There’s tons more ironing, because the Rosenbachs change for dinner every night. And every week there’s Shabbos, which is like spring cleaning and Thanksgiving dinner put together.

Tomorrow I’m cooking breakfast — hot muffins, salmon cakes, plus peaches with cream, because Mr. Rosenbach likes them. I’m not worried about anything but the fish. I’m afraid of overcooking it. Malka says she can’t watch and tell me how long to cook the cakes because that would be working on Shabbos, and anyone who thinks keeping an eye on me isn’t work doesn’t know from nothing.

Sunday, July the sixteenth, 1911

Today I made my way to Corpus Christi Church, which is very beautiful — the sublime cathedrals in
The Picturesque World
are not more lovely than Corpus Christi. I wore my blue-with-the-ferns uniform and puffed my hair the way Mimi taught me, but I felt very plain when I got to the church and saw all the well-dressed people getting out of their carriages and automobiles. (I often see automobiles here in Baltimore.) I had to remind myself that the church was God’s house and He would want me to come to Mass;
He
wouldn’t mind that Ma’s old hat is a disgrace. But of course, I mind. I shall look at new hats on Tuesday.

Inside, the church is as bright as a jewel box. There are glorious stained-glass windows, saints and angels and crowns and goblets, all worked in cunning patterns. Even the floor is patterned, and there are gold mosaics on the walls, and candles burning, and the smell of incense. I remembered to genuflect when I went in — I didn’t have to think about it; my hand went to my forehead and my knees bent. I knew I was in the
real
Church: one, holy, Catholic, and apostolic.

I’d forgotten about the Mass, though. Not how holy and awe-inspiring it is, but how much time you spend looking at the priest’s back without knowing what he’s saying. I need a missal, and that’s one thing I’m afraid a Jewish department store isn’t going to carry. Ma’s missal was buried with her. She didn’t have a Catholic funeral, so the night before she was buried I crept downstairs and slipped the missal into her coffin. I wanted God to know that she was a good Catholic, even if Father wouldn’t allow a funeral Mass. That shows how childish I was, as if God has to look in all the coffins to see who’s Catholic and who isn’t. I guess He knows.

I wish I had that missal, though. I recognized the sound of the Latin words, but I didn’t know what they meant. The priest was old and his voice didn’t carry. I was wicked enough to be bored. Not the whole time, but every now and then I found myself wondering when the Mass would be over, just as I did when I was a child.

But there was plenty to look at. Above the altar there’s a beautiful, sorrowful Crucifixion, and above that is a great stained-glass window: the Blessed Mother wearing a blue, blue dress. It’s a blue that’s hard to describe, because it’s almost blue-black, but with the sun shining through it, it’s like blue fire. Staring at that color, I felt mystified and at the same time contented, as if all I wanted on earth was to go on looking. When we see God face-to-face, we will be fascinated in just that way; I’m sure of it.

Only, my attention did wander after a while, even from the celestial beauty of that stained glass. I suppose that’s because I’m full of sin. Since I couldn’t follow the service, I silently thanked God for sending me to the Rosenbachs and guiding me to Corpus Christi. I prayed for Mr. Solomon, and in a surge of noble renunciation I prayed that Nora Himmelrich might come to see his worth and love him. I prayed for Miss Chandler, and for Malka’s bunion, and for all the Rosenbachs. I prayed for my brothers. It was a little bit of a wrench, because I’m still mad at them, but I felt better afterward.

I didn’t pray for Father, though. I thought about him burning my books and felt such a surge of rage as I’m sure has no place in a Catholic church. I
can’t
forgive him. I mean to replace those books as soon as I can, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to find the same editions. But the new books won’t have Miss Chandler’s writing inside. They won’t be the same.

After I prayed, I looked around at the church and tried not to notice the ladies’ hats. There were some exquisite hats there, and my mind kept wandering to what they might have cost. I made myself stare down at my hands. Suddenly I remembered Ma. When I was little and sat beside her in church, she’d check my hands, and sometimes she’d see that my fingernails were dirty. She couldn’t stand that. She’d slip off her gloves and seize my hand and dig under my fingernails with her own. It hurt dreadfully, but of course I couldn’t cry out because we were in church. I would twist my mouth and glare at her.

I felt a great wave of love and grief when I remembered that. Dear Ma! She wanted everything fine for me: religion and clean fingernails and a good education. I still can’t see how she managed to save up all that money and hide it from Father. She must have known that one day I would need to escape from him. Even after her death, she provided for me.

When the service was over, the priest said that anyone who wanted to stay could pray the rosary. I don’t have rosary beads, but Ma taught me how to say the rosary on my fingers, so I stayed. I especially love the mystery of the Coronation of the Virgin, because I imagine the saints in colorful robes, and a blue starry sky, and Jesus smiling tenderly as He crowned His Mother’s brow with roses.

After the rosary I knelt in the Lady Chapel and lit a candle and said a prayer for Ma, not that she needs it, because I am sure she’s in heaven, not Purgatory. But I sent her my love. I imagined her looking down, tickled pink because I was in a real church and have a job that pays six dollars a week.

When I rose from my knees and started to walk out, I saw the priest. He’d changed from his vestments, but he nodded and smiled at me. Such a kind smile! I felt so happy as I left the church — happy and
purified.
I didn’t even mind about my awful hat. (But I’m still going to replace it, because it really is too small and beat-up.)

It occurs to me that one of the best things about my new servitude is that people are pleased with me, and say so. Malka says I am a good, hard-working girl, and Mimi wants to be friends, and today the priest smiled at me. In my old life, nobody ever praised me except Miss Chandler. I hope this craving for approval doesn’t mean I’m as vain as Gwendolen in
Daniel Deronda.
But even the Thomashefsky cat likes to be told how handsome he is — you can tell by the way he purrs and flexes his paws — and I sometimes wonder if every living thing doesn’t need kind words as much as sunshine and water.