The Hired Girl (30 page)

“I’m not in love with David,” I said hotly. “I’m too young to be in love.” And at that moment, I would have given anything to tell her that I’m fourteen, because that would have
proved
it. If you’re fourteen, you shouldn’t even be accused of anything as horrid as being in love with someone’s brother. “I don’t care one bit about boys; you know that.”

“I know, but I thought I should warn you,” said Mimi, still playing with her ice cream. It’s not manners to play with your food, but she does it daintily, which is how she expects to get away with it, I guess. “David likes girls, and girls always like David. Malka says he used to chase girls when he was in short pants. Even then they liked him. It’s funny, because he has that awful nose —”

“Yes, isn’t his nose ridiculous?” I said eagerly. “When he sneezes it must be like a tornado. And when it bleeds, the Red Sea —”

Mimi lifted her eyebrows in a way that made her look just like her mother. “Did he say that speech for you? He didn’t make it up, you know. It’s from a play.”

“Oh, I know,” I said, but I hadn’t. I bent my head over my soda.

“He likes saying clever things, but they aren’t original,” Mimi pointed out. “And he quotes poetry to girls, and they like that. I wouldn’t; I hate poetry. But David likes it and he uses it on the girls. Then they get spoony and fall in love. Like that Isabelle Gratz.”

My ears pricked up. I’ve wondered if Isabelle Gratz was David’s first model for Joan of Arc — the girl with the pinched-in waist and the tiny little mind. “Who’s Isabelle Gratz?”

“She lives on Long Island,” Mimi explained, “and her father is in banking. He does a lot of business with Papa. David stayed with the Gratzes this past summer and studied painting. He partnered Isabelle at dances and played tennis and croquet and flirted with her — I’m sure he did, though he says he didn’t. So of course Isabelle fell in love with him. What made it scandalous is that the Gratzes are more Orthodox than we are — well, if you’re really Orthodox, a matchmaker chooses your husband, but the Gratzes aren’t as Orthodox as that. But Mr. Gratz didn’t like Isabelle spending so much time with David, and he told her it wasn’t maidenly, the spoony way she carried on when David was around. So Isabelle told him they were practically engaged. It wasn’t true, because David never had any idea of proposing to her. But Mr. Gratz took David aside and asked what were his intentions, and David said he didn’t have any. It wasn’t as if he’d kissed her or anything. Mr. Gratz was furious and said some very sharp things, and David caught the night train and came home in the middle of the night. Papa had to go back to New York to smooth things over. It isn’t the first time David’s gotten into a scrape. That’s why I’m warning you. David flirts with girls and then he’s surprised when they like him back. He says Isabelle’s silly, and I guess she is. She has a perfectly elegant way of dressing her hair, though.”

“Does she?” I said. I played with my ice cream. “How does she do it?”

Mimi at once went into a long description, dramatizing with gestures and tugging her curls. I concentrated on my soda. It tasted good, but it felt fizzy and funny in my stomach. It’s almost the time of the month for me to be unwell, and I wondered if I’d already begun. I was trying to work out exactly how many days it had been since the last time, when Mimi said, “I think David’s writing letters to a
shiksa.
”

I know now what a
shiksa
is. It turns out I really am one, but there’s nothing wrong with being a
shiksa
— it’s just a girl who isn’t Jewish. “He is?”

Mimi nodded. “She’s
French,
” she breathed as if this made matters worse, “and the name on the envelopes is Madame Jean-Baptiste Marechaux.
Jean-Baptiste,
” she repeated, and I felt a pang of envy because she pouted so prettily and sounded so foreign. “That means
John the Baptist.
It’s not a name a Jew would give his son. And it’s
Madame
Marechaux, so David’s exchanging letters with a married woman. I expect there will be another scandal,” she concluded placidly, and drew on her straw.

“Don’t suck your straw like that,” I said sharply. “That’s not a polite noise.” The truth was, she was getting on my nerves. “And stop talking about scandals and flirtations. You’re a little girl.”

Mimi put out her tongue. “You’re not much older,” she said. “I still don’t believe you’re eighteen. Just then you sounded like the worst kind of grown-up. I thought you were better than that.”

I didn’t know how I felt when she said that. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be a grown-up, or a child like Mimi, self-possessed and spoiled and happy so long as she had an ice-cream soda to drink. Luckily it was getting late, and I said so. Mimi consulted her little gold watch and said it was only half past three, but I pointed out it was half past four.

We bickered together on the streetcar. By the time we were home, I was thoroughly tired of her.

I found Malka very low. She’s decided that all the rugs must be taken up and beaten before the High Holy Days. Everything has to be very clean for Rosh Hashanah. The electric carpet sweeper would have made the carpets clean enough, but since we have only the ordinary kind, the carpets will have to come up. Malka made up a timetable of how many carpets we’ll have to do between now and the twenty-second. It’s a dreadful list, because this house is full of carpets. I know this is her way of punishing Mrs. Rosenbach — she’s going to shame her by working her fingers to the bone. But it’s really my fingers that are going to be worked to the bone, because I can kneel to get the carpet tacks up, and Malka can’t. And I’ll be the one beating the carpets and doing the lion’s share of dragging them up and down the stairs.

I felt exasperated, but Malka was crying hard. Sometimes the work is too much for her, but she’d rather die than admit it. I tried to make her laugh by flexing my arm muscles and boasting about how strong I was. She did laugh a little. I can’t help worrying, though, because some of those carpets will need two people to carry them, and Malka shouldn’t be one of those people. The natural thing would be to ask one of the Rosenbach sons for help, but I can’t ask Mr. Solly for anything, not after I almost ruined his life by sending that sonnet to Nora Himmelrich. I hate the thought of David seeing me in my oldest dress with my hair tied up in a handkerchief. Beating carpets makes you so dirty. Sometimes it seems to me that David’s more powerful than I am — not with his muscles but in some way I can’t put my finger on — and if he sees me beating carpets, he’ll be even more powerful.

I reckon Thomashefsky sensed I was trying to comfort Malka — I was kneeling on the floor next to her chair — because he actually came up to me and put his front paws in my lap. I was so surprised; I scarcely dared breathe. After all these months of not liking me, he walked straight into my lap, lowered himself into a crouching position, and began to purr.

I think that was the only really nice thing that happened today. That and the fact that I’m not unwell
yet,
though all the symptoms are there. I bet tomorrow will be awful.

Altogether it has been a most irksome day.

Wednesday, September the sixth, 1911

I thought today would be horrid, but I’m in a good mood tonight. Just as I expected, I felt poorly when I got up this morning, and after breakfast, Malka wanted to get started on the carpets. When she heard I wasn’t well, she took pity on me and said we’d start with the smallest ones, the ones from Mimi’s room and the room that used to be Anna’s. We tackled them before the bridge ladies came.

Anna’s room was easy because she doesn’t live here, and it’s neat as a pin. But Mimi’s room was a mess, as usual, so I had to pick up after her. Neither of the carpets was very heavy, so I was able to carry them downstairs by myself. I hung them over the clothesline and beat them soundly. I got so dirty and damp — I had on my old brown
shmatte
from the farm — oh, such clouds of dust! It was warm and sticky today. Malka says the longer it stays warm, the better it’ll be for us, because soon we’ll have to feed coal to the octopus. That’s what she calls the furnace — it looks like a big black octopus, with arms that send heat to all the different rooms. Malka says the housework is harder in the winter, because of the coal dust.

But I’m not afraid of coal dust. And I believe I can manage the octopus. I don’t look forward to shoveling coal all day, but at least I won’t have to carry a coal scuttle up and down the stairs.

It’s a queer thing, but beating the carpets did me good. After I finished them, the pains in my stomach were gone. I hauled them upstairs and hammered them down again. By the time I finished, Malka had made lunch for the bridge ladies. She said I was a good girl and allowed me a break to change and wash up.

At quarter to twelve my packages were delivered from Rosenbach’s, and because Malka was still in a good humor, I snatched time to try everything on. I
did
look like a lady, with my new hat and fawn-colored suit. I looked downright citified, and so grown-up! My fall hat is a perfect darling.

Tonight I had a surprise. I came down to read in the library, and there was a package on Mr. Rosenbach’s desk with a note on it:
For Janet.
Inside was a sketchbook — oh, such a handsome one, with a dark-green cover and rough paper! David explained to me that rough patches in the paper hold the chalk the way a waffle holds butter.

Beside the sketchbook were two envelopes, one filled with willow charcoal — David says it’s the best kind for drawing — and another with six colored chalks in it: blue and red and purple and green and orange and yellow. They must be from David’s personal supply, because the tips weren’t sharp but rounded.

He remembered, he remembered! I don’t believe David Rosenbach is a suitable person for me to think about, but he did remember, and oh, I am glad, and I’m going to draw a cup!

Thursday, September the seventh, 1911

I have had such a fascinating conversation with Mr. Rosenbach! Now that I work here, I understand how Jane Eyre felt about Mr. Rochester. I don’t mean being in love with him, but finding him more interesting than anybody else at Thornfield Hall. Jane was a servant, with no one to talk to but the housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax. It’s the same with me, except Malka is a lot more aggravating than Mrs. Fairfax.

What happened was this: Malka took in the post this morning, and there was a letter for me. The minute Malka saw my name on the envelope, she asked me if I had a young man, because if I did, I wasn’t allowed one.

I was frying fish at the time, and I felt her question was tyrannical. I said indeed I did
not
have a young man, and I didn’t want one, but if I ever
did
want one, I didn’t see what business it was of hers — and then, right in front of me, she tore open my letter and read it!

It flashed through my mind that the letter might be from David, and my heart stood still. Then Malka said, “What’s that priest been saying to you?” and I realized my letter must be from Father Horst. I snatched it from her and ran my eyes over the lines. Oh, how repentant I felt! He began by saying that he hoped his letter would find me in good health. He’d missed seeing me at Mass and for my weekly instruction. He feared he was to blame for my absences, and that what he’d said about the Jews had been a stumbling block for my faith. He’s prayed about it, and he wonders if he was wrong to try to persuade me to leave the Rosenbachs; he even wrote that perhaps I’d been right to rebuke him for his prejudice against the Jews. At the end of the letter, he said he believed my Faith to be genuine and that he hoped nothing would diminish my desire to be received into the bosom of the Church.

I do think that was kind. And I think it was very humble of him to say that he might have been wrong. I felt kind of consecrated, having a priest say that my faith was genuine. But to Malka, of course, his letter was nothing less than a confession of anti-Semitism. She forbade me ever to speak to him again.

I said I had every intention of speaking to Father Horst again. Then Malka said I would have to choose. She said I’d have to choose between a lying priest and the family that took me in off the streets and gave me the clothes on my back.

Well, of course, that’s true, but my blood was up. I said it seems to me I work pretty hard for the clothes on my back. That’s when we smelled the fish burning. Malka gave a cry as if she’d seen the murder of a child and grabbed the handle of the frying pan. She burned herself on it and ran to the sink to put her hand under the cold-water tap. Both of us were yelling by that time. I don’t rightly recollect what I said.

Then Malka seized Father Horst’s letter and said she was going to show it to Mrs. Rosenbach. I was frightened because I know Mrs. R. doesn’t like me. I implored her, but to no avail. Like an avenging Fury she charged upstairs — I couldn’t believe how quickly she moved with her bunion.

Thank God, it was Mr. Rosenbach who stuck his head out the library door and asked what the noise was about. Malka shoved my letter into his hands so that he could read it. Malka lamented that she’d known how it would be once they let a
shiksa
into the house, and that I’d been telling tales about the family to an evil-minded priest.

I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. I said Malka had no business reading my letters, and that Father Horst was a good man, and that nobody had a right to persecute me because of my religion.

Mr. Rosenbach’s head shuttled back and forth, listening. Then he handed the letter to me and nodded toward the library to signify that he would talk to me there. He said, “Malka,
mamele,
” in a coaxing and tender voice, and put his arm around her so that he could steer her downstairs. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, because it was in Yiddish, but he was trying to soothe her. It wasn’t working very well.

I withdrew to the library. I reread Father Horst’s letter and felt a great wave of relief when I read the last part. Ever since our quarrel, I’ve been afraid Father Horst would bar me from taking the Sacrament. I was afraid I’d lost my chance to receive the Body and Blood of Christ.