For the Love of Mike

by Rhys Bowen

  “All right, I’m coming,” I heard Seamus calling.

  He opened the door. I heard men’s voices and sat up, afraid that the police had come to arrest me again, or, worse still, that the Eastmans had found where I lived. Then men’s boots coming up the stairs in a great hurry. I leaped out of bed and reached for my dressing gown. I was only half into it when my door burst open.

  “How dare you come into a lady’s boudoir,” I started to say, then my jaw dropped in astonishment. “Jacob! What are you doing here? Don’t tell me that the starkes have broken the strike?”

  He was beaming. “I had to come to tell you the good news straight away—we won, Molly. We won!” He took my hands and danced around with me. “Mr. Lowenstein came and told the girls that he would meet their demands—six dollars a week, like the other shops, and finish on Friday and Saturday nights by six o’clock to be home in time for Shabbat, and better heat and light too. They go back to work on Monday morning. It’s a miracle.”

  “It certainly is,” I said. I was pleased too, of course, but more skeptical than Jacob. Of course he didn’t know about my little scheme with Mr. Mostel. If Lowenstein had found out that he could get his hands on Mostel’s designs on Tuesday, then he’d need his shop up and running again on Monday, wouldn’t he? And how easy it would be to pay the girls the promised six dollars a week, then manage to dock them that extra dollar in fines. And as for heat and light—he could keep promising those until the cows came home.

  But for now the news was good all around. The girls could go back to work. Lowenstein could get his hands on Mostel’s designs. I could catch Lowenstein’s spy, collect my fee, and go back to sleeping late.

  “Come on, get dressed,” Jacob said, panting a little after his crazy dance. “We are celebrating tonight at the meeting room. This is not just a victory for the ladies garment workers, it is a victory for all unions. We have shown that we can strike and win in a small way. Next time we can make demands to a whole industry.”

  “Then go and wait downstairs, if you want me to get dressed,” I said, pushing him away. “I’m sure your matchmaker will never be able to find a good match for you, if you’ve been discovered in a lady’s boudoir.”

  “I think I may have found a good match myself, without any help of the schadchen.” He gave me a quick glance then closed the door behind him.

  I stood staring at the door, my heart beating rather fast. What did I feel about Jacob Singer? I wasn’t sure. Oh, I liked him, I certainly admired him, and if I were honest, I liked the way he wanted to take care of me. But marry him? I had never considered marrying anyone but Daniel. Maybe this was the right time to put that foolish notion behind me, once and for all.

  The Hebrew Trades meeting room was full to bursting by the time we got there. Music was spilling out onto the sidewalk. A violinist and an accordion player sat on stools in one corner, playing a lively tune, while the rest of the floor was a milling, seething crowd of dancers, all of them girls. The young men stood around the wall, looking on and clapping. The tune ended and the girls, red-faced and glowing, made for the punch bowl.

  “Molly!” Rose spotted me through the crowd and made her way to me. “You’ve heard the wonderful news. Isn’t it grand? And all thanks to you.”

  “Thanks to me? Oh no, I was only one person among all of you.”

  “But you stood up to those starkes. You made that bully look like a fool in front of all of us. It made them think twice, Molly.”

  “Then I’m glad I could help.”

  She slipped her arm through mine. “Come and taste my mama’s stuffed cabbage rolls. Best cabbage rolls outside Warsaw, she says. Was prison really terrible?”

  “Could have been worse,” I said. “I survived, as you see.”

  “We’re all so proud of you.” She grabbed a plate and started piling cabbage rolls on it.

  “Enough.” I laughed. “Save some for the others.”

  “Look at all this good food. A holiday feast. Everyone brought something—Italian spaghetti and German potato dumplings and blintzes—a grand tour of the world.”

  We ate and drank and danced some more.

  “That young man in the worker’s cap is looking at you, Rose,” I whispered to her. “Why don’t you get him to dance with you?”

  “Dance with me?” A look of pure horror, with just a tinge of delight. “If my papa heard I had danced with a man, I’d be turned out of the house. He’d want nothing more to do with me.”

  “But in America men and girls dance together all the time. What is the harm in it?”

  She shook her head. “Not Jewish girls,” she said. “Not Jewish men.”

  “Wait a minute.” I forced my way through the crowd to Jacob. “I want you to dance with me,” I said.

  He looked a little uncertain.

  “What—you don’t find me attractive enough? Or are you afraid it will get back to the matchmaker?”

  He laughed and put one hand awkwardly around my waist. Then he nodded to the musicians who struck up another lively number.

  “Can you do the polka?” he asked.

  “No, but I’ll pick it up soon enough.”

  We started around the floor. Even over the music I thought I could detect a collective gasp from the Jewish girls—maybe from the Italians too. But after a while I noticed one of the young men leave the wall and ask one of the girls to dance. Soon there were three or four couples. But I also noticed most girls slinking away shyly or flat-out refusing.

  Some of the eyes watching us were openly disapproving.

  “Those older women are looking at us as if we’re doing something highly improper,” I whispered.

  “In their eyes we are,” he whispered back. “A young man and woman are not supposed to touch each other, and a Jewish man and a Christian woman—oy vay, that is the worst!”

  “I suppose it will take a while,” I said.

  “It will take a generation, maybe more,” he said. “Not everyone is as freethinking as we are. They call this the melting pot, but we haven’t yet had time to melt. As of yet, we are still separate ingredients floating around in the broth.”

  “So are we condemned as hopeless sinners?”

  “I’m afraid so, but who cares?” His grip tightened around my waist as he spun me around the floor, faster and faster.

  At last a collective tiredness came over the crowd. These girls had been on a picket line since early morning, and they had just run out of steam. The girls started to drift away. I noticed Jacob’s eyelids sagging and realized that he hadn’t had the luxury of being able to sleep the day away.

  “You must go home to bed,” I said.

  He kept hold of my hand. “Molly, tomorrow is Sunday when I usually try to visit my parents.”

  “That’s all right. You and I don’t have to see each other every day.”

  He swallowed hard before saying, “I was wondering whether you would come with me.”

  Visiting his parents. This was indeed becoming serious. His eyes were pleading.

  “Of course, Jacob. I would be delighted to come with you,” I said and watched his face light up.

  So at noon the next day I walked down Delancey Street, my arm through Jacob’s. Delancey on a Sunday was bustling with life—street peddlers, musicians, the shrieks of children playing tag, and at the far end of the street, the tower of the new East River Bridge reached steely arms out across the river to Brooklyn. Cables were strung across to the far side of the river, but as yet there was no roadway beneath them, so that they looked like the beginnings of a giant spider web in the morning sun.

  “This street is busy enough now,” Jacob said. “I don’t know what will happen when traffic from Williamsburg comes streaming across. The city is already jam-packed with people. We should lock the gates and keep the rest out!”

  I looked at him and saw that he was joking. I was glad that he was relaxed and enjoying himself. I was distinctly nervous. Being taken home to meet the family was something I was
unsure about.

  “They do know I’m coming, don’t they?”

  “Not exactly, but don’t worry. They’ll be delighted to meet you.”

  “I’m not at all sure that they will be thrilled to meet an Irish Catholic girl who goes about unchaperoned in the company of a young man.”

  “They like to meet new people. My mother doesn’t get out much. She is still unsure of herself in a new country. It will be good for her, also good for them to see that their son is happy and meeting nice girls.”

  “Meeting nice girls by himself,” I reminded him. “Without a proper introduction through the matchmaker.”

  “We’re in America. They’ll have to accept that,” he said. “Come on. It will be fine. My mother is a good cook.”

  He led me into a solid brick building and up four flights of stairs to the front door of the Singer household. The door was opened by a small, shrunken man who started in surprise or horror when he saw me standing beside Jacob.

  “Hello, Papa. I’ve brought a friend with me,” he said. “This is Miss Murphy. Molly, this is my father, Itzik Singer.”

  Jacob’s father clicked his heels together with the same little bow that I remembered when first meeting Jacob.

  “How do you do? I’m pleased to meet you.” For once I stammered out the words.

  “Come in, please.”

  He ushered me inside graciously enough. The room was spartan with no curtains at the windows, a rug covering part of a bare wood floor, a simple table, and several chairs. But the table was laid with a white cloth and some good cutlery. Jacob’s father called out something in Yiddish and a woman came scurrying through from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron as she came. She looked older than she probably was, with a wrinkled, worried face. I can’t tell you what color her hair was because it was hidden under a scarf, tied tightly around her head. She stopped, gazing at me with mouth open. Again I couldn’t tell if the look was surprise or horror.

  “Hello, Mama.” Jacob crossed the room to give her a kiss on her cheek. “I’ve brought a friend to join us for a meal.” A rapid conversation in Yiddish followed and I saw her give me a quick glance. Then she managed a smile.

  “Please,” she said, pointing at the best chair. “I sorry. Not speaking good English yet.”

  “Can I give you any help in the kitchen?” I asked.

  “No thanks, better not,” Jacob answered for her. “Just sit and enjoy yourself. Is there any more of that wine I brought you, Papa?”

  “Wine? Now? Before we eat? Okay. I get wine.”

  He brought out a wine bottle and glasses on a silver tray.

  “What a beautiful tray.”

  “We bring—from old country. Many things—must leave behind.”

  “My parents haven’t been here long,” Jacob said.

  “My son—he send us money for boat,” Mr. Singer said proudly. “My wife—she very shy. Not learn English yet. Please excuse.”

  “Nothing to excuse,” I said. “I’ll just have to try and learn Yiddish.”

  Another look of astonishment then he burst out laughing. “Learn Yiddish, she say! That’s good.”

  Jacob’s mother appeared again at the sound of the laughter and my statement was obviously repeated to her. She didn’t laugh. Any girl wanting to learn Yiddish must obviously have designs on her son—that’s what the expression said.

  “Sit down, Mama. Drink wine with us,” Jacob said.

  His mother hesitated then perched on the edge of the nearest chair. She took the glass he offered her.

  “Cheers,” I said, raising my glass. “How do you say ‘cheers’?”

  “L’chaim,” Jacob said, then nodded in approval over my pronunciation of the word. I took a sip. The wine was red and very sweet, but not unpleasant. “It’s good,” I said.

  Jacob’s mother fired another question at him.

  “She wants to know where you are from,” he said. “I told her Ireland.”

  Her look indicated that Ireland was only one step away from the moon.

  She said something else, making Jacob smile. “She asks if there are Jews in Ireland.”

  “There are, but I’m not one of them,” I answered, and this was relayed to Jacob’s mother. I thought as much, the look said.

  Then she jumped up and disappeared into the kitchen again. A few minutes later we were summoned to table and Mrs. Singer carried in a platter of fish and a bowl of potatoes. I helped myself cautiously, not wanting to appear greedy and waited in case anyone was going to say a blessing. Luckily, I was right. Jacob’s father said some words in Hebrew and then picked up his fork.

  “My mother makes the best potatoes with sour cream. It’s good, isn’t it?” Jacob said.

  “Very. And the fish are herring, aren’t they? We used to eat a lot of herring at home.”

  Jacob translated this and for the first time I saw a small nod of approval.

  After the main course we had a sweet macaroni pudding, followed by tea and honey cake, then Mrs. Singer headed for the kitchen again. I, wanting to be the good guest and suitable friend for their son, jumped up and followed her.

  “Let me help you with the washing up,” I said. “I’m well house-trained.”

  She held up her hands to say no.

  “But I’d be happy to,” I said as I picked up the dishes and put them in the nearest sink. She gave a cry of horror as Jacob appeared behind me.

  “What did I do? I’m not going to break anything,” I said.

  Jacob said something reassuring to his mother, then gave me an embarrassed grin. “You put the dairy dishes in the meat sink.”

  It was then that I noticed for the first time that there were two sinks, and two stacks of dishes on the shelf.

  “There are different dishes for meat and for dairy?”

  He nodded. “And we can’t eat them together and there different cloths for washing and drying the dishes. One of our crazy food rules, of which there are many.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “How could you?” he said. “It really doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m sure it does matter,” I said noting his mother’s distressed face.

  Jacob shrugged. “They will have to get the kitchen made kosher again. It’s not the worst thing in the world. There are too many religious customs from the old country that are not practical in our new life over here and will probably be lost someday.” He brushed it aside with a gesture, but I looked at the stricken face at the sink. Jacob might take his religious background lightly, but I had the distinct feeling that his parents weren’t about to toss aside their religious customs in a new country.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said to Jacob’s mother this time. “I wanted to help. I didn’t know.”

  She managed a weak smile. “Ist nichts.”

  “Forget it.” Jacob took my arm and escorted me out of the kitchen, before I could break another rule, I suspect.

  The atmosphere was decidedly awkward after that and we left soon after.

  “They must think I’m a proper heathen.” I gave an embarrassed laugh.

  “Not at all. They will think you are kind and sweet and very pretty, just like I do. They will learn to love you in time and think that I have made a good choice for myself.”

  “Whoa—hold on a minute, aren’t we rushing ahead a little?” I asked, laughing nervously. “We’ve only just met, Jacob.”

  “Some things you know straightaway.”

  “But we know nothing about each other yet. You have only seen my good side. You haven’t had a chance to witness my terrible temper or my stubbornness. And I, in turn, know little about you. For all I know you might snore at night and be prone to fits of black despair.”

  He was smiling at me the way a father smiles indulgently at his beloved child. “Whatever my faults, I promise to correct them instantly for you.”

  “But Jacob—”

  “Molly, is the idea of marriage so repugnant to you?” He stopped and turned
to face me.

  “Of course not. Sometime, in the future, I hope to marry.”

  “Then the idea of marrying me does not thrill you with anticipation?”

  “I didn’t say that either. It’s just—too soon, Jacob.”

  “I’m not trying to rush you, Molly. It’s just that I knew the moment I saw you, and it would have been wonderful if you had known too.”

  “I do enjoy your company, Jacob, and I think you’re a fine person too. So let’s take it slowly from there, shall we?”

  “Of course. Why not? It’s a lovely Sunday and we have the day to ourselves. Let us not even think about tomorrow.”

  He slipped his arm through mine and we walked arm in arm down the street. It was hard to enjoy a free day, strolling in the sunshine when I had so many things I should be doing. I really should be trying to find out whether Michael Kelly was still alive. I should also be looking into Ben Mostel and his extravagant lifestyle. Then I gave in to temptation and put those thoughts aside. Just for once, everything could wait until tomorrow.

  Twenty-four

  On Monday morning I joined the line of girls waiting outside Lowenstein’s. There was an air of anticipation in the crowd. I think some of the girls truly believed that they would go down those steps and find the place miraculously transformed into a place of heat, light, and beauty. It was a freezing cold morning, with ice in the gutters and a wind that cut right through me coming off the East River. Thank God we had not had to face temperatures as bad as this last week or we’d never have held out for four days!

  Mr. Katz made a grand entrance just before seven and walked down the steps ahead of us, brandishing the key.

  “You should be very grateful you have such a generous boss,” he said. “You should be very grateful you’re still working here. Me—I would have thrown the lot of you out.”

  Then he stood in the doorway, scrutinizing each girl as she went in. When it was my turn, he put out a hand and stopped me.