The Girl in the Torch

by Robert Sharenow

  “Hey, it’s all right,” the woman said in Yiddish. “I just wanted to tell you, if you’re really in a pinch for money, there are places that will hire you.”

  Sarah looked up, hope swelling inside her again.

  “Can you tell me where?”

  “There’s one not too far from here, at one eleven Essex Street.”

  “One eleven Essex,” Sarah repeated.

  “Yes, but you should be careful. Some of those places aren’t so nice. And you’ve gotta watch out for the bosses. They can be trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “All kinds. Just be careful. Good luck to you. And God bless you.”

  As the woman went back inside the garment factory, Sarah repeated the address to herself again, so she wouldn’t forget it. She slowly walked to Mrs. Lee’s, weighed down by worries about her now-uncertain future. Would anyone really hire her?

  Smitty and Miss Jean

  “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”

  Miss Jean stood by the front door with her hands on her hips as Sarah entered the hall.

  “Oh, I was just out walking around,” Sarah said.

  “Well, it was my understanding that you were working for Mrs. Lee now, so you should let us know if you’re planning on going anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry. I will.”

  “As long as you’ve got your coat on, you can leave it on and come out with me. Mrs. Lee asked me to pick up some things for the evening meal. I could use an extra set of hands. Smitty’s out back fixing the drain. Go ask him if he needs any pipe tobacco while we’re out and then meet me in the front hall.”

  Sarah discovered Smitty in the backyard, leaning against a shovel beside a freshly dug hole. As she approached, Sarah saw that the hole revealed some exposed pipes in the ground and Smitty was reading from a set of plans that seemed to be a map of some kind.

  “Hello there,” he said, glancing up at her. “We’ve got a blocked pipe somewhere out here that’s making all the sinks back up. I’m just trying to figure out which one it is.”

  None of the homes in Sarah’s village had running water, and she was fascinated by the advanced plumbing system that seemed to be in place at Mrs. Lee’s.

  “Would you believe, I drew up these plans myself and now I can’t make sense of them.”

  “You made this?” she asked with surprise.

  “Studied engineering at Tuskegee. Class of ninety.”

  “You are an engineer?”

  “By education if not in practice. Most of the time I’m dedicated to the janitorial arts.” He wryly chuckled.

  “What is that?”

  “Means I fix and clean things up around here. Turns out there weren’t many opportunities at engineering firms for people of my particular shade.”

  “Shade?”

  “My skin color, dear. You don’t meet many Negro engineers.”

  “Why?” Sarah said.

  His expression turned serious.

  “I’m afraid that one-word question has a long, complicated, and not very good answer.”

  Sarah genuinely wondered what about his skin would make someone not want him to be an engineer. America seemed to be full of people of different colors.

  “What can I do for you?” he said.

  “Miss Jean and I are going out and she wanted me to ask you if you need any more tobacco.”

  “That’s awfully considerate of you both. But I think I’m all set for now.”

  Sarah returned inside and found Miss Jean waiting for her in the front hall, putting on her coat and scarf. “Ah, there you are,” she said.

  “He said he did not need any tobacco.”

  “All right.”

  Sarah watched as Miss Jean stared into a round, framed mirror by the door and put on a wide-brimmed, navy-blue felt hat with a sharp little brown feather sticking up out of the band. Miss Jean glimpsed Sarah out of the corner of her eye.

  Sarah quickly looked away.

  “You really have got to control that habit of staring at people,” Miss Jean said.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Miss Jean paused and then went into the closet and retrieved a gray felt hat with a red band and a small silk flower attached to the side.

  “Here, try this one. It’s cold out there.”

  Sarah placed the hat on her head and Miss Jean pulled it down into the proper position.

  “Not bad,” Miss Jean said, turning Sarah toward the mirror.

  Sarah stared at her reflection and almost didn’t recognize herself. The hat seemed to have transformed her into a different person, someone older and more American. She smiled shyly at herself.

  “Don’t get too used to it. It’s just a loan. Now come on.”

  Village of Men

  THEY MADE THEIR WAY toward Mott Street, the main thoroughfare of the neighborhood. People bustled around them, purposefully weaving along the street and sidewalk in a way that reminded Sarah of densely packed ants moving in purposeful patterns in the dirt mounds in her old backyard.

  Miss Jean stopped at a vegetable vendor and purchased a sack of carrots and a large bag of bean sprouts that the man pulled from a metal tub filled with water. Next, she moved on to another stall that sold spices and rice out of huge open barrels. A Chinese man with a thin black beard approached.

  “Five-pound bag today, Miss Jean?”

  “Better make it seven,” she said.

  He dipped a small hand shovel into a barrel of white rice and scooped several pounds into a cloth sack.

  “I see you’ve got a new assistant,” he said.

  “Yeah, Smitty had to work around the house.”

  “Nice to see another girl in the neighborhood,” he said, handing Sarah the bag in exchange for some coins Miss Jean had extracted from her purse. “You’re a rare breed around here.”

  “I’ve always been a rare breed,” Miss Jean said.

  “That’s the truth.” The man laughed.

  “What did he mean, ‘rare breed’?” Sarah asked as Miss Jean led her away. “Is it the same as half-breed?” Sarah asked.

  “No. They’re very different things. How’d you know that word?”

  “Someone called Maryk that.”

  “‘Half-breed’ is a nasty way of saying someone has a mixed background, that they’re not one specific color. A rare breed is something special.”

  “What makes you special?”

  “Well, lots of things,” Miss Jean said. “But what he was talking about was the fact that we’re women.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sarah said.

  “Look around you,” Miss Jean said. “What do you see?”

  “People.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “Chinese people,” Sarah tentatively guessed.

  “Chinese men,” Miss Jean said, gesturing to the crowds around them. “There aren’t a whole lot of ladies in this part of town. All the immigrants who come over from China are men, because they’re the ones who can get jobs. You don’t see nearly any Chinese girls down here, so you and I are minorities in more ways than one. You’re lucky you found your way to Mrs. Lee. She collects stray cats like you. Those Chinese girls she has living at the house, they’re orphans or escaped from all sorts of very bad situations. Lord knows what would’ve happened to them if Mrs. Lee hadn’t taken them in. And old Mrs. Fat and her girl, Bao Yu, they’d be all alone too.”

  “What happened to Bao Yu’s father?”

  “He was a merchant, but he died a couple of years ago. They lost nearly everything. Like I said, hard to think about what would’ve happened to them if it wasn’t for Mrs. Lee.”

  They made their way back toward the apartment building. They were just about to turn onto Pell Street when a voice called, “Hold it right there!” Sarah froze in place, unsure if the voice was calling to her. Miss Jean walked on, unaware. Sarah heard the voice again.

  “Yeah, you, Red!”

  The hair stood up on the back of Sarah’s neck. She was be
ing watched.

  Tommy Grogan

  SARAH SLOWLY TURNED TO see who was calling to her. Should she run?

  “Right here,” the voice said.

  Sarah looked down and beheld a small, thin boy, who couldn’t have been more than eleven years old, carrying a newspaper in one hand with a bag full of them slung over his shoulder. His ragged clothing hung off of his bony frame, and a big, floppy wool cap sat on his head at a slant.

  “You wanna buy a paper, Red?”

  “A paper?”

  “Yeah, the New York World. I got all the dirt about what’s going on all over the city.”

  “Dirt?” She furrowed her brow in confusion. “Why would I want to read about dirt?”

  The boy laughed. “Dirt’s just a way of saying ‘the news you want to read about.’ Wow, you must’ve just fallen off the boat, huh?”

  Sarah grinned, amused by the boy and his brash way of talking. She resisted the urge to tell him that she hadn’t fallen off the boat, she jumped.

  “With that hair, I thought you were Irish, like me. You ever been to County Cork?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s a redhead like you doin’ in Chinatown?”

  “I’m staying with my uncle.”

  “You got a Chinese uncle?”

  “No, he’s not Chinese.”

  “Well, does your uncle read the papers? Only a penny.”

  Up ahead, Miss Jean stopped, looked back, and called, “Sarah, come along now!”

  The boy regarded Miss Jean with surprise.

  “Who’s that? Your aunt? You’ve got a Negro aunt and a Chinese uncle?”

  “She’s not my aunt,” Sarah said. “And I told you he’s not Chinese.”

  “Well, one of them must read the papers. Come on, I need to make a sale. Mr. Duffy expects me to sell this whole stack by sundown.”

  The boy held out his hand, and something in his expression changed.

  “Please,” he said in a more serious tone. “A guy’s gotta eat, you know.”

  “I don’t have a penny with me,” she said, feeling sorry for the boy. “But I’ll try to find one for tomorrow.”

  Miss Jean stood impatiently with her hands on her hips. “Sarah!” she snapped.

  “I’ve got to go,” Sarah said.

  “Okay. But be sure to buy from me, Tommy Grogan,” he said, the bravado returning to his voice. “The best newsie in all of lower Manhattan.”

  “I will,” she said.

  He grandly offered his hand. She tentatively extended hers and they shook.

  “See you later, Red.”

  Sarah rejoined Miss Jean, who shook her head.

  “You’d better wash that hand real good,” Miss Jean said. “Half of those newsies live in flea-ridden flophouses. The other half live on the streets. I bet that boy hasn’t had a proper bath all year.”

  Sarah glanced back over her shoulder and saw Tommy’s small hand lifting a paper above the crowd and heard his voice calling, “Get your New York World here. Only a penny!”

  When Sarah arrived back at Maryk’s room, she hesitated before opening the door. Would Maryk be inside? She decided to knock, just in case, but there was no answer. She put her ear to the door to listen but heard no sound from within. Was he passed out on the bed? Or trying to trick her into thinking he wasn’t there when he really was? She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  The Other Photograph

  SARAH PEEKED HER HEAD inside the room and exhaled as she discovered it was empty. She closed and locked the door.

  Stepping over to the shelf, she scanned Maryk’s small collection of books. She plucked out Aesop’s Fables and flipped through the well-worn pages, stopping short when she came to the story titled “Androcles and the Lion.” Maryk had called her that name on the first night they spoke on the Lady’s island.

  As Sarah read the fable, she couldn’t help but smile, picturing herself as the slave and Maryk as the ferocious lion. She quickly skimmed through the rest of the collection.

  Maryk had underlined many sentences and put check marks beside some:

  Injuries may be forgiven, but not forgotten.

  A liar will not be believed, even when he speaks the truth.

  One passage in particular was underlined and annotated with a large question mark:

  Try as one may, it is impossible to deny one’s nature.

  The words were somewhat mysterious to Sarah, but she assumed that they were important to Maryk. It was hard for her to think of the gruff, hard-drinking giant as a man who read books and attempted to find meaning in them.

  She replaced the book, her attention wandering to the wooden box on the top shelf. She self-consciously glanced back over her shoulder, remembering Maryk’s stern warning not to touch his things. But her curiosity overcame her hesitation, and she carefully pulled down the box.

  Brushing off the top layer of dust revealed a chessboard pattern painted on the lid. Sarah’s father had taught her how to play, another unusual skill he had passed on to his daughter. She remembered his pride as she mastered the game and was eventually able to defeat many of the boys in their town. Boys and men from other villages would come to see her demonstrate her skills, as if watching a cow that could talk.

  Sarah sat down on the bed and opened the box. Inside was a set of simple wooden chess pieces. Running her fingers along the neat row of figures, she noticed a brown envelope tucked under them and slid it out. Peeking inside, she found a small, worn photograph of a pretty young woman with long, neatly styled dark hair and skin. She removed the photo to get a better look. The woman held an infant on her lap dressed in a long, frilly white gown and a ribbon in her hair.

  Before she had a chance to study the photograph too closely, a loud knock came at the door that so startled Sarah, she abruptly sat up and knocked the chess set from the bed, spilling the pieces across the floor.

  “What was that?” Maryk called from outside the door.

  “N-nothing . . . ,” she stammered.

  Sarah fell to her knees to pick up the scattered pieces.

  “I told you not to touch anything!”

  “Yes, I know. . . .”

  She quickly shoveled the pieces back into the box.

  “I’m coming in,” he said.

  “Wait . . . I . . .”

  Before Sarah could find the words to hold him off, the key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Still on her knees, Sarah glanced up.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Maryk asked.

  “I was just . . .”

  “You were just what? Didn’t I tell you not to touch my things?”

  “I was just going to use the chessboard.”

  “You should ask before you take.”

  “I know,” she said, fear running through her. “I’m sorry.”

  “I came up here to apologize for barging in last night,” he said, his voice rising with anger. “But I guess I should’ve been keeping a closer watch on you.”

  “I am sorry,” she said again, picking up more pieces and placing them in the box.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry for trusting you.”

  “Please, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I just wanted to play chess.”

  She got to her feet.

  Maryk’s eyes suddenly fixed on the bed, where the photograph lay exposed next to its brown envelope. His expression hardened into a pinched scowl. Sarah followed his glance, and her throat tightened as he made his way toward the bed. She felt a deep shame at having disobeyed him and violated his trust.

  For a long moment, he just looked down at the photograph. Sarah watched him, afraid that he might strike her at any moment and bracing for the blow. Finally he reached down and picked up the photograph.

  Maryk sat on the bed, cradling the photograph in his thick palm. His entire body seemed to deflate. Sarah stood in the middle of the room, holding the chess set, unsure what to say or do. There was something unsettling about watching someone so physically
imposing become so suddenly shriveled. Yet she also felt an unexpected pang in her chest.

  She moved tentatively toward him. Maryk didn’t look up, even as she stood directly beside him.

  “Is that your wife?” she said.

  “None of your business,” he snapped.

  He stood and tucked the photograph into the inside pocket of his jacket. Sarah backed away, frightened by his sudden outburst.

  “And for the last time, keep your hands off my things.”

  He abruptly exited, slamming the door as he went.

  111 Essex Street

  LATE THE NEXT MORNING, Sarah stood on the sidewalk looking up at the imposing brick building. A small plaque over the door read 111 ESSEX STREET, but other than that there were no signs or indications that there might be a garment factory or any other business there. The windows were made from frosted glass and smeared with dirt, so she couldn’t see what was going on inside.

  Her run-ins with Maryk over the past couple of days had left her shaken about how much she could trust or rely on him. So she took a deep breath and opened the door, revealing a long, dark stairwell leading to the second floor. Sarah climbed the stairs and reached a battered steel door with a small sliding panel that served as a peephole. Pausing, she pressed her ear against the door but couldn’t hear anything distinct.

  Something about the place made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she thought about turning back. But this seemed like her only hope of finding a real job.

  Sarah checked her pocket for her scissors and knocked. After a moment a voice called from inside. “Who is it?”

  “I’m looking for work,” she said. “I’m a buttonhole maker.”

  The panel in the door slid open and an eye peered out at her.

  “I heard you might have work,” she said. “I have my own scissors.”

  She took the scissors out of her pocket and held them up for the eye to see. The panel abruptly shut, and then there was silence. Sarah was about to put the scissors back in her pocket and go when she heard the heavy metal locks turning and the door opened.