“Sorry, Papa,” I managed through clenched teeth. He said good-bye to Mrs. Jenkins and hung up.
I put on my coat and turned to leave.
That’s when he noticed the yellow bow. “Miriam, you let foolish women pin their politics on you, poisoning your mind. Take that off your coat!”
I straightened my hat. I focused on the starched collar guarding Papa’s sagging neck.
“Miriam, if you wish to work here tomorrow, you must follow the rules for every employee of Precision Printers. No politics.”
“I see.” I walked toward his office door. “But I’m not working in the shop today, right?”
“Correct. You do not work here today. You may come in tomorrow, as we agreed.”
“Then today I’ll keep my bow on, Papa.” I ushered myself out, and I didn’t look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Meier & Frank had a pair of black shoes with a slightly different buckle. I also bought a pair of cotton stockings similar to the ones I ruined…back then. With luck Mama wouldn’t notice the difference. People see what they expect to see—or, with Papa and my suffrage bow, what they never expect to see. The bow sat on my desk while I worked on a letter to Florrie.
The most amazing things have happened since I wrote last. I am afraid you’ll think I’m crazy as a bedbug if I tell you in a letter, so my secrets will have to wait until we see each other. Thank goodness you’ll be back soon.
One month to go before the election and everybody’s talking about suffrage for women here, even a woman I met at your mother’s house—Mrs. Lowenthal. Do you know her? She’s buying yards and yards of suffrage ribbons from Charity and Prudence Osborne, thanks to me. Think of what women voters might do in Oregon—and across the nation someday. I’d wager we’d make laws that protected children from having to sell newspapers or work in factories. I’d wager most of the poor people I see at Neighborhood House make do with less food in a week than Mrs. Jenkins makes for me every day!
***
Getting up early had never been a problem for me. Usually I met Mrs. Jenkins when she came to the house at half past six, and we chatted in the kitchen until I heard the plumbing in the upstairs commode. But Monday night, I was sure I’d oversleep. I spent half the night lying in bed awake, listening to the grandfather clock chime the hours downstairs and staring at my wear-to-work gray outfit by the armoire.
At a minute before a quarter after eight on Tuesday morning I stood in the front hall with my hat, coat, and gloves on, and an extra dollar in my handbag for lunch. Papa nodded approvingly and escorted me to the streetcar. “I take the Oldsmobile only when it rains,” he said. “And when I deliver items to my customers.”
“I should like to learn to drive,” I said with as much assurance as I could muster.
Papa looked at me like I was a two-headed calf. “There is no need, not in the city. Your mama does not know how to drive. She is wanting to hire the Steinbachers’ chauffeur when the Steinbachers go to Paris next spring.”
“Have you ever met their chauffeur, Papa?”
“There is no need. The hiring of help is your mama’s department.”
“He’s very…um…capable. Perhaps he can teach me.”
Papa didn’t say absolutely positively no. I suppressed a smile.
Uncle Hermann hadn’t yet arrived by the time Papa gave instructions on the day’s jobs to Kirsten, Mr. Jacobowitz, and his six other employees. “My daughter will be working in the office today, not on the production floor,” he said. “She is not to be around the presses or the cutter.”
“I plan to look through all the samples of previous jobs, Miss Svenson,” I said. “Where are they kept?”
Before Kirsten could answer, Mr. Jacobowitz said, “In the storage room.” He smoothed his mustard-colored mustache, which he had waxed at the tips. “I would be most happy to get them for you, Miss Josefsohn. Where would you like them?”
“On the table in my father’s office, thank you,” I answered in a professional tone.
Papa gave me a look I couldn’t read. Annoyance? Admiration? Surprise? Probably annoyance. He insisted that I remain in the office and not accompany Mr. Jacobowitz, who made a great show of presenting me with five large boxes. I set to work.
1897. Our first job was a handbill that announced the opening of a new bank. I wrote “commercial announcements” at the top of a blank page and left the handbill in the chronological file. A mediocre print job, not worth putting in a samples album. By the time I got to 1903, the category list had grown to include invitations, party menus, birth announcements, visiting cards, informal notepaper, and stationery.
For most of the morning, Papa busied himself with telephone calls and accounts. He never asked about my progress.
Uncle Hermann arrived at a quarter after eleven. “Well, look who’s here! Miriam, what a happy surprise. What are you doing with all these boxes?”
“It’s nearly noon,” Papa said.
Uncle Hermann hung his coat on the rack by the office door. “The doctor examined Sophie and the baby this morning. Just routine. Everything is fine, thank goodness. Tell me about these boxes, Mim.”
“I’m going through everything we’ve printed to see which kinds of jobs have been the most popular and to pick out samples of our best work.”
“Your idea, Julius?”
Papa shook his head, reached for his letter opener, and slipped the thin blade under the first of a stack of sealed envelopes.
“My idea,” I said, trying to sound confident. “I’m putting together an album to show customers. A samples album will help them decide what they want and encourage them to order other items from us.”
“Fifteen years’ worth of printing jobs? That’s hundreds of samples. An ambitious undertaking.”
“And definitely worth it, Uncle Hermann, definitely. If I work here the rest of the week, the album will be done in no time. Then we can place an advertisement in newspapers to encourage new customers in time for the Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons.”
“And who pays for these advertisements?” Papa punctuated the air with his letter opener.
I swallowed hard and faced him. “It might lead to increased sales, Papa. Sometimes you have to spend money to make money. It’s worth a try.”
“So, let us say a new customer comes to the shop. What does he see? You. The owner’s daughter. The customer thinks: Ha! This printer is not successful. His womenfolk work here, too. He cannot provide for them. Better I take my business somewhere else.”
“I’d tell the customer that I want to work here, that I’m learning the business. Or suppose the customer is a woman, and she would like a woman’s advice.”
“Nonsense.” Papa jabbed the next envelope with such force that he slit the letter inside. “Where do you get such foolish notions, from that typography book my brother gave you? I know my inventory. A customer comes in, he tells me what he wants. I bring out one sample—maybe two. I tell him what works best, and he trusts my judgment.”
“But, Papa.” My voice cracked with anger.
Uncle Hermann closed the office door and put his hand on my shoulder. “I admire your innovation. This album is worth a try. Let’s discuss advertisements another time. If we set up a larger table along the back wall of the production floor, you’ll have more room to work.”
Papa slammed the letter opener against his desk. “And have all my men staring at her instead of concentrating on their work? This is my daughter, Hermann, not yours. Miriam, you may try your little project here in the office today and next Tuesday. I will not have you underfoot all week.”
Underfoot! I clenched my jaw and willed myself not to cry. “The samples album will take forever then. It deserves a fair chance.” So do I. “At least let me work at Precision Printers the rest of this week until I’m done with sorting these boxes. Then I’ll take home our best samples and put them in an album there.”
I strode to the wall calendar. “Papa, it’s the eighth of Oct
ober. We’re already starting the busy season. The new album will be very useful now.”
“She’s being perfectly reasonable, Julius,” Uncle Hermann said.
Papa muttered something in German. Uncle Hermann answered in German. The office felt sticky and close.
Papa ran his fingers through what little was left of his hair. “Tomorrow I am very busy. Miriam, you will come here on Thursday, but that is all for this week. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“You have persistence,” he said, not unkindly. “I give you that.”
Two days this week. Maybe three days next week. It was a start. I declined to dine at a restaurant with Papa and Uncle Hermann for lunch, saying I’d pick up a sandwich at the café down the street. Mr. Jacobowitz looked as if he wanted to escort me to the café, but he must have lost his nerve. He tipped his hat to me and left on his own.
As soon as those three were out the door, I headed for Kirsten. She kept nodding her approval while I told her about my samples album. “Now about that VOTE NO card,” I said.
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Of course I’m not going to like it. Let’s go out to lunch, you can show me then.”
Kirsten took off her apron. “I brought my lunch, but I wouldn’t mind a break.”
We walked to the bench by the library. Dark clouds rolled in from the east, threatening another shower, but the bench was dry and Precision Printers was only a block or so away.
Kirsten fiddled with a coat button. Someone had mended a tear near the buttonhole, and my mind conjured up Serakh when I first met her, in her out-of-fashion dress and lace-up shoes.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Kirsten said. She opened her handbag and put the VOTE NO card on my lap. “Here’s the face.” She flipped the card. “And here’s the reverse.”
“My father printed this?” I turned the card over and over, as if the image on the front and back might change for the better.
It was the shape of a playing card, the kind that men can hide in their pockets, take out in the palm of their hands and snicker at. On the top of the card:
VOTE FOR GOVERNMENT?
In the middle, an image of a flouncing petticoat. On the other side, that same petticoat and:
NO PETTICOAT GOVERNMENT IN MINE.
My mouth turned sour. “It’s…it’s disgusting! How could he? Petticoat government! That’s so degrading.”
Kirsten grabbed at her hat, which threatened to take flight in the wind. “They wanted to show a woman in a corset,” she said. “Mr. Josefsohn told them no. I wasn’t supposed to do the job, but then the compositor got sick and they needed me.”
“This is bad enough. It’s an undermuslin; it’s intimate apparel. Doesn’t my father think women have any brains at all? How many of these cards did you print?”
“The order was for five thousand. No one noticed an overrun of a half dozen I kept for myself.”
“Five thousand! How many votes did the suffrage amendment lose by?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me neither,” I said. “Not by much, I’d wager. Oh, Kirsten, I never thought he’d print such…such…”
Kirsten nodded. “I agree it’s a scandalous picture. But I must say, in fairness to your father, it does get the point across.”
“You bet it does. Women aren’t playthings in petticoats. Is he printing one again this year?”
“I don’t think so.”
I clutched at my coat and commenced to pace in front of the bench.
“How long did it take to print these cards?”
“A few hours, as I recall.”
“That’s all? So we could do the same this year. We’ve got almost a whole month before the elections.”
Kirsten frowned. “We’ll what?”
“This time Precision Printers will print a VOTE YES card. I refuse to let men like my father ruin this election for us, like they did the others.”
“Your father would never agree to that.”
I shoved my hands in my coat pockets and felt a defiant smirk spread across my face. “Who says he has to know?”
Kirsten stood and shook her head. “That’s practically impossible. Even if you did manage to print them behind his back, he’d find out eventually. Don’t you realize how angry he would be? He could make your life miserable.”
I stared at the sidewalk. “He’s doing that already.”
She snorted. “Oh, no, you have no notion what miserable means. What if he threw you out on the street? Not that he would, but Miriam, suppose he did.”
“I’ll be seventeen come January. I’ll find a job. You did.” Squaring my shoulders, I turned to walk away.
Kirsten grabbed my arm. “You have no idea what it’s like being a woman on your own, with no resources. Please, you mustn’t print something your father wouldn’t like. It’s too dangerous.”
I said nothing, but I wasn’t ready to give up. Tirtzah had been on her own with fewer resources than Kirsten could have ever imagined, and look what she had accomplished.
Kirsten returned the card to her handbag and started for the shop. “We’d better get back, Miriam. I have to finish that job for Mrs. Ladd.”
“A VOTE YES card is only fitting, don’t you see?” I argued, striding by her side. “I’ll watch what you do and learn how to operate the presses myself.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“But you’ll help, won’t you? It’s for a good cause, Kirsten. You know that. I saw you at the rally. Even Nils believes in suffrage for women.”
“Nils also believes in socialism and Eugene Debs for president.” Kirsten adjusted her coat collar and looked at her gloves. “And if I say no?”
“I’ll find a way to print those cards regardless.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to do what I can,” she said, with the beginnings of a smile.
When you’re taller than most women, it’s easy to sweep them off their feet with an overenthusiastic hug. Kirsten tolerated my exuberance.
By the time we reached Precision Printers, I knew I couldn’t face Papa and still keep a civil tongue in my mouth. And now, surely, was not the time to lose my temper—and my chances to work at the shop.
Mr. Jacobowitz planted himself in front of me before I reached Papa’s office door. “They are both still away. May I offer you my assistance?”
“Oh, yes, please,” I said. “Would you kindly put that first box of samples back in the storage room? And tell my father I’m leaving work early.”
He cleared his throat. “I’d be happy to escort you home, Miss Josefsohn. With your father and uncle absent for the moment, it stands to reason—”
I laid my hand on his arm, the way Mama would, and I smiled at him. Not a fetching smile, just one of the formal kind. “Thank you for looking after my well-being, Mr. Jacobowitz, but I should enjoy some solitude and the weather is cooperating. Perhaps another time.”
He went away looking happy. I tried not to think about whether I had encouraged his attentions. As I started for home, an east wind grabbed me with sudden ferocity. I clutched my hat with one hand and clamped my coat collar closed with the other. Newspaper pages flew past. A gust caught at my skirt and petticoat, causing them to flare far out above my ankles. I hunched over, let go of my coat collar and grabbed at my skirt for modesty’s sake. Papa would have been scandalized if he had seen how much of my petticoat and legs had been exposed in the wind. Yet he had no trouble printing a petticoat on both sides of his VOTE NO card.
I vowed that this election would be different. We women of Portland would distribute a suffrage card to make up for that disgusting one. A VOTE YES card. Designed by me. Printed by Kirsten and me on Papa’s very own presses. Yes, it was only fair. It was right. It was Miriam Josefsohn in pursuit of justice.
I barely noticed the rain. My mind was elsewhere. How many cards would we need? When could we use the presses? Who would sell us supplies and not tell Papa? How could we smuggl
e that much paper into the office? How would we distribute the cards?
My thoughts churned as relentlessly as a sternwheeler. I stepped into the street.
I heard Mr. Jacobowitz yell, “Watch out! Somebody stop her!”
I looked up. Three huge white horses galloped toward me at a furious pace. I stood there, stuck to the cobblestones.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I smelled tobacco. A pair of massive arms grabbed my waist. I dangled in the air as the fire engine sped by, its brass boiler spewing steam and smoke. Two firemen eyed me with what was either alarm or anger—it was hard to tell which. Probably both.
A workman in a heavy cotton shirt and vest settled me on the sidewalk. He took longer than he should have to let me go.
Mr. Jacobowitz rushed toward us, his face a composite of immense relief—presumably for my safety—and irritation at the man still touching my waist. “Thank you, sir,” he said, stepping so close to me I could smell his pomade. He had one hand on an umbrella and another by his side. “I will take care of her now.”
The man backed away from me and hitched up his pants. “You tell your missus here that there are all manner of cars and horses and wagons on these streets. She’d best be more careful.”
“She will, sir,” Mr. Jacobowitz said, blushing. “I’ll see to it she does.”
The man raised his hand to the brim of his cap, bowed slightly to Mr. Jacobowitz, clucked at me in a disapproving manner, and went on his way.
Furious, I straightened my hat and coat. “Your missus! How dare you let that man think that I belong to you, that you are in charge of my every move!”
He took two steps back and handed me the umbrella. “I…I saw it was raining. You had no umbrella. I rushed after you, thank God. Miss Josefsohn, I assure you—”
He looked at my angry face and fumbled the rest of his words. He sighed and offered me his umbrella. I took it and opened it, covering the both of us, as it was pouring now. Mr. Jacobowitz seemed to shrink into himself, and suddenly I felt foolish.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You meant well. And you did keep me from getting hurt.”
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