“Madame Bernhardt says women should have the right to vote,” I told them.
“Madame Bernhardt is an actress,” Papa said, as if actresses were no wiser than Cousin Albert. He took my part of the paper, thumbed through pages, and thrust another article at me.
“This is written by a real journalist,” he said. The headline read FIVE STATES WILL VOTE ON WOMAN SUFFRAGE IN NOVEMBER. Underneath a picture of Anna Shaw, the caption read: COMMANDER IN CHIEF OF THE AMAZON FORCES.
Amazon forces? What kind of journalist would write such a stupid thing?
Papa turned to another page. “And here is an editorial for you to consider.” The headline read: SUPERFLUOUS WOMEN HAVE BECOME THE PROBLEM IN ALL COUNTRIES WHERE CIVILIZATION FLOURISHES.
This was too much. I glared at Papa. “How can women be unnecessary? That’s completely insane!”
“It simply means there’s a shortage of husbands,” Mama said, cranking the Grafonola. “Don’t worry, Mim. There will be plenty of men eager to marry you.”
“Mama, that’s not the point. Independent women aren’t the end of civilization.”
“Do not raise your voice,” Papa grumbled. “Come, tell your mama what you would like for dessert tonight. Mrs. Jenkins is a good cook, ja?”
“I’m not interested in dessert, Papa.”
He chuckled. “You? This I cannot believe.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The rains continued into Monday morning. By the time the grandfather clock chimed eight, I was downstairs, fully dressed, and ready to get started on the VOTE FOR JUSTICE cards. A minute before a quarter after the hour, I strode into the front hall and picked up Papa’s umbrella and bowler hat.
“You are up early for no reason today,” he said with a trace of confusion when he met me in the hall a few seconds later.
I tried to sound confident. “It’s good practice, don’t you think? Perhaps I might join you at the print shop three days this week instead of two. The sooner I finish the samples album, the sooner we can show it to our customers.”
He opened his pocket watch. “Tuesday and Thursday, Miriam. That is the plan.”
Undeterred, I tried to hide the seriousness of my question behind a sweet smile. “Oh, and one more thing,” I said, handing him his hat. “I’m curious. How much cardstock would you need to make six thousand cards?”
“Why are you asking about cards?”
My face felt warm. I took a sudden interest in the umbrella still in my possession. “Just wondering,” I lied. “It would be less than three thousand sheets, wouldn’t it?”
I braced for a lecture about asking foolish questions when a man had to get to the office on time and earn a living for his family. Instead, he asked, “How large a card?”
“Average size. Bigger than a playing card, smaller than a handbill.”
“Half a sheet of American standard letter-sized cardstock is too large and a quarter sheet is too small. I would cut in quarters a larger sheet—ledger-tabloid—which is eleven inches by seventeen inches. That gives a rectangle a bit bigger than five by eight and uses only fifteen hundred sheets. I allow ten percent for waste on printer adjustments for pressure and ink levels and so forth. I would order seventeen hundred sheets to be safe.”
He pinched my cheek. “Now leave such matters to me, or you get worry lines on your face. Mama is still sleeping this morning and is not to be disturbed. My umbrella, Miriam?”
As soon as Papa left, I told Mrs. Jenkins I had to run an errand. The Osborne sisters found me huddled in the doorway to their store when they came downstairs to open for the day. I told them we’d need at least seventeen hundred sheets of ledger-tabloid cardstock. “We can use any supplier except the one on Alder,” I said. “My father has an account there, and the clerk knows me.”
Prudence looked through the city directory. “How about Haverford’s? It’s right off the streetcar line.”
An hour later, Charity and I stowed our bundle in the back room of Osborne Milliners. Charity decided to buy extra, and I had no notion that two thousand sheets of large cardstock could be so heavy.
I looked out the window and saw something behind the store that could serve as a peace offering. “Mind if I cut some lavender to take home?” Charity was delighted to oblige.
“Papa said not to wake you,” I explained to Mama later, handing her the lavender.
“You were at the Osbornes again? You should spend more time perfecting your French for our trip to New York, not lollygagging at a millinery shop. You don’t even like hats.”
I rubbed the lavender and sniffed my hands—a refreshing antidote to Mama’s remarks. She didn’t bother to tell me her plans for the day, nor did she ask about mine.
That afternoon, I rummaged through my armoire to find my fullest skirt, one that I could wear with two petticoats. I basted a wide hem in part of the bottom petticoat and slipped the VOTE FOR JUSTICE design page inside. It seemed only fair to spirit the plans for my card into Precision Printers in the very garment Papa chose for his VOTE NO campaign.
We drove to work Tuesday, owing to an appointment Papa had in the afternoon. A few minutes after we arrived, Uncle Hermann burst in the front door. His eyes were wide and his face pale. He waved a newspaper and shouted, “Colonel Roosevelt has been shot!”
My stomach cramped. “Is he dead?”
Someone shouted, “Good Lord, no!”
Mr. Jacobowitz rushed over. Uncle Hermann unfolded the newspaper. “The bullet hit Roosevelt in the chest, but he survived, and even finished his campaign speech.” He read aloud: “It takes more than one shot to kill Bull Moose.” Uncle Hermann looked at Papa. “Teddy Roosevelt deserves a third term as president. He can do a lot for this country.”
Papa harrumphed. “I do not wish the man ill, but his ideas are preposterous. Votes for women. A new national health service for everyone—that would bankrupt us. Better now he should drop out of the race.”
Uncle Hermann sputtered, “If you had your way, that bullet would have killed him.” Then he said something in German.
Papa turned positively livid and marched into his office. Uncle Hermann followed him. He slammed the door. I—and likely everyone else in Precision Printers—could hear their muffled argument.
I zipped over to Kirsten. “Quick. Let’s go to the storage room. I have something for you.”
Once we were out of sight, I ripped the basted hem of my petticoat and showed her my VOTE FOR JUSTICE design. “What do you think? Charity and Prudence already bought two thousand sheets of ledger-tabloid cardstock that we’ll cut in quarters.”
“Hmm…that would be considerably larger than the VOTE NO card.”
I grinned. “Precisely!”
She studied my design. “What kind of cardstock did they buy?”
“I don’t remember the weight exactly.”
“What was the rag content?”
“I didn’t check.”
Kirsten frowned. “Does the paper have a glossy finish? I have to know what the paper is like so I can figure out which ink to use and how long the ink will take to dry.”
“I don’t think it’s glossy. Sorry. I’ll see if I can show you a sheet of it today.”
Papa stormed out of the office just as Kirsten and I left the storage room. Kirsten slipped the design page into her apron pocket and high-tailed it back to her station.
“Today I leave Uncle Hermann in charge,” Papa told me. “I let him see what business is like for most of us.”
“But, Papa—”
His eyes narrowed. “No nonsense, Miriam.”
I took a deep breath. “Yes, Papa.”
“Good. I will drive you home. Tell your mother I will spend the rest of the day at the Club, and I should like veal schnitzel for dinner.”
Mama shook her head when I told her Papa’s demands. “What did you do this time?”
“Nothing! Why do you think it’s always my fault? Uncle Hermann told Papa that Colonel Roosevelt got shot, and they started s
houting at each other.”
“Teddy Roosevelt died? Don’t roll your eyes at me, Miriam. I’ve had more important things to attend to this morning than reading the newspaper.”
“He’s not dead. They say he’ll recover and continue the campaign.”
“Your father will ruin my evening here if Mrs. Jenkins can’t get schnitzel.” She hurried into the kitchen. I trudged upstairs, slouched into my wicker chair, and stared at the rain streaking my bedroom window.
What if it had been a real fight at the shop? What if Papa got so angry he had a fit? What if he and Uncle Hermann had a duel and killed each other? October 15, 1912—Day of Death.
And what if the only person left to run Precision Printers was Julius Josefsohn’s grieving but competent daughter, Miriam? I let my mind wander. Mr. Jacobowitz could stay, I suppose, and I would promote Kirsten. I’d make Precision Printers the best print shop on the West Coast. I’d take care of Aunt Sophie and her children. Mama would be fun to be with, the way she used to be, and—
A tree branch thwacked the window. I shuddered at the sudden noise. Am I crazy? Killing off Papa and Uncle Hermann so I could own a print shop? I closed my eyes and imagined Serakh shaking her head in disappointment.
“This is the way you pursue justice?” she would say. “Elders make mistakes, but is this how you honor your mother and father?
My bedroom seemed to close in on me. I fled to the kitchen. Mama was conferring with Mrs. Jenkins.
“Treats,” Mrs. Jenkins said, holding up a small box tied with a tiny satin ribbon. “On my way back from the butcher shop, I stopped for caramels. Wrapped, of course, from your favorite store, Mrs. Josefsohn.”
“You are a gem,” I said, reaching for a caramel. Not as tasty as licorice; but Mrs. Jenkins knew better than to offer me licorice in Mama’s presence.
“Mrs. Steinbacher has a touch of lumbago,” Mama said, her code for the monthly curse. “We’re not going to Neighborhood House tomorrow, Miriam, so I thought I’d visit her for a light luncheon. Would you care to join us?” Mama’s mouth said one thing; the expression on her face said another.
“I think I’ll visit with the Osbornes.”
“Again?”
“They have what you need for my costume. By the by, Mrs. Lowenthal ordered sixty yards of yellow ribbon from them, did she tell you?”
Mrs. Jenkins stirred her tea and looked puzzled.
Mama laughed. “It’s for a silly suffragette costume, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“Lordy,” Mrs. Jenkins said, “What is the world coming to?”
I shook my head. It was no use trying to talk sense into either of them about votes for women.
The next morning, before Mama came down to breakfast, I told Mrs. Jenkins I’d be at Osborne Milliners for most of the day. I filled a picnic basket with cheese sandwiches, apples, and the few remaining caramels, and headed for freedom. The air carried a faint smell of rotting fish and garbage from the docks along the river. There was a metallic taste on my tongue from the foundry. Still, it felt great to stride along the new cement sidewalk and admire the cedars, firs, maples, and madrones growing in this part of the city.
Prudence took my food basket with nary a thank you.
“You look like you haven’t slept all night,” I told her, in a fit of honesty.
“You’re right,” she said, thankfully not offended. “It’s Colonel Roosevelt. We finally got him to support suffrage for women, and now this. Were you at his rally here a few weeks ago?”
“I read about it in the newspaper.”
Prudence offered a weak smile. “Of course, you started helping us mostly because you’re friends with Charity, and Lord knows she needs a friend.”
Honesty stings when it’s flung back at you. “I read that Colonel Roosevelt walked on a carpet of roses from the railroad depot to his automobile,” I said in my defense.
“Yes, and we showered him with rose petals later on. Did you know that Jane Addams seconded his nominating speech at the Progressive Party convention?”
I took off my hat and gloves, unbuttoned my coat, and wondered where Charity was. “The woman who started Hull House in Chicago?”
“The very same. She is the first woman ever to give a speech like that. She’s on the Party’s platform committee, guiding Colonel Roosevelt every step of the way, and she wants justice for everyone. She even helped start the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.”
Charity ambled in from the back room. “You must be talking about Saint Jane.”
Prudence looked annoyed, and Charity held up her hands in mock surrender. “I’m only joking. Stop worrying, Pru. Colonel Roosevelt will be fine.”
Prudence tightened a loose comb by her bun. “He won’t win. He’ll never get another chance as president. This country’s not ready.”
I retrieved a caramel from the basket and gave it to Prudence, who clearly needed cheering up. “You know, Portland has a settlement house, too, like Hull House, only smaller. It’s called Neighborhood House, and it runs the same kind of programs for immigrants and poor families. I…um…volunteer there.”
Prudence looked at me with interest—and, I thought, more respect. Charity beamed.
“Prudence, please go upstairs and get some rest,” I told her, acting like an older sister to someone nearly twice my age. “Charity and I will mind the shop today.” To my surprise, she listened.
I stayed with Charity until closing time, helping her with the few customers who showed up and making more yellow bows and sashes than I could count. Before I left, I put a sheet of cardstock in my basket to show Kirsten.
Mama and I avoided getting in each other’s hair when I got home. She was her usual chatty self at dinner. Papa asked her to bring his coffee into the library, as they had plans to discuss. After he left the table, Mama whispered, quite unexpectedly, “So, Miriam. How is Baloo?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I nearly dropped my napkin into my half-filled water glass. Mama studied her fingernails. It took me a moment to realize my relief that we were talking about what mattered to us both.
“I assure you that Baloo is perfectly safe, Mama,” I answered gently. I was feeling a bit ashamed ever since I heard Serakh’s voice in my head the other night, admonishing my behavior toward my parents. Here was the chance to undo what I’d done.
Still, I was not giving up my side of the fight. “And how is my prayer shawl?”
“Safe.”
“Then let’s come to some sort of agreement.”
“It’s complicated, Miriam. One thing has nothing to do with the other.” Mama’s face closed down, replaced by The Dinner Party Look—end of conversation.
Two could play this game as well. I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m sorry to hear that. When you put the two things together, let me know.”
While my parents were in the library, I grabbed an extra suffrage bow from my coat pocket and strode to the potting shed. “Here’s a reminder to do what’s right, Baloo,” I said. “Sit tight, my friend. You might be here for quite some time.” I tucked the bow beside him. Danny would have approved.
The next day at work, Uncle Hermann and Papa acted like bosom buddies. Apparently they both preferred the Boston Red Sox to the New York Giants. They congratulated each other on backing the team that won the World Series.
After the morning meeting, Kirsten and I went to “look at the supplies” in the storage room. I handed her a sheet of the cardstock Charity and I had bought. She rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, and raised it to the light.
“It’s going to soak up more ink than a better grade of paper, but it will have to do.” She leaned against a shelf and smiled at me the way someone smiles before delivering bad news.
“What’s wrong, Kirsten?”
“Miriam, I admire your design for the VOTE FOR JUSTICE card, I really do, but it’s much too complicated. It’s going to take hours to make six thousand cards, even on the new Chandler & Price. So, a
nyway, I’ve made a few changes.”
She handed me the page from my copybook.
VOTE FOR JUSTICE card:
Heavy cardstock, high gloss ivory Matte finish
Vary typefaces between Bodoni Poster Compress and Bodoni Book Italic
Whatever typeface is available at press time
Front text:
"JUSTICE, JUSTICE SHALT THOU PURSUE" [blue ink] black
—DEUT. 16:20 [blue ink] black
VOTE YES ON AMENDMENT 1 [red ink] black
Front image:
Roses (for Bread and Roses poem) [red ink] black
Reverse side text:
GOVERNMENT OF THE PEOPLE, BY THE PEOPLE, FOR THE PEOPLE [blue ink]
VOTE YES ON AMENDMENT 1 [red ink]
“That’s it?”
Kirsten put her hands on her hips. “It takes more than twice as long to print in two colors, considering how much you have to clean the press in between. And a two-sided card is unnecessary. Plus, we can’t be picky about the typeface.”
“It’s so…boring. And a black rose? It reminds me of Hallowe’en. Or someone’s funeral.”
“Only one ink, Miriam, remember? Besides, if women don’t get the right to vote this time, it will feel like a funeral, believe you me.”
Mr. Jacobowitz opened the storage room door. “A funeral? Oh, I am so sorry for your loss. Who has passed on?”
Kirsten turned around and glared at him. “You, if you don’t leave us alone.”
His eyes widened, and then he vanished.
Kirsten smiled at me. “I’m twice the compositor Mr. Jacobowitz is, although I daresay he tries hard. Plus, we have an understanding.”
“About what?”
She smoothed her apron. “Well, Nils goes to these meetings of the Socialist Party—you know they are supporting Eugene Debs for president.”
“And?”
“And a couple of times he’s seen Mr. Jacobowitz there. So I mentioned it to Mr. Jacobowitz one day, and he pleaded with me not to tell your father.”
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