Blue Thread

by Ruth Tenzer Feldman

  He cleared his throat. “You won’t be sorry, Miss Josefsohn. I’ll tell Mrs. Rosenfeld and meet you by the front door.” He galumphed down the hall.

  As I was leaving, I handed Mrs. Rosenfeld the borrowed shawl. “He hardly has two nickels to rub together,” she said. “But he’s a gentleman, and he’s applied for American citizenship.”

  I buttoned my coat and said nothing. I had no intention of doing anything with Mr. Jacobowitz besides watch him run my print job. But he might be proving himself to be a gentleman… I couldn’t argue with that.

  His Model T Ford was spotless. I wondered whether he polished the brass on the print shop’s front door. Mr. Jacobowitz offered his arm. I took it as I stepped onto the running board, but sat up against the passenger door and folded my hands in my lap. We drove in silence.

  When we arrived, he unlocked the shop and held the door for me. “May I take your coat?”

  Clutching my coat collar, I shook my head.

  “As you wish,” he said. “Pardon me, but I must move freely at the press.”

  He stripped down to his shirt and trousers. He removed his boots, revealing threadbare socks and smaller feet than I would have thought for a man his height.

  Our eyes met. He touched his mustache nervously. “Had I known you would see my socks, I would have worn my, um…what is that expression?”

  “Your Sunday best.” I couldn’t help but smile.

  He bobbed his head several times. “Yes, my Sunday best. For you, my Sunday best.”

  He cleared his throat yet again, as if all his words and thoughts kept getting jumbled together in his voice box. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. “I’d better fetch the VOTE FOR JUSTICE chase and the cardstock,” I said. “Will you ink the press, Mr. Jacobowitz?”

  “I’d work faster if you’d call me Ephraim.” His voice had a pleasant trace of a tease.

  I felt my shoulders relax. “Then it’s for a good cause…Ephraim. Just for tonight.”

  Mr. Jacobowitz—Ephraim—stacked the cardstock and took the chase from me, his rough hand brushing against mine. He released the brake lever, tugged on the flywheel, and handed me the first printer’s proof for my approval. I nodded and smiled. He got to work in earnest. The press spat out card after card after card. He started whistling. His face glowed.

  I unbuttoned my coat, as the room was getting warm. He glanced at me, then consigned the next card to the reject pile. Later, when he took a short break, I asked, “Why did you reject this? We can’t afford to waste a single card.”

  “It’s off-center. Every card should look professional, so men will take you seriously.” He wiped his hands and grinned. “Other men besides me. I always take you seriously.”

  That was kind of him. Or was he teasing me? “We haven’t much time…Ephraim,” I reminded him.

  He nodded and headed for the storage room. “I’ve run out of your cardstock, but I’ll borrow something similar from your father’s supply. I’ll replace it tomorrow and buy extra for you, in case you have time to print more over the weekend. I’d offer to help you then, but I go to services on Saturdays and my sister needs me this Sunday.”

  “Tell me how much you spend, and I’ll reimburse you.”

  “It’s not necessary. Let the cardstock be my gift.”

  “I insist.”

  He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “As you wish. You know, Precision Printers is more than a job for me. It’s my second chance, my second home.”

  “Precision Printers is my world too, you know. You get to work here as many days as you wish. Why can’t I?”

  “But you don’t have to work. Your father is comfortable financially, and then, when you marry—”

  I put my hands on my hips. “My marriage is none of your business! You wouldn’t understand anyway. I’m going to be a typographer. It’s not about money. I want to do something on my own that I’m proud of.”

  “What’s wrong with having someone take care of you, Miss Josefsohn? Especially someone who shares an interest in the business that you love? Someone as sturdy and reliable as the new Steel Bridge.”

  I didn’t answer and there was an awkward silence. His eyes took on that dull look again. I adopted the teasing tone he had used earlier. “You may call me Miriam, for tonight, if it will make you work faster.”

  But I could not bring a smile to his lips. Instead, he said, “Thank you, Miriam.” He pumped the treadle and set to work.

  Half an hour later, I added the cards Ephraim had printed to the ones I’d managed to print earlier in the day. He cleaned the press and locked up for the night. He wanted to put the box of cards in the back of his Model T, but I insisted they stay up front with me—on my lap. When we got to my house, he rushed to open my side of the automobile. He hoisted the box of cards and offered me his arm. I took it.

  I let him carry the box up the steps to the porch, but stopped him at the front door.

  “I have no intention of stepping inside your house while no one else is there, Miriam.” He sounded offended. “What kind of a man do you think I am?”

  Ephraim was so different from Richard. There was nothing enchanting about him, no excitement. Still, he wasn’t the glob of porridge I first thought he was. When I came back to the porch, he was leaning against the pillar. He smiled when he saw me. I walked to him and let him guide me down the steps, his hand under my elbow, my skirt a jot higher than necessary. I let him help me into his Model T.

  He cranked the automobile to life, slid into the driver’s seat, and put on his cowboy hat.

  “Do you like lima beans?” he asked as we motored to the Club. “We had a fine crop this year—the last of the season—and they are particularly sweet—for limas.” What an odd conversation topic, I thought. Still, I answered amiably.

  “Well, I prefer lima beans to a dose of cod liver oil. But fresh baby limas might be delicious, Ephraim.”

  His cheeks lifted against the laugh lines under his eyes. “I’ve finished printing now. You are no longer obliged to call me Ephraim.”

  “Well, then, let’s see what I call you when I see you again.”

  “In front of your father, I will be Mr. Jacobowitz, and you will be Miss Josefsohn.”

  The laugh lines vanished. Ephraim seemed almost wistful, as if he would never again have the right to call me Miriam. Aren’t I worth fighting for? I thought, but I said nothing more about it then. Maybe, when I saw him at the shop on Monday, we’d talk about it.

  He pulled to the curb a block from the Club, lest my parents question why he had been my escort instead of Mrs. Steinbacher’s chauffeur. A cowboy ushered Marie Antoinette onto the sidewalk. We must have looked like the mismatched pair we truly were.

  “Thank you for the help,” I repeated. I really was grateful.

  “My pleasure.” I felt his eyes on me as I walked the rest of the way alone.

  Mrs. Steinbacher’s chauffeur—the handsome one—did meet me just outside the door to the Club. “Now perhaps I’ll steal a half an hour to myself,” he said, with a grin.

  The Concordia was loud and festive, filled with the sort of people I’d known all my life. Wrapping my fingers around a glass of mulled cider, I zigzagged my way across the ballroom to an Oriental woman standing with Napoléon Bonaparte.

  “A kind person from Neighborhood House dropped me here,” I told Mama.

  “Oh, how nice.” Mama was flushed and smiling. “Who was she?”

  She. Naturally. “Mrs. Jacobo…farb.” It sounded Jewish enough.

  “Hmm…I don’t recall a Mrs. Jacobofarb,” Mama said, but she didn’t pursue the matter.

  Papa patted my arm. “You make a lovely Marie Antoinette.”

  Except no one’s chopping off my head. I intend to keep it squarely on my shoulders.

  ***

  Friday morning I spirited a picnic basket of nougat bars, and biscuits, and VOTE FOR JUSTICE cards to the Osbornes. Prudence brewed tea while I unpacked the goodies. She was surprised that
I had printed so many cards. I nibbled on a biscuit and didn’t mention Ephraim.

  We made up VOTE FOR JUSTICE packets for out-of-town suffrage leagues and the shop’s pro-suffrage customers who lived out of town. Prudence wrote notes for each packet. “You can’t say we haven’t tried,” she said. On the way home, the sky threatened rain and the start of a long winter.

  Papa came home early and deposited a plain paper bag on the kitchen table. “One of my employees brought me something from his garden,” he told Mrs. Jenkins and me. “Do the best you can with it.” He left us to shell two pints of baby lima beans. I covered my smile. Dressed in butter and a dash of nutmeg, they were surprisingly good.

  Saturday was a frustrating waste—no chance to get out from under my parents. But Sunday they motored to Multnomah Falls for a last trip out to the Gorge before winter set in. I had hours and hours to myself. At the shop, I found a new package of cardstock labeled “Osborne”—Ephraim’s doing no doubt. My batch of cards wasn’t as large or as well printed as his. Still, I wasn’t bad for a beginner.

  The next morning I woke to the sound of the back doorbell. I peeked out my bedroom window at two men unloading firewood from an old wagon, as they’d done on the first Monday in November since I can remember.

  By the time I got down to breakfast, a letter from Florrie lay on the table in the front hall. I savored her words along with my sweet rolls.

  Fie on Richard! Come visit me, there are lots of fellows here you’d like. I can’t wait to hear about the prayer shawl, and I promise to believe every word. The election is big news here, too. People argue about whether to vote for Taft, Roosevelt, Wilson, or Debs. Women seem to favor Roosevelt and Debs, although some think that Wilson is also sincere about suffrage. Oh, Mim, I do hope all your efforts in Oregon are not in vain.

  I downed my hot chocolate and raced to Osborne Milliners. Charity looked glum.

  “Prudence is truly downhearted,” she said. “Despite what Mrs. Hirsch and Dr. Lovejoy say, she is convinced we don’t have the numbers.”

  “What does Mrs. Duniway think?”

  “She’s of the notion that we pushed ourselves too hard on the public.”

  Prudence came in, her face pale, her lips a tight slash. I’d never seen her look so haggard.

  “We’ll never carry Portland,” she told me. “And if we lose badly here, we’ll never win statewide.”

  I knew then what I had to do. “Well, then we’ll have to work harder in Portland,” I said. “Let’s distribute the rest of the VOTE FOR JUSTICE cards here.”

  “Don’t go crazy, Miriam,” Charity looked at me as if I already were. “Suppose your father finds out?”

  “VOTE FOR JUSTICE cards are just what we need to boost our chances at the polls,” I said, trying to sound confident. “How will we distribute them?”

  Prudence straightened her bun. She didn’t tell me I was crazy. “A group of campaign workers are meeting here tomorrow morning. If you can get us the rest of the cards, we’ll figure it out then. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m certain of it. We’ve come so far. We can’t let my father stop us now.”

  ***

  “I will go to the polls tomorrow after work,” Papa told Mama that night at the table. “And I would like fish for dinner.”

  Fish and a slice of humble pie, I thought. Then I dared to ask, “Do you think the suffrage initiative will finally pass this time, Papa?”

  He reached for the butter dish. “Why repair what is not broken? Women should care for what is inside the home, and men for what is outside the home. A good division of labor.”

  I tore my dinner roll in two. “Florrie writes that women in the Democratic Party are holding a political convention in California. Californians believe in progress. By the by, I’m not coming into the shop tomorrow after all. I have other business to attend to—outside the home.”

  Silence. Papa eyed Mama as if it were her fault. My left hand curled into a fist in my lap.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Election Day dawned overcast, with storm clouds gathering in the east. I met Mrs. Jenkins at the front door and shared a cup of coffee with her in the kitchen.

  “I’ll have to miss your sweet rolls this morning,” I told her. “I’ve got suffrage work to do at Osborne Milliners.”

  “Do your parents know about this?”

  I collected a piece of cheese from the icebox. “They might have guessed.” I smiled at her and added, “I can’t rightly say.”

  “Well, you do look lovely. Isn’t that the navy outfit that you wore to your temple some weeks back? Only now you’re wearing a new hat.”

  “It’s not new exactly, Mrs. Jenkins. Charity Osborne just added a bit of ribbon.” I thought of Serakh asking me about the “small ornaments” I had put on my “head covering,” back when the daughters of Zelophehad were only a name on a suffrage banner to me. Would I ever see them again? Today was the day I would campaign in their honor. Especially Tirtzah’s.

  “Wish me luck,” I said, grabbing another piece of cheese for the walk. “I’ll see you tonight.” I grabbed my coat and gloves, and nearly slipped on the early morning frost covering the front steps.

  I thought I’d be the first to arrive at Osborne Milliners, but a dozen women had already crowded into the hat shop. Most of them looked about Charity’s age, and they chatted as excitedly as my classmates and I used to before Sister Margaret called us to order.

  Kirsten waved me over and introduced me to two of her friends. Then she took me aside. “Prudence just told us that we’ll be handing out VOTE FOR JUSTICE cards at the polls. You know how foolish that is, but you won’t listen anyway, right?”

  “Right.” I grinned, despite my nerves.

  “You printed an amazing amount.”

  “Frankly, Kirsten, Mr. Jacobowitz helped me.”

  “Mr. Jacobowitz? Do you trust him not to say anything to your father?”

  “He won’t tell my father; he’s not that kind of man. But I don’t know if he helped because of me, or the campaign, or both.” I blushed.

  “That’s how Nils and I used to be.”

  I touched her sleeve. “Is Nils an American citizen?”

  “Yes, he is. Why do you ask?”

  “Good, because an American woman loses her citizenship rights when she marries a foreigner. Isn’t that the most unfair thing you ever heard of?”

  Kirsten practically snorted. “I can list dozens of unfair things about how we treat women, children, immigrants, and the working class in this country. But, yes, that law would be one of them. Sorry, I can’t stay and talk.” She showed me a hand-drawn map of polling places.

  “What about these two spots on the west side by my neighborhood? I don’t see a checkmark by them for the afternoon. I’ll distribute our cards there.”

  “Absolutely not. You’ve done enough—more than enough—what with these cards showing up all over Portland. I just pray your father doesn’t bother to look at one too closely.”

  “Kirsten, I met someone once. Her name was Tirtzah. It’s a long story, but she stood up for what she thought was right—for what I told her was right. Now I’m going to do the same, for her sake, for us—for everyone. How many cards can you spare?”

  She stared at me. I stared back.

  “We’ll give you about a hundred,” she said finally.

  “Fair enough,” I agreed.

  I spent the morning at the shop talking with other suffragists, brewing tea, answering the telephone, distributing VOTES FOR WOMEN sashes and my own VOTE FOR JUSTICE card, and mending torn placards.

  Around noon, a woman rushed into the shop, waving a telegram. We crowded around her. “Dr. Shaw sent this to the suffrage campaign committee at the Portland Woman’s Club,” she announced. Then she read, “The women of the world are looking to Oregon for hope. May Oregon women win their deserved success, and Oregon men prove worthy of their heritage.”

  When the woman finished, we clapped and che
ered. Even Prudence, worried as I knew she was, managed a smile. She made me eat a liverwurst sandwich for lunch and drink a cup of hot broth. “It’s cold out there, and you’ll need your strength.”

  “I’m only going to two polling places in the neighborhood,” I said.

  “That’s two places too many as far as I’m concerned. But here are your cards. Stay back from the voting tent a few feet—that’s the law. Don’t give your cards away unless someone wants to keep one. Don’t bother with drunks—they’re in the pocket of the liquor bosses, so we’ve lost their vote already. Be polite. Don’t raise your voice, or they’ll mark you as another hysterical woman, and that hurts the cause. Promise me that if you see your father coming, you’ll disappear into the crowd.”

  Not wanting to lie to Prudence, I simply shrugged. I hoped I wasn’t going to see Papa, but I wasn’t going to run away from him either. I had as much right to be at the polling tent as he did. She looked at me hard and then handed the cards to me anyway. I touched the suffrage bow on my coat, felt my left nostril for the gold nose ring that wasn’t there, and walked out the door.

  My feet were the first to feel the chill. I hailed every likely-looking man near the polls at Twelfth and Burnside. “A vote for women is a vote for justice!” I called out. “You know it’s the right thing to do. Your mother had the good sense to raise you. She’s got the good sense to vote. Make this a better world. Vote for justice!”

  I said those lines over and over, until my voice grew hoarse. Most men ignored me. Some held up their hands to shield themselves from my cards and my words. One man took my card and threw it on the ground. Another asked to walk me home in a way that made my stomach crawl.

  Two hours later, I trudged to Twenty-second and Hoyt. The wind had picked up and a late afternoon shower left me wishing for an umbrella. I said my lines over and over. There were fewer men here. One of them ripped the card in front of my face and hissed a word at me that I would not repeat.

  None of you spit at me. Or hurl stones at me. I’ve seen worse. I thought about how hot I had been back then, with Tirtzah and her sisters. I stamped my icy feet and smiled. Compared with Tirtzah’s argument before Moses, this was a cakewalk.