is full of young women like me,
workers,
their hats tilted
at an angle
as they listen
to the teacher’s words.
I am told
the men learn elsewhere,
learn different phrases
about work
and money
and business
words that will help them rise
beyond
this place.
Learning English
is no luxury
no idle pastime
no domestic exercise
for me.
Do they think none of us
wish to rise
too?
No matter,
I am accustomed to schooling myself
gathering words
like a squirrel
hoarding nuts.
break
Nathan’s absence
seems to have taken years
from Mama.
White wings sprout
in her dark hair;
her hands grow rough
her fingers tilt to the side, cramped
from balancing the thimble
pinching the needle
pressing the darts into place.
Tonight,
she sets her piecework aside
to give her eyes
their day of rest.
The Shabbos candles are lit.
Soft smiles
murmured blessings
pass around the table
with the salt
broiled fish
golden brown
braid of bread.
We do not voice
our worry.
We do not speak
about how tomorrow I will break
Shabbos, how I will be up
before dawn
like every other day
and go to work.
one of us
Our people have always
migrated
across borders
trying to find a place
that will tolerate our presence
for a time.
We flock together like geese
flying thousands of miles
only to nest at the same
small pond.
At evening service,
when I point out
the owner of the shop
where I work
Mama says,
How lucky you are
to work for a man who knows
the teachings of the prophets.
A man who is one of us.
I think
if a man drives his workers
like a slave master
what does it matter
over which holy book
he prays?
drapers
In the morning,
before work
has rounded the corners
ground down the edges
of my mind,
I study the shop
while the foreman’s back is turned.
I know by now,
if I am to save money
for college
I will have to make a higher wage.
I watch
the cutter
at the front
near the stairs
near the air to the street above
leaning over his stack of cloth
balancing a blade
long as his arm
slicing two dozen pattern pieces
at once.
At the very top of the long list
of things forbidden
in this shop
is cigarettes.
But the cutter is a skilled
valuable worker
he pays no mind,
his ashes drifting
toward the scrap heap
daring the fibers
to burn.
I watch
the pressers
lifting and lowering irons
that weigh as much as I
over and over
all day long.
I watch
the drapers
lifting, pinning, cinching, snipping
stepping back
heads tilted to consider their creations
called up out of simple
unadorned cloth.
Shirtwaists come in all styles:
pleated
billowing
finely embroidered.
Creativity
and deft fingers
to make small stitches
are rewarded.
I duck my head
as the foreman clicks to the dim
rear of the shop
where we
[the less skilled
much less valuable workers]
bend over our work
basting and trimming,
stitching bits of lace
and buttons
to finish the look.
When he is gone again
my fingers move
on their own
and I watch the drapers
at their work.
look around you
We are not in the shtetl
anymore.
We have traded the greens
and ambers and rich browns
of the fertile earth
for right angles
sidewalks
towers that scrape
the underbelly
of the sky.
What it is to be a Jew
is different here.
Those of us who work
say our prayers
thrice daily,
observe Shabbos
in our minds
and hearts
only.
Mama cooks and cleans all day
takes in piecework
in the evenings,
as if by working her fingers bare
she could stitch sutures over the gash
rending this family
apart.
We work until we cannot
anymore
and still
it is not enough.
No man here
has the luxury of studying Torah
instead of working
if he wants his children to eat.
All my hard work
goes to pay
for a way of life
that is impossible here.
I bite my tongue to keep
from calling down
my own father.
Look around you,
I long to say,
next time you go to shul
in the middle of the day.
Do you see anyone there
but the rabbi?
If you want this family to eat,
get a job
and hold what is holy
in your mind
and heart
like the rest of us.
books
Nadia,
who sits next to me
while we hunch
over our stitches
[day in
day out]
tells me about the East Broadway branch
of the New York Public Library.
She says,
It is full of books
for anyone
to read.
Anyone?
I do not believe her.
I laugh outright
and the foreman
clicks across the room
to swat the back of my head.
When he is gone,
Nadia whispers directions.
I make her repeat them
three times.
At the end of the workday
after the foreman is done
checking our pockets
patting us down
to be sure we are not stealing
from the shop
he lets us outside,
where spring has sent
a last
fitful rainstorm
in farewell.
I walk beneath the skeleton
of the Manhattan Bridge
the sound of hammers and welding torches
echoing against the cobbles.
Out in the middle of the river
men work, suspended like tightrope walkers
above the river
piecing together a roadway
out of thin air.
On the outside
the library might be anything
a bank
a school
a government building.
On the inside
it is as if someone
looked into my soul
fashioned the thing
I long for most.
I climb the steps, staring,
my mouth gaping open
like a landed fish.
Quiet study tables
fill the room.
The walls are lined
with shelves of
floor to ceiling.
It is as if my heart
leaps out of my chest
to strum
the spines,
thumb through
the pale,
hand-softened pages.
Most of the books
are in English
and I only know a few words
so far.
But I find an entire section
for the Russian novelists.
I will come here after work
after my English classes
when I can
—a book for dessert
after the long, hard days.
surprise
Nathan has come home!
His lungs are clear
his cheeks round
and rosy
it seems that in the last few weeks
he has been fed
better than any of us.
Mama fusses
and clucks over him
Papa smiles broadly
to see his son
returned to him.
My brothers hurry
to rearrange the crates and pillows
make room for Nathan
on the couch.
I am happy
of course
that Nathan is home at last,
but I wonder how we will fit
another body
in this tiny apartment,
how my meager salary will feed
one more hungry mouth.
summer
Even the air blisters
in the heat.
In our building
and all along the street
people drag their mattresses
onto the fire escape
onto the sidewalk
onto the roof.
Indoors the air is
stifling;
it is impossible
to sleep.
The dawn hour is the coolest
but so little so
that I wonder
if I only imagine it.
With the summer sun comes light;
I can see the cobbles beneath me
as I walk to the shop
stepping over
and around
hundreds of fitfully
sleeping bodies.
My feet have grown, again
and my shoes pinch
my toes
with every step.
The money I give Mama
at the end of the week
is enough for rent
for flour, meat and potatoes
and a little oil for the lamps.
It is not enough
for new shoes.
I am lucky, even so.
The women who work
the sewing machines
carry them on their backs
to and from
the shops every day.
At eight o’clock
when the shop door closes
and locks,
we sweat
at the back of the workroom,
our throats dry
our faces blotched, red.
The pressers wield their irons
with a slam and a scream of steam
boiling up from the edges.
It is a near thing
guessing how many sips of water
I can take without needing the toilet
(which is in the backyard
behind the shop)
until the foreman unlocks the door
at lunch.
I spend my days dreaming
of the whirring blades
of a single fan,
an open window
to the street,
the impossible
giddy longing
for rain.
The air cannot find
this dark corner
in this maze
of a city.
How could it
when every building reaching
for the sky
steals a little more
from the breeze?
unchanged
The iceman came today
with his delivery.
It is all Mama can talk about—
the wonders of this city.
But life is unchanged for my brothers.
They study Torah
every day
as if we never left the shtetl.
I want to grab them by the shoulders
and shake,
hard.
Can you not see opportunity
like a trail of golden bread crumbs
laid out before you?
Or if you will not
go to school,
let me!
I will study hard enough
for all of us.
revolution
After work
I walk two blocks down Allen Street
to the fish market
hurrying, hoping to find
a few that have not spoiled
in the heat of the day.
Laundry lines crisscross the street
like flags strung up
for a festival.
A dozen different languages
like so many brightly colored threads
weave through the air
around me.
I wish I could gather each one
twist it,
turn it in the light
study it.
Back home,
when I lift my three fish
from their newsprint wrappings
my eyes are caught by the headlines
of the Yiddish paper.
The revolution has finally come
to Russia.
The peasants protest against the Tsa
r—
they want a better life
for the working class.
If only
it were so simple.
The paper is months old
and I hear from the immigrants
flooding into the city
every day
who the peasants blamed
when their revolution failed.
They cry for freedom
they preach equality
—just not for us.
Even in the middle
of the people’s revolution
the people
vent their anger
on the Jews.
give thanks
My eyes are tired
my backside sore
from sitting for so many hours
in a single day.
I step outside
fill my lungs
like dusty bellows
rusty
from lack of use.
These long summer days
are such a gift
when daylight waits
even for us
before it fades into dusk.
No one bothers me
at the study tables
in the library
though the director
of the free school nods
in my direction
as she climbs the stairs
to the second floor.
I bargain with myself:
a list of English words
memorized
earns a break for my mind
a chapter of a novel
in Russian.
The gaslights dim
five minutes before the library closes.
I gather my books
place them back on the shelves.
Every night
as I pass the checkout counter
on my way outside,
I offer my thanks
for such a place
by giving voice to a new phrase
I have learned:
It was a good night,
yes?
Tomorrow it is
a good day.
Yes,
the clerk says
with a solemn nod,
inflection
and a subtle correction,
tomorrow will be
a good day.
lull
I practice
under my breath
as I work:
yesterday was
today is
tomorrow will be
yesterday was
today is
tomorrow will be
The rhythmic battery
of the machines
breaks
its dogged pace.
Heads unbow,
eyes search
for the source
of the lull.
A new girl
a young one
stands by the door to the shop
her hands clasped,
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