Audacity

by Melanie Crowder

  pleading.

  Back to your station,

  the foreman shouts.

  Please,

  she says,

  I will be quick.

  You can wait till lunch

  for a trip to the toilet

  like the rest of them.

  If you can’t wait, you must be ill.

  If you’re ill, you can go home—

  just don’t bother

  coming back.

  Her face is white

  as the waists

  before us,

  her back erect

  as she walks to her seat

  struggles to feed the cloth

  straight

  through the machine’s

  hungry mouth.

  Ten minutes later,

  the sound of sobs

  a foul smell

  rise above the din.

  This time

  the machines do not even slow

  as the foreman unlocks the door

  throws the girl out.

  None of us

  has the heart

  to watch her go.

  say nothing

  In Russia

  it was the Christians

  we had to be wary of.

  Centuries

  of lies

  and fear

  turned us somehow

  into the enemy.

  But here

  the bosses are Jews, too.

  We are their neighbors

  their nieces

  their people.

  There is no reason for them

  to work us so hard

  to strip

  our dignity from us.

  I am not so good

  at being a good girl.

  In this country

  where all are free

  to speak

  their minds

  it is becoming difficult

  to say nothing.

  tense

  I

  walk

  you

  walk

  he / she / it

  walks

  they

  walk

  we

  walk

  yesterday I

  walked

  tomorrow I

  will walk

  today I

  wish I could walk

  out of the doldrums

  the dead air

  that is this shop

  into a life where my mind

  is unmoored

  set adrift

  free to steer into the

  wild, whipping winds.

  bleary

  Mama leaves a plate for me

  when I come home at night

  she would rather wait

  and have the meal together as a family

  and she would rather I come straight home from work

  and that I not stay until my eyes are red and bleary

  and I cannot read another word.

  I can stand her disapproval.

  I can bear Papa’s condemnation.

  I can even shoulder my brothers’ scorn.

  What I cannot bear

  is the thought of

  this

  only

  more of this

  the rest of my days.

  make ready

  Summer is coming to a close.

  Even in this petrified forest of gray

  upon gray

  upon gray

  the bluebirds are busy

  gathering bits of ribbon

  and twigs

  to line their nests.

  They know every shop

  on the Lower East Side.

  They wait

  on the drainpipes

  and lintels

  for a door to swing open

  and swish closed

  letting loose a dervish of dust

  and lint

  and thread.

  They dive from their perches

  tittering and

  twittering;

  speeding their treasures

  off to hidden places.

  make it right

  The foreman

  pinches us

  touches us.

  Today he grabbed Nadia’s backside

  when both her hands were full

  carrying her finished waists

  to the presser’s table.

  He laughed

  at her protests,

  her red face.

  I could not

  look away

  anymore.

  I spoke to the boss,

  sure he would make it right.

  Hardly lifting his eyes

  from the ledger sheet

  he said,

  There are dozens of girls

  fresh off the boats

  who would be more than happy

  to work in your place

  without complaining.

  Fired.

  Just like that,

  with no pay

  for the week’s

  work.

  rise and fall

  Throngs of people stroll the streets

  as if nothing of consequence

  has happened.

  Walking home in the middle of the day

  the autumn sun heats the back of my head

  until it pounds

  in counterpoint to my footsteps

  that speed

  and slow

  as my mind turns

  and churns

  and stutters to a stop.

  Papa will be angry,

  of course,

  but he is not the one

  working day in,

  day out

  to keep us out of the poorhouse.

  I do not know how I will find the words to tell Mama.

  I make myself

  put one foot

  in front of the other

  across the narrow tiled entry

  up the creaking stairs,

  gaslight catching

  on the tin ceiling

  reflecting its moody light back at me.

  The door handle

  is cold to the touch.

  Mama is in the kitchen

  dropping potatoes into a pot of boiling water

  her face red and blotchy

  her hair wet

  with sweat

  and clinging to her cheeks.

  What is it, Clara,

  she says,

  why are you not at work?

  My mouth is dry

  my tongue sticks

  to the roof of my mouth.

  A mound of potato peels

  slides to the floor

  as I try to explain.

  Mama reaches a hand to the table

  to steady herself.

  But you worked

  Sunday and Monday and Tuesday,

  she counts the days off on her fingers,

  you should be paid

  at least for that!

  My shoulders rise and fall

  Whatever the boss decides

  is law, Mama.

  There is nothing I can do.

  She drops the last potato into the po
t

  wipes her brow

  with the back of her hand

  blows a breath of air

  toward the ceiling.

  Both hands reach out

  beseeching,

  But why, Clara,

  did you have to speak?

  It was not you

  who was mistreated.

  No, Mama,

  I say,

  not today.

  But it has been me

  before.

  It will be me

  again.

  I take my mother’s hands

  in my own.

  Would you have me stay silent

  while those around me suffer?

  She says,

  If you do not stay silent

  you cannot work.

  If you do not work,

  how will we eat?

  It is only then

  I see Marcus and Nathan

  in the parlor

  listening to every word,

  questions

  accusations

  in their eyes.

  at home

  I work the dough with my palms.

  Thrust and lift, fold and

  thrust.

  I thought things would be different here.

  Thrust and lift, fold and

  thrust.

  But not for girls. Not anywhere.

  Thrust and lift, fold and

  thrust.

  I move to the window

  gulp sour air

  dense with yeast.

  Outside, buildings press together

  like gulls fighting for a perch

  on a bobbing buoy.

  Clouds shuttle past the tips

  of distant buildings

  privy to private currents of air.

  I wipe the sweat from my brow

  careful not to touch anything

  with my dough-scummed hands,

  careful not to disturb

  Nathan and Benjamin

  as they bend over their books

  as they mutter and pray.

  A burst of hot breath,

  back to the kitchen.

  Thrust and lift, fold and

  thrust.

  wrestle

  I wrestle with my own mind

  and heart.

  I worked for months

  in that shop

  day in

  day out

  without a single penny

  for myself.

  Every week,

  I gave Mama all my earnings

  so she could care

  for the family.

  I see now how this family values

  my contribution:

  while Mama fetches a bucket of coal from the cellar

  in the backyard

  my brothers pray

  while Mama washes the clothes

  my brothers study at the table

  while Mama scrubs the floor

  my brothers pray

  for a second time

  while Mama prepares the dinner

  my brothers memorize Torah

  while Mama does her piecework

  by the light of a single lamp

  my brothers pray

  for a third time.

  Would it really make them

  any less holy

  if they cleaned a dish

  beat a rug

  carried the wash water to the sink

  in between prayers?

  Work in a garment shop

  is a particular misery

  my brothers will never know.

  I cannot do it

  only to fund such a life

  anymore.

  I wrestle with my own mind

  and heart.

  The time has come

  to take

  what I need

  for myself.

  When I find a new job

  I will hold some money back

  each week

  for myself

  for textbooks

  for tuition.

  not one word

  I found another shop—

  worse than the first,

  but I have given up

  my chance

  to be choosy.

  I know enough

  this time

  to keep my mouth shut

  in front of the boss.

  The machines punch away in the stuffy workroom

  stitch, gather

  stitch, gather

  stitch, gather

  stitch, gather

  I make only four dollars a week

  and I have to pay rent

  for the stool

  I sit upon.

  But if I finish my work quickly

  I can help the drapers.

  The toilet is indoors

  but still, we are only permitted

  to use it once in the morning

  and once again after lunch.

  It backs up,

  overflows into the workroom

  at least twice a week.

  There are children in this shop

  Benjamin’s age

  sewing buttonholes

  trimming threads

  schlepping piecework

  back and forth to the tenements.

  The girls my age squint

  like old women,

  the hazy gaslight

  the flashing needle

  straining their eyes.

  Not one word.

  Not a single word.

  Clara, you must not say

  one word.

  So far I have obeyed, but it helps

  that the boss who lords over this dusty shop

  struts like a common moorhen

  with sprawling yellow feet

  drab feathers

  an ugly red nose.

  When he stalks the aisles

  clucking his disapproval

  I see the mighty chicken of the swamp

  shin-deep in muck,

  ducking his head for a tasty

  water skipper

  or frog.

  It helps,

  (when I want to scream

  when I want to march out of that shop

  linking arms with every miserable

  girl inside)

  it helps to imagine the moorhen’s warble

  burbling from his lips.

  night classes

  Tonight,

  heat

  fills the classroom

  with a drowsy haze

  it feels like

  the greatest struggle

  of my life

  just to stay awake.

  I prop my eyelids open

  with my fingers.

  English is a willful language

  stubborn

  refusing to follow its own rules.

  When class is over

  and they let us out

  onto dark sidewalks

  I trace this new

  curving alphabet in the air before me

  as I walk,

  my finger lifting and swirling

  like a maestro commanding

  a host of musicians.

  school

  A truancy officer

  came to the apartment yesterday

  while I was at work.

  Benjamin and Nathan,

  he said,

  must go to school.

  The rest of us are too old

  for the law to bother with us.

/>   The state of New York

  may have given up on me

  but I am only

  getting started.

  Coney Island

  At lunch,

  the girls talk of how

  if they save their lunch money

  all week,

  if they eat nothing but bread

  and a glass of milk

  they can purchase the nickel fare

  to Coney Island

  when the slow season begins

  and the shop closes

  for a day

  here and there.

  In the shtetl

  I loved to swim

  in the streams

  in the last days of summer.

  I loved to watch the traveling shows

  that came through town

  but here

  I cannot spare

  the pennies.

  When my education is behind me

  when I am a doctor at last

  then maybe I will have money

  for a holiday.

  tuition

  The director at the free school pulls me aside

  after English class

  and says,

  Every year

  the Educational Alliance asks

  for the name

  of a student worthy

  of a college scholarship.

  My eyes blink like a barn owl

  startled by the bright sun.

  Am I dreaming?

  Am I so tired

  my mind

  cannot tell

  when I am awake?

  With a wry

  twist of her lips

  she continues,

  Of course,

  to be awarded funds

  for tuition, room and board,

  you will have to gain

  high school equivalency

  by the time the term begins next fall.

  Though I have not yet

  been able to make my joy

  form a single word

  she must see it

  all the same.

  Yes,

  she says,

  I thought you were the right choice.

  The colleges require

  sixty points for admission,

  more than two dozen exams.

  Here is the schedule;

  I’m sure

  I don’t need to tell you

  how rigorous this time line

  will be.

  I take the paper

  grasp her hand

  in mine.

  Thank you.

  exams

  If I could only take the exams in Russian

  I know I could pass