The Hired Girl

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  “I wish I had some finery,” I said. I hadn’t meant to say it. The words just slipped out.

  “Not cheap finery,” Malka argued. “You wouldn’t want that.”

  “I can’t afford the expensive kind,” I pointed out, and I saw her mouth twitch. I pinched my skirt between my thumb and forefinger, inviting her to admire the blurred flowers on my horrible dress. I clowned a little, rising on tiptoe and twirling like a ballet dancer.

  She uttered a musty sound, something between a guffaw and a snort. She couldn’t fool me. It was a laugh; I’d made her laugh. I pressed my advantage. “Will you teach me how to do kashrut?” I coaxed. “Miss Chandler — my old teacher — said I could learn just about anything, if I set my mind to it. I’d work hard to please you. I need a place, and I think this one will suit me just fine.”

  The idea of teaching me wiped the smile from her face. “I can try to teach you,” she said as if it was a threat, “but it’ll be up to you to learn.” And she glowered at me, but it was that smack-her-lips kind of glower, as if her pessimism was as tasty as her fried fish.

  Friday, July the seventh, 1911

  Today was Shabbos — or getting ready for it — and now I know why Malka was so tired last Saturday night, because preparing for Shabbos is hard work. No one is supposed to work on Shabbos (which isn’t on Sunday at all), but you have to work like a horse to get ready for it. The food for Shabbos has to be especially good and plentiful. So all the cooking for Friday supper and Saturday breakfast and Saturday lunch has to be done by Friday before sundown, with the food stored away in refrigerators or warming ovens.

  And the house has to be spotlessly clean. Malka and I were on our feet all day, dusting and sweeping and ironing the table linens, polishing the glasses and the silver, only Malka won’t let me touch the Shabbos candlesticks. They came from Germany, from the days when Mr. Rosenbach was poor. Even though they’re plainer than the other silver, they’re precious, because they’ve been in the family so long. I asked Malka if she was afraid I’d steal them. She said I was so rough I’d rub the pattern off.

  I think that was meant to vex me, but I laughed as if she’d said something very witty, and a pinched little smile came over her face. She gave me the glasses to polish, first with whiting and leather, and then with a silk handkerchief. I rubbed them until they sparkled. Then there was the cooking — grating apples for pudding, and chopping onions, salting the beef, and making noodles for frimsel soup. She had me pluck the fowls and dress them, and she showed me how to make fish balls with lemon sauce, which will be eaten cold tomorrow.

  She kneaded the bread and made me watch while she braided it. Then she made cucumber salad while I beat the eggs for sponge cake. Sponge cake is a cake without butter or milk, so it’s good for kashrut. It’s all eggs, but you have to beat them a full half hour. I beat them until my arms ached, but then Malka said I’d overbeaten them, and I had to go to the market on Whitelock Street to buy more. I hated the thought of those good eggs going to waste, and I set Malka off on a tirade by saying that we ought to keep a pig. It seems that pigs are very bad for kashrut.

  But visiting the market was the best part of the day. I’ve been indoors all week, mostly down in the kitchen. Going to the market by myself felt like having an adventure. Malka told me not to dawdle, and I didn’t, but I looked.

  The worst part of the day was when dinner was almost ready. Malka told me there was just time for me to run upstairs and change my dress. Everyone is supposed to wear their nicest things for Shabbos, but I don’t have any nice things. I’ve worn my chocolate-brown twill ever since I came here. At night I wash out the parts where I’ve perspired and hang it by the window to dry.

  I had to tell Malka that I didn’t have another dress. That isn’t really true, but I can’t wear the dress I left home in, because it’s so short and childish looking. I wish I hadn’t told everyone I’m eighteen, because if I’d said I was fifteen, maybe even sixteen, I might have been able to get away with it. But no girl of eighteen would show so much leg, and if the Rosenbachs saw me wearing it, they’d know that I lied about my age.

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

  When first we practice to deceive!

  Miss Chandler taught me that, and it’s true. When I told Malka I had only one dress, her eyebrows rose so high I thought they’d crawl up under her kerchief and vanish. Her eyes got that tragic, shocked look. I said that I was hoping to buy another dress with my wages, but she frowned at me sharply and said it was wrong to talk about money so close to the Sabbath. So that was that. I don’t know what I’m going to do about my wages. I could buy myself a dress with my Belinda money if I had an afternoon off, but I can’t ask for an afternoon off, because Mrs. Rosenbach hasn’t told me I can stay.

  At suppertime, I felt kind of lonesome. On Shabbos, Malka dines upstairs with the Rosenbachs: Mrs. Rosenbach, Mr. Solomon Rosenbach, and Mirele, who is Mr. Solomon’s little sister. (I’ve only caught glimpses of her, but she wears perfectly sweet frilly clothes. It takes hours to iron them.) Mrs. Rosenbach’s husband is in New York with her other son, David. It turns out that Mr. Rosenbach owns a department store — Malka was affronted when I told her I’d never heard of Rosenbach’s Department Store. There is also a married daughter, Anna, who comes to Shabbos supper when her husband is away and brings her two spoiled children — that is, Malka says they’re spoiled. She was there, too.

  So I ate dinner by myself. Malka filled a generous plate for me, but I wasn’t at the feast. I was a kind of Gentile Cinderella. Upstairs there was candlelight, and wine in shining glasses, not to mention my sponge cake, but there I was, alone in the kitchen. If I’d had a book to prop up beside my plate, I wouldn’t have felt a bit lonely. But as it was, I kept thinking of how much my feet hurt. I kept glancing at all the dishes on the sideboard. Once Shabbos starts, Malka can’t do any dishes, because it’s work, but Mrs. Rosenbach says it’s all right for me to do them, because I’m not Jewish.

  After I finished the dishes, I tidied the kitchen and swept the floor, and now I’m upstairs, feeling melancholy. I think I’m homesick. I never thought I would be that, but when I think of Miss Chandler, my o’ercharged heart seems to swell. I miss the country: the fresh air and the birdsong in the morning. I miss the food. Malka’s a good cook, but her meals are all spicy and rich, and my stomach longs for something plain. I miss ham, but ham is treif, which means the Jews aren’t allowed to eat it. And I miss starting the day with a glass of real milk. The city milk tastes kind of faded. There’s no life in it.

  I miss Mark, a little. But not very much, because I’m still mad at him for not taking up for me. I imagine Mark’ll get stuck looking after my chickens. I’m glad of that, because he’ll take good care of them. I wonder if anyone will think to pick the hornworms off my tomatoes. Malka has a little patch of garden out back, but her tomatoes are spindly and poor-looking — I’d be ashamed of tomatoes like that, but she seems to think they’re thriving.

  What I miss most of all is my books. Jane Eyre and Florence Dombey — they were like my sisters. And I wish I had Ivanhoe again, because there are still many things I don’t understand about the Jews.

  Sunday, July the ninth, 1911

  Today was a downright awful day. I woke up feeling prickly and queasy, with a familiar pain in my stomach. I felt outraged, because I didn’t want all that again. But of course, there’s no way out of it. It seems to me that God was very hard on Eve, punishing her so cruelly just for eating an apple. He wasn’t nearly as strict with Adam. I don’t think it was fair. But that is probably a wicked thing to write, and not refined.

  I put on my chocolate-colored dress, because what else is there for me to put on? That frets me, too, because in spite of my best efforts, that dress is beginning to smell. Last week I thought if I could only please Malka and win my right to work here, I’d be content. Now it seems I’m likely to stay, but I’m as full of worries as a hive is full of bees. Nagging, buzzing, stinging worries they are,
too.

  On top of that, the weather was perfectly awful. It was very hot and damp with a white sky, which is my least favorite weather in the world.

  After I finished the breakfast dishes, Malka told me Mrs. Rosenbach said that I could have Sunday mornings off so I could attend church. I ought to have been grateful, but I wasn’t. It isn’t that I don’t want to go to church, but if my only time off is to be Sunday mornings, I’ll never go anywhere but church. I won’t be able to visit a library or a picture gallery, and all the stores will be closed.

  However, since I had the morning off, I thought I’d better take it. I put on my hat and gloves and went out. Malka said there was a Catholic church nearby, and she told me where it was but I got lost. The streets were so hot my head ached, and the sight of families in their Sunday clothes made me feel lonesome and sour and envious.

  I tried to work out whether I could tell Mrs. Rosenbach that I wanted a different day off, and how I could bring up the question of my salary. Thinking about it got me worried, because in Ivanhoe the Jews have a lot of money, but they’re very close with it, though Rebecca isn’t, of course. Sir Walter Scott says that the Jews have a great love of gain. I began to worry that Mrs. Rosenbach might not give me any money. It would be a sneaking, stingy thing to do, to make a poor girl work all week and then not give her any wages.

  I can’t think — I don’t want to think — the Rosenbachs are like that. Mr. Solomon was very good to me, and anyone can see that Mrs. Rosenbach is a real lady. And Malka’s not stingy. There are little money boxes all over the house, charities for the poor Jews and immigrants and orphans. Malka’s always putting coins in them. But then, it isn’t Malka who’ll be paying my salary.

  I soon grew tired of walking in the heat, so I came back to Eutaw Place. Malka had passed the morning making a big kugel (which is a kind of noodle pudding) for Sunday dinner. I could tell she was proud of it, so I said it looked beautiful, but I secretly hoped I wouldn’t have to eat any, because it was full of raisins and I hate raisins, always have. Of course she spooned a big helping onto my plate, and I had to worry it down. She saw that I wasn’t eating very fast, and I had to confess that I didn’t like raisins. I was careful to say how delicious the kugel was; it was only the raisins that I didn’t like.

  But that wasn’t good enough. Touchy old Malka was offended and said that raisins were a treat, and who did I think I was, to turn up my nose at them? Then I had to listen to a long story about when she was a little girl, when her Mama — only, she pronounces it Mah-meh — would give her a handful of raisins on Shabbos as a special treat. I had to hear about what a good girl she was, not spoiled, like young people today. Before I’d heard the end of that, Mrs. Rosenbach came down to the kitchen to tell Malka that she was going out and to remind her that she’s having her bridge ladies for luncheon on Wednesday. She said she wanted Malka to serve oyster patties.

  Then Malka just about threw a fit, because oysters are treif. She said that over her dead body would oyster patties be cooked in her kitchen (which made a very strange picture come into my mind). Then Mrs. Rosenbach turned steely and said that it wasn’t Malka’s kitchen at all, but hers. I suppose that was her way of reminding Malka that she (Malka) is only a servant, and that if she (Mrs. Rosenbach) wanted oyster patties, then she (Malka) would have to cook them. Then Mrs. Rosenbach swept out of the room and Malka dissolved in tears. The whole time we were cleaning up the kitchen, she was sniffing and muttering. I tried to sympathize, but she was still angry with me about the kugel. Somehow, because I hadn’t eaten the raisins, I was on the same side as Mrs. Rosenbach, wanting to serve treif in a good Jewish home.

  Presently I gave up trying to mollify her and just mopped the floor. After I finished, Malka said that since the family was going out, I could go upstairs and lie down. (Earlier I’d told her what was the matter with me. I had to tell her because of the laundry.) She added in a tremulous voice that no doubt I was tired of listening to her.

  Well, as a matter of fact, I was. But of course I didn’t say so. I thanked her and went upstairs. I had no notion of going to my room, though — the attic is hot as blazes in the afternoon. I headed straight for the library.

  I’ve been cleaning the library all week, but Malka’s always been at my side, so I haven’t been able to snatch more than a peek at the books. I declare, I’m starved for the sight of print. Most of the books are in glass cases, but the books I wanted to examine are too big to fit in a case. The covers are brown and maroon leather, stamped with gold, and the title of the volumes is The Picturesque World. When Malka’s back was turned, I opened the front cover — the inside cover was watered silk — and looked at the title page.

  It’s a book about all the beautiful places in the world: cathedrals and grottoes and palaces and parks. There are more than a thousand pictures, and the writing has Authentic and Original Descriptions by the Best Authors. It says so right on the title page. I knew that reading that book would take me into another world — the real world, not the ordinary world of washing the dishes and mopping the floor. It would be like what Keats said about gazing through a magic casement into faery lands forlorn.

  So of course I was wild to read it. Miss Chandler used to say that beauty could ennoble mankind, and maybe that book would ennoble me. Or edify me: that’s another word she used to use. I think I’d rather be ennobled than edified. It sounds loftier.

  I thought the Rosenbachs were out, because I’d heard the front door shut. The house was full of a Sunday hush. I opened the library doors without a sound.

  My heart leaped. Mr. Solomon was in the room. He sat at his desk with his back to me — there are two desks in the library, one for Mr. Rosenbach, and one for Mr. Solomon. His head was bent over a big book, and he was muttering to himself.

  I stood stock-still. The truth is, I’ve been wanting to talk to Mr. Solomon all week, but our paths haven’t crossed. That’s odd, when you think about it, because we’re living under the same roof. I guess it shows how great a gulf stands between a servant girl and her master.

  I knew I should withdraw, because that was what a proper servant ought to do. But I didn’t. I stood with my hand on the cut-glass doorknob. I think I was hoping that he’d sense my presence and turn his head and smile at me.

  But he didn’t. And for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I don’t know how long I stayed there and gazed at him across the carpet. I found myself looking at the carpet, and the mantel, and everything. It’s a fine carpet; I run the carpet sweeper over it every morning. I dust the mantelpiece, which is marble, and the Chinese vases, which have butterflies on them. I reckon I know the things in that room better than Mr. Solomon does, because when you clean things, you see them up close. But at that moment, the room belonged to him: books, vases, carpet, and all. I didn’t belong there.

  Mr. Solomon kept muttering. I think he was reading a prayer book, because the muttering wasn’t in English. What I’ve caught on to is that Jews are like Catholics and pray in a foreign language, which is Hebrew. I knew I shouldn’t disturb a man at his prayers. I was afraid Mr. Solomon would see me there, and afraid he wouldn’t.

  There was a flash of movement. The Thomashefsky cat had been asleep in the green chair, but he stood up and jumped off, landing with a thud. He crossed the carpet and went straight to Mr. Solomon, making a little friendly chirping noise.

  Mr. Solomon said softly, “Ah, Thomas! Am I neglecting you? Do you need petting, you poor morsel?” He leaned sideways so he could stroke the cat. I could hear Thomashefsky purring all the way across the room.

  I closed the door slowly, so the latch wouldn’t click. I felt hot and prickly all over.

  Now that I write this, I believe I was jealous. For one thing, I’ve never managed to stroke that cat. He always ducks under my hand. And I’m aggravated, because here I am in a place of culture and refinement, but I’m only allowed to dust the books, not to read them. I’m mad at myself for wanting Mr. Solomon to notice me, and I
’m mad at him for ignoring me, as if I were invisible.

  I shut myself in my room and took off my dress. I tried to take a nap, but there was a fly in the room. Every time I was on the point of falling asleep, the fly would light on me. I tried to swat it, but it buzzed away. At last I got up and found my book.

  It’s too hot to write any more.

  Monday, July the tenth, 1911

  I am so ashamed. I’m just boiling with shame, because of what I wrote about the Jews having a great love of gain. I am to be paid, and handsomely. I’m to earn six dollars a week! My days off will be Sunday mornings and Tuesday afternoons, unless Mrs. Rosenbach is entertaining.

  Mrs. Rosenbach sent for me this morning. I felt rather nervous. I wanted to broach the subject of my wages, but I hadn’t figured out how. Everything I thought to say seemed so crude.

  Mrs. Rosenbach began by saying that I had done very well. She had feared that Malka would be prejudiced against a Gentile. But it seems that Malka — oh, dear, kind Malka! (I wish I hadn’t insulted her kugel!) — says that I am hardworking and honest and willing. Mrs. Rosenbach said she was surprised by how Malka took to me. I was tempted to tell her that Malka isn’t so bad; she just wants someone to make her laugh and listen to her stories — and of course do every single thing she says, exactly the way she says it, which I do.

  Then it occurred to me that it might be better if Mrs. Rosenbach went on thinking that Malka was almost impossible to work with. So I smiled mysteriously, as if I had some power over Malka that no other hired girl could ever possess.

  After that, Mrs. Rosenbach talked about her plans for me. I am to be a parlormaid. She asked if I had any objection to wearing a cap. She explained that a lot of girls won’t wear a cap because it makes them look like a servant. I said, “Well, ma’am, I am a servant.” Now that I think it over, it strikes me that I must have seemed right humble and innocent when I said that. Mostly I don’t seem either of those things, because I’m too tall. Then Mrs. Rosenbach mentioned the six dollars a week, and I breathed a sigh of relief.