The Hired Girl

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  I was reading in bed and that’s not forbidden. Mrs. Rosenbach said I might read after my work was done. And Malka gives me a candle every night — she never fusses, no matter how quickly I use them up — oh, dear! I will never find another job like this one, where no one is sparing of candles! But it isn’t forbidden to read — I was even reading the book Mrs. Rosenbach gave me, which of course I ruined. My bad luck overflows even onto the books I read.

  It was a good book, too. It turns out that Daniel Deronda is about Jews. At the beginning of the book, Daniel thinks he’s an ordinary person, but I peeked at the end, and it turns out he’s a Jew. But he doesn’t mind one bit! Being Jewish means he can marry a beautiful Jewish girl named Mirah, who is noble like Rebecca but also small and delicate and pure like a child. I wish I were small and delicate and pure.

  I was very caught up in the story, and I came to a part where the print was smudged. I took the chamberstick off the table by my bed and held it close to the page. Having the light near at hand made the page brighter, and I kept reading — but then my hair caught fire.

  I knew I was in mortal danger. But I also knew what to do, because it isn’t the first time my hair’s caught fire. If you’ve had long braids all your life, well, every now and then your braid swings around and passes too close to the fire from the range. When that happens, you have to keep your wits about you and put out the fire as fast as ever you can.

  Which I did. I threw down the book and flung myself off the bed onto the linoleum and slapped at the flames. And I seized the edge of the quilt and pressed it against my hair to extinguish the last sparks. Then I saw the book lying on the floor — I threw it down in such a way that the binding tore, but who can blame me? If your hair’s on fire, you don’t put in a bookmark and set the book down carefully. All the same, I felt a pang of remorse.

  Afterward, I felt my hair, and I’d lost a little on the right side. The burned edges were crisp and harsh feeling, but nobody will know once my hair is up. The palms of my hands smarted, but they weren’t blistered. It could have been so much worse. Then — just in the nick of time! — I remembered the candle I’d been reading by and — oh, horrors! — I’d dropped it when I leaped out of bed — and the bedclothes had caught fire!

  I yelled and leaped onto the bed, on my hands and knees. I smothered the flames with the quilt — I used the whole quilt and I pounded it with my fists — and I guess I made a lot of noise, yelling and thumping, but I got the fire out. But then Malka came in, carrying her candle.

  Well, she took one look at me and shrieked. I guess she could smell the burned hair — it’s one of the worst smells in the world, and one of the strongest. I don’t know whether you’d call it pungent or acrid, but it might be both. She shrieked and fled, forgetting her bunion and not limping a bit. When she came back, she had a great jug of water — it turns out she is deathly afraid of fire and keeps a jug of water in her room — and she dashed it at me, soaking me and the bedclothes and what was left of Daniel Deronda. All the time, she was talking frantically in Yiddish and saying barook-ha-shem, which I think is maybe a phrase to ward off the devil, because she seems to say it whenever a disaster has been averted.

  I guess I was too excited to think very clearly because the water was awfully cold. And I couldn’t understand her, but I knew she was scolding me, and then she switched to English and I heard her say something about me burning the whole family alive in their beds. I thought that was unfair, and I told her it was an accident, and for heaven’s sake, whoever caught her hair on fire on purpose? I held up the hank of hair that was singed, and she came forward to look, but she stopped and gasped and pointed to the crucifix over my bed. (I hung it up after church on Sunday, because I mean to be a real Catholic from now on.)

  She carried on as if my crucifix was a ghost. She told me to take it down right away. She said it was bad enough I’d tried to burn the house down, but she wasn’t having that on the wall. And I said it was my room and that Jesus was my Lord and my God, and I wasn’t taking Him down. And she said it wasn’t my room, it was a room in a good Jewish house, and did I know how many Jews had been persecuted and tortured and murdered because of that Sign? And she started talking about mobs of Christians massacring Jews and burning synagogues — which I’m sure can’t be true; it might have been true in Ivanhoe’s time, but real Christians, especially Catholics, wouldn’t do such things. She darted forward as if she meant to reach up and take Ma’s crucifix off the wall, and I stood on the bed to stop her. That’s when Mrs. Rosenbach came in.

  I must say she was wearing the most beautiful dressing gown. It’s what they call a kimono, olive green, with pale-pink blossoms on it, hand embroidered, I think, though I didn’t get a close look. And I realized that Malka and I must have awakened her, and she wasn’t pleased. She said, “Be quiet, both of you!” and I saw her take in the water on the floor and the soaking bed and the charred place on the quilt. The smell of burned hair was very strong. I started trying to tell her what had happened and how it wasn’t my fault. But the minute I opened my mouth, Malka started pointing at the wall and saying that if I wouldn’t take the crucifix down, she’d send me packing.

  Then Mrs. Rosenbach lost her temper and said it wasn’t for Malka to say whether I should stay or go. Malka burst into tears and started off on all the years she’d served that family and how she would have shed her last drop of blood for any of them, but now a shiksa who set the house on fire was raised above her. And I said I wasn’t a shiksa. I’m not sure what it is, but it sounds like something awful. And I said I hadn’t set the house on fire, either, just my hair and a little bit of the quilt.

  Mrs. Rosenbach told us to be quiet again. She thrust her hands into her hair, pressing her palms against her temples, as if she had a splitting headache. What I’ve caught on to is that Malka gets on her nerves something terrible. I shut up when she told me to, but Malka kept carrying on until she ran out of pitiful things to say. When at last she stopped, Mrs. Rosenbach told her in an icy voice to go back to bed.

  Of course Malka didn’t, because she wanted to see what was going to happen to me. “Janet,” Mrs. Rosenbach said sharply — I jumped because I’d forgotten my name was Janet —“will you be able to sleep on a wet mattress?”

  I said I would. By that time, I’d realized how much trouble I was in, and I was abject; I probably sounded like there was nothing in the world I’d like more than to sleep on a wet mattress. I told her I was terribly sorry that the book was ruined, and I promised to buy her another one out of my wages.

  “Take the wet things downstairs,” said Mrs. Rosenbach, “and hang them in the kitchen to dry. You may get dry sheets out of the linen closet.”

  I said “Yes, ma’am,” and got down on my knees so I could clean up the mess. But Malka started off again, complaining about my crucifix. Mrs. Rosenbach looked at it and there was a look of distaste on her face, as if my crucifix was treif. She said she’d talk to Mr. Rosenbach about it tomorrow, but for now we had best go to bed. Then she left. Malka left, too — but in a more forceful way. I wish I’d thought to tell her I was sorry, because that would have been a good time to say it. But I wasn’t sorry.

  I mopped up the floor with the ruined quilt and took it downstairs and hung it up. I was shivering, because my nightgown was wet, and I have only the one, so I couldn’t change out of it. By and by the wet part took the warmth from my body. It’s still wet, though, and feels very disagreeable.

  I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow, when Mr. Rosenbach scolds me. Before, I had Malka on my side. If I can’t get along with Malka, I’ll be like the other servants who were sent away. And where will I find another job? I don’t think Mrs. Rosenbach can write me a good character because I set the bedclothes on fire. Only it was an accident — I didn’t do it for my health. Though that is a slangy, disrespectful way of putting it, and I must be careful not to say that to Mr. Rosenbach.

  I don’t see why I can’t have Ma’s crucifix on the wall. I belie
ve I’m being persecuted. Jesus said that people who were persecuted in His Name would be blessed. So maybe I should leave the crucifix up and go on being persecuted. But if I take it down, Malka might forgive me and plead for me with Mr. Rosenbach. I’m sure her little Moritz would listen to her.

  Maybe that thought is a temptation. Perhaps I ought to pray and ask God what to do.

  I just prayed for a long time.

  I think God must want me to go to sleep.

  Tuesday, July the eighteenth, 1911

  I wish Mr. Rosenbach was my father. It feels wicked to covet someone else’s father, but how can I help it? I never wanted anyone but Ma to be my mother, but Mr. Rosenbach is ever so much kinder than Father.

  I was nervous this morning. Malka was sulking — ominously silent is the phrase they would use in a novel. She told me that Mrs. Rosenbach was having her bridge ladies today instead of Wednesday, so I couldn’t have the afternoon off. I didn’t dare complain, because I was afraid of being sent away.

  By the time Mr. Rosenbach rang for me, my stomach was all tied up in knots. My heart beat fast as I opened the library door.

  Mr. Rosenbach was standing over his desk, reading the newspaper, but he whirled around when I came in. He is mostly bald, but he has a dark mustache that is pointy and waxed and turns up at the ends. He shouted, just as I’d feared he would. “So! This is the little girl who loves books so much that she stays up all night and sets the house on fire! Come here!”

  I said that he shouted, and he did. But it was kind of a joyful bellow, and he beckoned in a friendly way. I stumbled forward — I don’t mean I tripped or anything, but I felt off balance. He said, “Closer!” but I couldn’t think why he should want me to draw near. There was a far-off corner in my mind where I wanted to laugh because he called me a little girl and the top of his head is about level with my ear.

  Up close, he is almost handsome. Not his features, which are irregular, but if you subtracted his face, he might be called handsome. He has good shoulders and he smells like cedar, and his shirts are so beautifully starched.

  He said, “Which side?”

  “Which side?” I echoed.

  “You set your hair on fire. Which side of the head?”

  I pointed and he stepped nearer and peered at me. I was too embarrassed to look at him. At last he stepped back. “You were not burned? You were not hurt?”

  “No, sir,” I said. It struck me that neither Mrs. Rosenbach nor Malka had asked whether I was hurt. I guess they could see for themselves that I wasn’t.

  He persisted. “Hands? Show me.”

  I held up my hands for inspection. There’s a nasty blister on the web of my left thumb. He saw it and made sympathetic noises. They were like the noises Mr. Solomon made when I was crying in the park. At that time, I thought they were foreign noises, but now I know they’re Jewish noises.

  “That’s a bad burn. Did you put anything on it?”

  “I ran cold water on it,” I said. “But that’s from yesterday. From ironing.”

  “Ah,” he said, in the German way, as if he were clearing his throat. Then he shouted, “Sit down, sit down!” as if he’d just thought of us sitting and couldn’t wait a single minute for it to happen. I sat down quickly and he bounced down opposite me. The way he moves is very energetic and rubbery, and he perched on the edge of his seat as if he was ready to jump up again. “So you love to read?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not dime novels, but Ivanhoe? The classics?”

  “Yes, sir.” I took a deep breath. “I want to better myself.”

  “She wants to better herself,” Mr. Rosenbach announced, although there was nobody for him to say it to except me. “She wants to be an educated young lady. So after a hard day’s work, she sits up late and sets the house on fire.”

  “It wasn’t the house,” I said. I was contradicting him, but by then, I wasn’t afraid of him one bit. “It was just my hair. I should have been more careful with the candle, and I’m sorry I woke everyone up. I’m especially sorry that Mrs. Rosenbach’s book was ruined. But I’m going to buy her a new copy as soon as I can. I’m not sure I can fix the quilt, but —”

  He interrupted me. “Enough about the quilt. There are hundreds of quilts in this house, hundreds. They’re a nuisance — that’s how many we have. No. I have thought it all through, and I know what must be done.” He gestured energetically. “We will order you a kimono.”

  “A kimono,” I repeated.

  “A kimono, a bathrobe, a dressing gown,” he said impatiently, as if I didn’t know the word. “Something that covers you from head to toe. Then, when the house is quiet, you can creep downstairs and read in the library, where there are electric lights. In this way, you will continue your education without setting your hair on fire.”

  I stared at him with my mouth open. He began to laugh. “You would rather I scolded you? To accuse you of — what were the words my poor Malka used — setting us ablaze in our beds?”

  I blurted out, “I thought you’d send me away.”

  “You did?” He cocked his head. “You think I am the kind of man who will send away a little girl — an American girl! — who loves books so much that after a long day of putting up with my old friend Malka — Do you like her, my Malka? She’s an old torment, isn’t she? But I love her very much, and she’s fond of you, though now she’s angry, so you must eat humble pie. Will you do that? If you do, I think she will forgive you, and you will forgive her, and we will get you a bathrobe, so everything will be all right. I love books myself; do you think I should send away a servant because she wants to read?”

  He paused for me to speak, but I was lost in the thicket of his questions. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Janet. I can call you that, because I’m old enough to be your father. How old are you?”

  Quick as a flash I answered, “Eighteen.” And oh, I hated having to lie to him! But what was I to do? Once you start lying, you have to go on. Lying to him seemed worse than lying to the others, because he looked at me so kindly. I wrote before that he wasn’t handsome. He is moonfaced and hawk-nosed and middle-aged. But he has fine eyes: dark and piercing.

  “Freyda thinks you’re younger.”

  It took me a minute to see that Freyda must be Mrs. Rosenbach. “No, sir,” I said stoutly. “I’m eighteen, all right. I guess I seem younger because —” I hesitated. “Because I’m so ignorant. I left school when I was fourteen.”

  “But you want to go on learning.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I want more than anything.”

  “If that’s what you want, who am I to stop you?” He swept his hands apart. “Here are books — novels, histories, poetry. You may read them all. But not too late, not past midnight. You have to get up early to help Malka with breakfast. Many nights, we have retired by ten, and after that, my library is open to you. Do you agree?”

  Agree? I thought of myself, reading through those books — Dickens and Scott and The Picturesque World. I could scarcely speak. “Of course I agree! I can’t thank you enough — oh, I can never thank you —”

  He cut me off. “There is no need to thank me. For a Jew, it is a sin not to educate his children. You are not my child. But you live under my roof; you sweep my floors, you overcook my fish, you burn your hand ironing my shirts —”

  “No, sir,” I corrected him. “Malka irons your shirts. But I iron your sheets.” Then I felt myself get red, because I was afraid it was indelicate to talk about sheets.

  He didn’t notice. “It’s the same thing,” he said, which shows his masculine ignorance. If you scorch a sheet, you can bleach it with sunshine and vinegar until the scorch marks fade. But shirts have to be perfect. Malka’s awful fussy about the master’s shirts, and she’s right to be.

  He went on. “What I am telling you is that so long as you live under my roof, I am responsible for your well-being. I have no intention of standing between you and the books you love. At the same time, I can’t
allow you to set the house on fire or ruin your health reading all night. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. I was so happy I burst out laughing.

  “That’s good, very good. But now there’s something else we must discuss, and that is Malka. She is very much upset. Will you make it up with her?”

  I had forgotten about Malka. “Did Malka tell you why she’s mad at me? It wasn’t just the fire.”

  “What, then?”

  I linked my fingers together. “I’m Catholic.” I’m not a complete Catholic yet, because I haven’t taken the Sacrament, but I like saying the words. “So I hung my mother’s crucifix over my bed. When Malka saw it, she screamed and told me to take it down.”

  “And you refused. This she told me.”

  “I wasn’t very tactful,” I admitted, “and I guess I raised my voice. But that crucifix belonged to my mother, and I’ve as much right to be Catholic as Malka has to be a Jew. And I don’t think I should be persecuted because of my religion.”

  He nodded rapidly, but he didn’t answer at first. He bounced out of his seat, walked a few steps, spun round, and eyed me as if he were taking my measure. “Malka said you called her a liar.”

  “I didn’t,” I said indignantly.

  “Did you tell her that what she said wasn’t true?”

  I felt myself turn red. “I might have,” I admitted. “She was saying such horrible things. About Christians and even priests slaughtering Jews — things I knew can’t be true. But I never called her a liar. I wouldn’t be so disrespectful to an old lady.”

  He threw up his hands. “Yes, but to Malka —”

  “Yes, sir,” I agreed, because I understood what he meant. To say that someone isn’t speaking the truth isn’t the same as calling her a liar. But to Malka, touchy old Malka, it might seem like the same thing.