“So you will be a good, kind girl and ask her to forgive you.”
I thought of eating humble pie before Malka, and I winced a little, but only a little. I was still so happy about the books. And the truth is, I’m not a very proud girl. Heroines in novels are proud, but for a hired girl, it isn’t convenient.
So I nodded and stood up. “I’ll go and tell her I’m sorry,” I promised. Then an uneasy thought came to me. “But they weren’t true, were they? The things she said?”
He answered slowly, “In America, no.”
He has a special way of saying those words, America and American. It’s as if each syllable is precious. He lifted one hand in command, so I sat back down. He pulled up a chair and leaned forward. I knew that he was going to entrust me with something important.
“You must understand that Malka is a child of the Old Country. She was born in Germany in the eighteen forties. When she was a child, she knew what it was to have other children call her a dirty Jew, to spit on her, to throw stones. She never knew her grandfather, who was killed in the riots in Frankfurt. He was beaten to death with a shovel. Malka’s grandmother saw it happen and told her the story. Such stories take root in a child’s mind.”
I understood that. I remember how sad stories haunted me when I was a little thing. One of the boys at school lost a finger chopping wood, and at night I couldn’t go to sleep for thinking about the pain and the blood.
“So when Malka sees a crucifix, she remembers how Christians have tormented the Jews.”
I protested. “But the rioters who killed Malka’s grandfather — they weren’t Christian, were they? I mean, they were criminals. Weren’t they?”
He looked as if he was sorry for me. “They were Christian men. I don’t mean to suggest that all Christians are like that. But Christian persecution has gone on for centuries. And those who have burned and tortured and oppressed us have done so in Christ’s name.”
“But that was long ago!”
“Not so long ago,” Mr. Rosenbach corrected me. “It’s hard for you to understand, because you’ve grown up in America, and America is truly the Promised Land. Even here, there is bigotry, but there are laws to protect us. Outside America, there are pogroms — massacres. Six years ago, in Kishinev, more than a hundred Jews were killed by an angry mob. The police did not interfere, and the murderers were never punished. The streets were piled high with our dead; even Jewish babies were torn to pieces.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t tell you these things to hurt you. I say them because they are true.”
“But those people in Kishinev —” I faltered. The truth is, I’ve never even heard of Kishinev. I have no idea where it is. “Were they Christians? Were they Catholic?”
“The mob was led by priests,” said Mr. Rosenbach. “Not Roman Catholic priests this time, but Orthodox priests: men of God, chanting, ‘Kill the Jews.’ It was the day after Easter. Good Friday and Easter have always been the most dangerous times for us. We Jews are called Christ-killers, though if you read your Bible, you will discover that Jesus was Himself a Jew, and that it was the Romans who put Him to death.”
I felt sick. I had such horrible pictures in my mind: the mobs in the street, the corpses, and Christian priests killing little babies. I felt my eyes get hot, and I was filled with shame. I didn’t want to cry. I’m supposed to be eighteen. I blurted out, “I don’t see why nobody likes the Jews.”
“I, too, have wondered about this,” said Mr. Rosenbach, with a wry grimace that helped me recover myself.
“My teacher, Miss Chandler, took the newspaper. She used to tell us about things that were going on in the world. But she never told us the Jews were being killed.”
“May I ask if Miss Chandler was a Jew?”
“Of course not,” I said. Miss Chandler a Jew! “Nobody’s a Jew where I come from. The only Jews I knew were Isaac and Rebecca, in Ivanhoe. And —” I stopped.
“And?” Mr. Rosenbach said, so encouragingly that I had to go on.
“And Fagin, in Oliver Twist.”
“Ah, Fagin.” Mr. Rosenbach leaped up and went to one of the bookcases. He stared through the glass doors at the scarlet-bound set of Dickens. “Well, Dickens was a master. When a great writer sets out to create a monster, he creates a great monster. I suppose there are people who hate my race all the more because of Fagin. But Fagin is a bad Jew, because he eats sausages, which are treif. And in a later book, Dickens repented of his anti-Semitism and wrote about a good Jew. . . .” He sighed. “Though the good Jew, Riah, is not as memorable as Fagin.”
I recognized that word, anti-Semitism, from my first night at the Rosenbachs’. “What is that?” I inquired. “What is anti —?”
“Anti-Semitism. The hatred of the Jews,” said Mr. Rosenbach. “The word is modern, but the hatred has a long history. We’ve been hated for thousands of years.”
“I don’t understand it,” I said.
He shrugged. “Perhaps we are both too innocent to understand it. But we have wandered from the point. What I was trying to explain is that for Malka, your crucifix is not a symbol of the God you love, but of the Christians who have oppressed the Jews. Can you understand that?”
I thought about Malka. For some reason, it wasn’t hard to picture her as a little girl. I imagined her: a little black fly of a child, listening with big scared eyes to her grandmother’s stories. “I guess I can,” I said. “Anyway, I’ll tell her I’m sorry. I never meant to call her a liar. But I still don’t know what to do about my crucifix. Must I take it down?”
“That is for you to decide. I have no wish to persecute you for your faith,” he said, and though he smiled very kindly, I knew our talk had come to an end.
Now I am writing in the library. After my bath, I put on my old brown dress and crept downstairs to write. It will be midnight in another fifteen minutes, and then I must go to bed, because I promised Mr. Rosenbach.
But I want to write two more things. One is that I made up with Malka. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. She was sitting in the kitchen with the Thomashefsky cat in her lap, so I went and knelt before her. I acted as if I was kneeling to stroke the cat, but I was really kneeling because I wanted to atone for all the bad things that were done to the Jews.
I told her I was sorry and that I hadn’t meant to call her a liar. I had a whole speech planned, very penitent and touching, but before I could say much, the cat bit me. I wasn’t hurting him — I was rubbing his cheek with one finger. But he bit me. I swear that cat knows I’m a Gentile.
Malka’s face brightened. She’d been listening to me stonily, but having the cat bite me cheered her right up. She said Thomashefsky was a bad boy, though I know she loved him all the more for it.
But pretending to scold the cat was her way of making up. She asked if I wanted a cookie. When I said I did, she put the cat off her lap and went to the icebox to pour me a glass of milk. While I was eating her cookies, I promised I’d take the crucifix off the wall.
So that’s the second thing I did. I took down the crucifix. I decided I’d sleep with it under my pillow. That way, it doesn’t bother Malka, but Jesus is still close to me. Even though taking Him down is a little bit like being persecuted, it isn’t the kind of persecution where babies are torn apart in the street.
I think this is a good compromise, and I feel peaceful and kind of virtuous. But when I think of the things Mr. Rosenbach told me, I don’t feel virtuous anymore. I feel ashamed and shocked that Christians can be so bad. And it seems to me that Jews like Mr. Rosenbach must be very good not to hate all Christians — though it would be unfair of him to hate me, because I’ve never done any anti-Semitism.
I wonder what my new bathrobe will look like.
Wednesday, July the nineteenth, 1911
I want to read, but I have so much to write! Today I had my day off, and I spent a fortune — a fortune! — in Rosenbach’s Department Store. I rode the streetcar, I met Nora Himmelrich, and I have a new HAT!
I
am wildly excited about my hat, so I’ll write about that first. It’s cream-colored straw trimmed with cornflowers and a pale-pink taffeta ribbon. Mimi says it’s a Cheyenne-style hat, which means that the brim turns up in front, more on one side than the other. It’s awfully becoming. Mimi says my hat has a lot of style for a dollar and seventy cents. A dollar and seventy cents! Ma would be horrified if she knew I spent that on a hat. But Mimi seemed to think it was a bargain, and in a way it was, because I saw one hat that cost twelve dollars. Mimi said that was because it had a lot of ostrich feathers, which are becoming very dear. It’s a pity girls don’t run department stores, because Mimi seems to know a lot about such things.
Mimi was in a bad humor when we met today, almost silent, except when she was explaining to me about the streetcar. She sat next to me with her nose in the air and a grouch on her face. I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to let a little girl of twelve be rude to me without saying anything, so at last I asked her what the matter was. Then she burst out talking.
She said her father was mad because she hadn’t read any of the books he gave her, and he held me up as an example. He said that here I was, a poor hard-working girl, willing to stay up all night in order to read and study, and there was Mimi, with everything made easy for her, refusing to be educated.
Well, I think Mr. Rosenbach has a point. But I didn’t say so, because I can see how aggravating it would be to have your father say you ought to be more like the hired girl. Mimi says her father is mad for education. Just now, he is trying to found a new school — it seems like I should write find instead of found, but Mimi said found — for Christian and Jewish children. Mr. Solomon and Mr. David went to a Quaker school, which is willing to accept Jews, but only if there aren’t too many. It’s a very good school, but when Mr. Rosenbach wanted to send Mimi, they said they weren’t going to take any more Jews. They offered to make an exception and have one more if Mr. Rosenbach would give the school ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars! I think those Quakers have a lot of gall, asking for that. But even though Mr. Rosenbach has ten thousand dollars — imagine having ten thousand dollars to give away! — he didn’t give it to the Quakers. He said with that much money, he could found (find) his own school, so he and his friends are pooling their money to start one. Only I think he’s going to be very disappointed, because Mimi doesn’t want to go to the new school. She says it’s going to be an especially excellent school, and she knows what that means: too much work!
I didn’t listen to her as closely as I might’ve, because I was wondering what else Mr. Rosenbach might have said about me. I know he likes me, and I think Mr. Rosenbach is a little bit like Mr. Rochester. I even wondered (though I know this is conceited) if he might have been struck by me the way Mr. Rochester was struck by Jane. Jane wasn’t good-looking, but she was pure and innocent and all that. I started to daydream about Mr. Rosenbach being touched by my purity, but the daydream ran into a snag, because I don’t feel very pure. I am pure, mostly, because to be impure there have to be men, but I don’t feel pure because of all the things I’ve had to clean in my life. Things like privies and chicken houses take the bloom off a girl.
By the time Mimi finished telling me her troubles, we had arrived at the department store. I’ve never been inside a department store before. There was a fine store in Lancaster called Watt & Shand, but Ma said Father would skin us alive if we ever went in. I believe Rosenbach’s is larger and more beautiful — I think I’ll describe it at length in a future entry. It’s like a palace, with high ceilings and electric lights and glass-fronted cases full of dazzling things. Everything is so shiny and sumptuous and new smelling.
We went first to the book department, to Mimi’s disgust. I searched for Daniel Deronda, but I didn’t find it. The sales clerk is going to order a copy. I did find a copy of Jane Eyre, and it was the same edition Miss Chandler gave me. I had to buy it — I just had to — even though it was three dollars. I’ve missed Jane dreadfully, and I’ve missed the feeling of owning a book. Not having any books makes me feel empty and strained and pathetic.
So I bought Jane Eyre, and after that we went and bought my hat. By then Mimi’s good humor was restored, because she loves shopping. She bought new hair ribbons and a bottle of lilac perfume and a little parasol with fringe. She was so cunning in the hat department, trying on all the hats, and standing way back from the mirror to admire each one. She told me she’s made up her mind to run the store when she grows up, instead of being a concert pianist. Her father once told her she could be a lady doctor if she liked, and selling things is easier than saving lives, so she supposes it will be all right.
She was the one who found the Cheyenne-style hat for me and made me buy it. Afterward, I wanted to see if there were any nightgowns I could afford, because I only have the one, and Malka says it’s a shmatte. She says that about my underthings, too. I asked Mimi what it meant, and she says it means a rag.
I’d already spent four dollars and seventy cents, so I wasn’t in a hurry to separate myself from any more money. But the idea that all my things were shmattes stung. Mimi took me to the nightgown counter and showed me an entire outfit of ladies’ underthings — two corset covers, two petticoats, two pairs of drawers, and two nightgowns — all for four dollars and fifty cents. She said I should buy the entire outfit. Then I wouldn’t have to wear the shmattes.
I was torn in two. Four dollars and fifty cents is an awful price. But when Mimi added up what the things would cost if I bought them separately — she’s quick as a bird when she adds in her head — the price was even higher. Of course, the cheapest thing would be for me to buy muslin and make the things myself, but it would take hours, and they wouldn’t have any lace or ruffles on them. And the hours would be hours I could spend reading.
The truth is, I felt this wild longing to have nothing but new clothes. I wanted them right away: crisp, clean, fresh things, all the way down to my skin. I lost my head. When I put down my money, my hand was shaking, but I bought the outfit.
While the saleslady was wrapping everything in tissue paper, Mimi jogged my elbow and said, “Look, that’s Nora Himmelrich!” and I turned and saw the girl who captured Mr. Solomon’s heart.
It was almost a shock, because I’d imagined her wrong. I thought she would be tall and slender and haughty. But this girl was like a girl on a Valentine: fresh and soft and sweet as a puppy. She has fawn-colored curls and big brown eyes and pink cheeks. She looks like the kind of girl who would teach Sunday school — the children would all fall in love with her, but she wouldn’t be able to get them to behave.
What she doesn’t look like is the kind of girl who would break Solomon Rosenbach’s heart.
Mimi introduced me with her usual aplomb: “This is Janet, our new hired girl. It’s her afternoon off. She’s eighteen, too.”
I could see that Miss Himmelrich was taken aback, being introduced to the hired girl. She looked at me anxiously. Then she put out her hand, and said, “How nice of you to spend your day off giving Mimi a treat!”
She smiled at me. Of course she has dimples. I could tell she meant to be friendly, but she was nervous, and so was I. I’ve never met an heiress before. I said, “It’s nice of Mimi to show me around. I’ve never been in a department store until today.”
“Really?” she said breathlessly. “Do you like it?”
“I certainly do,” I said, and I guess that broke the ice, because we laughed.
After that, we were almost like three girls together — I mean, three girls the same age. It was such fun, going through the store and pointing out things we admired, and giggling together. Nora — I mean, Miss Himmelrich — saw my hatbox, and Mimi made me open the box and try on my hat for her. Miss Himmelrich says my eyes are the same color as the cornflowers. That is the prettiest compliment I ever had. I always thought I had plain blue eyes, but maybe I was mistaken. At any rate, it’s astounding what a difference a good hat makes.
Then Nora said she wanted a new
hat, too, so we went back to the hat department to help her choose. She bought a five-dollar hat covered with pink roses, not a bit nicer than mine, I thought. The store was warm, and Mimi announced that she wanted an egg cream, and we went to the soda fountain across the street. There isn’t any egg, or any cream, in an egg cream. There’s fizzy water, a little bit salty, chocolate syrup, and milk. I don’t think I ever tasted anything better. I felt so happy and festive.
Afterward I thought a good deal about Nora Himmelrich and Mr. Solomon. I see now that Mr. Solomon would never have done for me: he’s too old, for one thing, and too tame for my impetuous nature. But he and Nora might be very happy together. And perhaps I could help him to win his true love. Sooner or later, I’m bound to see Nora again, and perhaps I can persuade her to confide in me. I could tell her what a true gentleman Mr. Solomon is, and how he rescued me, and how he always wipes his feet before he comes into the house. Or perhaps I could carry messages between them; that would be very romantic.
At any rate, I hereby renounce all claims to Mr. Solomon myself. And if there is any way I can help him to prosper in his suit, I vow I will do it.
Monday, July the twenty-fourth, 1911
It’s a hundred and two degrees today. Last night the attic was so stifling that I slept on the library sofa, which was probably taking a liberty of some kind. Luckily no one found me out, because I woke before dawn and crept back to my own bed.
I’m in a bad mood because of Mrs. Rosenbach. She’s still after those oyster patties for her bridge ladies. Last week she made Malka go to the market on Lexington Street and talk to the fish seller, who’s a Gentile. He said he didn’t get much in the way of oysters this time of year, and frankly, ma’am, he didn’t recommend them, not in this heat. Malka was triumphant. This morning, when we went upstairs to discuss the week’s meals, Malka told Mrs. Rosenbach what the fish seller said, but I don’t think Mrs. Rosenbach believed her. Mrs. Rosenbach thinks Malka won’t serve the oysters because they’re treif — which is true. But Malka wasn’t lying about what the fish man said, and I spoke up and said so.
The Hired Girl Page 14
