Loving Liberty Levine

by Colin Falconer

  “I’m not mad at him. What made you think that?”

  Libby shrugged.

  “No, bubeleh, it wasn’t his fault. He always tried to do right by us. Now hurry up with you.”

  Libby got out of the bath, forgetting about the faucet and scraping her back as she always did, and then took herself to bed.

  Next morning she woke up early—it was still dark—even too early for the pushcart sellers. She tiptoed out the door and down to the street, went searching through all the ash cans and picking out pieces of unburned coal and putting them into a tin bucket. Then she went over to the spare lot on Broome Street and found a few pieces of scrap wood for the boiler. It would provide coal for the stove, for cooking only, but that would be enough in such hot weather.

  Sarah was just awake when Libby crept back into the apartment. She sat up in bed, startled. “Libby? What time is it? Where have you been?”

  Libby showed her the half pail of coal she’d collected and the wood for the boiler. When Sarah saw it, she hugged her so hard she couldn’t breathe. She was crying, Libby could feel the wetness on her neck.

  “You silly girl!”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t do the ironing, Mama. Don’t be mad at me for forgetting.”

  “It’s all right, it’s all right. Forget only the ironing! You’re just a little kid, bubeleh! That you should ever go out in the dark morning like that again. Promise me.”

  Libby promised. Her mama. She couldn’t never work her out.

  It was a Sunday, no work, no school. Sarah sent Libby off to play with Frankie and then sat by the window, staring at the Williamsburg Bridge, listening to the church bells ringing, all the Italians and Irish off to church. Frankie’d go off to Mass with her brothers and sisters soon, so when Libby came back, she promised herself she would make her a good breakfast, perhaps spoil her and take her to Katz’s, buy her a chocolate soda.

  She had a biscuit box on her lap, the one she had found under the bed with the rest of Micha’s private things when he didn’t come back from that stupid war. “Holmes and Coutts,” it said. “Famous English Biscuits.” She opened the box, took out the newspaper cutting that Micha had kept in it with his other private things. It was yellowed and creased now, and she was careful not to tear it.

  She stared at the grainy photograph of George Seabrook, read all the words underneath—she could read and write English as good as any American now.

  WANTED

  $5000 (five thousand) REWARD

  BABY GIRL

  Missing since 3rd March, 1913

  MR. GEORGE SEABROOK

  of Lexington House, Boston, Massachusetts

  offers $5000 for any information leading to the whereabouts of missing infant.

  Following the fire which destroyed the Grand Central Hotel on Park Avenue, New York, no bones of the missing child were found in the ashes and ruins. Her mother, Mrs. Clare Seabrook, was identified among the deceased, but no trace of the baby was found.

  If you are in possession of any information regarding this event, please communicate with the undersigned.

  George R. Seabrook

  She didn’t really need to read it; she knew it all by heart.

  Why did Micha steal that man’s baby? She supposed she would never know. Whatever he had done, the secret had died with him.

  Five thousand dollars! A fortune. Why hadn’t anyone claimed it? The date on the cutting, it was two months after the fire, but no one in her block could read the English papers, and even if they did, how would they know? Only Tessie Fischer, from the tenement. She had looked after the baby that night. She was the only one who might have worked it out, and not a word from her. Had she suspected? Who knew, she was dead now from the consumption, not long after her Micha was killed in the war, so there was no one but her who knew about it, she supposed.

  Micha, Micha, what did you do? Almost four years she had lived with this. Every morning, since she found the box, she had woken up and thought: I must write to this George Seabrook. I must tell him what has happened. But every day she thought: Not today. One more day with my beautiful daughter. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

  “You’re never going to tell him, are you?” she said aloud. What kind of woman, what kind of person, does such a thing? This kind of person, that’s who.

  How could she give her back? Libby was a part of her now. What a mother I am, such a woman. My Libby, she should be living in a fine house, going to a nice school, with servants and nice things, not living in this dirty tenement with a smelly toilet in the yard and noise from the street all the day and night.

  She knew they all talked about her down in the street, at the water pump, and up on the roof, putting out the washing and gossip, gossip, gossip. “That Sarah Levine,” she imagined them saying, “I heard her husband, that one that died in the war, he was a shtetl Jew just like her, and have you seen her daughter? How do you think they got her?”

  She rehearsed in her head all the time what she would say, “Yes, there are Jews with red hair. She’s a gingit. What’s wrong with that?” What about Esau, what about David, the greatest Jew of them all? They had had red hair! But how will you explain the green eyes to them, Sarah?

  All that time, Micha said not a word to her. But what if he had, that very first night? What would she have done? She could pretend: Oh, I would have told him, “You must tell someone about this. We cannot keep the baby.” But what you think you will do, what you really do, these are two different things.

  She put the cutting back in the box and closed her eyes. “Oh, Liberty, if you can only forgive him for what he did,” she murmured. “For what we both did. You’re going to have good life, the life you should have had, only better. I will make it up to you, bubeleh. You see if I don’t.”

  19

  All that week Sarah took care never to be alone with Mr. Schonberg. She could feel his eyes on her, but she made sure never to look back. It was not until Thursday, close to finishing-up time, that he stopped by her bench. He waited there, looking down at her until she had no choice but to look up at him.

  “Come and see me when you finish,” he said.

  This is it, she thought. He will fire me now. She didn’t know if she was happy or terrified.

  When the bell went off, the clatter of the sewing machines stopped, and it was quiet except for the scraping of stools as the rest of the girls got up from their benches and went to the cloakroom for their hats and bags. Sarah stitched her last turn and then went over to Mr. Schonberg at his desk in the corner. It was hot and stuffy in the workroom, and her dress was damp against her back.

  Mr. Schonberg pushed a note and some coins across the desk.

  “What is this?” she asked him.

  “It is a dollar and fifty-five cents. Didn’t you say you were good at figuring?”

  Sarah hesitated.

  “It’s what I owe you, girl. Go on, take it.”

  “Why did you make me wait?” she said.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he said, which made no sense to her.

  This is a no-good thing, she thought, but she snatched the money off the desk and hurried to the cloakroom. She didn’t want to be too far behind the other girls.

  She got her hat and her bag and hurried toward the door. The last of the girls were clustered around the elevator doors just as they were opening. If she hurried, she could catch up with them.

  Kohn put out a hand to stop her. “I have to check your bag,” he said.

  It was like this every day, a company rule, make sure you did not steal any scraps for yourself. The misers, the skinflints! She waited while he took his time looking in her bag.

  “I will miss the elevator,” she said, and tried to push past him.

  “Your pockets,” he said.

  “I never touch anything, you know that.”

  “Your pockets.”

  The elevator doors were shutting. The girls’ chatter was suddenly shut off.

  “I don’t have pockets
on a shirtwaist! I will miss the elevator.”

  “Elevator is out of service.”

  “Out of service? But I saw it right then.”

  “You have to use the stairs,” he said.

  She tried to shove past him, but he wouldn’t budge.

  “The stairs,” he said. “No elevator today.”

  She looked over her shoulder. Mr. Schonberg wasn’t at his desk. She felt her heart start to race. “How much did he pay you?” she said.

  Kohn shook his head and pointed to the door. “The fire stairs,” he repeated.

  She felt herself start to shake. What could she do? She looked back at the elevator, praying that Max or one of the cutters would come back, like last time. Kohn almost shoved her toward the stairs. “Go home now,” he said.

  She found herself out on the stairs. The door slammed behind her. She looked down. It was quiet and gloomy, six floors of staircase echoing. Go down quick as you can, she told herself. You can see the bottom from here; you can do it if you hurry.

  She started down, her heels echoing on the stairs. She had reached the landing on the fifth floor when Schonberg appeared right there in front of her from nowhere, he must have been waiting in the alcove. He had a look on his face, like he hadn’t eaten for days and he was desperate. His cheeks were shining and his eyes too.

  He didn’t say anything, just grabbed her. She screamed and tried to twist away. But she knew there was no one to hear her, only Kohn, and Kohn had been paid not to hear anything.

  Schonberg’s arms went around her and held her tight. He was strong for such a schmendrick of a man. “You know you want it. The way you tease me, you think I don’t know what you like?”

  She felt his hardness against her bottom, his hands tearing at her shirtwaist. All she could think was: If he tears it, I won’t be able to go home. Can’t get on the El if he tears my dress.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  He pulled up her skirt and dragged her down to her knees. He was trying to pull down her drawers while he held her with the other hand. She pushed his hand away, then reached over her shoulder to scratch his face. He was grunting like a pig the whole time, and she could smell his bad breath, the reek of rotten teeth and the onions from his lunch.

  She remembered the pin that Mary had given her. He had knocked her hat on the ground when he grabbed her, but it was right there, just within reach; she pulled it toward her with her right hand and found the pin and pulled it free. She thought he must see what she was doing and stop her, but he was too busy undoing his belt, getting out his hard thing, making a noise almost like he was crying.

  There was a moment then that she might have done worse, if she had wanted; she had the pin in her hand, she could jab back hard into his belly, or his eye, maybe she would kill him. Bad enough what she did, she supposed, a quick stab back into his groin, he was not expecting, she heard him scream high and shrill like some animal scalded with boiling water.

  He let her go straightaway, and she scrambled to her feet, grabbed her hat and bag, and lifted up her long skirt so that she could jump past him. Schonberg lay on his side on the ground, all curled up and kicking, both his hands between his legs. His mouth and eyes were wide open, but he was seeing nothing except his own pain.

  She didn’t stop to see what she had done. She ran down the rest of the stairs and out onto Thirty-Fourth Street, and in a blink she was rushing away toward the Elevated. She expected to hear someone shouting after her, police whistles maybe, but there was just the usual rush and hurry of after-work crowds. Whatever happens, she thought, I will never be coming to work here again. Even if tomorrow is payday.

  He can have my seven dollars and welcome to it. But he’s cheated me for the last time.

  “Did you kill him?” Mary asked her.

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said. “But I think I done him a terrible damage.”

  “Well, serves him right, then,” Mary said, and she went to fetch the whiskey and the teacups.

  “What am I going to do?” Sarah said. “All week I work for that schmuck and what I got? I got bopkes is what I got! Always it is like this. The rich they don’t have to worry, the poor they got to prove they’re alive!”

  “Why don’t you do your sewing and stitching yourself?” Mary said. “Everyone needs clothes to wear.”

  “I tried this before, after Micha died. How do I ever make enough money? I can’t. That is why I go to work for Schonberg.”

  Mary chewed her bottom lip. “Well. There are other employers, not only this Schonberg.” Mary lowered her voice, like the whole street might be listening to them. “I’ve got a friend works at the New Amsterdam Theatre.”

  “The Follies,” Sarah said, with a little frown to show she didn’t approve.

  “She works there as a dresser. She helps the girls in and out of their gowns.”

  “I heard they don’t wear gowns,” Sarah said. “They wear whatever God gave them, plus a tassel.”

  “It’s a lot more glamorous than you think. The thing is, my friend says one of the girls in the seamstress department is leaving, and they’ll need a new girl.”

  “Me?”

  “Job’s made for you.”

  “Sewing little bits onto another girl’s little bits? That’s a job?”

  “Sarah, you sound like my grandmother. It’s only a show. It’s not like working in a bawdy house. And you’re a wiz with a needle and a bit of cotton. Look at all the dresses you made me, they’re as good as anything you’d find in Macy’s.”

  Sarah sipped her whiskey. Her hands were still shaking. She thought about Schonberg, wondered if she’d killed him with that pin in his you-know-whats. Any minute the police would come beating down her door and take her away to the big house. Why was she worrying about a job?

  Then what would happen to little Libby?

  “He’s starting a new show,” Mary said.

  “Who is starting a new show?”

  “Ziegfeld. So look here, my girl, I want you to get yourself down there first thing in the morning. Now drink up your whiskey. Time to celebrate a new start.”

  Sarah finished her whiskey, eyes screwed shut to the taste and the burning. All right, if she woke up in the morning and she wasn’t in the big house, she’d take herself downtown to Broadway and talk to this Mr. Ziegfeld about sewing him new dresses.

  What did she have to lose?

  20

  The New Amsterdam was up Broadway on West Forty-Second. A tall, skinny building, it looked like it had popped out of a toaster; only the massive Candler Building a few doors down stopped it from looking totally ridiculous.

  The front of it, from a distance, looked like a slice of wedding cake, and the entrance like the doors of some enchanted castle, with all the statues and pillars and carvings, which is what she supposed Mr. Ziegfeld liked about it.

  There was a long queue of girls outside, it went right around the block, some of them tearing at each other’s hair and swinging their bags. All the mad pushing was so bad that there were three burly policemen with wooden clubs trying to keep all the girls in line and waiting for their turn.

  Sarah had never seen so many big-bosomed long-legged women in one place. They couldn’t all be here for the seamstress job.

  She pushed her way to the uniformed man at the door. He shoved her aside with his elbow. “Get to the back, sister.”

  “Do I look like a dancing girl, you big yok? Ilsa, the seamstress, needs a girl who can sew good.”

  He looked her up and down. “You can sew?”

  “What else you think I can do?”

  He grinned. “I don’t know, sister, you look like you can do plenty.” He saw the look on her face, and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “To the left and down the stairs. Watch out, she bites.”

  “So do I,” Sarah said. The girls at the front of the queue squealed in protest when he let her through. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. Such craziness! After all this time she still didn’t believe this Ameri
ca, where women would scratch and scream for a chance to take off their clothes in public.

  The inside of the New Amsterdam looked like an expensive hotel, with its plush carpets and fancy pilasters and painted ceilings. She went down a long corridor, like the man at the door had told her, saw two older men coming toward her in nice suits and waistcoats, smoking cigars. One of them stopped and pointed at her. He was dapper; she noticed the cut of his suit first, hand-tailored, and such stitches. He had a long nose, thick lips, big personality, like if he wasn’t boss of the world, then he was at least floor supervisor. “You!”

  She froze.

  He walked straight up to her and looked her up and down; but he didn’t look like Schonberg looked. It was like he was pricing her by the yard. He nodded, puffed on his cigar, and said to the other man: “Get her on a contract.” Then he walked away, toward the auditorium.

  Sarah didn’t know what to make of it. The other man puffed out his cheeks and shrugged. “I guess you’re hired,” he said.

  “Don’t I talk to Ilsa first? Let her see how good I can sew?”

  “Sew? What do you want to sew for?”

  “For the job.”

  “You from Kansas?”

  “Russia.”

  “That explains it. This way, sweetheart.”

  He led her up some stairs to a cramped first-floor office. He sat her down and closed the door behind them. Sarah felt for the hat pin, just in case.

  But he didn’t want funny business. Instead, he opened a drawer in the desk and took out a pile of contracts and a fountain pen. He asked her for her name and her address. He filled in the spaces on the paper, then pushed it toward her. “Read it through if you want, but it’s a standard contract. Mr. Ziegfeld doesn’t change them for anyone. Only the performers ever get to negotiate.”

  “You want me to sign a contract to be a seamstress?”

  They stared at each other.

  “You want to be in the Follies, right?”

  “The Follies?”

  “That is why you’re here?”

  “I take off my clothes for my husband, even then, strictly in the dark.”