Loving Liberty Levine

by Colin Falconer

  So she was surprised, perhaps shocked, when he pushed open the door of the sandwich bar on the corner and swung up onto one of the stools at the counter. The countertop looked as if it had been wiped maybe once, back in the eighteenth century. He flicked yesterday’s breadcrumbs on the floor with a casual swipe of his hand, then risked a laundry bill by resting the sleeves of his coat there.

  He ordered a swiss cheese on rye with coffee. The heavily lipsticked girl behind the counter gave him her best smile as she took his order, for all the good it did her. Liberty shrugged and said that she’d have the same.

  “The Ritz,” Liberty said.

  “Well, it doesn’t seem right to be eating oysters when I know our bookkeeper feeds her kids baked onions stuffed with peanut butter.”

  “You are the best-dressed socialist I ever saw.”

  “The clothes are for the clients, the socialism is for me.”

  The coffees arrived in chipped mugs with no saucers. It was like drinking mud.

  “I guess I’m one of the clients you don’t have to impress.”

  “That’s exactly right. In fact, I’m waiting for you to impress me. Why don’t you tell me more about this little fashion business of yours?”

  “Well, it’s not mine, it’s my mama’s. The thing you have to know about her, when it comes to making dresses, she’s a genius. She can run her hand over a fabric and tell you the thread count, the name of the manufacturer, and where it was made. She sews without patterns, and she can make something simple and make it look elegant, and not just if you’re ten feet tall with hips like a boy, like the mannequins in Macy’s window. She can make Mrs. Schmendrick from Hester Street look like Hollywood.”

  “Is that your pitch?”

  “Don’t got a pitch, just the truth.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You’re making me want to hit you in the nose again.”

  He laughed and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m still listening.”

  “We started out with a few yards of rayon plus a few rag ends and some lace, and with this, she made half a dozen dresses, gorgeous like you wouldn’t believe. She gave them to me, and I sold them in an hour, down on Hester Street. So she made two dozen more. We were up all night, the both of us. I helped her sew the zippers and buttons. Next day I sold everything before lunch.”

  Liberty thought about telling him about the stolen fashion labels and then thought: No, perhaps not.

  “We made enough money to buy more cloth to make another ten dozen. From that we had enough to buy another sewing machine, and then we hired a Polish girl, sixteen and straight off the boat. She works for room and board. She has nowhere else to go, and she can’t speak a word of English.”

  “So you’re a socialist too,” he said, smiling.

  “Listen to me. We sold those ten dozen dresses in two days. Two! People went crazy for them. They were fashion, but they were as cheap as you could make at home except they looked like they came from Saks or Bergdorf. That first couple of months, we cut and sewed day and night to build our little business. And here we are. These days we make enough to get by, but all our profits disappear buying new fabric to keep up with demand. Never can make real money unless we can buy wholesale. Then we can get a shop and not sell off a pushcart.”

  “Wait a minute. You sell from a pushcart, and you’ve come to us wanting forty cases on credit?”

  “I know it seems unusual, Jack, but—”

  “Unusual? Do you know what my father would say if he found out about this? And he would, because Murphy would love to tell him.”

  “So is that a no, Mr. Jack Seabrook?”

  “It’s a maybe.” He took a bite from his sandwich and thought about it. “You really think you can make this work?”

  “When I go down the Lower East Side, there’s people following me, asking me what I’ve got. When I say we’re sold out, they still follow me. They come to our apartment in Greenwich and bang on the door every hour of the day or night. We got customers from Brownsville to the Village. Even got our own label.”

  She fished in her purse for the label they had made and handed it to him. He shook his head in astonishment. “Liberté. Paris and London. Paris and London?”

  “They are the names we give our sewing machines.”

  “Look, instead of coming to Davidson’s, why don’t you just raise your prices?”

  “Jack, the people we sell to, they don’t have a lot. People who can afford high prices, they don’t buy off a pushcart, and they don’t buy from people like me and my mama. To get our margin, we have to lower overhead. Specialize. Go for volume.”

  “Forty cases of cashmere.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  They took the long way back to his office. He said he needed time to think, and anyway, the walk helped his digestion. Today there was even a little pale sun, though not enough to thaw the snow on the fire escapes and the black tar roof of the Elevated. A trolley car went past, churning up the yellow slush, bells clanging. She could smell onions frying at a hot-dog stand.

  Jack was smiling.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “When I heard Miss Riley say Liberty, I thought of this runty little kid with freckles and pigtails. I come out, and it’s Greta Garbo.”

  “First time you saw me, you said I had a monkey face.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You did.”

  “Is that why you punched me on the nose?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, I’m sure whatever it was I said or did, I probably deserved it. I grew up without a mother. I’m told I was a bit of a brat.”

  “What happened to her, your mom?”

  “I don’t like talking about it.”

  They crossed the street. They were nearly at his office, and he still hadn’t told her if she could have the cashmere. He was making her sweat.

  “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry about what happened to you and your mother. If it’s any consolation, I think my father owes you.”

  “He doesn’t owe us anything.”

  “Dewey was his best friend. He could have helped your ma out if he’d wanted to.”

  “He doesn’t owe us a damned thing and neither do you. I don’t want you or anyone feeling sorry for us. This is a business proposition, nothing else.”

  He stopped outside the office. She waited. If he went back through that door without giving her an answer, it was over, she knew it. She’d never get past Miss Riley a second time. He took off his derby and toyed with it in his hands while she held her breath. “Don’t let me down, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “We can have the cashmere?”

  “I’ll organize it this afternoon.”

  “I won’t let you down,” she said. “In five years, we’ll be your biggest clients.”

  “Come by tomorrow,” he said. “There will be a shipment order for you to sign, and you can take the invoice. It will all be ready for you by eleven o’clock. Good-bye, Lib. It was great to see you again.” He gave her his best smile and went back to work.

  Libby stood at the door and watched her mother work, the slight twist of a shoulder as she pushed at the wheel, the lift of a foot to free the needle when it caught on a piece of cotton. It was like a dance, and her mother knew all the steps without having to think about them.

  Sarah was so engrossed in her work, she did not see Libby standing there. When she did, she gave a start, and the look of surprise was quickly followed by an impatient frown. “So behind on all these orders,” she said, “and my daughter running around town like nobody’s business, doesn’t tell her mother where she has gone.”

  She was about to finish the hemline when she caught the look on Libby’s face.

  “What is wrong with you, bubeleh? You have found a million dollars in the street?”

  “Better than that. I just got us forty cases of cashmere, wholesale.”

  Sara
h stared at her openmouthed.

  “What kind of schmuck will give us wholesale?”

  “Some schmuck at Davidson’s. You know Davidson’s?”

  “Sure I know from Davidson’s. Davidson’s, Davidson’s?”

  “Do you know who owns the company these days? George Seabrook.”

  There was a long silence. Her mother stopped working, and the look on her face, as if someone had crept behind her and stabbed her. Okay, she never liked George Seabrook, but that was a long time ago.

  Finally: “You talked to George Seabrook?”

  “No, his son, Jack. Do you remember him? At the wedding? I gave him a bloody nose.”

  “That I should not remember such a thing. What are you telling me? He is in charge at Davidson’s?”

  “Assistant manager. What good luck for us! Mama? What’s wrong?”

  “You must tell him no.”

  “What?”

  “You cannot take from such a man.”

  “Are you crazy, Mama? All afternoon I talked to him, I begged him for this. Forty cases of cashmere, wholesale! When will we get another chance like this?”

  Sarah got up and walked out of the room. Irena looked up from her work, startled. “What is wrong with your mutti?” she said in Yiddish.

  “I don’t know,” Libby said. She followed her into the kitchen. Sarah stood at the window, her arms wrapped around herself, rocking backward and forward, like she was praying or something, like the old men at the temple in their prayer shawls.

  “Mama?”

  “I’m sorry, bubeleh. You did good for us. You have done miracle for us. But promise me, after this one time, you won’t ever go back.”

  “We have an account at the biggest wholesaler in New York. What are you saying? This will make us rich.”

  “I don’t want any charity from that man.”

  “It’s not charity. It’s business. I told him we’re going to be one of his biggest customers in five years. And we will.”

  “Don’t care what you tell him. I say no, anyone else but him.”

  “There isn’t anyone else, Mama! I only got my foot in the door over there because Jack Seabrook remembered my name, no other reason. Never will we get a chance like this again. What are you crying for?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then stop. Come on, Mama. Let’s get back to work. We have orders to finish. You want to be a big-shot designer, this is our chance.”

  “All right, we take this order, this one time only. Then you don’t go back there again!”

  “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

  “You promise me.”

  Libby thought about it. “I promise,” she said. Well, kind of promise. Let’s do this order, then we’ll see. Let Mama get the crazy out of her system, and then they’d talk about it again.

  46

  “Tell me again how I was born, Mama.”

  They were lying in the dark in the kitchen. They had dragged out their beds and put them next to the stove to try and keep warm. It was so cold in the rest of the apartment, they used the second bedroom to chill the milk.

  “I told you that story a hundred times.”

  “Tell it to me again.”

  “I was expecting with you when I got on the boat to come to America, but I thought you were a long way off, thought I would be a long time in this New York before you came. But as soon as I saw the Liberty statue, I had my first pains, and they came really strong on the way into the harbor. And I was so scared you would come before I got off the ship. And your papa, he met me on Ellis Island. I think I will collapse right there in his arms. He has almost to carry me from the ferry boat, then he puts me in the back of a cab. Well, not a cab like you have now, they were all horse carriages back then. And that very night, my first night in America, you came.”

  “And that’s why you called me Liberty.”

  “After the first thing in America I saw, yes.”

  “You must have been so scared.”

  “Not so much. Your papa and a lady next door, Mrs. Fischer, they helped deliver. And anyway, I was there when my sisters had their babies, and like I told you, when Etta had her Bessie in the snow, when we were stranded in the forest, there was only me to help her. I remember I thought: If Etta can have a baby at night in the snow, I can have my baby in this big city in a big warm bed with all this help.”

  “I wish I could meet Etta and Bessie. You have talked about them so much, it is like I already know them. Do you think they will ever come here?”

  “I don’t know, bubeleh. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow is another big day. I must decide what to do with forty cases of cashmere!”

  Four weeks later, Libby had in her hand a bank check for Davidson’s and Co., the full amount they owed. Sarah said they should post it, but Libby said, “No, I am going to pay by hand, I want to see Jack Seabrook’s face when I give him the money.”

  “Then let me do it,” Sarah said.

  “No, Mama, you have to let me do it.”

  “You don’t like this boy?”

  “What? No, of course not. This is just business.”

  Yes, it was just business, but Liberty could not hide her disappointment when she went into the Davidson’s and Co. office, and Miss Riley told her that Mr. Jack Seabrook was not there. He had moved to London to open a new office. But she accepted her order for forty more cases of cashmere without demur.

  As Liberty headed to catch a trolley bus back down Eighth Avenue, she knew she should feel elated. Who knew how their business would grow from now? But instead she felt curiously let down.

  PART 6

  47

  Greenwich Village, New York, November 1936

  Dearest Etta,

  So, it is not long before I see you again, my darling sister! I cannot believe the day has finally arrived. I am busy making everything ready here for your welcome. You will find things so different here, but I will do all I can to smooth your move to your new life here in America. You can live with us above the shop. There is not so much room, but it will be like the old days, when you and me and Gutta and Zlota all slept in the bed on the oven, do you remember?

  Everything has changed so much for me this last few months. Business has gone strong to stronger. Our shop is very busy, but now we have very rich and important customers, big-name actresses and such. They come to me for gowns and dresses, and they wear them at big millionaire-type parties. Soon I think everyone will be wearing clothes I have made right here at my dinner table! What seemed just a dream even a year ago is now happening. We have three girls working at the sewing machines, two Polish and one from Vilnius. They work hard like I did when I first come here, but they are lucky, they do not have a boss who tries to pinch them on the bottom every day!

  My darling Liberty has helped me so much. She is nothing for dress-making, but she is such a hard worker, she understands all the business things, and she is in charge of the shop and accounts and suppliers, and all the number things I cannot do, so I can concentrate on the making of dresses . . .

  When she had finished, she put ten dollars in the envelope—as much as she could afford, not like the old days—and licked it shut. There was joy and dread in her heart. She was happy that Etta and her family were finally coming where it was safe. But what happens, she thought, when they see Libby?

  Etta coming over now. It was going to cause trouble, just when everything was going so good. Soon they would be rich again: they would have a nice apartment, a nice life; she would get Libby a proper husband, a doctor or a lawyer. She wouldn’t need a matchmaker when a girl looked like that. They would have a place in the world again, and respect.

  But then, there never really would be a good time for the truth, would there? She couldn’t put off this moment forever, she had always known that. Well, she had got through these messes before, she would get through again. Nothing was going to take her Libby away from her, not now.

  When Libby looked up from the cash register, Jack Seabrook was stand
ing in the doorway of the shop, his fedora in his hand, trying to look inconspicuous. It wasn’t working. Several of her customers glanced his way, even two of the Jewish mothers who were old enough to know better.

  His clothes alone set him apart, and of course the way he wore them. He had on a double-breasted overcoat with a gold silk fleur-de-lis handkerchief and matching tie, a suit that was hand-tailored—she could tell—and a pale-blue button-down shirt; costed by the yard, she thought, he was worth two or three weeks’ wages for most people around here.

  She felt a little flutter at seeing him, but waited until it had passed before going over, hoped she appeared unaffected. “Mr. Jack Seabrook. Come to have a look at where the real work is done?”

  “Hello, Libby.”

  “I thought you were in London.”

  “I got back last week. My father has other plans for me, apparently. Thought I’d stop by and see how my little gamble paid off.”

  “Should I spot you a few bucks?”

  He grinned. “You can keep it. It was a gentleman’s wager. But you’ve done well.”

  “My mama has done well. I only cheer from the sidelines and get paid far too much for keeping her books and talking to salesmen.”

  He looked at the half dozen racks of dresses, the mannequins by the windows wearing Sarah’s latest designs. “Who would have thought?” he said.

  “You must have, I guess, or you wouldn’t have advanced the credit back then. We have three girls working full time. We have our very own little sweatshop upstairs and two prominent Broadway actresses on the books. Mama is hoping to be back on the Upper West Side next year, but under her own steam this time.”

  “Good for her. Was it hard to find this place?”

  “Rents on Orchard Street are cheap, even cheaper when you bargain as hard as my mama.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the photographs of Hollywood stars and starlets pasted to the bare walls, taken from magazines. “Are they all wearing your dresses?”

  “I wish. Referred glamor.”

  “You’re looking more beautiful than ever.”