As she walked up to its double iron door, Etta expected little, given the squalor of the exterior. All around the columned entrance were the signs of hard work for little pay or work for no pay at all. The emaciated children of the Lower East Side roamed the nearby streets in rags, some barefoot in the September wind, dodging the fetid leavings of the horses that stood in great mounds in the gutter. To and fro, peddlers far more ragged than those in Greenwich Village screamed beside their pushcarts, hawking their wares in half a dozen tongues as well as in an English not so much broken as smashed to bits.
But stepping inside the Alhambra, all her fears were allayed. Yes, like the city itself, the Alhambra was too. By comparison, the Luxor was a mere introductory course in the Turkish bath. Where the Luxor had one hot pool, the Alhambra had three. Where the Luxor had two steam baths, the Alhambra had five. Here, Italian marble replaced granite, ceilings soared thirty feet to the sky, and the attendant who brought you your towel was uniformed in a white brocade coat and a silver turban set fast with a pure gold clasp.
Once Etta had discovered the place, she visited twice a week to be bathed and massaged by the mighty and wordless Slavic women who asked not to be appreciated, only obeyed. On this October Sunday she had spent from ten o'clock in the morning until two o'clock in the afternoon within the sweet confines of the palace. And as she would sit in the ladies' steam bath or shiver in the cold fountain, she could feel her cares—Earl Dixon, the Pinkertons, Curry, her loneliness—all being washed away.
As she reluctantly left the Alhambra and turned dreamily down Orchard Street, Etta felt that all was truly right with the world. By now she knew to treasure the bliss, knowing it would last only until the front door of Mrs. Taylor's. Once inside the boardinghouse, there would be only the hours divided between boredom and despair as she waited for word of Harry and their friends, now delayed nearly a month. She closed her eyes and savored the tingle at her scalp and the deep rest in her shoulders that she knew would soon desert her.
At the corner of Rivington Street, Etta had turned to make her way toward the more civilized quarters of Greenwich Village when she heard, among the joylessness and squalor of poverty, perhaps the most cheerful sound of her life. It was an odd combination: a solo piano, slightly out of tune, bouncing out the happiest of polkas, laid over every five or ten seconds by a sweet and dignified voice offering words of encouragement, and punctuated here and there by crystalline laughter.
“Yes, yes, that's right… jolly good! … Capital, Malka!… Oh, you're doing very well!”
The voice had come from a large but modest tenement, its front door open in the October afternoon. A gilded sign over the building read RIVINGTON STREET SETTLEMENT HOUSE. Etta walked up to the large window of the brownstone and peered inside.
The joyful sight that met her eyes was a perfect match for its sound. She saw a large room, obviously designed for grand functions but bare of furniture or carpets. Against the far wall stood a line of perhaps a dozen girls, the eldest not more than sixteen, all dressed in simple white uniforms of a sailor design: full blouse, wide skirt, black hose, and shoes. Their eager faces indicated their ancestry as probably Italian or Jewish, as befit the population of the neighborhood. Since her arrival in New York, Etta had seen these faces hundreds of times every day: young faces made old by unending work in the sweatshops, darkened by the frustration of early marriages or betrothals to men they had never seen.
But today every face was bright with fine humor, every pair of hands clapping along to each beat of the piano and the warmth of that fine and cultured voice.
Perhaps it was still the intoxication of the Alhambra, but to Etta the couple in the center of that big room seemed almost a mirage, like one of the new motion picture strips come to life: two women engaged in a blissful moment of what was clearly a dance class. A plump red-haired young girl, dressed in the uniform of the settlement house, was being whirled and twirled about the floor by another girl a world different from herself, a most astounding creature, by turns as beautiful and as ugly as any woman Etta had ever seen.
She was dressed in a white silk blouse with a tall collar, a gather of lace at her throat. Her skirt was silk taffeta, long and black, cinched at her narrow waist by a circular buckle of pure silver. She was as tall as an Amazon, close to six feet in her fine bespoke boots. Taller even than Etta herself.
As her splendid head whirled by the window, Etta admired her lustrous golden hair, piled high and tied with a white damask ribbon. Her eyes, holding a laughter all their own, were each as large as a hen's egg and blue as a robin's. Her nose was slightly turned up in the aristocratic manner, but the face seemed to go bad below it. Her enormous thick-lipped smile revealed teeth nearly as large as those of a horse and set in a pronounced overbite. Even this might have been a charming feature, but the face ended in a weak and receding chin that robbed her of any claim to beauty by the shallow standards of the world.
Yet in motion she was like a goddess come to earth, towering over her little partner, kicking up legs that seemed to have no end, holding the girl in long and graceful arms. When that ruined mouth smiled, the world seemed to light. And as that gorgeous voice cried instruction, Etta could well imagine a poor girl might believe that all things were possible in this new world if a woman like this could teach her to dance.
As the tall young woman reached over to pull a thin dark-haired girl from the line, Etta found herself drawn irrevocably inside: first to the foyer, then the hallway, and finally the archway just outside the large room. The blond woman now counted as they whirled. “One and two and three and four! Capital, Donatella! That's right!”
And then the piano gave a final low bump and the music was over. The instructor bent in a low and courtly bow. The Italian girl seemed lost at first and then brightened and curved herself into a curtsy as perfect as any Etta had seen at a Philadelphia cotillion. As she returned to the line she was grinning, her hand to her heart in breathless and joyous fatigue. The rest of the girls greeted her as a hero, chattering away in native tongues and fractured English until their mistress quieted them.
“Very very good, girls!” she told them. “Bellissima! Mazel tov! As usual, you all have learnt your lessons most admirably!”
The silver laugh chimed again, joined by the half of the class that understood English well enough to receive the compliment.
“Being able to dance properly is an important part of life in America. After all, what fine young man will be at all interested in a dull girl unable to kick up her heels? Dancing is as important to becoming a true American as applying for citizenship or the woman's right to vote— which, God willing, we shall win this very year. As important as your own name. Malka?”
The stout red-haired woman took a step forward.
“Yes, Miss Eleanor?” she said, in an accent as thick as a Ukraine noodle.
Miss Eleanor slowed her speech. “Please introduce yourself to the class like a good American girl.”
The young woman smiled. “Hello. My… name … is … Malk— Molly… Berger … and… I… am … very pleased… to make your…” —She paused for a moment and then smiled broadly— “acqvaintance!”
The class burst forth in applause and Molly Berger colored from collar to hairline in pride.
“Excellent! Excellent, Molly! You are obviously working very hard in your English classes and soon you shall speak like a native born! Remember that here you are Molly Berger, an American girl. But remember, too, that I have had the pleasure of meeting the handsome Mr. Radomiselski, your intended. And you will have to work even harder to match the excellence of his speaking!”
Half the girls erupted in laughter and then translated for the others, who laughed as well. Molly Berger blushed again.
“Thank you, thank you all, ladies!” the tall woman said, and then uttered a few awkward phrases in Italian and Yiddish. “I will see all of you back here next Sunday.”
As they melted away into their harsh world, Miss Elean
or took notice of the stranger peering through the ballroom archway and approached her with a purposeful stride. Close now, Etta could see that that she was probably younger than many of her European charges. Her skin was flushed and flawless, a light gold that seemed nearly to blend with her hair. Her clothing was of the finest quality, almost certainly designed and hand sewn abroad.
She flashed the brilliant equine smile. “Yes, madam. May I be of some service?”
Etta hardly knew what to say. Her three years' experience as an outlaw had trained her to lie almost as a reflex.
“Please excuse me, Miss … Eleanor,” she said, “but I was walking down the street, returning to my hotel, when I was … captivated by the beauty of the music emanating from your hall.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Madame Kisleikoskaya does play most wonderfully. In her native Moscow she was a renowned concert artist, and we at Rivington consider ourselves fortunate indeed to have the benefit of her talents.”
Madame Kisleikoskaya gave no sign of understanding this praise. She picked up her sheet music promptly and efficiently and left the room with only a nod to her young mistress.
“But you seem to have the advantage of me,” Miss Eleanor said.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. My name is Mrs. Harry Place and I am from Colorado. I am currently staying at Mrs. Taylor's house in Greenwich Village while I await the arrival of my husband, who is still in the West on business.”
“Well, Mrs. Place, thank you so much for stopping. I hope you enjoyed watching our young women dance. There is so very little to brighten their lives. I believe it is incumbent upon women like you and me to provide some short respite from the grueling work that is, sadly, their entire lives. Wouldn't you agree?”
“Oh, yes!”
“It is veritable food and drink for me to come here, Mrs. Place. I am lucky enough not to be spending my time at piecework or living in two rooms with a dozen people. There but for the grace of God, as they say…
“But to see the way you speak to them, Miss Eleanor. Even though they can hardly understand a word. And yet they smile and laugh at your every thought and gesture. It seems, if I may say, miraculous.” Etta paused and looked about the empty room, still feeling the hope of the now-vanished dancers. “How I envy you your work!”
Eleanor nodded and smiled. But as she did she shrewdly appraised the status of the beautiful woman standing before her. Clean as a whistle and scented with a French cologne. Hat straight from the pages of La Nouvelle Mode. Coat of the finest black camel hair, its collar trimmed in fox. Boots of two-tone kid, more than likely molded to her foot at great expense. All of this and new to town with little to do but wait for a wealthy husband to make his way back to her.
“My work can be the work of any person of goodwill. If I may ask, Mrs. Place, how are you passing your days while you await your husband's return?”
“I am afraid that I have very little to occupy my time these long afternoons. And I have received as yet no firm commitment from Mr. Place as to the date of his arrival.”
The blue eyes seemed to brim with a sympathy Etta hadn't felt from anyone since Mrs. Kelley in Chicago. It seemed a lifetime gone. “How very lonely you must be, Mrs. Place! I hope you will not think me familiar, but I well understand loneliness. Might I make a suggestion?”
“By all means.”
“By your clothing and demeanor, you are clearly a gentlewoman. And your speech … Philadelphia, is it not? Well, then, if you will not think me outrageously forward, I shall get right to it. Do you think you might help us here a few hours a week? The need is so great. If I could only tell you of the killing work, the early marriages and constant pregnancies, the cruelty and drunkenness of both fathers and husbands. A woman such as yourself could set the kind of American example that we are trying so hard to foster. We teach many things here: citizenship, music, mathematics, and, of course, proper English. You, of course, would not be required to continue past the time of your husband's arrival. But the intervening days would pass more quickly for you. I know this to be true because that is precisely what this wonderful place has done for me.”
Through the window Etta could see a shiny black coach pull up to the house. Miss Eleanor reached for a shawl of coarse silk and with a smooth motion wrapped it about her shoulders.
“I will most certainly consider it,” Etta said. “I have little enough to fill my time. But do you believe there might be something I could really teach?”
“Everyone has something to contribute,” Eleanor said, pushing a golden pin through her Berlin hat. “Perhaps you will join me for luncheon this week and we can discuss it further? We have had the telephone laid on at home and the number is within the city directory. I really must fly now. My coachman is an old grump and hates to be kept waiting. And my aunt, with whom I stay these days, is far worse. May I drop you somewhere? I fear it has become quite cold outside.”
“Oh, no. My rooms are only steps from here.”
“Then I shall look forward to seeing you very soon. This has been a pleasure. Please don't forget to call. Goodbye.” She pressed a cream-colored calling card into Etta's hand and, with a wave, flew down the steps.
As she watched the black carriage move down the crowded narrow street, Etta stood nearly breathless in the wake of the young woman's sheer life force and something inside her heart leaped up at the thought of once again seeing its owner. The brougham finally pulled out of sight, and Etta looked down at the card in her now-open hand. It read:
Miss Eleanor Roosevelt
Etta quickly put the card in the deepest pocket of her black coat—the place where she put everything she could not bear to lose.
s she stood in the freezing foyer of the townhouse at 11 West 37th Street, Etta was not sure she had arrived at the correct address. Could this gloomy cave really be home to the niece of the president of the United States?
Looking into the library she could see that the furnishings were dark and worn, their cheap lace doilies soiled, the room's carpets stained and threadbare. The deep green velvet draperies covered far more of the windows than they should have on such a bright winter's day, and the marble of the foyer floor, which would have been the pride of any such house, was softly cracked at its corners. Etta had difficulty imagining that such a dreary place could actually contain the living ray of light she had encountered in the settlement house or, indeed, shelter any member of one of the country's oldest and most respected families.
Eleanor Roosevelt emerged from a side door into the foyer and held out both her hands.
“Oh, Mrs. Place!” she said, beaming that crooked grin. “I'm so glad you've accepted my invitation to luncheon. I hope it wasn't too sudden.”
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Roosevelt,” Etta replied. “I have so looked forward to this, it would have suited me to the ground had it been sooner still.”
“I suppose neither of us is all that keen at the thought of eating yet another meal alone. Please, come this way.”
Eleanor draped her arm through Etta's and led her through a small warren of narrow rooms into the kitchen. There, in the far corner, close to a cheerful, blazing hearth, was the servants' table, elegantly set for two, with a nearby sideboard neatly prepared for tea. A young maid stood next to the huge old cookstove.
“As you come from the West, Mrs. Place, I took the liberty of supposing that a certain lack of formality would not altogether offend you. And, quite truthfully, I had to make a choice between whatever elegance the dining room might provide and your personal comfort. As you have no doubt already realized, this old barn is as cold as an Alaskan Christmas, as my father used to say—and I thought that you might enjoy our meal more if you did not have to shiver through it.”
Etta's grin ignited Eleanor's own. “Who doesn't love the kitchen?” she said. “When I was a little girl, there was no place I would rather take my meals, and that continues to this very day. My father, God rest him, often joined me there, and we ate and talked before a warm
fireplace very like this one. Oh, no, Miss Roosevelt. Your charming kitchen has put me right back in Chestnut Hill and, I daresay, given me a wonderful appetite.”
Eleanor politely dismissed the maid and served the lunch herself, sweeping through the kitchen with the grace and aplomb of the finest French waiter. Etta couldn't help but think of the plentiful tips such skills would earn her in a Harvey House.
“Will your aunt be joining us?” Etta asked.
Eleanor sighed. “I am afraid my aunt has decamped for the country with my grandmother. She has had a frightful time of it of late, as one of her beaux has … once again … flitted off for parts unknown.”
“You are alone here then?”
“Quite alone.” Eleanor deposited half a steaming squab and a helping of rice onto Etta's plate and, sitting down, turned to her guest. “I hope you will not think I am prying, Mrs. Place, but from what you have told me I believe that my situation is similar to yours, in that I suspect we are both orphans.”
“Yes,” Etta said. “My mother died giving me life, and my father … well, let us just say that he died far too young.”
“I can see we already have much in common. My mother is gone these ten years and my father … well, let us also say that he was young as well.”
“But who chaperones you?” asked Etta. “Are you really here by yourself in New York at such a young age? I have done a little detective work … and surely a prominent clan like the Roosevelts must be concerned about the possibility of one of their lambs going astray.”
Eleanor's laughter was like the jangle of a silver chain. “Well, truth be told, Mrs. Place, the Roosevelt clan doesn't bother too much about me. My uncle Theodore's wife doesn't invite me, as she is afraid that our portion of the family is eugenically predisposed to all manner of unpleasantness. Drunkenness, mostly. She would rather that my presence not infect my cousin Alice, who is my peer in age and, if I may say so, very little else, being both vivacious and beautiful. The rest of the family seems to have had quite enough of me, as I have been a serial guest in most of their homes since the age of fourteen. Oh, no, Mrs. Place. Believe me when I say it is far preferable for me to have the freedom of the orphan than the pity of the poor relation.”
Etta: A Novel Page 12
