But who had that money to spend? Especially when there were bigger worries than mixing the milk and meat plates. All day, every day I worried. I worried about Yussel. How would we get him safely to America? I worried about Ben, going to union meetings. I worried about my boys, running wild in the streets. I worried about Dottie, learning all she needed to be a proper wife. If worrying were a job, I would earn enough to live on Fifth Avenue.
Thinking of money, I decided it was time to fix things for Dottie. Now that my tin held ninety dollars, Dottie would go to school. Her promotion only confirmed what I’d always known—Dottie had an excellent mind—and she should get an education while she was young enough to put it to use at the insurance company, before a family of her own pulled her away from working. In my dreams, Dottala went to a fancy college, a place where she could spend her entire day learning, immersing herself in books. Philosophy, art, literature, plus business classes, of course. But as my mama used to say, “Only in dreams are the carrots as big as bears,” and while ninety dollars did not Barnard make, it could get her just about two years of night school. The School of Commerce in Washington Square would be an easy commute between home and Dottie’s office. True, it wouldn’t cover all her books and costs, but with this promotion . . . perhaps Dottie could finally be persuaded to put aside a bit more. That extra could be just enough.
I looked out the tiny window, longing for a star, but all I could see was the tops of the buildings. My leg still ached, and I limped like a horse that had slipped in the snow, but I was pleased: Dottie had great things coming. Head bookkeeper today. Head accountant in a few years.
After I put away the last dish, I called to Dottie, who was primping in front of the mirror. “Come sit with me a moment,” I said.
“Abe will be here soon.” Her voice sounded odd. Squeaky.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
“Why do you assume something’s wrong?” she replied. I stood in the door to the bathroom, watching her put on fresh lipstick.
“You sound funny.”
“I sound fine,” she said, an impatient tone creeping into her voice.
“Sit with me a moment.”
“I don’t have time.” She rubbed her lips together and made a smacking noise. Turning to me, she said, “You should try this color. It would look lovely with your complexion.”
“Psshh,” I said. “Who has use for lipstick?” Such a waste, covering up a natural beauty.
“You should do yourself up nice, Ma. Make yourself pretty for Tateh.”
“I’m not pretty?” I wasn’t offended. I knew what I looked like. I knew what Dottie thought of me. She used to leave magazines and books on “improving” around the apartment for me to find. Dottie thought I existed only as I am now, a bit plump around the middle and always flushed from the stove. She didn’t understand that my hair didn’t frizz in the Russian summers. That I was a handsome woman in my day, attracting the attention of plenty of boys. If Dottie wanted to know the truth, I was prettier than she is now; Dottie inherited just enough of Ben that her eyes were a pinch too close together. But I was pleased to see she was flustered by my question, and she waved her hands uselessly, groping for a response. So I said, “Never mind. Come talk.”
She followed me to my bedroom. “Why is your leg bothering you so much?” she asked.
“Old age,” I said, though I was having my doubts. “You should never know the problems my leg has had, but here, it is fine.”
Dottie groaned behind me. “I know, Ma.” Dottie, who knew everything.
“What do you know?” I asked.
“You’ve told me the story a thousand times.”
As if she ever listened to my stories. The impetuousness of the young. She thought she knew my story. But what did Dottie know? Could she have imagined me as I was? So young, so idealistic. I’m sure when Dottie pictured me, it was in a babushka with hunched shoulders, only standing my ground because I was too frightened to move. But truly, I had stood tall and proud, my back straight. I should have been frightened—my father had warned me not to protest, wanted to whip me when he learned how I’d disobeyed him—but I marched into the town square, defiant against the czar’s decrees. I had dressed in my finest. My coat, mended by my own hand, appeared seamless. No one would have known how many times it had been ripped, worn nearly to death by my older sisters who’d owned it before me. I was fierce and beautiful as I yelled Menshevik slogans in my near-perfect Russian. I locked eyes with the soldier who sat regally upon a rich chestnut steed. He appraised me as I appraised him, and while his uniform sported many buttons, I saw the cloth was frayed and even bare in spots. His eyes moved from mine and slowly trailed down my body in a way that made me involuntarily pull my coat tighter. His horse whinnied, drawing his attention back to my face. His horse began the march, and as he progressed with a phalanx of the czar’s army surrounding him, I saw his eyes flicker, but I couldn’t read what it meant, whether he felt a burst of anger, of lust, of pity. And as his horse moved forward, I realized that what takes just a moment in time can be stitched into an entire story that lasts a lifetime, can be tattooed and never forgotten. That one moment would stay with me across continents and oceans; through marriage and deaths; against the distance of decades, and that one moment is as real and current as the feel of my sweat on an August day or my son’s hand tugging on the bottom of my dress or a kiss from Ben under cover of the dark on a Shabbes night.
I didn’t feel the horse itself. I wasn’t aware of the power of his legs, the heaviness of his load. I didn’t hear the whinnies or see the look on the soldier’s face at that moment. All I felt was the breath escaping my chest, the feeling of flight as I slipped through the air, the hardness of the packed dirt as my body slammed into it, the thundering of hooves filling my ears.
The next month, my father put me on a ship to America.
What did Dottie know? She knew nothing.
My bedroom was the only place we could speak with a semblance of privacy. I sat on my bed, which felt strange when there was still work to do.
“Shut the door,” I said to Dottie. She moved in a step more to close the door. The room barely contained the narrow bed and the dresser. A chair was crammed awkwardly between the wall and the bed. It didn’t belong in the room—it was too big for the little space—but when Dottie or Ben suggested removing it, I refused. It was the chair in which I had nursed my babies, and years later nursed Alfie back to health. It was the chair from which I’d tried to save Joey. It was where I’d sat vigil, prayed, and recited blessings for health, applying warm compresses to the twins. To Dottie, it was just a nuisance piece of furniture that was rarely used, but sometimes, still, in weak moments, when no one was home, I sat in the chair and softly sang the Yiddishe lullabies I’d once sung to the boys.
Now Dottie plopped herself in the chair.
“Such a lady,” I said.
“A lady I have to be, living in this shtetl?”
“A shtetl? You know of a shtetl? This apartment is a palace compared to my home in Russia.” That girl with her spoiled American notions. Our neighbors were losing jobs, being evicted from their homes. How many other parents did she know who had their own room and a second bedroom for the boys? Such luxury we lived in.
“You called me in here to scold?” Dottie asked. Her hand went to her stomach and rubbed it, and she toyed with the buttons, trying to adjust her dress. This was a new fidget, and I gave her a sideways glance, trying to suss out if something was going on.
“Things going well with Abe?” I asked.
“Fine, Ma.” Her tone was exasperated. “This is what you wanted?”
“So impatient. Show some respect. Honor thy mother, remember?” I leaned closer to Dottie, lowering my voice. Despite the closed door, the walls were paper-thin, and conversations could be carried from room to room without our ever raising a voice. I placed my hand on Dott
ie’s arm, causing her to flinch ever so slightly. “I’ve been saving some money.” I paused. “For you.”
Dottie looked both relieved and confused at the same time. Something was up with that girl. I would figure it out soon enough. “For my dowry?” she asked.
“Let your father worry about your dowry.”
Now Dottie looked truly befuddled. “Then what else would you save money for?”
I took Dottie’s hand in my own. This time, she gave it willingly. “I have been saving since you were born. A woman should always save a little something.”
At Dottie’s bewildered expression, I smiled and said, “Go to the top drawer of my dresser. Open it.”
Dottie did as she was told. The drawer stuck a little when she pulled it, and she jiggled it slightly to make it slide out.
“At the bottom of the drawer, there’s a tin. Do you see it?”
“Beneath your underthings?”
“Retrieve it,” I said, ignoring the distaste on Dottie’s face.
She rifled through the drawer before turning around with an old tea tin in her hand. “This?”
I nodded. “Bring it here.”
It jangled as she handed it to me.
“When I had you, my beautiful Dottala, I knew I had to take care of you. A boy? Well, the boys are going to be just fine. They’ll get an education—they’ll get good jobs. It’s easier for boys.”
“I don’t understand.”
I opened the can. Out spilled a pile of change and bills. Dottie gasped. “There must be—” She started poking her finger in the air, counting.
I stopped her before she could get very far. “Ninety dollars and twenty-one cents. I counted it this morning.”
She looked at the pile a moment longer before turning her eyes toward me. “But what’s it for?”
“For you. For college.”
“But, Ma—,” she began.
“Hear me out. You will start taking night classes at New York University. The School of Commerce. You will study accounting.”
Dottie simply stared at me, dumbfounded. “Accounting?”
“Yes, accounting.”
Dottie’s hand flew back to her stomach. Her face paled. She sat heavily on the bed beside me.
“What! What?” I asked. Her reaction alarmed me. “You look sick.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Dottie said. “Oh, Ma.” Dottie looked at me with such wide eyes, but her hand was shaky. “This is . . .” She reminded me of herself as a young girl, open, vulnerable, wanting only her mama. “I don’t even know what to say. This is . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“This is a way for you to go to college.”
She took my hand, but she held it loosely, and for the life of me, I couldn’t tell whether she was pleased. A puzzle, that girl was.
“Does Tateh know about this?” she asked.
I shook my head. “It’s our secret. A woman should always keep a little something from her husband. A ‘just in case.’”
Dottie looked downright ill. I placed my hand upon her forehead. “You are sick.”
She pushed my hand away. “I’m fine, Ma. College.” Her voice sounded wistful. “An accountant.” Her eyes returned to the money. It was beckoning her. Beckoning her future. Although Dottie had so little sense, she was probably picturing how many new dresses she could buy with the pile. But no. I was being mean. Dottie was a smart girl, which was why she’d been promoted to head bookkeeper.
Dottie then made me even prouder. She said, “But, Ma, shouldn’t we send it to Uncle Yussel? I’m sure he needs it more than I need college.”
Shaking my head, I said, “I wish this money could help Yussel. Money, Yussel has. It’s the visa he doesn’t have.”
The money mesmerized Dottie. “I can help you write more letters for visas tomorrow,” she said, still not looking up.
“Not on Shabbes. We’ll do it on Sunday.” Dottie was stunned enough that she didn’t argue, just nodded her head. “A degree from New York University,” I continued, “is nothing to pish on. You need to attend now, before you marry Abe, before you spend away your raise. Now is the time.”
“I just got my promotion. Maybe I should be head bookkeeper a while before I think of school.”
“But schools start in September. You want to wait a whole year? How much more useful you will be at Dover Insurance when you have your degree. You’ll need that head bookkeeper raise to help cover the cost of your books.”
“Ma,” Dottie said. She seemed to be weighing her words carefully. “Yes, I’m not married now, but two years is a long time. What happens when I do get married? How do I have a husband and go to school?”
“Why not? Two years is not so long. And Abe? Abe, he moves like a snail, that man. In two years you will be lucky to be married. And even if—from my lips to God’s ears—you do marry sooner, until you have a baby, you can go to school. So you wait a little to have a baby.”
Dottie’s head shot up. “Wait to have a baby? Isn’t that in God’s hands?”
I chuckled and leaned in yet closer. “There are things in women’s hands, too, my bubelah. When you are married, you shall learn.” Ruefully, though, I thought, Have I learned? No, of course I have. I’m too old.
A voice bellowed in the small apartment. “Hello?”
“Hello, hello,” I called back. I took Dottie’s hands in my own again. “You will be a brilliant accountant. You will start this fall. Now, go. Your prince awaits. We can talk more about this later.”
Giving me a feeble smile, Dottie stood, then leaned down to peck my cheek before going out to greet Abe. But before she opened the bedroom door, she turned back. “Thank you, Ma.” I couldn’t read her expression. Was it joy? Or sadness? I didn’t understand. She surprised me by returning and giving me a hug. “Thank you.”
“Shoo, you.” I smiled as I released her and she walked out, and I sat on the bed another moment, before putting the money back in the tin. I listened to Ben, Heshie, and Abe chatting in the next room, Alfie and Eugene resuming their airplane battles, Izzy futzing with the radio. Returning the money to the tin, I couldn’t help but think, We’ve done good. Ben and I, we’ve done just fine. I put my hand on my stomach. Whether this is old age or a new beginning, we’ll make it through this as well.
Dottie
AS I walked into the next room, my head flooded with confusion. College! And that Ma would do this for me. How she must have scrimped for years to save so much. For me. My heart beat with excitement at the possibility, even as I knew it would never become a reality.
Tateh, Uncle Heshie, and Abe were in a heated discussion, but I couldn’t concentrate. Abe stood when I entered.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” he said. I could tell he wanted to give me a kiss, but of course he wouldn’t dare touch me in front of my parents. He looked around awkwardly, then sat back down in what looked like an uncomfortable perch on the edge of the couch.
I shot Tateh an annoyed look. “You gave away my news?”
“News like that I should keep? It’s too good not to share.”
I could never be truly mad at Tateh.
Abe returned to the conversation as if there had been no interruption. “It’s nonsense, I tell you. War is an impossibility. That’s what we fought for in ’eighteen.”
“I wish you were right, Abe,” Uncle Heshie said. “Hitler has begun a compulsory draft. Why build an army if you don’t plan on using it?”
“Why are we letting him build an army?” Tateh said.
Abe and Tateh were both about the same height, but that was where any resemblance ended. Tateh spent his days in the garage, so his skin was pale, his build lean, and his hair a black-streaked gray. Abe, who spent his days unloading crates, stacking goods, carrying groceries for customers at the store, had firm muscles and burnished ski
n that I loved to run my fingers along. His brown hair flopped ever so slightly into his face, giving me a frequent excuse to brush it to the side. Tateh and Abe, side by side, made me feel less unsettled. Tateh and Abe would never let anything bad happen to me.
“All this talk of war, and on Shabbes. You two are no better than Alfie and Eugene,” Ma called from the bedroom, but I knew she didn’t mean it. Ma never minded the political talk when she was involved; she just disapproved when she wasn’t in the room.
“Dottala, what do you think?” Uncle Heshie asked.
“I think if I start telling you what I think, we’ll miss our show.” I gave Abe a pointed look, to signal the conversation needed to end so we could be going. The talk of Nazis and Mussolini and war and Jews stuck in Europe was slightly terrifying and definitely depressing, and my mood wasn’t the best to begin with. Besides, right then, I had so much else to think about, more important things. College. A promotion. The math that was forcing itself into my head, taunting me with its tallies. May 24. A Friday. Twelve weeks ago. Exactly.
“Our government is letting him build an army because they fear the Communists in Russia,” Ma said from the bedroom. Her voice boomed as if she were standing next to us. I could hear her closing her drawer, knowing she was returning the tin. The tin that held my future. Perhaps. Unable to resist the lure of talk, Ma came to the doorway between the rooms. Ma had no compunction about jumping into the fray. Like a freight train coming in from the distance, she would start calmly and quietly, building up steam, until the full roar of her thoughts accelerated, bearing down on you, threatening to run you over with their iron strength and speed.
Calculating forward, I toyed with the numbers again. Nine months. February. The numbers were not reassuring. Sweat pooled at my neck. August in the apartment was oppressive. It felt like the walls were closing in and the droning of everyone’s talk was as irritating as the heat. I needed to be outside right away. “We should go, Abe,” I said.
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