Modern Girls

by Jennifer S. Brown

Waves of exhaustion poured through me, and my whole body sank into the seat. I was fatigued. I was achy. I was pregnant. This was all too much for me. I said much more quietly, “There are lives at stake in Europe.”

  “There are lives at stake here,” Perle said. “People need to earn a living wage to feed and house themselves.”

  Even if I had the energy to attend a meeting, I knew it was pointless. Why become involved in something new when I’d only have to quit again when the baby came? As it was, I wasn’t sure if I could follow through with my commitment to help with the conference. I could already tell: Being pregnant at forty-two was going to be nothing like being pregnant at even thirty-two. But I wasn’t going to share that with everyone. Not yet.

  Nodding, because it took too much effort to do anything else, I said, “I am sorry, but I am unable to attend the meeting.”

  Returning to her chair, Perle looked at me quizzically, but I didn’t elaborate. “Fight for whatever you feel is important,” Perle said. “But actually fight. Writing letters and getting coffee for others who are speaking is busywork. You need to speak for yourself, Rose.”

  Embarrassed, I looked away.

  Perle and I had practically shared a cradle; our mothers were childhood friends. Perle, my older sister Eta, and I were the only girls who occasionally attended lessons at the tiny school, which bound us even more tightly to one another. Perle’s daughter, Zelda, was just months older than Dottie. But where I continued to have children, Perle was unable, so she threw herself into politics. She was the neighborhood’s leading member in the Socialist Party, organizing rent strikes and food strikes and sit-ins with the Unemployed Council at the Home Relief Bureaus. With babe in arms, I tried to follow, all the political fervor I’d possessed in Russia not just returning but growing. This was America! We could make changes! My Dottie, Izzy, Alfie, and Joey spent their childhoods handing out leaflets, parroting slogans, my older two marching beside me, the toddlers clutching pamphlets in their carriage. That all stopped when the twins became ill. I left the work behind as I sat by my boys’ sickbed. I knew there was more I should do now. It was time to throw myself back into the movement. But, as if to remind me, my leg spasmed, and I remembered, now was not the time. A new burden was arriving.

  Oh, if only I could “actually fight.” But I couldn’t risk it. The one time since the boys’ illness that I’d tried, it had ended badly.

  Three and a half years ago, when Eugene was still in short pants, the landsmanshaft learned of a Communist rally in Union Square. Even though we were firm in our socialist beliefs, we all agreed to go. Dottie, Izzy, and Alfie were in school, so I had no choice but to bring Eugene. We walked to Union Square, astonished to find thousands of people crowding in, signs everywhere reading “Work or Wages” and “Fight—Don’t Starve.”

  At the base of Union Square stood William Foster, the general secretary of the Communist Party, who had organized the steel strikes. I’d read about him in The Nation, a magazine Ben brought home. “Demand food!” Foster was shouting. “Demand unemployment insurance. Demand wages. We must organize!”

  Entranced, I allowed myself and Eugene to be pulled into the morass. Waves of people swelled, and I looked around, strengthened by the faith of those around me. Feelings that had long lain slumbering rose in me—a heated passion, a longing for revolution that I helped bring on—and I was flooded once again with the convictions I’d held in my youth, back in the days before the twins were sick, the confidence that I, myself, could change the world.

  Eugene clung to my side, and I felt a rush of tenderness for his little being, but at the same time, I grasped his shoulder eagerly, wanting to be in the middle of it all. He held my leg, making it difficult for me to move into the crowd. “No, Mama!” he cried, and glancing down, I saw the fear on his face. I tried to imagine what all these bodies looked like to the tiny boy, and I experienced a pang of sympathy and a slash of impatience at the same time. “Mama, please,” he said.

  Straining to hear Foster speak, I ignored Eugene at first, but as his pleas became more intense, I yielded. “Come, then,” I said, and holding him by the arm, I walked quickly out of the crowd, standing at the back, where I could barely hear what was being said, but where Eugene could stand comfortably. Even in the protests in Russia, I never saw a horde like this. The entire square was filled from avenue to avenue with bodies, some cheering, some shouting, all struggling to hear Foster speak. I tried to follow what he said, but the noise was so loud and the English so quick that I managed to understand only a little.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement on the edge of the crowd, something looming over the throng. In an instant, I realized what was happening; it was the same as that moment in the Old Country. In a split second, I needed to make a decision: to stand my ground with my comrades or to get my son safely away.

  At four, Eugene was too old to be carried, and yet I swept him into my arms. The crowd was so vast that even on the edges of Fourteenth Street, it was difficult to pass. I pushed my way through the mob, struggling under the weight of my son. My gimp leg started to throb.

  Unused to being coddled by me, Eugene buried his head in my shoulder, and he dug his fingers into my neck.

  As I broke free of the crowd, I saw the movement on the edges increase, and mounted policemen rode straight into the protesters in the square. The horses whinnied and for a blink of an eye, I was frozen, back in the town square, the czar’s soldiers on their mounts advancing. “Horsies,” Eugene called, which was enough to awaken me. I ran, gasping, my leg in terrific pain, and I squeezed Eugene tightly enough that he cried out. “Hush,” I said. “Hush!”

  Refusing the temptation of Lot’s wife, I ran the four blocks, not once looking back. When finally I arrived at Avenue A, I set Eugene down, and plopped onto a stoop in an effort to regain my breath. Eugene stood silently, curiously. To him, I was inexhaustible. If only he knew.

  At the moment, sitting on a stoop like a common housewife, I cursed myself. What happened to the Rose who had no fear? Then I looked at my son and knew exactly where that Rose had gone. The hopelessness of my situation, my inability to be both a revolutionary and a mother, filled me with rage. Was this what I was destined to be? Not a fighter, standing up for her beliefs, but a coward running at the first sign of trouble? No, not a coward; a mother. Angrily, I stood, took Eugene by the arm, and walked at a pace that was just this side of too fast, back to our apartment. A mother could bear only so much loss; I couldn’t risk another child.

  Since that day, my political life hadn’t gone further than handing out pamphlets, listening to speakers, writing my letters, and arguing with Ben and whoever came for Shabbes dinner. No longer did I march in picket lines. No longer did I stand firm in protest against cops and thugs. No longer did I sneak into factories and sweatshops to leaflet the workers.

  And now. Now, just when Eugene would be starting heder, his afternoons filled with Torah and Hebrew, now when he no longer needed his mama, now I would be starting all over again. A bitterness filled my heart, a bitterness that caused only guilt, fear, and fury. What kind of a woman felt like this? Was I a monster?

  The chatter of the kaffeeklatsch continued. Deborah related the neighborhood gossip—Mayer was taking his family to California where a job was waiting; Milton had received a pink slip—and Perle refilled coffee cups. Bayla lounged in her chair, and Lana cross-stitched while interjecting her own tidbits.

  I hoped that at the end of the evening, I would be able to steal a few moments alone with Perle, but why should my luck have been any better at the end of the night than at the beginning? It was after midnight when Ben was ready to go, though the game continued and the women went on chatting. The two of us retreated home and I tried to force myself to be grateful for the new chance God was giving me. But in my heart, there was only sorrow.

  Dottie

  Monday, August 19

  MONDAY af
ter work, I hurried to Zelda’s apartment. I prayed she would be home, not that prayer was doing me much good lately. With her ma at a meeting, there was a chance Zelda would go to her in-laws’ for dinner. If I could have called ahead to make sure she’d be home, I would have. My parents’ refusal to install a phone normally simply frustrated me—“For what do we need that expense?” Ma would say—but given the current situation, it was dire. And the office phone was strictly for work. Not that, realistically, I could speak to anyone from home or the office. But to at least be able to call to see if Zelda was home . . . I sighed. Right then the phone was the least of my worries.

  Monday nights were gin rummy at Edith’s apartment, but I couldn’t face her and Linda. I needed to figure things out before I saw my friends again. What if I broke down sobbing in the middle of a hand? What would I tell them?

  As I was walking through Union Square, the display window of Ohrbach’s beckoned. Nothing like a peek at the newest styles to cheer a gal. But the stunning outfits wouldn’t fit me again for months. Depression cloaked me, and I needed something to perk me up. A hat might do. A hat would fit no matter how large I grew. My sensible side chastened: It was crucial now to save money. But wasn’t it just as important to keep up my spirits? Wouldn’t feeling blue cause the baby to be born sickly? Besides, with my new raise, what was ninety-nine cents? And there was a darling hat, with a swagger brim and the most intricate lacings down the middle, begging to be bought.

  Ten minutes later, new hat in box, I continued on toward Zelda’s. Not three blocks down, though, I regretted my purchase. Who cared how fetching I’d look in it? How foolish of me. How would I hide the hat from Ma?

  By the time I arrived at Zelda’s, I’d worked myself into quite a state. I knocked on the door, relieved when I heard rustling inside. Zelda would know how to take care of my hat.

  “Dottie,” Zelda said as she opened the door. “I’m so happy to see you. I thought you were that pill from next door coming to borrow another egg.” She didn’t pause as she walked back in, allowing me to close the door and follow her. “That woman needs to learn to support her own family. Oh, did you hear what’s going on with Morris? Seems he got himself a little too close to the strikers in the Workers’ Alliance, and Edith—”

  At that, I burst into tears. Loud, noisy, unglamorous tears.

  “Dear Lord,” Zelda said, spinning around to face me. She looked frazzled, but then, she usually did. Her hair escaped the permanent the salon had put in, and streaks of pureed peas ran down the front of her apron. A smudge of flour graced her cheek.

  My chest heaved; I was crying so hard.

  “Sit, sit, Dottala.” Zelda ushered me to the couch, taking a peek at Shirley, who was sitting up in her crib, watching us. I let Zelda guide me to a seated position. “Whatever is wrong?”

  I had to take in big gulping breaths before I could speak. “I bought a hat!” I said, giving the box beside me an angry shove.

  “A hat?” Zelda said. She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “A hat. A hat. I bought a hat!” I was shrieking now.

  “Okay, okay! You bought a hat. How . . .” Zelda was befuddled. “Terrible?”

  “It’s horrible! It’s the worst!” I spoke between gasps. “I can’t buy a hat. I have no right buying a hat. What was I thinking, buying a hat like that?” I could feel my nose begin to run.

  Confusion was plain on Zelda’s face. “Here,” she said, taking my purse from my hands. “Let me get your handkerchief.” As she opened my clutch to fish it out, her hands stopped on something. Pulling out the two letters—the letters I should have thrown away, the letters that pointed an accusing finger toward me—she raised her eyebrows and asked, “What’s this?”

  “My hankie, please,” I said. A few deep breaths and my tears were beginning to slow.

  “Right, right,” Zelda said, digging back into my purse and handing me the delicate hankie that Ma had so carefully monogrammed. She returned to the envelopes and looked at the address engraved on the back. “Are these from my aunt Molly? Why is she sending you mail?”

  That started me crying anew. This time, my tears set off little Shirley, and Zelda froze for a moment, bewildered about which crying female to comfort first. I waved my hands toward the baby, and Zelda leaped up, took Shirley in her arms, and bounced her up and down until she quieted. Looking back at me, Zelda smiled and said, “If I bounce you, will you quiet as well?”

  Blowing my nose loudly, I shook my head. Zelda gave me the room to finish my fit. Zelda, who knew me so well. Our mothers had been together since the beginning of time, so Zelda and I were tethered from birth.

  After a few minutes, my wheezing subsided, and I thought I could speak. But an odor in the air gave me pause. “Zelda?” I managed to say.

  “Yes?” she asked, eager to hear what was going on.

  I sniffed. “Is something burning?”

  Zelda jumped up. “Oy vey, gevalt,” she said, thrusting Shirley toward me. “My bread!” She ran into the kitchen. Zelda had been married for almost two years, and yet she still fluttered about like a nervous newlywed, unsure of her cooking and mediocre in her housekeeping skills.

  I took the opportunity to snuggle Shirley. She had lost some of the new-baby scent, but I still found her smell comforting. Little Shirley was a sweetheart, with the big round eyes and full cheeks of a Kewpie doll, her blond hair beginning to darken and curl. Zelda, an only child, was hopeless at the baby things that came naturally to me, as the older sister to three boys. “Hello, my little Shirley. Hello.”

  Shirley cooed, triggering a spill of love in my chest. “Oh, my little Shirley, if ever there was an angel, it’s you.”

  “Everything is under control,” Zelda called from the kitchen. She came back out, wiping her hands on her apron. “Forgot about the bread in the oven.” She sighed. “Guess I’ll be headed to the bakery first thing in the morning.” She leaned over to take Shirley from my hands, but I refused to let go. Zelda raised her eyebrows at me, so I relented. Zelda placed Shirley in her crib, sat on the couch, and took my hands in hers.

  “Dottie, whatever is the matter? And don’t give me any nonsense about a hat.”

  I nodded, but I was having trouble finding the words.

  “Does this have to do with the letters?”

  I shrugged. Zelda let go of my hands to pick up the envelopes again. Running her finger over the stationery, she experienced the same jealousy I had over the luxuriousness of the paper. She extracted the first letter and read it silently. I had it memorized and let the words roll through my mind: Will you avoid me forever? Meet me for lunch at the Stork Club this Monday at noon. I promise, Abe will never know. With devoted affection, Willie. It was dated the beginning of June. Zelda pursed her lips as she folded it carefully back into the envelope. She pulled out the second. The message was nearly identical to the first, but dated July.

  “Nu? What is going on?”

  Her soft green eyes were inviting, comforting. “I’m in a situation,” I said softly. Then I lowered my voice even further. “I’m in a family way.”

  She nodded, pushing a hair away from her face, and I could see she was trying to hide her shock. She didn’t do a good job of it. “So you and Abe get married?” Zelda said, more a question than a statement, glancing at the letters. “You won’t be the first to have a baby a wee bit early.”

  I looked down at the ground. Then I looked back at her, fresh tears in my eyes. “It’s not Abe’s,” I whispered, utterly humiliated.

  She looked again at the letters before looking back at me. She whistled long and slow before softly repeating, “It’s not Abe’s?”

  I shook my head. I could see her struggling, deciding whether to reprimand or comfort me. I wasn’t worried about her pushing me away, though. This was Zelda. My Zelda.

  She held up the envelopes with a questioning look. I n
odded.

  “Willie Klein,” she said slowly. “Murder!”

  “Murder, indeed,” I said, as the drops rolled down my cheeks.

  “Dare I ask how this came about?”

  I shook my head.

  “And there’s no chance it’s Abe’s?”

  “Not even the remotest of possibilities.”

  She looked at the ceiling as if gathering her thoughts. “Oy, that Abe and his virtue.” Glancing back down, she asked, “Okay, what are we going to do about this?”

  My love for Zelda grew even more in that moment.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to marry Willie?”

  Marry Willie? The thought had never even occurred to me, most likely because of the clear answer: no. No, I did not want to marry Willie Klein. I loved arguing politics with Willie, loved teasing Willie, loved hearing about his escapades as he chased stories. But I didn’t love Willie. I shook my head.

  “Are you sure? He’s a handsome devil, my cousin. A little daft, but nothing that should get in the way. Plenty of money. You could be a rich society lady. Oh, that child will be stunning, with your beautiful eyes and his fine cheekbones.”

  I couldn’t help but grin slightly at how Zelda could turn everything into a positive.

  She continued. “He has to take responsibility for what he’s done. You’ll simply have to marry Willie.”

  “Impossible. Willie Klein is not the kind of man to take responsibility for anything. Besides, I don’t want to marry him.”

  Zelda rubbed my hands. “Dottala,” she said, “you may not have a choice. And we can make it happen. His family would never stand for this. His behavior is already an embarrassment, being a writer, prancing about town. Aunt Molly has her nose so far up in the air, it’s a wonder the birds haven’t made off with it yet. She’d be mortified to know Willie knocked up a girl, but at least you’re a nice Jewish girl—she’ll be flying to the seamstress for a bridal gown. You know Willie’s been seen around town with a shiksa from that club in Harlem. And Aunt Molly doesn’t know the half of it. Last I heard, Willie was cavorting with”—she looked around as if there were someone who would overhear, and she dropped her voice to a low whisper—“shvartzes!”