Modern Girls

by Jennifer S. Brown

  “That pattern is too old-fashioned,” Dottie said.

  “What about this?” I asked, pointing to a pale cream chiffon covered with large orchids. I glanced at the McCall’s in my hand. The pattern looked similar to the one in the pages.

  “Yes, I like that.”

  I handed the bolt to Edith to take to the counter. Edith was hopeless when it came to choosing clothing and fabrics, but she was a horse of a girl, perfectly suited to hauling our finds.

  We made our way through two more fabric stores plus J. W. Mays, Ohrbach’s, and S. Klein. I showed Dottie how to look for quality: seams sewn in a single line, rather than the quicker double-needle stitch. Buttons applied with a cross-stitch. The pattern aligned where the bodice met the skirt.

  The day should have been joyous, girls shopping for a friend’s trousseau, but instead a pall hung over us; the laughs that day were forced. The way Linda fingered each fabric with such longing; the way Zelda eyed Dottie, already missing her; the way Edith dragged her feet, out of place among the frilly dresses. The tone was more funereal than festive.

  Zelda rubbed Dottie’s back in a comforting way. “It will be an adventure. You’ll see.”

  “But what am I going to do?” Dottie’s voice was so plaintive, I could have cried.

  Linda looked at her oddly. “What do you mean?”

  “Willie will be writing.” Dottie’s fingers felt the material of a gabardine before she moved to the next. “I’ll be home. Alone. No job.”

  “But you’ll be busy keeping house.” Linda’s voice held bewilderment, and I wanted to hug that poor girl, too. “Keeping house” was all Linda wanted, and now Dottie—who had hoped for so much more—had that and didn’t want it.

  Dottie shook her head. “I know. It’s just . . .” Her voice trailed off. She looked at Edith helplessly, then glanced at me. “I thought, after marriage, I’d be doing the accounts and keeping the books at . . .” Her voice trailed off. We all knew where she would have been keeping the books: at Abe’s store.

  “Being a wife and a mother is more important than working,” Linda said, her voice almost scolding. She looked to me to agree, but I couldn’t. Hadn’t I wanted to be done with motherhood so I could get back to my own work?

  “What if . . .” Edith leaned on a bolt of fabric, her elbow perched on the top and her hand on her chin. She disappeared a moment in thought.

  We all looked at her expectantly.

  “It’s not bookkeeping,” Edith said. “But the Joint Distribution Committee is desperate for volunteers in Europe to help with the refugees.”

  European refugees? What a worthy thing to do, but more importantly . . . Before I could even form the words in my mind, I said, “Yussel!”

  The four looked at me, startled. More quietly, I said, “From Europe, perhaps you could help Yussel. Or convince the JDC to help Yussel. Get him a visa. Or arrange for him to travel to the Baltics so he can leave for Palestine. Or . . . something.”

  “I don’t know if that’s something the JDC can do,” Edith said. “Germany is the major concern at the moment.” Seeing my face, though, she shrugged. “Though, maybe. Can’t hurt to try.”

  Dottie nodded slowly, saying, “Yes, yes.” A grin grew on her face. “I could help refugees. And maybe Yussel.”

  Linda’s eyebrows drew together as she frowned. “That sounds dangerous.”

  But Dottie smiled at me. “No more dangerous than protesting the czar.”

  “You should be at home for Willie,” Linda said.

  “I can arrange for you to meet with my boss,” Edith said. “He could give you a letter of introduction.”

  “I would appreciate that,” Dottie said.

  I looked at my baby. And proudly realized she was her mother’s daughter.

  I pulled a bolt of camel-colored wool. “This will make a lovely winter coat. Perfect for going to an office.”

  Dottie

  Thursday, September 5

  WILLIE made the sounds that I’d learned indicated he was about to awaken. I thrust my book to the side table, and lay down, my back to him. He stirred and the next thing I felt were his fingers running up and down my side. They slipped to my front and cupped my breast. With a nibble on my neck, he rolled me over, and once again, we performed as husband and wife.

  At least we had this.

  • • •

  TWO hours later, I was sitting with Ma in the apartment.

  “You want the stitches to be even. What needle are you using?” Ma leaned over to peer at my work. “No, no. With the silk thread you should be using a sharp needle. That’s a rounded one.” She sorted through her basket till she found a different needle, which she handed to me.

  I set down the dress. “This is hopeless. I’ll never get it right.”

  “It’s not hopeless. It just takes practice. In time, it will be second nature.”

  I looked around the front room, the room I’d wanted to change for so many years, and I tried to imprint it on my mind. I made note of every detail, every tchotchke, every book on the shelf. For so long, I’d yearned to escape this front room and now I wanted never to forget it.

  “Stop dawdling and get back to work. You were right; I should have taught you years ago,” Ma said. “Me and my foolish pride.”

  Picking up the dress, I worked on sewing in the strip of cloth that would allow it to expand. “Do you miss your home, Ma?”

  Her eyes darted up, then quickly looked back to her work. She was doing the more delicate pieces that needed an expert hand.

  “I miss my family. I miss Shabbes at home.” She hesitated briefly, before saying, “I had a boy at home. Once in a blue moon, I miss him.”

  “A boy?” I continued with my sewing to disguise my surprise. Although later when I considered it, I didn’t know why I’d been taken aback.

  “Shmuel. He had fine blond hair and eyes like cornflowers. Went into the army. Never came back.”

  “Does Tateh know?”

  She laughed. “Of course not. Secrets, remember?”

  I laughed with her, but the sorrow that we were having these conversations now, right before I left, and wouldn’t have them again, cut me with a new ache.

  “Ma,” I said, a fresh thought occurring. “What if I visited Bratsyana? See if Shmuel ever returned.”

  “Ow,” she said, pulling her finger to her mouth. “Such a foolish idea, I stabbed myself.”

  She sucked on her finger for a moment, made sure she wasn’t bleeding, and then went back to work. “Promise me you will never go there. That place is not fit for humans anymore, only dogs. I don’t miss the pogroms and the hatred and the starvation. What the czar’s army did to that place . . . Promise!”

  “I promise, I promise.”

  “And besides, what if you did find Shmuel? That is over and done. You understand that?”

  And I did. Someday, Abe would be my Shmuel, a memory. But for now, he was an open wound.

  Softening, Ma put down her work, and looked me in the eye with a mischievous twinkle. For the first time, I saw a glimpse of her not as she was at that moment, but as the girl she’d once been. I imagined she and I would have been great friends if we’d been young at the same time.

  “I have another secret,” she said.

  I leaned into her. “What is it?” Both of our voices lowered to a hush.

  She looked around, even though we were alone in the apartment. “You take this secret to your grave?”

  “Cross my heart,” I said.

  “No crossing,” she said, scolding like the ma I remembered. “That’s goyishe.”

  “Okay, I promise.”

  She leaned even closer until her mouth almost touched my ear. “I’m forty-two years old.”

  Now I was shocked. “I thought you were thirty-nine!”

  She giggled as she
shhhed me.

  “Pregnant at forty-two,” I said.

  Nodding her head, she said, “Let that be a lesson to you. The women of our family—my mother, my grandmother, may their memories be a blessing, me, you—the women of our family are made for childbearing.”

  We both returned to our stitches. She worked her way through her piece before I was even a third of the way through mine.

  “So. Do you enjoy . . .” She searched for the words. “Being married? It is going all right?”

  Blushing, I gathered her meaning. “That’s the only part that’s going all right.”

  She waited for me to continue.

  I set aside my work. I couldn’t concentrate on making even stitches. Ma had confided in me. It was time I confided in her. “He wants to give me a get. After I have the baby, he wants to divorce me.”

  Her silence, I assumed, came from horror.

  “I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Desperation seeped from my voice, but I couldn’t control it. “I promise, Ma. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure I don’t disgrace you and Tateh any more than I have.”

  Ma looked at me oddly. My panic increased.

  “I’m going to be the perfect wife. I’m going to sew and cook and make sure he never even hears the baby cry.”

  Slowly, Ma shook her head. “A get,” she said. Her voice was soft. Thoughtful. She spoke again, more firmly. “A get. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “What?” I spoke louder than I should have. I did not want to draw the attention of the neighbors.

  “You go away. You have your baby. You get divorced. Is it ideal? No. But it is acceptable.”

  I must have heard her wrong. What mother thinks her child should get divorced? “I’d bring shame on the family! On myself! What would I do as a divorced woman with a child?” I worked hard to keep the screech out of my voice.

  “People get divorced. It happens. It’s not so bad. Remember Mrs. Cohen? Oy, that first husband of hers. A drunkard! And now she is happily married to Mr. Cohen and none the worse for wear. You get divorced. You come back home. We go to the matchmaker. She’ll find you an older man. A widower, perhaps. Someone whose circumstances won’t allow for a better match.”

  I stood up as if trying to escape that room, those ideas. “How in God’s name is that better than being married to Willie?”

  Ma grabbed me by the hands, pulling me closer to her, back into my seat. “Because then you will be home. You go to Europe now. You help the refugees. Hashem willing, you help Yussel. And then you come home. You will be off that continent, which is about to be consumed by war. You will be rid of that dummy who doesn’t have enough sense to stay away from danger. You will be near me.”

  I began to cry. “Ma, I want to be near you. But I want my marriage to work. I don’t want to be divorced.” Another failure. Another disgrace. “Ma, I’m going to stay married to Willie.”

  With a sigh, Ma picked her sewing back up. “If you say so. But at least you know: You have a way back home. With or without Willie, you can come home.”

  Rose

  Friday, September 6

  MUCH needed to be done, but first things first. When I arose early on Friday morning, before I started the challah, before I began on Dottie’s clothes, I sat at the kitchen table. With a piece of paper and a fountain pen I had taken from the credenza, I wrote a letter.

  Dear Yussel,

  Dottie is coming.

  Dottie would get Yussel out of Europe. Of that I was sure. But that didn’t mean Yussel couldn’t watch out for Dottie in the meantime.

  • • •

  FOR the rest of the day, I sewed. All I could do was sew. I sewed her dresses, embroidered her collars, monogrammed her linens. Each stitch was an amulet, a bit of protection. It was all I could do for her now. Sew.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, I had yardage of wool to make a coat for Dottie, one that would last through her pregnancy. If I were near to her, I’d simply let it out every month. If I were near, I’d do so many things.

  A knock at the door startled me. I expected Dottie, but she didn’t knock. Perle too would simply bound in at this hour. Sweet Perle, who ran errands for me, jumping up for thread when I ran short, for needles the moment one broke.

  Pushing the fabric to the side, I hauled myself up from the table. No leg twinges, no abdomen pain. I was back to my normal self.

  The knock came again. A male voice called out something, but I couldn’t understand him.

  “Excuse me?” I said, opening the door.

  A man in a uniform, holding a toolbox and odd equipment, stood there. In English, he said, “Bell Telephone, ma’am. I’m here to install your phone.”

  “My what?” I was dumbfounded, unsure of what he was doing.

  He looked at his paper. “This the Krasinsky place? I got an order from a Ben Krasinsky for a phone.”

  A phone! With a laugh, I let him in. “A phone!”

  Looking over the apartment with a critical eye, he asked, “Where do you want it?”

  I pointed at the credenza. “Is good there.”

  The man went to work as I continued my sewing. Perhaps I wouldn’t need the stitches as my amulets; I would have a phone. Didn’t I read about transatlantic calls? They were possible. I was sure of it. If Dottie was truly in trouble, she could call her mama for help.

  Though good stitches wouldn’t hurt.

  Dottie

  Monday, September 9

  IN our bed at the hotel we planned our day, as had become habit over the past week. Or rather, I planned the day. Willie’s day consisted of going to his office and God-knows-what-else. He didn’t keep me abreast of his schedule, just threw me tidbits here and there. I looked over the list I made.

  “Your mother ordered monogrammed stationery for us. I’ll pick that up this morning. And then I need to help my mother with my European wardrobe.” Better to say “European” than “maternity.” No need to remind Willie that I would soon be fat.

  “Mm-hmm,” Willie said, turning the page of the newspaper.

  Glancing at the clock, I saw it was close to nine a.m., and I was antsy to start the day. “Willie.” I put down my list and looked at my husband. Husband. The word still felt exotic. “Didn’t you tell me you have a ten a.m. meeting with Mr. Ross?”

  He glanced over the top of his Tribune toward the bedside clock. “Oh, good God, you’re right.” He leaped out of bed, downed the last of his room service coffee, and headed to the bathroom. I blushed as I watched him go; would I ever get used to seeing a naked man?

  While he prepared for the day, I dressed in a skirt and blouse. Skirts were easier than dresses because I could leave the blouse untucked and the skirt unbuttoned. My belly wasn’t that big yet, but I was bloated enough for dresses to be snug.

  As I was brushing my hair, the hotel phone rang, startling me. Willie came out of the bathroom, wiping the remnants of shaving cream off his face, a towel around his waist, and he hurried to answer it. Who did he think it was? When he picked up the receiver, I watched his face change from concern to mirth. “Hey, Edie,” he said. “Calling to gossip with the new Mrs. Klein? Hang on.” He held the phone out to me.

  I took the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dottie, it’s Edie.”

  Hearing her voice on the tinny line was strange. Never, in all our years, had we ever spoken on the phone. “Edith, hi,” I said, uncertainly.

  “Listen, doll, can’t talk, but you have an appointment to see my boss, Mr. Bechoff, at noon. Can you make it?”

  “Yes!” I said, my eyes darting nervously to Willie. I hadn’t mentioned my idea to him yet, didn’t want to upset him when it wasn’t a certainty. “I’ll be there.”

  “Great,” Edith said. “When you get here, ask for him. I put in a good word for you.”

  “I ca
n’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Thank you, Edith.”

  Hanging up the phone, I was aware of Willie’s eyes on me. “That was too fast for any good gossip. What was she calling about?” he asked.

  Smoothing my skirt, I turned to look at him, putting on what I hoped was a charming smile. “I had the idea I might volunteer with the Joint Distribution Committee when we’re in Europe.” Noting the look on his face, I hurriedly added, “I would of course make sure it doesn’t interfere with my taking care of our home. But I thought it might be good for me to not be idle. Edith has made an appointment for me to meet with her supervisor today.”

  He pursed his lips. “The Joint Distribution Committee?” He nodded his head, agreeing with some unspoken thought. “The JDC. That would be . . .” He looked at me and smiled. “That would be aces!”

  “What?” I said. This was not the response I had expected.

  “If you work for the Joint, you’ll have access to refugees and all kinds of information. You’ll be an incredible source! This is a fantastic idea,” he repeated. “What time is your appointment? I’d like to join you.”

  “Noon,” I said hesitantly, unsure about this turn of events. Dared I be hopeful?

  “I’ll meet you in front of the JDC at five to noon.”

  “All right.”

  He threw on his suit and, within moments, looked the crisp, handsome professional man. Looking at him made me long to touch him, but I knew he had to leave. “You better hurry. You’ll be late for your meeting.”

  Willie grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, before turning back. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re a handy little schedule keeper.” Taking me in his arms, he gave me a deep kiss that I felt in my stomach. It was the first time he’d kissed me like that when it wasn’t for show or as a prelude to making love. This was a kiss of affection just because. “I’ll see you close to noon.” He rubbed his nose against mine before leaving.

  As the door shut, I put my finger on my lips, trying to hold on to that kiss.