Authors: Irene N.Watts
I have not told Mama everything. I don’t want her to worry. Yes, we have windows – small ones, but only one of them lets in daylight. The second one looks into an airshaft, which smells bad from the garbage people throw down there.
I would never tell Mama Mrs. Singer’s first question to me. It would grieve her so much to hear it. She asked, “Where are your mama, the little daughter, and the boy?”
The look that passed over Papa’s face almost made me cry.
“They will come later,” he said. “The baby is delicate.” Then Mrs. Singer apologized for barging in. I do like her and her daughter, Beckie.
On Sunday, Papa went to work to make up for the time he has taken off. I have just come back from a short walk in Seward Park. Some spring shoots are already coming out. What a great country this is! To think that the city made a park, right here, on the Lower East Side. It means so much to everyone who lives in our crowded tenement buildings. The park is always full of people, who enjoy walking among trees and flowers. Children play on the grass, not just in the streets. I walk on my own, no Bubbe or Mama to tell me not to wander out alone. It is a strange feeling.
I put on the kettle for a glass of tea, feeling just a little lonely. I started the soup for tonight’s supper earlier. I got a nice beef bone from the butcher, threw a chopped onion into the pan, along with some sliced carrots and potatoes, and left it all to simmer. It smells good.
I hear steps on the stairs. They hesitate. It is too early for Papa to be home. Someone taps on the door. I open it cautiously, wondering who it could be.
“Rosie! Oh, what a wonderful surprise! Come in, I never expected to see you so soon.” We hug each other as though we have been parted for weeks, instead of days.
“I
can’t believe it’s really you, Rosie. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”
Rosie says, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you these last few days, Miriam.”
“Me, too. I was just making tea, wishing I had a friend to talk to. Now we can catch up. I hope you have time to stay and meet Papa. Are you hungry? There is some cake left. Our janitor, Mrs. Singer, baked it. It is a few days old, but it still tastes good.”
I bring two glasses of tea to the table, a few slices of lemon on a saucer, a couple of sugar lumps, and the remaining slices of cake.
“Dunk the cake in your tea, if you want. Do you remember how we had to dip Bubbe’s black bread in salt water to soften?” Rosie starts to laugh, but suddenly, her laughter
turns to tears.
She can’t be crying over that, can she?
I wait, feeling helpless. I don’t know how to comfort her.
Rosie mops her cheeks. “I’m so relieved to see you, Miriam. There is no one else I can turn to.”
“Isn’t that what friends are for? Tell me what’s wrong, Rosie. Did something happen at home?”
She nods, and her words come spilling out. “Maybe I was expecting too much. I’ve felt so unwelcome, Miriam. Clara, my brother’s wife, told me to go. Bruno brought me. He is waiting outside, to make sure I’m all right. I had to bring my things. May I tell him that I can stay here for a few days, just till I have found work? I told him and Clara that I have friends in New York.”
“Of course you can. It is perfectly true, you do have friends: Papa and I are your friends. I’ve told him so much about you, Rosie. I am sorry you are upset, but I’d love you to stay with us. Papa and I have been saying we should take in a boarder. It will be a while before Mama and the children are here. Let’s go and tell your brother.”
We run downstairs. Her brother waits, suitcase in hand, pacing up and down the sidewalk. Rosie speaks to him in Italian. I can’t understand more than a word or two, other than my name.
Bruno walks over to me and shakes my hand. “Thank you for being such a good friend to my sister,” he says. He embraces Rosie and passes her suitcase to her. “I will keep
in touch, little one. I am sorry things turned out badly.” He kisses Rosie on both cheeks and strides away.
We go back upstairs. I make fresh tea. I know that I am being a bit extravagant. But this once, even Mama would agree that it is the right thing to do on such a special occasion.
“Rosie, your brother seems so nice. How did all this happen?” I ask.
She says, “Nothing went right from the very start. Don’t you remember how Clara wouldn’t even wait for me to introduce you to her at Ellis Island? I don’t think she ever wanted me to come. She has never, once, tried to make me feel welcome. In fact, just the opposite. Her first words to me when we got home were ‘I’ve arranged for you to start at the commercial laundry down the street. The manager will see you tonight, after supper. They stay open late, and if you suit him, you can begin tomorrow. Starting pay is six dollars for a six-day week, twelve-to-fourteen-hour shifts. If you work night shifts, you earn fifty cents more. You’ll give me five dollars a week for your keep. The rest is your own. What do you say?’ I was speechless!
“Clara seemed very pleased with herself. Her grandmother, who lives with them, nodded away, smiling. I was shocked that Clara had not even asked me what kind of work I wanted to do. I hadn’t even had a chance to unpack!
“Bruno said, ‘Clara, what can you be thinking? No sister of mine is going to work there. It’s dangerous. Accidents
happen all the time. Heavy machinery, having to carry loads she’d barely manage to lift, working day and night in a damp basement, Rosie would end up like Papa, her lungs ruined. I forbid it. Look at her – she’s not strong enough for that kind of work. We’ll find her something easier, maybe working in one of the bakeries as a salesgirl.’
“I was glad Bruno stood up for me, but that was the only time. He’s weak, where Clara is concerned. She does not like to be contradicted. I watched her lips clamp shut, her eyes grow hard. From then on, it was war between us.
“Bruno had to leave for his night shift. He’s a construction worker, who helped build the Manhattan Bridge. Now he works underground, building a subway. That is dangerous work. He needs to concentrate, not worry over Clara and me!
“Nothing I could say or do was right from that moment on. The old lady was worse than Clara. She complained about me from morning to night. Yesterday I made pasta. I’ve been rolling out pasta and making tomato sauce since I was a little girl. Papa taught me. When Bruno tasted the sauce, he kissed his fingers, praised my cooking, and said it was as good as eating back home with our parents.
“Marco, one of his construction-worker friends who had been invited for supper, joined in the praise. ‘That is the best spaghetti I’ve tasted since I left Naples. Your little sister will be in great demand, Bruno,’ he said. He winked at me, flirting a bit, Miriam. It meant nothing. I thanked
him, that’s all. I could tell Clara was furious. She turned bright red and glared at Bruno.
“ ‘How is it you never praise my cooking, Bruno? Maybe your sister should take over.’ You can imagine how I felt, being the cause of a family quarrel. I excused myself to go and bring in the coffee. Then I went out again to wash the dishes. I overheard Clara’s raised voice and my name. It’s hard feeling unwanted. I almost wished I’d stayed in Hamburg. I was so upset that I dropped a plate.
“Clara and her grandmother came in, calling me careless and clumsy. Of course, I apologized and offered to buy a new plate. They waved their hands about and carried on, saying it was irreplaceable, part of a set. Honestly, I don’t think they were that upset about the plate. It just gave them an excuse to make me feel bad.
“Clara said, ‘Decent Italian girls don’t make eyes at strange men.’
“Do you know who Clara reminds me of, Miriam? Pearl! Bruno came in to see what the shouting was about.
“Clara said, ‘You had better find your sister another place to live. She does not fit in here. I will not have her in my house a moment longer than necessary.’
“I said, ‘That suits me fine. I don’t need to stay where I’m not wanted. I’ll pack my things. I have a place to go – friends I can stay with.’ So here I am.”
A tear trickles down Rosie’s cheek, and this time, I join
in out of sympathy. I’ve never heard of anything so sad. To be thrown out after coming all this way! Clara does sound like Pearl. Her brother never stood up to her either! Neither of us notice that Papa has come in.
“What is wrong? Has something happened to Mama?” he says.
“No, Papa. Don’t look so worried. We were just talking. This is Rosie,” I say. I dry my eyes.
Papa shakes hands with her. “I feel I know you already, Rosie,” he says. “Welcome. You are the great friend from the ship, isn’t that right? So maybe you can tell me what kind of ‘talking’ has made you both cry?”
Rosie explains. Papa listens carefully. “For every problem,” he says, “there is a solution. That is what my father-in-law, Miriam’s Zayde, always says. In this instance, I see no problem, only the solution.
“If your mama were here, Miriam, she would say to Rosie, ‘Sit down, eat, you are welcome to stay for as long as you like.’ So this is what I say too. Please, make yourself at home, Rosie.”
I set three places and serve the soup that has been ready for an hour! It feels right to have Rosie here. I’m happy because we have found a perfect boarder, who just happens to be my best friend too!
Papa says, “This soup is so good, I swear it could have been made by Bubbe. Now let’s speak about sleeping
arrangements. Mine is the biggest room, Miriam, so you and Rosie will take it, and I will be fine in the smaller one. No buts, only promise me that you will not talk all night. Do we have a deal?”
“It is a perfect solution, thank you, Papa.
Perfetto
, isn’t it, Rosie?” I say.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Markov, and please, sir, I can pay for my board. My brother, Bruno, gave me five dollars. Also I have a little saved.”
Papa says, “No, no, it can wait. We shall discuss payment after you find work. For now, keep your money. Girls, this is enough excitement for one evening. I am going to read my newspaper!”
We have just finished putting Rosie’s things away, when Beckie knocks on the door. She has called to remind me to be ready at seven o’clock in the morning. As if I could forget! We’ll walk together to the Triangle Waist Company. Work does not start until 8:15 a.m., but there’s the interview to get through first. I introduce my friends to each other.
Beckie makes a wonderful suggestion: “Anna Gullo, the foreman who does the hiring, asked me if I know of any other girls looking for work. Do you have a job yet, Rosie?”
Rosie says, “Not yet. I thought of trying to find work in a bakery.”
Beckie says, “Mr. Bernstein, the factory manager, says they are swamped with orders for the new season. Why don’t you come with us? Maybe you’ll both get taken on. We get forty-five minutes for lunch. I bring a nickel and buy something from a vendor or go to a café near the factory. In a couple of weeks, it will be warmer. Then I’ll bring a sandwich and eat in the park.
“Before the strike,” Beckie says, “we had to work twelve-hour shifts in the busy season. We had barely half an hour for lunch. We often worked seven days a week. Now, there’s time to get a bit of fresh air on our break.”
Rosie smiles and smiles. Everything is working out well. I’m happy my friends have met and seem to like each other.
Papa says, “You see, everything is turning out for the best. You are saving ten cents by walking to work, so take two nickels for your lunch from the housekeeping jar. If you don’t get hired tomorrow, then keep them for the next time. Please don’t forget your papa’s bottle of tea, Miriam.” Papa looks as proud as if he’d personally arranged the interview for us!
I
t is exciting to be walking with Rosie and Beckie to my first job interview. Beckie is a sleeve setter on the eighth floor of the Triangle Waist Company. She’s been there a year, making shirtwaists, since she was almost fourteen.
“I started off by sewing buttons on shirtwaists, at seven dollars a week,” Beckie says. “Now I make eleven!”
“I am not sure what you call a shirtwaist,” I say to her.
“It’s just a fancy name for a blouse with a high collar and full sleeves, which you wear tucked into a skirt. All over America, rich and poor girls and women wear shirtwaists. They can be plain or fancy, pleated or embroidered.”
Beckie never seems to stop talking or giving us advice. Already she has become like an old friend and taken us
under her wing. She’s determined to turn us into American girls, in the shortest time possible.
Rosie asks her, “How long have you lived in New York, Beckie? You know so much.”
“My family came here from Russia, from Kishinev, when I was eight. That was in 1903, a year of terrible pogroms. We were lucky to escape. My father does not like to speak of it. He lost many relatives.”
I squeeze her arm in sympathy. I remember Papa, Zayde, and Kolya talking about that dreadful time. Thank goodness the pogroms cannot follow us here.
I try sounding out the names of the streets to help me memorize them. After only a week here, there are still many new things to learn.
Seward Park is quiet this early in the day, but the streets bustle with life. Women shout last-minute instructions as they send off their husbands and children to work or school. Peddlers push their carts to the market on Hester and Orchard streets, eager to get hold of early customers. That’s the pig market, which in Yiddish is called the
chazir-mark
. It seems odd to call it that, when you can buy or sell almost anything there, except pork.
Many people go to the market when they first arrive in America, hoping to get hired for casual work. I wouldn’t like to be one of them. Imagine having to stand, in front of
all those strangers, like a piece of merchandise waiting to be picked over.
“Hey, girl, we need some finishers,” people hiring call out to the women and girls. Rosie and I are lucky to have Beckie to introduce us at the factory. I’m feeling nervous. This is the first time I’ve been interviewed for a job. All I’ve ever done is to help Mama and Bubbe.
What will they want to know?
Rosie must be wondering the same thing.