Authors: Laura Amy Schlitz
Presently I gave up trying to mollify her and just mopped the floor. After I finished, Malka said that since the family was going out, I could go upstairs and lie down. (Earlier I’d told her what was the matter with me. I had to tell her because of the laundry.) She added in a tremulous voice that no doubt I was tired of listening to her.
Well, as a matter of fact, I
was.
But of course I didn’t say so. I thanked her and went upstairs. I had no notion of going to my room, though — the attic is hot as blazes in the afternoon. I headed straight for the library.
I’ve been cleaning the library all week, but Malka’s always been at my side, so I haven’t been able to snatch more than a peek at the books. I declare, I’m starved for the sight of print. Most of the books are in glass cases, but the books I wanted to examine are too big to fit in a case. The covers are brown and maroon leather, stamped with gold, and the title of the volumes is
The Picturesque World.
When Malka’s back was turned, I opened the front cover — the inside cover was watered silk — and looked at the title page.
It’s a book about all the beautiful places in the world: cathedrals and grottoes and palaces and parks. There are more than a thousand pictures, and the writing has
Authentic and Original Descriptions by the Best Authors.
It says so right on the title page. I knew that reading that book would take me into another world — the
real
world, not the ordinary world of washing the dishes and mopping the floor. It would be like what Keats said about gazing through a magic casement into
faery lands forlorn.
So of course I was wild to read it. Miss Chandler used to say that beauty could ennoble mankind, and maybe that book would ennoble me. Or edify me: that’s another word she used to use. I think I’d rather be ennobled than edified. It sounds loftier.
I thought the Rosenbachs were out, because I’d heard the front door shut. The house was full of a Sunday hush. I opened the library doors without a sound.
My heart leaped. Mr. Solomon was in the room. He sat at his desk with his back to me — there are two desks in the library, one for Mr. Rosenbach, and one for Mr. Solomon. His head was bent over a big book, and he was muttering to himself.
I stood stock-still. The truth is, I’ve been wanting to talk to Mr. Solomon all week, but our paths haven’t crossed. That’s odd, when you think about it, because we’re living under the same roof. I guess it shows how great a gulf stands between a servant girl and her master.
I knew I should withdraw, because that was what a proper servant ought to do. But I didn’t. I stood with my hand on the cut-glass doorknob. I think I was hoping that he’d sense my presence and turn his head and smile at me.
But he didn’t. And for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I don’t know how long I stayed there and gazed at him across the carpet. I found myself looking at the carpet, and the mantel, and everything. It’s a fine carpet; I run the carpet sweeper over it every morning. I dust the mantelpiece, which is marble, and the Chinese vases, which have butterflies on them. I reckon I know the things in that room better than Mr. Solomon does, because when you clean things, you see them up close. But at that moment, the room belonged to him: books, vases, carpet, and all. I didn’t belong there.
Mr. Solomon kept muttering. I think he was reading a prayer book, because the muttering wasn’t in English. What I’ve caught on to is that Jews are like Catholics and pray in a foreign language, which is Hebrew. I knew I shouldn’t disturb a man at his prayers. I was afraid Mr. Solomon would see me there, and afraid he wouldn’t.
There was a flash of movement. The Thomashefsky cat had been asleep in the green chair, but he stood up and jumped off, landing with a thud. He crossed the carpet and went straight to Mr. Solomon, making a little friendly chirping noise.
Mr. Solomon said softly, “Ah, Thomas! Am I neglecting you? Do you need petting, you poor morsel?” He leaned sideways so he could stroke the cat. I could hear Thomashefsky purring all the way across the room.
I closed the door slowly, so the latch wouldn’t click. I felt hot and prickly all over.
Now that I write this, I believe I was jealous. For one thing, I’ve
never
managed to stroke that cat. He always ducks under my hand. And I’m aggravated, because here I am in a place of culture and refinement, but I’m only allowed to dust the books, not to read them. I’m mad at myself for wanting Mr. Solomon to notice me, and I’m mad at him for ignoring me, as if I were invisible.
I shut myself in my room and took off my dress. I tried to take a nap, but there was a fly in the room. Every time I was on the point of falling asleep, the fly would light on me. I tried to swat it, but it buzzed away. At last I got up and found my book.
It’s too hot to write any more.
Monday, July the tenth, 1911
I am so
ashamed.
I’m just
boiling
with shame, because of what I wrote about the Jews having a great love of gain. I
am
to be paid, and handsomely. I’m to earn six dollars a week! My days off will be Sunday mornings and Tuesday afternoons, unless Mrs. Rosenbach is entertaining.
Mrs. Rosenbach sent for me this morning. I felt rather nervous. I wanted to broach the subject of my wages, but I hadn’t figured out how. Everything I thought to say seemed so crude.
Mrs. Rosenbach began by saying that I had done very well. She had feared that Malka would be prejudiced against a Gentile. But it seems that Malka — oh, dear,
kind
Malka! (I wish I hadn’t insulted her kugel!)
—
says that I am hardworking and honest and willing. Mrs. Rosenbach said she was surprised by how Malka took to me. I was tempted to tell her that Malka isn’t so bad; she just wants someone to make her laugh and listen to her stories — and of course do
every
single thing
she says
, exactly
the way she says it, which I do.
Then it occurred to me that it might be better if Mrs. Rosenbach went on thinking that Malka was almost impossible to work with. So I smiled mysteriously, as if I had some power over Malka that no other hired girl could ever possess.
After that, Mrs. Rosenbach talked about her plans for me. I am to be a parlormaid. She asked if I had any objection to wearing a cap. She explained that a lot of girls won’t wear a cap because it makes them look like a servant. I said, “Well, ma’am, I
am
a servant.” Now that I think it over, it strikes me that I must have seemed right humble and innocent when I said that. Mostly I don’t seem either of those things, because I’m too tall. Then Mrs. Rosenbach mentioned the six dollars a week, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Mrs. Rosenbach told me that from now on, she wants me to answer the front door. That’s to spare Malka’s legs. Mrs. Rosenbach says the steps that go from the kitchen to the first floor are awfully steep, and last winter Malka was rushing to answer the doorbell and fell. Luckily she fell up the stairs, not down them, but Mrs. Rosenbach worries. That’s why she comes downstairs to discuss meals. It just goes to show how fine Mrs. Rosenbach is, because in the normal course of things, a servant should come upstairs when her mistress summons her. But Mrs. Rosenbach puts her respect for age and infirmity above her status.
She suggested that I should take on some of the cooking on Saturdays. I will be a Shabbos goy, which is a Christian who does the work that Jews aren’t supposed to do on Shabbos.
Then Mrs. Rosenbach indicated a cardboard box on the sofa. It had an emblem on it — two wavy lines like a stream, and a prancing horse, and the words R
OSENBACH’S
D
EPARTMENT
S
TORE
in beautiful copperplate. She said that it was customary for servants to pay for their own uniforms, but that seemed unduly harsh “in view of the fact that I had to leave home precipitously.” For a moment I didn’t understand, but then I saw she meant that I’d had to run away from home because Father was beating me, except that he wasn’t. She went on to say that as I would be greeting her guests, she wanted me to be more formally attired.
Now, that shows how refined she is, because look at the things she didn’t say! She didn’t mention the fact that I’ve been wearing the same ugly dress for more than a week, or hint that I’m not presentable enough for her friends. And she didn’t insinuate that I was too poor to buy my own uniforms. Now that I think it over, I feel a little guilty, because I’m not as penniless as she thinks. I have my Belinda money. But while she was talking to me, so gravely and politely, I honestly forgot about the Belinda money. I
felt
penniless.
All that time, I was aching to see what my new uniforms would look like. At last Mrs. Rosenbach waved her hand in a way that gave me permission to open the box, and she added that she had taken the liberty of putting in a packet of long hairpins, because long pins are more effective with thick hair. I guess she’s noticed that my hair keeps tumbling down.
I thanked her and opened the box. Tissue paper, thin as rose petals, and two uniforms — well, really they are housedresses, but they are so pretty! They’re cotton but they feel satin-smooth and fresh and crisp; they’re better quality cotton than any I’ve ever worn. And they smell so new — that clean cotton smell, which is almost like milk. Both dresses are blue, because blue is economical and doesn’t fade quickly. One dress is a cool-morning-sky blue with a pattern of white ferns on it. The other is closer to a robin’s-egg blue, with tiny sprays of buttercups and pink rosebuds. Both uniforms have white Dutch collars and cuffs that unbutton, so the sleeves roll up.
Then there were two darling white aprons, with ruffles over the shoulders, so starchy and pure looking, and two funny, frilly little caps — Mrs. Rosenbach gambled on the fact that I wouldn’t be too proud to wear them. Underneath the dress aprons was a big canvas apron, dark gray, which will be good for scrubbing. And the little packet of hairpins, none of them rusted.
I could scarcely contain my excitement, seeing those dresses. I kept holding them up and exclaiming and pointing out each detail to Mrs. Rosenbach. I guess it was too much, because her mouth turned down at the corners the way Ma’s did when I was a little thing and carried on about something or other. It was a tenderhearted look, but more superior in Mrs. Rosenbach’s case. She said I’d need a black uniform for formal wear, but she’d provide that, too. She added that she was sure I’d want to shop for other things, and she hoped I would consider buying them at Rosenbach’s Department Store.
That reminded her to tell me that her husband is coming home on Thursday, which I already knew, because Malka told me. Malka worships the ground Mr. Rosenbach walks on. His first name is Moritz, and Malka likes to call him her little Moritz. I hope he won’t be a domestic tyrant like Father. I don’t think anybody ever called Father little Josiah. Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with him.
When Mrs. Rosenbach was explaining how to get to Rosenbach’s Department Store — I haven’t taken a streetcar yet, and I can’t wait — my tongue got the better of me and I blurted out a question. I asked her if there were books in Rosenbach’s Department Store.
Mrs. Rosenbach said curtly, “You must not interrupt me, Janet.” I felt ever so sorry — interrupting when she’d been so kind — and I said so all in a rush. I explained that I was just starving for something to read. Then I realized I’d interrupted her twice in a row. I clapped my hands over my mouth.
She said, “I’m sure you don’t mean to be rude, Janet, but I’m afraid you’re rather impetuous.” I nodded agreement and tried to look penitent — though I like the idea of being impetuous. It sounds like a heroine. I’d rather be impetuous than placid any day.
After a moment she relented. “My husband’s store has an excellent selection of books,” she said. Then her brows came together. “Though you may find them costly. They’re hardcover books, not dime novels.”
I saw in a flash what she meant. She thought because I was a servant, I’d want to read trash. It made me hot under the collar — I guess I
am
impetuous. “I’m not in the market for dime novels,” I said haughtily. “I don’t think I would find them edifying or ennobling.”
I think maybe I shouldn’t have said the
ennobling
part. Mrs. Rosenbach’s mouth twitched as if she wanted to laugh. Only for a minute, though. Then she said, “I beg your pardon, Janet. I had forgotten your fondness for
Ivanhoe.
If you’re interested in reading the classics, you might borrow from our library.”
“Might I?” I exclaimed. I think Mrs. Rosenbach might have regretted her kindness then, because she went on to say that reading mustn’t interfere with my duties, and that the books mustn’t be taken down to the kitchen, where they might get soiled, and that I should borrow only one at a time.
I assured her that I would treat her books with the greatest possible care. I promised that I’d make sure my hands were extra clean, and that I would never, never stretch the bindings or dog-ear the pages.
She rose and went into the library. When she came back, she had a book in her hand. It was bound in black leather, with the title in gold:
DANIEL DERONDA
. It was the kind of book that has a silk ribbon inside, to serve as a bookmark. I love those silk ribbons.
“Perhaps this will edify you,” she said, and she handed it to me with a smile that was both sphinx-like and motherly kind.
Wednesday, July the twelfth, 1911
Today I spoke to Mr. Solomon. It wasn’t one bit the way I’d imagined it would be. In the sacred privacy of these pages, I’ve written how I hoped to see him again. Ever since he rescued me, he’s seemed like a hero to me, and I’ve been waiting to thank him. Also — oh, accursed vanity, I should blush to write these words, but they are true! — I’ve wanted
him
to see
me.
The bruise on my forehead has faded, and my new clothes make me look ever so much prettier.
I thought I was looking my best this morning. I had on the blue print with the rosebuds, and my apron was starched and pressed. I was going up the stairs and Mr. Solomon was coming down. (I shouldn’t have been on the front staircase, but I forgot.)