The Girl in the Torch (10 page)

A
S SOON AS
S
ARAH STEPPED INTO
Maryk's room, her body went slack as the remaining energy drained out of her. It had been more than a full day since she had last slept in the crown room of the Lady and several weeks since she had lain in a proper bed. She felt as if she had lived an entire lifetime since leaving her village. In her one day in Manhattan, she had seen and heard more new and strange things and people than she would have in an entire lifetime back home.

Sarah wasn't sure what to make of any of the new people she had met. Maryk, Mrs. Lee, Miss Jean and Smitty, Mrs. Fat and Bao Yu were all so different from her or anyone she had ever known, and she had trouble figuring out whom she could trust. She longed to talk to her mother or father to help guide her. She had been so busy during the day that she had been distracted from her grief. But now, alone in Maryk's room, she missed them more than ever.

She turned the lock on the door and sat on the bed, where she removed her boots and coat and finally lay down. Her body sank
into the soft mattress and pillow, a welcome sensation after all the hard surfaces she had been forced to sleep on.

She removed Ivan from the pocket of her skirt and placed him on the pillow beside her.

“It feels like we're lying on a cloud,” she whispered to the bear.

Sarah recognized the slightly sour smell of Maryk on the sheets and pillow. But she was too overwhelmed with exhaustion to mind. Her muscles relaxed, her bones settling into the cushiony surface. Her eyes fluttered shut and she fell into a deep sleep.

Sarah dreamed she was cutting vegetables the same way that she had just done for Mrs. Lee. But now she was back in her little house in her village, staring out the window into their family garden.

Sarah's mother appeared behind her, singing a clear lilting melody, and deposited a few potatoes beside her on the table. She patted Sarah gently on the shoulder. The warmth of the touch made Sarah's body tingle.

Sarah heard a chopping sound and looked out the window to see her father standing beside the woodpile. He raised a small hand ax high over his head and brought it down to split a log that sat on a large stump they used for chopping. He glanced up at Sarah and his mouth creased into a smile, crow's-feet sprouting next to his eyes. Then he turned his attention back to the wood, raised the ax, and chopped. The log splintered in two with a loud crack.

Sarah jolted awake. She sat up in the darkness of Maryk's room
unsure of where she was, still trapped in the warm fantasy of the dream. Then she heard another sharp noise coming from the hallway just outside the door. A cold shiver shot through her. Someone was fiddling with the lock.

S
ARAH AUTOMATICALLY REACHED
for Ivan and shoved him back in her pocket. Afraid to move, she held her breath as she heard the sound of a key struggling to find its way into the metal hole. The key clattered to the floor and she heard Maryk's muffled voice through the door.

“Ugh,” he grunted with exertion as he bent to pick it up. A moment later, the knob turned.

Sarah suddenly remembered her father's scissors. She grabbed the coat that she had laid across the end of bed and patted down the front until she found the small hard lump in the inner pocket. She pulled out the scissors. The blades were thin and very sharp. She gripped the weapon tightly and pushed herself into an upright position, her back against the wall.

The door swung open and Maryk's dark shadow fell into the room. His tall, hulking frame paused in the doorway for a moment, swayed, then stepped inside and closed the door. Sarah could not see his face, but she could hear his heavy breathing and
smell the sour odor of whiskey and pipe tobacco.

Sarah's entire body shook as she held the scissors in front of her, bracing for his attack. She gripped the scissors tighter as he walked unsteadily forward. His shadow slowly crept over her, casting her in deeper darkness. When he was nearly to the bed, she thrust the scissors toward him.

“Don't come any closer!”

He recoiled and stopped, as if surprised by her presence.

“What the . . . ,” he sputtered.

“What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? It's my room, ain't it?” His tongue was thick and slowed by whiskey.

“You said I could stay here.”

“I did?” he growled.

“Yes. You did.”

He swayed on his feet.

“I just came to get something is all.”

“It is the middle of the night. . . .”

“Man's got a right to get something out of his own room. . . .”

“Can't you get it in the morning?”

He stood in the darkness for a long moment, his labored breathing the only sound.

“Please . . . ,” she added.

Finally he veered off toward the dresser and reached for one of the bottles of whiskey, accidentally knocking some of them to the floor with a loud crash.

“Criminy!” he growled.

Sarah jumped but still held the scissors out before her.

“They are all empty,” she said.

“Huh?”

“There is no whiskey in them. You already took the last full one.”

Maryk kicked one of the empty bottles, causing it to ricochet off the wall.

“You can have your room back.”

“Huh?”

“I can go sleep in the basement,” she said, her voice trembling. “Just please. Don't hurt me.”

He took a deep breath and pointed an angry finger at her. “You stay right there!”

Then he turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door as he went.

Sarah loosened her grip on the scissors until they dropped out of her hand and onto the bed. Her heart beat furiously, the blood coursing through her until her head felt like it would burst.

After that, Sarah couldn't sleep. Was Maryk really just hunting for more whiskey? What if he came back and tried to attack her? And even if he meant her no harm and left her alone, what was she going to do to survive on her own? Mrs. Lee had only agreed to let her stay one week. She needed to find a way to make money quickly, so she could get away from these strange people and find her own place to live.

Sarah knew there were other immigrants from her country, probably from her village, in New York City. She just needed to find them. As soon as possible, she would track down her people and get a job as buttonhole maker just like she and her mother had intended. Gripping her father's scissors in her hand, Sarah felt as if she was holding on to her protection and her future all at once.

A
FTER CLEANING UP FROM
breakfast the next morning, Sarah wandered in and around the twisting streets of Chinatown. She saw two older Jewish men, in dark suits and white beards, and hurried up to walk close behind them so she could overhear their conversation in Yiddish.

“The price of wool just keeps going up,” one said.

“It's like there's a shortage of sheep out there,” the other agreed.

They must be in the garment business,
Sarah reasoned. So she decided to follow them.

Sure enough, within a few blocks the store signs turned from Chinese to Hebrew and Yiddish and the streets were filled with people who came from her country. Pushcarts lined the sidewalks selling all sorts of familiar wares and foods like braided rolls and knishes stuffed with meat and potato. She wished she had some money to buy herself a taste of home.

Sarah came to a street where huge rolls of fabric stuffed into barrels lined the sidewalks in front of the buildings. Burly men
pulled various bolts and carried them inside. Other men with tape measures draped around their necks ducked in and out of doorways, examining fabrics and threads. Seeing these men reminded her of her father, who also used to go to work armed with a tape measure in addition to his precious scissors. Farther along, she passed another man mixing a large vat of deep crimson fabric dye.

A group of girls passed by on the street, speaking her native language. Sarah leaned toward them as they strolled by, hungry to pick up any snippets of their conversation.

She longed to fall into the group and follow them, wherever they were going, to be talking about something as simple as what they ate for lunch, to feel a part of something familiar again.

These are my people,
she thought.
Not Maryk, Miss Jean, and Mrs. Lee.

Sarah paused by a window where she could see a huge room filled with women and girls working at sewing machines. Toward the back of the room, she caught a glimpse of a group of women bent low over garments. Her eyes widened and she moved closer as she realized that they were making buttonholes. Maybe there was work for her too.

A tall man in a suit with a neatly trimmed beard walked among the rows, checking the girls' work. Sarah assumed he was the boss.

She gave Ivan a squeeze inside her pocket for good luck and entered the factory. A few of the garment workers glanced up at Sarah as she approached the bearded man.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said.

He turned to her with a cross expression.

“Who let you in here?”

“No one. I just came in. I am looking for a job.”

“Who isn't?” he said.

“I'm a buttonhole maker,” she said.

“I have plenty of those.”

She stood up straighter. “I was the best in my village.”

A few of the women making buttonholes glanced up at her doubtfully.

“How many holes can you make an hour?” one asked.

Sarah had never really counted. But, in truth, she knew she wasn't very fast. She lied.

“Fifteen,” she said.

“Fifteen!” The women laughed. “We do at least twenty-five.”

“I can do thirty if I've had a good night's sleep,” another said.

“My record's thirty-nine,” a third chimed in.

“All right, back to work,” the man with the beard said. “We're not hiring now anyway. I'm sorry.”

“But . . .”

“Look, miss, we really have to get back to work.”

Then Sarah remembered her scissors. She quickly pulled them out of her pocket.

“I have my own scissors,” she said, holding them up. “They're very fine. See! So I wouldn't even have to use one of yours.”

The man paused and took the scissors from her hand. The other women nodded and whispered to each other, impressed. He held
the scissors up and examined them.

“These are good. Professional,” the man said. He handed them back. “Work on your speed and come back in three weeks. Maybe one of these experts will have retired.”

“What? And leave all this glamour behind?” one of the women joked. The others laughed.

“But I don't have three weeks,” Sarah said. “I need to make money now.”

“Sorry, kid,” the man said. “That's the best I can do.”

Sarah felt deflated as she walked back out onto the street. It didn't really matter how many holes she could sew after all. She'd have to come up with a new plan.

She started to head back to Mrs. Lee's when she felt a hand tap her on the shoulder. She spun around and was startled to discover one of the older women who had been in the garment factory. The woman had long gray hair tied under a blue kerchief and kind eyes. Sarah braced herself to run, afraid she was going to be threatened by the woman for trying to take her job.

“Hey, it's all right,” the woman said in Yiddish. “I just wanted to tell you, if you're really in a pinch for money, there are places that will hire you.”

Sarah looked up, hope swelling inside her again.

“Can you tell me where?”

“There's one not too far from here, at one eleven Essex Street.”

“One eleven Essex,” Sarah repeated.

“Yes, but you should be careful. Some of those places aren't
so nice. And you've gotta watch out for the bosses. They can be trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“All kinds. Just be careful. Good luck to you. And God bless you.”

As the woman went back inside the garment factory, Sarah repeated the address to herself again, so she wouldn't forget it. She slowly walked to Mrs. Lee's, weighed down by worries about her now-uncertain future. Would anyone really hire her?

“W
HERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”

Miss Jean stood by the front door with her hands on her hips as Sarah entered the hall.

“Oh, I was just out walking around,” Sarah said.

“Well, it was my understanding that you were working for Mrs. Lee now, so you should let us know if you're planning on going anywhere.”

“I'm sorry. I will.”

“As long as you've got your coat on, you can leave it on and come out with me. Mrs. Lee asked me to pick up some things for the evening meal. I could use an extra set of hands. Smitty's out back fixing the drain. Go ask him if he needs any pipe tobacco while we're out and then meet me in the front hall.”

Sarah discovered Smitty in the backyard, leaning against a shovel beside a freshly dug hole. As she approached, Sarah saw that the hole revealed some exposed pipes in the ground and Smitty was reading from a set of plans that seemed to be a map of some kind.

“Hello there,” he said, glancing up at her. “We've got a blocked pipe somewhere out here that's making all the sinks back up. I'm just trying to figure out which one it is.”

None of the homes in Sarah's village had running water, and she was fascinated by the advanced plumbing system that seemed to be in place at Mrs. Lee's.

“Would you believe, I drew up these plans myself and now I can't make sense of them.”

“You made this?” she asked with surprise.

“Studied engineering at Tuskegee. Class of ninety.”

“You are an engineer?”

“By education if not in practice. Most of the time I'm dedicated to the janitorial arts.” He wryly chuckled.

“What is that?”

“Means I fix and clean things up around here. Turns out there weren't many opportunities at engineering firms for people of my particular shade.”

“Shade?”

“My skin color, dear. You don't meet many Negro engineers.”

“Why?” Sarah said.

His expression turned serious.

“I'm afraid that one-word question has a long, complicated, and not very good answer.”

Sarah genuinely wondered what about his skin would make someone not want him to be an engineer. America seemed to be full of people of different colors.

“What can I do for you?” he said.

“Miss Jean and I are going out and she wanted me to ask you if you need any more tobacco.”

“That's awfully considerate of you both. But I think I'm all set for now.”

Sarah returned inside and found Miss Jean waiting for her in the front hall, putting on her coat and scarf. “Ah, there you are,” she said.

“He said he did not need any tobacco.”

“All right.”

Sarah watched as Miss Jean stared into a round, framed mirror by the door and put on a wide-brimmed, navy-blue felt hat with a sharp little brown feather sticking up out of the band. Miss Jean glimpsed Sarah out of the corner of her eye.

Sarah quickly looked away.

“You really have got to control that habit of staring at people,” Miss Jean said.

“Sorry,” she said.

Miss Jean paused and then went into the closet and retrieved a gray felt hat with a red band and a small silk flower attached to the side.

“Here, try this one. It's cold out there.”

Sarah placed the hat on her head and Miss Jean pulled it down into the proper position.

“Not bad,” Miss Jean said, turning Sarah toward the mirror.

Sarah stared at her reflection and almost didn't recognize
herself. The hat seemed to have transformed her into a different person, someone older and more American. She smiled shyly at herself.

“Don't get too used to it. It's just a loan. Now come on.”