The Hired Girl (27 page)

Mr. Solomon was speechless. I couldn’t blame him. “What have
I
said to
her
?” he echoed, while I wailed, “No, he’s right to shout at me!”

Mr. Rosenbach set his hat down on the desk. He freed his hand from the curled-up tie and set the tie down next to his hat. Then he pulled out a chair and told me to sit. He found a clean handkerchief in his breast pocket and gave it to me. He strolled over to the decanter and poured two glasses of whiskey, a little one for him and a larger one for Mr. Solomon. “Sit, sit,” he urged us, until Mr. Solomon and I sat down. “Now, Janet. Tell me what’s the matter.”

He spoke so kindly that I had to tell him. I wasn’t very clear at first, because my words were blurred by sobs. “Go on, go on,” Mr. Rosenbach encouraged me, and I told him how Mr. Solomon had been kind to me, and I’d made a secret vow to help him win Nora Himmelrich. And I hadn’t pried, or looked through his private papers; I’d honestly
found
the sonnet, and I thought it was so beautiful that if Nora could only read it, her romantic heart would surely be touched. But after that there wasn’t much I could say in my defense, because it was meddling to give that sonnet to Nora, and I’d made trouble. Of course, it had never occurred to me that Mr. Solomon might have finished being in love with his fragile nymph, but men are not constant the way women are, and I guess I ought to have thought of that.

Mr. Rosenbach turned to his son and said, “Well?” and Mr. Solomon began to tell his side of the story. I think drinking the whiskey calmed him because he wasn’t raging; he was just resentful and disapproving. At one point, Mr. Rosenbach inquired, “Am I to learn the name of this girl you wish to marry?” and Mr. Solomon turned red and said, “I’m sorry, Papa,” in a way that made him sound years younger. “I know you and Mama won’t like it, and I haven’t asked her yet. I mean to ask her, or I meant to, until this —”

“Understandable, understandable,” murmured Mr. Rosenbach, nodding and rocking as if he was praying — he bobs and rocks when he prays, and so does Mr. Solomon. “Still, it would be better if there were no secrets between father and son.”

These words cut Mr. Solomon to the quick. He blurted out, “It’s Ruth.”

I saw the look on Mr. Rosenbach’s face: surprise and dismay. By then I’d stopped crying, because watching them was so interesting. It was like being at a play.

Mr. Rosenbach said, “Ruth Kleman? The little Polish girl?”

Mr. Solomon straightened in his chair. He looked noble and resolute, as a young lover should. “I know she’s not German,” he said, “so Mama won’t like it. And she — her family — is more Orthodox than we are. But I love her. And I don’t think being Orthodox is such a bad thing. Grossvater came to America so that his children could be Jews. Who are we if we fail to practice our religion? I like Ruth’s synagogue better than Har Sinai; I would like to worship there. And that’s not all. I want to study Talmud. I know it’s not what you planned for me, Papa, but I don’t care about the store. I respect
you,
Papa, and I love you; I admire what you did, creating the business. But I don’t think I’m cut out to be a businessman. The store doesn’t interest me. I want to be a scholar. Papa, I’m sorry.”

His voice broke on the last words.

I stayed very still. I didn’t want them to notice me and send me away. There they were: Solly with his hands clasped around his whiskey glass, and Mr. Rosenbach perched on the edge of his chair, with his weight resting on the tips of his toes.

He crouched there, motionless. Then he sprang up. He walked to the windows and opened the shutters to let the air come in, though it was hot outside. He looked down at his desk as if he’d never seen it before, and he touched the letter opener and the blotter. He picked up the ormolu desk clock and fiddled with the gears.

At last he returned to his chair and sat down. “Shlomo,” he said — that’s the Jewish nickname for Solomon, which nobody but Malka uses —“you are my good son, my first born. I had hoped you would have a gift for business, but my greatest wish is for your happiness. If you love Ruth Kleman and believe she can make you happy, you should marry her. And if you want to study Talmud”— he took up his glass of whiskey once more —“why, then, you will be a scholar. It’s not too shabby, to have a scholar in the family. I will be proud of you.” He raised his head and looked Mr. Solomon directly in the eye. “I will always be proud of my son.”

I saw Mr. Solomon’s face working. He was struggling against tears. He said, “Thank you, Papa,” and his father nodded matter-of-factly. I watched as they drained the last of the whiskey in their glasses and set the glasses down, almost in unison. “So,” Mr. Rosenbach said, “you will go to Miss Kleman and ask her to marry you?”

“I meant to. I want to.” Mr. Solomon shot me an accusing look. “Only I don’t know how, after this rotten business. I don’t know what she must be thinking of me, or whether I should ask her father —” He shook his head. “Perhaps it ought to be put off.”

“By no means,” said Mr. Rosenbach, “not if you wish to succeed. If there’s one thing I know about women it’s this: where matters of the heart are concerned, they don’t like to wait. They suffer too much.”

Mr. Solomon winced. “You think I should ask her now.”

“If you love her,” said Mr. Rosenbach. “If you’re sure.”

“I know I love her,” said Mr. Solomon. “And I believe she cares for me, or did, before this happened. But it won’t be easy to explain, and I don’t know if her father will agree to the match, and then Mama —”

“Leave your mother to me,” said Mr. Rosenbach, and Mr. Solomon heaved a short sigh. He got up and started to go out of the room.

He had forgotten all about me. But Mr. Rosenbach hadn’t. He cleared his throat and nicked his head in my direction. “What about this poor child?”

I felt a thrill of hope, because
poor child
made it sound as if I might not be sent away. I realized at that moment that I was willing to beg, if I could keep my job. Now that it’s over, I wish I
hadn’t
begged, because it wasn’t dignified. A girl in a novel would have been too proud. “Please,” I said, “
please,
forgive me. I know I shouldn’t have meddled, and I never will again. Everyone here has been so kind to me, and I haven’t anywhere else to go.” I felt a sob rise in my throat and I let myself cry. I don’t think it was feminine wiles. The truth is, I was so wretched that the tears cried themselves.

“Did you tell her she had to leave?” Mr. Rosenbach asked Mr. Solomon.

“He said I was untrustworthy,” I explained, “and I
was.
But I didn’t mean to be.”

Mr. Solomon looked awkward. I mean he looked as if he
felt
awkward. “I was very angry,” he told his father. “I think I had a right to be angry.”

“You did, you did!” I assured him. “I was
awful.
”

Mr. Rosenbach went over to the table and took his rolled-up tie, as if he meant to put it on again. He uncoiled it and hung it around his neck so that it fell down on either side, like Father Horst’s stole. He said, as if to himself, “She’s very young.”

That nettled me, a little, because I’m not as young as all that. Mr. Solomon is twenty-three, which is only five years older than I am, or would be, if I really was eighteen. But then Mr. Solomon sighed, and my heart rose, because there was something forgiving in the sound. He said, “Let no one be punished on my account.”

It sounded to me like a quotation. Later on I told Malka what he said — because of course she gave me no peace until I told her everything — well, not everything; I told her about the sonnet, but I didn’t mention Nora’s name. And I refused to tell her about Ruth Kleman, because that’s Mr. Solomon’s secret. After Malka exclaimed and scolded and enjoyed herself tremendously — because my being in trouble is meat and drink to her — she told me that what Mr. Solomon said is part of a famous Jewish prayer. It’s a beautiful thought, I think. I must ask Father Horst if the Catholics have any prayers like that.

And now I vow, on this page, that from this point on I will never meddle with Mr. Solomon’s life. Or anyone’s life. I will remember that I’m a hired girl, and work harder at my job, and if I want something to happen, I will only pray about it and not do anything. I won’t go gadding about with Mimi, because Mrs. Rosenbach doesn’t like it, and I won’t hanker after being friends with Nora Himmelrich, because she’s above me, and I won’t allow myself any silly, idle thoughts about Mr. David. I will be good and grateful and read Marcus Aurelius and other improving books, and not flounce, and wear my kimono over my nightgown no matter how hot it is, and not spend money on silly things like parasols and bottles of perfume that smell awful.

I pray that in time I will respect myself again.

Tuesday, August the twenty-ninth, 1911

I have quarreled with Father Horst! I hope that isn’t a sin, to quarrel with a priest, but I think he was
wrong.
Though maybe thinking that is a sin, too.

He was glad to see me when I came for my weekly instruction. It seems to me that Father Horst likes me, or used to before today. He is very pleased by how quickly I’m learning the catechism. Once he said he never knew what question I’ll ask next, and the way he said it was almost admiring. I’d have sworn he liked me. I like him, too. He’s a teacher, after all, and I generally get on with teachers.

But after greeting me today, Father Horst announced that he’d found a new place for me to work. He has a parishioner named Mrs. Possit who is looking for a virtuous, hardworking Catholic (but not Irish) girl for live-in housework and help with the children — she has six of them, all under the age of nine. She’s willing to pay five dollars a week. Father Horst told Mrs. Possit he knew the very person for her.

I was puzzled. I reminded him that I already have a job, but he countered by saying that Mrs. Possit is a good Catholic woman and I’d be part of a Catholic household. He said that it was his duty to guide my footsteps on the path to a devout life. All the Possits, even the servants and the babies, come to Mass every morning. And he said that Mrs. Possit would be like a mother to me, and he repeated the offer of five dollars a week, as if he thought that was a very good sum of money for me to be earning.

I didn’t say that the Rosenbachs give me six, because that isn’t why I refused. I don’t believe I’m a mercenary girl; it’s that I like the Rosenbachs. I explained to Father Horst how Mr. Solomon saved me from the streets, but Father Horst interrupted me and said that I shouldn’t say Mr. Solomon saved me from the streets because that makes it sound as if I was on the streets. But I was on the streets, I said to him, I almost had to sleep in them, and he said, never mind that now. The point was, he was sure the Rosenbachs were very good people of their kind, but he wasn’t happy about me working for a family of Hebrews. I said pleadingly that Mr. Rosenbach lent me books and Mrs. Rosenbach forgave me for setting the attic bedroom on fire, and you wouldn’t find many Christians who are that merciful and kind. I told him how they even let me come to Shabbos one night, as if I were a guest instead of a servant.

That made Father Horst look very grim. He said that was just the kind of thing that worried him — that they would seduce me from my Catholic faith. I assured him that Mrs. Rosenbach knows I’m a Catholic and it’s all right with her. I started to tell him how she let me come to the church on the Feast of the Assumption, even though it wasn’t my afternoon off.

But Father Horst wasn’t listening. He asked me how I could be so loyal to a family of Jews when the Jews have turned their backs on Jesus. And for a minute, I didn’t know what to say, because I don’t think of the Rosenbachs in that way.

“They don’t
worship
Jesus,” I said, “but they worship God, and if Jesus and God are one in the Holy Trinity, doesn’t it come to the same thing?” Father Horst said that was
sophistry,
which is a word I never heard before. I looked it up in Mr. Rosenbach’s dictionary, but I’m still not sure what it means. Father Horst also called me
intransigent,
which was another word I looked up. It means you stick to your opinions. I think I might be a little bit intransigent, but not in a bad way.

I felt dreadful when Father Horst started calling me names. And I searched my conscience, because I love Our Lord and His Blessed Mother. I don’t want to do anything to hurt them. But then I remembered what Mr. Rosenbach said. “Jesus was a Jew.” I spoke the words aloud. “And so was Abraham and Moses and the Blessed Mother.”

Father Horst said that the Jews of the Old Testament were different. They were all right because they lived before Jesus shed His blood in the New and Eternal Testament. But Jesus instituted the New Testament, so He was more like a Christian than a Jew. Then Father Horst said that the Jews were responsible for the death of Jesus, but I said I thought it was the Romans who crucified Him. (Because that’s what Mr. Rosenbach told me.) Father Horst looked vexed, but he said that it
was
the Romans, technically, but that the Jews had denied Him. He flipped open the Bible to find something bad about the Jews and read to me the part from the Acts of the Apostles where some of the Jews bound themselves under a curse, saying they would neither eat nor drink until they killed St. Paul. Surely, Father Horst said to me, I could see that St. Paul was on the right side of things and that the Jews were on the wrong side.

Well, I know that St. Paul is a very important saint. But I pointed out that the Bible said that only
some
of the Jews wanted to kill St. Paul, so that must mean that there were other Jews who were all right, and I thought the Rosenbachs must be like them. Father Horst shut the Bible in a way that was almost like slamming it. He said I was a disobedient and quarrelsome child.

I felt quelled when he said that, but some demon inside me made me answer back one more time. I said — in a small voice, but I said it — that I would rather be disobedient and quarrelsome than have anti-Semitism.

Then he was really angry. He said he had no doubt who taught me
that
word, and his manner was so forbidding that I said I was sorry and I hadn’t meant it. Though actually I had. I think he
has
anti-Semitism, but perhaps he doesn’t know it. But I didn’t want him to be mad with me. I explained to him that the Rosenbachs
need
me because nobody else can get along with Malka. And Malka needs me because of her age and her bunion. Then he said Mrs. Possit needs me because she has all those children. But I like the Rosenbachs, and I told Father Horst that I’d rather stay with them than go live with Mrs. Possit. I think (but I didn’t say it) that there is something nasty about the name
Possit.