The Property of a Lady (32 page)

His knock came promptly at six. She threw on her worn gray coat and hurried to the door, afraid to ask him in when she was alone, worried about what the neighbors might think.

He looked neat and very foreign in his black overcoat and hat as they walked down the dark street together. “I know a café on East Broadway,” he said, hesitating at the corner. “I have no car, like O’Hara. It’s all right by you to walk?”

“Of course, Mr. Abramski.” Turning up her collar, she hurried by his side but he kept to the outer edge of the sidewalk, maintaining a distance between them as if afraid of a casual touch.

The silence between them deepened as they walked. “And how are you, Mr. Abramski?” she asked desperately after they had gone a block.

“I am well, thank you,” he replied.

Silence fell again and he glanced nervously at her out of the corner of his eye. Here he was, his dream come
true, Missie O’Bryan was by his side and he could not think of a word to say to her.

He turned thankfully into East Broadway. “It’s a Ukrainian café,” he said stiffly. “I thought it would please you.”

The café was crowded and noisy, filled with Russian voices and the sound of balalaikas and guitars. In the back room somebody was singing a familiar gypsy song; a samovar bubbled on the counter and there was the heady smell of warm poppyseed bread, and piroshkis, coffee cakes, and sour pickles.

Missie’s face lighted up as they squeezed into a tiny table by the window. “It’s wonderful, Mr. Abramski,” she said, delighted. “It reminds me of a gypsy café I used to go to in St. Petersburg.” She laughed, singing a snatch of the song, and the proprietor, a burly Ukrainian, stopped and spoke to her in Russian, complimenting her on her voice.

Zev gazed at her, thrilled. He had only ever seen her as the subdued, hardworking young woman, worn down with worry; now suddenly he was seeing the young girl she really was. She ordered the borscht, closing her eyes in ecstasy as she tasted the first mouthful and exclaiming how good it was, but then her face fell. “I should not be here with you, Mr. Abramski,” she said guiltily. “I owe you so much money, it’s not right that you should spend more on buying me supper.”

“Are you not enjoying it then?” he asked worriedly.

“Oh, of course I am. Why, I haven’t enjoyed anything this much since … since I don’t know when,” she finished hastily.

Zev breathed a sigh of relief. Summoning the waiter, he ordered a bottle of red wine. He was happy just to sit and look at her, his dream come true. She sipped the wine slowly, listening to the music as silence fell between them again.

Missie avoided his eyes, wondering what to say. They couldn’t just go on saying
nothing
. She took another sip of
her wine and said desperately, “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Abramski.”

“Myself?” he repeated, surprised. “Why, there’s nothing to tell.”

“Oh, yes, there is,” she said, emboldened by the wine. “For instance, are you a happy man?”

Silence fell again and he stared down at his soup. “I am happy to be here with you,” he said at last.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I meant, are you happy with your life? You see, when I was a child I thought everyone was happy, but now I’m finding out that there are really not very many
truly
happy people in the world. They are all fighting against something: poverty, illness, oppression, despair. Sometimes when I think of how different Azaylee’s childhood is from my own, I want to cry. And sometimes I do, at night when I am in bed.”

His dark eyes were sympathetic. The Russian music and the roar of conversation grew louder, isolating them in their own little corner by the window.

Somehow, she felt secure with him. The wine loosened her tongue and she began to talk about her childhood in England, and how her father had died in Russia, leaving her alone. “And that’s how I came to live in St. Petersburg,” she said, bringing her story abruptly to a close.

The waiter bustled by to clear their plates, bringing them a mound of golden crisp potato piroshkis, spicy sliced sausages, and a mountain of
kasha
with hot mushroom sauce. He refilled their glasses and called for another basket of breads.

She leaned her elbow on the table, propping her chin on her hand, and said, “I know you heard what Azaylee said about … about Sofia. I don’t know why, Zev Abramski, but I know I can trust you.” The Russianness of the restaurant, the familiar language, and the music were too much for her to bear her loneliness any longer; she had told no one her story, not even Rosa, her friend, but suddenly it all spilled out in urgent, frightened whispers.
The flight through the forest with the jewels sewn in their skirts, the terrible murders, their escape to Constantinople and Sofia selling the diamonds for next to nothing. There was only the tiara left, she told him, with all the diamonds gone except the four remaining large ones. And the enormous, useless emerald. The food grew cold in front of them as she told him their fear of the Cheka and how she knew it would never stop. And how she dreamed every night about Alexei. She told him everything—except that she had been in love with Misha. “So,” she said, lifting her head and looking at him, “now you know who I am, Zev Abramski, and why I am in this position. And you are the only person in the world who does.”

She sniffed back her tears and he took out a fresh white pocket handkerchief and gave it to her. “I am proud that you have given me your confidence,” he said quietly. “I shall never repeat a word of what you said. No one shall hear of this from me, I promise on my life.”

His eyes were very gentle. “Eat,” he said gruffly, “let the good food bring some color to your pale cheeks. Enjoy.”

After that the silence between them seemed more companionable; Zev seemed content just to be in her company, and, even though he was a man of few words, she was surprisingly content in his.

He walked her home silently afterward, still keeping to the edge of the sidewalk, and when they reached her door he asked if she would meet him again the following Sunday.

Missie hesitated. She really didn’t know whether she should, but he had been so kind to her, and in an odd sort of way she felt close to him now that he knew all about her. “Six o’clock then, next Sunday, Mr. Abramski,” she agreed. She said good night quickly and hurried indoors, aware that he was still watching as the door closed behind her.

Monday morning Missie awoke with a headache and a feeling of quiet desperation. The old-world charm of the Ukrainian café had faded and the relief of unburdening herself to Abramski had turned to fear. After all, she told herself nervously, you barely know him and Sofia wanted you never to tell anyone….

She waited until she heard the Perelmans’ door slam as Meyer left for work, and then she hurried downstairs to Rosa. Azaylee had stayed with the Perelmans last night, and the dog too; Viktor had transferred his loyalty from Misha to his daughter and refused to leave her side. Where Azaylee went, he went. It would be a problem when she went to school, Missie thought, and that thought triggered another nagging problem—the one about school. Misha’s daughter couldn’t just go around the corner to the rough local school. Why, she already knew more than she could learn there: She knew how to read a little, and she knew her alphabet, and she spoke French and Russian as well as English, though now her English had a distinct Yiddish accent like that of the rest of the kids on Rivington Street.

Rosa looked at her face full of woes and grinned. “So? You’ve come to cheer up my Monday morning? I should need such cheer!” She laughed as she poured Missie a glass of tea. “Well?” she asked, sitting down and gazing expectantly at her. “So tell me? About the pawnbroker—the clockwork man—you can set your clock and the days of the week by him. But you are the first to find out what makes him tick.”

“I didn’t find out a thing,” Missie confessed, “it was me who did all the talking. Oh, Rosa, I told him everything. Things I was never supposed to tell.” She stared at her, her eyes wide with panic. “Things I’ve never even told you.”

“Best friends you don’t need to tell,” Rosa said, patting her hand comfortingly. “Whatever you might have done is all right by me. I know it can’t be bad.”

“What would I do without you, Rosa?” Missie said suddenly. “I’m so stupid, I know nothing. I don’t even know how to get a job.”

Rosa smoothed her flowered apron thoughtfully. It was a last resort but she knew Missie was at her wit’s end. “There’s always the
Chazir-Mark
, the Pig Market on Hester Street, where the people wanting jobs in the clothing factories go every morning to see if there’s any work.” She hesitated. “It’s not really a place for a girl so refined like you, Missie, but for a few weeks maybe, until something else comes along. At least it would put a little money in your pocket. If you are chosen, of course,” she added with a sigh. “There’s always more workers than jobs. And the foremen have their favorites, the ones they know they can get most work out of for least pay.”

“But I don’t even know how to work a sewing machine,” Missie said doubtfully. “All I know are useless things, like the date of an Egyptian tomb or the history of the ancient Babylonians—I never learned anything really
useful.”

“You know those things?” Rosa asked, astonished. “You should be a professor, not a machinist. But need drives us to strange places, Missie, and it’s all I can think of for you, now O’Hara’s gone.” She glanced shrewdly at Missie. “And what news by O’Hara?”

Missie shook her head, blushing. “None, not since he left for New Jersey two weeks ago. But then, I didn’t expect to hear from him, not after I turned down his proposal.”

Rosa sighed.
“Meshuganah,”
she muttered. “A good, strong man who would have kept you in luxury. What more does a girl want?”

“Love?” Missie whispered. Their eyes met across the table and Rosa reached out and took her hand. “Ah, love, Missie,” she said bitterly, “I have a feeling that love ends up as just like this: one man, two rooms, and three kids. Nothing ever changes.”

Missie hurried down Hester Street at six o’clock the next morning. It was beginning to snow and she turned up her coat collar, wishing she had taken the roses from her hat because the damp would ruin them. She hovered at the back of the crowd, taking in the scene. There were more men than women, some quite smartly dressed in overcoats, gossiping and buying coffee and knishes from a stall across the street, others just standing, shoulders hunched, their jacket collars turned up and their frozen hands thrust into their pockets, stamping their feet to keep warm. The women had wrapped their heads in shawls and waited quietly to one side, some young, some older. She felt out of place in her coat and too-smart hat and wished she had thought to wear a shawl like the others.

At six-thirty the foremen arrived, standing on a makeshift platform of orange crates, scanning the crowds and pointing out those they wanted. The women jostled to the front, eager to be noticed, but Missie hung back, waiting. The foreman wearing the black homburg caught her eye; he stared at her for a second and then passed on. She looked down at her feet dejectedly as he shouted, “That’s all for today,” and the chosen ones hurried off, their work chits clutched in their hands. “Try again tomorrow, darlin’” a hefty Irishwoman advised her. “Maybe you’ll be lucky then.”

The snow was a foot deep the next morning as Missie waited with the others, a shawl thrown over her head and icy water seeping through the paper-thin soles of her boots. The same man was there, the one in the homburg hat, and again he glanced at her, pausing, considering for a second or two. Hope lighted her eyes but then he passed on, choosing the woman next to her. Missie moaned and the woman said sympathetically, “Push yourself to the front next time, girl, that way he’ll be sure to see you. They always notice the pretty ones,” she added grimly.

She awoke late the next morning, coughing and sneezing
as she threw on her clothes and hurried to the door. Slipping and sliding on the ice, she ran the four blocks to Hester Street. The foremen were already there, choosing, and remembering the woman’s advice, she elbowed her way determinedly to the front. She stood there panting, clutching her shawl at her throat, her eyes raised to the men like gods on Olympus on their orange crates.

The man in the homburg was thin and wiry with sharply chiseled features and sharp black eyes. His thin lips curved in a half smile as he saw her and this time he nodded. “You,” he said, pointing.

She glanced from side to side; did he really mean her? “Me?” she mouthed, pointing to her chest.

He nodded. “Come here and get your chit,” he said roughly. His hand brushed hers as she took the slip from him. “Zimmerman’s, three days, on Canal Street,” he said sharply. “Don’t be late.”

Her feet had wings as she ran back to tell Rosa. After wrapping a slice of bread and herring in newspaper for her lunch, she ran all the way back to Canal and was at Zimmerman’s promptly at seven o’clock.

Zimmerman’s factory was a big one, running almost half a block over three floors. Missie crowded through the doors with the others, showing her slip to the foreman the way they did, edging through the narrow spaces between the sewing machines. The big Irishwoman she had seen the first morning on Hester Street smiled at her as Missie stared around, lost. “So you got yourself a job did you? Come, take this machine, there’s more light over here by the window.”