The Property of a Lady (40 page)

It was on the fourth floor, the same as Missie’s room on Rivington Street, but that was where the resemblance ended. She flew around the big, gracious apartment, gasping with delight. “Just look at this sitting room,” she exclaimed. “It’s so full of light, and such beautiful furniture, big sofas, glass tables, soft carpets, even oil paintings on the walls! And the dining room has a
marble
floor … and two bedrooms, built-in closets, a
real
bathroom … and oh, a proper kitchen….”

“Not too much cooking,” Madame warned, smiling. The poor child had obviously been deprived; even a modest apartment like this was probably the finest she had ever seen.

Missie clasped her hands to her chest excitedly. “I must have it,” she exclaimed, “I
must
It’s just
perfect.”
She paused, remembering she must also be practical, and asked anxiously, “But what does it cost?”

“Eighty-five dollars a week,” Madame said, and Missie’s face fell. “But perhaps, for you, we can get a reduction, maybe to seventy-five.”

“Seventy-five?” It was still a great deal of money and she stared around again doubtfully. Poverty had become a habit. Only a few weeks ago she had been penniless; now she was discussing apartments that cost seventy-five dollars a week! But it
was
lovely and it
would
make all the difference to their lives, she just knew it would. There was sure to be a good school right around here for Azaylee, and she could get a maid who would look after her nights when she was at the theater. Taking a deep breath, she looked at Madame Elise, who was waiting for her answer, and said firmly, “I’ll take it.”

Madame nodded briskly. “You have made a courageous decision,” she said, “and at last you have affirmed your belief in yourself. If Florenz Ziegfeld says you will be a
star, you will be a star.
Eh bien
, I will have my lawyers take care of this, and now, back to the salon.”

Later that afternoon a large wicker hamper was delivered, addressed to Verity. Inside were mounds of perfect fruits, each resting in its own bed of tissue: pears, apples, oranges, out-of-season figs and strawberries—and there was a roast turkey, lobster, fresh asparagus, and an enormous box of chocolates. Astonished, she tore open the envelope and read the note that came with it. “For Azaylee,” it said, “so she should enjoy. Love, Uncle Flo.” And wrapped carefully in tissue paper was a bottle of champagne. This time the note said, “Verity, for you—from my own private cellar, for your private celebration. Florenz Ziegfeld.”

It was too much, Missie thought, bursting into tears, staring down at the note. Suddenly the world seemed filled with good people: people who took you to their hearts and showered you with kindness and thoughtful gifts. The terrible memories of Russia were pushed further into the background and the constant fear faded just a little as she read his note again. She no longer felt alone. If this was the world of show business, then she already knew she adored it.

Feeling like Cinderella, she changed from her smart cream suit into her old skirt and blouse and then Madame’s chauffeur drove her and the hamper back to Rivington Street. She was too ashamed to allow him to carry it up the malodorous stairs, and, instead, she called to Rosa to come to help her.

“There is to be a party tonight,” she told Rosa and the children as they peered excitedly at the closed hamper, dying for a look at its contents, “and you all are invited. And Meyer too,” she added, glancing at Rosa, “if he wants.”

“Meyer’s at the union tonight.” She shrugged. “It’s better.”

Missie beamed and said, “Be here at seven, Rosa, and bring plates and glasses. This is a celebration!”

Grabbing Azaylee’s hand, she said, “Come on, baby, let’s go invite Zev to our party.”

They ran hand in hand through the streets as if they were both children, tumbling, laughing through the pawnshop’s shabby door.

Zev glanced up from his accounts in surprise.

“Hello, Mr. Abramski,” Azaylee said, still giggling, “We’ve come to invite you to our party.”

He glanced quickly at Missie and she nodded, beaming.

“It’s a celebration,” she said. “Seven o’clock at my apartment.”

“What are we celebrating,
matiushka?”
Azaylee demanded, tugging at her skirt.

“I’ll tell you later,” she promised. She remembered suddenly that she had not seen Zev to apologize and she said contritely, “I’m sorry, Zev, about Sunday. I just hated to miss our date but I was kept late at the fashion parade out on Long Island and I couldn’t get back in time. I meant to come around tonight to apologize. But now it’s a celebration instead.”

She beamed at him and he stared back at her with black inscrutable eyes. He said stiffly, “You are under no obligation to see me. I understand if you are too busy.”

“Oh, Zev!” She slid her hand into the little groove under the brass cage where the money was passed back and forth, touching his. “You
know
how much I was looking forward to seeing you. Please? Say you forgive me? And
please
, will you come to my celebration party?”

She cocked her head to one side, gazing at him beseechingly, and he felt himself weakening. He had sat at their special table as first the minutes passed and then the hours, aware of the waiter’s sympathetic glances, and when by eleven o’clock she still hadn’t come he had thought it was all over, that the romance that never was had disappeared forever. And now there she was again,
charming him with her smile, softening him with her eyes, and he was happy again.

“I accept,” he said, nodding.

Missie breathed a sigh of relief. “Then it’s all set,” she cried, grabbing Azaylee and whizzing to the door as Viktor barked excitedly. “See you at seven,” she called, slamming the door behind her.

Zev closed early that night. He dressed meticulously in a clean white shirt and his best black jacket, smoothing his thick dark hair and fixing his blue tie just so. At five minutes to seven he locked his door and set off for Rivington Street. He had never been to a party in his life before, or to a “celebration.”

Rosa Perelman opened the door, inspecting him up and down and shaking his hand pleasantly. “Come in, Mr. Abramski, we are all here,” she said, smiling, “though Missie has enough food for fifty.”

He stared in amazement at the table laden with good things, the colorful sweet-smelling fruits, the enormous pink-and-white lobsters, the turkey, the chocolates, and the bottle of champagne, and then he looked at Missie, puzzled.

“Quickly, Zev,” she called, “open the champagne, we must drink a toast.”

“I want some turkey,” Azaylee demanded imperiously.

“I want never gets,” Rosa said automatically. “I
would like
some turkey.”

“So would I,” Azaylee said, puzzled.

Missie sighed. “This child used to have good manners,” she said, “and maybe she will again soon.”

Zev pulled the cork clumsily and the children shrieked with delight as the wine fizzed onto the floor.

“Quick,” Rosa cried, “the glasses.”

They filled the tea glasses, allowing each child a little, then they held them solemnly in the air, looking expectantly at Missie.

She glanced around her audience, enjoying the moment.
“All right,” she said, “prepare yourselves for a big surprise. Two big surprises … no,
three
. Our first toast is to Mr. Florenz Ziegfeld, who so kindly provided this delicious hamper and this wonderful champagne.”

“Ziegfeld!” Rosa exclaimed.
“The
Ziegfeld?
He
sent you this?”

“He sent Azaylee this,” she corrected. “Here is his note, see for yourself.”

They crowded around to look and Rosa said reverently to Azaylee, “You must keep this note for always because it’s from a very famous man and it’s written to you, ‘to Azaylee.’”

“But what does he say?” she demanded, peering at it.

Missie laughed. “It says ‘Enjoy,’ and that’s what we are going to do. Later I shall tell you the story.”

She sat contentedly at the table, her hands in her lap, unable to eat she was so happy.

“Just look at those children,” Rosa marveled, “eating lobster as if they were born to it, and enough meat to make up for all these years of doing without.” She tasted the champagne and said wistfully, “I had champagne once before, when my uncle came over from Latvia. He brought it with him to celebrate his new life.” She sighed and added, “He was knocked down by a brewer’s cart a week later, and he never did get to enjoy his new life.”

“The turkey is delicious,” Zev said politely, refusing the lobster Missie offered him.

“Lobster is
traife
—not kosher,” Rosa explained, “except for me, it doesn’t matter. I have a more reformed outlook.”

“Then more asparagus,” Missie cried, “more champagne!”

“Only don’t keep us in suspense,” Zev said boldly. “We are longing to hear your surprise.”

“Yes, yes, what’s the surprise?” the children chimed in.

Missie held her glass aloft and said, “I want you to
drink to Mr. Florenz Ziegfeld’s new showgirl, Verity Byron.” They looked at her, puzzled. “That’s me,” she added.

Their faces were so astonished that she burst out laughing. “Can you
believe
it? I am to be Ziegfeld’s new star.
And
I am to earn two hundred dollars a week, ‘regular as clockwork’—that’s what he said; and ‘working or not’—that’s what Madame Elise said. She is to design my wardrobe—both onstage and off, though I expect to be so busy there won’t be much free time.”

They stared at her, shocked into silence. “Well?” she demanded. “Are you not pleased?”

“It’s wonderful,” Rosa exclaimed, “only tell me I am dreaming and tomorrow I will wake up and find a pumpkin in this room and a glass slipper on the stair!”

“You know what? I really think it was my little ribboned slippers that brought me luck.” Missie turned to Zev and took his hand eagerly. “What do you think, Zev? Are you going to congratulate me?”

“Of course,” he said quietly, “I can see it is a very good job, and the money is ten times a man’s wage here on the Lower East Side.
Mazel tov
, Missie. I wish you well.”

He downed his champagne quietly while she told them about the new apartment, and for him each delighted cry was like a knife wound. Azaylee had climbed sleepily on to Missie’s lap and she was holding her close, stroking back her blond hair, telling her about her new room just as she had promised.

“Matiushka
, what’s the other surprise?” she asked sleepily.

“Why, the other surprise is that you will go to school.”

“School?” Azaylee shot upright. “I want to go to school with Sonia and Rachel!”

Rosa sighed. “Why don’t we talk about it later?” she suggested soothingly. “Meanwhile I have to get my children to bed.”

Her little girls clung to her, sleepy with good food and chocolates and excitement. “I’ll confess, I’ll be sorry to
see you go, even though my heart is bursting with gladness for you,” Rosa said sadly. “But you have been through hard times, Missie, and you deserve such a reward.”

Zev waited until they had gone and Azaylee had curled up on the bed with the dog at her feet, and then he drained his glass of champagne in a single gulp and said, “Missie, I’m not asking you to consider such a thing now, but one day maybe, if I was no longer what I am, would you … could you….” It was no good, he just could not ask her to marry him. He said instead, “Would you consent to … to see me, still? I mean, when you are a star?”

She looked into his eyes sympathetically. There was something about Zev that touched her deeply: his sorrow, his loneliness, the polite, unemotional crust that she knew only too well covered wounds even deeper than her own. Stepping closer to him, she whispered, “Yes, Zev, I promise.”

His arms went around her, and at last he was holding her close, close like lovers; he felt heady with love for her, he knew he wanted her. After letting her go he said roughly, “I must leave. Thank you for inviting me to your celebration, Missie. I wish you well in your new life.”

His glance lingered on her as he stood by the door, and impulsively she ran to him and kissed him.

He put his hand to his lips, then he smiled and said good-bye, closing the door quietly behind him.

She listened to his footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the hall door closing, and then she ran to the window, watching as he disappeared down the street.

Zev paced his room all that night, occasionally picking up a newspaper, to read and reread the advertisement. It promised that a man could make a fortune overnight in the flourishing new movie industry in Hollywood. It said that people were flocking from back east to live the life of Riley in the land of perpetual sunshine and oranges; it
said that everybody had a turquoise-blue swimming pool of his own and all the girls were beautiful. And that a man of integrity with a small sum to invest could become part of that scene simply by calling this number.

He stared down at the words that promised him everything. He knew that if he were ever to win Missie O’Bryan, he would have to become a different man, a man of substance, a man in charge of his own destiny. And this was surely the way to do it.

The next morning, instead of opening his shop as usual he turned the sign to “Closed” and went around to the offices of the
Ghetto News
, where he placed an ad of his own. “Business for sale,” it said. “For details apply to Mr. Abramski, Orchard Street.”