The Hired Girl (35 page)

I know what I did then wasn’t like a hired girl, but I’m certainly not ashamed of it. “Mrs. Friedhoff,” I said, “you’re
oysgematert.
You go upstairs to your old bedroom and take off your wet things and have a good long nap. Mrs. Rosenbach’ll be home before long, and until she is, Malka and I will mind the children.”

“Oh, Janet, would you?”

“Of course we will,” I said. “You know Oskar likes my stories. And Malka’ll take care of Irma all right. Your room’s all nice and clean for Rosh Hashanah. The bedding’s fresh, and we put up the winter curtains yesterday.”

It didn’t take much persuading to get her to agree. She handed over Oskar and Irma and stumbled up the stairs, sobbing that I was a treasure and a dear, kind girl.

I took the children down to Malka. I handed over Irma, who was wailing in a listless, maddening kind of way. Malka wrapped her in a shawl, very tightly. It seems Mrs. Friedhoff ’s doctor believes that swaddling is bad for babies, but Malka says there’s nothing like it for a baby that won’t stop crying, and in fact, five minutes after she was tied up like a parcel, Irma went to sleep and wasn’t a bit of trouble.

It was Oskar who was the trouble. Malka thought she’d make cookies with him, so I finished washing the dishes while she showed him how to measure out flour and sugar, and how to break eggs. He was greatly interested, but once the cookies were in the oven, he needed some other amusement. I remembered a Hans Christian Andersen story from Miss Lang’s book, about a magic tinderbox and dogs with eyes as big as saucers. I told him that; he liked it so much that I told it twice. By the time I’d finished, the cookies were done, and Oskar ate thirteen of them, with milk.

After that, he wanted to go outside, but it was still raining cats and dogs. The phrase “raining cats and dogs” made Oskar prick up his ears and demand to see Thomashefsky, which made Malka sad. He then announced his intention of exploring the dumbwaiter. It seems that Mr. Rosenbach once showed Oskar the dumbwaiter and explained how the pulleys worked. I let him crawl onto the shelf and hoisted him up and down until he was tired of it. When at last he crawled out, he began to race around and around the kitchen, making train noises.

We let him run, as it seemed easier than stopping him. After what seemed like an hour, he stopped. “I want,” he panted in his hoarse little voice, “to play with some toys.”

We didn’t have any toys. Malka asked him coaxingly if he’d like to take a nice little nap. Oskar said he wouldn’t.

Malka looked at me with desperation in her eyes, and I rose to the occasion. I remembered how Luke and I used to play on the days when Ma aired her quilts. “I’ll take Oskar up to my room. We’ll make a blanket tent and play Indians. He’ll like that, won’t you, Oskar?”

Oskar looked intrigued, so I led him upstairs. I rigged a tent by draping the bedclothes over the foot of my bed and the top of the dresser. We crawled inside the tent, and I told Oskar there was a blizzard outside (we made blizzard noises) with wild wolves howling (we howled). Then I was inspired to say that we were starving to death inside our tent, and that we would die if no Indian was brave enough to go out and hunt buffalo. Oskar took the bait. “I’ll go,” he said, and squared his shoulders. “I’ll go kill the buffalo.”

“I’ll make you a horse,” I offered. To tell the truth, I was starting to enjoy myself. I tore strips from my old sage-green dress to make a bridle, and I tied them to the back of a chair. Oskar rode up and down the prairie, rocking the chair back and forth and flapping the reins.

Then he demanded a buffalo. I produced my cardboard suitcase, which he beat to death with his bare hands. He dragged the slain buffalo back to the tent, and we pretended to gnaw on buffalo meat. “You’re good at playing,” Oskar said earnestly.

I felt terribly pleased. But of course, one buffalo was not enough; he had to hunt another one. Then we killed a few wolves. After the last wolf was dead, he collapsed in the tent beside me.

That was when he saw Ma’s crucifix. It had fallen to the floor when I stripped the bed. “What’s that?”

In a flash, I saw my opportunity. I don’t think I could ever persuade Mr. Rosenbach to turn apostate, and Mr. Solomon is going to study Talmud. But Oskar is young, and he looks up to me. I hoped I might be able to plant a seed of the True Faith in his soul.

So I told him about Our Lord. I told him how kind Jesus was to children and poor people, and how gentle He was, but Oskar only fidgeted. I told him how Jesus could walk on the water and feed thousands of people with only a few fishes and a few loaves of bread. “But why’s he bleeding?” asked Oskar, and I realized I was going to have to tell him about Our Lord’s Passion and Resurrection.

I began. I showed him the picture of the Crucifixion in my missal. I was afraid the cruelty of the story would scare him. It appalled me when I was a child and does to this day. I remember asking Ma why my salvation couldn’t have come without Jesus getting hurt. But Oskar didn’t feel as I did. He demanded, “How’d they get him to go so high up?”

It took me a moment to grasp what he meant. In the picture in my missal, St. John and the Blessed Mother stood below Christ’s feet. “They made Him lie down on the Cross when it was still on the ground,” I said. “Once He was on it, they stood the Cross up.”

“How’d they stand it up?” persisted Oskar. “Did they use a pulley? And how’d they stick the bottom part in the ground? Did they dig a hole?”

I shook my head, aghast. I couldn’t answer his question. It never occurred to me to wonder how the Cross was raised, or how it was anchored in the ground. For me, that’s not part of the story. The story is about His courage and His love.

I reminded myself that Oskar is very young. Jesus isn’t real to him. I skipped forward and told him about the glorious surprise of the Resurrection. I explained that Jesus had opened the gates of heaven to everyone who believed in Him. All at once, I saw that Oskar was looking past me, over my head.

Mrs. Rosenbach stood in the doorway. Mrs. Friedhoff stood just behind her, but it was Mrs. Rosenbach I saw. Her face frightened me. It wasn’t that her eyes flashed or her nostrils flared or any of the things you might read about in a novel. But it was stony still. It reminded me of a picture of Medusa I’d seen in one of Mr. Rosenbach’s books.

“Oskar,” she said crisply, “go downstairs and tell Malka to wash your hands and face.”

Oskar looked from her to me. Then he put down the crucifix, scrambled to his feet, and clattered out of the room.

Mrs. Rosenbach waited until he had gone. “This must never happen again.”

I flinched at the sound of her voice. All at once I felt stupid and childish, kneeling on the floor surrounded by the mess: the tent, the torn dress, the banged-up suitcase. I slid the crucifix under my apron, shielding it from her Greek-monster gaze.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Janet?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, in a low voice. “I was only —”

“You were trying to convert my grandson to Christianity,” Mrs. Rosenbach said, and her voice was like steel: hard, cold, and polished. “I won’t tolerate that. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “He saw my crucifix, and he asked —”

“I’m not interested in how it happened,” Mrs. Rosenbach said. “If you ever say one more word about your religion to my grandson, you will leave this house without a reference. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I will not consult Mr. Rosenbach. The decision will be mine alone, and it will be final. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I turned away so she couldn’t see my face, and I began to gather up the bedclothes. My hands were trembling.

“Mama,” said Anna. I’d forgotten she was there. “Mama, there’s no harm done.”

“How do you know there isn’t?” asked Mrs. Rosenbach. “You don’t know what kind of impression may have been made.”

“Yes, but Oskar isn’t impressionable,” protested Anna. “If it doesn’t have to do with snakes or machinery, Oskar doesn’t
care.
And I’m sure Janet meant no harm.”

“I don’t know what she meant,” retorted Mrs. Rosenbach. “I had thought better of you, Janet,” she said, with a grave detachment that made me hang my head. “Set your cap straight and go help Malka with dinner. We’ll be dining early, because of the children.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said I, and made haste to leave the room. I didn’t cry in front of her, but I wept as soon as I reached the servants’ staircase. I cried hard. Then I wiped my eyes with my hands. I didn’t want Malka to see me in tears and ask what had happened.

What I did wasn’t wrong. I’m sure of that. Jesus told His disciples to spread the Gospel, and He promised that we would be blessed if we were persecuted for His sake. Every time I say the Creed I say that I believe in the Holy Catholic Church. If I truly believe, how can I fail to share my faith with others?

I’m sure what I did wasn’t wrong.

But I feel so low about it. Somehow, Mrs. Rosenbach made me feel so ashamed and scared and even remorseful. The worst part was when she said she’d thought better of me.

I wish it was Tuesday and I were back at the opera. It’s queer to think that two days ago I was so happy, and now I’m wretched.

Perhaps if I go to sleep I can dream my way back.

Sunday, September the seventeenth, 1911

I went to Mass today. Father Horst greeted me kindly, which made me feel worse about deceiving him. How long ago the opera seems! It was a glorious day, but I’ve paid for it. I’m worn out with waiting and wishing and longing: waiting for real life to begin, wishing — oh, why should I bother to deny it?— for a kind word from David Rosenbach. After Tuesday, I thought he might come to the library at night, so we could talk.

But David’s busy. Not busy working, like Mr. Rosenbach, but with engagements: baseball or tennis in the park, dinner parties, and dances. He swoops in and out of this house like the daring young man on the flying trapeze. Malka and I never know how many places to set at table.

He hasn’t spoken to me, not once. Of course, we can’t very well talk when the others are around. But I’ve been here in the library every night, listening for his footsteps. I’ve stayed up long past midnight, hoping he’ll come.

I was glad to go to Mass today and think about something that wasn’t David Rosenbach. During the service, I kept my mind resolutely on God. Afterward, I went to kneel down before the Blessed Virgin and think about my sins. I felt so wistful and low-down it was easy to repent.

I examined my conscience, which is always a melancholy business. I haven’t done too badly by Malka this week. She’s been working me almost to death, because she misses that cross old cat. But I’ve been patient, and I haven’t answered back. I was feeling proud of myself about that, but then I remembered how I lied to Father Horst, which was just pure badness. So I repented that I lied.

I recalled what happened with Oskar and felt uncomfortable. I explained to God how good my intentions were, and how it was just too bad of Mrs. Rosenbach to be so cold and withering. But I felt as if I’d missed something. At last I asked the Blessed Mother what she thought, and she said, “Well, you see, Joan, they trusted you.” It was then that I saw I’d been wrong. I knew all along that converting Oskar was going against the Rosenbachs’ wishes. I went behind their backs. It was a kind of betrayal.

When I came to see this, I felt meaner than dirt. It was true repentance and a very dismal feeling. I said the Act of Contrition and wept bitterly for my sins. As soon as I got home, I went in search of Mrs. Rosenbach.

I found her in the parlor with her needlework. She raised her eyes to me but she didn’t smile. “What is it, Janet?”

She was so composed; it made my stomach knot up. My mouth was dry and my voice faltered, because it isn’t easy, humbling yourself. I told her I was sorry about Oskar. I said I’d been to Mass and I’d realized what I did was wrong. (I wanted her to know that it was the Church that made me repent, because it might make her think better of Christianity.)

Mrs. Rosenbach didn’t help me out. Her face didn’t soften and she didn’t say she forgave me. She just listened until my words dried up. “Thank you, Janet. You may go,” she said, and went back to her needlework.

I didn’t feel any better after that. I bet Mr. Rosenbach would have forgiven me. I wonder if she told him what I did. If she told David, perhaps that’s why he hasn’t spoken to me.

I haven’t been sleeping. I’m like a lovelorn girl in a novel, but girls in novels generally aren’t hired girls, and they don’t get in so much trouble when they oversleep.

I’ve been reading a novel called
Trilby,
which David told me about. It’s set in Paris and it’s all about artists. How I should like to go to Paris! It sounds so beautiful, with the gray slate roofs and the golden river. The artists there don’t seem to mind being poor; they stay up all night and drink coffee and talk about art. Trilby, the heroine, looks like me, because she’s tall and well developed, with wavy brown hair. She’s good-hearted and brave and sweet and funny, but she’s a fallen woman. The author doesn’t seem to blame her for being depraved, and neither does the hero, Little Billee. I guess things are different in Paris. I’m surprised that I found the book in Mr. Rosenbach’s library, because I think there’s anti-Semitism in it. The villain is a Jew named Svengali —

Hark! A rapping on the library door!