The Hired Girl (41 page)

Yesterday it stopped raining, so I took Oskar to the zoo. It ought to have been inspiring to see animals that I’ve only read about in the geography book, but I kept looking around the zoo for David. I wanted to see him so badly that I was convinced he’d be there. Oskar spent a long time mooning over the boa constrictor. I lost interest in it before he did. I preferred the sea lions and the bears.

When I came back to the house, Kitty took me aside and told me she had awful news. That was when she told me that the Pills were staying. I wanted to scream with frustration. Now it will be Tuesday before I see David again, because he’ll be in services all day Monday.

The only good thing, Kitty said, was that the Pills were going to the Rosenbachs for Shabbos dinner, and Anna had said we would have the evening off. (The Pills are particularly nasty to Kitty because she’s Irish.)

I went to Anna and told her I was worried about Malka working too hard without her Shabbos goy to lend a hand. Anna told me it would be all right, because Malka’s planning to cook everything before sundown and keep the food in the warming ovens. I offered to go over in the evening and help with the dishes. Anna said I was a kind and thoughtful girl, but that I needn’t worry about all that. She said Kitty and I deserved a rest, and that she would order a little chicken for just us two.

I’m
not
a kind and thoughtful girl. I’m a hypocrite. I don’t care about poor Malka and the dishes. I’m just desperate to be under the same roof as David Rosenbach.

I wish Anna weren’t so considerate.

Saturday, September the thirtieth, 1911

David’s going to Paris.

Nobody told me, of course. No one would think to tell me. After Yom Kippur, he’s going to New York. He’ll stay with Mrs. Rosenbach’s parents for a few days, and then take the steamer to Paris.

I wouldn’t have found out, except I overheard the Friedhoff ladies talking. Anna had taken Oskar for a walk in the park. Once she left, the old ladies started to gossip. They didn’t bother to lower their voices, because Kitty and I aren’t real people and don’t count.

They started with Malka’s Shabbos dinner, which they thought was indigestible, and then they went on to say that Malka must be failing. They said that it was a pity, Mr. Solomon marrying a Polish girl, and that Mirele was unpleasantly pert and would never find a husband. They said Mr. Rosenbach was too
Amerikanisch,
and they wondered what dress allowance he gave Mrs. Rosenbach, because they were sure she would bankrupt him. And then they said it was a shame to let that youngest son go off to Paris to play with paints, because he’d only get into debt and lose whatever morals he had.

When I heard about David going away, I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. I listened but they changed the subject, and after a while I went to my room and shut the door. I paced and paced. I wanted to cry, but I felt like there was something lodged at the back of my throat.

At first I tried, most piteously, to be happy. David must have told his father the truth, and surely it’s good news that Mr. Rosenbach has agreed to let him study art. And David wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye — he
couldn’t.
It would be too cruel. So I would see him again, at least one time more — but the thought of saying good-bye to him made me feel sick.

I was so taken up with pacing that I didn’t hear the storm come in, but all at once there was a clap of thunder that made me jump. I looked at the window, and the rain was coming down so thick it dimmed the light. I was glad, because the rain would bring Anna and Oskar back from their walk, and I could ask Anna if it was true.

When Anna returned, Oskar was soaking wet, so we put him in a hot bath and then to bed. Once he was asleep, I asked Anna if Mr. David was going to Paris, and she said yes. She said he’s leaving early next week.

Early next week. She didn’t say which day and I was afraid to ask.
Early
next
week.
That could be as soon as Tuesday — of course he couldn’t go on Monday, because of Yom Kippur. I wonder if he’s being sent away from me. Oh, David, if you leave me without saying good-bye, my heart will break!

I can’t bear it. I haven’t even told him that I love him. I know it’s the man who’s supposed to say that to the girl, but I don’t care. I love David Rosenbach, and I want to tell him so. When I think of never seeing him again — never kissing him — never knowing what he feels for me —

Why am I
sitting
here? Why am I writing at a time like this? Why am I letting Mr. Rosenbach — why am I letting
anyone
stand between me and my own true love?

It’s raining, raining hard, but I don’t care.

Monday, October the second, 1911

It’s Yom Kippur and I’m alone. Kitty’s visiting her folks, and everybody else is at Temple. Anna even took Oskar and Irma, though I’m told the services are very long. I can write as much as I want to, and no one will disturb me.

I’m crying as I write this. Sometimes I go without crying for a little while, and then I remember and gasp as if I felt a stitch in my side. Then I start up again. There have been times when writing made me feel better, but I don’t think this is going to be one of those times.

And yet my diary — dear Miss Chandler’s book — is close to finished; almost all the pages are covered with ink. It seems right to end this chapter: to finish the book.

My heart is broken.

How strange to look back at that last page, when I resolved to go to David! I must have been desperate, out of my mind. I remember how my heart hammered; how I slammed shut this book and went to the glass to put up my hair. When I looked in the mirror, there was something in my face I hadn’t seen before — a look of resolution, maybe. I’m not sure what it was, but it made me look oddly prettier.

I didn’t think about that, not very much. All I could think about was that I must see David. Without making a sound I let myself out of the apartment. The page wasn’t in the elevator, and I was afraid to work the machinery, so I ran down seven flights of stairs. When I left the building, it was raining: a steady spatter, no more.

I ran through the rain. It reminded me of the night I came to Baltimore, when I fled from the train station and nobody noticed me: a lone girl running through the streets. The city is large and nobody cares, and I was grateful for that indifference.

Then, as I was crossing the park, the skies split open. When you live on a farm, you pay attention to the weather; it’s all anybody talks about, but I’ve only seen rain like that three or four times in my life. Luke once emptied a whole bucket of cold water over my head, but this was worse, much worse. In less than a minute, I was drenched to the skin. My petticoats, my camisole, my shoes; they were as wet as if I’d been swimming in them. Raindrops struck my head like acorns, dragging down my hair so that the hairpins hurt. The gutters were running and the water was over the tops of my boots.

But there was no turning back. When I reached the Rosenbachs’ house, it was hard to see through the rain, but I spied the light in David’s window. Late as it was, he was still awake.

I stumbled up the porch stairs and found the front door locked. Mrs. Rosenbach believes in locking doors, but Malka doesn’t. I thanked God when the kitchen door yielded, and I stepped onto the linoleum, dripping. My boots were so waterlogged I could hardly get them off, and my stockings clung to my feet. I stood by the meat sink and lifted my skirts and tried to wring the water out of them. The Thomashefsky cat watched me from Malka’s armchair. He’s not used to me coming home in the middle of the night.

I longed to change into dry clothes, but I had none. I unpinned my sodden hair and let it fall over my shoulders. David likes my hair — at least, he likes it when it’s dry. In the back of my mind was a story from Miss Lang’s book about a girl who was a princess, arriving at a castle during a thunderstorm. In the frontispiece, she was disheveled and driven looking, but she was a real princess, all the same.

I tiptoed up the stairs. When I reached the landing, David’s light still shone. He was awake. With shaking fingers, I rapped on the door. I heard the creak of bedsprings and the sound of footsteps. Then the door opened and David stood before me.

I see him now as I write this. He was — is — so beautiful to me. I can’t believe I ever thought his nose was too large. It is noble in its proportions, and his curls are tumbled and glossy, and his forearms are slender and strong. His cuffs were unbuttoned and his shirttail was hanging out. Even his bare feet were beautiful; they were long toed and supple, like the hind feet of a hare.

“Janet!”

My name on his lips. My mouth opened without a sound and tears began to fall from my lashes. When he saw me crying, he opened his arms, and I fell into them.

If I could have died, right then. He was warm and dry and strong and kind; he looked upon me with tenderness; I swear he did, in spite of what happened after. I lifted my face so that he could kiss me. There were so many things at once: fear and relief and the love that flared up between us like the striking of a match.

“Janet, what is it? You’re soaking wet.”

“It’s raining,” I explained. That’s when he put me away from him. He didn’t give me the kiss I wanted, and he put me away from him quite firmly. I cried harder, from self-pity. He looked around the room — he’d been reading. I saw the book on the bed:
The Painter of Modern Life.

He closed the bedroom door. Then he went to the bed and snatched up the counterpane. He draped it around me like a cloak. “Janet, you shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “What happened? Did Anna send you away? What on earth is this about?”

I felt a chill. “Are you going away to Paris?”

His face lit up. “Yes, on Thursday. Did Anna tell you? I’ll go to New York and spend Shabbos with my mother’s folks. Then next week I’ll take the steamer. It was just as you said, Janet! I talked to Papa, and at first he was angry with me — well, it was a big disappointment for him, me not wanting to take on the store, and I felt like thirty cents. But when I told him how much I want to be an artist, he listened to me, really listened. At first he said I could study here, but when I explained why Paris would be better, he said he’d stake me. He said he’d give me a year — I asked for five, and at last we agreed on three — to find out if I had a future as a painter. If I don’t, I’ll come back and work at the store; I gave him my word. But if my career seems promising, he won’t stand in my way. He was”— he stopped to find the right word —“he was splendid. I have you to thank, Janet. I’ve wanted to talk to him for ages, but I didn’t dare. But you believed in me.”

“Of course I believe in you!” I spoke too loudly and both of us froze, listening to see if anyone had heard. I lowered my voice. “But, David —”

“What is it?”

“You kissed me,” I said. I looked down, because I hated having to remind him. “You kissed me, and now you’re going away.”

I saw the dawning consternation in his face. “Great Jakes. I — Janet, I’m sorry, so sorry. I tried to explain —”

“I can’t marry you,” I interrupted, and I was surprised, because the words came out strong. All night I was like that: weak and strong by turns. “You’re a Jew, and you can’t marry a
shiksa,
and I’m a Catholic, and I have to go on being a Catholic. If you married me, it would just about kill your father, and our children wouldn’t be Jewish —”

David dug his hands into his hair. He looked utterly lost. “Janet, what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you that I love you.” Those words buoyed me up; I’d wanted to say them for so long. “I love you with all my heart and I want to be with you.” All at once it was clear what I’d come to say. My words were like bubbles, rising and swelling and catching the sunlight. “Say the word and I’ll come with you. To Paris. I’ll meet you there. I can’t be your wife, but I’ll be your friend. We’ll be happy together, and I’ll give myself to you.”

I rushed the last words. I can’t believe, now, that I said them. But at the time, I had a vision of David and me in Paris, with David in an artist’s smock and me being a
grisette,
like Trilby, though I’m not quite sure what a grisette
is.
I knew what I was offering was mortal sin, but it didn’t feel wicked. Just as Violetta didn’t seem depraved in the opera, it didn’t feel depraved to promise myself to David. My love for him was so pure that I wanted to give him everything, even if I lost myself.

But I couldn’t look at him when I spoke those last words. It wasn’t shyness so much as a kind of awe. I was offering him everything.

There was a silence so long and hollow that I was afraid to raise my eyes. When I did, I saw he was shocked. “Janet, I couldn’t use you like that. It would be wrong.”

“I don’t believe it would be wrong if we loved each other,” I said, but my voice faltered, because the look on his face was so much the wrong look.

“You’re a darling girl,” David said, but he didn’t say it lovingly; he sounded worried. “You’re a darling girl, but I don’t — I’m not ready to be married, and when I do marry, I want to marry a girl of my own faith. For now, I want to be free. I want to paint, I want to see the world.”

“But so do I!” I exclaimed. “We could see the world together!” And as I spoke those words, I realized how much I wanted just that: David and freedom; love and the world. Being together in love, in Paris.
Paris.
“Oh, David, don’t you see? You’d still
be
free, because we wouldn’t be married. And nobody would blame you. They’d blame me, because they always blame the girl. I’d be the one taking the risk, and I don’t care about being depraved, because it doesn’t
feel
depraved, not when we’re in love —”

“But you ought to mind! You’re giving me permission to ruin you, don’t you understand? What about your reputation?”

“I don’t have any reputation,” I said recklessly. “I’m a hired girl. I don’t have any family to cast me off, and I don’t know anyone in Paris. And there’s no one in the world I love better than you.”

“It’s impossible.”