Threads and Flames (13 page)

Wait until I tell . . .
Raisa's momentary happiness was gone. “Oh, merciful one,” Raisa breathed. “I have to tell Glukel about Henda. How can I do that? What can I say?” She buried her face in her hands.

She heard the toilet door open and felt a now-familiar touch on her arm. “You're sad again?” Brina, too, looked ready to cry.

Raisa knelt before her. “No, sweetness, I'm only tired. We did a lot yesterday, and I'm afraid we have to do more today. But it's nothing for you to worry about. I'll take care of you.”

Brina lifted her chin and looked determined. “And
I'll
take care of
you,
” she declared.

“Then we're going to be all right,” Raisa said, laughing in spite of herself.

By the time they returned to the apartment, Bayleh was up and had a coffeepot steaming on the stove. The children and the three boarders were also awake and ready for the day's labors, their bedding out of sight. One of the sewing machines in the front room was already rattling away; Mottel wasn't waiting for his breakfast to be ready before he got back to work.

As she and Brina drank strong coffee and ate bread spread with salty chicken fat, Raisa watched Mottel run the sewing machine. It was fascinating. The cloth flew under the rapidly bobbing needle; long seams were stitched in next to no time. Almost without meaning to, Raisa drifted nearer and nearer until she was hanging so close to Mottel that he became aware of her presence.

“What
is
it?” he said testily. “Haven't you ever seen a sewing machine this old before? It's a piece of junk, but I'm just starting out in the business. These machines were the best I could afford.”

“I think it's wonderful,” Raisa said with sincerity. “The woman who raised me is a seamstress, but all we had to work with were needles and thread. I'd love to learn how to use something like this!”

“Oh.” Mottel looked sheepish. “Well, like I said, it's not much. I have to run it by pumping the treadle.” He pushed his chair back and showed her the seesawing foot plate underneath that powered the machine. “In the big shops—the real garment factories—the machines run on electricity.”

“Your sister worked in one of those shops,” Bayleh put in. “The American Pride Ladies' Garment Company, I think. But then came the big strike about a year ago. Henda walked off the job with all the others, and I don't blame any of them. The bosses treated them worse than dogs, paid them miserable wages, but that wasn't all. Believe me, there wasn't a single dirty, underhanded trick those
momzers
didn't use to try to cheat the girls out of their pay!”

“Bayleh, for heaven's sake, watch your tongue!” Mottel said, clearly scandalized to hear his wife use a word like
momzers,
even if the people in question did deserve to be called bastards.

“Then tell me I'm wrong!” she challenged. “My darling Mottel, your problem is you're too good-hearted, and God be thanked for that! I couldn't live under your roof another minute if you were one of those slave drivers who finds a way to bleed his workers out of a penny here, a penny there.”

“That's the truth!” The presser with the deformed arm spoke up. “Before I came to work for you, I was stuck in a real sweatshop. I never once collected a full week's wages. The boss was always charging us for this and for that—for the fuel to heat the irons, for breaking a button that was never broken, for the coal in winter and the open windows in summer. And
then
there were the fines if we were too late, too early, too slow, too fast, too alive, too dead, you name it! Always making our pay sweat off a little here, a little there, until a man couldn't live on what he took home. Not like here.” He grinned at Mottel.

“American Pride Ladies' Garment ...” Raisa repeated the foreign name of her sister's company slowly, wanting to be certain she'd remember it. “Is it near here? Maybe someone who worked with Henda knows where she is now. And if they don't, they might know the name of the man who took her away, or—”

“Going there won't help you,” Bayleh said, shaking her head sadly. “After the big strike ended, your sister couldn't get her old job back, and after all she'd gone through on the picket lines! Almost four months that strike lasted, and through the worst of winter, from November until February, no less! Hard times, such hard times for those poor girls, and it was sinful the way the bosses tried to force them back to work. They hired strong-arm men to bully and beat up the men, and for the girls they hired prostitu—” A warning glance from her husband made Bayleh bite back the word and instead say, “—vulgar, foulmouthed women to attack them. And the police were all bribed to look the other way. They were so deep in the factory owners' pockets, they could count their change for them.”

“My brother says you can find the Messiah sooner than an honest cop in this city,” the other sewing machine operator cut in.

Bayleh went on. “Mrs. Levi told how one day your sister came home with a black eye, but she was smiling. She said she grabbed the woman who gave it to her and paid her back double! Then she ran all the way home, because the police were always on the lookout for an excuse to arrest the strikers for ‘disorderly conduct.' The next morning she was right back on the picket line.”

“
My
sister punched another woman in the eye?” Raisa was flabbergasted.

“Both eyes.” Bayleh corrected her with as much satisfaction as if she, not Henda, had been the warrior. “She showed them that they couldn't push her around.”

Incredible,
Raisa thought.
That's not the same Henda who ran away from home because she couldn't stand up to Nathan.
She was still deeply worried about her sister's fate, but she also felt a surge of pride for the fighter Henda had become.

“But they
could
push her out of a job,” Mottel said. “When everyone went back to work, her bosses at American came up with an excuse for getting rid of the girls who'd made the most trouble before and during the strike. No one made a big stink about that, not even the union, because it wasn't worth saving a few jobs when so many people had just gone four months without pay.”

“But she
did
get another job,” Raisa said. “She must have.”

“You're right, she did,” Bayleh said. “But where . . . we don't know.”

“Go ask the Levis,” Mottel suggested. “She was their boarder. They ought to know.”

“I'll do that,” Raisa said. “And I can't thank you enough for all you've done for Brina and me. I promise that as soon as I've talked to the Levis, we'll pick up our bags and be out of your way.”

“Just like that?” Bayleh planted her hands on her hips and looked stern.

“Uh . . . yes?” Raisa was completely confused.

The housewife shook her head decisively. “Then you'll be a wrung-out dishrag by tomorrow night. You listen to me, young woman. You came here expecting to find your sister. You were depending on moving in with her. Since she's no longer here, do you have even the
faintest
idea of where you'll live now, you and that infant?” She made a sweeping gesture at Brina. “If we had the room, you could board with us, but at least we can let you leave your bags here while you look for another place to stay. It won't take you long, believe me. There are more than enough families in this area who would be ecstatic to have such nice, respectful girls for boarders. Why, you might as well start by asking the Levis if they have room! Go, go! The little one can stay here and help me with cleaning up.” She smiled down at Brina. “You can do that, can't you, sweetheart?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Brina said, nodding. “I can wash dishes. I don't break them. And I can sweep the floor.”

“What a treasure, and with such an old head on her shoulders!” Impulsively, Bayleh picked up the little girl and swung her around while her own children watched and giggled. The youngest sidled up to Raisa and tapped her arm before holding out a piece of cloth.

“My kerchief!” Raisa exclaimed gladly, tying it over her hair.

“I told you my little birds would get it back for you,” Bayleh said, setting Brina down again. “Now, come with me.”

The Levis' apartment was on the same floor as Bayleh's, but at the back of the building. The young housewife knocked loudly on the door until a frail, silver-haired woman opened it. “Mrs. Levi, this is Henda's sister, Raisa, just off the boat. She has to talk to you.” That was all the introduction Bayleh provided before striding purposefully back into her own apartment.

“Henda?” Old Mrs. Levi stared at Raisa through thick, chipped eyeglasses. “About time. You owe me rent money. You're lucky my son didn't let me sell your things. Come in, come in.” She shuffled into the dim apartment.

Raisa followed her uneasily. The place seemed smaller than Bayleh's home, and was definitely darker and more cluttered. A little daylight seeped in through a lone window facing the back of another tenement, and by its light a man in shirtsleeves bent over an open book, the pen in his hand scribbling swiftly on the pages. He didn't look pleased to see Mrs. Levi come in with Raisa.

“
Now
what, Mother?” he snarled. “Let me guess, you think
this
one's Sadie, too. When are you going to stop dragging one girl after another into my home, claiming you found her? Sadie is
dead,
Mother. She died from polio the year we got here. I take you to visit her grave all the time.” He shot a venomous look at Raisa. “I don't know who you are or where she found you, but if you're hoping to leech anything off of my family, you can save yourself the trouble and get out now.”

Raisa stood tall. “The only thing I want from you is the name of the factory where my sister Henda was working before she left this place.”

“Your sister?” The man stood up from the table and came closer. He studied her face with as much concentration as if he expected to find a treasure map in her eyes. “
You're
her sister? But she was beautiful!”

Raisa swallowed a sharp retort.

“We're sisters all the same,” she replied mildly. “She was always sending money home so that I could join her over here. I just arrived yesterday, except they tell me she's been gone for weeks.”

“More like months,” the man said. “She ran off with some slick-looking—”

“I know all about that, thank you,” Raisa interrupted, not wanting to risk hearing anything that would make her lose her temper again. “What I
need
to know is the name of the place she was working just before she . . . ran off.”

“That? The American Pride Ladies' Garment Company.”

“No, I mean the place she got a job
after
the big strike,” Raisa said.

The man looked amused. “You know about the strike, little greenhorn? Are you sure you just got off the boat yesterday?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I should know this, but . . . well, to tell you the truth, when your sister got a new job, I was so relieved to have her start paying the rent again that I didn't care where the money came from. It happened right about the same time that I got married, and then I had some aggravation down at my dry-goods store, and
then
my cousin Yichel died the week before his wife and kids were due to show up in this country. Little girl, you shouldn't know from such troubles!”

“So you don't know where Henda was working?”

He threw up his hands. “You can ask Mother if she remembers, but don't get your hopes up. On the other hand, who knows? She loved your sister even when she wasn't positive Henda was actually poor Sadie, come back from the dead. You might catch her in a lucky hour. Mother! Mother, come in here!”

Raisa tried asking Mrs. Levi about Henda's last job, but the woman's son was right: it was a fruitless endeavor. The old woman was cheerful as a happy child, her mind wandering freely. Henda was Sadie, Sadie was Raisa, Raisa was Mrs. Levi's sister, cousin, aunt, and finally Henda again.

“Where have you been, dear?” she asked, squinting through her thick lenses. “We've been very worried about you. Have you come back for your things? I kept them under my bed, so they're safe, but I'm afraid you'll have to take them and go. Now we have my new daughter-in-law living with us, along with poor Yichel's family, and that's not counting the boy who helps at the dry-goods store. Thank God all of Yichel's children are old enough to work, or I don't know how we'd manage! And you, Henda? Where are you working now?”

Raisa reassured Mrs. Levi that she had a decent job and a new place to live, then accepted Henda's abandoned belongings, all of which fit into a single leather traveling bag. Raisa carried it back to Bayleh's place, so deeply discouraged that she felt as if someone had put iron shoes on her feet. Inside the apartment, Mottel and the other men were working diligently. The presser shared the kitchen with Bayleh, who was making dough in a huge wooden bowl, being careful not to let any of the flour reach the garments. Brina wielded a broom twice her size, sweeping up dust, thread, and scraps of cloth. The three children were nowhere to be seen.

“So, anything?” Bayleh asked when she caught sight of Raisa.

Raisa shrugged and dropped Henda's bag. “Only this. But maybe there's something in here that might help me.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. A picture, a letter,
something.
” She knelt, opened the bag, and searched the contents. It didn't take long. “Nothing,” she said sadly, raising her eyes to Bayleh. “Only her clothes and some letters from home.”