Threads and Flames (25 page)

Luciana nodded. “Old shop was bad. Bad boss, bad machines, everything bad.” Haltingly, she went on to tell her friends about the day that the air of her old shop had echoed with a sharp, metallic
snap,
then filled with a poor girl's shrieks of agony as she cupped a hand over her right eye, unable to hold back the bright trickle of blood.

It was a freak accident; sewing machine needles broke all the time under the stress of so much intense use. Who had the time to check for wear and tear during the height of the workday rush? And who wanted to ask the foreman for a new needle too quickly, especially when the cost came out of the worker's pay? So they ran the machines until something gave, when the needle splintered off and the shard went spinning. That time, the metal sliver found a target.

“Boss makes two other girls take her away to clinic, then yells at us, blames us for being careless. Later, the two come back, he says they are not paid for time they spend taking blind girl to clinic. He says in English, but someone repeat in Italian. It is too much. Some of us are so angry, we protest.” She spread her hands. “We are fired.”

“You will find another job, Luciana,” Raisa said. “Another job in a better shop.”

“I wish I could, too,” Zusa said. “This week, again my boss tries to cheat me. I would not let him. Maybe next week I lose my job for that, but I will have what is mine. I work for it, I—I
deserve
it. If I have to find another job, I can. I am a good worker; so are you.”

“A good worker,” Luciana mused. “Sometimes, my old boss, he pinches my cheek and says I am a good worker.”

“Another snake with hands,” Zusa muttered in Yiddish for Raisa's ears alone. To Luciana she said, “You do not like that, do you?”

“Who likes that? No one! He does it to other girls, too. Why must he touch me? He can say I am a good worker without the pinch, or sometimes a little slap on my—on the back of—” Luciana let out a small cry of frustration and anger. “No! I do
not
like it. I am such a good worker, I can get another job where the boss does
not
touch me. And I do! My cousin Nicola, she works at a good place, big, modern. She says they hire, so I go and they say yes! I start next week!” She accepted her friends' congratulations.

“If your new job is in such a big shop, maybe they could hire
all
of us,” Zusa suggested. “I would be happy to change shops. I am sick of fighting with my boss every payday. We could work together, go out together, go to English class together, like sisters!”

“
Especially
go to English classes!” Raisa put in.

“What is the shop name?” Zusa asked.

“It is Tri—” Luciana wrestled briefly with the pronunciation of the alien word. “Tri-an-gool Waists.”

“That's where I work!” Raisa exclaimed.

“Oho!” Zusa raised one eyebrow. “Not just you, Miss Professor. Are you forgetting about Gavrel?”

“Who is Gavrel?” Luciana asked.

“A young man,” Zusa said nonchalantly. “A
handsome
one—very smart, very sweet, like this.” She dabbed up a cake crumb with the tip of her index finger, popped it into her mouth, and made exaggerated signs of enjoyment.

“Zusa ...” There was a distinct warning in the way Raisa spoke her friend's name.

“I said nothing bad.” Zusa brushed off all responsibility for her words.

No, you didn't,
Raisa grudgingly admitted to herself.
But why do I still feel like slapping that cake crumb out of your mouth?

On Thanksgiving Day, Fruma's in-laws-to-be invited the entire Kamensky family to their home for dinner. Fruma assured Raisa and Brina that they were welcome at the Zalmans' table, too. Raisa could hardly hold back her excitement—her first real American Thanksgiving, just like in the stories they'd been studying in English class! Brina was equally thrilled. Raisa always shared her lessons, and was enormously proud of how quickly the child had learned to read words like
Pilgrims, Indians, turkey,
and even
Thanksgiving.

“What a good little scholar you are, Brina!” Raisa exclaimed after having the little girl read aloud for the family.

“What a good teacher she's got to thank for that.” Gavrel murmured his praise so softly that Raisa wasn't sure she'd heard it. But when she looked at him, he smiled at her as innocently as if he'd said nothing at all.

In spite of Fruma's assurances that Brina and Raisa counted as part of the Kamensky family, once they arrived at the Zalmans' home, the flinty expression on their hostess's face told a different story.

It was a very awkward meal. Everyone was dressed in their best outfits, as if for synagogue. Raisa kept Brina close beside her and watched over her like a hawk, fearful that the child would blurt something that might embarrass Fruma. Gavrel tried to break the ice with his usual good humor, but only Fruma's fiancé seemed to appreciate it. Without his usual copy of the
Forward
to hide behind, Mr. Kamensky looked as naked and gawky as a newly hatched chick. To keep himself distracted, he ate almost nonstop from the moment Morris's father said the blessing before meals until the only thing left in front of him was an empty coffee cup and a scattering of cake crumbs.

Fruma was marrying into a family for whom America really had turned out to be the Golden Land. Although Morris Zalman still worked in a garment factory, his mother made sure to let her guests know that her adored boy was on the point of completing the qualifications for his
true
career, and that when 1911 dawned, he would begin a new life as a druggist.

“
My
son is going to be a rabbi,” Mrs. Kamensky announced.

“Isn't that nice,” Mrs. Zalman said coolly. “When?”

“Soon.”

“Next month? No? In three months, then? Half a year? Nineteen eleven? Nineteen twelve? Nineteen—?”

“Nineteen fifty-two,” Gavrel cut in from his place between Raisa and his sister. “Anyone can become a rabbi, but
I
intend to start as the world's oldest!” He gave his hostess a smile so pleasant and unruffled that it was obvious he meant it to rile her.

“Isn't that nice,” Mrs. Zalman repeated, and she acted as if Gavrel were invisible for the rest of the evening.

Fruma's intended husband, Morris, was a slim, clean-cut man whose pale blue eyes squinted at the world through thick glasses. He spent most of the meal with his gaze fixed on Raisa, a quizzical look on his face. It was the sort of ongoing stare that made her feel more curious than uncomfortable:
Is there something on my face? Do I have food stuck between my teeth? Maybe it's my short hair. But it's not that short anymore, and I've seen a few of the factory girls who wear theirs like this.

As Mrs. Zalman rose to make a halfhearted offer of more coffee and Mrs. Kamensky leaped in with a too-eager reply that her family really
had
to be going, Morris finally snapped his fingers and announced, “
That's
who you look like!”

The abrupt declaration startled Raisa like a gunshot, but that was nothing compared with her reaction when Morris added, “My eyes are good for doing close work—any distance and I don't trust them, so it took me a while to be sure, but now I'm
positive.
You remind me of someone I know. Do you have any relatives in this country?”

“Relatives?” Raisa's voice trembled.
Merciful God, can it be? So many places I've gone, so many people I've asked, so many letters to Glukel, trying to keep up her spirits even when I've had to tell her I'm no closer to finding Henda than before, so much waiting, hoping . . .
“Yes, I do. One.”

“Aha! A cousin, a sister, maybe even a very young aunt? Because you are the
image
of a good friend of mine from when I worked at American Pride Ladies' Garments. We both lost our jobs after the general strike, but we tried to keep in—”

“Henda!” Raisa cried, jumping to her feet. “You know my sister, Henda!” Her face radiated hope.

“Henda, that's right,” Morris said. And with his next breath, he innocently crushed Raisa's heart. “You should have brought her, too. How is she? It's so long since I saw her, it's as if she fell off the face of the earth.”

Raisa dropped back into her chair as if she'd been shot. When she clutched her hands together under the table, they were ice cold.
Not again,
she thought.
Every time a door opens for me, it just leads to a brick wall. I can't give up. I mustn't give up but—oh, dear Lord, sometimes I'm so
tired
! So very, very tired.

She was only distantly aware of the sound of Gavrel's voice as he questioned Morris, whose answers were no more to her than the background noise of crowds and traffic that she heard every day. Someone called her name, but she didn't respond until a gentle hand closed on her shoulder and Fruma's voice roused her, saying, “Raisa. Raisa, Gavrel is talking to you.”

“Seven Arrows,”
Gavrel said with the air of someone who had been repeating the same information for some time. “Morris knows where Henda got a job after she left American Pride. The shop where Henda worked last is called the Seven Arrows Cloak and Suit Company.”

Morris nodded. “Yes, that's the name; I remember it well. It's one of the newer companies, farther uptown.”

“Do you realize what this means, Raisa?” Gavrel grabbed her hands and brought her to her feet. “Now that we know the last place Henda worked, we can discover if any of her coworkers there have any news about her! One of them might even know the name of that mysterious young man who took her away. And if we can find
him
—”

“We can find her.” Raisa dared to smile.

Without warning, Brina flung her arm around Morris's neck and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “You made Raisa happy. I'm
glad
you're marrying Fruma.”

“I'll tell you a secret,” Morris stage-whispered. “So am I.”

“Isn't that nice,” said his mother.

 

 

Mrs. Kamensky had a good deal to say about that Thanksgiving dinner party, and she said it all the way home. Almost every sentence began with “Morris is a good boy, a fine husband-to-be. I've got nothing against him,
but
—” and soon turned into a fresh list of grievances against Mrs. Zalman. Mr. Kamensky and Fruma walked beside her, a captive audience. Her husband had no choice, and her daughter felt honor-bound to put in the occasional good word for her fiancé's family. This only turned Mrs. Kamensky from grumbling about Mrs. Zalman to bemoaning the hell on earth that her poor little girl would endure as That Woman's daughter-in-law.

Raisa, Gavrel, and Brina began the walk home only a few paces behind the others, but the more they heard Mrs. Kamensky's litany of complaints, the greater that distance grew, until there was nearly half a city block between the two trios.

“Are you doing all right, princess?” Gavrel asked, looking down at Brina. “Tired? Want a ride home?”

“You
always
want to give me a ride home,” Brina said huffily. “I keep telling you, I'm
not
a baby.”

“Brina! That's no way to talk to Gavrel. He only wants to help you.”

“I don't
need
help,” Brina shot back.

“Then just say, ‘No thank you.' Someday you might want his help, but if you're rude to him now, he won't want to give it to you then.”

“Yes he will.” Brina was utterly positive. “He likes
me.
” She broke away from them and ran ahead to grab Mr. and Mrs. Kamensky by the hands, begging for a game of “one-two-three-
up
!” She whooped with excitement as they swung her high in the air at every fourth step, though the game didn't seem to stop Mrs. Kamensky from continuing to give her opinion of Fruma's future mother-in-law.

Raisa rolled her eyes. “I give up,” she said to Gavrel. “I want her to learn manners, but I guess I'm not a very good teacher.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Gavrel replied. “I've seen you sharing your English lessons with her. She picks up everything you teach her quickly and she remembers it.”

“That's because she's smart.”

He shook his head. “That's because you know how to make new things simple to understand. You don't just force her to repeat words like a little parrot; you help her see connections, the way one lesson relates to another, and you give her tricks for remembering the rules more easily. And you don't teach her only from books. Remember that Sunday morning I went with you two to the playground? Every game you played with her was a hidden English lesson!” He slipped his arm through hers. “She learns well because you teach well, Raisa.”