The Boston Girl(4)

The Saturday Club was different from all the other clubs. It was bigger—fifty girls instead of ten or twelve—and all the religions were together. They were older, too; some were in high school but a lot of them had jobs. They also held elections and ran their own meetings. I was only three or four years younger than most of them, but to me, they were practically grown-ups.

Miss Chevalier was at the door and sent me to sit in the front row while she waited for the professor. She said he should be there any moment, but five minutes passed and another five and another and I was getting more and more nervous. My hands were shaking when he finally got there. He looked so much like the pictures of Longfellow—with the white beard and long hair—it was as if he’d come back from the dead.

Rose Reardon, the club president, banged a gavel and made some announcements. I didn’t hear a word and Miss Chevalier had to tap me on the shoulder when it was time for me to go up to the platform. My knees were like rubber.

I had a lot to remember—and not just the words. Miss Chevalier had given me a lot of directions to “add to the drama.” This was the North End of Boston, where every schoolchild knew “The Midnight Ride” and we were all pretty sick of it.

Miss Chevalier gave me a big smile and a nod to start me off.

I remembered to begin as if I were a little out of breath, like I had a surprise to tell. Then I tried to make Paul Revere seem like a real person, tapping my foot to make it look like he was impatient to get going. I whispered about the graves being lonely and spectral and sombre and still, making it sound spooky. At the end, I went very, very slow.

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

The people will waken and listen to hear

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

I counted to three and bowed my head like Miss Chevalier showed me. There was a big round of applause and even a “Three cheers for Addie Baum.” Miss Chevalier put her arm around me and introduced me to the professor, who said I’d done the Great Man proud.

Then he gave his talk. And, boy, did he talk. It was not only long but also so boring it was like listening to a clock tick. Girls started yawning and looking at their fingernails and even Miss Chevalier had to pretend she was paying attention. When he stopped to blow his nose, she stood up and clapped as if he were finished. Everyone else clapped, too, but I think it was to thank Miss Chevalier for rescuing us.

After the lecture, I was the belle of the ball. Girls I didn’t know came over to say what a good job I’d done and ask where I worked and did I want another cup of punch or a cookie.

Miss Chevalier introduced me to Miss Green, the artist who ran a pottery studio in the settlement house. The two of them lived in an apartment on the top floor. They had the same first name so everyone called them the Ediths.

They were about the same height, but Miss Green looked like a sparrow compared to Miss Chevalier, who was more of a pigeon. Miss Green tilted her head the way a bird would, and looked me over with round, bright bird eyes.

“Miss Chevalier has told me so much about you,” she said. “I hope she’s talked to you about going to Rockport Lodge this summer. It’s just the thing for a girl like you.”

Miss Chevalier explained that Rockport Lodge was an inn for young ladies in a seaside town north of Boston. She said it wasn’t expensive and some members of the Saturday Club went regularly.

Miss Green said, “You must know that the Frommer girls have been there a few times.”

I guess she thought that all the Jewish girls knew each other, but I only met Helen and Gussie Frommer that night. Helen was the older one, a real peaches-and-cream beauty. That could have been hard for Gussie, who had a big nose and a mousy complexion, but you never saw two sisters who looked out for each other like those two.

Helen was sweet, but Gussie had the big personality; she walked me around the room and introduced me to just about everyone. When we got to Rose Reardon, she said, “Madame President, don’t you think Addie should join the Saturday Club? Miss Chevalier brought her, so you know she’ll be all for it.”

Rose said, “Of course you should join!” She was a healthy girl with auburn hair and pretty green eyes and a gap between her two front teeth. People used to call her kind of a face “a map of Ireland.”

“You should come to Rockport Lodge, too,” she said. “In the evenings we do skits and sing songs and some of the girls read poems—right up your alley. And we don’t go hungry.” She patted her stomach. “Three meals a day and cake at supper.”

I was having such a good time, it was hard to think about going home, and I was one of the last ones to leave. I walked outside with Filomena Gallinelli, who said that she couldn’t imagine standing in front of so many people the way I did. “You looked like you were enjoying it.”

“I was terrified,” I said.

“Then you must be a great actress.”

I had seen Filomena around the settlement house and thought she was gorgeous; dark eyes, dark hair, olive skin—a real Italian. She wore her hair in a long braid over her shoulder, which was completely out of fashion, but she could get away with it, not only because it looked good on her but also because she was an artist. Filomena was one of a few girls who had full-time jobs in the Salem Street pottery studio. She was Miss Green’s favorite and nobody minded because she was so talented.