The Museum of Extraordinary Things(106)

I spin in the evenings, and I often dye the yarn with madder root, the very herb you used to heal me when I was in need of help. All of the yarn I sell is red and I do quite well. I have even garnered a small amount of fame. People say my yarn is the color of roses. As it turned out, I have a talent for knitting. My hands, hidden for so long, are more agile than most. I have never worn gloves again. Even in the depths of winter I prefer to have my hands free. The sweaters and scarves I stitch are sold in Manhattan, at shops on Fifth Avenue. I wait for my husband on the days he brings my work into the city, the knit work wrapped in brown paper and string. I stand at the crossroads of our village where there is an elm growing that is said to be one of the oldest trees in New York. The Lenape people met here as dusk bloomed, so they might climb as far as they could into the sky and in doing so be closer to the Milky Way, the path to heaven and to those they had loved and lost. Some evenings there are dozens of starlings perched on the branches of the elm tree. When I see them, I think of our liveryman, who had more troubles with the law, but has now gone off to fight in the war overseas and is said to be a hero. I think that people can surprise you in so many ways, both with cruelty and with kindness.

I stand at the crossroads until the dark sifts down between the leaves. My husband often brings back the most unusual items from the city. A present from the milliner’s shop on Twenty-third Street, where you bought your green felt hat. A book of his photographs, published in a beautiful edition. A wedding gift to us from his father, a fragile, old quilt that carries the scent of grass. Once, most surprisingly of all, he arrived from the city with two black dogs, haughty-looking beasts with matching haircuts that now love to roll in mud and run through the meadows with Mitts.

Every time I meet my husband beneath that tree, I insist we walk home slowly. It’s my way of making each day last a little longer.

It was an ordinary life I wished for, and that is what I have. Each time I swim in the river I am driven forward when I imagine my front door, the windows facing east and north, the dogs on the porch, my husband at his work, recording the beauty of the trees in the woods so that no one will forget them. I still have the portrait he made of you in our garden. It is the only thing I saved from that time.

I pray that one day we meet again so that I can properly thank you, for no one could have asked for a kinder, more devoted friend. I hope you know I was always loyal to you. I am loyal to you still. I do not know, and I may never know, if you are my mother, but, as I could wish for no better woman to have brought me into the world, I will consider you to be so. You are the one who taught me that love was never what we expected it to be and that it was all we needed. For that, and for a thousand other things, I send my gratitude.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



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There are some years when everything seems to change all at once. 1911 is such a year. I have tried to do justice to this time and to New York City. Although I grew up on Long Island, I spent a great deal of my childhood in Brooklyn and in Chelsea and have lived in Chelsea on and off for most of my adult life. I have lived elsewhere, but at all times I have seen New York for what it is, a wonder of the world.

This book is dedicated to my grandfathers, Michael Hoffman and Chaim Klurfeld. One began his working life in a pie factory at the age of twelve, then became one of the first electricians to light up Brooklyn, before going on to help bring modern Chelsea to life during and after the Depression. The other was a union man, a member of the ILGWU and the Workmen’s Circle who was dedicated to the rights of working men and women. His writings, some of which were published in the newspaper the Forward, focused on the labor movement and on his childhood in Poland. Much like my character Eddie, my grandfather’s political conversion began in a single afternoon when he heard the factory owner’s children playing—in his case, swimming in a lake on a hot summer day beside the factory where he worked twelve-hour days at the age of eight.

I have tried to present the two fires that frame this book—the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire and the Dreamland Fire—as best I could within a historical context while using imaginary lives and fates. Characters who are based on real people, including Monk Eastman, the gangster, and Abraham Hochman, the Jewish mystic, are real enough, and therefore their characters mirror the facts as closely as possible, but they, too, have been viewed through the glass of my imaginings.

A special thanks to Rob Linne from the Adelphi University School of Education, who first suggested I write an article commemorating the anniversary of the Triangle Fire. In doing the research for the piece, published in the Los Angeles Times, I was also beginning this novel and reconnecting with my own personal history as a New Yorker.

Although any historical errors are my own, I extend my deepest gratitude to the experts who were kind enough to read the manuscript and offer their comments. Many thanks to Suzanne Wasserman, historian, filmmaker, and director of the Gotham Center at the City College of New York for her support, her insights, and her knowledge about the Lower East Side. My gratitude to Annelise Orleck, author and professor of history at Dartmouth College, who took the time to carefully read the novel and offer suggestions and whose specialties in women’s history, political history, Jewish history, and the history of American radicalism made her comments invaluable. Last, my heartfelt thanks to Charles Denson, author and executive director of the Coney Island History Project for his thoughtful reading of the manuscript. As a great fan of his writings and the work he has done on behalf of Coney Island, I was honored to count him among my early readers.