The Hired Girl(119)

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.