The Hired Girl(36)

That pleased her. I could tell because her mouth tightened and she bent over the cat to hide her face. “The last girl was Irish. Would she get her hands dirty?” She gave me one of those piercing looks as if she expected an answer. “All she wanted was money to waste on cheap finery.”

“I wish I had some finery,” I said. I hadn’t meant to say it. The words just slipped out.

“Not cheap finery,” Malka argued. “You wouldn’t want that.”

“I can’t afford the expensive kind,” I pointed out, and I saw her mouth twitch. I pinched my skirt between my thumb and forefinger, inviting her to admire the blurred flowers on my horrible dress. I clowned a little, rising on tiptoe and twirling like a ballet dancer.

She uttered a musty sound, something between a guffaw and a snort. She couldn’t fool me. It was a laugh; I’d made her laugh. I pressed my advantage. “Will you teach me how to do kashrut?” I coaxed. “Miss Chandler — my old teacher — said I could learn just about anything, if I set my mind to it. I’d work hard to please you. I need a place, and I think this one will suit me just fine.”

The idea of teaching me wiped the smile from her face. “I can try to teach you,” she said as if it was a threat, “but it’ll be up to you to learn.” And she glowered at me, but it was that smack-her-lips kind of glower, as if her pessimism was as tasty as her fried fish.





Friday, July the seventh, 1911

Today was Shabbos — or getting ready for it — and now I know why Malka was so tired last Saturday night, because preparing for Shabbos is hard work. No one is supposed to work on Shabbos (which isn’t on Sunday at all), but you have to work like a horse to get ready for it. The food for Shabbos has to be especially good and plentiful. So all the cooking for Friday supper and Saturday breakfast and Saturday lunch has to be done by Friday before sundown, with the food stored away in refrigerators or warming ovens.

And the house has to be spotlessly clean. Malka and I were on our feet all day, dusting and sweeping and ironing the table linens, polishing the glasses and the silver, only Malka won’t let me touch the Shabbos candlesticks. They came from Germany, from the days when Mr. Rosenbach was poor. Even though they’re plainer than the other silver, they’re precious, because they’ve been in the family so long. I asked Malka if she was afraid I’d steal them. She said I was so rough I’d rub the pattern off.

I think that was meant to vex me, but I laughed as if she’d said something very witty, and a pinched little smile came over her face. She gave me the glasses to polish, first with whiting and leather, and then with a silk handkerchief. I rubbed them until they sparkled. Then there was the cooking — grating apples for pudding, and chopping onions, salting the beef, and making noodles for frimsel soup. She had me pluck the fowls and dress them, and she showed me how to make fish balls with lemon sauce, which will be eaten cold tomorrow.

She kneaded the bread and made me watch while she braided it. Then she made cucumber salad while I beat the eggs for sponge cake. Sponge cake is a cake without butter or milk, so it’s good for kashrut. It’s all eggs, but you have to beat them a full half hour. I beat them until my arms ached, but then Malka said I’d overbeaten them, and I had to go to the market on Whitelock Street to buy more. I hated the thought of those good eggs going to waste, and I set Malka off on a tirade by saying that we ought to keep a pig. It seems that pigs are very bad for kashrut.

But visiting the market was the best part of the day. I’ve been indoors all week, mostly down in the kitchen. Going to the market by myself felt like having an adventure. Malka told me not to dawdle, and I didn’t, but I looked.

The worst part of the day was when dinner was almost ready. Malka told me there was just time for me to run upstairs and change my dress. Everyone is supposed to wear their nicest things for Shabbos, but I don’t have any nice things. I’ve worn my chocolate-brown twill ever since I came here. At night I wash out the parts where I’ve perspired and hang it by the window to dry.

I had to tell Malka that I didn’t have another dress. That isn’t really true, but I can’t wear the dress I left home in, because it’s so short and childish looking. I wish I hadn’t told everyone I’m eighteen, because if I’d said I was fifteen, maybe even sixteen, I might have been able to get away with it. But no girl of eighteen would show so much leg, and if the Rosenbachs saw me wearing it, they’d know that I lied about my age.