The Hired Girl(38)

However, since I had the morning off, I thought I’d better take it. I put on my hat and gloves and went out. Malka said there was a Catholic church nearby, and she told me where it was but I got lost. The streets were so hot my head ached, and the sight of families in their Sunday clothes made me feel lonesome and sour and envious.

I tried to work out whether I could tell Mrs. Rosenbach that I wanted a different day off, and how I could bring up the question of my salary. Thinking about it got me worried, because in Ivanhoe the Jews have a lot of money, but they’re very close with it, though Rebecca isn’t, of course. Sir Walter Scott says that the Jews have a great love of gain. I began to worry that Mrs. Rosenbach might not give me any money. It would be a sneaking, stingy thing to do, to make a poor girl work all week and then not give her any wages.

I can’t think — I don’t want to think — the Rosenbachs are like that. Mr. Solomon was very good to me, and anyone can see that Mrs. Rosenbach is a real lady. And Malka’s not stingy. There are little money boxes all over the house, charities for the poor Jews and immigrants and orphans. Malka’s always putting coins in them. But then, it isn’t Malka who’ll be paying my salary.

I soon grew tired of walking in the heat, so I came back to Eutaw Place. Malka had passed the morning making a big kugel (which is a kind of noodle pudding) for Sunday dinner. I could tell she was proud of it, so I said it looked beautiful, but I secretly hoped I wouldn’t have to eat any, because it was full of raisins and I hate raisins, always have. Of course she spooned a big helping onto my plate, and I had to worry it down. She saw that I wasn’t eating very fast, and I had to confess that I didn’t like raisins. I was careful to say how delicious the kugel was; it was only the raisins that I didn’t like.

But that wasn’t good enough. Touchy old Malka was offended and said that raisins were a treat, and who did I think I was, to turn up my nose at them? Then I had to listen to a long story about when she was a little girl, when her Mama — only, she pronounces it Mah-meh — would give her a handful of raisins on Shabbos as a special treat. I had to hear about what a good girl she was, not spoiled, like young people today. Before I’d heard the end of that, Mrs. Rosenbach came down to the kitchen to tell Malka that she was going out and to remind her that she’s having her bridge ladies for luncheon on Wednesday. She said she wanted Malka to serve oyster patties.

Then Malka just about threw a fit, because oysters are treif. She said that over her dead body would oyster patties be cooked in her kitchen (which made a very strange picture come into my mind). Then Mrs. Rosenbach turned steely and said that it wasn’t Malka’s kitchen at all, but hers. I suppose that was her way of reminding Malka that she (Malka) is only a servant, and that if she (Mrs. Rosenbach) wanted oyster patties, then she (Malka) would have to cook them. Then Mrs. Rosenbach swept out of the room and Malka dissolved in tears. The whole time we were cleaning up the kitchen, she was sniffing and muttering. I tried to sympathize, but she was still angry with me about the kugel. Somehow, because I hadn’t eaten the raisins, I was on the same side as Mrs. Rosenbach, wanting to serve treif in a good Jewish home.

Presently I gave up trying to mollify her and just mopped the floor. After I finished, Malka said that since the family was going out, I could go upstairs and lie down. (Earlier I’d told her what was the matter with me. I had to tell her because of the laundry.) She added in a tremulous voice that no doubt I was tired of listening to her.

Well, as a matter of fact, I was. But of course I didn’t say so. I thanked her and went upstairs. I had no notion of going to my room, though — the attic is hot as blazes in the afternoon. I headed straight for the library.

I’ve been cleaning the library all week, but Malka’s always been at my side, so I haven’t been able to snatch more than a peek at the books. I declare, I’m starved for the sight of print. Most of the books are in glass cases, but the books I wanted to examine are too big to fit in a case. The covers are brown and maroon leather, stamped with gold, and the title of the volumes is The Picturesque World. When Malka’s back was turned, I opened the front cover — the inside cover was watered silk — and looked at the title page.

It’s a book about all the beautiful places in the world: cathedrals and grottoes and palaces and parks. There are more than a thousand pictures, and the writing has Authentic and Original Descriptions by the Best Authors. It says so right on the title page. I knew that reading that book would take me into another world — the real world, not the ordinary world of washing the dishes and mopping the floor. It would be like what Keats said about gazing through a magic casement into faery lands forlorn.