The Hired Girl(49)

I must say she was wearing the most beautiful dressing gown. It’s what they call a kimono, olive green, with pale-pink blossoms on it, hand embroidered, I think, though I didn’t get a close look. And I realized that Malka and I must have awakened her, and she wasn’t pleased. She said, “Be quiet, both of you!” and I saw her take in the water on the floor and the soaking bed and the charred place on the quilt. The smell of burned hair was very strong. I started trying to tell her what had happened and how it wasn’t my fault. But the minute I opened my mouth, Malka started pointing at the wall and saying that if I wouldn’t take the crucifix down, she’d send me packing.

Then Mrs. Rosenbach lost her temper and said it wasn’t for Malka to say whether I should stay or go. Malka burst into tears and started off on all the years she’d served that family and how she would have shed her last drop of blood for any of them, but now a shiksa who set the house on fire was raised above her. And I said I wasn’t a shiksa. I’m not sure what it is, but it sounds like something awful. And I said I hadn’t set the house on fire, either, just my hair and a little bit of the quilt.

Mrs. Rosenbach told us to be quiet again. She thrust her hands into her hair, pressing her palms against her temples, as if she had a splitting headache. What I’ve caught on to is that Malka gets on her nerves something terrible. I shut up when she told me to, but Malka kept carrying on until she ran out of pitiful things to say. When at last she stopped, Mrs. Rosenbach told her in an icy voice to go back to bed.

Of course Malka didn’t, because she wanted to see what was going to happen to me. “Janet,” Mrs. Rosenbach said sharply — I jumped because I’d forgotten my name was Janet —“will you be able to sleep on a wet mattress?”

I said I would. By that time, I’d realized how much trouble I was in, and I was abject; I probably sounded like there was nothing in the world I’d like more than to sleep on a wet mattress. I told her I was terribly sorry that the book was ruined, and I promised to buy her another one out of my wages.

“Take the wet things downstairs,” said Mrs. Rosenbach, “and hang them in the kitchen to dry. You may get dry sheets out of the linen closet.”

I said “Yes, ma’am,” and got down on my knees so I could clean up the mess. But Malka started off again, complaining about my crucifix. Mrs. Rosenbach looked at it and there was a look of distaste on her face, as if my crucifix was treif. She said she’d talk to Mr. Rosenbach about it tomorrow, but for now we had best go to bed. Then she left. Malka left, too — but in a more forceful way. I wish I’d thought to tell her I was sorry, because that would have been a good time to say it. But I wasn’t sorry.

I mopped up the floor with the ruined quilt and took it downstairs and hung it up. I was shivering, because my nightgown was wet, and I have only the one, so I couldn’t change out of it. By and by the wet part took the warmth from my body. It’s still wet, though, and feels very disagreeable.

I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow, when Mr. Rosenbach scolds me. Before, I had Malka on my side. If I can’t get along with Malka, I’ll be like the other servants who were sent away. And where will I find another job? I don’t think Mrs. Rosenbach can write me a good character because I set the bedclothes on fire. Only it was an accident — I didn’t do it for my health. Though that is a slangy, disrespectful way of putting it, and I must be careful not to say that to Mr. Rosenbach.

I don’t see why I can’t have Ma’s crucifix on the wall. I believe I’m being persecuted. Jesus said that people who were persecuted in His Name would be blessed. So maybe I should leave the crucifix up and go on being persecuted. But if I take it down, Malka might forgive me and plead for me with Mr. Rosenbach. I’m sure her little Moritz would listen to her.

Maybe that thought is a temptation. Perhaps I ought to pray and ask God what to do.

I just prayed for a long time.

I think God must want me to go to sleep.



Tuesday, July the eighteenth, 1911

I wish Mr. Rosenbach was my father. It feels wicked to covet someone else’s father, but how can I help it? I never wanted anyone but Ma to be my mother, but Mr. Rosenbach is ever so much kinder than Father.

I was nervous this morning. Malka was sulking — ominously silent is the phrase they would use in a novel. She told me that Mrs. Rosenbach was having her bridge ladies today instead of Wednesday, so I couldn’t have the afternoon off. I didn’t dare complain, because I was afraid of being sent away.