The Hired Girl(52)

I thought of eating humble pie before Malka, and I winced a little, but only a little. I was still so happy about the books. And the truth is, I’m not a very proud girl. Heroines in novels are proud, but for a hired girl, it isn’t convenient.

So I nodded and stood up. “I’ll go and tell her I’m sorry,” I promised. Then an uneasy thought came to me. “But they weren’t true, were they? The things she said?”

He answered slowly, “In America, no.”

He has a special way of saying those words, America and American. It’s as if each syllable is precious. He lifted one hand in command, so I sat back down. He pulled up a chair and leaned forward. I knew that he was going to entrust me with something important.

“You must understand that Malka is a child of the Old Country. She was born in Germany in the eighteen forties. When she was a child, she knew what it was to have other children call her a dirty Jew, to spit on her, to throw stones. She never knew her grandfather, who was killed in the riots in Frankfurt. He was beaten to death with a shovel. Malka’s grandmother saw it happen and told her the story. Such stories take root in a child’s mind.”

I understood that. I remember how sad stories haunted me when I was a little thing. One of the boys at school lost a finger chopping wood, and at night I couldn’t go to sleep for thinking about the pain and the blood.

“So when Malka sees a crucifix, she remembers how Christians have tormented the Jews.”

I protested. “But the rioters who killed Malka’s grandfather — they weren’t Christian, were they? I mean, they were criminals. Weren’t they?”

He looked as if he was sorry for me. “They were Christian men. I don’t mean to suggest that all Christians are like that. But Christian persecution has gone on for centuries. And those who have burned and tortured and oppressed us have done so in Christ’s name.”

“But that was long ago!”

“Not so long ago,” Mr. Rosenbach corrected me. “It’s hard for you to understand, because you’ve grown up in America, and America is truly the Promised Land. Even here, there is bigotry, but there are laws to protect us. Outside America, there are pogroms — massacres. Six years ago, in Kishinev, more than a hundred Jews were killed by an angry mob. The police did not interfere, and the murderers were never punished. The streets were piled high with our dead; even Jewish babies were torn to pieces.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t tell you these things to hurt you. I say them because they are true.”

“But those people in Kishinev —” I faltered. The truth is, I’ve never even heard of Kishinev. I have no idea where it is. “Were they Christians? Were they Catholic?”

“The mob was led by priests,” said Mr. Rosenbach. “Not Roman Catholic priests this time, but Orthodox priests: men of God, chanting, ‘Kill the Jews.’ It was the day after Easter. Good Friday and Easter have always been the most dangerous times for us. We Jews are called Christ-killers, though if you read your Bible, you will discover that Jesus was Himself a Jew, and that it was the Romans who put Him to death.”

I felt sick. I had such horrible pictures in my mind: the mobs in the street, the corpses, and Christian priests killing little babies. I felt my eyes get hot, and I was filled with shame. I didn’t want to cry. I’m supposed to be eighteen. I blurted out, “I don’t see why nobody likes the Jews.”

“I, too, have wondered about this,” said Mr. Rosenbach, with a wry grimace that helped me recover myself.

“My teacher, Miss Chandler, took the newspaper. She used to tell us about things that were going on in the world. But she never told us the Jews were being killed.”

“May I ask if Miss Chandler was a Jew?”

“Of course not,” I said. Miss Chandler a Jew! “Nobody’s a Jew where I come from. The only Jews I knew were Isaac and Rebecca, in Ivanhoe. And —” I stopped.

“And?” Mr. Rosenbach said, so encouragingly that I had to go on.

“And Fagin, in Oliver Twist.”

“Ah, Fagin.” Mr. Rosenbach leaped up and went to one of the bookcases. He stared through the glass doors at the scarlet-bound set of Dickens. “Well, Dickens was a master. When a great writer sets out to create a monster, he creates a great monster. I suppose there are people who hate my race all the more because of Fagin. But Fagin is a bad Jew, because he eats sausages, which are treif. And in a later book, Dickens repented of his anti-Semitism and wrote about a good Jew. . . .” He sighed. “Though the good Jew, Riah, is not as memorable as Fagin.”