The Hired Girl(56)

At any rate, it seems that some treif — like oyster patties — is less treif-y than other treif, and pork chops are completely treif and repulsive to both Malka and Mrs. R. I am calling her Mrs. R. because she hurt my feelings and I begrudge her the dignity of her full name. She was very cool and superior. She began by saying that if I wanted to be a good servant, I must learn not to put myself forward so much. And I mustn’t interrupt.

I said, “I’m sorry, ma’am,” but that wasn’t the end of it, because she said she’d been meaning to speak to me. She was pleased by my efforts to improve my personal appearance, and she hoped I would take equal pains with my deportment. It seems that my deportment does not please her. She says I walk with too much bounce, and my strides are too long, and I shouldn’t swing my hands. She wants me to keep my hands hanging limp at my sides when I walk — not stiff, you understand, but relaxed. And she wants me to talk in a softer voice, more subdued. Especially when there are guests.

I could feel my cheeks burning. It was like the day Miss Lang spoke to me about not being fresh in my person. I felt ashamed, even though I haven’t failed in any of my duties. When you’ve done something wrong, you expect to be scolded, though you dread it, and you feel sore afterward. But if you’ve done your best, and someone rebukes you, it’s worse. I thought Mrs. Rosenbach liked me. But now I see she’s like the girls at school and thinks of me as a big, clumsy ox.

While I was still reeling from her insults, she said that Mr. Rosenbach had invited me to join the family for Shabbos dinner this week. He told her I’d been asking questions about Judaism, so he wanted me to be present. It took some of the blush from my cheek to know that Mr. Rosenbach still likes me.

On the way down to the kitchen, I started to cry. I couldn’t help it; I think it was partly the heat. Malka caught me at it, and it was no good telling her I had a cold. That’s a funny thing: people in books are always saying they have colds when they’re really crying, but having a cold and crying are two separate things, and I don’t know why people in books haven’t noticed this. In real life, no one would fall for such a weak lie.

At any rate, Malka didn’t. But she was nice and said she doesn’t know what gets into the mistress sometimes. Usually on Mondays I give the kitchen floor a good scrubbing, but today Malka said it would be good enough if I just mopped it. I had a feeling she was more interested in talking about Mrs. Rosenbach than in having a clean floor. She poured out two glasses of cold lemonade, and we settled down in the cozy corner and she told me about some of the times when Mrs. R. hurt her feelings. Of course I’ve heard some of those stories before, because Malka likes to tell them and relive how indignant she was.

After a little of that, Malka asked me if there was any particular reason why Mrs. R. might have been so chilly with me. At first I couldn’t think of one, but then I told her — Malka, I mean — about going with Mimi to Rosenbach’s Department Store. Malka exclaimed in Yiddish and said of course, that was what was the matter. She said no lady would want her daughter going out in public with the hired girl. She seemed to think I was crazy not to have known this.

I guess I was crazy. But the Rosenbachs seem so nice — at least, Mr. Rosenbach is nice and Mimi and Mr. Solomon. It didn’t occur to me that they’d look down on me for being the hired girl. The truth is, most of the time, I don’t think of myself as the hired girl. I think of myself as somebody disguised as the hired girl. After all, I’m not going to be a servant all my life. It’s temporary. At some point I’m going to get an education and become a schoolteacher, just as Ma planned.

It isn’t as if I was born to be a servant. Heaven knows Father’s a miserly man, but he owns his own land and has no debts except the mortgage; he’s no one’s servant but his own. And besides, this is America, and if Mimi doesn’t mind going out with me, why shouldn’t I go with her?



Friday, July the twenty-eighth, 1911

Thanks to Mr. Rosenbach, I have attended Shabbos! It was a mitzvah — that means a good deed — for him to invite me. Until tonight, I almost felt as if I knew more about Shabbos than Mr. Rosenbach; I don’t mean the holy parts of Shabbos, but the unreligious parts, like cooking and cleaning the house. There’s a lot of work preparing for Shabbos, and most of it is women’s work. The men do only the holy parts: the praying and going to temple.

Now I’ve seen how the holy parts and the women’s parts fit together, like two clasped hands. I think that’s a good simile. Two other metaphors for Shabbos are the Bride and the Queen.