The Hired Girl(80)

I felt better after that. Now that I write this, I am struck by a new idea. I think Father Horst’s idea that the Rosenbachs are trying to make a Jew out of me is crazy. But what if God placed me here so that I might lead them to the Church? God must love the Rosenbachs, because they’re virtuous. And since they’re virtuous, He might want them to be Catholic instead of Jewish. It would be a mitzvah — that’s the Jewish word for a good deed — for me to tell them about the True Faith.

It seems as though it might be presumptuous, though, converting them. They might not like it, and I’m not a very good Catholic. I’m not even a real Catholic, because I haven’t been confirmed. But then, the Bible says that God chooses the foolish to confound the wise, and I certainly am foolish. So maybe I was sent to bring light unto the Rosenbachs.

Though perhaps converting them would be meddling, which I promised myself I wouldn’t do.

I thought about this so long that I fell into a kind of reverie and was late helping Malka with dinner. She was very sarcastic at my expense, but I apologized very sweetly, because if I am to convert the Rosenbachs, I shall have to be very meek and humble of heart.



Wednesday, August the thirtieth, 1911

I forgot to write that I believe Mr. Solomon has been successful in his suit. Of course this is none of my business, but the morning after that terrible Thursday, I found a yellow rose on his dresser. The stem was the right length for tucking into a buttonhole, and I wondered if Miss Kleman gave it to Mr. Solomon as a lover’s token. I didn’t clear it away, though it was limp and bruised. I left it on the dresser. The next day, it wasn’t on the dresser and it wasn’t in the trash bin, either.

I pondered the matter and concluded that the rose must have been a love token, because otherwise, Mr. Solomon would have dropped it in the bin. I imagine he’s pressing it in a book to keep forever. He’s been in very good spirits of late. I haven’t seen him face-to-face, but I’ve heard him humming, and his step is light. Mrs. Rosenbach has not been in good spirits, and I’m thinking maybe she doesn’t like Mr. Solomon marrying a Polish girl. I wonder what’s wrong with the Poles. But I’m not going to try to find out anything more, because a good hired girl is supposed to be discreet and not stick her nose in her master’s business.

David will be home for Shabbos this week, which means nothing to me except that preparations for Shabbos dinner will be more elaborate than usual. He will want ice cream and he likes it homemade, so I’ll have to turn the crank.

Malka’s bunion seems to be on the mend.



Saturday, September the second, 1911

Oh, I feel so wicked! I know Father Horst would be shocked, and Mrs. Rosenbach would disapprove. And yet — oh, and yet! I’m sure I won’t sleep a wink tonight — but I must sleep, or tomorrow my eyes will be red. How I wish I’d bought a new dress last Tuesday! There would have been time, if I’d boarded the streetcar right after my quarrel with Father Horst.

I wish I had. But I’ll wear my Cheyenne hat. David’s never seen me in that.

I was doing the dishes tonight — Saturday night is the tiredest time for me, because Thursday and Friday are a flurry getting ready for Shabbos, and on Saturday I’m the Shabbos goy. This week was especially busy, because we had company Friday night — sixteen people at table — and today the Friedhoffs came for Saturday lunch. Malka came down with a dreadful headache. I could tell it was bad because she didn’t grumble. I told her I could clean up the kitchen by myself and that she ought to go to bed. She didn’t even argue with me: poor thing, she must have been in agony! She limped upstairs, leaving me with the dishes. I wasn’t too unhappy, because Shabbos was over for another week, and there was a sweet breeze coming through the window.

Then I heard footsteps coming down the stairs — not Malka’s uneven, bunion-y footsteps, but swift footsteps. And there he was: David.

He leaned over the stair railing and said, “Where’s Malka?” and I said, “She went to bed early,” and he said, “Good.” Just like that. Maybe I’m conceited, but I can think of only one reason for him saying good like that. He was glad he’d caught me alone.

His nose is more crooked than I remember. Whenever I’ve dwelt on his image — not that I have; it’s just that once in a while he crosses my mind — I’ve tidied up his nose. It really is too big and too crooked. All the same, there’s something about him — the way he loped down the staircase and sat on the kitchen table instead of one of the chairs. He’s like his father; he has a way of bounding and darting and pouncing, as if he expects something exciting to happen and can’t wait for it.