The Hired Girl(88)

Well, of course, that’s true, but my blood was up. I said it seems to me I work pretty hard for the clothes on my back. That’s when we smelled the fish burning. Malka gave a cry as if she’d seen the murder of a child and grabbed the handle of the frying pan. She burned herself on it and ran to the sink to put her hand under the cold-water tap. Both of us were yelling by that time. I don’t rightly recollect what I said.

Then Malka seized Father Horst’s letter and said she was going to show it to Mrs. Rosenbach. I was frightened because I know Mrs. R. doesn’t like me. I implored her, but to no avail. Like an avenging Fury she charged upstairs — I couldn’t believe how quickly she moved with her bunion.

Thank God, it was Mr. Rosenbach who stuck his head out the library door and asked what the noise was about. Malka shoved my letter into his hands so that he could read it. Malka lamented that she’d known how it would be once they let a shiksa into the house, and that I’d been telling tales about the family to an evil-minded priest.

I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. I said Malka had no business reading my letters, and that Father Horst was a good man, and that nobody had a right to persecute me because of my religion.

Mr. Rosenbach’s head shuttled back and forth, listening. Then he handed the letter to me and nodded toward the library to signify that he would talk to me there. He said, “Malka, mamele,” in a coaxing and tender voice, and put his arm around her so that he could steer her downstairs. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, because it was in Yiddish, but he was trying to soothe her. It wasn’t working very well.

I withdrew to the library. I reread Father Horst’s letter and felt a great wave of relief when I read the last part. Ever since our quarrel, I’ve been afraid Father Horst would bar me from taking the Sacrament. I was afraid I’d lost my chance to receive the Body and Blood of Christ.

When Mr. Rosenbach came back, he said, “Sit, sit,” though I was already sitting. He sat opposite me, perching on the edge of the chair the way he does. He spread his hands and looked sorrowful — he is nearly as good at looking tragic as Malka is. I braced myself.

“Miss Lovelace, I beg your pardon.”

“You do?”

“I do,” he said. “Malka had no right to read your letter. I shouldn’t have read it, either. You are quite correct: no one has a right to persecute you for worshipping God in your own way. This is America.”

Am-ehr-ee-kah. He makes it sound so beautiful.

“Malka is a child of the Old Country. When she was young, a servant had no privacy. If she had a letter, the housekeeper could read it. Malka forgets that we are in the New World, where even a servant has rights. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive her.”

He paused so that I could say I would. I want Mr. Rosenbach to think I’m sweet-natured and forgiving, even if I’m not. After a moment, I said grudgingly, “She’s been having an awful time with her bunion.”

He smiled and leaned forward a little. “Miss Lovelace, may I ask —?”

“Yes?”

“It’s none of my business.” He linked his fingers and looked down at the carpet. “You don’t have to say a word. But I find I am devoured by curiosity. What exactly did you say to the good priest, when you rebuked him?”

Well, I didn’t mind answering. “I told him he had anti-Semitism.”

His face broke out in a broad grin. He tried to suppress it; he put up his hand to groom his mustache, but there was no hiding it: he was delighted with me. “You accused a priest of anti-Semitism?”

“Yes, I did,” I said staunchly. “He wanted me to work for a Catholic family named the Possits. And I said I wanted to stay here, because you’ve been good to me. Then he said I was obstinate, and I said I’d rather be obstinate than have anti-Semitism.”

“Yet he apologized,” Mr. Rosenbach pointed out. “That surprises me. By worldly standards, he is your superior in age and sex and station. I think perhaps he is a good man, this Father Horst.”

“Yes, sir, he is,” I said gratefully. “He’s taken a lot of trouble with me. He’s giving me religious instruction, and he gave me a prayer book. It’s a nice letter, don’t you think?”

“Very nice,” Mr. Rosenbach agreed. “Father Horst has a good reputation. I believe he is very active on behalf of the poor in his parish.”

I knew that was high praise, because Mr. Rosenbach is also very active on behalf of the poor. He’s a member of the Hebrew Benevolent Society, and he’s on boards and things.