The Hired Girl(99)

I hedged, saying I’d gone shopping, but Malka caught sight of the libretto under my arm. She jabbed her forefinger at me and exclaimed that I’d been to the opera.

I admitted it. I thought she would scold because it’s above my station to go to an opera. But to my amazement, she didn’t seem to mind it. She said I’d get up to less trouble at the opera than I would with that lying priest Father Horst. And at least I hadn’t run off with a man. Malka’s never seen an opera, but she’s seen the Yiddish theater, which is more thrilling than any Gentile theater, she says. She saw the great Thomashefsky play Hamlet, which was tremendous.

So she told me all about Thomashefsky, and I wedged in a few words about La Traviata, and I happened to mention that Violetta had consumption, which meant I hit upon one of Malka’s favorite things to talk about: disease. She took over the conversation and told me all about the people she’d known who had consumption. Not a single one recovered. Telling me about all the long-drawn-out deaths took us through eating supper and cleaning up after it. By the time Malka went to bed, she’d forgiven me for being late (though it’s not to happen again).

Now I sit here and wonder what was the best part of the day. The glory of seeing the Academy of Music, David saying I have an instinct for art, Alfredo’s aria, Violetta dying in white lace, the red umbrella and the walk in the rain . . . I can’t decide. It was all so glorious. But though I’m happy, I’m also aware of a kind of restlessness: a yearning, a suspense that is more agreeable than any satisfaction.

If every day could be like this one, I would die of joy.



Wednesday, September the thirteenth, 1911

I am oysgematert. That’s Yiddish for completely worn out. The bridge ladies are meeting at Mrs. Mueller’s house this week, so Malka said we should change the summer curtains for the winter draperies.

We scrubbed the windowsills, and we took down the curtains, examining the lace for places that need mending. Then we unearthed the draperies, miles of damask and velvet, and pressed them and hauled them upstairs and hung them. It was hard, heavy work, and Malka was in tears most of the time because Thomashefsky never came home last night. He didn’t come caterwauling for his breakfast, either.

Malka says he’s too old to survive another cat fight, and he’s likely been run over by one of those farshtinkener automobiles. She feels in her bones that he’s dead. As the afternoon wore on, she began to say she was like Thomashefsky, too old to be of use to anyone, and the sooner she was in her grave, the better. (This last was because I told her that if anyone was going to stand on a tall ladder to hang curtains, it was going to be me.)

I sure hope that cat comes home.

I tried to comfort Malka, but by the end of the day I was ready to scream. This house has so many windows. The draperies are hard to iron and so cumbersome that the ironing board kept falling over. I burned my hand on the iron.

Mimi’s new eyeglasses have come, and just as I suspected, she looks quaintly pretty in them. When I passed her on the stairs, I told her how becoming her glasses were. She prissed up her mouth and acted as if she hadn’t heard.

She’s still mad at me. But I went through my things this evening and nothing’s out of place. She hasn’t touched Belinda, who is still wedged at the back of the drawer.

Mimi’s new tutor comes to the house every day. Her name is Miss Krumm, and she has yellow-brown hair in a knobby bun, and a grim expression. Her clothes are dull and respectable — a dun-brown suit — and she carries an umbrella even when the sun is shining. Catch Miss Krumm being caught in the rain! She looks as if she hasn’t a particle of humor, and I’ve been feeling sorry for Mimi, but today Miss Krumm came downstairs with a bashful expression on her face and her hair done up in coronet braids. She looked a hundred times better. So I guess Mimi is holding her own.

I haven’t seen David all day.



Thursday, September the fourteenth, 1911

Thomashefsky is still missing, and Malka is very sad. Today she decided we should scrub the inside of the dish cupboard and wash the Passover dishes. I thought that was a waste of time, because the Passover dishes won’t be used until spring, and by that time they’ll need washing again. But Malka insisted, so I gritted my teeth and filled the sink with hot water. Of course there are two sets of china for Passover — service for twelve.

I forgot to say that it was raining. It has rained without stopping since my beautiful Tuesday, and the house was dead silent, except for the rain. Mr. Rosenbach and David were at the store, and Mr. Solomon had taken Mimi to the Klemans’. Mrs. Rosenbach was at her literary society.