Читать книгу Bread Givers - Anzia Yezierska - Страница 8

But Mother did not dream always about how good she had it as a young girl. If she had less to worry for the rent, so she had more time to worry for a man for Bessie, who was already nine years older than Mother was when she got married. And there was no sign of a man yet. And no dowry to help get one.

What Muhmenkeh said about the boarders didn’t turn out that way, because all the boarders, the minute they gave a look on Mashah, fainted away for her. And they didn’t see at all Bessie, who carried the whole house on her back. Their eyes turned only on Mashah and their ears didn’t hear anything but what Mashah said.

The men didn’t know that if Mashah was always shining like a doll, it was because Mashah took first her wages to make herself more beautiful and left the rest of us to worry for the bread and rent. They didn’t know that Mashah, on her way home from work, always looked on the shop windows for what was the prettiest and latest style. They didn’t know that all her time home, instead of helping with the housework, Mashah was always before the mirror trying on her things, this way and that way, so as to make them more and more becoming to her, while Bessie would rush home the quicker to help Mother with the washing or ironing, or bring home another bundle of night work, and stay up till all hours to earn another dollar for the house.

The men didn’t know that Bessie gave every cent she earned to Father and had nothing left to buy herself something new. All they saw was that Mashah was a pleasure to look on, while Bessie was so buried, with her nose in the earth helping the family, that they had no more eyes on her than on Mother.

Even Fania, the third sister, got herself a young man before Bessie did. In the air-shaft, facing our kitchen, he lived. He was a boarder with Zalmon, the fish-peddler. Once, when Fania put her head out of the window to dry her hair, the young man began to talk to her. Then he told her about the night school where he was going and he showed her the books he took from the free library.

And soon, every evening, Fania began to go to the same night school where the young man went. And he began writing her every day love poems, such grand, beautiful thoughts that read like from a book. And sometimes, Fania would read the poems the young man sent her to the girls on the stoop. And nobody would believe that such burning high thoughts came from that pale-faced, quiet-looking man that lived in that dark air-shaft hole with Zalmon the fish-peddler, and who was only a sweeper and cleaner in the corner drugstore.

And so the neighbors saw Mashah always with a bunch of men, buzzing around her like flies around a pot of honey. They saw Fania go to the night school and to the library with the writing young man. But Bessie had nobody. And you could see it in her face, how it ate out her heart to have the younger sisters go out with men, and she had nobody. Nobody.

And then it happened!

Once, when it was the night for the wages, Bessie came home with three packages, a new oilcloth for the table, a remnant from a lace curtain to tack around the sink, to hide away the rusty pipes, and a ten-cent roll of gold paper for the chandelier to cover up the fly dirt that was so thick you couldn’t scrub it away.

Mashah wanted to go to hear the free music in the park, but Bessie begged her to stay home. “Help me only, this once, to shine up the house a little. You, too, will feel good if somebody should come in and find the house looks decent, like by other people.”

And so excited was Bessie to clean up the house that she made us pull out everything to the middle of the room and scrub out the corners and under the bed. And when we packed all the junk away where it wouldn’t show itself, the crowded kitchen got bigger and there was more room to move around without knocking things over.

And when we tacked the lace curtain around the sink, and fixed fancy the chandelier with the gold paper, and we spread out the new, white oilcloth on the table, it looked like a new house.

We were sitting like company, taking pleasure in our new, cleaned-up kitchen. Ach! I was thinking to myself, if only we didn’t have to pull out the torn bedding from its hiding place to sleep—the rags to dress ourselves—if only we didn’t have to dirty up the new whiteness of the oilcloth with the eating, then it would shine in our house always like a palace. It’s only when poor people begin to eat and sleep and dress themselves that the ugliness and dirt begins to creep out of their black holes.

Just then, Mother came in. She looked around, her eyes jumping out of her head. “What happened!” she cried. “Gold shines in our house! Lace hangs on our walls!” Then she touched the white oilcloth on the table as if she was afraid to touch it with her hard-worked hand. “White marble to eat on!”

“It’s too grand for every day. Quick only! Let’s cover up the oilcloth with newspapers and save the lace curtain for company.”

“No!” Bessie stamped her foot like a new person. “We won’t cover up the beautiful whiteness. Now that we’re working ourselves up, let’s have it beautiful for ourselves, not only for company.”

“Nu—nu—don’t fly away with yourselves in fairyland,” laughed Mother. “We’re poor people yet. And poor people got to save——”

“Save—save!” cried the new Bessie. “I’m sick of saving and slaving to choke myself in the dirt. I want to live while I’m yet alive.”

We opened wide our eyes to give a look on Bessie. What had suddenly happened to her? Father called her the burden-bearer, because she was always with her nose in the earth slaving for the family. And now she suddenly wanted to lift up her head in the world and live.

Mother threw her hands up. “Have it your way! American children always want things over their heads.”

The next evening, when we came home, Mother was away at a sick neighbor’s that was dying. And Father was yet in the synagogue. Fania never had time to wait for supper on the evenings she went to night school. So she grabbed a piece of bread and herring and, still eating it, hurried downstairs, where her young man was waiting for her to take her to school.

Bessie hurried to get the supper and rushed Mashah and me to eat it quick. I was wondering why Bessie was so excited to get the supper, as if she was starving hungry, and yet didn’t eat much herself. All the time she gave quick glances on Mashah and quickly turned her eyes away when Mashah looked up.

“I’ll wash the dishes, Mashah, if you want to go out,” said Bessie, the minute we were done eating.

“But it’s raining,” said Mashah.

“Then why don’t you go the Grand Street vaudeville?”

“I haven’t the money.”

Then think only! Bessie took from her stocking a quarter. “Here, you got it.”

Mashah took the money and stared on it hard, as if to see if it was lead. Then looking upon Bessie with her innocent, wondering eyes, she asked, “What makes you so good to me all of a sudden?”

“Oh, well——” Bessie got red and looked away. “Oh, well—you stayed in last night to help fix up the house, so I thought you’d want to go somewhere.”

Mashah didn’t need to be begged to go to the theatre. She grabbed her hat and coat and out she went.

The minute the door closed behind Mashah, Bessie pushed the dirty dishes under the sink behind the curtain. With the quickness of a cat she jumped on the bed. She grabbed the hanger with Mashah’s pink dress, that was covered around with a white sheet, like a holy thing. Crazy with excitement, she pulled off her skirt and waist. And, like lightning, the pink princess dress was over her head.

“Quick, Sara,” she called, “help me. I can’t squeeze my arms into the sleeves.”

“Oi weh! Mashah will kill us,” I cried.

“I got to have it. I got to look nice tonight. Somebody—a man is coming.”

The dress that slipped on so easy on Mashah’s thin shape stuck on Bessie in the middle. But somehow, by the two of us pulling it together she could squeeze her arms through the tight sleeves.

“Hook it only faster,” she begged.

I tried to push together the hooks, but they were too far apart.

“It’ll choke you to wear it,” I said, worn out from pulling. “Can’t you see it ain’t big enough?”

“It’s got to be big enough.” And Bessie stood up on her toes and blew out all her breath, and she squeezed herself with her hands till I could pull together the hooks one at a time. But it was so tight, where every hook was came a wrinkle. It made her shape stick out so funny that I begged her: “Better put back on your old skirt and waist that you wear to the shop, because in this tight dress it sticks out so your fatness.”

“But every day he sees me in the shop, in that same old skirt and waist. I want him to see me in something different. I want to brighten myself up to him.”

“But it don’t brighten you like Mashah because Mashah got red cheeks and——”

Bessie pushed me aside, and ran over to Mashah’s looking-glass, and began fixing her hair. But she was so nervous and excited the comb fell out from her hand. And when she bent down to pick it up—crack! burst open the seam on the side of the pink dress!

Just then there was a knocking on the door. And Bessie ran into the bedroom to pin together the ripped seam.

When the knocking came again, I opened the door. There was a man. He had a starched shirt on, with a white starched collar on his neck, and a gold chain across his checked vest.

“Is Bessie Smolinsky here?” he asked.

“Right away she’ll come!” I said. And I showed him to Father’s chair with a cushion to sit on.

Then Bessie came out, her eyes burning out of her head, her cheeks redder than Mashah’s, and her right arm held to the side, like pasted there, to cover up where she pinned herself together.

She shook hands with the man from only her elbow. But the man didn’t notice anything, he looked as mixed-up and excited as Bessie herself.

First I went to the bedroom, so they could talk to themselves. And I was thinking to put on my shawl and go out in the street. Then I remembered that Bessie was like lame, with her arm pasted to her side to cover up the rip in her pink dress. And I began looking around, all over the house, to find where Mother hid away the jelly for the company.

While I was yet looking for the jelly, Father came in. His face lighted up with gladness to see the company. And the young man got up from his chair and shook hands with Father. Bessie was so excited, she stood there red in her face and moving her lips like a yok, unable to open her mouth and let out a word how to make the introduction.

“Nu, Bessie?” asked Father. “What’s this man’s name? Who is he?”

“Berel Bernstein,” came out the words from her choked neck. “He is the cutter from our shop.”

Father shook hands with him again. “Berel Bernstein, from where do you come?”

“My village was seven miles from Grodno,” said Berel Bernstein.

“Is your father also in America?”

“No, he’s in Russia yet.”

“How long are you here?”

“Ten years already.”

“Do you still pray every morning?”

The man got red and looked down on the floor.

“Sometimes, when I get up early enough, I pray. But I keep all the holidays.”

“How much wages do you earn?”

“Eighteen dollars a week.” And he stuck out his chest a little from his bashfulness.

“How much do you save each week from your eighteen dollars?” questioned more Father.

“Sometimes, six, sometimes seven dollars,” said Berel Bernstein.

“What! On yourself only, you spend eleven twelve dollars!” Father looked him over from his patent-leather shoes to the gold horseshoe pin shining on his red necktie. “A whole family could live already on what you spend on your one self.”

Berel Bernstein got red as fire. “I got to eat my meals in the restaurant where it costs you twice so much as it would cost home. I think like you say, a married man could live cheaper as a single one. If a man could only have a wife to cook for him and wash for him. That’s why——” He stopped and couldn’t go on what he had to say.

Father gave a quick, sharp look on the man, and then his eyes went on Bessie, like she had brought a thief in the house. But he didn’t say anything. And it got so still in the house, everybody looking away from each other, that I brought in the tea and jelly.

As soon as they began drinking the tea, Father loosened up his hard look and began again his questions. “You got something already in the bank?”

“Sure, I got money saved. For years already I lived for a purpose. I know inside the whole clothing trade. I was working already as a baster, a presser, and an operator. And now I’m already the head cutter. And I’m thinking to start myself a shop.”

“So you’ll be a manufacturer yet, in America,” said Father. “Have more jelly in your tea. And how soon will you open yourself up your factory?”

“First I’m thinking to get myself married.”

“That’s good sense. A business man needs himself a wife. She could run him the home cheaper, and maybe help him yet in business, if she’s got a head.”

“That’s just what I’m looking for,” said Berel Bernstein. “I like a plain home girl that knows how to help save the dollar, and cook a good meal, and help me yet in the shop. And I think . . . your daughter Bessie is just fitting for me.”

Father pushed back his glass of tea, and stood up, looking on the man. “Daughters like mine are not found in the gutter.”

“Sure! Don’t I see Bessie in the shop, every day how she knows more about the work as the fore-lady? I could get plenty girls with money. But I want to take your daughter, like she is, without a dowry.”

“Why don’t you ask me first what I want?” cried Father. “Don’t forget when she gets married, who’ll carry me the burden from this house? She earns me the biggest wages. With Bessie I can be independent. I don’t have to grab the first man that wants her. I can wait yet a few years.”

“You can wait! But your daughter is getting older each year, not younger. Do you want her to wait till her braids grow gray?”

“Look at Weinberg’s daughter!” said Father. “She is thirty years already, and she’s still working for her father. Has a father no rights in America? Didn’t I bring my children into the world? Shouldn’t they at least support their old father when he’s getting older? Why should children think only of themselves? Here I give up my whole life, working day and night, to spread the light of the Holy Torah. Don’t my children owe me at least a living?”

“But Bessie must get married some time. And you can’t get such chances like me every day.”

“Don’t forget it that you’re only a man of the earth. I’m a man of God. Wouldn’t Bessie get a higher place in Heaven supporting me than if she married and worked for you?”

“The cheek, from a beggar who dreams himself God!” Berel’s voice grew loud, like a fish-peddler’s. “I’m a plain ‘man of the earth.’ You can’t put none of your Heaven over on me.”

“But I ask you only, by your conscience, what should I do without her wages? The other children don’t earn much. And they need more than they earn. They’d spend every cent on themselves if I’d only let them. But Bessie spends nothing on herself. She gives me every cent she earns. And if you marry her, you’re as good as taking away from me my living—tearing the bread from my mouth.”

Till now Bessie sat still, mixing her tea with the spoon, not tasting it. But now, as Father’s bargaining over her got louder, she ran into the bedroom. She stood beating her breast with her clenched fist. Then she sat very still and the tears kept running silently down her cheeks. I couldn’t stand to look on her. Tears came into my eyes. So I ran out of the bedroom to the kitchen, not to cry.

“So you don’t want me yet?” cried Berel Bernstein. “Do you know who I am? Matchmakers are running after me—girls with a thousand and two thousand dollars dowry. You ought to see their pictures! Young—beautiful—good family—everything a man can only want. They, begging themselves by me. But I don’t even give a look on them. I like your girl better. I don’t want those dressed-up dolls, to spend my money on them. I look ahead on the future. I want a wife for a purpose. I must open myself a shop. And Bessie could help me with the ‘hands,’ while I do the cutting. And we could work ourselves up—and——”

“Nu, if you want her so much, why don’t you look on my side a little?”

“What more do you want me to do? Ain’t I taking her from your hands without a cent?”

“Taking her from my hands! Only girls who hang on their father’s neck for their eating and dressing, that the father has to pay dowry, to get rid of his burden. But Bessie brings me in every cent she earns. When a girl like mine leaves the house the father gets poorer, not richer. It’s not enough to take my Bessie without a dowry. You must pay me yet.”

“Pay you? Why and for what?”

“If Bessie gets married, you got to pay all the expenses for the wedding and buy her clothes. I need a new outfit myself. You see what’s on me is all I have. These things I wear are from Russia yet. Give a look on my shoes! Wouldn’t it be a shame for the world if Reb Smolinsky, the light of the block, the one man who holds up the flame of the Holy Torah before America, should come to his daughter’s wedding in such shoes? You yourself don’t want the bride’s father to come to your wedding feast dressed in rags, like a beggar. I got to begin with a new pair of shoes, and everything new from the head to the feet. And all I ask more, is enough money to start myself up some business so I could get along without Bessie’s wages.”

Berel Bernstein hit the table with his fist till the tea glasses jumped. “I should set you up in business yet!” he hollered at my father. “I’m marrying your daughter—not the whole family. Ain’t it enough that your daughter kept you in laziness all these years? You want yet her husband to support you for the rest of your days? In America they got no use for Torah learning. In America everybody got to earn his living first. You got two hands and two feet. Why don’t you go to work?”

“What? I work like a common thick-neck? My learning comes before my living. I’m a man of brains. In a necessity I could turn to business. I have a quick head for business. If I only had money, I could start myself selling wine and schnapps, or maybe, open myself an office for an insurance agent or matchmaker, and hold on to my learning at the same time.”

While Father was yet talking, Berel Bernstein began muttering to himself, “What I dreamed last night, and this night, and the night before should fall on his crazy head.” Then he began shouting. “So it ain’t yet enough for you that I take your daughter without a dowry? You don’t want it yet? Me? Me? Berel Bernstein! Instead of grabbing me with both hands and thank God for the good luck that fell on you, for taking your daughter away without a cent, you want me to weigh you yet in gold? You think I got Rockefeller’s millions to throw away? I got to sweat for every penny I earn. I’m no greenhorn. I’m no cow you can milk. If you don’t want it yet, then good-by and good luck.”

And he rushed to the door and slammed himself out without saying good-by to Bessie.

The next evening, Berel Bernstein brought Bessie home from work and stood talking to her on the stoop.

“Your crazy father got me so mad, I was too excited to say anything to you. I think more of you as your own father. Your father keeps you only for your wages. I would take you without a cent and make yet for you a living. And we would work together for a purpose, to save the dollar.”

Still Bessie couldn’t speak, but stood clenching and unclenching her fingers and staring down on the ground.

“This is America,” Berel Bernstein went on, “where everybody got to look out for themselves. Together, we’d have a future before us—our own shop—our own business. We could live yet in our own bought house. I already saw in the pawnshop the diamond ring I want to buy you. What will you have by living with your father? All your life you’ll have to give away your wages, and he’ll suck out from you your last drop of blood like a leech. . . .”

“I couldn’t leave my father. He needs me. . . .”

Berel Bernstein shook Bessie by the arm. “But you got to think of yourself. Even in the Torah it says, leave your father and mother, and follow the man. Better listen to me. Come, let’s get married in court.”

Bessie shook her head, and tears began coming down her cheeks. “I know I’m a fool. But I cannot help it. I haven’t the courage to live for myself. My own life is knocked out of me. No wonder Father called me the burden bearer.”

“That’s just what you are, a ‘burden bearer.’ Here you got a chance to lift your head and become a person, and you want to stay in your slavery.”

“But you see, Father never worked in his life. He don’t know how to work. How could I leave them to starve?”

“Starve? He won’t starve. He’ll have to go to work. It’s you who are to blame for his laziness and his rags. So long as he gets from you enough to eat, he’ll hang on your neck, and bluff away his days with his learning and his prayers.”

Bessie stopped crying and looked straight at Berel Bernstein. “I couldn’t marry a man that don’t respect my father.”

“You want me to respect a crazy schnorrer like your father?” He laughed hard into her face. “What I see plain is that you don’t love me. Did you think you could rope me in for a fool, to support your whole family? The time I wasted yet on you, when I could have had the forelady who is crazy for me.”

Bessie reached out to touch his hand. “Berel, I’ll . . .”

“Yes. I see what you’ll do. Lucky yet I got my sense back in time. I’ll yet get a wife for me, myself, and not one to hang a whole beggar family on my neck.” And he turned from her and rushed down the street, never once looking back.

Bessie stood very still. She looked after Berel Bernstein till she couldn’t see him anymore. Then, very still, she walked into the house. She didn’t say anything. But I could see her sink into herself as if all the life went out of her heart and she didn’t care about anything anymore.

I walked in after Bessie and hid myself behind the door of the bedroom and I cried and cried.

Six weeks later, we heard that Berel Bernstein was going to be engaged to the forelady who lived on the first floor of Muhmenkeh’s house. As they told Bessie the news, she got twenty years older in that one moment. She grew black and yellow, with all the worries of the world in her face, like Mother.

All my sadness for Bessie suddenly blazed up in me into wild anger. I could have choked Berel Bernstein with my bare hands.

In one breath, I ran the whole block and upstairs where the engagement was. In the hall I was stopped by the crowd of relations from both sides. I couldn’t see Berel or his bride, but through the crack of the door, I saw big plates of sponge cake and raisins and nuts and bottles of wine. I was just going to give myself a push in when Berel Bernstein’s mother grabbed me by the braids and shoved me out. “You little devil! Who asked you here?”

I walked down wilder than a mad cat. “I’m going to say my say to Berel Bernstein even if I got to set the house on fire.” And suddenly, it came to me. I rushed like lightning into Muhmenkeh’s house, then up the fire escape.

With his back to the window stood Berel Bernstein talking to his bride. And before anybody could stop me, I dashed open the window, rushed over to him and shook him, crying, “You—you—! For shaming my Bessie—you’ll yet eat dirt before you die!”