Minnie had gotten on the bus at the corner of Broome Street, in the heart of the eastern European Jewish ghetto, and this young lady had boarded there as well, she had to be a
landsman
also—another Jew.
“Iz dos Park Gas?”
Minnie said in Yiddish.
Is this Park Avenue?
The woman replied in English: “Not yet, but soon. How far are you going?”
“Street number forty-two. Hotel Commodore.”
“I get off at Fifty-seventh. I’ll tell you at your stop.”
“A dank,”
Minnie replied automatically, but the woman did not acknowledge her thanks.
That hat must have cost her a pretty penny, Minnie thought, runningher eyes over the blue suit with white trim and the open-toed pumps. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but already she was some kind of professional who knew her way around. She carried a case for a musical instrument, maybe a clarinet, and a smart leather portfolio. She wore her copper hair in waves and on her lips a thick layer of confident red. Minnie hadn’t worn lipstick in ages. It would never have occurred to her. She was past lipstick and everything it suggested.
This person, however, took it upon herself to make her own rules. She understood Yiddish, but refused to speak it. What was wrong with the new generation who thought they were Americans
only
? Minnie had lived in this country thirty-eight years, she was an American, too, and she liked nice things, just like this lady with the clarinet. They’d had a house full of treasures in Russia—silver candlesticks and gold jewelry—and her father had been a physics teacher, before their homes and shops were burned down during the pogroms. As a child Minnie had been spat on, and her eight-year-old brother was kidnapped for three days by drunken peasants who tied him down until he agreed to be baptized as a Christian, but he never gave in and was rescued near starvation by their father and uncles. Minnie had seen what it cost to be a Jew in Russia at the turn of the century, which made it all the more precious in this day and age. There was a lot not to like about chicken farming in Maine, but within their tiny group of ten families they could live a Jewish life. Why didn’t this free American citizen respect history enough to at least answer in her own language?
The bus sped uptown a mile a minute, even faster than the crazy traffic. Bessie Reiss, the cousin Minnie had been staying with on Houston Street, was the head bookkeeper in a glove factory, a
bale-boosteh
who didn’t take orders from anyone. It would have been nice to have her sitting beside her now. But Bessie had to go to work, so she’d put Minnie on the bus with instructions that once they turned onto Park Avenue it was
nishtikeit—nothing
. “Just keep your eye on the street signs and get off at number forty-two and ask anyone.” But without Bessie or the teeming comfort of the old-country neighborhood, where you could talk to anyone in four languages, Minniequickly lost all sense of where she was, and entered instead a familiar world of worry. She worried she’d get lost. She worried that she’d miss the breakfast at the hotel, the first big event of the pilgrimage. And the itinerary clearly stated,
“It is important for you to attend, as this will be an opportunity to meet the other members of your party.”
It was barely eight in the morning and already like a steambath. Even the hot air coming through the half-open windows of the bus was a relief. Minnie wore her best bright-pink-and-green-flowered cotton frock, which came down to the ankles, with a scoop neck and puffy sleeves. She carried a borrowed needlepoint handbag and a cardboard suitcase, and wore a white brimmed hat that brought out her naturally arched brows and deep-set slate-gray eyes. She had always been told she was the prettiest of her sisters, which led her to carry herself with no small amount of vanity, and had made it a long fall to the poverty of the chicken farm, unproductive land they had
landsman
also—another Jew.
“Iz dos Park Gas?”
Minnie said in Yiddish.
Is this Park Avenue?
The woman replied in English: “Not yet, but soon. How far are you going?”
“Street number forty-two. Hotel Commodore.”
“I get off at Fifty-seventh. I’ll tell you at your stop.”
“A dank,”
Minnie replied automatically, but the woman did not acknowledge her thanks.
That hat must have cost her a pretty penny, Minnie thought, runningher eyes over the blue suit with white trim and the open-toed pumps. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but already she was some kind of professional who knew her way around. She carried a case for a musical instrument, maybe a clarinet, and a smart leather portfolio. She wore her copper hair in waves and on her lips a thick layer of confident red. Minnie hadn’t worn lipstick in ages. It would never have occurred to her. She was past lipstick and everything it suggested.
This person, however, took it upon herself to make her own rules. She understood Yiddish, but refused to speak it. What was wrong with the new generation who thought they were Americans
only
? Minnie had lived in this country thirty-eight years, she was an American, too, and she liked nice things, just like this lady with the clarinet. They’d had a house full of treasures in Russia—silver candlesticks and gold jewelry—and her father had been a physics teacher, before their homes and shops were burned down during the pogroms. As a child Minnie had been spat on, and her eight-year-old brother was kidnapped for three days by drunken peasants who tied him down until he agreed to be baptized as a Christian, but he never gave in and was rescued near starvation by their father and uncles. Minnie had seen what it cost to be a Jew in Russia at the turn of the century, which made it all the more precious in this day and age. There was a lot not to like about chicken farming in Maine, but within their tiny group of ten families they could live a Jewish life. Why didn’t this free American citizen respect history enough to at least answer in her own language?
The bus sped uptown a mile a minute, even faster than the crazy traffic. Bessie Reiss, the cousin Minnie had been staying with on Houston Street, was the head bookkeeper in a glove factory, a
bale-boosteh
who didn’t take orders from anyone. It would have been nice to have her sitting beside her now. But Bessie had to go to work, so she’d put Minnie on the bus with instructions that once they turned onto Park Avenue it was
nishtikeit—nothing
. “Just keep your eye on the street signs and get off at number forty-two and ask anyone.” But without Bessie or the teeming comfort of the old-country neighborhood, where you could talk to anyone in four languages, Minniequickly lost all sense of where she was, and entered instead a familiar world of worry. She worried she’d get lost. She worried that she’d miss the breakfast at the hotel, the first big event of the pilgrimage. And the itinerary clearly stated,
“It is important for you to attend, as this will be an opportunity to meet the other members of your party.”
It was barely eight in the morning and already like a steambath. Even the hot air coming through the half-open windows of the bus was a relief. Minnie wore her best bright-pink-and-green-flowered cotton frock, which came down to the ankles, with a scoop neck and puffy sleeves. She carried a borrowed needlepoint handbag and a cardboard suitcase, and wore a white brimmed hat that brought out her naturally arched brows and deep-set slate-gray eyes. She had always been told she was the prettiest of her sisters, which led her to carry herself with no small amount of vanity, and had made it a long fall to the poverty of the chicken farm, unproductive land they had
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