arm.”
“Lucia, Simon says lift your arm.” I did. At Miss Miller’s orders, he had me touch my shoulder, heart, and hand. “Good, now have Lucia sit and stand again.” When we had done this, Miss Miller clapped and the class obediently followed. The girl wrote “clap” and we repeated this word too.
“Excellent, Lucia and Henryk. Now, shake hands.” When she mimed this with the writing girl, I drew back. Henryk hesitated as well, looking down. In a stride, Miss Miller was next to him, offering her own hand and repeating firmly: “Shake hands.” He did. “Excellent. And now with Lucia.” He glanced at one of the boys, then reached toward me. I took the warm, firm grasp and quickly released. “See? It’s no tragedy.” Tragedia, she must mean. Non è una tragedia. “Please sit down.” We did. I risked a glance at Henryk, who returned a furtive smile.
After our lesson, the class shattered like quicksilver. I was engulfed by Italians. Henryk was swarmed by boys who spoke languages I’d soon learn to spool apart: Polish and Yiddish. One looked sharply at me and whispered to Henryk: “shiksa.”
“Yolanda, what does that mean?”
“Who knows? But it doesn’t matter. English is what you need. Are you coming to class tomorrow?” Yes, I said. I’d come every day.
Chapter 4
D IPPING C HOCOLATE
I raced home and was there by seven, before Mamma arrived in good humor from Stingler’s. “Only eleven hours and not once on my knees! You pick up a caramel core, dip it in the vat, twist, drain, and put it on the rack. That’s all. Look.” She held up a little bag of chocolates rejected for their mangled shape but delicious. “Other girls are sick of them. I sang, and everybody said it made the time go faster.”
With the dignity of her new work and praise from the other dippers, she’d never been so ebullient. We passed a happy evening. If I couldn’t persuade Mamma to attend English classes, she at least agreed that Simon Says was a good game. We played in the parlor with Italian and the English words I’d learned. To Roseanne’s astonishment I lured Irena from her room, and she was happy to play with us.
“Yolanda will show me a garment shop,” I told Mamma that night. “I want to see how clothes get made.” The next day after school we went to Bank Street and stood on wooden crates to peer through a dusty window of the Printz-Biederman Company. Rows of women sat shoulder to shoulder, bent over machines, motionless except for their arms and hands. “That’s my cousin Giovanna, sewing cuffs,” said Yolanda, rapping on the glass and pointing to a girl who shared her wide mouth and slight build. Giovanna’s eyes turned up briefly before dropping back to work. “She’s afraid of needles. One girl got blood poisoning from a needle stick and lost her finger.” I closed my hands tightly. “See how fast she works? They’re paid by the piece.” Stitch, turn the cuff, another line, and snip. Repeat for the next cuff. The finished shirt was laid on a pile with the right hand as the left one reached for the next. “Buttonhole girls earn a little more.”
The work was slightly more varied than Irena’s but still stunning in its monotony. All over the city, in hundreds of shops and factories, did girls barely older than I do this all day? Service work was hard, but at least the chime of a new hour rarely found me at the same task. There were always the great windows out to sea and hope of a swim in warm, moon-struck waters.
“The girls can talk, you see,” Yolanda rattled on, “if the supervisor’s not around. And sometimes there’s a good singer like your mother.” I saw lips moving, some smiles, perhaps a joke, and the different styles and colors of the women’s own clothing. But still they seemed like machines themselves, as if at night they simply froze in darkness until the morning shift.
“What do they earn?”
“Older girls make ten dollars. Younger ones get less.”
“Why,
“Lucia, Simon says lift your arm.” I did. At Miss Miller’s orders, he had me touch my shoulder, heart, and hand. “Good, now have Lucia sit and stand again.” When we had done this, Miss Miller clapped and the class obediently followed. The girl wrote “clap” and we repeated this word too.
“Excellent, Lucia and Henryk. Now, shake hands.” When she mimed this with the writing girl, I drew back. Henryk hesitated as well, looking down. In a stride, Miss Miller was next to him, offering her own hand and repeating firmly: “Shake hands.” He did. “Excellent. And now with Lucia.” He glanced at one of the boys, then reached toward me. I took the warm, firm grasp and quickly released. “See? It’s no tragedy.” Tragedia, she must mean. Non è una tragedia. “Please sit down.” We did. I risked a glance at Henryk, who returned a furtive smile.
After our lesson, the class shattered like quicksilver. I was engulfed by Italians. Henryk was swarmed by boys who spoke languages I’d soon learn to spool apart: Polish and Yiddish. One looked sharply at me and whispered to Henryk: “shiksa.”
“Yolanda, what does that mean?”
“Who knows? But it doesn’t matter. English is what you need. Are you coming to class tomorrow?” Yes, I said. I’d come every day.
Chapter 4
D IPPING C HOCOLATE
I raced home and was there by seven, before Mamma arrived in good humor from Stingler’s. “Only eleven hours and not once on my knees! You pick up a caramel core, dip it in the vat, twist, drain, and put it on the rack. That’s all. Look.” She held up a little bag of chocolates rejected for their mangled shape but delicious. “Other girls are sick of them. I sang, and everybody said it made the time go faster.”
With the dignity of her new work and praise from the other dippers, she’d never been so ebullient. We passed a happy evening. If I couldn’t persuade Mamma to attend English classes, she at least agreed that Simon Says was a good game. We played in the parlor with Italian and the English words I’d learned. To Roseanne’s astonishment I lured Irena from her room, and she was happy to play with us.
“Yolanda will show me a garment shop,” I told Mamma that night. “I want to see how clothes get made.” The next day after school we went to Bank Street and stood on wooden crates to peer through a dusty window of the Printz-Biederman Company. Rows of women sat shoulder to shoulder, bent over machines, motionless except for their arms and hands. “That’s my cousin Giovanna, sewing cuffs,” said Yolanda, rapping on the glass and pointing to a girl who shared her wide mouth and slight build. Giovanna’s eyes turned up briefly before dropping back to work. “She’s afraid of needles. One girl got blood poisoning from a needle stick and lost her finger.” I closed my hands tightly. “See how fast she works? They’re paid by the piece.” Stitch, turn the cuff, another line, and snip. Repeat for the next cuff. The finished shirt was laid on a pile with the right hand as the left one reached for the next. “Buttonhole girls earn a little more.”
The work was slightly more varied than Irena’s but still stunning in its monotony. All over the city, in hundreds of shops and factories, did girls barely older than I do this all day? Service work was hard, but at least the chime of a new hour rarely found me at the same task. There were always the great windows out to sea and hope of a swim in warm, moon-struck waters.
“The girls can talk, you see,” Yolanda rattled on, “if the supervisor’s not around. And sometimes there’s a good singer like your mother.” I saw lips moving, some smiles, perhaps a joke, and the different styles and colors of the women’s own clothing. But still they seemed like machines themselves, as if at night they simply froze in darkness until the morning shift.
“What do they earn?”
“Older girls make ten dollars. Younger ones get less.”
“Why,
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