The Girl in the Torch Page 9

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “Hmph,” he grunted as he passed.

  Maryk walked into the front room and took the lone empty seat at the end of the table. He was dressed for work in his brown uniform, his hair carefully combed. Despite his neat appearance, Sarah detected a slight unsteadiness in his walk and a whiff of whiskey on his breath.

  Mrs. Lee emerged from the kitchen carrying the bowl filled with the steaming chicken-and-vegetable dish.

  “You get rice,” she said to Sarah. “Before it turn cold.”

  Sarah retrieved the rice bowl and joined Mrs. Lee, circling the table behind her and spooning clumps of rice onto each plate. Mrs. Fat eyed Sarah suspiciously from her seat beside her daughter.

  Sarah tried to catch Maryk’s attention as she made her way around the room, to give him a small smile of thanks and to show him how well she had integrated herself into the work life of the house already. She was hoping for a sign of their alliance or friendship, particularly since she had just made at least one enemy in Mrs. Fat. Yet Maryk seemed uncomfortable as she scooped the rice onto his plate.

  “Thanks,” he grunted, without looking up at her.

  Everyone at the table was speaking Chinese with the exception of Maryk, who ate silently, and the four young women, who sat together and practiced their rudimentary English. Maryk hungrily forked the food into his mouth without making eye contact with anyone.

  Sarah noticed the four Chinese girls staring at her. Unlike Maryk, they wouldn’t take their eyes off of her and she felt uncomfortable under their glares. One of the girls whispered something to the others and they giggled.

  At last Sarah came to Mrs. Fat and her daughter. She scooped out a large spoonful of rice for Mrs. Fat, but at the last minute, Mrs. Fat nudged her own plate so the rice spilled onto the table.

  “Clumsy girl!” Mrs. Fat said.

  Blood rushed into Sarah’s face and she froze as Mrs. Lee, Maryk, and everyone else at the table turned and looked up at her.

  “Why don’t you watch what you’re doing?” Mrs. Fat continued.

  “But I didn’t do anything,” Sarah said, the heat rising up her neck.

  “Liar. You dumped Mrs. Lee’s good food all over the table. We don’t waste food here.”

  Mrs. Lee’s eyes narrowed at Sarah. Maryk finally fixed his eyes on her, too. He seemed to be angry at her for causing a fuss.

  “I am not a liar,” Sarah said firmly.

  “It was my fault.” Bao Yu spoke up for the first time. Sarah turned to the girl in surprise. “I moved the plate by accident. I’m sorry, Mama.”

  Bao Yu used her spoon to scoop the rice onto her mother’s plate.

  “You expect me to eat rice that’s been dumped on a table?”

  “My table so clean, you don’t need plate,” Mrs. Lee said.

  “It’s okay, Mama. I’ll eat that rice.”

  She switched plates with her mother. Mrs. Fat glared at her daughter.

  Everyone began eating.

  Bao Yu caught Sarah’s eye and mouthed the word “Sorry,” before turning to her own plate of food.

  Grace

  SARAH FOLLOWED MRS. LEE into the kitchen. Smitty and Miss Jean were already seated at the small kitchen table, setting out the platters of food that Mrs. Lee had reserved for them.

  Smitty stood up. “Miss, I’d like to apologize for barging in on you earlier. I’m Miss Jean’s husband, Mr. Smith.”

  He extended his hand and Sarah shook it.

  “Sarah,” she said.

  “A pleasure, Miss Sarah.” He bowed grandly. “You can call me Smitty. Just about everyone does.”

  “All right, Prince Charming, let the girl sit down and eat,” Miss Jean said.

  Mrs. Lee gestured for Sarah to join them. “Sit,” she said.

  Sarah sat at the table, and Smitty and Miss Jean joined hands and closed their eyes.

  “Bless us, O Lord,” Miss Jean said, “and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

  “Praise Jesus. Amen,” Smitty said.

  They turned to Sarah, clearly waiting for her to chime in with a “praise Jesus” or “amen” of her own. Sarah looked toward Mrs. Lee, unsure what to do.

  “She is Jewish person,” Mrs. Lee said. “They don’t have Jesus prayers.”

  “Is that right?” Miss Jean said, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t look Jewish with that red hair.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Smitty chimed in. “Just a little unusual is all.”

  “I don’t have Jesus prayers either,” Mrs. Lee said. “I am Buddhist person.” She bowed her head toward the food on the table. “This food is the gift of the whole universe. Each morsel is a sacrifice of life. May I be worthy to receive it.”

  Mrs. Lee, Miss Jean, and Smitty looked to Sarah for a reaction. She had never recited the evening prayers at home. That had always been her parents’ job. But she had committed the Hebrew words to memory and knew what they meant.

  “Baruch atah Adonai,” she began tentatively. “Eloheinu melech haolam, hamotzi lechem min ha-aretz. Amen.”

  Sarah felt proud of herself that she had memorized the prayer, but then she stiffened as she discovered the others staring at her.

  “It is a prayer thanking God for bread,” she said.

  “Amen to that,” said Smitty.

  “Praise Jesus,” Miss Jean piped in under her breath.

  “Enough religion,” Mrs. Lee said. “We eat now.”

  Maryk had already left for the night shift by the time Sarah went to clear the dishes from the dining table. Back in the kitchen Mrs. Lee handed her an apron from a hook on the door and pointed to the sink, where the dishes were stacked two feet high.

  Sarah spent the next hour and a half washing and drying the dishes and then scrubbing the wok and rice pot with a wire brush. When Miss Jean finished mopping the front room, she sat at the kitchen table and watched Sarah toiling at the sink. Sarah was certain that dish washing had been Miss Jean’s job before her arrival, and she knew her skills were being judged.

  When the final pot was washed, she felt Miss Jean tap her on the shoulder. Sarah spun around, afraid she had made a mistake.

  “I’ll show you where they go,” Miss Jean said, nodding with some admiration.

  She helped Sarah put everything away.

  “Well, you’re not afraid of rolling up your sleeves and getting your hands dirty. Come here. I’ll help you with that.”

  She gestured for Sarah to turn around and then untied her apron, lifted it over her head, and hung it on the back of the door.

  “Thank you,” Sarah said.

  “It was nothing,” Miss Jean replied.

  “Breakfast served at seven thirty,” Mrs. Lee said, reentering the room. “You come down at six thirty to cook with me. You understand?”

  “Yes.” Sarah nodded. “And thank you. Thank you both.”

  “You go to sleep now,” Mrs. Lee said. “You look like you been run over by wagon.”

  A Real Bed

  AS SOON AS SARAH STEPPED INTO Maryk’s room, her body went slack as the remaining energy drained out of her. It had been more than a full day since she had last slept in the crown room of the Lady and several weeks since she had lain in a proper bed. She felt as if she had lived an entire lifetime since leaving her village. In her one day in Manhattan, she had seen and heard more new and strange things and people than she would have in an entire lifetime back home.

  Sarah wasn’t sure what to make of any of the new people she had met. Maryk, Mrs. Lee, Miss Jean and Smitty, Mrs. Fat and Bao Yu were all so different from her or anyone she had ever known, and she had trouble figuring out whom she could trust. She longed to talk to her mother or father to help guide her. She had been so busy during the day that she had been distracted from her grief. But now, alone in Maryk’s room, she missed them more than ever.

  She turned the lock on the door and sat on the bed, where she removed her boots and coat an
d finally lay down. Her body sank into the soft mattress and pillow, a welcome sensation after all the hard surfaces she had been forced to sleep on.

  She removed Ivan from the pocket of her skirt and placed him on the pillow beside her.

  “It feels like we’re lying on a cloud,” she whispered to the bear.

  Sarah recognized the slightly sour smell of Maryk on the sheets and pillow. But she was too overwhelmed with exhaustion to mind. Her muscles relaxed, her bones settling into the cushiony surface. Her eyes fluttered shut and she fell into a deep sleep.

  Sarah dreamed she was cutting vegetables the same way that she had just done for Mrs. Lee. But now she was back in her little house in her village, staring out the window into their family garden.

  Sarah’s mother appeared behind her, singing a clear lilting melody, and deposited a few potatoes beside her on the table. She patted Sarah gently on the shoulder. The warmth of the touch made Sarah’s body tingle.

  Sarah heard a chopping sound and looked out the window to see her father standing beside the woodpile. He raised a small hand ax high over his head and brought it down to split a log that sat on a large stump they used for chopping. He glanced up at Sarah and his mouth creased into a smile, crow’s-feet sprouting next to his eyes. Then he turned his attention back to the wood, raised the ax, and chopped. The log splintered in two with a loud crack.

  Sarah jolted awake. She sat up in the darkness of Maryk’s room unsure of where she was, still trapped in the warm fantasy of the dream. Then she heard another sharp noise coming from the hallway just outside the door. A cold shiver shot through her. Someone was fiddling with the lock.

  Midnight Intruder

  SARAH AUTOMATICALLY REACHED for Ivan and shoved him back in her pocket. Afraid to move, she held her breath as she heard the sound of a key struggling to find its way into the metal hole. The key clattered to the floor and she heard Maryk’s muffled voice through the door.

  “Ugh,” he grunted with exertion as he bent to pick it up. A moment later, the knob turned.

  Sarah suddenly remembered her father’s scissors. She grabbed the coat that she had laid across the end of bed and patted down the front until she found the small hard lump in the inner pocket. She pulled out the scissors. The blades were thin and very sharp. She gripped the weapon tightly and pushed herself into an upright position, her back against the wall.

  The door swung open and Maryk’s dark shadow fell into the room. His tall, hulking frame paused in the doorway for a moment, swayed, then stepped inside and closed the door. Sarah could not see his face, but she could hear his heavy breathing and smell the sour odor of whiskey and pipe tobacco.

  Sarah’s entire body shook as she held the scissors in front of her, bracing for his attack. She gripped the scissors tighter as he walked unsteadily forward. His shadow slowly crept over her, casting her in deeper darkness. When he was nearly to the bed, she thrust the scissors toward him.

  “Don’t come any closer!”

  He recoiled and stopped, as if surprised by her presence.

  “What the . . . ,” he sputtered.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? It’s my room, ain’t it?” His tongue was thick and slowed by whiskey.

  “You said I could stay here.”

  “I did?” he growled.

  “Yes. You did.”

  He swayed on his feet.

  “I just came to get something is all.”

  “It is the middle of the night. . . .”

  “Man’s got a right to get something out of his own room. . . .”

  “Can’t you get it in the morning?”

  He stood in the darkness for a long moment, his labored breathing the only sound.

  “Please . . . ,” she added.

  Finally he veered off toward the dresser and reached for one of the bottles of whiskey, accidentally knocking some of them to the floor with a loud crash.

  “Criminy!” he growled.

  Sarah jumped but still held the scissors out before her.

  “They are all empty,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “There is no whiskey in them. You already took the last full one.”

  Maryk kicked one of the empty bottles, causing it to ricochet off the wall.

  “You can have your room back.”

  “Huh?”

  “I can go sleep in the basement,” she said, her voice trembling. “Just please. Don’t hurt me.”

  He took a deep breath and pointed an angry finger at her. “You stay right there!”

  Then he turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door as he went.

  Sarah loosened her grip on the scissors until they dropped out of her hand and onto the bed. Her heart beat furiously, the blood coursing through her until her head felt like it would burst.

  After that, Sarah couldn’t sleep. Was Maryk really just hunting for more whiskey? What if he came back and tried to attack her? And even if he meant her no harm and left her alone, what was she going to do to survive on her own? Mrs. Lee had only agreed to let her stay one week. She needed to find a way to make money quickly, so she could get away from these strange people and find her own place to live.

  Sarah knew there were other immigrants from her country, probably from her village, in New York City. She just needed to find them. As soon as possible, she would track down her people and get a job as buttonhole maker just like she and her mother had intended. Gripping her father’s scissors in her hand, Sarah felt as if she was holding on to her protection and her future all at once.

  Fifteen Holes per Hour

  AFTER CLEANING UP FROM breakfast the next morning, Sarah wandered in and around the twisting streets of Chinatown. She saw two older Jewish men, in dark suits and white beards, and hurried up to walk close behind them so she could overhear their conversation in Yiddish.

  “The price of wool just keeps going up,” one said.

  “It’s like there’s a shortage of sheep out there,” the other agreed.

  They must be in the garment business, Sarah reasoned. So she decided to follow them.

  Sure enough, within a few blocks the store signs turned from Chinese to Hebrew and Yiddish and the streets were filled with people who came from her country. Pushcarts lined the sidewalks selling all sorts of familiar wares and foods like braided rolls and knishes stuffed with meat and potato. She wished she had some money to buy herself a taste of home.

  Sarah came to a street where huge rolls of fabric stuffed into barrels lined the sidewalks in front of the buildings. Burly men pulled various bolts and carried them inside. Other men with tape measures draped around their necks ducked in and out of doorways, examining fabrics and threads. Seeing these men reminded her of her father, who also used to go to work armed with a tape measure in addition to his precious scissors. Farther along, she passed another man mixing a large vat of deep crimson fabric dye.

  A group of girls passed by on the street, speaking her native language. Sarah leaned toward them as they strolled by, hungry to pick up any snippets of their conversation.

  She longed to fall into the group and follow them, wherever they were going, to be talking about something as simple as what they ate for lunch, to feel a part of something familiar again.

  These are my people, she thought. Not Maryk, Miss Jean, and Mrs. Lee.

  Sarah paused by a window where she could see a huge room filled with women and girls working at sewing machines. Toward the back of the room, she caught a glimpse of a group of women bent low over garments. Her eyes widened and she moved closer as she realized that they were making buttonholes. Maybe there was work for her too.

  A tall man in a suit with a neatly trimmed beard walked among the rows, checking the girls’ work. Sarah assumed he was the boss.

  She gave Ivan a squeeze inside her pocket for good luck and entered the factory. A few of the garment workers glanced up at Sarah as she approached the bearded man.

  “Excuse me, s
ir,” she said.

  He turned to her with a cross expression.

  “Who let you in here?”

  “No one. I just came in. I am looking for a job.”

  “Who isn’t?” he said.

  “I’m a buttonhole maker,” she said.

  “I have plenty of those.”

  She stood up straighter. “I was the best in my village.”

  A few of the women making buttonholes glanced up at her doubtfully.

  “How many holes can you make an hour?” one asked.

  Sarah had never really counted. But, in truth, she knew she wasn’t very fast. She lied.

  “Fifteen,” she said.

  “Fifteen!” The women laughed. “We do at least twenty-five.”

  “I can do thirty if I’ve had a good night’s sleep,” another said.

  “My record’s thirty-nine,” a third chimed in.

  “All right, back to work,” the man with the beard said. “We’re not hiring now anyway. I’m sorry.”

  “But . . .”

  “Look, miss, we really have to get back to work.”

  Then Sarah remembered her scissors. She quickly pulled them out of her pocket.

  “I have my own scissors,” she said, holding them up. “They’re very fine. See! So I wouldn’t even have to use one of yours.”

  The man paused and took the scissors from her hand. The other women nodded and whispered to each other, impressed. He held the scissors up and examined them.

  “These are good. Professional,” the man said. He handed them back. “Work on your speed and come back in three weeks. Maybe one of these experts will have retired.”

  “What? And leave all this glamour behind?” one of the women joked. The others laughed.

  “But I don’t have three weeks,” Sarah said. “I need to make money now.”

  “Sorry, kid,” the man said. “That’s the best I can do.”

  Sarah felt deflated as she walked back out onto the street. It didn’t really matter how many holes she could sew after all. She’d have to come up with a new plan.

  She started to head back to Mrs. Lee’s when she felt a hand tap her on the shoulder. She spun around and was startled to discover one of the older women who had been in the garment factory. The woman had long gray hair tied under a blue kerchief and kind eyes. Sarah braced herself to run, afraid she was going to be threatened by the woman for trying to take her job.