Things turned out even more miraculously than the Rosenheimers had
dared to hope. After only three days Rosenheimer found a job as a pants
cutter at the fabulous wages he had heard of. He could not only pay the
high rent, twelve dollars a month, he would also have enough left over
for food and clothes, and to furnish the home, if they were careful.
Maybe, after the house was in order, there would even be a little to
put by. Of course it was no use being too happy about it, he told Mrs.
Rosenheimer.
“It looks fine now, but you know you can’t always tell. It takes a
whole lot to feed a big family.”
Although secretly delighted, he was solemn and rather silent over his
good fortune. Abraham Rosenheimer was a cautious man.
Mrs. Abramson initiated Grandma and Mrs. Rosenheimer into New York
buying. It was fascinating, even more so than buying had been at home.
There were neighbourhood shops where Yiddish was spoken, and already
the family was beginning to learn a little English. Mrs. Rosenheimer
listened closely to what people said and the children picked up words,
playing in the street.
The next weeks were orgies of buying. Not that much was bought, for
there wasn’t much money and it had to be spent very carefully, but
each article meant exploring, looking and haggling. Grandma took the
lead in buying—didn’t Grandma always do such things? Grandma was only
fifty-seven and spry for her age. Didn’t she take care of the children
and do more than her share of the housework?
Grandma was supremely happy. She liked to buy and she felt that
merchants couldn’t fool her, even in this strange country. A table
was the first thing she purchased. It was almost new and quite large.
It was pine and bare of finish, but after Grandma had scrubbed it and
scoured it it looked clean and wholesome. It was quite a nice table
and only wobbled a little when you leaned on it heavily, for the legs
weren’t quite even. One was a little loose and Grandma didn’t seem able
to fasten it. Assisted by Mrs. Rosenheimer and Yetta, she scrubbed the
whole flat, so that it equalled the new table in immaculateness. There
were families who liked dirt—Grandma had seen them, even in America—but
she was glad she didn’t belong to one of them.
Then came chairs, each one picked out with infinite care and much
sibilant whispering between Grandma, Mrs. Rosenheimer and Mrs.
Abramson. There was a rocker, slat-backed, from which most of the
slats were missing, though it still rocked “as good as new.” The
next chair was leather-covered, though the leather was cut through
in places, allowing the horse-hair stuffing to protrude. But, as Mrs.
Abramson pointed out, this was an advantage, it showed that the filling
wasn’t an inferior cotton. There were two straight chairs, one with a
leatherette seat, nailed on with bright-coloured nails, the other with
a wicker seat, quite neatly mended. There was a cot for Grandma and a
bed for Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheimer and Emanuel. The other children were
well and strong and could sleep on the floor, of course. Hadn’t they
brought fine soft feathers with them?
All of the furniture was second- or third-hand and the previous owners
had not treated it with much care. So Grandma got some boxes to help
out, and she and the Rosenheimers worked over them, pulling and
driving nails. Finally they had a cupboard which held all of the new
dishes—almost new, if you don’t mind a few hardly noticeable nicked
edges—and decorated with fine pink roses. Some of the boxes were still
used as chairs, “to help out.” One fine, high one did very nicely as
an extra table, with a grand piece of brand-new oilcloth, in a marbled
pattern, tacked over it. They had a home now.
Grandma and Mrs. Rosenheimer marketed every day at the stores and
markets in the neighbourhood. Rosenheimer sometimes complained that
they used too much money, but then, he “liked to eat well.” The little
Rosenheimers grew round and merry.
Grandma and Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheimer, looking at the children and at
their two big rooms—all their own and so nicely furnished—could hardly
imagine anything finer. Grandma and Rosenheimer were absolutely at
peace. But Mrs. Rosenheimer knew that, with more money, there were a
lot of things you could buy. She had walked through Washington Square
and up Fifth Avenue. She had seen people in fine clothes, people of her
own race, too. She didn’t have much, after all. Still, most of the time
she was content.
Gradually, too, Rosenheimer saw shadows of wealth. He heard rumours of
how fortunes were made overnight—his boss now, a few years before, had
been a poor boy.... Nevertheless, smoking his cigarettes and reading
his Yiddish paper after his evening meal, or talking with Abramson or
one of the men he had met, he was well satisfied with New York as he
had found it.