As the months passed, the Rosenheimers drank in, unbelievably fast,
the details of the city. Already the children were beginning to speak
English, not just odd words, here and there, but whole sentences.
Already, too, they were beginning to be ashamed of being “greenhorns”
and were planning the time when they could say they had been over for
years or had been born here. Little Mannie was beginning to talk and
every one said he spoke English without an accent.
Yetta and Ike started to school. Each day they brought home some
startling bit of information that the family received and assimilated
without an eye-wink. Although most of the men at the shop spoke
Yiddish, Rosenheimer was learning English, too. He even spoke, vaguely,
about learning to read it and write it, and he began to look over
English papers, now and then, interestedly. Mrs. Rosenheimer also
showed faint literary leanings and sometimes asked questions about
things.
Ike was always eager to tell everything he had learned. In a sharp
little voice he would instruct, didactically, any one within hearing
distance. He rather annoyed Rosenheimer, who was not blinded by the
virtues of his eldest son. But he was Mrs. Rosenheimer’s favourite. She
would sit, hands folded across her ample lap, smiling proudly as he
unrolled his fathomless knowledge.
“Listen at that boy! Ain’t he wonderful, the way he knows so much?” she
would exclaim.
Yetta’s learning took the form, principally, of wanting things. Each
day, it seemed, she could find out something else she didn’t have,
that belonged to all American children. And, no matter how penniless
Rosenheimer had just declared himself to be, unsmilingly and a bit
shamefacedly, he would draw pennies out of the depths of the pocket of
his shiny trousers.
Only Grandma showed no desire to learn the ways of the new country.
She didn’t mind picking up a little English, of course, though she’d
got along very nicely all of her life without it. Still, in a new
country, it didn’t hurt to know something about the language. But as
for reading—well, Yiddish was good enough for her, though she didn’t
mind admitting she didn’t read Yiddish easily. Grandma had little use
for the printed word.
Each week the Rosenheimers’ clothes changed nearer to the prevailing
styles of MacDougal Street. Only a few weeks after they arrived Mrs.
Rosenheimer, overcome by her new surroundings, bought, daringly, a lace
sailor collar, which she fastened around the neck of her old-world
costume. As the months passed, even this failed to satisfy. The dress
itself finally disappeared, reappearing as a school frock for Yetta,
and Mrs. Rosenheimer wore a modest creation of red plaid worsted which
Grandma and she had made, huge sleeves, bell skirt and all, after one
they had seen in Washington Square on a “society lady.”
Just a year after they arrived in America, Mrs. Rosenheimer discarded
her _sheitel_. She even tried to persuade Grandma to leave hers off,
but Grandma demurred. There were things you couldn’t do decently, even
in a new country. Mrs. Rosenheimer made the innovation in a spirit of
fear, but when no doom overtook her and she found in a few weeks how
“stylish” she looked, she never regretted the change. She was wearing
curled bangs, good as the next one, before long.
Little Ike had a new suit, bought ready-made, his first bought suit,
not long afterwards. The trousers were a bit too long, but surely
that was an advantage, for he was growing fast, going on eight. They
couldn’t call him a “greenhorn” now. He came home, too, with reports of
how smart his teacher said he was and of the older boys, unbelievers,
whom he had “got ahead of” in school. His shrill voice would grow
louder and higher as he would explain to the admiring Mrs. Rosenheimer
and Grandma what a fine lad he was getting to be.
Other signs of change now appeared. Scarcely a year had gone by before
lace curtains appeared at the two front windows. They were of different
patterns, but what of that? They had been cheaper that way, as
“samples.” By tautly drawn strings, white and stiff they hung, adding
a touch of elegance to the abode. Only three months later a couch was
added, the former grandeur of its tufted surface not at all dimmed by
a few years of wear. Yetta and Carrie slept on it, luxuriously, one at
each end. It was a long couch and they were so little.
Then a cupboard for dishes appeared. Grandma bought it from a family
that was “selling out.” It had glass doors. At least there had been
glass doors. One was broken now, but who noticed that? In the corner of
the front room, opposite the couch, it looked very “stylish.” And not
long afterward there was a carpet in the front room, three strips of
it, with a red and green pattern. Then, indeed, the Rosenheimers felt
that they could, very proudly, “be at home to their friends.” They had
company, now, families of old friends and new, from the Ghetto and from
their own neighbourhood. And they visited, _en masse_, in return.
There wasn’t much money, of course. Rosenheimer was getting good wages,
but children eat a lot and beg for pennies between meals. And shoes!
But like many men of his race and disposition, Rosenheimer never
contributed quite all of his funds to his household. Nor did he take
his women into his confidence. He felt that they could not counsel
him wisely, which was probably right, for neither Grandma nor Mrs.
Rosenheimer was interested in anything outside of their home and their
friends. Besides this, he had a natural secrecy, a dislike of talking
things over with his family. So, each week, he made an infinitesimal
addition to the savings account he had started. He even considered
various investments—he knew of men who were buying the tenements in
which they lived on wages no bigger than his, living in the basement
and taking care of the house outside of working hours. But he felt that
he was still too much the “greenhorn” for such enterprises, so he kept
on with his small and secret savings.