IV

In 1897 another member was added to the family. This meant a big

expense, a midwife and later a doctor, but Rosenheimer had had a raise

by this time—he was, in fact, now a foreman—so the expense was met

without difficulty. There was real joy at the arrival of this baby—more

than at the coming of any of the previous children. For this was an

American baby, and seemed, in some way, to make the whole family more

American. The baby was a girl and even the sex seemed satisfactory,

though, of course, at every previous addition the Rosenheimers had

hoped for a boy.

There was a great discussion, then, about names. Before this, a baby

had always been named after some dead ancestor or relative without much

ado. It was best to name a child after a relative, but, according to

custom, if the name didn’t quite suit, you took the initial instead.

By some process of reasoning, this was supposed to be naming the child

“after” the honoured relative. Now the Rosenheimers wanted something

grandly American for the new baby. Grandma wanted Dora, after her

mother. But Dora didn’t sound American enough. Ike suggested Della, but

that didn’t suit, either. Finally Yetta brought home Dorothy. It was a

very stylish name, it seemed, and was finally accepted.

Little Emanuel, aged four, was told that “his nose was out of joint.”

He cried and felt of it. It seemed quite straight to him. It was. He

was a handsome little fellow, and, when Mrs. Rosenheimer took him out

with her, folks would stop and ask about him. She was glad when she

could answer them in English. And as for Mannie—at four he talked as if

no other country than America had ever existed.

Very gradually, Mrs. Rosenheimer grew tired of MacDougal Street. She

tried to introduce this dissatisfaction into the rest of the family.

Grandma was very happy here. With little shrugs and gestures she

decried any further change. Weren’t they all getting along finely?

Wasn’t Rosenheimer near his work? Weren’t the children fat and healthy?

What could they have better than this—two rooms, running water, gas

and everything? Didn’t they know people all around them? Rosenheimer

was indifferent. Some of his friends, including the Abramsons, had

already moved “farther out.” Still, he didn’t see the use of spending

so much money; they were all right where they were. Times were hard;

you couldn’t tell what might happen. Still, if Minnie had her heart set

on it— The children were ready for any change.

Mrs. Rosenheimer, revolving the matter endlessly in her mind, found

many reasons for moving. All of her friends, it seemed, had fled from

the noise and dirt of MacDougal Street. On first coming to New York

she had been disappointed at not living in the Ghetto over on the

East side. Now, when she visited there, she wondered how she had ever

liked it. When she moved she wanted something really fine—and where

her friends were, too. She had a good many friends outside of the

Ghetto now. On arriving in America she hadn’t known MacDougal Street

was dirty. She knew it now. And the little Italian children in the

neighbourhood—oh, they were all right, of course, but—not just whom

you’d want your children to play with, exactly. Why, every day Ike

would come home with terrible things they had said to him. And their

home, which had looked so grand, was old and ugly, too, when compared

with those of other people. Of course Grandma liked it, but, after all,

Grandma was old-fashioned. Mrs. Rosenheimer discovered, almost in one

breath, that her mother belonged to a passing generation, and didn’t

keep up with the times—that she, herself, really had charge of the

household.

Out in East Seventy-seventh Street there were some tenements, not at

all like those of MacDougal Street nor the Ghetto, but brand-new, just

the same as rich people had. Each flat had a regular kitchen with a

sink and running water and a fine new gas stove. The front room had a

mirror in it that belonged to the house—and—unbelievably but actually

true—there was a bathroom for each family. It had a tub in it, painted

white, and a washstand—both with running water—and already there was

oilcloth, in blue and white, on the bathroom floor. The outer halls had

gas in them that burned all night—some sort of a law. Those tenements

were elegant—that was the way to live.

Rosenheimer got another raise. There was some sort of an organization

of cutters, a threatened strike, and then sudden success. Mrs.

Rosenheimer never understood much about it but it meant more money.

Now Rosenheimer had no legitimate reason for keeping his family in

MacDougal Street.

So he and Mrs. Rosenheimer and Grandma went out to the new tenements

and looked around. Mrs. Rosenheimer acted as spokesman, talking with

the woman at the renting office, asking questions, pointing things out.

At the end of the afternoon Rosenheimer rented one of the four-room

flats in a new tenement building.

On the way home, Mrs. Rosenheimer leaned close to her husband:

“Ain’t it grand, the way we are going to live now?” she asked.

“If we can pay for it.”

“With you doing so well, how you talk!”

“Good enough, but money, these days—”

“Abe, do you want to do something for me?”

“Go on, something more to spend money on.”

“Not a cent, Abe. Only, won’t you—shave your beard? Moving to a new

neighbourhood and all. Not for me, but the neighbours should see what

an American father the children have got.”

Rosenheimer frowned a bit uneasily. Mrs. Rosenheimer didn’t refer

to it again, but three days later he came home strangely thin and

white-looking—his beard gone. Only a little moustache, soft and mixed

with red, remained.

Before the Rosenheimers moved they sold the worst of their furniture

to the very man from whom they bought it, five years before, taking

only the big bed, the table and the couch. It was Mrs. Rosenheimer who

insisted on this.

“Trash we’ve got, when you compare it to the way others live. We need

new things in a fine new flat.”

On the day they were moving, Yetta said something. The family were

amazed into silence. Yetta was thirteen now, a tall girl, rather plump,

with black hair and flashing eyes.

“When we move, let’s get rid of some of our name,” she said. “I hate

it. It’s awfully long—Rosenheimer. Nobody ever says it all, anyhow.

Let’s call ourselves Rosenheim.”

“Why, why,” muttered her father, finally, “how you talk! Change my

name, as if I was a criminal or something.”

“Aw,” Yetta pouted, she was her father’s favourite and she knew it,

“this family of greenhorns make me tired. Rosenheimer—if it was longer

you’d like it better. Ike Rosenheimer and Carrie Rosenheimer and Yetta

Rosenheimer! It’s awful. Leaving off two letters would only help a

little—and that’s too much for you. Since the Abramsons moved they

are Abrams, and you know it. And Sam—do you know what? At school they

called him MacDougal because he lived here on this street and he liked

it better than Sam, so he’s calling himself MacDougal Abrams now. And

here, you old-timers—”

“She’s right, Mamma,” said Ike, “our names are awful.”

Mannie didn’t say anything. He sucked a great red lollypop. At six one

doesn’t care much about names. Nor did Carrie, who was eight.

There was a letter-box for each family in the entrance hall of the new

tenement building and a space for the name of the family just above

it. Maybe Rosenheimer had taken the advice of his children. Perhaps

he wrote in large letters and couldn’t get all of his name in the

space made for it. Anyhow, Rosenheim was announced to the world as the

occupant of Flat 52.

V

Flat 52 was quite as handsome as Mrs. Rosenheim had dreamed it would

be. There were four rooms in it. In the parlour was the famous built-in

mirror, with a ledge below it to hold ornaments. And, before long,

ornaments there were, three big vases. They were got with coupons from

the coffee and tea store at the corner—it was a lucky thing all the

Rosenheims liked coffee. There was the couch, too, but best of all was

the new table. It was brand-new—no one else had ever used it before.

Mrs. Rosenheim bought it in Avenue A and was paying for it weekly out

of the household allowance. It was red and shiny and round and each

little Rosenheim was warned not to press sticky fingers on it, though

it was always full of finger marks.

On the table was a mat of blue plush and on the plush mat was—yes—a

book—“Wonders of Natural History.” It had been Yetta’s birthday present

from her father and was quite handsome enough, coloured pictures, red

binding and all, to grace even this gem of a table. There was a new rug

in this room, too, though it was new only to the Rosenheims. There

were roses woven right into it and Grandma thought it was the most

beautiful thing she had ever seen. She liked to sit and look at it as

she rocked.

Yetta, Carrie and Grandma slept in the front room—just the three of

them alone in the biggest room. There was a cot, covered with a Turkish

spread, for the girls and Grandma slept on the couch—no sleeping on

the floor any more for this family. So wonderful was the new home that

there was a bedroom devoted exclusively to the rites of sleeping.

Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheim and Dorothy occupied it. The third room was

the dining-room, where Ike and Mannie slept all alone on a cot and

weren’t afraid. No one slept in the kitchen or bathroom at all. In

the dining-room there was a whole “set” of furniture, bought from the

family that was moving out, a square table and six chairs. It was lucky

Mannie and Dorothy were so little they could sit on others’ laps.

The dining-room with its fine “set,” brought the habit of regular meals

with it. In MacDougal Street there was a supper-time, of course, but

the children weren’t always there and the other meals had been rather

haphazard, half of the family standing up, likely as not. Now there

was a regular breakfast in the morning, every one sitting down, and

early enough for Rosenheim to get to work on time and Yetta and Ike

and Carrie to get to school. Lunch was still informal, eaten standing

around the kitchen. Supper was a grand meal, every one sitting down at

the same time, the table all set with tablecloth and dishes, as if it

were a party.

It was easy to settle down into the pleasant rhythm of East

Seventy-seventh Street. There were big new tenements on each side of

the street and before long each member of the family made lots of

friends.

Rosenheim didn’t have as many friends as the others. He didn’t care

for them. His hours were long and he was getting into the habit of

working, sometimes, at night. It takes a lot of money to pay rent—six

dollars every week—and buy clothes and food for a family and save a

little, too. Rosenheim didn’t complain unless his usual solemn face and

prediction of hard times can be called complaining. It never occurred

to him that he had anything to complain about. Didn’t he have a fine

home and a lot to eat, a home grander than he ought to spend the money

for, even? When he wasn’t busy, he and Abrams and a friend of theirs,

sometimes a man named Moses, would play cards long hours at a time,

talking in loud, seemingly angry voices and smoking long cigarettes.

Or, with coat, collar and shoes off, as he always sat in the house,

he would read the paper—he could read English quite easily, but he

preferred Yiddish. He didn’t talk much and the children were taught

“not to worry Papa,” when he was at home.

Grandma grew to like the new home in time, though it never seemed quite

as pleasant as that in MacDougal Street. She did all of the cooking, of

course, and could order the children around as much as she wanted to,

though they were good children as a rule, when you let them see who was

boss. She would exclaim with clasped hands over the grandeur of things

and beg her God that the people from her home-town might see “how we

live like this.” She was always busy. She never learned to speak

English well, and though at sixty-two she could drive a bargain as good

as ever, she didn’t feel quite comfortable in the near-by shops as she

had in MacDougal Street. Gradually her daughter took over the marketing

from her.

The spirit of change had reached Mrs. Rosenheim and she did what she

could to grasp it. She tried again to persuade Grandma to take off her

_sheitel_.

“See, Grandma, these other people. Ain’t you as good as them? It ain’t

nothing to be ashamed of, a _sheitel_, but here in America we do what

others do.”

But Grandma kept her _sheitel_. She couldn’t yield everything to the

customs of the unbelievers. She even muttered things about “forgetting

your own people.”

Mrs. Rosenheim tried to acquire “elegant English.” She was very proud

of her children because their language was unsullied by accent. But

perhaps because she never liked to read and it never occurred to her

that she might study, or because her tongue had lost its flexibility,

she was never able to conceal her foreignness. She was becoming a

little self-satisfied, too, a bit complacent with her own ways, and

this may have hindered her progress. The new language issued forth in a

strange, twisted form, the “w’s” and “v’s” transposed, the intonations

of the Yiddish always noticeable. She managed to make nearly all of the

ordinary grammatical errors of the native and a few pet ones of her

own. Her sentences were full of inversions. Her voice, never very low,

became louder and louder and the singing intonations more marked as she

grew excited. Rosenheim spoke with an accent, too, which he always

retained, but his voice was quite low and he soon overcame this strange

sing-song of his native tongue. Then, too, Rosenheim never talked very

much.

Mrs. Rosenheim bloomed in East Seventy-seventh Street. Her mother did

the cooking and Yetta helped with the housework. Even then, with so

many children in the house, there was enough to do, but she spent much

time in visiting her neighbours, gossiping about her children, the

prices of food, other neighbours. Although her family came first, she

began to pay more attention to herself, buying clothes that were not

absolutely necessary, cheap things that looked fine to her. She became

ambitious, too. She found that there was another life not bounded by

the tenements and that “other people,” the rich part of the world, were

not much different outside of their possession of money. Her humility

was wearing away. “We’re as good as anybody” came to her mind, and

was beginning to fertilize. She didn’t want to associate with any one

outside of her own group, but she liked to feel that others were not

superior. The children, continuing their acquisitiveness, encouraged

their mother.

Yetta had her fourteenth birthday soon after the family moved to East

Seventy-seventh Street. She began to mature rather rapidly, arranging

her hair in an exaggerated following of the fashion and even purchased

and wore a pair of corsets. She had a high colour and her flashing

eyes made her quite attractive. Her mouth was rather wide. Yetta did

not speak with a foreign accent, but her voice was a trifle hoarse and

was not well modulated. She had a lot to say about nearly everything

and delighted in saying it. The niceties of conversation had not been

introduced into the Rosenheim family life and most of the things Yetta

thought of occurred when some one else was talking. Her favourite

method of attracting attention was to interrupt or talk down, in a

louder voice, any one who had the floor. Ike had this pleasant little

habit, too, so between them conversation rose in roaring waves of sound.

Yetta felt that many things about her could be improved. She began to

criticize things at home—her clothes; her mother’s language, which was

too full of errors, too singing to suit her daughter; the actions of

the younger children. She never liked to read, but she “loved a good

time” and was always with a group of girls and boys, laughing and

talking.

Ike was much like Yetta, though a bit more serious, more inclined to

argument. He could argue over anything even at twelve. He, too, had

definite notions about the upbringing of the younger children and the

modernity of the household. He didn’t want any one making fun of the

family he belonged to. His own name came in for his disapproval about

this time.

He had a fight with a boy named Jim and Jim hit him and called him

names. But the cruelest part of Jim’s name-calling had been merely to

repeat, over and over again, “Ikey Rosenheim, Ikey Rosenheim.” For this

cruelty Ike had fought Jim and had emerged not entirely victorious,

bringing back a black eye and the memory of the derision in the mouth

of the enemy.

“I’m going to change my name,” Ike announced at supper that night. “I

don’t care what this family says. You make me sick, naming me Ike. You

might have known. This family has terrible names. No wonder people make

fun of us. After this I’m—I’m going to be—Harold.”

“Oh, no, not Harold,” Grandma wailed, with uplifted hands.

“No,” Mrs. Rosenheim groaned, “you’ve got to keep the letter, the ‘I.’

You were named after your Papa’s father.”

“There’s a lot of good names beginning with ‘I,’” Yetta encouraged. So,

between them, they found Irving, which seemed satisfactory to every

one. Little Irving, at school, told his teacher that Ike had been a

nickname and that the family wanted him called by his own name, now.

Jim, not satisfied with Irving Rosenheim as a reproach, had to find

something else to fight about.

Carrie and Mannie and Dorothy were still too little to bother about

names. They begged for pennies for lollypops on sticks, candy apples,

licorice and other delicacies that the neighbourhood afforded,

satisfied to tag after Mrs. Rosenheim as she did the marketing. They

were nice children, though of course Dorothy was a little spoiled—the

youngest child and always having her own way about everything.