They were settled only a few months when Yetta begged and got—a piano.
Shiningly red, it matched the rest of the living-room furniture. It was
an upright, of course, and Yetta draped a pale silk scarf embroidered
in gold threads over it, with a vase at either end to hold it in place.
Soon she and Carrie were taking lessons from a Mme. Roset of the
neighbourhood, making half-hours horrible with scales and five-finger
exercises.
There were now other forms of art in the household, too. For his
birthday the children gave their father enlargements of the photographs
of him and their mother. These were “hand-made crayons” in grey, with
touches of colour on lips and cheeks and framed in wide carved oak,
trimmed with gold. They were placed side by side above the piano,
which stood slightly diagonally in one corner.
The children were growing up. Yetta felt herself quite a young lady
and didn’t go to school. There was no use going any more—she wasn’t
going to be a teacher, was she? She had a lovely handwriting, with fine
loops at the ends of the “y’s” and “g’s.” It seemed a shame to spend
her days in school when there were so many things to do outside. No
one tried to persuade her to keep on going. Her father was slightly of
the opinion that too much learning wasn’t good for a girl anyhow. Men
didn’t like “smart” girls and Yetta was growing up. If she had wanted
to go to school he might have consented, but she didn’t. She preferred
putting on her best clothes, her hat an exaggerated copy of something
she had seen in Broadway and had had made after her description at a
neighbourhood shop, a cheap fur around her neck, high-heeled shoes.
Thus attired, she went walking.
In the morning she had to help a little with the bedmaking, dusting and
ironing. But in the afternoons she was free. She’d meet some of “the
girls” or “the boys” and drink soda, laughing and giggling over things.
She used the latest slang and talked rather loudly. At night there
were dances or the crowd would go, in pairs or groups, to the theatre,
sitting in the gallery, usually, and laughing heartily over the jokes.
They were fondest of vaudeville. Yetta was awfully happy when she had
enough spending money and a new dress—a bit more exaggerated in style
than any of her friends. She couldn’t imagine anything finer than the
new neighbourhood and the new apartment.
Grandma was just a trifle bewildered in the Bronx. She didn’t seem to
fit in. The children, growing up, were developing unexpected opinions
of their own that didn’t agree with her ideas. They called her
old-fashioned and giggled at her advice. There was plenty to do and
Grandma liked housework. But sixty-five isn’t young and Grandma had
worked hard in her day. Four flights of stairs aren’t easy, either,
so Grandma didn’t go out often. Occasionally, she walked around the
neighbourhood, not knowing just what to do. Mrs. Rosen did all her own
marketing or telephoned for things—there was a telephone in the new
apartment. There were a few old friends to go to see, foreign-born
women, like herself, and with these she would talk in comfortable
Yiddish. But each one lived several blocks away. You didn’t talk to
strangers in this neighbourhood, it seemed, and you could go for weeks
and not see any one you knew. A funny place, America.
Still, there were pleasant things for Grandma—good food and the fun
of preparing it, a comfortable home. Mrs. Rosen didn’t like to work
as well as she used to, so finally she hired a woman who came in, one
day a week, to do the washing in the morning and the scrubbing of
kitchen and bath in the afternoon. Grandma was quite excited over this
innovation. For the first time in her life she could fold her gnarled
old hands and watch some one do the work for her.
“They should hear about this back home,” she would say. “Abe with a
factory and us with seven rooms and a washwoman and all. We’ve got it
lucky, ain’t it, Minnie?”
Mrs. Rosen, though annoyed at her mother’s simplicity, agreed. Already
Mrs. Rosen was planning bigger things. It didn’t seem at all impossible
to her that some day they might even have a regular servant girl.
Mrs. Rosen was well satisfied, generally. Occasionally she, too,
regretted some of the pleasant things that Seventy-seventh Street
had meant for her. She had liked the friendly chatter of the
neighbourhood. Here in the Bronx you had to be “dressed” all the time.
In Seventy-seventh Street you could go out in the morning in your
housedress, with a basket, and spend a pleasant hour or so bargaining
with the shop-keepers and talking with friends, always meeting little
groups you knew. On the steps, in the evening you could call back and
forth. Money was good; she was glad she had it. A servant girl would be
fine; it was a lot of work for her and Grandma, cleaning up after five
children. But this neighbourhood was stylish enough. You knew some of
your neighbours here, even if they weren’t so friendly. Maybe, after
you got better acquainted....
It was nice, having a lot of rooms and new clothes and all that. Mrs.
Rosen finally met new acquaintances and liked them. She played cards
in the afternoons now and a few months later joined a euchre club
which met every Tuesday afternoon at the homes of its members in turn.
There were “refreshments” after the game, cold meat and potato salad,
usually, and the prizes were hand-painted china and “honiton lace”
centrepieces. Mrs. Rosen won quite an assortment as the months passed.
Irving was getting to be a big boy. He looked a little like his
father, thin, a trifle sallow, with a slightly aquiline nose—but much
handsomer, his mother thought. His eyes were not strong and quite early
he had to wear glasses. He adopted nose-glasses and before he quite got
used to them he had formed the habit of tilting his head up, to keep
them from falling off. He had rather a sharp chin and wore his black
hair straight back and sleek.
When the family moved to the Bronx he was fourteen, had on a first pair
of long trousers, and was in the first year of the high school. He was
quick in his studies and would argue with his teachers about anything
under discussion. He still liked long dissertations at home and had
about decided to be a lawyer. In the years that followed he read quite
a little, not so much for the love of reading—he had little of that—but
from a desire “to keep up with things,” so he could discuss and dissect
and argue. He liked the theatre as he grew older, but preferred serious
dramas.
Carrie was quieter than either Yetta or Irving, but she observed a
great deal. She liked to spend money, begging it from her parents.
“We’re rich, why can’t I have more things?” she would say, buying
unnecessarily expensive ribbons and purses. She liked to correct the
family, too, and, when her mother grew vocal and her voice took on the
sing-song of her native tongue, Carrie would say, “Don’t talk so loud,
Mother. We aren’t deaf, you know,” or “This is America. We try to speak
English here.” Mrs. Rosen would check herself rather shamefacedly,
instead of “calling the child down,” as she felt she should have done.
Carrie liked expensive clothes and she liked putting them on and taking
long walks with just one girl friend, talking quietly. She thought
Yetta’s crowd awfully loud. Mannie and Dorothy were good-looking
little children, still coaxers of pennies and both rather spoiled.
The Acme Pants Company grew, but in spite of its growth none of
the family dared suggest any extravagant changes. Rosen spoke too
much about hard times for that. And he did worry, too, for with the
enlarging of the business came the borrowing of money and notes to
meet. He worked at night for weeks at a time and grew thinner. Outside
of his usual solemnity he never complained. He enjoyed the business as
much for its own sake as for the things he was able to give his family.
It was far more interesting and absorbing to him than they were. Even
at home his mind was filled with business detail and in the midst of
a meal or a friendly discussion his eyes would grow vacant, he would
fumble for a pencil and write something down on an envelope. Spare
evenings, he played cards with Abrams or Moss or Hammer or fell asleep
over his newspaper—an English one, nearly always, now. He still took
off his coat in the house and sometimes his collar and tie. It was
Carrie who said to him, “Papa, why do you start undressing as soon as
you get home?” He always kept on his shoes and sometimes his collar and
tie after that.
He never took much part in the family life. Irving bored him. He was
not interested in “women’s doings,” and could ignore whole evenings
of conversation about people and clothes. His business was the one
thing he cared to talk about—his family knew nothing about business.
What was there left? None of them knew or cared anything about world
affairs. It isn’t likely Rosen would have been interested if they had.
So, unconsciously, he drew apart more and more. He paid bills, with a
little grumbling. He handed out money when necessary. He greeted all
luxuries with something about “hard times.” He accepted all innovations
with apparent disregard. He was never cross or disagreeable. Every one
was a little quieter when he was at home. Otherwise it was as if he
were not there at all.