Part 30 (2/2)

”Sewing-machine operating?” I cried. ”Oi weh!” I shuddered.

”Only the thought 'machine' kills me. Even when I only look on clothes, it weeps in me when I think how the seams from everything people wear is sweated in the shop.”

”Well, then”--putting a kind hand on my shoulder--”how would you like to learn to cook? There's a great need for trained servants and you'd get good wages and a pleasant home.”

”Me--a servant?” I flung back her hand. ”Did I come to America to make from myself a cook?”

Mrs. Olney stood abashed a moment. ”Well, my dear,” she said deliberately, ”what would you like to take up?”

”I got ideas how to make America better, only I don't know how to say it out. Ain't there a place I can learn?”

A startled woman stared at me. For a moment not a word came. Then she proceeded with the same kind smile. ”It's nice of you to want to help America, but I think the best way would be for you to learn a trade. That's what this school is for, to help girls find themselves, and the best way to do is to learn something useful.”

”Ain't thoughts useful? Does America want only the work from my body, my hands? Ain't it thoughts that turn over the world?”

”Ah! But we don't want to turn over the world.” Her voice cooled.

”But there's got to be a change in America!” I cried. ”Us immigrants want to be people--not 'hands'--not slaves of the belly! And it's the chance to think out thoughts that makes people.”

”My child, thought requires leisure. The time will come for that. First you must learn to earn a good living.”

”Did I come to America for a living?”

”What did you come for?”

”I came to give out all the fine things that was choked in me in Russia. I came to help America make the new world.... They said, in America I could open up my heart and fly free in the air--to sing--to dance--to live--to love.... Here I got all those grand things in me, and America won't let me give nothing.”

”Perhaps you made a mistake in coming to this country. Your own land might appreciate you more.” A quick glance took me in from head to foot. ”I'm afraid that you have come to the wrong place. We only teach trades here.”

She turned to her papers and spoke over her shoulder. ”I think you will have to go elsewhere if you want to set the world on fire.”

Part III

Blind pa.s.sion swayed me as I walked out of the Immigrant School, not knowing where I was going, not caring. One moment I was swept with the fury of indignation, the next moment bent under the burden of despair. But out of this surging conflict one thought--one truth gradually grew clearer and clearer to me: Without comprehension, the immigrant would forever remain shut out--a stranger in America. Until America can release the heart as well as train the hand of the immigrant, he would forever remain driven back upon himself, corroded by the very richness of the unused gifts within his soul.

I longed for a friend--a real American friend--some one different from Mrs. Olney, some one who would understand this vague, blind hunger for release that consumed me. But how, where could I find such a friend?

As I neared the house we lived in, I paused terror-stricken. On the sidewalk stood a jumbled pile of ragged house-furnis.h.i.+ngs that looked familiar--chairs, dishes, kitchen pans. Amidst bundles of bedding and broken furniture stood my mother. Oblivious of the curious crowd, she lit the Sabbath candles and prayed over them.

In a flash I understood it all. Because of the loss of my wages while I was in the hospital, we had been evicted for unpaid rent. It was Sabbath eve. My father was in the synagogue praying and my mother, defiant of disgrace, had gone on with the ceremony of the Sabbath.

All the romance of our race was in the light of those Sabbath candles. Homeless, abandoned by G.o.d and man, yet in the very desolation of the streets my mother's faith burned--a challenge to all America.

”Mammeh!” I cried, pus.h.i.+ng through the crowd. Bessie and Dave darted forward. In a moment the four of us stood clinging to one another, amid the ruins of our broken home.

A neighbor invited us into her house for supper. No sooner had we sat down at the table than there was a knock at the door and a square-figured young woman entered, asking to see my mother.

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