Enchanted Islands by Allison Amend

Rosalie said. “We can sneak out the back stairs and we have our privacy. And our own bathroom!”
    I had never shared a bathroom with just one person. Always there was someone knocking at the door, anxious to take his turn. The three families on our floor shared two communal commodes. There was one bathtub, and we had a once-a-week family rotation.
    Mrs. Klein’s, though, had unlimited hot water. The kitchen was a dream, with a new gas oven and a large sink that held all the dinner’s dishes for washing. There was even an entire room devoted to laundry, with another basin large enough to contain a washboard, and a pulley system that held damp clothing up in the air where the warmth sped it dry. The hallway was so long you might have played basketball in it, with smooth shiny boards (that I hadn’t realized I’d have to polish). The bathrooms were ornately tiled, with a border of engraved porcelain that spanned the entire length of the room. Each had a claw-foot tub, and one even had a showerhead! I dared myself to try it one day when Mrs. Klein was out.
    But Mrs. Klein never went out. Apparently, until recently, she’d been very active, attending luncheons and walking in the park. She had suffered an attack, though, which left her in the hospital for several weeks. She had full-time nursing care until recently, when her disagreeableness chased the last one out. Her daughter had convinced her she was doing us a favor, and hoped that the motivation of
tzedakah
—charity—might overcome her irritability.
    Our room was wallpapered with tiny fleurs-de-lis, peeling near the one window. It looked out into the alley, across which other people slept in maids’ rooms and other kitchens belched cooking smells and steam into the air. There was something comforting about the proximity, everyone going about their lives the same way we were.
    We were only half a mile from the lake, and I walked there daily to look at the water, which changed, like Rosalie’s moods, now frothy and violent, now placid, crystalline.
    *
    Our lodging settled, I had to resume looking for a job. I spent the next day down by the piers, stopping in at shipping companies and presenting myself as an experienced secretary. I went to the smartest company first, whose offices were neat and nicely appointed. They took up the entire upper floor of the warehouse.
    It was noisy at the receptionist’s desk, and I kept having to repeat myself. Finally I got it across that I was looking for work. She looked me up and down. “It’s very hot,” I said, by way of excuse, which must have struck a chord, for she replied, “Ya, ya, very hot it is,” her words truncated by an accent I identified as Eastern European. Her features, too, looked like they might have been created in my parents’ home village. I took a chance.
    “Tu bist ein Landsman?”
I whispered in Yiddish.
    “Vah?”
She leaned closer.
    “Landsman!”
I said, loudly. Literally, are you a countryman? Are you a fellow Jew?
    “Meir zeinen gants landsman aher,”
she said, matter-of-factly. We’re all landsmen here. As if that weren’t notable. She said, in English, they weren’t looking for any girls at the moment, but she’d be glad to inform me if they had any work in the future.
    I wrote down Mrs. Klein’s address. As I turned to walk out, I heard her yell,
“Vartn oyf!”
    I turned.
    “My sister-in-law Elsie works for a business that might be looking for someone,” she said in Yiddish. “I’ll write you down the address. I’ll see her tonight and let her know you’re coming if you want to stop by there in the morning tomorrow.”
    I was so grateful I nearly wept. “Thank you! This means so much, you have no idea…” I began to babble, but a loud buzzer rang and the woman snapped to her feet, gathering a pad and pencil at the same time. “Here,” she thrust a sheet of paper at me.
    That night, I told Rosalie about my lead.
    “That’s great. What’s the business?”
    “I