Marching to Zion by Mary Glickman Page B

remaining steps of the gangway. Minerva blinked and studied him with intense curiosity. Her little hands wound about his big, thick neck to bring her face closer to his that she might regard him more thoroughly. Der shvartser has grine oygn, she said. The blackie has green eyes. Fishbein steadied himself on the gangway’s ropes. Der mensch has grine oygn, mine kind, he replied, indicating she must call this helpful Negro a good man to show respect. Bailey had no idea what they were talking about or what language they employed, but the way the girl grabbed the hair of his head and boldly kissed his cheek, giggling, A mensch, a mensch ! made him smile and cradle her with a sweeter grip.
    Where are you going? Bailey asked.
    The Clairmont Hotel.
    And your luggage?
    Already it’s been sent.
    The Clairmont was not far from the river, claiming water views from nearly every room. Bailey led the way there, carrying the child, while Fishbein walked behind. The docks and streets were crowded. Heads turned in their direction as they passed. Hostile, suspicious glances followed them. Bailey guessed they thought he had stolen the child or that Fishbein had sold her. He fought an old anger rising up in his throat.
    When they arrived at the Clairmont, Fishbein said, Gevalt . My luggage, it is outside the door. Why is this?
    Light and swift as a bug, he grabbed his bags, stuck them inside the door, then made directly for the front desk. Bailey followed behind, carrying the girl. He stood at a discreet distance while Fishbein puffed himself up with indignation to demand of the clerk why his luggage was left outside the door where any thief might make off with it. This required an explanation or he would not remain with this establishment another minute.
    The desk clerk, a short, red-faced bald man with shiny apple cheeks, looked up from his work, his mouth tight and twisting. What he was about to do was not his favorite duty, but rules were rules.
    I regret to inform you we do not take your kind here. Please leave without a fuss.
    Magnus Bailey put the child down. With difficulty, he smiled and tipped his hat while his heart pounded.
    I’m sorry, he said. The two small words seared his throat. I was just helpin’ the man. I wasn’t stayin’ on.
    Not you, the clerk said. Well of course you, but what I meant was them. There’s been a misunderstanding. They will have to leave.
    Bailey was perplexed. Flamboyant, slick, at twenty-two a man of the world to whom others came for practical advice, Bailey was not by nature bold outside his own community. There were lessons a black man in 1906 America learned almost from the cradle. He’d learned his painfully at as young an age as any. But the child and her father were clearly white and moneyed. This was new social territory for him, and he meant to understand it before strolling on.
    What type is that? he asked.
    His question flustered the clerk. He jabbed his pen in Fishbein’s direction.
    Jews, he said. Jews like him.
    Fishbein’s chest deflated. Without another word, he turned about, took his daughter’s hand, and headed toward the door.
    Now what we are going to do, he muttered to his luggage.
    Again, Bailey saved the day. He told the two to wait while he made arrangements and soon enough brought them by cab to a hotel that catered to all types, no questions asked. Fishbein was grateful. The three dined together that night at a place Bailey knew, where Fishbein ordered wine and fish. His tongue loosened, Fishbein told the man that in the year he had been in the United States of America, this was only the third time he’d come across a hotel that did not take Jews. In the end, this was a remarkable circumstance rather than a thorny one.
    So it’s true? Bailey asked. Jews is the type you are?
    Oh, yes.
    Well, I’ll be.
    They both laughed then and ate and drank together long after little Minerva fell asleep in her dining chair. They discussed the city of St. Louis, what a savvy man like