Chapter VII: Part 7

With shaking hand she stealthily opened the cupboard, pilfered a knife-load of butter and spread it thickly on a second slice of bread. Cramming the whole into her mouth, she snatched two eggs and broke them into the frying-pan. The smell of the sizzling eggs filled the air with the sweet fragrance of the Sabbath. “Ach! How the sun would shine in my heart if I could only allow myself the bite in my mouth!”

Memories of _gefüllte_ fish and the odour of freshly-baked apple strudel dilated her nostrils. She saw herself back in Russia setting the Sabbath table when she was the honoured wife of Reb Ravinsky.

The sudden holiday feeling that thrilled her senses smote her conscience. “Oi weh! Sinner that I am! Why should it will itself in me to eat like a person when my man don’t earn enough for dry bread? What will we do when this is used up? Suppose the charities should catch me feasting myself with such a full hand?”

Bent ravenously over the eggs--one eye on the door--she lifted the first spoonful to her watering mouth as Rachel flew in, eyes wide with excitement.

“Mamma! The charity lady is coming! She’s asking the fish-pedlar on the stoop where we live now.”

“Quick! Hide the frying-pan in the oven! Woe is me! The house not swept--dishes not washed--everything thrown around! Rachel! Quick only--sweep together the dirt in a corner. Throw those rags under the bed! _Oi weh_--quick--hide all those dirty things behind the trunk!”

In her haste to tidy up, she remembered the food in the cupboard. She stuffed it--broken eggshells and all--into the bureau drawer. “Oi weh! The charity lady should only not catch us with all these holiday eatings....”

Footsteps in the hallway and Miss Naughton’s cheery voice: “Here I am, Mrs. Ravinsky! What can I do to help now?”

With the trained eye of the investigator, she took in the wretched furniture, scant bedding, the under-nourished mother and child.

“What seems to be wrong?” Miss Naughton drew up a three-legged stool. “Won’t you tell me, so we can get at the root of the trouble?” She put her hand on the woman’s apron with a friendly little gesture.

Mrs. Ravinsky bit her lips to force back the choking pressure of tears. The life, the buoyancy, the very kindness of the “charity lady” stabbed deeper the barb of her wretchedness.

“Woe is me! On all my enemies my black heart! So many babies and young people die every day, but no death comes to hide me from my shame.”

“Don’t give way like that,” pleaded Miss Naughton, pained by the bitterness that she tried in vain to understand. “If you will only tell me a few things so I may the better know how to help you.”

“Again tear me in pieces with questions?” Mrs. Ravinsky pulled at the shrunken skin of her neck.

“I don’t like to pry into your personal affairs, but if you only knew how often we’re imposed upon. Last week we had a case of a woman who asked us to pay her rent. When I called to investigate, I found her cooking chicken for dinner!”

The cot on which Mrs. Ravinsky sat creaked under her swaying body.

“You see, we have only a small amount of money,” went on the unconscious inquisitor, “and it is but fair it should go to the most deserving cases.”

Entering a few preliminary notes, Miss Naughton looked up inquiringly. “Where is Mr. Ravinsky?”

“In the synagogue.”

“Has he no work?”

“He can’t do no work. His head is on the next world.”

Miss Naughton frowned. She was accustomed to this kind of excuse. “People who are not lazy can always find employment.”

Seeing Mrs. Ravinsky’s sudden pallor, she added kindly: “You have not eaten to-day. Is there no food in the house?”

Mrs. Ravinsky staggered blindly to her feet. “No--nothing--I didn’t yet eat nothing.”

The brooding grey of Rachel’s eyes darkened with shame as she clutched protectingly at her mother’s apron. The uncanny, old look of the solemn little face seemed to brush against Miss Naughton’s very heartstrings--to reproach the rich vigour of her own glowing youth.

“Have you had any lunch, dear?” The “charity lady’s” hand rested softly on the tangled mat of hair.

“N-nothing--nothing,” the child echoed her mother’s words.

Miss Naughton rose abruptly. She dared not let her feelings get the better of her. “I am going to get some groceries.” She sought for an excuse to get away for a moment from the misery that overwhelmed her. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Bitter is me!” wailed Mrs. Ravinsky, as the “charity lady” left the room. “I can never lift up my head with other people alike. I feel myself lower than a thief, just because I got a husband who holds himself with God all day.”

She cracked the knuckles of her bony fingers. “_Gottuniu!_ Listen better to my prayer! Send on him only a quick death. Maybe if I was a widow, people would take pity on me and save me from this gehenna of charity.”

* * * * *

Ten minutes later Miss Naughton returned with a bag of supplies. “I am going to fix some lunch for you.” She measured cocoa into a battered saucepan. “And soon the boy will come with enough groceries for the whole week.”

“Please, please,” begged Mrs. Ravinsky. “I can’t eat now--I can’t.”

“But the child? She needs nutritious food at once.”

Rachel’s sunken little chest rose and fell with her frightened heartbeat as she hid her face in her mother’s lap.

“Small as she is, she already feels how it hurts to swallow charity eating,” defended Mrs. Ravinsky.

Miss Naughton could understand the woman’s dislike of accepting charity. She had coped with this pride of the poor before. But she had no sympathy with this mother who fostered resentment in her child towards the help that was so urgently needed. Miss Naughton’s long-suffering patience broke. She turned from the stove and resolutely continued her questioning.

“Has your husband tried our employment bureau?”

“No.”

“Then send him to our office to-morrow at nine. He can be a janitor--or a porter----”

“My man? My man a janitor or a porter?” Her eyes flamed. “Do you know who was my man in Russia? The fat of the land they brought him just for the pleasure to listen to his learning. Barrels full of meat, pots full of chicken fat stood packed in my cellar. I used to make boilers of jelly at a time. The _gefüllte_ fish only I gave away is more than the charities give out to the poor in a month.”

Miss Naughton could not suppress a smile. “Why did you leave it, then, if it was all so perfect?”

“My _gefüllte_ fish! Oi-i-i! Oi-i!! My apple strudel!” she kept repeating, unable to tear herself away from the dream of the past.

“Can you live on the apple strudel you had in Russia? In America a man must work to support his family----”

“All thick-heads support their families,” defended Reb Ravinsky’s wife. “Any fat-belly can make money. My man is a light for the world. He works for God who feeds even the worms under the stone.”

“You send your husband to my office. I want to have a talk with him.”

“To your office? _Gottuniu!_ He won’t go. In Schnipishock they came to him from the four ends of the world. The whole town blessed itself with his religiousness.”

“The first principle of religion is for a man to provide for his family. You must do exactly as we say--or we cannot help you.”

“Please, please!” Mrs. Ravinsky entreated, cringing and begging. “We got no help from nobody now but you. I’ll bring him to your office to-morrow.”

The investigator now proceeded with the irk-some duty of her more formal questions. “How much rent do you pay? Do you keep any boarders? Does your husband belong to any society or lodge? Have you relatives who are able to help you?”

“Oi-i-i! What more do you want from me?” shrieked the distracted woman.

Having completed her questions, Miss Naughton looked about the room. “I am sorry to speak of it, but why is your flat in such disorder?”

“I only moved in yesterday. I didn’t get yet time to fix it up.”

“But it was just as bad in the last place. If you want our help you must do your part. Soap and water are cheap. Anyone can be clean.”

The woman’s knees gave way under her, as Miss Naughton lifted the lids from the pots on the stove.

And then--_gevalt_! It grew black before Mrs. Ravinsky’s eyes. She collapsed into a pathetic heap to the floor. The “charity lady” opened the oven door and exposed the tell-tale frying-pan and the two eggs!

Eyes of silent condemnation scorched through the terror-stricken creature whose teeth chattered in a vain struggle to defend herself. But no voice came from her tortured throat. She could only clutch at her child in a panic of helplessness.

Without a word, the investigator began to search through every nook and corner and at last she came to the bureau drawer and found butter, eggs, cheese, bread and even a jar of jelly.

“For shame!” broke from the wounded heart of the betrayed Miss Naughton. “You--you ask for charity!”

* * * * *

In the hall below Reb Ravinsky, returning from the synagogue, encountered a delivery boy.

“Where live the Ravinskys?” the lad questioned.

“I’m Reb Ravinsky,” he said, leading the way, as he saw the box of groceries.

Followed by the boy, Reb Ravinsky flung open the door and strode joyfully into the room. “Look only! How the manna is falling from the sky!”

Ignoring Reb Ravinsky, Miss Naughton motioned to the box. “Take those things right back,” she commanded the boy.

“How you took me in with your hungry look!” There was more of sorrow than scorn in her voice. “Even teaching your child to lie--and your husband a rabbi!--a religious man--too holy to work! What would be left for deserving cases if we allowed such as you to defraud legitimate charity?”

With bowed head, Reb Ravinsky closed the door after the departing visitor. The upbraidings of the woman were like a whip-lash on his naked flesh. His heart ached for his helpless family. Darkness suffocated him.

“My hungry little lamb,” wailed his wife, clinging to Rachel. “Where now can we turn for bread?”

Compassionate hands reached out in prayer over the grief-stricken mother and child. Reb Ravinsky stood again as he did before his flight to America, facing his sorrowing people. His wife’s wailing for their lost store of bread brought back to him the bereaved survivors of the _pogrom_--the _pogrom_ that snatched away their sons and daughters. Afire with the faith of his race, he chanted the age-old consolation: “The Lord giveth; the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON E.C.4.

Transcriber’s Notes

A few minor punctuation errors/omissions were silently corrected.

Page 7: “or consisten” changed to “or consistent”

Page 195: “Delancy Street” changed to “Delancey Street”