The Featherbed. Джон Миллер

      “Mama, is it bothering you?”

      “No, it’s nothing. You know sometimes it’s a little scratchy.”

      “Why don’t you take it off for a while? We can pretend we’re a modern American family tonight. There’s no company, it’s just us here.”

      “Pfaa!” her mother replied. “In Poland, a fine they could give if they caught you wearing the sheitel, because the czars made laws. Here there are no such laws. This I wear not only because I respect God — not that you would understand such a thing, mind you — I wear this also because it is a symbol of liberation!” she said, her voice rising in agitation.

      Rebecca chided herself. Usually if she made any reference to the old country, it was turned into a lesson. Nevertheless, she found she couldn’t resist pursuing her point, even if she might be stepping further into the trap.

      “Well, I know it was terrible in Poland. But that’s exactly the thing. We have more freedom here in every respect, and that also means in religious matters. In America, lots of women choose not to wear the sheitel, even though they can. Isn’t that liberation?”

      “America, shmerica. Sure, here in America, they don’t fine you, but they still yell at you and call at you ‘filthy Jew.’ It’s as bad as in Russia, frankly.”

      Russia? Wasn’t it Poland? She could never figure this out. When her parents talked about the old country, they spoke in cryptic references and confusing contradictory recollections, one praising, the next damning. And the two country names appeared to be interchangeable.

      “Oh, forget it, I can’t win,” said Rebecca.

      “You’re right, you can’t,” her father said.

      “Yesterday when you complained about the price of bread, I tried to sympathize, and you told me that here at least there was food to buy, even if we can’t pay. You switch allegiance so quickly, I can’t tell which country you hate more. Poland-Russia or America.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous, Rebecca,” her mother said sharply. “I don’t hate it here. But does that mean I have to stupidly smile and remain cheerful if something is not just?”

      “No, of course not, Mama.”

      “What are you getting all bothered and hot for? Because I wear the sheitel? This does not mean you will have to, we have never said so. That will be between you and your husband.” Again, she glanced to her father.

      Rebecca tried hard not to appear foolish in these conversations, but there was no steadfast rule she could follow. Whether or not she said a word, her mother was just as likely to hold a perfectly depressing debate with herself. If Rebecca stayed out of it, the difference was that she was less likely to be accused, in the course of that debate, of being naive or too young to understand. But one could not always rely on this strategy; her mother sometimes presumed opinions or attitudes in her silence and scolded her anyway.

      Her mother adjusted her wig again, making it a little lopsided. Rebecca suppressed a giggle. She had to admit that though her mother looked old-fashioned, it took courage to wear it, and that was to be admired. Also, even though she would never tell her this, it made her look sweet.

      “So Ida, how is your job in the office today?” her father segued.

      “Fine, thank you, Mr. Ignatow. There were quite a few accounts to type up this afternoon.”

      Rebecca rolled her eyes.

      “Don’t you make your eyes like that, Rebecca. You could be earning the better wages too if you took that secretarial course like Ida did. Get a job in a nice accounting firm.”

      The previous fall, a week after Mr. Vanderholtz increased their rent, Ida Eisenstein announced at synagogue that she had graduated from a course given by the Henry Street Settlement and was looking for a family with whom to board. Rebecca’s parents took her in the following Monday, and by Sabbath dinner, Rebecca was already hating her. Ida was a wispy, bird-like creature with long, reedy arms, high cheekbones, and wide, bony shoulders. Her hair was a dull, mousy brown, but Rebecca was jealous of how straight it was, of how easily she could tie it into a bun. And she had to admit that Ida had beautiful skin. Her own hair had an unmanageable wave to it, not curly enough to be considered beautiful, and her skin still suffered from frequent blemishes. Ida was a year younger, but acted as though she knew the world inside out. And when they were alone, she never shut up.

      “That’s a good job you have, Ida,” her father continued.

      “Be careful, work hard, and they could promote you!”

      Her mother looked amused. “To what, Sholem?” she asked. “Senior typist?” Then turning to Ida, “I don’t mean offence, dear — it is only that my husband thinks if we simply worked a little harder, we would all be rich as the Astors by Pesach.” Ida gave her a weak smile.

      Her father slurped his soup, then said, “Maybe that boss of hers needs a personal secretary some day. Maybe that’s what.” He tapped his piece of bread on the table for emphasis. Now Ida’s smile broadened, and she beamed it in Rebecca’s direction.

      “Yes, Ida,” countered Rebecca, “I’m sure you could find a way to prove to him that you’re right for the job...” She got up to bring her bowl to the wash basin. When she turned around again, Ida still had that stupid smile on her face, but it soon faded as she grasped Rebecca’s meaning.

      “Sure! Of course you will! Such a smart girl, that Ida!” her father shouted to his daughter. Then to his wife, “Fania, more soup!”

      She poured the last ladle-full into her husband’s bowl, then put the ladle down and squeezed her daughter’s arm.

      “And how was your work today, Beckeleh?”

      “The same.”

      “Oh, Beckeleh, come now. Always I ask you, always you say the same. Nu, what’s this same? Same good? Or same bad?”

      “I go to work, I sit on a bench, I sew shirtwaists, I come home. What do you want to know, Mama? I bring home my wages, don’t I?”

      “Oh, such a long face. You have been lucky to have such a job.” She wagged her finger.

      “Did I say I wasn’t lucky? I’m glad to help out. I’m glad to have a job so we can eat. It doesn’t mean I have to love my work.”

      Her father pointed his piece of challah at her. “You’re glad to have a job so you can have a dowry and not be an old maid.” He raised his eyebrows to her mother and nodded.

      Her mother shrugged. “That’s what this country does to our young people, Papa. Never they are happy with what they do. Too much fanciness right in front of them in the store window. Everyone thinking like a millionaire.”

      He grunted. He was busy chewing.

      “Mama, you raised the subject and now you’re making me feel guilty about it. You have no idea what it’s like at the factory.”

      She saw Ida look nervously around herself to find dishes she could clear, obviously sensing there was a family argument brewing. She wanted to go to the bedroom, where she would overhear but not have to participate, no doubt. “May I be excused, Mrs. Ignatow?” she said meekly, and then left at her mother’s nod.

      “Coward,” Rebecca whispered to her under her breath. Ida took a plate to the wash basin, turned around, and smiled at her from behind her mother’s back. Rebecca glowered back at her and waited for her mother’s onslaught.

      “So.” Her mother’s eyebrows joined to form a single line.

      “I don’t know what it’s like at the factory, do I? I have it so easy, do I?”

      “No, Mama, I didn’t say that...”

      “I sit around eating poppy-seed cakes all day, do I?”

      “Oh Mama, you asked me