The Featherbed. Джон Миллер

been a dear.”

      They heaved the bench up the next flight, Sadie pulling from the top, Anna pushing from underneath. Inside the apartment, they sat side by side to catch their breath and looked straight ahead at the wall. Anna noticed that the hall mirror was still uncovered. Sadie followed her stare, and then there was a moment when they realized that they were looking at one another in the mirror. It was only an instant, hardly enough time to even fix an image in the mind’s eye, and then they both looked away.

      “I forgot the mirror,” Sadie said.

      “I’ll go get something.” Anna stood abruptly and left the room, returning a moment later with a brown and ochre embroidered scarf. Arranging it carefully over the mirror, she waited to make sure it would not slip off. On the bench again, she listened to her own breath subside. When her chest calmed itself, she heard Sadie clear her throat.

      “Well, Annie?”

      “Anna.”

      “Anna. Shit, I’m sorry — Anna. I keep forgetting.” She gave a few seconds to show she meant it. “So, what are we going to do now for the next two hours? The place is ready.”

      “I thought we could take the time to go through some of Mama’s things in her bedroom and in the closet in the back room. There are a few boxes in the bedrooms with some old clothes and stuff.”

      “Fine. I’ll do her bedroom.” Sadie picked herself up and marched into their mother’s room. Anna got up to follow her, but Sadie closed the door. Anna sighed, then sat back down, sloped her shoulders forward, put her palms to her forehead.

      She sat still and listened until she heard Sadie rustling about, then got up and went into the back room. Beside the bed was a small wooden night table. A dresser stood against the side wall, displaying a comb, a brush, and a faded doily. A throw rug lay on the floor beside the bed. On the other side of the bed was the closet. Opening the closet door, she reached her hand in to push aside a few dresses and pant suits hanging in front.

      At the back of the closet on the floor she saw two boxes. She leaned over and pulled one out. It was filled with books. Mila 18. Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The Urban Gardener. Jane Fonda’s Workout Book. The Treasure of Sierra Madre. Roots. A hardcover copy of The Mosquito Coast... She tugged at the second box and sat down, her knees to the side. Folded on top was the purple dress of a small child.

      She recognized it at once. Her mother had made it for Sadie on her seventh birthday, with lace ruffles on the sleeves and a sash at the back. She remembered that Sadie had resisted wearing it to shul that day, and that she could not understand why. Anna was four, and she thought it was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen, so fancy and special. But her sister complained that it made her look ugly. Anna had cried because she wanted one too, and when Sadie tried to take it off in shul so that she could try it on, her mother had become angry with them, saying one did not undress in shul. It had caused a commotion in the upper gallery, so that their mother had to pull them both down the stairs and into the street to sit on the steps of the synagogue until the service was over. Later, their father had slapped them both across the face.

      Anna pulled the dress up to her cheek and breathed in the smell of the fabric. There was a faint odour of perfume, but mostly it smelled of must. After a moment, she pulled it away and smoothed it against her lap. Her eyes were moist, and she blinked the box back into focus. There were more books at the bottom, peeking out from under some other clothes.

      Reaching inside, she pulled out a plain, brown volume with no title on it. Opening the cover to the first page, she saw, inscribed in the top corner, in curlicued handwriting:

      Rebecca Ignatow, Ludlow Street, New York.

      November 12th, 1909

      and underneath,

      My very own personal diary — Do not read!!

       Chapter Two

      November 12th, 1909

      Dear Diary,

      Papa has found me someone to marry. He told me so tonight. He said I was already sixteen and that being married would be better than working in the factory. But I am not ready to get married, and I told him so. Yes, this apartment is cramped, dark, and awful, and maybe factory work is exhausting and dangerous. But I still don’t want to get married. Not yet.

      When Papa told me this, I argued with him and managed to buy myself some time, but now I can’t sleep because I am overflowing with thoughts and feelings.

      Mrs. Pearson, my night school teacher, says that when one wants to make sense of something upsetting, sitting back and writing about it helps to sort out one’s feelings and clears one’s mind to think more objectively and more creatively. She says, “First write about what happened, write about it fully, then write about how you feel about it.” So that is what I will try to do. I am not sure I will be able to do this every night, especially since I have to do it by the light of a single candle if I don’t want to disturb Ida (she is so sensitive to light when she is sleeping) and try to keep as quiet as possible afterwards when I grope my way under the covers.

      Nevertheless here I am, it is well past eleven, and I am sitting on the floor against the bed with my candle beside me barely illuminating the page. It is so low on the ground that if I move it any closer I might set my nightgown on fire. Now that would certainly wake up Ida!

      My friend Hattie gave me this diary some months ago as a birthday present. Hattie wants to be a writer, and perhaps her diary will become a published book some day. She says even if it doesn’t get published, it will be a record of her life that she can show to her children when they grow up. Mrs. Pearson says I should think of being a writer too, but I don’t think that will ever happen. But then again, who can tell everything that life will bring? She says I am at the top of my class, and that I should be proud of that, even if it is only because Hattie graduated and is now in college.

      One thing seems certain: since Papa wants me to marry, I will one day be a mother. But unlike Hattie, I would never show my children what I write in a diary. It’s not that I disagree with Hattie that it will be important for my children to know some day who I am. But unlike her, I will probably only use this diary as a record from which to select the important things that I shall tell them myself. That is because I wish to follow Mrs. Pearson’s advice and write from my heart, and matters of the heart are not shared just like that, except with one’s diary. Not like events. Events happen and children need to know about them. They are history. But the two should remain separate — emotions and history, that is.

      I wish Mama thought this way. I have today discovered only for the first time an important piece of my parents’ past. I do not understand why parents do not just tell children about the events in their lives, plain and simple. To me this is entirely different from telling them about secrets of the heart.

      Mama says that because I am only sixteen, I do not understand that one’s history is connected to one’s heart, and she tells me that when I have some history of my own I shall understand. But I do understand. The difference between me and Mama is that I believe history should be separated from the feelings that get in the way of the telling, if at all possible. I want to know the story of people’s lives, but I also believe that what lies in their hearts should not necessarily be discussed.

      Mama cannot fully separate her emotions like this, but in her case I believe it is partly intentional. That is to say that she uses the emotion to make me feel ashamed. I do not want to be the kind of mother who inflicts this unpleasant effect on my children. Mama has a special gift for making me feel just awful, and sometimes I believe she is happy to make me feel that way.

      Tonight was a perfect example of why I believe this to be true. On the way back from work today, the heel of my shoe came unstuck again. I trussed up the sole to the upper with some strong thread that I pinched from work, but the solution was makeshift and didn’t really hold things together very well. The shoe was flip-flopping all the way home. I only mention the shoe because I have been wishing this week that I could buy a newer, better pair of shoes, and Mama’s story of course