“Not only that. But part of that. So why?”

“Because education brings you a job. And a job means income. And income means dignity.”

Fortuna sways her head back and forth, considering. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Becca wipes her hand on a linen napkin. How can she explain? Her arms ache. She has spent all day scrubbing floors, teaching about keeping things clean, to a woman who has nothing.

But that wasn’t because she has no money. It is because she had no nurturing.

She rubs her temples.

“You are tired.”

“A little. I also wonder how to explain. Where I came from… my family. My father worked hard and put away a little bit. But he was swindled by his supplier from Warsaw. He tried to go after him, but someone who is poor is not taken notice of by the police. My sister… she had to marry someone—” How can she put this? “Someone not like us, because she had no dowry. I… there was no dowry for me, either. So I am here.”

It is only half of the story. It tells nothing about all the things she’d want — a photograph of her parents, like the one that sits on Hannah and Ernst’s mantelpiece, the only picture of them that exists. But a photograph costs money.

And there is nothing about Perla. How money comes with influence and they had no money and no influence, so after a few weeks, they put around the story that Perla was dead, when everyone knew there was no body, no corpse washed up by the river, like they had assumed at first.

If another Jewish girl had disappeared, who really cared? A Jew — who cared about a Jew? And a girl, besides. Who really cared about a girl? And not just a Jewish girl — a dwarf. Why should it matter if she just disappeared?

Because they were nothings. Nothings. Nothings. Just trodden-in-the-mud Jews. Just girls, dependent on fathers and brothers for their safety. Just little people, the littlest people who walk the earth.

Easy prey.

She takes a deep breath and rubs her forehead again. Fortuna is still looking at her, dark eyes wide with curiosity and maybe also compassion. “It is a big subject.”

Fortuna points at the envelope. “You had better open your letter.” Fortuna hands her a knife and Becca slits open the top of the envelope.

Her eyes scan the page. There are the usual inquiries after her welfare. And then it comes, she knew it would.

I am most disappointed to hear that after a promising start, there have been many delays in the opening of your new school. Please write to me and give me a detailed explanation of the obstacles that you are encountering, so that I may advise you further.

She pushes away her plate. The director will expect an explanation by return mail, and she doesn’t have one to give him.

“About the school?” Fortuna asks.

“Yes. An explanation is required. Why I have so far done no teaching.”

Fortuna stands up and puffs out her cheeks. “You tell him that you have not stopped working since you came here and that teaching does not have to take place in the classroom.”

Becca tips her head back and laughs. Fortuna, defending her. That was a new one.

Fortuna plants her hands on her hips. “And this is all connected to something I wanted to tell you.”

Ah, yes, she had mentioned something.

“There is another family that needs your help. A mother of many children, who is caring as well for her mother-in-law. I am afraid for the mother’s health. I told her that you would go and visit her tomorrow when you have finished at Diamenta’s. Maybe you can bathe the old woman for her.”

Fortuna did what? Is this the reason for all this friendliness?

“Fortuna, I am supposed to be running a school. Not helping to scrub floors or care for elderly women.”

Fortuna takes the broom and begins sweeping the floor. “You tell your director that before you teach the little girls French, they need to know how to keep themselves clean. They need to learn how to cook and find a bargain in the market and pluck a chicken.” She puts the broom down now and stabs the air with her finger as she talks. “And they need to learn how to play and sing and haggle and walk with their back straight and look someone in the eye.”

But they also need an education, Becca pleads silently.

“Write to your director and tell him. That you’re establishing a school by taking care of the people here.” She looks Becca up and down and breaks out into a sudden smile. “I knew you weren’t a Paris girl.”

“Paris girl? I was the fastest feather plucker in the village.”

“Listen, Felix.”

Felix looks up.

Wolf leans over him, worry over his face. “There are rumors of civil unrest in Warsaw. People killed, shops looted, widespread blame on the Jews.”

Wolf clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “You should go to Warsaw,” he says.

“Warsaw?”

“Code: civil unrest means pogrom. You should go. Find a good angle.”

“All the way to Warsaw?”

“Not so bad on the trains.”

“Even with the trains, it will take ten, twelve hours to get there.”

“Marvelous, isn’t it? Warsaw used to

be a journey of three days.”

He puts down his pen and sets his finger on the line he was in the middle of proofing. The prospect should excite him. But for some reason, he is loathe to take it on. “But why me?”

“What do you mean, why you? Are you not an aspiring journalist? Well, then, I am giving you a good scoop.”

Right now, he has other ideas for scoops. He is thinking of investigating the newly popular Czech language, which is resurging. There’s even a small group of students who are making a case that the Shabbos sermon should be given not in German, but in Czech. That should stir up some interesting feelings.

“Well?”

Something is planting him here, in Prague. “My mother and sister are due home soon. It is important that I am here to greet them.”

Wolf sniffs. “What are you, some kind of sissy? Tied to your mother’s apron strings?”

“No, sir.” He feels his cheeks redden. “But I am solicitous of her welfare.”

Besides, the idea of traveling on a train for twelve hours, in a carriage that doubtless smells first of pork sandwiches, then of stale pork sandwiches, then of people’s sweating socks, a carriage that will be either too stuffy or too cold… It doesn’t appeal. And there are other obligations, too. He promised Leib’le that he would take him to the city library. He is looking forward to seeing the little boy’s face when he see the stacks upon stacks of books — more books than he will ever have seen in his life.

“There are plenty of stories here in the city,” he says. “And I would not want to fall behind on the children’s pages.”

Another reporter is sent to Warsaw, but he comes back so spent that he cannot write about it. Wolf spends three hours stomping around the printing shop, muttering, until he decides that he will go to the reporter’s home — he has every right, he paid him for this, after all — and receive an oral report, which he will transcribe, edit, and stick onto the front page: eyewitness report.

He leaves Felix in charge of the final proofs. It is Wednesday, the day before Printing Thursday. The columns are in and finished, the daily news is in, apart from this front-page report. It is the day when the advertisements are submitted and laid out. Money Wednesday, Wolf calls it.

At ten o’clock in the morning, the little bell on top of the front door rings to announce that someone has entered.

He is a smartly dressed man. Heavyset, forties probably. Clean-shaven with a mustache. He wears a gray top hat, with a wide band, according to the latest fashion. He hands Felix a piece of paper and turns to leave.

“Wait, I will just read it through, check all the details,” Felix says.

“It is correct.” The man is testy. “It’s the same advertisement that appeared a month ago.”

Felix looks at it and looks up at the man. Young Girls Sought for Domestic Positions Overseas. Immigration Certificate and Employment Arranged by Reliable Agent.

Heart pounding, he walks over to the proofs. “I will have to check where it can be placed,” he says. “It may take a few minutes. In the meantime, can I offer you a cup of tea?”

The man shakes his head.

“Or something stronger?”

He reaches to the back of the cupboard, where Wolf keeps his whiskey, and pours a generous glass. “A printing company needs ink and whiskey,” Wolf likes to say. To his credit, he only takes out the whiskey on Wednesday evenings, the night before printing, to get him through the long, fraught hours.

Sorry, Wolf. He’ll replace the whiskey.

The man pushes the whiskey away with the back of his hand. “I do not have time to wait.”

“Ah, then I will have to return your advertisement. For I do not know if we have room for it.”

Felix pulls out a chair. The man hesitates, then sits down.

Felix takes the notice, and begins turning the pages of the laid-out paper. He gently hums to himself.

The man clears his throat. Felix hums. The man reaches for the whiskey and swallows in one gulp.

“Hard to earn a living nowadays,” Felix says, conversationally. The man just nods.

Felix stands over him, and refills the whiskey glass. He leans forward and whispers conspiratorially. “So, is it lucrative?”

The man shrugs.

Felix points to the piece of paper. “How much?”

The man shrugs.

“Ten percent? Twenty?”

The man shrugs. “Twenty-five. Depends.”

Ah, so he works for a few people. Or maybe one person, but does some deals on the side, for a nice 100 percent.

“It comes to good money?”

“Put it this way. I can afford a better coat than you, and also better whiskey.”

“There must be expenses involved. You pay for their travel costs, do you not? And immigration certificates?”

“That’s the problem of the big boss. But put it like this. These girls don’t travel first class.”

Felix nods. “Why should they? They own nothing. They have nothing. Why should they travel like princesses?”

“Why, indeed.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 702)