A House of Tailors Read Online Free PDF Page B

even know what they were called, but their high whining sound kept me from drifting off.
    I
had
to sleep. A pale rim of pink was already reflected in the windowpanes of the houses across the way.
    In the apartment downstairs, Maria began to cry. I didn’t blame her. She was covered with prickly heat and welts from those insects. Through the open window came Barbara’s voice, singing an old lullaby. The cries became softer, Barbara’s voice trailed off, and then there was silence.
    How often had Mama sung that song?
    Don’t think about it,
I told myself.
Don’t think about Mama’s face.
But that was all I could think of, night after night, Mama with her smooth hair tucked into a loop at her neck, her pale skin with faint lines around her eyes, those eyes always sad since Papa had died. Mama shaking her head.
Oh, Dina. What have you done this time? If only . . .
    And now for the rest of my life I would be here, with no way back to Mama and Katharina, to my brothers.
    My eyes were so swollen from the insects and from crying I could hardly shut them. But at last they closed. I fell asleep with my thoughts chasing themselves. How would I get home? How could I get the money? I’d have to find a way.
    I knew it would take years, but by then the war would be over and the soldiers long gone. I would save every cent, store it in a roll of stockings the way Mama did. When I had enough, I’d travel back to Breisach.
    I woke to a red ball of sun far to the east. The day was going to be even warmer than the night before.

eight
    Everything changed that morning.
    It began at breakfast. I helped Barbara lay out the cheese, the rolls, the thick cups, and poured the coffee and milk into pitchers.
    How different it was from our breakfasts at home, with Franz and Friedrich spilling things and laughing, and Katharina good-naturedly wiping up after them.
    Here everyone was quiet, with just the sounds of knives and spoons clinking and Maria banging her wooden blocks on her high chair.
    It might have been because the Uncle looked exhausted, almost too tired to eat. He worked hard, I had to admit that. First he spent a long day working for Mrs. Koch. And then after a late dinner he sat at the sewing machine running off five or six skirts, or pairs of trousers, or shirtwaists for Mr. Eis, who sold them in a shop in Manhattan.
    But that morning, the Uncle cleared his throat. “It’s time for you to work, Dina.”
    Barbara shook her head. “She’s helping wonderfully, Lucas. Didn’t she make that roast last night, and she’s cleaning. . . .”
    â€œYes.” I agreed with him instantly. “I need money. I could go out and . . .” I tried to think of what I could do.
    But that wasn’t what he had in mind. “Right here,” he said, waving his arm toward the sewing machine. “It is a busy time for tailoring.”
    I brought the cup of coffee to my mouth. It almost scalded my lips.
    Late summer at home. Waking up in the dark to hem heavy skirts, to turn over cuffs, to shape collars. Not stopping for meals, but gulping down vegetable soup that Mama stirred and then poured, running back and forth from the kitchen. Every hour the cathedral bells tolled, reminding us that coats, suits, and dresses had to be ready for the clients at a moment’s notice.
    I swallowed that first burning sip of coffee before I looked up at the Uncle, thinking carefully of what to say. “I want to do something instead of sewing.” My words were even, as if I weren’t challenging him, but I could feel the pulse at my throat, the slight trembling of my fingers against the cup.
    The Uncle raised his eyebrows. “And what, may I ask, can you do?”
    I put the cup down before I could spill it. I couldn’t look at him.
    He stabbed a piece of cheese from the platter with his fork and stopped to chew. “Katharina would have gone into service.”
    I leaned forward.