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Chrystie Street. Mrs. Akers told me of an apartment house on Avenue A with two-room flats for twenty-two dollars a month. They have no water closets, but they're clean and respectable. Do you think you could afford seven dollars more a month? If so, you could quit your job and begin a family there."
    This was greeted with great enthusiasm. No one could find any fault with the plan, and Mrs.
    Clayman said she thought she could make seven dollars a month at home, sewing lace on collars for the shirtwaist factory. Eight faces beamed at Sara, as pleased as if J. Pierpont Morgan had personally advised them on their finances. She shook her head at them and asked Rachele how things were going at the tailor shop.
    She should have known that would open a can of worms. Rachele sat on the council of her local union, the Brotherhood of Tailors, and her opinions concerning management's greed and viciousness were growing more vocal each day. Sara was attempting to redirect the conversation when she glanced up and saw Tasha in the doorway. She motioned for her to come in, but the girl hung back. "Come," she called. "Tasha, come and join us!"
    Conversation continued without a pause while Tasha sidled in and took her customary place next to Mr. Yelteles. Sara sent her a welcoming smile, but she ducked her head and huddled deeper into her shawl. "Are you all right?" she murmured. Tasha nodded vigorously, not looking at her.
    But she wasn't; something was very wrong. Sara lost the thread of the discussion of a play at a new Bowery theater and finally dismissed the class ten minutes ahead of time. Mr. Yelteles wanted to "schmooze" with her, as usual, which meant standing outside and listening to his
mayselakh
—anecdotes—while he smoked cigarettes. She told him she couldn't "schmooze" today, and when Tasha got up to leave, she stopped her. "Stay and talk to me," she invited, holding on to the girl's cold hand while the others said good-bye and filed out. "What's wrong? You look so upset."
    "No, no, it's nothing." The lustrous black eyes slid away, evading her. "Sorry to be late today. I could not help it."
    "Come and sit." Sara gestured to the wooden bench along the wall; the girl hesitated, but finally took a seat beside her. Sara watched her in perplexity. Tasha was always quiet, even aloof, but Sara thought they had become friends lately, and this unapproachability wasn't like her. "Are you ill?" She shook her head. "What, then? What made you late?"
    Tasha's throat worked; she looked as if she was going to cry. Her shawl slipped. She reached for it—and Sara saw that the sleeve of her bright red dress was ripped to the elbow.
    "Tasha! What's happened?" She took her shoulders and forced the girl to meet her eyes. "Has someone hurt you? Tell me!"
    "Yes, yes." She covered her face with her hands and mumbled rapidly in the hybrid mix of languages Sara now knew to be German, Russian, and Rumanian.
    Sara seized her by the wrists and pulled her hands away. "Speak English, Natasha," she commanded sharply, giving her a quick shake. She judged her to be on the verge of hysteria. "Tell me what happened to you.
Now
."
    "Mrs. Cochrane, I'm so afraid!"
    "Why?"
    "A man—he follows me. Today he found me alone and he touched me. I ran, but he said he would get me!"
    "My God! Who is it? Do you know him?"
    "No. He is dark, he speaks like a Greek or a Russian, I don't know. He's strong—big—"
    "What did he do to you?"
    "He touched me, here." She indicated her breasts. "I was coming home from work, to eat something before the class. No one was in the lobby of my building and he caught me there."
    Tasha lived alone in one tiny room in a Fourth Avenue tenement. "You say he's followed you before?"
    "Yes, often."
    "And you've never told anyone about him?"
    "No. Never until today has he touched me, he has only—talked. Now I am afraid to go home." She hid her face in her hands again.
    Sara put an arm around her shoulders and sat quietly until she stopped