From Chapter 1
From Chapter 10
From Chapter 21

From Chapter 1

The apartment building was five stories high and stood out garishly from its neighbours because of its red-painted brick walls. But Anna felt that the black fire escape that hung down from the fifth floor to the second was the giveaway to the interior decor. As they approached the building, she looked back at Sadie, who was trailing behind her, looking around at the old neighbourhood. Her sister stopped on the opposite curb and took in the street as a whole.
"The fire escapes didn't used to be here," Anna said. "That's why it looks different, if you were wondering. And of course the building used to be painted brown, remember? And that school across the street went up in the sixties. At least Mama's had a better view since then."
          The street was almost empty of people, and the air barely moved. Anna waited for Sadie to cross to her side, but now she was staring up at the third floor, to the window of the old apartment.
          "Looks different, doesn't it?" she called out.
          "Not so different."
          Anna shrugged, moving on without her and opening the front door with her key. She turned once again to wait and saw that Sadie was following her.
          "We'll have to prop the door open later so people can get up," Anna said, shutting it behind her. "There's no buzzer to open the door. Besides, it'll give more light to the hallway too."
          The entranceway was dominated by the coconut scent of a curry being cooked in one of the apartments, but it couldn't quite conceal the mustiness underneath. An old veneer was wearing off of the stairs, revealing a dull, darkened oak.
          Climbing ahead of her sister, Anna pulled her weight up the first few steps by grasping the banister. It was also made of solid oak, and it had always been the sturdiest thing in the building - an aberration in the poorly constructed tenement.
          The walls of the stairwell were papered with a dusty floral print, which was peeling where it met the ceiling, revealing pressed tin. Flickering electric lamps shone weakly at the landings, in a style that imitated the gas lanterns from the turn of the century. Anna could hear that climbing the stairs was not easy for Sadie either, and they were both wheezing by the second flight. It never ceased to amaze her how their ninety-year-old mother had managed this every day.
          When she reached the top of the stairs on the third floor, she stopped to wait for Sadie and to catch her breath. She looked at the carpeting and saw that it was threadbare, beginning to expose thin wooden floorboards. She made a mental note to tell the landlady. Sadie reached the landing and looked at the door to the broom closet. It was ajar, and she pulled it open. There were a few brooms and pails and rags thrown in any which way.
          "They took the toilet out years ago," Anna explained, "and thank God. It stank to high heaven, do you remember?"
          Sadie nodded.
          "The landlady's made improvements, but it's the bare minimum, believe me. It's still very shabby, as you can see." She wiped her finger against the wall and showed her the dust.
          Sadie grunted. "The sad thing is how much worse it used to be. Compared to then, this seems fancy."
          Anna went to the end of the hall and unlocked the apartment door. Sadie followed her over the threshold and they stood for a second, contemplating the room. Anna was used to how small and cramped it was, how economically it was furnished for its many functions. She wondered what her sister must be feeling.
          Next to the front door there was a rectangular wood-framed mirror and some hooks on the wall to compensate for the lack of a vestibule. On the left, beside the door to her mother's bedroom, a mauve loveseat and a round pine side table were set off against the wall for when her mother used the room for reading. The side table displayed a tall lamp with a blue columnar shade and some old framed photographs. There was one of her and Sadie as children, an even older one of her mother and grandparents, another of Anna's son when he was a teenager, being crushed in a sandwich hug by his parents.
          Anna removed her jacket, put it on the arm of the loveseat, and went to run some water to cool herself off. The sink was against the back wall, a deep old white porcelain tub with a goose-neck faucet and daisy-handled taps. Cupboards and drawers above and below were painted blue to match the lampshade, and to the left of them was a pink stove and refrigerator set from General Electric. She closed her eyes while the water soothed her hands, then wet a cloth to dab at her forehead, careful not to wipe away her make-up. She knew one wasn't supposed to wear make-up, but she would anyhow. A touch-up would be required before they covered the mirrors.
          A narrow kitchen table and two wicker-backed chairs hugged the right wall between the door to the back bedroom and the door to the toilet. In the middle of the table a bowl of sugar, a napkin holder, and salt and pepper shakers huddled together atop a stack of pink and green plastic place mats.
          Anna looked back at Sadie. She was looking in the front bedroom, but she turned around, hung her coat on a hook, and went to sit at the table.
          "How does it look?"
          "Pretty much the same, some new appliances. I think I'd forgotten how small this place is. Did we ever know how big it was?"
          "Five hundred square feet."
          "It's shocking. It feels even smaller now that there's the toilet over there where the pantry was."
          "I know - I wish Mama had moved out of here, but I could never convince her."
          "Do you remember the old stove that used to be here?" She pointed to the electric oven.
          They were interrupted by a knock on the door.
          "Hallooo!" came a voice from the other side.
          "It's the landlady. Just a minute."
          Sadie left her chair to retreat into the back bedroom while Anna opened the door. Mrs. Huang thrust a plate of almond cakes into the opening.
          "Don't want to bother you, I'll just give this to you now. So you can get ready."
          "Oh how lovely, Mrs. Huang. They look delicious. What a sweetheart you are. Come in for a second."
          Mrs. Huang adjusted the shoulder of her sleeveless cotton dress, and stepped into the apartment. "It's nothing. Least of what I could do. You need anything else?"
          "Actually, some extra chairs if you have any. Perhaps my sister and I can come down to get some."
          "I have a long bench. Only needs two of us to carry. You come, leave your sister to prepare things."
          "All right. Sadie, we're going down to get some benches. There's a box here beside the oven that I took out. There are some pictures in it, maybe you can arrange them on Mama's dresser in her bedroom. And there's a broom beside the fridge if you have time to sweep up. Oh, and don't forget to cover the mirrors and set out the bowl of water."
          "Yes, yes. Go, it's okay," she called from the bedroom.
          "I'm sure I'll be back to help you by the time you get to that."
          "It's fine. Go ahead."
          Anna set off down the stairs, following the landlady.
          They reached the ground floor and went to the back of the building to Mrs. Huang's apartment. The curry smell had died down somewhat. Mrs. Huang let Anna into her apartment and squeezed past her to move from her hallway into the kitchen. The apartment was much bigger than her mother's, but no less cluttered. Stacks of newspapers were piled on both sides of the hallway, framing shelves crammed with knick-knacks and photographs. The air in the apartment made Anna's nostrils curl. It was tangy, probably some cleaning solution, but it made her think of formaldehyde.
          Mrs. Huang's husband called from the bedroom. "Daisy?"
          "It's me. Just getting a bench for Mrs. Cooperman. For her ma's shee-va."
          Anna waited in the hallway until she heard the bench being scraped along the floor in the kitchen. She rushed in to help Mrs. Huang pick it up, and they set off up the stairs.
          Mrs. Huang chattered all the way up, appearing to be only mildly out of breath.
          "Your ma, she was a special person. Always paid her rent on time, always greeted me with news, how much fruit cost that day, or fish and vegetables. Was always polite even when she was a little melancholy. Never complained about anything. I hope I'll be like that when I'm ninety."
          "Yes," said Anna. It was all she could manage to say through her heavy breathing. Sweat was beading her forehead.
          "My Donnie says you could set your clock by the woman, and it was true. I notice everybody who comes and goes in this building, but with your ma, you knew the day of the week just by where she was going. On Mondays, to the market on Canal Street. On Tuesdays, the library. Wednesdays, her Mah Jong game at the Bialystoker Home. Thursdays, the book club, and Fridays she worked in the back garden in the morning, then her constitutional in the afternoon. Always wearing that nice beige jump suit you bought her, Mrs. Cooperman. You remember?"
          "I...," Anna gasped and yanked the bench up another step, "remember."
          "And your ma, she was wise, knew the ways of the world, like me. She knew when you were suffering. Sometimes, just when Donnie was driving me crazy, there would be a knock on the door and there would be your ma with some chicken soup or a piece of spice cake. She would come in, and I'd put out some tea and almond cakes. Your ma - such a sweet woman, Mrs. Cooperman. So good to my husband, you know?"
          Anna smiled with jaw clenched as she pulled the bench up to the second floor landing. Mrs. Huang pushed from underneath, almost knocking her off balance. Still hardly breaking a sweat.
          Anna sat on the bench and waited to catch her breath before continuing. Perspiration was now pouring down her forehead. Mrs. Huang sat next to her and put her hand on Anna's knee.
          "Ha ha! You need exercise, Mrs. Cooperman! Your ma, she hardly got out of breath even with ninety years old." She chuckled and pulled a tissue out of her brassiere, offered it to Anna.
          "Is that so?" Anna nodded politely. She was less than thrilled at the idea of wiping her face with something that had been stuffed down Mrs. Huang's chest, but she took her offering so as not to offend and dabbed lightly at her brow.
          "Ya-siree! Only the day before the stroke, from my apartment I heard her go up and down the stairs many times that day."
          People were always telling Anna about her mother's physical fitness. They talked about how she carried her groceries effortlessly up to the fifth floor. Since they shopped together, she knew it was an exaggeration, but it was true that her mother was in better shape than most people thirty years her junior.
          "That day I remember - three times up and down. The last time, I came out of my apartment and said, 'Mrs. Kalish, do you keep forgetting something?' but she paid no attention, just moved out to the backyard. 'You'll pick me some vegetables to make a nice soup, Mrs. Kalish?' I joked with her. Then she laughed. Said she would make me some soup in the morning, but not from her garden. Too bad."
          Mrs. Huang got up to rub a spot on the wall with a rag she pulled out of her pocket. Anna was thinking about calling Sadie down to help when she heard the stairs creaking and her sister appeared around the corner.
          "Thank you, Mrs. Huang. My sister and I will take the bench from here. We'll see you at four. You've 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 listening 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 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./p>

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!!

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From Chapter 10

For three weeks after she moved in, Sylvia left every day for "errands." Rebecca was positive she was going to work; she had told her when Dora first brought her to visit that she could still work for a little while longer. Why, then, was Sylvia lying to her? Hadn't she been the one to say she didn't want to live in a house of lies? Isaac wasn't even awake when she made her daily announcement, during their breakfast preparations, though it was true that sound carried to the other room, and one could never be sure he wasn't listening in. Perhaps she would have discussed it later if Rebecca had been able to muster the courage to ask, but she couldn't dredge up the question. It seemed like an invasion of privacy.
          She was gone for four hours, usually, but not always, in the afternoon. Every day Rebecca's curiosity grew cat-like inside her until she thought she might have to padlock herself to the kitchen table to keep from following her down the street to her secret lair. She imagined it in ways she knew were not at all realistic, a snake or two slithering by on the floor, the occasional working girl hanging upside down from a chandelier in the main parlour, men grabbing at her wrists to try to pull her down. A large woman, dressed in the most ostentatious fashion, worse even than Dora, would be at the back of the room laughing at the whole scene, red feather boas hanging from her neck, her fingers heavy with fake jewel-encrusted rings. Occasionally she would bring a fleshy arm up to wipe sweat off of her partially exposed bosom.

"Rebecca, I'd like to be some use to you occasionally if I'm going to be living here. Is there anything you'd like to assign me as a chore? Some shopping? Some cleaning so that you don't have to do it?" Sylvia had been following after her, wiping counters she had already dusted, lining up Mason jars in perfect rows, all chores Rebecca considered a waste of time. The question came as a relief. She hadn't known how to broach the subject. Was it all right to ask Sylvia for some help when she was already charging her rent? Plus she didn't know how to tell Sylvia that she was being helpful in the most annoying possible way.
          "Actually, to tell you the truth, I really need to get some work done on some sewing I've taken in for extra money. It's been coming in steady since I offered to help out after the Triangle fire."
          "Oh, I could help you with that!" she said, and finished turning the little glass spice jars label out.
          "I feel quite guilty about it because it just gives them an excuse not to hire back other girls in their new factory, but then we need the money too. If you still know anyone in the union, please don't tell them."
          "Don't worry, I won't. Though I'm sure they'd understand."
          "I'm not so sure. Anyway, would you mind giving me a hand moving the machine over to the table? It's there, tucked into the corner beside the counter."
          "I can do better than that, I can help you with some cutting. Or even do some sewing if you're patient with me while I remember how."
          "You know how to sew?"
          "My mother taught all of us how to sew. I'm just a little rusty. And you'll have to show me the pattern, of course."
          Rebecca grabbed the sewing machine, a stand-alone model, with black iron fixed to a chestnut base crowning elaborately curved iron legs and a latticed foot peddle. It was second-hand; the varnish on the table was peeling and gouged, the gold Singer logo already half scratched off. Sylvia held on to the cloth and the bobbins of blue and white thread lying on top.
          They centred it at one end of the table and put chairs in front and beside so they could work together. Sylvia cut the fabric according to Rebecca's instructions, following the pattern with an impressive deftness. Rebecca hummed away with her task, and they talked very little for some time.
          Once they had settled into a certain rhythm, Rebecca lifted her head to ask Sylvia a question that had been bothering her since the week before. Not the question she most wanted to ask, but another.
          "Sylvia?"
          "Hmmmm?"
          "Why weren't you at Elsie's funeral?"
          "Well, first of all let me say that my family is ashamed of me, Rebecca. Elsie was ashamed too. It's the sad truth of the matter."
          "But she was the one who went at me, about prostitutes being not much different from her and me, about how people make choices, etcetera, etcetera..."
          "Well, she may have talked a good line, but look at how she behaved. She was too ashamed to introduce me to her friends. The only one of her friends I met was Dora, who, by the way, does not in the least bit have a problem with it, and I met her by complete coincidence one day when I was hanging out on the stoop of our building with some of the girls."
          "When was that?"
          "A few years ago. I saw Elsie across the street shopping and called out to her. I thought she was alone. I didn't see that she was with someone 'cause I think Dora was turned the other way, looking at something in a shop window. Or something like that. Anyway, Elsie was forced to introduce me to her. And of course she was great, it was all Elsie's worrying for nothing. So don't be mad at Dora; if she'd had it her way, I'm sure they would have told you."
          "I guess Elsie didn't tell you who I was or where I lived. That's why you never came by after I was hurt at the rally, isn't it?"
          "What did you want me to do? I made a choice to respect Elsie's feelings on the matter. Don't get me wrong, it's not that it didn't burn me up. But I swallowed my pride, even though it meant doing things like being rude and not coming by to see how you were doing, and even though it made me feel pretty damn cheap. But she was my sister, Rebecca. Things are difficult enough between sisters as it is. So I just decided to let her be when it came to her personal life. The alternative would've been not to have her in my life, and I had lost enough family."
          "Well then what about the shivah? Surely she would've wanted you to be there for that."
          "That was my parents. They're... well, they're not very nice people. They disowned me when I was sixteen. No. They didn't just disown me. They said the Kaddish and sat shivah for me, like I had died. You know how it is."
          Rebecca thought to ask what she'd done that her parents would sit shivah, but decided it would be rude. And besides, she had a fairly good idea. She brought the conversation back to the present.
          "But your own sister's funeral! I can't believe parents would be so cruel as to prevent you from being there."
          "What can I say? I get on without them. And I find my own way to mourn my sister. I didn't need to be at the synagogue or at the shivah house."
          "Everyone there said you were too sick to come. I ... I don't understand how people..." She looked up from her sewing. Sylvia was biting her lip and looking down at her fidgeting hands. "I'm sorry. I don't know much about these things; I don't have any sisters or brothers, but my parents aren't so bad, so it always surprises me." Her eyes fogged up at the thought of them. "They just left for Russia, you know. Or did I tell you that already?"
          Sylvia breathed in deeply through her nose. "Look. Don't feel sorry for me. Now I don't have any sisters or brothers either. And my parents may as well be in Russia, even though they live about five blocks from here. So we can be only children together, both of us with our parents far away. The only difference is with me it's because of death and cruelty. You? Well I guess it's through bad luck on both counts."
          Rebecca nodded. There was nothing much she could say to that. Sylvia seemed to let go of traumatic events as though they were fish she was throwing back into a stream.
          "Sylvia," she said, "I have another question. I don't mean to be rude, prying so much, but I'm still a little curious - why exactly did they ask you to pretend to be a factory worker at that rally?"
          "That really bothers you, doesn't it?"
          "No, it doesn't bother me! I mean not personally at least. It's more an intellectual question. I just don't understand why everyone seems to brush off so lightly deceiving a crowd of people who are supposed to be your sisters and brothers in the struggle. You, I can understand, 'cause you're not part of the struggle, so what does it matter to you? But the rally organizers? It just seems unnecessary. And not in the spirit of what they're trying to do."
          "And I suppose you never conceal the truth, tell a little story to get what you want?"
          "No, I don't think I do," she said defiantly.
          "What about in your marriage?"
          "I most certainly don't lie to my husband!"
          "Oh?" Sylvia looked at her, bemused. "Not even a little?"
          Rebecca quickened the pace of her sewing. "Certainly not in the way we're talking about."
          "So in what way is it then?"
          Rebecca shook her head, dismissing the question, but Sylvia was obviously not giving up so easily.
          "Oh, come on, Rebecca. It's all a matter of degrees, isn't it? Haven't you ever pretended to be cheerful so that you can keep peace in the house? Don't you ever pretend to enjoy yourself when he lies down with you at night? If you don't, I can tell you one thing; you're not like most married women I've met."
          Rebecca's face flushed. "That's not an appropriate question to ask."
          "I'm sorry. I know I lied at the rally, but the thing is, I've gotten used to speaking candidly when I talk to women one on one. Because, you see, I tell lies to men all the time. So I don't want to have to pretend with women."
          "Why do you lie to men?"
          "Lying to men just sort of goes with the territory in my business. It's the only way to survive doing what I do. I live in a really different world than you do, Rebecca. But you know what? At the same time I think Elsie was right. There are similarities in how all women cope. And the sad reality is that being honest with men usually doesn't lead to happiness."
          Rebecca had kept her head down while Sylvia was talking. Sylvia might think she was the wise woman of the world, but she refused to play into it. She didn't want to seem too enthralled by what she was saying. Besides, she needed time to think of a way to let her know that she was not some naive, sheltered little child.
          She halted the spinning of the wheel suddenly and looked Sylvia straight in the eye.
          "You're pretty sure you know what my life is like, aren't you? It must be nice being so knowledgeable about everything."
          Sylvia turned red. "I've offended you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get us off on a bad foot. My sister always said I speak too freely. It's always been one of my worst faults."
          Rebecca pulled the sleeve out from under the needle and handed it to Sylvia. "Don't worry about it. Here, this can be the last one. I think we've probably had enough for today. We should probably quit before my stitches start getting crooked. Don't you think?"
          Sylvia took the sleeve and looked at Rebecca with a conciliatory expression.
          "I like crooked lines," she said.
          Well, how nice for you, Rebecca thought, and then she yanked the thread out of the machine.

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From Chapter 21

Rebecca's eyes darted left and right as she hurried along Allen Street. The rain had just lifted, and as she reached an intersection, she winced at the stench of wet garbage and a sweating horse, both of which were waiting there on the corner. Soon to be picked up by someone, she hoped. The horse stood in front of a shop that sold Sabbath items, the window displaying a careful arrangement of silver and pewter kiddush cups, a mahogany challah board with a silver knife, some candlesticks, and a light blue and white ceramic havdallah set. A man was leaning in the doorframe and called out to her.
          "Why not stop and take a look at what nice craftsmanship I have here on display? How long have you been using the same old things? Come and look at this nice spice box I have here: made by Avram Dressler himself!"
          The man started to say something else, but his voice was drowned out by a train thundering by overhead on the elevated tracks. The metal structure that supported the tracks shook dangerously as the train's wheels scraped and rolled on, overpowering all other noise for a good fifteen seconds.
          Rebecca tipped her hat down further over her face and averted her eyes. She did not want anyone to recognize her. By the time the train passed, she was a few stores down, in front of one that advertised only holiday items: menorahs, seder sets, matzo trays, shofars, and dreidels. The store was dark, probably not even open, there being no major holiday until the fall. Beside that store, there was an open doorway to an apartment, and a few women stood outside leaning against the brick wall, necks craned to the sky to take in a little sun. One woman tried to cool herself vigorously with an oriental fan, arching her back so much that her white frilly blouse barely covered her breasts. Rebecca looked at the piece of paper she'd tucked into her sleeve to check the address, but this was not the right one.
          The rest of the block housed a few more shops, one selling tefillin and tallises, and the last two simple grocery stands selling some wilted vegetables and pocked fruit. In each doorframe, a man beckoned to her, and each time, she averted her eyes, pretending not to hear him or feigning distraction from some other noise coming from the other side of the street. Glad to reach the end of the block, she crossed under the tracks.
          She thought again about what Sylvia had said, but she had no qualms about ignoring her wishes. Well, maybe a few. But if Sylvia wanted her to understand her life better, as she said she did, why wouldn't she let her see where she worked, just this once? Did she want her to understand, or was she just smoothing over their arguments?
          It had been almost a month since Sylvia last went to work at Mrs. Fine's. The request had come a few days before and had been somewhat of a surprise, since she was beginning to show. But the girl who had delivered Mrs. Fine's message said that one of her regulars had asked for Sylvia specifically, that he wanted to see her once more before she got too big. Mrs. Fine would be too busy with her other houses to check up on her personally, but her message was clear: come now or don't come back later.
          Rebecca had suggested this would be a perfect opportunity for Sylvia to leave the profession, but Sylvia would have nothing to do with that. This was a long-time client, someone she liked, and she would go. When Rebecca had asked if she could come with her to see where she worked, Sylvia had refused categorically.
          "Just forget it, Rebecca," she said, and her hand waved the idea away. Of course, being silenced in that manner made Rebecca furious, so she set her mind up to go anyway. After all, they had grown close. Sylvia would be mad, but it wouldn't be so bad. She'd forgive her. And it wasn't as if she wanted to stand there in the room while Sylvia and her customer carried on. She just wanted to get some idea of where she would be going back to, after the baby came.
          So Rebecca waited until Sylvia had been gone for a half an hour, then she got dressed, put on her most conservative-looking shirtwaist and skirt, a navy blue waistcoat over top, and a large hat that she tipped to the side so that it partially covered her face. She set out across town to pay Mrs. Fine's little establishment a visit.
          Now, stepping onto the curb on the west side of the street, she again pulled out the piece of paper to check the address. She had imagined it would be a little shabby, but nothing like this simple, dilapidated, narrow tenement. Again, she checked the street number; this was definitely the right place. She ducked in the door. The entranceway wasn't so different from her own. Perhaps the hallway was a little wider. Where was the big parlour with people drinking? Where was the large woman that she had imagined, with the red feather boas hanging from her neck?
          There was no room, no woman. Gas lamps lit the faces of five men seated on a bench to the left of the staircase and another four standing in line. The men on the bench sat silently, most of them with their heads down and their hands in their laps, one looking up at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head, large circles of underarm sweat staining his brown shirt. When she stepped into the hallway, all eyes turned her way.
          The man sitting second closest to the door jumped up from the bench and ran out. He tried to shield his face, but she recognized him, a man from the factory, married to one of the button-sewers. Rebecca had a moment of panic herself. What if he told someone he saw her there? But she shook the thought away. He'd never say anything, at least not to anyone she knew. He was clearly worried enough that someone might find out he came here himself.
          The man closest to the exit slid down to fill the space, and the first one in the queue sat down in his place. Another man sat halfway up the stairs. He called out to her.
          "Can I help you, miss?"
          Rebecca felt her face flush.
          "Are you the new girl?"
          She tried to steady her voice. "No, I'm not. I'm waiting for a friend. She works here. If you don't mind, I'll just wait until she comes down."
          "Who's your friend?" he inquired.
          "Sylvia."
          "I'm afraid there ain't no Sylvia here. You must have the wrong place. Try across the street a few doors down. Engel's house."
          "No, this is it, I'm sure. Are you certain there isn't a Sylvia?"
          "Look, miss, I been working here for two years. We only have eight inmates here. Seven since Sarah got - well, in the family way, if ya know what I mean. I think I know their names by now."
          "Sarah! That's what I meant. I mean - that's her other name. I'm waiting for Sarah. She's here today, isn't she?"
          "Sure, she just went upstairs about ten minutes ago. But you can't just wait there."
          "Please, I'm not here to make trouble. Just forget I'm here." But as she looked at the faces of the men on the bench, it was clear that was a ridiculous request.
          The man on the stairs looked at her and cocked his head. "You sure you ain't the new one? It's okay to be shy. They always come dressed like you the first day."
          "I'm not the new girl," she said tersely, looking down at her clothes.
          "Okay, suit yourself," he said. "She should be down soon." The man looked like he was going to say something else, but then shook his head and stared down between his knees at the step.
          Moans could be heard coming from directly above them, through the creaking floorboards. Rebecca leaned sideways against the wall, turning away from the men so that she wouldn't have to see them. She wished someone would start talking.
          A few excruciating minutes later, a man staggered down the stairs. He combed his hair back as he hurried by. The sentry on the stairs shouted "Next!" and the first man on the bench got up. He was told to go to number two. The other four slid down, and the empty spot was filled by the next man standing.
          Rebecca thought she would scream and run out the front door if Sylvia didn't hurry up. But then, how could she be expected to hurry when she didn't even know Rebecca was waiting?
          After a five-minute eternity, she appeared around the corner of the stairs dressed in a cream robe. A man had his arm around her. He looked to be in his fifties and was wearing grey pants, a white shirt with a bow tie, blue suspenders, and a jacket. His face was deeply creased and his complexion ruddy, and he had a salt-and-pepper, handlebar moustache. He gave Sylvia a chuck under the chin, and she smiled and leaned in to kiss him sensuously on the lips.

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