Speaking for the Jews, at least, I know I am
safe in inviting such an investigation.
Who were my companions on my first day at school? Whose hand was in
mine, as I stood, overcome with awe, by the teacher's desk, and
whispered my name as my father prompted? Was it Frieda's steady, capable
hand? Was it her loyal heart that throbbed, beat for beat with mine, as
it had done through all our childish adventures? Frieda's heart did
throb that day, but not with my emotions. My heart pulsed with joy and
pride and ambition; in her heart longing fought with abnegation. For I
was led to the schoolroom, with its sunshine and its singing and the
teacher's cheery smile; while she was led to the workshop, with its foul
air, care-lined faces, and the foreman's stern command. Our going to
school was the fulfilment of my father's best promises to us, and
Frieda's share in it was to fashion and fit the calico frocks in which
the baby sister and I made our first appearance in a public schoolroom.
I remember to this day the gray pattern of the calico, so affectionately
did I regard it as it hung upon the wall--my consecration robe awaiting
the beatific day. And Frieda, I am sure, remembers it, too, so
longingly did she regard it as the crisp, starchy breadths of it slid
between her fingers. But whatever were her longings, she said nothing of
them; she bent over the sewing-machine humming an Old-World melody. In
every straight, smooth seam, perhaps, she tucked away some lingering
impulse of childhood; but she matched the scrolls and flowers with the
utmost care.
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