“Quick! Hide the frying-pan in the oven! Woe is me! The house not swept—dishes not washed—everything thrown around! Rachel! Quick only—sweep together the dirt in a corner. Throw those rags under the bed! Oi weh—quick—hide all those dirty things behind the trunk!”
In her haste to tidy up, she remembered the food in the cupboard. She stuffed it—broken eggshells and all—into the bureau drawer. “Oi weh! The charity lady should only not catch us with all these holiday eatings....”
Footsteps in the hallway and Miss Naughton’s cheery voice: “Here I am, Mrs. Ravinsky! What can I do to help now?”
With the trained eye of the investigator, she took in the wretched furniture, scant bedding, the under-nourished mother and child.
“What seems to be wrong?” Miss Naughton drew up a three-legged stool. “Won’t you tell me, so we can get at the root of the trouble?” She put her hand on the woman’s apron with a friendly little gesture.
Mrs. Ravinsky bit her lips to force back the choking pressure of tears. The life, the buoyancy, the very kindness of the “charity lady” stabbed deeper the barb of her wretchedness.
“Woe is me! On all my enemies my black heart! So many babies and young people die every day, but no death comes to hide me from my shame.”
“Don’t give way like that,” pleaded Miss Naughton, pained by the bitterness that she tried in vain to understand. “If you will only tell me a few things so I may the better know how to help you.”
“Again tear me in pieces with questions?” Mrs. Ravinsky pulled at the shrunken skin of her neck.
“I don’t like to pry into your personal affairs, but if you only knew how often we’re imposed upon. Last week we had a case of a woman who asked us to pay her rent. When I called to investigate, I found her cooking chicken for dinner!”