I hadn’t known the relief of laughter, but now that I was started I couldn’t stop, no more than I could stop staring at her. I tried to associate this new being of silks and jewels with her who had worked side by side with me in the factory.
“How you act! I think you’re crazy,” she admonished, and glanced at her wrist-watch. “I’m late for my appointment with the manicurist. I have to have my nails done after this dusty railway trip.”
And I had been surprised at the insensate settlement worker, at my uncomprehending American friend who knew not the meaning of want. Yet here was my own sister, my own flesh and blood, reared in the same ghetto, nurtured in the same poverty, ground in the same sweat-shop treadmill, and because she had a few years of prosperity, because she ate well and dressed well and was secure, she was deaf to my cry.
Where I could hope for understanding, where I could turn for shelter, where I was to lay my head that very night, I knew not. But this much suddenly came to me, I was due to report for work that day. I was shut out on every side, but there in my office at least awaited me the warmth and sunshine of an assured welcome. My employer would understand and let me take off the remainder of the day to continue my search.
I found him out, and instead awaiting me was a pile of mail which he had left word I should attend to. The next hour was torture. My power of concentration had deserted me. I tapped the keys of my typewriter with my fingers, but my brain was torn with worry, my nerves ready to snap. The day was nearly spent. Night was coming on and I had no place to lay my head.
I was finishing the last of the letters when he came. After a friendly greeting he turned to the letters. I dared not interrupt until the mail was signed.
“Girl! What’s wrong? That’s not like you!” He stared at me. “There are a dozen mistakes in each letter.”
A blur. Everything seemed to twist and turn around me. Red and black spots blinded me. A clenched hand pounded his desk, and I heard a voice that seemed to come from me—scream like a lunatic. “I have no home—no home—not even a bed for the night!”
Then all I remember is the man’s kindly tone as he handed me a glass of water. “Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“My landlady put me out,” I said between laboured breaths. “Oh-h, I’m so lonely! Not a place to lay my head!”