Willow Locke - Anarchist Detective

The Lostches II

Talia had just sat down when Ayala came home. She looked bedraggled and tired. Her fingers were blue—some kind of dye from the factory?

"Where were you? We were worried!" said Rachel.
"I just didn't want to walk in the rain—I stopped for coffee." Ayala sat down at the bare wooden table.

"Coffee? So late? You'll be up all night like your brother—caterwauling on the rooftops."

"Who me? I was wondering when you were gonna come out caterwauling with me, sis." Eitan laughed wickedly.

Rachel passed Ayala a bowl of stew and a slice of rye bread.

"Thanks mom." Ayala said. She crumbled the stale rye into her stew with her dyed fingers, light blue over burnt umber. Her gaze flicked sideways at her sister—communicating something. What was it?
Under the table, Ayala stealthily opened up her pocketbook and moved the stolen blouse into her lap. Then a moment later she transferred it to Talia, who knew exactly what it was just by feeling the pattern of embroidery along the edge.

"I'll have to dye it." Talia whispered. She knew a liquor store nearby where she could get wine that had turned to vinegar. She could use it to dye the fine shirt red. Ayala laughed.

Ayala was flexing her blue fingers, stretching them on the edge of the table, trying to relieve the pain in her wrists.

"Did you hurt your hand, sweetheart?" asked Rachel.
She had no response. Her mirth abruptly dissipated. There was some emotion hidden in her silence—her eyes shone with it, the muscles in her jaw tensed. She raked her long black hair out of her face, and surveyed her family members one by one. There were dark circles under her eyes. She had something to say. They waited.

"I just don't understand—Why? Why?" she pushed her chair back and stood, bracing her arms on the table and glaring at Reuven.

"Why what? Why what sweetheart?" said Rachel, incredulous. She stood up and nervously put her arm around her daughter.

"Why did you let Talia quit? Why not me? What's so special about her?" her cheeks flushed with rage and jealousy. Her face was streaked with dirt.

Reuven ran a hand through his gray hair. Concern furrowed his brow and he sighed deeply.

"My sweet child," he began, reaching for her, his voice leaden. She pulled away from his touch.

"I believe work is a message inscribed upon the soul. When God breathes the Nishmat Chayyim into each living thing it is engraved with the sacred ritual of work. But Ayala, this—this blouse factory, it is not work. It is umglik, a catastrophe. I can see how it grinds you away. Even in the flower of womanhood—even in the sunrise of youth, it robs you of your life. And you Eitan—I watch the newspaper drain away your childhood. Too soon I see the face of a man when I look at you. I see your sacrifices. We left the old country, but we're still fighting for our lives, and we won't stop. But this is a new century. Things are changing for us. I am a crew captain now and I will be a foreman soon. The union is strong and they are promoting me. You will quit soon, Ayala. We will leave the tenement and none of my children will work. This is only the first step."

Reuven stood up, circled around the table, and embraced each of his children. He stood behind Ayala's chair with his hand on her shoulder, next to Rachel.

"I asked Talia to quit because certain of my plans have come through—I have an ally at Charles University, my old engineering teacher. We write letters often. His student, Vaclav Cenek, has accepted a position as head of the physical engineering department at New York University. Talia will enroll in this program as an eighteen-year-old student"