Read Online The Collected Stories by Grace Paley - Free Book Online

let’s get out and walk. Come on, get your coat on and tell me all about how to make money.”
    She did. We walked out to the park and scattered autumn leaves for an hour. “Now don’t laugh, Freddy,” she told me. “There’s a Yiddish paper called
Morgenlicht.
It’s running a contest: Jews in the News. Every day they put in a picture and two descriptions. You have to say who the three people are, add one more fact about them, and then send it in by midnight that night. It runs three months at least.”
    â€œA hundred Jews in the news?” I said. “What a tolerant country! So, Dot, what do you get for this useful information?”
    â€œFirst prize, five thousand dollars and a trip to Israel. Also on return two days each in the three largest European capitals in the Free West.”
    â€œVery nice,” I said. “What’s the idea, though? To uncover the ones that’ve been passing?”
    â€œFreddy, why do you look at everything inside out? They’re just proud of themselves, and they want to make Jews everywhere proud of their contribution to this country. Aren’t you proud?”
    â€œWoe to the crown of pride!”
    â€œI don’t care what you think. The point is, we know somebody who knows somebody on the paper—he writes a special article once a week—we don’t know him really, but our family name is familiar to him. So we have a very good chance if we really do it. Look how smart you are, Freddy. I can’t do it myself, Freddy, you have to help me. It’s a thing I made up my mind to do anyway. If Dotty Wasserman really makes up her mind, it’s practically done.”
    I hadn’t noticed this obstinacy in her character before. I had none in my own. Every weekday night after work she leaned thoughtfully on my desk, wearing for warmth a Harris-tweed jacket that ruined the nap of my arm. Somewhere out of doors a strand of copper in constant agitation carried information from her mother’s Brooklyn phone to her ear.
    Peering over her shoulder, I would sometimes discover a three-quarter view of a newsworthy Jew or a full view of a half Jew. The fraction did not interfere with the rules. They were glad to extract him and be proud.
    The longer we worked the prouder Dotty became. Her face flushed, she’d raise her head from the hieroglyphics and read her own translation: “A gray-headed gentleman very much respected; an intimate of Cabinet members; a true friend to a couple of Presidents; often seen in the park, sitting on a bench.”
    â€œBernard Baruch!” I snapped.
    And then a hard one: “Has contributed to the easiness of interstate commerce; his creation is worth millions and was completed last year. Still he has time for Deborah, Susan, Judith, and Nancy, his four daughters.”
    For this I smoked and guzzled a hot eggnog Dot had whipped up to give me strength and girth. I stared at the stove, the ceiling, my irritable shutters—then I said calmly: “Chaim Pazzi—he’s a bridge architect.” I never forget a name, no matter what typeface it appears in.
    â€œImagine it, Freddy. I didn’t even know there was a Jew who had such accomplishment in that field.”
    Actually, it sometimes took as much as an hour to attach a real name to a list of exaggerated attributes. When it took that long I couldn’t help muttering, “Well, we’ve uncovered another one. Put him on the list for Van 2.”
    Dotty’d say sadly, “I have to believe you’re joking.”
    Well, why do you think she liked me? All you little psychoanalyzed people, now say it at once, in a chorus: “Because she is a masochist and you are a sadist.”
    No. I was very good to her. And to all the love she gave me, I responded. And I kept all our appointments and called her on Fridays to remind her about Saturday, and when I had money I brought her flowers and once earrings and once a