Read Online The Hormone Factory by Saskia Goldschmidt - Free Book Online
Authors: Saskia Goldschmidt
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a Jewess, could it be any less suitable?
Rivka wasn’t conscious of class or racial segregation. In the circles of the Amsterdam intelligentsia to which she belonged, what counted was schooling, intellect, and a sense of humor, and although most of her friends and her parents’ acquaintances were Jewish, background wasn’t considered relevant. It may have been guilelessness, a willful ignorance of the class system that reigned in these parts, or perhaps simply her gut instinct that led her to hitch the right ladies in our firm to her reformation wagon, but whatever it was, she managed, to my surprise, to assemble a motley crew of all denominations—Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish, the uneducated factory rats who streamed into our plant every day in their shabby coveralls and threadbare aprons. There was particular focus on the young girls, who were instructed in a lighthearted way in the kinds of things a young woman ought to know. The subjects included how to prepare healthy meals with little cash, and the rudimentary hygiene these future housewives should try to maintain, even if they had to do so in drafty, ramshackle huts barely a step up from the peat shacks of the past, places with neither plumbing nor freshair. There was also some mention, without getting too explicit, of ways a girl might ward off a hot-blooded beau, provided that was what she wanted. It should come as no surprise that these instructions, doled out by my enthusiastic darling, weren’t taken all too seriously. Most of the shiksas were smart enough to count to nine, and there were few people in the factory unaware that our first child must have been conceived sometime before our low-key wedding. But that fact only made them more inclined to accept my Rivka.
During a dinner at our house, Rivka enthusiastically told some of her former schoolmates about the teaching sessions, and a plan was soon hatched not only to educate my employees, but to organize cultural activities for them as well. These cultivated alumnae loved the theater, and one of Rivka’s complaints was that she hadn’t been able to get there very often since her marriage. At school they’d had an inspirational classics teacher who had challenged himself to make his students see that the language of the ancient Greeks could inspire the young people of today. Rivka had often described in colorful detail how they had staged The Twelve Labors of Hercules . It had been one of the high points of her school days. (Actually, the story of Hercules has always intrigued me, especially the way it begins: Alcmene gives birth to twins with two different fathers. It was just a myth, of course, for the idea that two eggs could be simultaneously fertilized by two different men was implausible even in ancient Greece. Still, I considered it to be the best explanation yet for the fact that Aaron and I had turned out so very different in every respect.)
As the company around our dining room table grew jollier and jollier—I have always prided myself on being a generous host—it was agreed that some of them would devote one evening a week to helping Rivka mount a production starring factoryemployees. No Hercules for them, of course; that wouldn’t have gone over very well with these former peasants. It would have to be a revue, lavishly produced, and all the local yokels, even workers from rival factories, were to be invited. It would definitely be a novelty in this district, a pioneering endeavor in what’s now known as sociocultural work, and it was at first roundly mocked by outsiders. Some of my co-industrialists even accused us of harboring socialist sympathies, but I didn’t see the harm in it, frankly. On the contrary, I had a notion that Rivka and her Amsterdam friends were building goodwill for our firm.
In the late spring of 1930, a large audience gathered in the converted workmen’s canteen to watch the first and only performance of Tittle-Tattle . It was a cabaret show: Marius and
Rivka wasn’t conscious of class or racial segregation. In the circles of the Amsterdam intelligentsia to which she belonged, what counted was schooling, intellect, and a sense of humor, and although most of her friends and her parents’ acquaintances were Jewish, background wasn’t considered relevant. It may have been guilelessness, a willful ignorance of the class system that reigned in these parts, or perhaps simply her gut instinct that led her to hitch the right ladies in our firm to her reformation wagon, but whatever it was, she managed, to my surprise, to assemble a motley crew of all denominations—Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish, the uneducated factory rats who streamed into our plant every day in their shabby coveralls and threadbare aprons. There was particular focus on the young girls, who were instructed in a lighthearted way in the kinds of things a young woman ought to know. The subjects included how to prepare healthy meals with little cash, and the rudimentary hygiene these future housewives should try to maintain, even if they had to do so in drafty, ramshackle huts barely a step up from the peat shacks of the past, places with neither plumbing nor freshair. There was also some mention, without getting too explicit, of ways a girl might ward off a hot-blooded beau, provided that was what she wanted. It should come as no surprise that these instructions, doled out by my enthusiastic darling, weren’t taken all too seriously. Most of the shiksas were smart enough to count to nine, and there were few people in the factory unaware that our first child must have been conceived sometime before our low-key wedding. But that fact only made them more inclined to accept my Rivka.
During a dinner at our house, Rivka enthusiastically told some of her former schoolmates about the teaching sessions, and a plan was soon hatched not only to educate my employees, but to organize cultural activities for them as well. These cultivated alumnae loved the theater, and one of Rivka’s complaints was that she hadn’t been able to get there very often since her marriage. At school they’d had an inspirational classics teacher who had challenged himself to make his students see that the language of the ancient Greeks could inspire the young people of today. Rivka had often described in colorful detail how they had staged The Twelve Labors of Hercules . It had been one of the high points of her school days. (Actually, the story of Hercules has always intrigued me, especially the way it begins: Alcmene gives birth to twins with two different fathers. It was just a myth, of course, for the idea that two eggs could be simultaneously fertilized by two different men was implausible even in ancient Greece. Still, I considered it to be the best explanation yet for the fact that Aaron and I had turned out so very different in every respect.)
As the company around our dining room table grew jollier and jollier—I have always prided myself on being a generous host—it was agreed that some of them would devote one evening a week to helping Rivka mount a production starring factoryemployees. No Hercules for them, of course; that wouldn’t have gone over very well with these former peasants. It would have to be a revue, lavishly produced, and all the local yokels, even workers from rival factories, were to be invited. It would definitely be a novelty in this district, a pioneering endeavor in what’s now known as sociocultural work, and it was at first roundly mocked by outsiders. Some of my co-industrialists even accused us of harboring socialist sympathies, but I didn’t see the harm in it, frankly. On the contrary, I had a notion that Rivka and her Amsterdam friends were building goodwill for our firm.
In the late spring of 1930, a large audience gathered in the converted workmen’s canteen to watch the first and only performance of Tittle-Tattle . It was a cabaret show: Marius and
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