Bernstein—but you can’t get by in some of these places if they think you’re a Jew. So my name here is ‘Smith.’ I’m starting at the bottom just like you, to learn the tricks of the trade, but some day I’m going to have my own business. You see, my mother’s French and I took after her, so I can pass for French even if I don’t speak any of that lingo. So I know what prejudice means, dearie. Some of the girls tried to get nasty when they put Miss Lawrence over us—Miss Lawrence was the coloured woman—but I liked her and she soon had ’em under her thumb, believe me.”
As Sylvia chattered on, Mimi felt an urge to tell her new friend that she too was sailing under false colours, but she feared to reveal this fact so early in their acquaintance. Caution urged her to remain silent though she felt she could trust Sylvia implicitly despite the fact she had seen her for the first time a few hours before. She liked Sylvia. She was slangy. She was coarse, after a fashion. But it took no very keen eye to see that beneath these externals she was made of fine stuff. Ambitious, too. Just like a Jew, Mimi thought, and though she meant nothing derogatory, she was ashamed she had used a phrase so often spoken in dispraise of Sylvia’s race. Yes, she was going to like Sylvia.
“Say, Mimi—you’re French, too, aren’t you?—let’s have lunch together every day. I don’t have anything to do with the rest of the girls—all they think about is clothes and lovers—but I like you.”
“And I like you, too, Sylvia,” Mimi shyly answered, stirred by the prompt offer of friendship.
“That’s OK, then. We’ll be real pals. And any time you want to know anything, just call on me.”
“Tell me, Sylvia, what became of Miss Lawrence—the coloured woman who was a fitter? Is she still working for Francine?”