Free Love by the Morning Star by Laura L. Sullivan Page A

her pocket, just in case she changed her mind.
    Resolutely, she slipped into the blue print dress. It was miles too long, but she managed to hook it up under her apron so it hung higher, though unevenly. The cap was trickier. No matter how she placed it, it either tipped forward over her eyes or tumbled backward off her head entirely. Finally she spied an old hairpin wedged into a corner on the floor, relic of a kitchen maid past. With that she contrived to secure the cap at a rakish angle so it dipped down over one eye. It was the best she could do.
    Then she carefully stowed the few mementos of her past life. She hung her light coat neatly on one of the hooks, and folded her jacket, and the matching skirt weighted down with strands of pearls sewn into the seams. Beneath them in the top drawer she tucked her mother’s letter from Lady Liripip, and a picture of her parents linked arm in arm on the stage, taking a curtain call. Finally she settled her passport and visa in her lap and looked at the little
J
stamped on them.
    She had never been religious, and her parents’ only faith was in the stage. Aaron Morgenstern was a member of the local synagogue because his parents had been, because his friends were, because it took his donations and put them toward good deeds. His was a Jewishness of history and culture and sociability, not of faith. Spiritually, he was an atheist. That did not matter to the state.
    â€œFrom now on, for the sake of my fellow Jews who are suffering, I will be as Jewish as I can.” Hannah did not speak Hebrew, knew few of the rites, but what she knew, she would practice. “It will be a lie of a sort,” she admitted to herself. “But a good one. A lie of homage. A lie of solidarity.”
    She shoved her cap more firmly on her head and hiked up her trailing hem, determined to do whatever she had to until she could be with her parents again.
    â€œThough I hope it won’t be
too
long,” she said as she closed her door behind her. “I don’t know how many washings my one pair of underwear can survive.”
    The family’s lunch was over by the time she descended, and the servants were just sitting down to their own repast. Dozens of pairs of eyes whipped around at her entrance.
    No need to be afraid of them. It’s only a stage
, she thought to herself (fortunately remembering not to say it out loud, for once).
I am just acting a part. An Aschenputtel part—no, in English it is Cinderella. Only my father will be my prince when he makes it safely to England, and I have a beloved mother instead of an evil stepmother, and
. . .
    â€œAhem,” she said after a long and uncomfortable silence. “My name is Hannah and I suppose I am . . . no, I
am
the new kitchen maid. I am also Jewish, and I’m sorry, but I won’t work on a Saturday because it is a holy day. Also, sausages and other pig things are not to have.” In her confusion she was thinking in German and translating to English. Her accent was creeping up on her and she fought it back, her face scrunching with determination. “I am very happy to be here and hope to be your good friend. Oh, and shrimp. I must not eat shrimp. Or camels. Or insects.” She was very hazy on dietary laws, having spent her toddler years wandering among the tables at Der Teufel, sneaking diners’ shrimp cocktails. But it would have to do. She had made her point.
    She bobbed a curtsy because she had seen it in a movie about English servants once. “Thank you.”
    One of the parlor maids tittered, and this started a chain reaction of giggles and guffaws until Sally barked, “Silence!” and told Hannah to sit at the end of the table.
    â€œYou work on Saturday like everyone else. Do your praying Sunday when the rest of us are at church. As for shrimp,
my lady
,” she added with an echo of Trapp’s withering scorn, “you shan’t be offered them. Eat as many bugs