Stadtluft macht frei, the words of the older man reverberated through Abigail’s head as they had done countless times, but today they meant more. Stadtluft macht frei, according to the old man, it was a law from medieval Germany, where if a serf managed to survive in a city for a year and a day, he was now free.
“City air makes you free,” she said in the mirror as she checked her hair, she spoke in a conversational volume despite being alone in the tenement, checking for any vestiges her Baltic accent, and her hair for darker roots. There were none.
Abigail Kent had a job in the secretarial pool at a law firm. Abigail Kent had light brown hair. Abigail Kent spoke only English. Abigail Kent never worked on a fucking potato farm in Belarus. Abigail Kent never had a matchmaker set her up with that butcher boy who always reeked of blood and manure. Unlike Anichka Kiselyov.
But that didn’t matter. Anichka Kiselyov was dead. Or perhaps it would be better to say she never existed; little more than a half-remembered dream, a figment of Abigail’s imagination.
Abigail turned and walked to her kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. That was another thing she had that Anichka didn’t. Anichka drank weak tea, not coffee with milk.
While the water boiled, Abigail checked the time, mid-morning, in an hour or so, the tenets would be returning to the building from Synagogue; another thing Anichka did. Anichka woke up early on Saturdays to attend Synagogue with her family, but Abigail got to sleep a bit later on Saturdays, and Sundays for that matter.
She checked her hair again in a makeup mirror, she’d need to touch up her roots in a day or so, her pubic hair looked fine though, she was less judicious about her dying her pubic hair, were she to get intimate with someone, she doubted anyone would notice that her pubic roots were darker, and if they did notice, she doubted they would care.
Abigail poured coffee from the percolator, as well as a generous amount of milk. The milk was both to cool down the coffee, as well as an indulgence, she was adding more milk than was needed because she could and because Anichka couldn’t.
Abigail turned on the radio; the dial was already set to a music station. She closed her eyes in contentment and sipped her coffee, enjoying the music and the lazy Saturday, contemplating what she would do the remainder of the day, as well as enjoying that the day was hers to do with as she pleased.
She finished her coffee and set about cleaning the percolator and mug, humming along to the radio. She was about to begin drying them when a knock came on her door. Abigail glanced at her wristwatch, another indulgence, tenets should have returned about half an hour ago.
She opened the door to see a small child, no more than ten, who asked, “Are you Abigail Kent? The phone on the third floor is ringing for you.”
“Thank you-” Abigail began to walk out the door, but the child stopped her.
“Ain’tcha gonna pay me for telling you?” the child asked indignantly.
Abigail sighed but reached into a jar with some nickels, normally reserved for the singers who stood in the alleyway belting out half-remembered lyrics from popular songs and shows, consistently out of tune, but decided to give one to the girl. She had no idea who could be calling her but decided to answer regardless.
She walked up the flight of stairs to the third floor where the only telephone in the building was and took the phone from a woman, presumably the child’s mother.
“Hello, this is Abigail Kent speaking,” she said into the receiver.
A semi-crackled voice came through the other end, “Ms. Kent, this is Charles Smith, from Rosenstein, Silver, and Kraus.”
Charles Smith was one of the younger attorneys for whom Abigail was part of the secretary pool for.
“How can I help, Mr. Smith?”
“Well, you can start by calling me Chuck when we’re not at work, may I call you Abigail?”
“Of course, Mr- I mean, Chuck.”
“Thank you. As for the purpose of my call, I was wondering if you would care to join me this evening for a Vaudeville performance, I find myself with an extra ticket.”
“That sounds delightful Chuck. I’ll be just a moment while I get something to write with for the time and address.”
“That won’t be necessary; I’ll pick you up in a cab.”
Abigail’s smirk widened but managed to hide it in her voice “Thank you very much.” A spare ticket? A cab? First names? Seemed to Abigail that Mr. Chuck Smith had a bit of a crush.
Abigail thought about how fun this could be. It was the 1920s after all, and Abigail was a modern American woman. Sure she wasn’t quite a flapper, but going to a club and dancing with some strangers was a good time. She hadn’t been to any petting parties, but that was more to do with most being invitation-only, and she couldn’t get invited. Smoking made her cough,
Anichka never did any of that. She never got invited to a dance or to a show by a handsome boy.
Chuck let her know what time he’d be arriving and Abigail said she was looking forward to it. Her mind was immediately flooded by ideas and goals for the day, and what she would wear. When she got back to her tenement, she immediately began going through her closet.
Gloves were silly, but a sleek dress was a must. She picked a blue-green one with straps on the shoulders to show off her arms, with a medium neckline, low enough to be enticing, but high enough to not give too much away. The dress cut off above just above her knees, partially to show off her legs, but more on the chance they went dancing. Oxford heels, but ones with a bit of a sturdy heel, a bit thicker and lower than was typically considered the style, purely out of practicality.
She briefly questioned whether she would wear jewelry, but opted against it. Abigail wanted to look good, desirable, and even sexy, but not quite put on the Ritz. This wasn’t officially a date, but if Abigail had it her way, it would turn into one, and maybe something more.
She finished off the ensemble with a cloche hat of similar color to her dress. It wasn’t a perfect match, but close enough for anyone to care. She walked over to a full-length mirror and gave a quick twirl to get a sense of how she looked, just about perfect. She then sat down to see how high up the skirt rode, just a bit up the thigh, enough for some handsome fellow to put his hand on her thigh, but low enough to not give too much away.
Anichka never wore anything like that. She wore baggy dresses in dull colors, frequently dirty from farm work, and boots to protect her feet.
Abigail sighed with contentment, this was the life, and it was hers. After a year and a day, city air had made her free, and there was no way in hell she would go back to… to something that didn’t exist.
It was only a matter of time before a buzzer rang informing Abigail that she had a guest at the door. She quickly scurried down the stairs to greet her guest.
Upon seeing Chuck, Abigail was glad she had decided to dress up. Chuck was tall, just a hair under 6 feet, with dirty blonde hair and sparkling gray eyes. He was wearing dark gray slacks with a matching vest over a white collared shirt, and a simple fedora.
“You look lovely, Abigail,” He extended his arm for Abigail to take it, “I have a cab waiting just outside, I hope you’ll forgive the jalopy.”
“It’s no trouble Chuck, and thank you for the invitation,” she took his arm as he walked to the cab, clearly a vehicle that had seen better days, and like a perfect gentleman, Chuck opened the door and helped Abigail in before walking to the other side and entering himself.
They spoke idly on the drive to the theater, but Abigail noticed that Chuck kept making slight glances at her legs, which caused Abigail to suppress a smirk, this was going perfectly.
The performance was a musical comedy in two acts that also included several escapology acts as plot devices, as well as a group of scantily clad women performing dance numbers and operating as a Greek chorus. The plot entailed an escape artist’s wife and her lover plotting to kill the escape artist so they could get the life insurance policy. However, as the oblivious and slightly buffoonish escape artist foils the assassination attempts, thinking they were all part of the act. It ends with the escape artist and his wife reconciling, and the wife’s former lover marrying one of the escape artist's beautiful assistants. Chuck and Abigail wouldn’t see the ending.
