Beguiled by Karma Kitaj - an Excerpt

BEGUILED is about every person who ever had dreams

beguiled

that were interrupted by cultural mores, by discrimination, or by their own shortcomings. Miriam Levine, born in 1900, dreamed of going on stage, until an almost fatal mis-step forced her to postpone her “real life.” A serendipitous offer compelled her to confront her inner demons and society’s expectations.

As Glinda, the Good Witch of the South in the Wizard of Oz, she recites at age 16: “You’ve always had the power, my dear, you just had to learn it for yourself.”

The story is inspirational for young people and their parents who dearly wish to access the American dream. The historical context of the decades before the Great Depression, the role of immigrants and women’s suffrage parallels tough political dilemmas that the US faces today.

Will Miriam have the gumption to follow her dreams? Will those dreams yield her the happiness she seeks? Or will she find that her childhood fantasies “beguile” her to seek ‘fool’s gold?’

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K a r m a K i ta j

Karma Kitaj, PhD, has been in the listening business for decades. As an astute listener, she works with trauma survivors as a psychotherapist and with Baby Boomers as a life coach, making her ear a splendid instrument for “hearing” the voices of her characters. She parlayed her skill into researching and writing about high-achieving women in 2 books: Women Who Could… and Did, Lives of 26 Exemplary Artists and Scientists and Women Riders Who Could… and FICTION: Historical Fiction Did, Life Stories of Top Level Equestriennes. She authored a blog and articles for online publications, such as the Huffington Post.

She contributed a chapter on creativity to Live Smart After 50! The Experts Guide to Life Planning for Uncertain Times. Kitaj has hosted a TV show she created, called “New Adventures As We Age” where she interviewed 100+ people over age 50. $18.95 These are all archived on YouTube and Vimeo.

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Beguiled

by Karma Kitaj © Copyright 2018 Karma Kitaj

ISBN 978-1-63393-561-7 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters may be both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue, and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

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beguiled a novel

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VIRGINIA BEACH CAPE CHARLES

Dedication To my mother, Jeanne Brooks Kitaj, who was the inadvertent muse for this story. Her relationship with my grandfather, David Brooks, a member of the Workmen’s Circle in Cleveland, Ohio, and an avid theater-goer, became the inspiration for Pop. She passed on her passion for the music and visual arts during many summers at Tanglewood in Massachusetts.

Part I

1 The Homecoming April 1922

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iriam Levine trudged up to her parents’ third-floor tenement on Leverett Street, in the immigrant enclave of Boston’s West End. She was only twenty-one and her life was ruined.

She ascended the stairwell, exhausted, dried blood caked on her clothing and her coat buttons askew. Heavy with dread, fearing how Ma would welcome her announcement, she paused every few steps, each well-worn on the front edge. The stairwell walls bore years of scrapes from families heaving bulky furniture. She wondered if she was entering a safe haven.

She heard the well-known sounds of the neighbors—Mrs. Minelli yelling at her good-for-nothing husband, Sean O’Reilly singing a drunken melody. The distinctive odors changed as she climbed: from the heavy scent of garlic between the first and second floors, to Mrs. O’Reilly’s corned beef and cabbage between the second- and third-floor apartments, to the familiar smell of Ma’s freshly-baked kuchen.

Miriam already imagined Ma’s invective, blaming her for leaving a perfectly good man from an upstanding Jewish family, who lived in a prosperous suburb—for Miriam’s crazy notions, like the idea that she

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could have a better life without a husband.

She thought she had left the West End of Boston for good. She never imagined she’d come running back to her parents, her life in disarray.

Fleeing her husband in terror. Why did I listen to Ma’s insistence that I marry Ethan? She clutched her whimpering son, Aaron, on her right hip; in her other arm she held a heavy satchel containing everything she’d grabbed as she raced out of the new house in Brookline.

She opened the door to her parents’ and nearly fell in under the weight of her burdens.

“What’re you doing out with the baby on a day like this?” Ma screamed. Miriam hadn’t heard her mother yell like that since Aaron was born. “It’s a lousy day. Rain’s coming down in torrents, wind’s blowing up a storm. Give him to me. You want he should get pneumonia?”

“I left Ethan, Ma. I told Pop about it—he’s not the same guy I met, the boy who adored me.” In Miriam’s frantic state, she lapsed into English.

She re-phrased it in Yiddish, having trouble catching her breath.

“Oy gevalt, what’s this, I ask you?” Ma shrieked. “What news are you telling me? Why you take all my joy away?” She grabbed Aaron from Miriam’s arms and continued to howl at her, not letting her get a word in.

“You meshugge? Ethan, he’s a good boy. He’ll inherit the family business.

Look at that beautiful necklace he made for you. What could be so bad?

Handsome boy, Ethan is. That head of hair he has. He could pass for a goy with that button nose. You crazy?

“You’re not going to stay here, I tell you, Miriam. I’ll take Aaron. You go off. You live with those flapper friends of yours. All you girls with short hair, knees sticking out of your skirts. No wonder Ethan, he don’t want you. I knew it. Your high fallutin’ pop never should take you to those shows when you were just a little girl. He never listens to me. And on top of that, all that talk you hear from his Arbeiter Ring meetings. Socialistic.

Ladies’ rights. It’s poisoned you.

“I don’t know what’ll happen now,” Ma started to sniffle, her anger spent. “All we do for you—send you to that fancy girl’s school. Now look at you.”

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Miriam’s eyes glazed over at Ma’s old diatribe—one she used to hear every week. She’d started to trust Ma; she’d calmed down since her beautiful grandson arrived. But Miriam knew, deep inside, that she was never the daughter Ma wanted—if she had ever wanted a daughter at all.

She had wanted her son, that’s for sure. Izzy was everything to her until his terrible death.

But today, of all days, can’t Ma be a little bit kind to me? Can’t she see that I’m distraught and frantic? That what I need is sympathy for leaving my husband, who terrifies me?

“What’s goin’ on here?” Pop said, stomping water off his galoshes as he entered the kitchen door, red in the face and rubbing his cold hands.

“There’s a big storm out there. Ah, Miriam, my bubbeleh, what’re you doin’ here? Why you cryin’? What’s the matter?”

Ma gave him her version of the debacle: “A nafka, she is. A floozy—” “Mimi, what happened? Why?” Pop interrupted Ma, an unusual occurrence.

His worry melted her armor, prompting tears to stream down her cheeks, streaking the makeup she so carefully applied just hours before.

Pop took her in his arms and rocked her like he did when she was a little girl. His warmth, his love, made her cry even more, cry for all the times she refused to cry when Ma berated her for everything that ever mattered to her. For her passion for theater. For working when she had a baby.

For wanting more for herself than her Russian immigrant mother ever dreamed.

But things had been different between them lately. She thought she and Ma had turned a corner. Only last week, when she came to pick Aaron up, Ma asked her to stay and have coffee and cake with her. They’d sat in the kitchen and played with Aaron together, Ma so sweet and attentive to the baby. Miriam came to see Ma as being more like a friend.

Not today. She was her old self.

Between sobs, Miriam quietly told Pop what had happened. “Ethan, he beat me again, like I told you months ago. For no reason. Something’s wrong with him. He looks like a stranger—his eyes . . . I won’t let my baby

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grow up seeing Ethan hit me. You told me, Pop, if he does that again, come home. So, here I am. I don’t expect you to support me. I’ll ask Morris to give me more hours. Full-time hours. So I can pay Ma for room and board.

Morris thinks the world of me. Ma wants Aaron anyway. She’ll be good to him. He’s her golden boy—now that poor Izzy’s gone.”

Miriam was still shaking, weak and exhausted, but Pop’s tenderness soothed her, as it always had.

“Shh, my darling,” Pop said, patting her wet, tangled blond hair. “It’ll be all right. We’re gonna take care of Aaron. Mebbe I go talk some sense into Ethan? You want me to do that? What’s a young girl gonna do? No husband, a baby—No? You don’t want that? Okay, okay, whatever you want. Let’s get these wet things off you. Get you somethin’ hot to drink.

Rebecca, where’s some of your strong coffee, and your wonderful pastry I smell?”

Miriam’s body relaxed, the sobs fading away. She felt safe again. She could make it work. She made the right decision—to run away from her marital home, away from Ethan, away from the disapproving eye of her mother-in-law.

She fell into the bed in her old room, depleted from the turbulence of the day. Drowsily, she reflected on the bits and pieces of her childhood here. The walls, covered with teenage magazine photos curling at the edges: of Rudolph Valentino, one of Molly Picon, of other movie and stage stars whose names she’d forgotten. People who had fed her imagination since she was a girl.

The single bed, the dresser with the small, discolored mirror she had gazed into so often, dreaming of a different future.

The one window was still covered with soot from the street below, even though Ma scrubbed all the windows weekly, inside and out, standing up on a rickety chair and leaning precariously out while she talked with the neighbor. Miriam used to hate when Ma cleaned her room—afraid her secrets would be discovered. Her dreams. Her hopes.

The faded wallpaper with the teensy flowers that Miriam ignored as a child, which she noticed now that she’d been away for a couple of years.

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The only brightness was the yellow-and-blue bedcover that Pop lovingly made for her sixteenth birthday, in her favorite colors.

Aaron slept beneath it now, his blond curls covering his forehead, one arm flung over his face. She had a moment of doubt. Maybe she’d done a bad thing, wrenching him away from his father and grandparents. He had no idea what was happening. What will he do in the morning when he discovers that he’s not at home? Will he ask for his dadda, for Bubbe Bing?

How can I explain to a two-year-old child that he won’t see his dadda again if I can help it?

Miriam couldn’t get comfortable in the tiny bed with her son. Her mind swirled with dark thoughts. Will Ethan come after us, demanding that we come home? Will the Bings lambast me for leaving and taking their beloved grandson away? Will Ma and I revert to our old ways?

She fell in and out of sleep. When she fully awakened, the room was cold, the howling wind outside making the old tenement building sound like the haunted houses she used to visit with Pop on Halloween.

It took her a moment to remember where she was—she had left her spacious home on tree-lined Amory Street in Brookline. She was back at her parents’ tenement in the West End of Boston.

Aaron still fast asleep, she lay there for a while, trying to cover herself against the draft without disturbing him. Memories from the past flooded back, some warm and comforting, some bad—really bad. The images were vivid, as if she were that little girl again, trying as hard as she could to get Ma to love her, to figure out what Ma wanted, to keep Ma from being sad and angry.

Then there were the precious moments with Pop, who loved her without question. No matter what she did, or failed to do, she was his sweetheart. Always.

2 Daddy’s Little Girl 1908

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iriam held her breath as she waited for Pop to surprise her with today’s adventure. It was Saturday, her favorite day of the whole week. This was the day she and her beloved pop always promenaded down the streets of Boston’s West End, over Beacon Hill, then past the golden-domed Statehouse and left onto Tremont Street, the heart of the theater district. She never knew what Pop had in store for her, and she loved his surprises.

Maybe they’d go to the movies at the Bijou, one of many gilded palaces that dazzled her with their glitz and glitter. Or Pop’s surprise could be a musical. Since she’d been three or four, Miriam practiced pivots and pirouettes in front of the mirror in her parents’ bedroom, the steps she’d watched those long-legged girls perform on stage. She was always afraid Ma would come home and discover her. She would fall into a trance, only to be startled out of it by Ma coming up those rickety stairs.

On an occasional Sunday, she and Pop went to the Yiddish theater, with the melodramatic plots and kitschy sets that he loved. The grownup themes were beyond her grasp, but Pop’s whispered explanations helped.

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Beauty that she was at that early age, Pop showed her off to anyone who’d listen.

“My daughter, Miriam, she is so smart. She knows how to sing and dance. She copies whatever she sees in shows, with no teacher, all by herself! Ya, I know, her blond curls and her baby-doll face. Ya, she’ll be one to turn eyes one day,” Pop would say.

**** All this past week, Miriam imagined what Saturday would bring. She didn’t dare ask her mother how to dress for the excursion. Ma objected to their going to shows.

As usual, Ma was fussing over the baby, Isaiah, just a few months old and still not eating as he should. The day he came home from hospital, Miriam hung out the window watching Pop’s friend, Mr. Ackerman, help Ma into the house. Ma carried the tiny baby like an armful of those precious, painted, porcelain eggs that she’d brought from Russia. Pop followed with a satchel of baby things. Mr. Ackerman bear-hugged Pop and reached for Ma, but Ma didn’t notice.

Miriam heard their slow steps as they made their way up the stairs.

She ran to open the door and see her baby brother.

“This is your brother, Isaiah, Mimi,” Pop announced with the forced, cheerful voice that he’d used around Ma since she started staying in bed for days on end. “Say hello to your own flesh and blood, big sister.”

Later that day, she and Pop talked in the kitchen.

“Ma, she’s very tired, Mimi,” he whispered. “The baby, he’s not good yet. Still too small. She named him Isaiah—wouldn’t hear of anything else. I wanted an American name, maybe Gerry or name him after my dead brother, Alex. ‘No,’ she says, ‘it’s Isaiah, that’s it.’ An old Biblical name. It means ‘God is salvation,’ even though nobody here is gonna read the Bible. Maybe she thinks Isaiah, he’s gonna save her, I don’ know.”

Later that evening she heard Pop go into the nursery. As soon as he quietly opened the door, she heard Ma hiss at him with her usual disdain.

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“Don’t bother us, Moishe. Gey avek. Isaiah, he finally falls asleep.” He tiptoed out, looking downhearted.

She tried so hard to help Ma in those first weeks, hanging laundry on the lines behind their apartment building even though she could barely reach them. She tried to cook a little, with Ma yelling instructions from the bedroom.

“Miriam, you never do it right. Listen to what I’m telling you, you never listen to me,” Ma bellowed. “You get the knife, the sharp one.

Watch out for your fingers! Cut the potato in thin slices, then put it in the pan to fry. And don’t let it get too oily.”

That day, Pop came home early and noticed her using the sharp knife.

He had a conniption. “Mimi, you can’t do that. Too dangerous. Here, I’ll do it. Ma doesn’t want you to cut off your fingers.”

She explained that Ma had told her how to do it, and that she was big enough to handle the knife, but he insisted that eight years old was too young to handle a big, sharp knife like that.

Miriam was curious about Isaiah. She couldn’t help herself. When Ma and the baby fell asleep, she sometimes tiptoed into their room and watched her brother breathing. He slept with his mouth open, making faint snoring noises. He was wrapped in blankets, wearing a little crocheted cap made by Auntie Minna. There was hardly any of him to see. She bent over to smell him and planted a kiss on his forehead. She didn’t stay long, afraid that Ma would stir and reprimand her. She crept out, careful not to disturb them.

**** Miriam decided to wear her favorite yellow-and-blue dress, which Pop had made for her. She peered into the scratched mirror atop her dresser, standing on the wobbly wooden chair to see her whole body. She carefully tied the wide, lemon-yellow sash into a bow, proud that she’d finally made it even on both sides. She fingered the embroidered eyelets around the neck—that handiwork was one of Pop’s specialties. The puffy sleeves,

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fringed with more embroidery, came three-quarters of the way down her arms, and the dress hem hung, fashionably, just below her knees.

Before leaving the flat, she and Pop went to the nursery, where Ma was getting ready to try nursing Isaiah.

“We’re on our way. Hi, little boychick,“ Pop said, planting a kiss on the frail boy’s forehead. “You be a good boy and eat today, ya? Make your ma happy.”

“Moishe, don’t you touch him. What do I tell you? You scrub your hands when you touch Isaiah. That’s what the doctor told me. He left a special liquid with lime for this. And you smell like those stinkin’ Havana cigars.”

Miriam, entranced by the little creature, tickled his tiny, soft feet, and bent down to kiss them. Ma quickly intervened.

“What did I tell Pop just now, Miriam? Are you deaf? You’re gonna make him sick again? I don’t have enough tsuris with him? Gey, gey.” She turned to Pop. “Take your daughter to the show, with all those shiksas with their naked bodies. Not something good for a young lady to see.

You want her to get crazy ideas about going on stage like those floozies?”

“Okay, okay, Rebecca,” Pop said. “I wish you success feeding the boy today. We’ll be home before supper.”

Miriam shied away from her mother and her never-ending displeasure, hoping that one day she’d be able to be a big sister to Isaiah, like her friend Rosa Amorotti, who often walked her little sister to play on the banks of the Charles River. She looked forward to making Izzy laugh with her funny faces and her knack for improvising.

But not today. Not anytime soon.

**** Once outside, her mood turned buoyant as Pop bent to kiss her as if to say, You have me, my bubbeleh—we’ll have another wonderful time together today. Miriam had a gift for putting unwelcome thoughts out of her mind.

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Pop, clean-shaven as usual—unlike the religious Jews—sported a small, trimmed mustache, a paisley bowtie in red, a starched, white-onwhite shirt, and the one suit he owned, which he’d made himself. His bowler hat perched a little off center. Neighbors always smiled at them and said things like, “Her daddy loves her, doesn’t he?” and “Beautiful child,” making Miriam warm and happy inside.

Pop’s cheer was subdued today. Maybe he too had hoped that Ma would be happier now that she had a son. Her dreamed-for son. But no such thing had occurred yet.

Sensing her father’s suffering, Miriam tried to be especially charming, gazing at him with her adoring smile, hugging him with extra warmth, mimicking characters in some of the shows they’d seen. Sometimes, Pop doubled over with laughter at her antics.

“Today,” Pop finally revealed, “we’ll go to Keith’s Theater for a vaudeville performance. Some people, they think vaudeville’s not good for children. Don’t say anything to Ma, ya? That Mr. Keith, he’s very strict with his performers. No bad language. It’s for families now. Any performer who has a filthy mouth, he gets fired on the spot.”

Right next door to the familiar Bijou, the Keith Theater was like a four-story castle on the inside, fit for kings and queens.

“Look at that, Pop. The paintings on the walls. Those little floating babies, all decorated with gold.”

Pop chuckled. “Ya, they’re called cherubs. That’s the English word.

They’re in other theaters we’ve been to, remember? Cherubs, nymphs, and cupids.”

Since Miriam started school, she’d learned to speak English almost perfectly, not the street English she learned as a young child, so Pop sometimes spoke English with her instead of their usual Yiddish. “My clients, they so happy I speak better now. I learn from you, my sweetheart.”

Miriam took Pop’s arm in hers as they ascended the regal staircase to the second lobby. Ushers led them to their seats. Miriam felt like a fairy princess.

The plush red chairs rocked. Stylishly-dressed ladies flanked them,

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fluttering painted fans in their faces. The young woman next to Miriam wore a long, azure silk dress, with a high neck and pleating in the upper back, cascading down to a teeny waist. The patterned material was decorated with applique and velvet trim.

“Mimi, her dress, remember all the details,” Pop whispered to her. “‘I’ll make one for Mrs. Eliot. She’s going to love this one.”

The woman noticed her staring. “What is it? You’ve never seen a beautiful dress, little girl?” she asked rudely. “Doesn’t your mama teach you not to stare?”

Miriam apologized and moved closer to Pop. He lifted her onto his lap, saying in Yiddish, “Don’t mind her, sweetheart. She’s not a nice lady.

Can’t she see you’re just a pitzele?” Miriam tried to put the woman’s stern voice out of her mind, but it rattled her. So much like Ma’s.

The orchestra in the pit signaled the start of the next act. A juggler named Fred Allen performed a slapstick comedy act with his wife, Portland Hoffa. Allen played the part of a bad ventriloquist who, after his dummy falls apart mid-act, is saved by his wife pretending to be a dummy herself. Pop and Miriam laughed with delight.

Next, Nora Bayes, the singer and comedienne, performed with her husband, Jack Norworth. When she sang a new song called “Shine on Harvest Moon,” the crowd swooned.

In between acts, elegant ladies with long legs danced in unison. No one missed a beat. Not a trip or stumble, and wearing such high heels.

Enthralled, Miriam clasped her hands with glee. She imagined herself on stage when the audience rose, clapping, shouting Bravo! and stamping their feet. Pop held Miriam up so that she could see above the joyful people ahead. Afterwards, the two were exhausted from excitement and ready to go home.

Pop was always ecstatic at the performances—squeezing her hand, laughing, crying, moving forward in his seat. She never saw him so exuberant at home. She named those Saturdays with Pop, “Lollipoppy time.” When Ma yelled at her, when Ma wouldn’t hear of her taking acting classes at the Elizabeth Peabody House, no matter how much she

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pleaded with her, Miriam went into her Lollipoppy fantasy world, out with Pop at the palaces on Washington and Tremont Streets.

She was often silent as they walked along the darkening streets. As they approached Leverett Street, she usually hunched her shoulders, never sure how cranky Ma would be. But today, for a few extra moments, she skipped along next to Pop, making believe that she was one of those longlegged ladies on stage.

**** Miriam’s life as a little girl was punctuated by her mother taking to bed for weeks on end. Miriam never knew whether Ma would get up to make dinner or welcome her home after school. Yes, some days she would be cheerful and make a fuss about Miriam. “So beautiful you are, so smart,” she used to tell her. “Those children at Peabody School, I bet they’re jealous of you, my girl. You’ll go far in life, not like Rosa and Mary.

No, those girls will end up like their mothers, stay right here on Leverett Street. You’ll see.”

Miriam learned from Pop that Ma stayed in bed because she had trouble with her pregnancies. Always losing the babies. He didn’t care, he told Ma, about having a son, but she couldn’t get it out of her mind.

“Her pop in Russia always say to her and Minna, ‘If only you’d been boys, then I’d be a happy man. What can I do with girls? What kind of Jewish family, they have no boys to carry on the name?’ This is the third time Ma tries to have a boy. I hope, hope, Mimi, this baby sticks in her belly. Then we’ll have some peace here.”

Miriam tried to understand, although she was only four years old when Ma started behaving like this, so erratic that she never knew what to expect. Ma was feeling bad, so bad. Miriam wanted to believe that it had nothing to do with Ma’s love for her, as Pop told her. That Miriam was fine as she was. That Ma loved her despite being a girl. But sometimes it was hard to convince herself.

During Ma’s spells, Miriam tried to be the best girl in the world—to help Pop with dinners, to learn everything her teachers taught her, to

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be polite and helpful to the men who visited Pop every month, when they argued and questioned and sang labor songs, ate, drank coffee, and smoked.

One day, when Pop was at work, Miriam heard a scream from the toilet. Ma was shrieking, her voice an inhuman wail. Miriam ran for the lavatory and saw Ma in a pool of blood, her stockings a dark red, her nightgown soaked. There was a foul odor, but not the usual toilet smell.

She tried to refrain from holding her nose.

“It’s gone, gone again,” Ma wailed. “Get Pop. Go find him. Go.” Miriam had only the slightest notion of how to get to Pop’s work. She remembered walking down Leverett Street toward her school, but she’d have to cross the street and she wasn’t allowed to do that. Will someone cross me? She thought she remembered smelling a fish market right near it. Can I find it by myself? It was getting a little dark, even though the clock on the building across the street showed the big hand on the four. She was frantic.

She bumped into Mrs. Fabrizi down the street and asked her if she knew where Pop worked.

“What in the world, child? You look a fright. Yeah, I know just where your pop works. My fishmonger is right below him—I see him every week.

But why don’t you wait till he comes home? It’ll only be an hour or so.”

“Ma, she needs him. She’s bleeding. Maybe she’ll die.”

“Oh no, another miscarriage she’s having. Poor Mrs. Levine. I’ll go up and see her. I’ll bring some hot towels. Don’t you worry. Here! Abe, Abe,” she called to a teenager passing by. “You take little Miriam to her pop.”

Abe teased her about looking so frightened, but he took her to Pop. Out of her mind with worry, she forgot to thank him. She ran into Pop’s work. He knew immediately what was wrong. He scooped her up in his arms even though she was a big girl and no longer needed to be carried.

He ran home to Ma. This was one of many horrible memories that Miriam carried about Ma’s pregnancies. When Ma finally had Izzy, Miriam hoped that Ma would not stay in her bed anymore—that maybe she would be happy; she would love Miriam and Pop again, like when Miriam was a baby.

BEGUILED is about every person who ever had dreams

beguiled

that were interrupted by cultural mores, by discrimination, or by their own shortcomings. Miriam Levine, born in 1900, dreamed of going on stage, until an almost fatal mis-step forced her to postpone her “real life.” A serendipitous offer compelled her to confront her inner demons and society’s expectations.

As Glinda, the Good Witch of the South in the Wizard of Oz, she recites at age 16: “You’ve always had the power, my dear, you just had to learn it for yourself.”

The story is inspirational for young people and their parents who dearly wish to access the American dream. The historical context of the decades before the Great Depression, the role of immigrants and women’s suffrage parallels tough political dilemmas that the US faces today.

Will Miriam have the gumption to follow her dreams? Will those dreams yield her the happiness she seeks? Or will she find that her childhood fantasies “beguile” her to seek ‘fool’s gold?’

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K a r m a K i ta j

Karma Kitaj, PhD, has been in the listening business for decades. As an astute listener, she works with trauma survivors as a psychotherapist and with Baby Boomers as a life coach, making her ear a splendid instrument for “hearing” the voices of her characters. She parlayed her skill into researching and writing about high-achieving women in 2 books: Women Who Could… and Did, Lives of 26 Exemplary Artists and Scientists and Women Riders Who Could… and FICTION: Historical Fiction Did, Life Stories of Top Level Equestriennes. She authored a blog and articles for online publications, such as the Huffington Post.

She contributed a chapter on creativity to Live Smart After 50! The Experts Guide to Life Planning for Uncertain Times. Kitaj has hosted a TV show she created, called “New Adventures As We Age” where she interviewed 100+ people over age 50. $18.95 These are all archived on YouTube and Vimeo.

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