They tell me stories about what it was like in Germany. “Christmas was the best,” Grandmama said. “Relatives and friends filled our house. The Tannenbaum reached to the ceiling and was lit by little candles. It was decorated with gingerbread and marzipan.”
“What is marzipan?” I asked, already deciding to keep the words “Tannenbaum” and “marzipan.”
“Candies made from almond paste molded into wonderful shapes. They are wrapped in gold and silver tinfoil.”
Grandpapa told me about the museums full of great paintings and the concerts and opera. They were all on a beautiful street in the city of Berlin called Unter den Linden, which means “beneath the linden trees.”
Some of the stories I had heard before. My grandparents are getting old. I think they want to tell me the stories so that the stories will stay in my head. They hope one day I’ll tell them to someone else and the stories will always be remembered.
After a while I got tired of all the talk. I could hear the crickets outside and the rustle of the trees creaking in the wind. My mind flew out the window where no one could get to it. Grandpapa must have seen how restless I was, because the next morning he said, “We have a surprise for you. Tonight they are showing a movie in the town, and I bought you a ticket.”
“But there’s no movie house,” I said, suddenly homesick for Detroit’s big theaters that are like palaces — all gold with statues and heavy velvet curtains that drag silk fringe.
“They put up a tent on the fairgrounds,” Grandmama explained. “You must remember to take a pillow. The seats are hard.”
“And a flashlight,” Grandpapa added, “for the trip home.”
It was a strange way to go to the movies, I thought, carrying a pillow and a flashlight.
“What are they showing, Carl?” Grandmama asked.
“The girl who sold the tickets didn’t know. A western, perhaps.”
I felt important walking into town all by myself when it was almost dark out. I didn’t want to be seen carrying the pillow, so I hid it behind a tree where I could get it on the way back. Grandmama had made me wear shoes, and I hid those, too. In some of the houses along the street the lights had already been turned on. People were sitting around their tables having a late dinner or were gathered around the radio. Being able to look into the lighted windows was almost as good as watching a movie.
At one of the houses a man and a woman were rocking back and forth on a porch swing, watching their children playing in the front yard. I thought of my mom and dad at home and my friends who were probably out playing games. They were probably having fun and not even thinking of me. I must have been staring because the children stopped to watch me pass by. If they had asked me to play with them I would have forgotten all about the movie.
When I got to the fairgrounds I saw a huge tent. I joined the people who were crowding into the entrance to find seats on the benches. Hundreds of moths were gathered around the lantern that hung from the ceiling of the tent. In the back of the tent was the motion-picture projector with two thick reels of film. The lantern went out, and the name of the film flashed on the screen. It wasn’t a western. It was Dracula! There was a lot of applause and whistles and screeches. A couple of parents with young children got up and left in a huff.
Glaring out at us from the screen was Dracula; with a horrible face and teeth like a wolf. There wasn’t any sound, just words printed on the screen to let you know what the characters were saying. Something told me I should leave, too. I was sure my grandparents had no idea of what I was seeing. But there was Dracula wrapping himself in his cape and smiling at a lady with long curls, too much lipstick, and a long, white, naked throat. I stayed. I don’t know which was the worst part. It was either the blood dripping from Dracula’s long teeth or those thuds as they pounded the stake through Dracula’s heart. When the picture was over, I was so frightened I couldn’t move. The redheaded pest I had seen in town was sitting behind me. “You better get out,” he hissed, “or you and Dracula will be the only ones left.” I gave him a furious look, but I hurried out.
For a couple of blocks it was all right. There were lots of people walking home, and I just stayed with them. By the time I got farther out of town, most of the people were gone. Soon I was the only one. I walked as fast as I could and kept shining my flashlight all around me. In the dark, the familiar road home had disappeared. In the daytime trees lean over you in a friendly way. At night they seem to be reaching out to grab you. I was running so fast that I had a pain in my side. Moths attracted by my flashlight fluttered around me.
Then the second-worst thing happened. A fluttering shape swooped at me. It was a bat. I guess it was after the moths that were flying around my flashlight, but it seemed to be coming right at me. I dropped the flashlight and clutched my throat. It could have been Dracula turned into a bat. The dark shape flew off, and I groped around for the flashlight. Something had happened to it when it fell, and it wouldn’t go on.
I kept on running. Then the worst thing happened. I stepped on something lumpy. It was soft, and it moved! I jumped a mile, and whatever it was — a toad or a frog — got out of there. After that, all I remember was racing down the path to the cottage and throwing myself inside the door. “Elsa!” Grandmama said. “What has happened?” She put her arms around me and patted my back. I hung on as tightly as I could. After a while I let go and told them about Dracula.
“It was my fault,” Grandpapa said. “I should have found out what the movie was.”
No one asked me where the pillow was or where my shoes were. I’d get them in the morning. And I decided that the next night I’d stay home and listen to my grandparents’ stories.
The Great Lake
Its jeweler’s window
offers bright stones,
wheedles me with shells.
Its little waves
lick me like a dog,
sing me to sleep.
But the selfish lake
never lets me
see the secret
of its other shore.
The last thing I hear at night before I fall asleep is the sound of the waves slapping against the shore. The first thing I see in the morning is the reflection on my ceiling of sun glittering on the water.
For a long time I was afraid of the lake, but I loved its wide, sandy beach. I’d climb down the stairway to the beach, past the pump house where the water from the lake is pumped up to our cottage, and past the poison ivy. When I first came, Grandpapa showed me the three green leaves you have to watch out for. I forgot all about it, and one evening there were itchy blisters all up and down my legs. Grandmama mixed up baking soda and water and put it on the blisters. After that I was careful to watch where I walked.
You can sit on the beach where the sand is dry and start digging. When the hole in the sand gets deep enough, water creeps into the hole. It’s as if the lake is hiding, just waiting for you to find it.
You can walk for miles along the beach. Every few feet you find something to keep. The top of my dresser was heaped with things leaking sand: snail shells to turn into bracelets, gulls’ feathers, tangles of driftwood. My favorite finds are the pieces of glass that have been in the lake for years and years. The water and the sand have rubbed all the sharp edges smooth.
I’d see a pretty stone or shell in the lake and reach for it. When a wave chased me, I’d jump back. It was as if someone were offering you a piece of candy and when you put your hand out for it they snatched it away.
Finally I made myself stand there and let the waves wash over my legs and splash my bathing suit. Little by little the lake invited me into it. I got so that I laughed at the waves, diving into them and letting them carry me back to shore. I floated facedown, my eyes open. I watched bubbles gurgle up from clam shells and snails inch along the slippery stones. Minnows came and nibbled at my toes.
I know there will be days when I am still afraid of the lake. Days when the storms come. Days when the waves leap and fo
am, striking the beach and rushing out again to become more and bigger waves. Days when the fishing boats head for the pier. On those days I’ll hurry inside. Then the lake, like a spoiled child, will have everything for itself.
Meyer’s Fish House
The
Billy
Boy in and
the fish hand-
clapping their
tails against the
bottom of the boat;
Mr. Meyer in overalls,
the knife in his hand.
The pearl scales fly,
the little dead pearl
of the eye, the fish
mouth curved in the
sleepy child smile,
scraps floating
on the water
like a dainty
treat, and all the gulls
that came flying to the party.
The main street of Greenbush ends at a pier, a long dock that sticks out into the lake. Early in the morning the fishing boats set out from the pier. Late in the afternoon they come back, their decks heaped with whitefish and perch and pickerel. If the wind blows toward the town you can smell the fish long before you get to the pier.
Yesterday Grandmama sent me to Mr. Meyer’s Fish House to buy perch for supper. I got there early because I like to watch the boats come in. The first boat in was the Billy Boy. It’s owned by Billy Harper, who is so tall and so fat there is hardly room for anyone else on his boat. His brother goes out with him, and sometimes his son goes out, too. His son is my age. He’s the redheaded pest.
As Mr. Harper was tying up his boat, he called to the other fishermen to ask how many fish each boat had caught. The fishermen like to brag about how large their catch is, but they are careful to keep secret where they spread their nets.
Mr. Harper and his brother carried boxes full of fish, most of them still alive, into the fish house. Mr. Harper’s son just stood on the boat looking at me. I thought if I didn’t say something his eyes would pop out. “Hello,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Tommy. What’s yours?”
“Elsa. Do you help your dad?”
“Sure. I help let out the nets and then I help take them in. You want to see my calluses?” He held out his hands, and I could see where the skin was hardened. “I was out in a storm once with my dad and he had to tie me onto the boat so I wouldn’t fall over and drown. I can’t swim.”
“If you’re out on the lake all the time, why doesn’t your dad or your uncle teach you to swim?”
“They can’t swim either.”
I thought that was really dumb. Off the top of my head I said, “I’ll teach you to swim and then you can teach your father and uncle.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t like the water.”
“But you’re out on it all the time. Aren’t you going to be a fisherman like your dad?”
“Sure.”
I told him where I lived. “Do you work on Sunday?”
He shook his head. Besides his red hair he has a face full of freckles, and his watery blue eyes blink a lot. He’s tall and scrawny, not fat like his dad.
“Well then, come on over to our beach around three o’clock.” I left him to go into the fish house. The fish house is a big building where the fish are cleaned and scaled. Mr. Meyer wears a long rubber apron. He has glasses that keep getting scales on them.
“Heads on or off?” he asked me.
“On.” Grandmama says the heads give the fish more flavor.
He wrapped the perch up in thick white paper and tied the package with string. By the time I got home, my hands smelled of fish. Grandmama rubbed my hands with lemon to take away the smell. I think they must use a lot of lemons at Mr. Meyer’s house.
On Sunday afternoon I waited for Tommy on the beach. He came trudging up the beach about an hour late. “You didn’t bring your bathing suit,” I said.
“Don’t have one. I don’t care if I get my shorts wet.”
“Come out where the water is deeper.” I began to wade into the lake. Tommy stayed on the shore. I knew how he felt. I used to feel the same way, but I worried that if he didn’t learn to swim he might drown someday. “Come on,” I coaxed. He didn’t move. “Just up to your ankles.” He shook his head. Suddenly I started running at him, splashing the cold water onto him as hard as I could.
He yelped and plunged into the water to chase me. I ran out deeper and deeper, calling him names. Soon we were both up to our necks. He suddenly realized where he was and began to squeal. I lay on my back and kicked my feet. “Let your feet go up,” I said. He watched me kick my way toward the shore, and then he did the same thing. He was kicking like crazy. I showed him how to float and how to do the sidestroke. He learned fast, but each time he couldn’t wait to get out of the water.
Later, when we were lying on the sand drying off, Tommy asked me, “Who taught you to swim?”
“My dad taught me in the city. There’s a park called Belle Isle near our apartment.”
“I’d rather die than live in the city. The city is full of gangsters.”
“It is not,” I said. “I’ve lived in the city all my life, and I’ve never seen a gangster.”
“You probably just don’t know one when you see one. Your grandparents are Krauts, aren’t they?”
“Krauts isn’t a nice word. They came from Germany, but they’re Americans now.”
“That’s what they say. If we have a war with Germany they’ll be on Germany’s side, and they’ll have to go to prison.”
I thought about how the people had stoned Grandpapa’s car when he was on the way to the hospital because he was German. I thought about the Roths and how some of the Germans hated them because they were Jewish. I hated Tommy for saying such mean things. “I’m sorry I taught you to swim,” I screamed at him. “I hope you drown!” I ran up the steps to our cottage. Halfway up the stairs I bumped into Grandpapa on his way down to the pump house.
“What’s all this shouting?” He held on to me. “Where are you running to? Who is that boy?”
“He’s horrible. He called you a Kraut and said they’d put you in jail.”
“Ach, Elsa. Go and wash your face and tell your grandmother to put out a plate of cookies and some raspberry juice.”
A few minutes later Grandpapa appeared with Tommy. He brought him into the kitchen, where Grandmama had set the table. He said to her, “This young man needs a little something for his stomach. Pass him some cookies, Elsa.”
I shoved the plate of cookies at Tommy, but I wouldn’t look at him. Grandmama poured him a big glass of juice. He wolfed down about five cookies and drank two glasses of raspberry juice. “Those cookies are good,” he said. The whole time he was eating he kept looking around the cottage as if he expected German spies to poke their heads out of closets.
“Doesn’t your mother make you cookies, Tommy?” Grandmama asked.
“My mom took off. It’s just Dad and me, and he don’t cook. Even if he did, we don’t have a lot of food like here.”
“Well, at least you must have plenty of fish for dinner,” Grandpapa said.
“I hate fish. It’s about all we got to eat. When do you have supper?” he asked.
“Another hour or two,” Grandmama said. “We would be happy to have you stay.”
“Thanks,” Tommy grinned.
“Go and show Tommy the orchard and your garden, Elsa,” Grandpapa said.
I headed for the front yard, not even looking to see if Tommy was following me. I didn’t understand why my grandparents were so polite to Tommy when he said such awful things about them. If they wanted to kill him with kindness, I wished the killing would come first and the kindness later.
Tommy was tagging along behind me. When we got outside he said, “I’m sorry I called them Krauts. They’re OK.”
Out in the orchard I said, “I’ll bet I can climb up this tree before you can climb up that one.” He started shinnying up the tree I pointed to. Unfortunately, he saw the hornets’ nest b
efore the hornets could get him, so he didn’t get stung. And he ate like a pig at supper. And he promised to come back.
Chickens
I liked visiting the chicken farm.
I liked watching chickens
in their white ruffled dresses,
yellow kneesocks,
red hair bows,
gabbling like schoolgirls
fenced in at recess time,
until one day we found
the farmer’s wife,
a pot of scalding water
between her knees,
her hands full of feathers,
grinning, “You’ll never
get a fresher one than this.”
On Sundays we have chicken for dinner. Grandmama’s chicken is always perfect: golden- brown on the outside and tender on the inside. Every Saturday we go to the Tolkens’s farm to buy the chicken. We buy butter and eggs there, too, and thick whipping cream. My grandmama calls the cream schlag and heaps it on all our desserts.
Mrs. Tolken keeps the butter and cream in the spring house, which is just a stone shed over a little stream. The stream comes up from the ground. It is so cold that everything in the shed is chilled even on the hottest day. While my grandparents talk with Mrs. Tolken, I wander around the farm. I watch the chickens take dust baths, which seems like a strange kind of bath. I listen to them talking to one another. “Gabbling,” Mrs. Tolken calls it, a good word to keep. In the barn there are two horses, Andy and Ben. I feed them lumps of sugar I’ve sneaked. In back of the barn is the sty. I always go there to see if the pigs have any new piglets.
Of course I knew it was a chicken we were buying from the Tolkens, but I never connected the newspaper-wrapped package we carried home with the chickens that I loved to watch running around in the yard. Then one day we got to the farm a little early. Mrs. Tolken called to us from her back porch. “Just about to pluck your chicken,” she said. “I’m a little behind myself today.”
That Wild Berries Should Grow Page 4
