The Doll Shop Downstairs

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Well, when he didn’t hear from you, he thought that ... I mean ... you see—”

  “We thought that the doll wasn’t going to be claimed, and so we let our Anna keep her.” I turn to see Mama standing there by the stairs. Trudie is right behind her. Mama explains how the others were left behind, and we had just assumed this one was, too.

  The woman looks down at the doll and then at us. “Did you wash and press the clothes yourself?” she asks me.

  “Yes.”

  “And you sewed the lace on her sleeve?” the woman continues.

  This time I just nod, because I am afraid if I say anything, tears will pour out, and I do not want to be a crybaby.

  “I see her broken foot has been replaced, too.”

  “The girls found some leftover parts,” explains Mama.

  “I didn’t mind that her feet don’t match. I thought that Bernadette Louise would rather have the foot than not,” I manage to say.

  “Bernadette Louise?” asks the woman, clearly puzzled.

  “The doll,” I say. “That’s what I called her.”

  “I see,” says the woman. “I see.” She looks down at the doll and then at me again. “Thank you for taking such good care of her.”

  “Would you like me to wrap her?” Mama steps over to the counter and begins looking for the paper and bags. When the woman reaches for her purse, Mama shakes her head.

  “This is a kind of makeshift repair,” she says. “We don’t expect you to pay for it.”

  “But you put so much work into her,” the woman protests. “I insist.” She hands Mama three quarters, and Mama thanks her. Then, taking the wrapped doll, she leaves.

  After she goes, I feel Mama’s hand on my shoulder. I am going to cry now, I can tell, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I suddenly understand how Trudie must feel. Although she has been crying a lot less lately, I am reminded of how hard it is to control yourself when you really need to cry.

  “I’m sorry, Anna,” says Mama in a gentle voice. “I know how much you loved that doll.”

  “Uh-huh,” is all I say. The tears are hot on my face, but I don’t wipe them away.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Sophie, who has just come back with a white bakery box of cookies.

  I let Mama tell her the story. I don’t feel like telling it myself.

  “I’ll let you play with my doll,” says Sophie when Mama is done. “We can share.”

  “Me too,” says Trudie. “We can have the tea party and you can hold Angelica Grace.” This only makes me cry more. I don’t want to share, and I don’t want to have a tea party. Mama gives my shoulders squeeze.

  “We’ll find a way to get you another doll,” says Mama. “You wait and see.” She turns to Trudie and adds softly, “Let’s have the tea party another day.”

  “Too bad we sold those dolls to Mr. Karnofsky,” Sophie says. “Maybe we could return the money and get one of those baby dolls back.”

  But I don’t want another doll, especially not one of those stupid old baby dolls. I want Bernadette Louise and only Bernadette Louise.

  9

  THE LETTER

  In the weeks after Bernadette Louise is taken away, I can’t stop thinking about her. Mama has to ask me the same thing three times in row before I hear her. It’s just as bad at school. Miss Abbott, who is always so nice, asks me to stay after class and wants to know why I have not been paying attention. Another, stricter teacher might have smacked my knuckles with a ruler, so I mumble something about having a lot to think about now. Then I tell her that I am sorry, and that I will try to do better. I can’t even look at her as I say this. Instead, I have to look down at my shoes, which I was supposed to polish but didn’t. They have scuff marks all over the toes, and Mama will be cross with me when she sees them.

  At home, Trudie and Sophie try not to make too big a fuss about their dolls when I am around, and they are pretty good about sharing them with me. But it’s not the same. I don’t even want to play with their dolls. I don’t really want to play with anything, it seems. Instead, I take out the twenty cents I keep hidden away in a special pouch. The money comes from different places—some of it I found, some I earned, some Papa gave me. I have not wanted to spend it on candy. I’ve been saving it for something really special. Now I know just what that something is. I walk to the stationer’s store on Grand Street where I buy a small, ruled notebook, and I begin writing in it. This makes me feel better, so I keep doing it. I write about Bernadette Louise, school, my family, the woman who came and took my doll away. I write until my pencil point gets dull, and my hand hurts. Then I tuck the little book into the pocket of my dress, where I know it will be safe. Sometimes Sophie or Trudie asks me what I’m writing, but I don’t want to say too much about it.

  “Just this and that,” I tell them.

  Trudie wants to see, but I say no, it’s private. I can see her disappointed look, so I tell her that if she saves her money, I will take her to the store to buy her own notebook. She likes that idea so much that she runs into our room and starts counting her pennies right then and there.

  It is October. The days are getting cooler, and it gets dark earlier now. The war is still going on in Europe, and I feel sad thinking of all those poor soldiers outside in the cold. Mama’s brother Lev went into the army not long ago and has not been heard from since. I’ve caught Mama crying sometimes, and I know this is why. I write about all of it in my notebook, and when I do, it’s as though I have been carrying a heavy stone that I am finally able to set down.

  Suddenly I have an idea that is so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. I will write a letter to Bernadette Louise. True she is only a doll, but that doesn’t matter. I remember the notes I used to tuck in the box with her and know that this is the right thing to do.

  I wait until my sisters are busy and Mama is in the kitchen cooking supper. I know she keeps paper and envelopes in a drawer in the shop, so I quietly go downstairs to take what I need. I don’t think she would mind, but somehow, I don’t want ask, either.

  The shop looks different now. The shelves are filled with the new dolls Papa and Mama have been making, not the old ones they used to fix. But at least they are filled with something.

  Then I have to do a really sneaky thing, something that makes my heart pound. I go to the oak card file where Papa keeps the names and address of his customers. I flip through the cards, just the way he did when he was writing to all those people about coming to pick up their dolls. It’s easy to find the one I am looking for. He’s very organized. I stare at the name and address of the woman who came and took Bernadette Louise away:

  MISS PAMELA MACKAY

  135 EAST 17TH STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  When I take the card out of the box, my hand feels a little shaky. It’s not really wrong, I tell myself. But if that’s true, why do I feel so nervous? I copy the address into my notebook and put the card away. I also take two penny stamps from Papa’s drawer. I make a promise to myself to leave the next two pennies I get in the drawer to repay him. Then I hear Mama calling me to set the table, so I have to hurry back upstairs.

  I don’t have chance to sit down and write the letter until two days later, but when I do, I know exactly what I want to say. I write it in my notebook first, so I can make any changes I need to make, and then I copy it over onto the sheet of Mama’s letter paper, using my very best script. Miss Abbott gave me a gold star for my penmanship, so I can certainly be neat when I want to. This is what I write:

  Dear Bernadette Louise,

  I miss you! I wish you didn’t have to leave the doll shop, but I know you had to go back to your real owner. I thought I was your owner because of how much I loved you, but I guess that was not true. Do you remember Angelica Grace and Victoria Marie? And Trudie and Sophie? They all miss you, too. Maybe you can come back to visit sometime. We could have a tea party again. Mama is teaching us to bake, and I will bake something for you. Remember the fun w
e used to have? I hope you are having fun now in your new-old home. Think of me. I will be thinking of you.

  Yours always,

  Anna

  Then, at the bottom, I write a little note asking Miss MacKay if she will read my letter to Bernadette Louise. I worry about this part for a while. Maybe she will think I’m being silly. But writing is the first thing that has made me feel better since Bernadette Louise was taken away, so I know I have to do it. I address the envelope, and when Mama sends me to Mr. Bloom’s store for parsley, I bring the letter with me. There is a mailbox right across the street, and I watch the envelope—now sealed, addressed, and stamped—slide down the blue metal chute.

  Nothing happens after that. I wait—for what, I’m not sure. I don’t actually think that Bernadette Louise is going to write me back, do I? Still, I can’t shake the feeling that my writing to Bernadette Louise will help.

  It’s November now. The days get shorter, and it’s turning cold. Sophie, Trudie, and I have to wear scarves, knitted hats, and coats when we walk to school. I can see my breath, white and cloudy, in the chilly, morning air. I’ve grown so much this past year that my old coat doesn’t fit. Mama says she will give it to Trudie, and she will make me a new coat. Together, we go to a big fabric store on Orchard Street. Up a long flight of stairs, the store is a great, open room filled with bolts and bolts of fabric, all standing on end with narrow aisles in between the rows. Midnight-blue velvet, black and gold brocade, plaids and checks, silks and wools. Every kind of fabric in the world must be there. I help Mama choose the fabric for my new coat. It’s dark brown wool, soft and nubby. I like it because I think it looks very grown-up. We choose black buttons and black braid for the trim. I even sew on some of the trim myself.

  Maybe I am getting too old for dolls, I tell myself. Maybe I don’t even want a doll anymore. But then I see Sophie playing with Victoria Marie, and I know that I will never, ever, be too old for dolls. I am just writing those very words in my notebook—and underlining them, too—when Mama calls me downstairs. I snap the book closed and tuck it into my pocket. Is there a chore I have forgotten? Or maybe she needs me to get something from Mr. Bloom’s store.

  When I get downstairs, I wish I could go running back up them again. There is Miss MacKay. In one hand, she holds an embroidered tapestry bag. In the other, she holds a letter. My letter—I recognize the handwriting right away. Her cane is nowhere in sight.

  “Anna, Miss MacKay came back to see us,” Mama says. I can’t tell from her voice whether she thinks this a good thing or not.

  “Nice to see you again, Anna,” Miss MacKay says.

  “Nice to see you, too,” I mumble. Am I in trouble? I still can’t tell.

  “I got your letter. I read it to Bernadette Louise, just like you asked.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. And do you know what she said?”

  “She said something?” My voice is high and squeaky. I know that dolls can’t talk. Miss MacKay must know that, too. Is she making fun of me? I feel my cheeks heat up and I steal a glance at Mama. But she is smiling. And when I look back at Miss MacKay, she is smiling, too. Cautiously, I let my breath out. It doesn’t look like I’m in trouble.

  “Bernadette Louise said she wanted to come back here. And live with you.” Miss MacKay looks in her bag and pulls out a wrapped package and hands it to me. “You open it.”

  When I do, I find Bernadette Louise inside.

  “You mean you’re giving her to me?” I say.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Really and truly?” I ask.

  “Really and truly,” says Miss MacKay.

  “But why?” I say. I still can’t believe this is for real.

  “Because I think this is the right home for her. I thought so when I first met you. And then when you sent the letter, I was sure.”

  “I did miss her,” I confess. “Writing to her seemed to help.”

  “Writing often does,” says Miss MacKay, and her gaze drifts off, as if she is thinking of something else. But then she looks at me again. “You know, I’ve had this doll since I was a child. She belonged to my grandmother.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I was rather rough on her I’m afraid. And then she was misplaced for a while when I moved, and so she ended up in terrible shape. But when she came here, you made her well again.”

  “I loved her when she was broken, too. But I thought she would be happier being whole again,” I say.

  “I think that’s true,” says Miss MacKay. “I’ve been wanting to give her to another girl—but only a girl who would play with her and love her the way you do. I hadn’t found the right one—until now.”

  “Thank you,” I say, running my fingers over Bernadette Louise’s shiny black hair. “Thank you so much.” Funny how I still feel like crying, only now for a very different reason.

  “Yes, thank you so much,” says Mama. There is a noise on the stairs, and then I see Sophie and Trudie come into the shop. They are both holding their dolls and I can see that they can’t wait to find out what is happening. “Please let me introduce my other daughters. This is Sophie,” Mama says. “And this is Trudie. Girls, say hello to Miss MacKay.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” says Sophie, and then, when Sophie gives her a little nudge, Trudie says the same thing.

  “You know, it’s so raw out there,” says Mama. “Wouldn’t you like to stay and have a cup of tea with us before you go?”

  “I would be delighted,” says Miss MacKay, who unbuttons her coat and hands it, along with her hat, to Mama. While Mama chats with Miss MacKay, I quickly tell Trudie and Sophie what has just happened. Sophie gives me a hug while Trudie turns and pulls on the sleeve of Mama’s dress.

  “Can we have a tea party, Mama?” she asks. “For the dolls, too?”

  “I think that’s just what we should do,” says Mama as she smiles down at her. We all head upstairs to the kitchen, where I help set the table while Mama brews the tea. The dolls sit at the box that is sometimes a bed and right now a table and enjoy their tea served from the special yellow tea set. Sophie, Trudie, and I tell Miss MacKay all about all the wonderful things that have happened in the doll shop downstairs. And it seems as we talk—our voices mingling, overlapping, yet each eager to be distinct and to be heard—that the most wonderful things are still to come.

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  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I’ve always loved dolls. I played with dolls as a child and collected them an adult. Dolls, and the little girls who love them, have been at the heart of many of my books for children. My interest in the topic led me to read about a girl named Bertha Alexander. Bertha’s father, a Russian Jewish immigrant, repaired china, porcelain, and bisque. People brought him their chipped plates and cups, cracked teapots, and broken platters to fix. Since at that time, dolls were made of china, porcelain, and bisque, he fixed them, too. He established America’s very first doll hospital, on the Lower East Side of New York City. The Alexander family lived in an apartment above the shop; sometimes Bertha and her sisters were allowed to go downstairs and play with the dolls that were waiting for repair. What a treat that must have been.

  Then the First World War broke out in Europe. America didn’t join in right away. But the effects were still felt by many Americans. Trading with Germany became difficult, and then impossible. In 1917, the United States government imposed an embargo on German-made products. This meant that our country would neither buy products from Germany nor sell the Germans any products that were made here. Since Germany was the world leader in doll and toy manufacturing, the doll parts needed by Bertha’s father came from Germany. Once the embargo was imposed, the parts were no longer available.

  Bertha, who later changed her name to Beatrice, was by this time already a grown woman, with a husband of her own. She was worried about what would happen to her parents and wanted to help them. That’s when she came up with the brilliant idea of making her own dolls, do
lls that didn’t depend on German parts. Setting up shop on her kitchen table, she began experimenting. Thus, a doll-making empire was born. Madame Alexander dolls, with their blue and pink flowered boxes and finely tailored clothes, became known and loved by generations of girls all over the world.

  This seemed to me like the perfect idea for a children’s story. The characters and the details would be my own, but the setting would be taken from Beatrice’s real-life experience. So The Doll Shop Downstairs, while fiction, has its roots in a real, historical moment. An immigrant family that made its home on the Lower East Side of New York City, a craft learned in Europe, a bevy of little girls living above a doll repair shop, a terrible war that took so many lives and caused hardship and suffering in so many others—these were the factual elements I used to weave a tale of my own. I hope that it will inspire a new generation of readers to think about those long-ago times in a fresh, sympathetic, and more immediate way.

  GLOSSARY OF TERMS

  BISQUE—fine, unglazed porcelain; has a matte, or unshiny, finish

  BUCKRAM—a stiff fabric of cotton or linen used for linings

  CHINA—glazed porcelain; has a shiny finish

  EMBARGO—a legal restriction on buying and selling goods between two countries

  GLAZE—the finish put on porcelain, often very shiny

  MUSLIN—a kind of coarse cotton cloth

  ROSH HASHANAH—Jewish New Year

  SHUL—Jewish house of worship

  SKEIN—a loosely coiled length of yarn