Text copyright © 2013 by Irene N. Watts
Published in Canada by Tundra Books,
a division of Random House of Canada Limited,
One Toronto Street, Suite 300, Toronto, Ontario M5C 2V6
Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York, P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012947609
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Watts, Irene N., 1931-
Touched by fire / Irene N. Watts.
eISBN: 978-1-77049-525-8
1. Pogroms – Ukraine – Juvenile fiction. 2. Triangle Shirtwaist Company – Fire, 1911 – Juvenile fiction. 3. Book burning – Germany – History – 20th century – Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8595.A873T69 2013 jc813′.54 C2012-905817-3
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.
Edited by Sue Tate
www.tundrabooks.com
v3.1
For Chaim Pinchas Levine
and Gentry James Williams
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One - Pogrom
Chapter Two - Secrets
Chapter Three - Seeking Refuge
Chapter Four - English Lessons
Chapter Five - Devora
Chapter Six - Letter From America
Chapter Seven - Another Parting
Chapter Eight - Yuri
Chapter Nine - Alone
Chapter Ten - Journey to the “Golden Land”
Chapter Eleven - Steerage
Chapter Twelve - “Wretched Refuse”
Chapter Thirteen - Arrival
Chapter Fourteen - A New World
Chapter Fifteen - Rosie
Chapter Sixteen - The Triangle Waist Company
Chapter Seventeen - Miracle on the Eighth Floor
Chapter Eighteen - Saturday, March 25
Chapter Nineteen - Reduced to Ashes
Chapter Twenty - Zayde’s Boots
Epilogue - Burn!
Afterword
Acknowledgements
“Let ’em burn. They’re a lot of cattle, anyway.”
Inspector H.F.J. Porter quotes a factory owner’s response regarding the use of fire drills, March 1911
– The Triangle Fire by Leon Stein
1
POGROM
My nightmares began after we had to leave the shtetl, the village where my brother, Yuri, and I were born. That was four years ago, when I was five. I had heard the word “pogrom,” but I did not know what it meant.
Now I know, because I was there when it happened. It is hard to forget the broken shutters and windows, torn from their frames. Our front door was blue. Papa had just finished painting it in my favorite color – blue, like the blue of a spring sky or the blue of a duck egg – when the soldiers smashed it.
Here, in Kiev, we live in a gloomy part of the city. The house, which we share with three other families, is shabby. Our front door is old, scratched, and ugly, with peeling brown paint. It is not at all pretty, like the door of our first house in the shtetl.
There, everyone knew everyone else, knew their neighbors’ business; nothing remained a secret for very long. My best friend, Malka, and I played in the narrow streets and in the small market square. We were happy. My little brother, Yuri, stayed close beside Mama, nibbling a carrot or digging in the dust. Mama sold vegetables, and Bubbe, my grandmother, her own braided challah bread. People came from nearby towns to buy or trade for goods. Grandfather Zayde, a shoemaker, was well known for making even the shabbiest boots look like new. The mayor himself brought his boots for Zayde to mend.
My grandfather taught Papa how to repair shoes too. “You never know when another trade might come in useful,” Zayde replied, when I asked him why.
Papa can turn his hand to most things, especially if it means using a needle. He is a fine tailor, a master craftsman. Before we moved to Kiev, he worked at home on his sewing machine, making coats and shirts and waistcoats. Now he works in a shop. He cuts and sews from early morning to night, for someone else. Often Yuri and I are asleep before he comes home. Papa says he is saving rubles for a surprise.
“When will you tell us about the surprise, Papa?” I ask him.
“Be patient a little longer,” he says.
I love surprises, but it is hard waiting for them.
—
This afternoon, after school, I go straight to the backyard to help Mama hang up the washing.
“Mama, why do you think the tsar makes us stay in Kiev? Our teacher does not like children who have come from the shtetl.” I hand Mama Yuri’s shirt, and she pins the sleeves to the clothesline. She sighs, and together we fasten the white Sabbath tablecloth up to dry.
Mama says, “The tsar can send us wherever he pleases. Sometimes he forgets about us for a while – that is a good time. When he remembers, he sends the Jews pogroms. Then it is not so good.”
Mama wipes her hands on her apron. “Come, help me peel apples,” she says. “We will make onion and apple dumplings for supper.”
It is almost dark. Yuri rushes in, breathless from playing outside with his friends. He is sent to wash his face and hands for supper. Bubbe dishes up the dumplings we made, with sour cream. Papa and Zayde are already seated at the table, hungry after a long day at work.
Yuri’s real name is Yaakov, but he refuses to answer to anything but Yuri because it sounds more Russian. He is almost seven, two and a half years younger than me and the apple of Mama’s eye.
Between mouthfuls of food, Papa and Zayde complain about the latest increase in taxes.
Papa says, “Now we have to pay more, even for our Sabbath candles. Every day, there is something else to make our lives more difficult.”
Zayde shrugs his shoulders. “Our ‘little father,’ the tsar, is not fond of Jews, and we live or die at his pleasure,” he says.
“Is the tsar my father too? I am glad to have two fathers,” Yuri says. He gets up and marches around the table. Then he salutes. “I will fight for the tsar and be one of his loyal soldiers,” he says. “My teacher has a son in the army, and he came to school to show us his uniform. He told us about the army. ‘Who wants to be a soldier?’ he asked us. All the boys put up their hands, but I was one of the first. The teacher was pleased with me,” Yuri boasts.
Mama grabs his arm. “That is quite enough of that kind of talk, Yuri. Say good night, and go off to bed like a good boy. It’s late.” Yuri marches out, still pretending to be a soldier.
Zayde sips his tea through a cube of sugar and stirs the slice of lemon floating on the top of his glass. “He is just a child. How can he understand what it means to be a Jew, in Russia? One day, he will dream of other things,” Zayde says.
Zayde and Bubbe are Mama’s parents. Papa’s mother died soon after he was born. His father was sent far away to work down the mines. We never heard from him, except once, when Yuri was born. He sent a card, which Papa keep
s in a special box. The grandfather I have never met wrote I think of you all and send a blessing for the new baby son.
When I asked Mama about him, she said, “Many people disappear in Russia.” I feel sad for Papa. Sometimes, I have nightmares about all the bad things that happen.
Tonight, after supper, I take my doll out from the back of the dresser drawer, where I hide her – not to play with, just to look at and to touch for a moment, to make sure she is still safe. Before I get into bed, I put her back.
It is late at night. I can’t breathe, my chest hurts, I’m afraid to open my eyes. Until I am properly awake, I cannot be sure if I am having a bad dream or if this is really another pogrom. I bite on my fist to stifle a scream. Then, slowly, so as not to wake Yuri, who is curled up next to me, I move to the edge of the bed. My brother is too young to remember the bad times.
Will the tsar’s soldiers, the Cossacks, find us? Through half-open lids, I peer towards the window. There is a shadow. Is it a soldier? Will he break the window or set fire to the house?
Even the strongest door cannot resist fire. Everything in our house is made of wood. Cossacks like burning things. Wood burns easily – first the shutters, then the frames. I’ve seen how fast the flames can move, gobbling up everything in their path. Soon the flames will reach the roof.
This is the hardest part. I force myself to get out of bed, look around our small room, then cross to the window. There is nothing there, except a memory of that terror come back to haunt me. The curtains hang in their neat folds, and the house is quiet. If Cossacks were near, Mama would hide us in the cellar. I get back into bed, safe for now.
Yuri pulls the covers over his head. “Go away, leave me alone,” he grumbles. My brother is always fighting someone or something, even in his sleep.
I lie awake and remember how the air was full of smoke. I heard the neighing of the horses in terror in the barn. I remember the sound of their hooves, hammering, kicking against the stalls, as they tried to escape. Then the smell after the barn burned down, with the animals still inside. I remember it all: the soldiers’ laughter as they shredded the bedding, which had been left to air outside the windows. I remember the feathers, drifting down like snowflakes, long after the Cossacks had gone.
Our little houses burned. It was a long way to the river, and the flames spread too fast for our men to quench them. They could not outrun the fires or the soldiers.
My friend Malka and I had been playing with our dolls by the stream, near a clump of trees at the edge of the village. We dropped everything, held hands, and ran. Malka wanted to go back for her doll; mine was in my pocket. I waited, calling out to her to hurry, but she fell down. I ran to her and told her to get up. Malka refused to move, so I stayed with her. We screamed until our fathers came and carried us away. Papa had blood on his face, where a whip had slashed his cheek. Mama cried and pushed us under the bed, next to Yuri.
This is what I dream, over and over again: a nightmare of fires and breaking glass. I hear the shrieks of animals and children. Malka and I are there, screaming like them. Since then, I don’t play with my doll.
It is almost daylight. I get up and go into the kitchen, where Papa and Zayde are drinking their first glass of tea. I sit on Papa’s knee, and my grandfather pops a sugar cube into my mouth. Papa lets me take a sip from his glass. Mama bustles in to start making breakfast.
“Not dressed yet, Miriam? Hurry up, wake your brother. You will both be late for school.” She removes the bowl of sugar, putting it away on the top shelf of the cupboard.
“We are not living in the ‘Golden Land’ yet, Zayde,” Mama says, but she smiles at him as if they share a secret.
The “Golden Land” Mama is talking about is America!
2
SECRETS
Malka lives near us. We walk to and from school every day, and we tell each other everything. One morning, she is not at our meeting place – the corner of our street – as usual. I wait a few minutes, and when there is no sign of her, I run and knock on the door of her house. Her mother goes out to work, but the woman who lives downstairs opens the door.
“What do you want?” she says.
“Please, is Malka here?”
“The family has moved away.” She shuts the door, and I hear her fasten the chain.
All day, I wonder and worry about what could have happened. Twice the teacher raps my knuckles for not paying attention. Malka’s desk is next to mine, and my eyes fill with tears, seeing it standing empty.
At the end of the day, I run all the way home. “Mama, Mama, Malka is gone! Do you know where she is?”
Mama hugs me. “I am sorry, Miriam. Malka and her family have left Kiev. Moved somewhere else. I don’t know where they’ve gone. Sit down, and we’ll drink a glass of tea together. Try not to be sad.” She pours us both some from the samovar, then reaches for the sugar bowl on the shelf and lets me help myself. Mama strokes my hair.
Where can this somewhere else be? Why didn’t Malka tell me she was going away, when her family came for supper last week? Didn’t she know? When our fathers talked in low voices, I overheard the words “bribe” and “border,” so perhaps they are in another country. Have they gone to America?
Everyone talks about going to America – the Golden Land, they call it. They say, there, that no one goes hungry, that they eat sugar and chicken every day. I listen to Mama chatting to the neighbors. Sometimes, one of them receives a letter from a relative who has crossed the ocean and shares the news.
“‘Imagine,’ she writes, ‘I can walk anywhere – to the park, to market – and enter any shop I want, without fear. I speak Yiddish with my friends, even in the street. I go to the library to read a newspaper, free! I can hardly believe it – the American policeman who walks up and down our street smiles. He speaks to my little girl: “Isn’t it a fine day for a stroll?” he says.’ ”
Pogroms happen in cities too, not just in small towns and villages. I hope the Cossacks forget about our street, if they come to Kiev. Papa says that this has been a bad year for pogroms.
A few days later, Bubbe and I are alone in the kitchen. She is teaching me to bake bread. She and Mama have been keeping me busy, to stop me from feeling sad without Malka.
“I have something to tell you, Miriam,” Bubbe whispers. “It is about Malka and her parents. I know how much you miss your friend. Will you promise to keep it a secret?”
“I promise, Bubbe. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Zayde heard the news from a man he is making a new pair of boots for. I asked him how the man could afford new boots, made of Zayde’s finest leather. It seems the man was paid well for helping Malka and her parents to cross the border. He hid them under some potato sacks in his cart. Who knows? By now, they might be on a ship to join their son and daughter in America!”
I hardly remember Malka’s older sister and brother. They left Russia a long time ago. All I can think of is, my best friend has gone away too. Will I ever again find another friend like Malka?
A few days later, Papa comes home from work earlier than usual. He looks happy.
“Tonight,” he says, “I shall make an announcement.” Are we going to find out about Papa’s surprise at last?
After we have finished our supper of potatoes, salt herring, and freshly baked black bread, Mama brings in the samovar and pours tea. We sit waiting for Papa to speak. Bubbe has taken off her cooking apron, as though we are expecting company. Mama’s cheeks are flushed; her eyes sparkle. My mama is very pretty, with brown shiny hair and dark blue eyes – sometimes they almost look black. My hair is brown and shiny too. Mama says I have Papa’s eyes – eyes that can melt a stone. I don’t think that’s true. Yuri gets away with much more than I do!
We wait for the great moment. Papa does not like to be hurried, even when he has a big order of shirts to sew. He puts his hand inside his jacket, where I know he has stitched a secret pocket, and pulls out an envelope.
Is it full of rubles? Rubles en
ough so that Mama will not worry when the rent man comes? Rubles to buy cloth to make something new to wear for Pesach, the feast of Passover? I would so much like to have a new dress. I can hardly wait.
Yuri fidgets – he wants to go outside and play before it gets dark.
“Come, Yuri, sit beside me,” Zayde says. He strokes his beard, which is streaked with gray. Papa’s beard is still black, like his hair. Yuri looks just like him. Papa opens the envelope and takes out three tickets, waving them in the air.
“Do you know what these are for?” He looks at us.
Yuri jumps up and down. “Tickets to go to the circus, Papa?”
“Tickets, you are correct, but they are not for the circus.”
Yuri sits down again, disappointed. He longs to see the horses, acrobats, and wild animals.
“Are they tickets for the train, Papa?” I ask him.
“Who is going on the train? Why are there only three tickets? We are six in our family,” Yuri shouts. The others turn and look at my brother, smiling, as though he has said something wonderful. I try not to be jealous of him getting all the attention.
“Quite right, my son,” Papa says. “The first three tickets are for you and Bubbe and Zayde. We are all going on the train, but you three are going first. Mama and Miriam and I will come very soon. We are going to live in Berlin, in Germany, which is the first step of our journey. Then, when we have saved enough money, we will continue on to the Golden Land, to America. One by one, two by two, like the animals in Noah’s Ark.”
“America, Papa? Why so far away?” Yuri asks.
“Tsar Nicholas is our ‘little father,’ but does a good father burn his children? No, and in America, they don’t let you burn. We will drink a toast to our journey and to a new and better life,” Papa says.
Mama takes four glasses from the cupboard. Zayde puts a bottle of vodka on the table and pours a little of the clear liquid into each glass.
“L’Chayim. To life,” the grown-ups say, clinking glasses. They smile. Papa and Zayde shake hands, and Mama and Bubbe embrace each other.
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