“Can I name one of the kittens Moses?” she asked. “He was the hero of the Passover story because he led the Israelites across the Red Sea, to freedom in the Promised Land.”
“Yes, Miri, I know,” Zayde said, chuckling. “You can name the kittens whatever you’d like.”
“What’s the mama cat’s name?”
“MC, short for Mouse Catcher.”
Miriam studied the wiggly kittens. “That’s Moses,” she said, pointing to an orange kitten with a striped tail. He was off to the side, watching the others crowding each other to get close to their mother.
There wasn’t enough space around MC for all her kittens. Two huddled together, patiently waiting their turn. Watching them made Miriam think of Anna and Ida, Mendel’s daughters. They were sisters, but they almost never fought. They were more like friends, and they were Miriam’s best friends. Even though she had said goodbye to them only two days ago, she already missed them dearly.
Anna had light hair, and Ida’s was dark like Miriam’s, but even more curly. “I’m going to name that one Anna,” Miriam said, pointing to the straw-colored kitten. Pointing to the one with two black paws, she said, “That one’s Ida.”
If she couldn’t have her human friends on the farm, kittens would have to do.
SIX
At PS 131, Miriam was in sixth grade. At the farm, she had school in the kitchen. Bubby used books that Mama had sent so Miriam could practice mathematics, spelling, penmanship and recitation. For reading, Bubby gave her a well-worn book, The Railway Children.
“Your mama used to like this one,” her grandmother said. “It’s about two sisters and their brother who move from London to the country with their mother after their father goes away. I thought you might like it.”
Miriam flipped through the pages. “Why does the father go away?” she asked.
“If I tell you it will spoil the story,” Bubby said. “You’ll have to read it yourself to find out.”
“Now?” Miriam said.
“If you like.”
Miriam carried the book into the front room and sank down into the sofa next to the window. Roberta, or “Bobbie,” Peter and Phyllis certainly had a nice life—a big house, lots of toys, good food, parents who played with them, and a nanny, a cook and a housekeeper who did all the housework. They didn’t have to do anything all day except play with each other.
“How are you liking the book so far?” Bubby asked when Miriam went back into the kitchen after a while.
“It made me homesick,” Miriam admitted.
“Homesick? It takes place in England. How can you be homesick for a place you’ve never visited?”
“I miss Anna and Ida,” she explained. “Phil and Peter and Bobbie have each other to play with, so they don’t get lonely.”
“Oh, I see,” said Bubby. “Well, how about writing a letter to your cousins? That’s a good way to practice your penmanship.”
March 4, 1930
Dear Anna and Ida,
It is my second full day at Bubby and Zayde’s. We got here so late on Sunday night that I was already asleep. Zayde had to carry me upstairs to my bedroom, and I slept the whole time! My window overlooks the train tracks, but the closest train station is almost twenty miles away, so we had a long trip from the station to the farm. Zayde owns a pickup truck. The ride was very bumpy, but not as loud as the subway.
You would not believe how much empty space there is on the farm. There are no tall buildings, so you can see forever. The tallest building isn’t even really a building. It’s called a silo. That’s where Zayde keeps the grain for the cows and the horse. The horse’s name is Betsy.
There is also a cat in the barn. Her name is MC for Mouse Catcher, and she has seven kittens! Zayde is letting me name them. So far I have named one Moses, because he is the leader. And… I named one Anna and one Ida! Because I miss you. And there is nobody to play with at Bubby and Zayde’s except for the kittens. But they don’t talk. They just meow and purr.
Have you been to the cinema? There is no cinema here. Write and tell me what films you have seen. I have to go now because Zayde is going to take me into town to mail this. It will be my first trip to town. Very exciting!
Your cousin,
Miriam
Sangerfield wasn’t really a town. As the porter had said, it was more of a speck. The closest town was Waterville, and it wasn’t much more than a speck. Sangerfield only had one main street and one stoplight. None of the buildings was more than three stories tall.
The people didn’t rush past each other the way they did back home. They walked slowly. Some just hung out in front of Bert’s Café and the Dew Drop Inn to chat.
Some greeted Zayde with “Morning, Bill” and a tip of their hat. Some said something that sounded like, “It’s Billy that’s you.”
“Why do they say that?” Miriam asked, scattering snow on the sidewalk with her bright red boots.
“Don’t people say good morning in Brooklyn?” Zayde sounded surprised.
“Of course!” Miriam said. “But those people said, It’s Billy that’s you. That seems strange.”
“They said what?” Zayde asked.
“It’s Billy that’s you. Don’t they know it’s you?”
Zayde started laughing so hard he had to stop walking. When he finally found his voice again, he said, “Oh, Miri! They didn’t say, It’s Billy that’s you. They said, It’s Billy the Jew.”
Miriam frowned. “Why don’t they just say hello?”
“That’s how some people do say hello,” Zayde explained.
He took Miriam’s hand, and they walked on. “Mr. Zadowa owns the dry-goods store,” he said, pointing as they passed a window filled with everything from shovels to fabric. “When they see him, they say, It’s Jerry the Pole, because he comes from Poland. And Mr. Wegmann, from the butcher shop? They say to him, It’s Gunter the German, because—”
“He comes from Germany?”
“No, his father came from Germany. But you get the idea.”
“Why does it matter?” Miriam asked.
“Why does what matter?” Zayde said.
“Where someone comes from?” In Brooklyn, nobody cared where you were from. If they knew you, they said hello. If they didn’t, they didn’t say anything.
“That is a good question, Miri,” Zayde said. He paused. “I suppose it’s because this is a very small town, much smaller than Brooklyn. When someone new appears, everyone notices.”
“But you do live here,” Miriam pointed out. “You’ve lived here since Mama was a girl. They should know who you are.”
“To them, I’m still a greenhorn from the Old Country,” Zayde said. “Most people here—their grandparents and great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents also lived here. They’ve been here almost as long as that tree.”
He pointed across the street to a huge bare tree in the churchyard. Miriam could see that it was old—it was taller than the farmhouse. With its branches spreading over the street, it was wider too. But still she didn’t understand.
“They feel as if they own the place, and it’s their job to keep track of everybody,” Zayde explained.
“If you had stayed in the Old Country, would you feel as if you owned your town?” Miriam asked.
Zayde laughed again, but it wasn’t his usual merry laugh. “Things were very different there,” he said, his voice turning serious. “That’s why I came here.”
SEVEN
The days settled into a routine. After breakfast Zayde and the men headed off to work, and Miriam and Bubby cleared the table and washed and dried the dishes. When the kitchen was clean, Miriam began her lessons. Sometimes Bubby sat with her, to give her a spelling test or listen as she recited “Paul Revere’s Ride,” which she wanted to memorize for her school’s year-end assembly in June.
While Miriam practiced her penmanship or worked on arithmetic or went into the front room to catch up on the latest adventures of the Railway Children, Bubby peeled
potatoes and carrots and chopped onions for lunch, usually a stew or soup, or sliced apples for a cake or pie. There was always something to do—cooking, dusting, sweeping, laundry.
At eleven forty-five, no matter what Miriam was doing, lessons ended. She set the table while Bubby finished preparing the noon meal. When the men returned to the house, everyone ate together. Then they trooped back outside, no matter the weather, and Miriam and Bubby cleaned up. Depending on what Bubby had planned, sometimes the preparation for dinner began as soon as lunch was over. But Bubby made time to accompany Miriam to visit the kittens nearly every day. Even then, though, she brought something with her to do, mending or knitting.
Zayde had told Bubby about the eyes in the hayloft. He’d turned it into a funny story, making it seem as if Miriam hadn’t been scared, just startled. So good was he at storytelling that the first time Miriam returned to the barn with Bubby, she was nearly convinced that there was nothing to be scared about. Cradling Anna and Ida against her coat, she stared into the opening above the trough, daring the eyes to appear, determined not to scream if (or when) they did.
But the only eyes looking down were Bart’s, and she knew right away that it was him. He called out, “Hello,” then threw down some hay bales so that Miriam and Bubby did not have to sit on the floor. Then he threw down a few more for Miriam to play with.
“I have a little boy back home,” Bart said. “He loves to build forts. See if you can make something dandy with these.”
One day Miriam built a room for the kittens. The next day she made a maze. Moses was the first to discover that he could jump out of the maze instead of wandering through it.
The others were either too timid or more interested in playing with Bubby’s yarn. When Miriam dangled a long strand in front of them, they danced on their hind legs, waving their front paws like stubby, furry hands as they fought to grab at the wool.
Back in the house, Miriam got into the habit of writing letters twice a week. On Tuesdays she wrote to Anna and Ida, and on Thursdays she wrote to Mama and Papa.
March 11, 1930
Dear Anna and Ida,
I wish I could go see the new Marx Brothers movie with you. Tell me all about it! Maybe we can act it out when I come home.
The kittens are getting bigger. Last week I got to play with them for the first time. I tried to put Anna and Ida into the pocket of my dress, but they were not pleased with their new quarters. I guess I would not like to be in someone’s pocket either.
There are actually quite a few people on the farm—it’s not just me and Bubby and Zayde and kittens and cows and a horse. That’s because the farm is growing. When Mama was my age, the farm was smaller, and Zayde didn’t need so much help.
The men he hires to work for him are hobos. They ride trains, looking for work. They say that they “ride the rails.” They always come to this farm because they know Zayde will give them jobs. They live in a bunkhouse, but they eat breakfast, lunch and dinner in the kitchen with us.
One of the hired men, Bart, carved me a checkerboard and checkers. On the other side of the board is another game called backgammon. Bart taught me how to play. I am getting very good at it. I beat him two times last night after dinner.
I cannot believe that Purim is almost here. Remember last year, when we all dressed up as Queen Esther? I won’t be dressing up this year. The closest synagogue is miles away in Utica, and we never go there because it takes so long and there is too much to do here on the farm. But today Bubby and I are going to make her famous hamantaschen. (She says they are famous. I am not sure where or why they are famous, but yum anyway!)
Write soon and tell me if you have learned any new games.
Love,
Miriam
While Miriam was writing her letter, Bubby prepared the ingredients for the hamantaschen. After lunch she and Miriam tied on matching aprons and began to assemble the pastries.
“Did you teach Mama how to make mohn?” Miriam asked, helping herself to a spoonful of the filling.
“Of course I did,” Bubby said. “Doesn’t this mohn taste the same as hers?”
Miriam reached her spoon into the bowl for a second taste. Bubby stopped her and handed her a clean spoon. “Use this,” she said.
Miriam licked the spoon, savoring the sweet, grainy texture. “It’s just as good,” she said.
“No more tastes,” said Bubby, laughing. “If we run out, we won’t have enough to fill the hamantaschen.”
“Can’t we use jam?” Miriam asked. “Sometimes when we run out of mohn, that’s what we do.”
Bubby smiled and began rolling out the dough. “We won’t run out if you stop eating it now.”
Just as she did back home, Miriam used a drinking glass to cut circles in the dough. Into each circle she carefully spooned a generous dot of the filling.
“Perfect,” Bubby said. “Do you remember how to close them up?”
“I think so,” Miriam said. She folded part of the circle toward the middle and pinched the edges into corners, forming a triangle with the filling peeking through. “Like this?”
“Very good,” Bubby said.
After dinner on Erev Purim, after the men had sampled the hamantaschen and returned to their bunkhouse, Zayde read the story of Esther to Miriam and Bubby. This year it seemed different, and not only because Miriam wasn’t hearing it in a synagogue surrounded by friends and neighbors. Tonight she snuggled up on a sofa in a farmhouse, her head resting on her grandmother’s shoulder.
For the first time, she could imagine what it must have been like to be Esther, alone in a new place with only a close relative for company. She knew it was just a story, and that sometimes in stories people seemed more heroic than they were in real life. But still, it impressed her that Esther never seemed scared. She was an orphan married to a king, and she couldn’t even see him unless he sent her an invitation. But she was willing to take a chance, to just appear in his room to tell him that his chief aide was a villain. Miriam wondered whether she would have the courage, if she were in the same position, to go against the rules to do the right thing. She hoped so.
EIGHT
About a week after Purim, Bubby stood on her stepstool, pulling an enormous pot down from a shelf in the storage room. “I’m afraid I can’t visit the kittens today, Miri,” she said. “I have too many chores.”
“Do you want me to stay and help?” Miriam asked. She knew she was supposed to help—that’s what Mama had said. But she also wanted to see the kittens.
“Not today,” Bubby said. “You go to the barn and play.”
“By myself?” Miriam hadn’t been to the barn alone. She had never been anywhere alone, unless you counted her bedroom at night, but even then a grown-up was close by.
“You won’t be alone,” Bubby reminded her. “You’ll have seven kittens and a cat to keep you company. And Zayde might stop by to say hello. If you get lonely, you can come back here.”
They were in the front hall now. Miriam had pulled on one boot when she stopped and looked up at her grandmother again. “I can stay and help you,” she said. “I don’t have to see the kittens today.” She bent over to pull off the boot, but Bubby put her hand on Miriam’s, stopping her.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she reassured Miriam. “If I thought there was, I wouldn’t let you go.”
Miriam pushed open the heavy barn door and squinted. It was so bright outside that the barn seemed unusually dark. “Hello!” she called out, but no one responded.
Some afternoons when she and Bubby played with the kittens, the men were in the loft, working. She would hear them, their heavy footsteps beating a rhythm overhead, and never give it a second thought. Today, even the faintest noise made her want to run back to the farmhouse.
She had never realized how many sounds there were in the barn. When she visited with Bubby, either she or Bubby was always talking. Their voices drowned out everything else. Now, alone in the entryway, she heard faint rustling, swishi
ng, scratching—a symphony of sounds. It was not clear what they were or where they were coming from. And suddenly, instead of feeling cold from the air seeping in through the cracks in the door behind her, Miriam felt a wave of heat from her forehead to her toes.
Don’t be scared, she told herself as she reached for the string by the door and turned on the lights. She hurried down the center aisle, kicking at loose pieces of hay. When she neared the stall next to the one with the kittens, she skidded to a stop. Something was rustling in the hay on the other side of the door. This stall was supposed to be empty. She inched closer to the door. Whatever was inside let out a low, whiny moan. It didn’t sound human, but it definitely wasn’t a kitten.
Stop being such a scaredy-cat, she thought.
She pushed the stall doors open so hard they banged against the walls and bounced closed and then open again, like enormous wooden hands clapping in slow motion. Taking a deep breath, she caught the doors on the backswing and held them open. Then she walked into the stall.
There, standing in the center, was a mother cow nursing a newborn. Miriam was so surprised she started to laugh. She had been afraid of a cow. What a funny story that would make for Bubby and Zayde! The cow’s name was Corky—she remembered now that Zayde had spoken about the calf the previous night at dinner. He had named it Pickle.
Pickle was a noisy eater, slurping and swishing. Miriam, who loved baby animals, was tempted to pat her, but she didn’t want to upset Corky, who was eyeing her in a way that made Miriam feel uncomfortable. As she left the stall, she got the same feeling she’d had that first day in the barn with Zayde, that something—or someone—was watching her.
She turned toward the stall with the kittens. Bandit and Pirate, whom Miriam had named for the black markings on their faces, were batting at each other. Moses had climbed on top of a pile of bales that Miriam had made into a tower. He was cleaning himself. First he licked one paw, then the other. The largest white kitten, the one with black markings on three of his paws, was stalking the smallest, straw-colored kitten.
Miriam's Secret Page 3
