Dear Belle,
Today, a roar erupted from the deck, and I went to see the cause. Everyone was hugging and crying and singing . . . and pointing to a speck in the distance. That speck is the Statue of Liberty. Tomorrow we will dock at New York Harbor! The excitement is so rich, it’s like a strong wind blowing across the ship, and it’s difficult to not be swept away.
I am not the only child traveling without parents. There are some in a group with a chaperone of some sort. If you were here, you would have become friends with them, I’m certain. You wouldn’t have stayed so quiet and removed as I have. Every night and much of the day, I lie in my small bed and hug Oliver’s bear tightly, like I’m the one who’s 4. It still has Oliver’s smell on it, so when I put it up to my nose, it’s like I’m leaning down to wipe his face or loop the button of his jacket.
Oh Belle, Mama and Papa made the wrong decision, sending me. If only I had been quicker that night, and said Kurt should go. Then Oliver would still have Bier, and I would be with everyone else right now, instead of here, all by myself. What if Hannah and Max are horrid? Or what if they’re too sweet, like Aunt Helen and her kisses? Or what if there are no Hannah and Max, and it was all a story Papa invented to send me away? What will I do then?
No matter what is happening in Luxembourg, it can’t be worse than being here without any of you. If it were, I’d feel it in my dreams. I imagine the invisible thread that connects us getting longer . . . it’s unrolling from a spool as long as the Atlantic Ocean, but connecting us still.
31 August, evening
I am feeling better now, and braver about tomorrow. It is due largely to Frida, my one friend on the ship. She is only 7, and her blond hair bounces around her face in wide rings. We don’t talk very much (my German is passable enough, so that is only partly the reason), but ever since the first few days, we seek each other out in the dining room and on the deck . . . we simply sit side by side and watch the water. (I know, I know . . . how dull. But you are not here, and it suits us both. So there.)
Frida’s father is with her, but she might as well be alone, for he is so withdrawn and sullen. He sends her out of the room every morning to wander the ship alone. Every meal, she spreads a bit of butter on bread (the bread on board is square and white, with hardly any crust . . . odd, but I like the taste), then wraps it in a napkin and brings it back to her father. I saw him only once, when I walked with Frida to her room at night and he was lying across the bed in the dark. The light from the hall let me see that his body was there . . . his eyes were staring at the wall, but his mind was somewhere else. It is probably stuck in Vienna, where they lived. Frida told me that to escape the Nazis, her mother jumped out the window of their 5th-floor apartment, taking Frida’s new baby brother with her. Oh Belle, can you imagine? I try to understand the terrific pain that Frida and her father are in, but I cannot even grasp it. I do know that it is worse than my own. A piece of me wants to stew in sadness like Frida’s father, but another, stronger piece of me wants to shake his shoulders and throw a glass of cold water on his face.
I admire the way Frida continues on despite her pain . . . despite the way her father has given up. It has given me strength for whatever I face next. Yes, Mama and Papa sent me away, but they sent me away to a safer place, and I am not going to waste it by succumbing to fear and sorrow. I think of Papa, always saying, “Wien A seet, muss och B soen.” He would joke that it meant, “If you say Anna, you must also say Belle,” but that is no longer true, for here I am without you . . . now it simply means I must keep my promise. I told Papa I would be brave, and so I must. And you know what? I don’t want to go home. I want all of you to join me here, in a new place, for a new, happier life without soldiers in the streets and gas masks under our beds and curfews for electricity and Hitler’s horrid voice barking from speakers in the square.
Today is our last day, so I will not see Frida again after tomorrow. (She and her father will live in someplace called Chicago.) Tonight we sat together in our favorite place on the deck. The Statue of Liberty keeps getting closer . . . the skyline of Manhattan too. We could see it clearly in the evening sky. Frida had a great idea . . . for us to write to each other in America . . . in English! I copied down her address in the back of this journal, so I’ll always have it.
But right before that, an amazing thing happened. You see, this whole journey, Frida’s tooth has been loose. When we first met, she could only wiggle it with her fingers, and this morning it was so loose she could wiggle it with only her tongue. And right then, after promising to write to each other, Frida’s tooth fell out! Right there on the deck, looking at Lady Liberty! I saw her reach up to her mouth and come out with a bloody little square of white tooth. Our emotions were so high already, this surprise put us over the edge. We both started laughing! The tooth dropped through a hole in the deck, and I exclaimed, “Oh Mamelikanner!” and Frida found that even funnier. Her laughter made me laugh harder. It was the first time I’ve laughed since I left, and oh did it feel good!
With hope and courage for my new start in New York City,
Anna
CHAPTER 12
Something landed on my arm. I flicked it away without looking, thinking it was a fly. But then something bounced off my face, and that didn’t feel like a fly at all. I looked at the table where it landed and saw that it was . . . a piece of a protein bar?
I looked up and saw Parker, giggling, a half-chewed protein bar in her hand. She eats two of those nasty things for lunch, plus a green smoothie. “Finally!” she said between chews. “You two have been absorbed in that book all period.”
It was true. Madeline and I had eaten our lunch in record time so we could read more of Anna’s diary. I was hesitant to bring it to school, but Madeline begged, and swore nothing would happen to it. I covered it with paper, like we have to do with our textbooks, and then, before lunch, Madeline added a special waterproof cover on top of that. With those two layers, it was pretty safe from crumbs and spills, and—big bonus for keeping it secret—it looked just like any other book.
I’m glad I caved too, because Anna’s story was the perfect lunchtime read. At first I thought it’d be hard to focus in the cafeteria, but it was amazing the way the outside noise had turned to static as soon as I started reading about Frida. (Frida! Would she make it to Chicago? If only I had her diary too.)
“What is that, anyway?” Parker asked.
“Yeah, what is it?” asked Magda, who was next to Parker. As usual. I’ve never seen Parker without Magda except at Hebrew school, seeing as Magda’s Catholic. They braid each other’s hair, borrow each other’s clothes, and finish each other’s smoothies when the other is feeling full.
“That book must be really good,” Parker continued. “You guys were, like, zombies.”
“OMG, is it about zombies?” said Magda. “Because then I want to read it too.”
Madeline moved her reading glasses to the top of her head. I closed the diary and placed it carefully in the zippered portion of my messenger bag. Then I looked up and completely ignored their questions. “What’s up?” I said.
Parker looked like she wanted to press on about the diary, but Magda gave a playful raise of her shoulder. “So, Imani,” she said. “How’s Ethan?”
“Who?” Madeline asked.
“Ethan Bloom!” Magda cried.
Parker chewed her protein bar as she spoke. “He’s been looking over here all through lunch. He’s so obsessed with you, Imani.”
I risked a quick glance in the direction of Ethan’s table. He must’ve been reaching into his backpack or something, because all I could see was his sandy-colored hair. I don’t know what I would’ve done if he’d been looking—waved? pretended to be looking at someone else?—but I was still kind of disappointed that he wasn’t.
“Okay, he’s doing something now,” Parker said, “but I swear he’s been looking over here every
thirty seconds, just waiting for you to stop reading so he could come talk to you.”
“Or lock eyes across the room,” Magda said with a giggle. “There’s nothing more romantic than locking eyes across a crowded cafeteria.”
“Oh yeah,” Madeline said, sarcastic. “Love in the time of tater tots.”
I laughed. “That was good.”
“Wasn’t it? I just came up with it right now.”
“Very clever.”
“Thank you.”
“He’s looking again,” Parker sang.
I didn’t want to look, but how could I help it? Sure enough, Ethan’s eyes were on us this time, but he was at the far end of the table next to ours, so if he wasn’t reaching into his backpack, where else was he going to look? I summoned my courage to give a small wave. He glanced nervously behind him, then waved back.
“Awww,” Magda said, her voice and shoulders going up, like she was meeting a puppy. “You two are so cute.”
“Oh my God,” Parker said. “Did I tell you he RSVPed yes to my bat mitzvah? You two can dance together!”
“Come on,” I said, but my cheeks were totally warm.
Parker sat down opposite me, and Magda sat next to her, her legs straddling the cafeteria bench. “I wish my bat mitzvah was sooner,” Parker said.
“I know I can’t wait,” Magda said. “It’s going to be the third-best party of my life.”
“Third?” Madeline asked.
“After her wedding and her quinceañera,” Parker explained between bites of protein. “In whichever order.”
Madeline nodded, doing a remarkable job of keeping a straight face. “Got it.”
(If I hadn’t been adopted, would I have a quinceañera instead of a bat mitzvah?)
“When’s your B.M., Madeline?” Magda asked.
“Ew, don’t say B.M.,” said Parker. “It means, like, something else.”
Magda giggled. “When is your bat mitzvah?” she asked Madeline again.
“Not till September. But I’m just having a small luncheon after, no party.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fun anyway,” said Parker, ever the diplomat. She finished chewing her lunch and smiled for Magda, who studied her braces for protein particles.
“You’re good,” Magda told her. “What about you, Imani?”
“June fourteenth,” I replied. “But I’m not having a party either. I’m getting a gift instead.”
“Ooh, what are you getting?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said casually. There was no way I was getting into my “exotic” adoption mystery with Parker and Magda.
“You should ask for a big party!” Magda said.
I laughed.
“Her gift isn’t for you,” Madeline said. “Imani’s going to ask for something meaningful.” She elbowed me gently on this last word. It reminded me of my filing cabinet espionage last night, and my tortellini lunch turned over in my stomach. I felt so bad about what I’d done, I didn’t want anyone to know, not even Madeline.
“You should ask for a smartphone, Imani,” Parker said. “I need to send you snaps and emojis. You’re, like, the only person in the whole seventh grade without one.”
That is too true. Even Madeline has her mom’s old Android. But my parents are completely overprotective about me being on the internet. I’m the only person I know who has a limit on “screen time,” and they only let me join Facebook, like, five months ago, and by then no one was even using Facebook anymore. No need to put yourself out in the world like that, my mom likes to say. Especially not in seventh grade.
I don’t see what the big deal is. Going online is nothing compared to Anna, who had to really go out in the world—across the ocean!—by herself, in seventh grade.
“I still think you should ask for a party,” said Magda. “Or a date with Ethan Bloom.”
“Are we seriously back to that?” Madeline asked with a sigh.
The bell rang right then, so Parker and Magda rushed back to their table to get their bags. Magda gave the top of my arm a squeeze on her way.
“Blah,” Madeline said, moving her reading glasses into their case. “I wish they hadn’t come over. We barely had time to read anything. My house after school?”
“Tennis,” I reminded her.
“Oh yeah.” We moved from the cafeteria into the hall, and Madeline had to talk loudly over the noise. “Can you wait to read more together, then?”
“Maybe,” I said, but I don’t think she heard me. She was walking backward down the hall to social studies, and I was moving backward the other way, to Spanish.
“Hasta la vista!” she called.
“Adios, amiga!” I spun around—and bumped right into Ethan. Our heads collided, skull to skull.
He straightened his glasses. “Ouch.”
“Sorry!” I rubbed my forehead and hoped that if I was visibly sweaty, he’d think it was because I was in physical pain.
“Watch it, Williams,” he said, and I laughed way too hard. He grinned. “What was in that bowl you brought for lunch?”
“Tortellini,” I told him. “It’s my favorite food.”
“Just tortellini, or any cheesy pasta?”
“Tortellini.”
“What about ravioli?”
“I’ll eat it,” I said, “but it’s not as good. It’s so flat. The pasta-cheese ratio is all off.”
“How about lasagna?”
I shook my head.
“Manicotti.”
I smiled.
“Stuffed shells!” he said, pointing triumphantly.
I laughed. “If you name any more types of pasta, I’m going to be late for class.”
He lowered his hand. “What do you have now?”
“Spanish,” I told him. “Second floor. You?”
“French.”
We stood there for a second, not saying anything. His glasses were still kind of slanted from our collision, but it didn’t look too dorky. People were moving past us, talking and pushing. It made me think of Anna, who’d soon be on the crowded streets of New York City.
“See you at tennis?” Ethan said.
“Yeah,” I said. The boys’ and girls’ teams practice on separate courts, so the most we could do is wave to each other. My stomach sort of flip-flopped, though, at the thought of waving to each other.
“Okay,” Ethan said. “Later.”
I gave a small wave and went back to walking. Parker and Magda were about five feet away, against the wall, grinning. Apparently, they’d witnessed that whole thing. “Obsessed!” Parker mouthed. Magda’s in my Spanish class, but I shook my head and hurried past them anyway, not wanting to talk about Ethan.
Determined to not think about Ethan either, I turned my thoughts to Anna. Was she going to love New York or hate it? Were her cousins going to be nice? Would she go to school in Brooklyn? She’d be the new girl from another country—would that make her more interesting or more of an outcast? At least she wouldn’t look different on the outside, unlike me, being one of six non-white kids in my whole school. Then again, English wasn’t her native language. That’d be sort of like when I’m in Spanish class, only all the time, not just for that forty minutes. I may look different, but at least I can talk to people. And, obviously, my adoptive home has been my home all my life.
As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, I imagined I was here for the first time, just off the boat from another country, walking into a strange new world.
3 September 1941
t. August 1950
Dear Belle,
I have just finished dinner and come back to my room . . . yes, I have a room all to myself now. We had roast chicken and potatoes, and there was so much of it, Hannah put the extras in the icebox for tomorrow! Extra food, can you imagine it? She says that on Sunday we will h
ave a special dinner for my first weekend in New York. She has not said what it will be . . . she wants to keep it a surprise. Mamelikanner, what will I do if it is fish? You understand . . . is there a more repulsive food than fish? So oily, and it smells like sewage, and when served whole, that dead eye stares up at the ceiling from the platter. Ewww! Remember when Kurt used to make a show by putting a big piece of fish on his fork and LICKING it, just to make us cringe? I shudder to picture it. I would rather lick the bottom of my shoe!
Of course I will not say this to Hannah. I cannot tell you how kind she and Max have been . . . it would be horrid to appear ungrateful. So far I have been eating everything and making sure to say it is delicious even when it’s not, like the strange beans we had my first night here. (And my, I was sick of beans. Are you still eating beans every night? I suppose you are, if Papa’s friend is still giving him sacks for free.) Most of the food is delicious, however. Still, I take only one helping of everything. I don’t want to be a burden, and I want them to have enough money to sponsor you and everyone else. So even if it is fish on Sunday, I will force down a whole serving, without so much as plugging my nose.
We are fortunate to have cousins so kind as Max and Hannah. They even came to New York Harbor to meet me and bring me to their apartment here in Brooklyn. I am glad they did, because until the moment the ship arrived in port, I had only thought about making it to America, and it never occurred to me to consider how I would get from New York Harbor to their address in Brooklyn. I had only begun thinking about this when I walked down the ramp and onto dry land. (After so long at sea, it is a strange sensation to be on land again! You’ll see.) Behind a gate, a large group of people stood waiting, and what a relief to see one of them holding a paper with my name written across it, plain as day. I approached the man, and the woman standing next to him, who was looking very glamorous in a short fur jacket and a navy blue hat. She looked excited. As I got closer, she said, “Anna?”
I said, “Mrs. Schoelstein?” and her red lips broke into a smile, revealing the whitest teeth you have ever seen. She said, “Call me Hannah!” and threw her arms around me, and I was wrapped in soft fur. Oh Belle, just wait until you feel her coat. It’s so glamorous! Simply touching it made me think of you, and I had to pull out of Hannah’s embrace before I began to cry.
The Length of a String Page 6
