Introducing Shirley Braverman

by Hilma Wolitzer

  When I looked in the mirror again, trying to find the future best speller in the whole wide world, that attractive young lady with curly brown hair and sparkling brown eyes, I only saw myself, Shirley Braverman of Brooklyn, New York, as if a magic spell had been broken.

  Fifteen

  Big Brother Harry

  AFTER I RECEIVED THAT letter from Buddy, nobody heard from him at all. Weeks and weeks went by without any V-mail. Sometimes Mrs. Bloom went downstairs to wait for the mailman an hour before he was due to arrive. Then he brought only bills and magazines and advertisements. There was no mail from Buddy and the whole Bloom family was worried. From the news we heard on the radio and read in the papers, it looked as if the war in Europe might end pretty soon. But still the soldiers were fighting very hard and some of them were being killed or wounded.

  Mitzi became quieter and quieter and I knew she was thinking about her brother and what might have happened to him. She hardly ever made jokes any more, or funny faces. I tried to cheer her up, but I didn’t feel so cheerful myself. I was worried too.

  One day, when Theodore and I came home from school, Velma was sitting in the kitchen drinking a glass of milk and painting her toenails at the same time. “Something came for you in the mail,” she said.

  My heart fluttered. “What?” I asked. If only it was a letter from Buddy!

  Velma shrugged. “I don’t know. I put it on your bed.”

  I ran into the bedroom, dropping my school books on the way. But when I got there, there was no thin blue V-mail envelope. Just a great big fat brown one addressed to S. Braverman. At first I was puzzled, and then, as I opened the flap, I remembered that day with Mitzi and the coupon we had sent to King Sandor.

  Sure enough, it was the free instruction booklet. I sat on the edge of the bed and opened it. What a disappointment! There were just some black and white drawings of gigantic dumbbells and punching bags and a couple of heavy-looking exercise machines that King Sandor was selling. And the prices! There wasn’t a thing in that booklet that Mitzi and I could afford, even if we saved our allowance for a year.

  There was something else inside the plain brown envelope, though. It was the free photograph of King Sandor himself. His muscles looked bigger than ever and he was holding up a tremendous dumbbell with one hand, as if it didn’t weigh any more than a lollipop. At the bottom of the picture, written in script, was “Yours for a better body, King Sandor.”

  I couldn’t wait until Mitzi came over that afternoon so I could show it to her. Of course she was disappointed about the instruction booklet too. It didn’t look as if we were going to help Theodore get big muscles after all. Mitzi kept staring at the picture of King Sandor and tapping her fingers on the dresser top. “I’ve got an idea!” she said finally.

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll explain later. Do you know what that boy looks like?”

  “What boy?”

  “The one who picks on Theodore.”

  “Oh, him. Sure. He has red hair and lots of freckles. His name is Stanley something.”

  Mitzi tucked the picture back into the envelope. “Come on,” she said.

  “But where?”

  “To the schoolyard. Let’s see if that boy Stanley is there.”

  I wanted to ask a million questions but Mitzi was through the doorway before I could think. Besides, she had been very mopey lately and this was the first time in a while she showed any interest in anything but Buddy. I hated to spoil it by asking too many questions.

  I had to walk pretty fast all the way to the schoolyard, just to keep up with her. Over in one corner some girls from our grade were jumping double-Dutch rope. They waved to us and called, and I think they were going to ask us to play too, but Mitzi just waved back and kept on walking. On the other side of the schoolyard a lot of boys were shooting baskets. “Is he here?” Mitzi asked. “Do you see that Stanley?”

  I moved closer, searching carefully in the running crowd of boys, and there he was! He was taller than the others and his red hair stuck straight up in spikes all over his head. “That’s him,” I told Mitzi. “What are you going to do now?”

  Mitzi took my hand and pulled me right over under the basket. The ball bounced through and almost hit me on the head. “Hey, watch out!” one of the boys said. “Get off the court! Hey, somebody get those stupid girls off the court!”

  Mitzi marched right up to Stanley, not paying any attention to the other boys, who were all yelling at us by then. “Are you Stanley?” she demanded.

  The redheaded boy puffed out his chest and made a terrible face. No wonder Theodore was afraid of him! “Who wants to know?” he demanded.

  “I do,” Mitzi said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Well, I’m Stanley.”

  “Do you pick on a skinny little kid named Theodore who’s only in the first grade? Do you tell him you’re going to give him an Indian burn if he doesn’t give you his baseball cards?”

  “Well, what if I do?”

  “You’re a big bully, that’s what! And you better leave that kid alone or else!” Mitzi sounded almost as tough as Stanley, but he didn’t seem to be afraid of her. He just hitched up his trousers and smirked.

  “Who says so?” he asked.

  “I do,” Mitzi answered.

  “Me too,” I said, but not half as loud as Mitzi.

  “You and who else?” Stanley said, looking meaner than ever.

  “Me and Theodore’s older brother,” Mitzi said.

  I was so surprised I almost said “Who?” myself. But Stanley said it for me.

  Mitzi stuck her hand inside the brown envelope then and pulled out the big picture of King Sandor. She kept her fingers over the place where he’d written “Yours for a better body” and signed his name. “That’s who!” she said, pushing the picture right under Stanley’s nose. “That’s Theodore’s older brother, er...Harry, and he just happens to be a policeman and he told me to find out who’s been picking on his little brother!”

  I looked at Mitzi in amazement. She had never told so many lies at one time in her life.

  Stanley seemed pretty surprised too. His mouth fell open and he looked down at his feet. “Awww,” he said. “Can’t that kid take a joke?”

  “A joke!” Mitzi said. “Do you call scaring a little first-grader a joke?”

  “Awww,” Stanley said again. “I was only fooling around. I didn’t mean anything.”

  “Well,” Mitzi said. “I certainly hope not. But you’d better leave Theodore alone, or I’ll just have to point you out to old Harry.” She waved the photograph in his face again.

  The other boys were dribbling the basketball, waiting for us to get off the court. Somehow, Stanley didn’t look as tall or as mean any more. He kept kicking at the cement with the toe of his sneaker while Mitzi and I walked across the court and out of the playground.

  “Sometimes,” Mitzi said, on the way home, “you have to tell a little white lie or two. That kid is never going to bother Theodore again.”

  This time I knew she was telling the truth.

  Sixteen

  The Telegram

  WE STOPPED AT MITZI’S house on the way home from the schoolyard to see if there was a letter from Buddy in the afternoon mail. As we approached the entrance, we could see little clusters of neighbors standing in the lobby. Some of the women were still wearing their aprons, as if they had rushed away from their kitchens without thinking. There was a loud hum of conversation that faded as we came closer, and I could see that a few of the people were crying.

  “What happened?” Mitzi asked. “What happened, Mrs. Applebaum?”

  The woman she questioned wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, but she didn’t answer.

  “Ah, poor little girl,” another woman said, shaking her head.

  “But what is it?” Mitzi asked. “Oh, please tell me... what’s happened?”

  The man who was the Blooms’ next-doo
r neighbor came over and took Mitzi’s hand. “Try to have courage, dear,” he said. “Maybe everything will be all right.”

  “Is it my brother?” she said, in a voice so thin I could hardly hear her.

  Mrs. Applebaum crossed her arms. “War!” she said, in an angry voice. “If women ran the world, if mothers were in charge, there wouldn’t be any wars!”

  Mitzi had turned white, and she was trembling as if she were standing in a cold wind. “Is...he...is...he...?” She couldn’t bring herself to ask that terrible question. I opened my mouth but no sound came out at all.

  “There was a telegram from the War Department,” one of the men said at last. “Missing in action.”

  Mitzi fell to the floor before anyone could reach out to catch her. There was a lot of noise and everyone rushed around her. I knelt down and rubbed her hand. “Oh, Mitzi!” I begged. “Please get up!”

  Finally one of the men lifted her in his arms and carried her upstairs. I followed right behind him. When we got to her apartment, I felt almost afraid to go inside. Mr. Bloom came to the door and helped the other man put Mitzi on the living-room sofa. His face was gray and his hands trembled. I could see the telegram lying on the floor next to the coffee table. On the table was a photograph of Buddy in his Army uniform, his eyes smiling, the rest of his face trying to look serious.

  Mitzi opened her eyes and looked around, surprised to find herself in her own apartment. Then I guess she remembered the terrible news about Buddy and she burst into tears. “Oh, Daddy!” she cried, and she and her father put their arms around each other. Two other neighbors looked out at us from the bedroom, where Mrs. Bloom must have been lying down.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to Mitzi or her father. I felt so awful, very shaky, and my teeth were chattering. I leaned over and put my cheek against Mitzi’s and then I went out of the apartment and downstairs. Buddy, I thought as I walked home. Oh, don’t let it be true. I thought of Buddy’s face, the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled. I thought of the letter he sent me. Dear Peewee. I remembered how he always whistled coming up the stairs, how his mother could tell it was him even before the door opened. I began to run on my rubbery legs, wanting more than anything else to be home again.

  Mother took one look at me and walked me right into my bedroom. She pulled off my shoes and tucked the blankets around me without saying anything. I looked at her, feeling like a baby again, little and wordless. She held my hand. “I know, darling,” she said. “I know. Mrs. Greene just told me. Oh, what an awful war!”

  Velma and Theodore stood in the doorway, staring as if I had some terrible and contagious disease.

  Then Daddy came home from work, and he and Mother went into the kitchen together and whispered for a while. I kept thinking of Buddy, remembering the newsreels at the Loew’s. All that gunfire, all those explosions of light. I remembered the soldiers digging foxholes and jumping into them, the tanks rolling across the hills, the airplanes roaring over and the bombs dropping.

  I must have slept because I opened my eyes and saw Theodore in his pajamas, sitting up in bed. He looked frightened and he was staring at me as if he thought I might be dead. I tried to smile at him, but I think it was a lopsided smile.

  Daddy came in then and sat on the edge of my bed. He took his eyeglasses off and he rubbed his eyes. “We have to be hopeful, Shirley-girl. Buddy may be all right. Sometimes men who are missing in action turn up later, just separated from their battalions, or he might even be a prisoner of the enemy. We can only wait and see.”

  “B-but it’s such an awful war!” I said, remembering that my mother had said the same thing a few hours before.

  Theodore came over and sat on Daddy’s lap. “All wars are awful,” Daddy said, stroking Theodore’s head. “Always remember that, sport.”

  Then I had a terrible thought. What if Theodore was finally cured of being a sissy? What if he became courageous and gallant, only to grow up and fight in another war someday? It was the worst thought I had ever had.

  Daddy put Theodore back into his own bed and covered him. “Sleep tight, sport,” he said, leaning over to kiss him. Then he came back to my bed and kissed me too.

  Mother came into the room with a glass of warm milk for me. “You missed your supper tonight,” she said. “Drink this, Shirley. You’ll feel better and it will help you to sleep.”

  I wasn’t really hungry, not in a good way at least, but my empty stomach rumbled and roared. My mother and father stood together in the doorway, watching me drink the milk, and it was warm and sweet going down.

  Seventeen

  Embarrassment

  THE SPELLING BEE TO determine the best speller in Brooklyn was to be held in Borough Hall. The winner would compete in the final contest to find the best speller in all of New York City. When I woke up that Saturday morning I felt tired and sad, not nervous and excited the way I’d felt before the other bees.

  “What’s the matter?” my mother asked as she pulled the window shades up.

  The sun rushed in and I hid my head under the covers. “I don’t feel so good,” I said, from that dark place under my quilt.

  “What? I can’t hear you under there.”

  “I don’t think I feel so good,” I said, peeking out.

  “Open your mouth,” my mother said. “Stick out your tongue.”

  “My throat doesn’t hurt.”

  “Then what is it? Is it your stomach?”

  I shook my head. “It’s just a feeling.” I couldn’t think of any other way to explain it.

  Mother sat down on Theodore’s empty bed. I could hear him talking to Velma and Daddy in the kitchen. “I’m sorry that Daddy and I can’t go with you today,” Mother said. “You know we have to go to see Grandpa. He’s so sick. But we’ll be with you in spirit anyway. And Velma and Theodore will be there to represent the family.”

  “I know,” I said, sitting up and hugging my knees. But nothing was the same any more. The spelling bee wasn’t as important to me. There had been no news about Buddy since that telegram two weeks before. Mitzi wasn’t going to be at the spelling bee either. I hardly saw her after school any more, because she rushed home every afternoon to be with her mother.

  As if she could read my thoughts, Mother said, “Even if Mitzi isn’t there, I’m sure she’d want you to do your best. Buddy would too, you know. And Miss Cohen will be counting on you. You represent P.S. 247 today, Shirley, not just yourself.”

  I got up then and ate my breakfast, even though I wasn’t very hungry. Theodore and Velma and I went to the bus stop together.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Velma said, acting nervous herself. She kept hopping from one foot to the other and looking down the street every few seconds to see if the bus was coming. “Do you want me to test you?” she asked, when we were on the bus heading downtown.

  “No, thank you,” I said, and for the rest of the ride I just looked out the window as we rode through Brooklyn.

  The borough president kept smiling and smiling. Photographers took pictures of him sitting alone at his big desk and more pictures of all the kids in the spelling bee standing around him while he pretended to write something on a blank piece of paper. Then we all went to a small auditorium. Miss Cohen was there and she was wearing a corsage of yellow roses on her shoulder. Dr. Vanderbilt sat with the other principals. He winked at me when I took my place on the stage.

  The borough president cleared his throat as one last flashbulb popped. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “This is an auspicious occasion. ‘Auspicious’—I’m sure you all know how to spell that!”

  Everyone laughed politely.

  “Seriously,” he said. “We have every reason to be proud of these boys and girls who stand before us today. They have come through with flying colors against very strong competition. They represent their schools, their districts, and their fine and dedicated teachers. Good luck to all of you!”

  I looked into the audience. I could see Velma and Theodore sitting
in the second row with the families of the other contestants. Velma waved at me and smiled, and I nodded.

  There were seven boys and five girls in the bee this time. They came from all the different school districts of Brooklyn and I had never seen any of them before.

  The words were easy in the beginning, just as they had been in the other bees. No one was eliminated during the first five rounds. The borough president wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’m afraid 7 would have been out of the running a long time ago,” he said, and then he continued. The audience was very, very quiet.

  Finally one of the boys was eliminated on the word “souvenir.” Then two kids in a row had trouble with “pachyderm.” One by one, contestants were eliminated until there were only three of us left, one boy and two girls. I was in the middle.

  “Try to relax,” the borough president said. “We all recognize the tremendous pressure on you boys and girls. You’re doing a fine job.” Then he turned to the last boy. “‘Syllable,’” he said. “The accent is on the second syllable. ‘Syllable.’”

  The boy shifted from one foot to the other and looked out at the audience for a moment. “‘Syllable,’” he said, in a squeaky voice. Then he spelled it very slowly and carefully, but he still left out one of the l’s.

  It was up to me. “‘Syllable,’” I said, and then I spelled it correctly. The boy took a seat with the other students who had been eliminated. The remaining girl and I looked at each other shyly and we smiled.

  “Well,” said the borough president. “One of you young ladies is the best speller in all of Brooklyn. In a few moments we will know who she is. May I take this opportunity to say that all of you are fine spellers and splendid citizens of our wonderful Borough of Brooklyn!” There was a little applause from the audience and then it was quiet again.