by Nikki Tate
“I’m fine,” yelled Joe. “Stop asking me so much.”
Avram’s eyes filled with tears at Joe’s angry tone. Joe wished he hadn’t yelled at Avram, but why did Avram have to hang around him all the time?
At lunch, Joe strode over to Miss Williams desk, bracing himself for his punishment.
But instead of a lecture or a trip to Mr. Cutler, Miss Williams handed him a soft leather book with gilded pages. Joe had never held such a fine book before.
“Turn to page ten,” she said. “Read the first stanza of the poem for me, please.”
Joe stared at the poem. “It’s hard,” he said.
“Try it,” insisted Miss Williams.
Joe took a deep breath. “Sea Fever,” began Joe. As he read, he stumbled over many words like a drunken sailor, but each time, Miss Williams helped him. By the third try, he read the first stanza with only a few mistakes.
“Tomorrow, I’d like you to read the first stanza in front of the class,” she said.
“I can’t,” said Joe.
“You can,” said Miss Williams. “Take this book home with you and practice.”
“But it’s your book,” said Joe, noticing Miss Williams name in the inside of the front cover. Miss Williams had never loaned a book to another student in his class before.
“I know you will take good care of it,” said Miss Williams smiling.
Joe blushed. “Thank you,” he said, tucking the book deep into his satchel. There was no way he would let Sam catch him with a book of poems. Sam would only laugh. “What kind of boy reads poetry like a girl?” he’d snicker.
But no matter what Sam thought, Joe liked the poem. He liked how the poet, John Masefield, wrote “I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky.” Joe remembered how when they sailed to America, on a gray day the sea had looked lonely and cold. And he knew what Mr. Mase-field meant when he wrote, “And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.” On a clear night when the sea had been still as a pond and the stars glittered like gems, Joe had looked up, dreaming of what lay ahead.
“I’d better go inside,” Joe told Sam that evening after they’d played ball for awhile. “I have a lot of homework.”
“Don’t you know that baby stuff yet?” said Sam. “Skip the homework. Tell the teacher you’re sick again. Tell her your sickness came back. Come with me tomorrow. We’ll walk across Brooklyn Bridge. It’s the most amazing bridge in the world and you can see the whole city from it.”
Joe sighed. Sam made it sound wonderful. Sam made everything sound wonderful and Uptown, the subway and Central Park had been wonderful. But what about Miss Williams? She trusted him with her beautiful book. She counted on him to read the poem.
“I can’t,” said Joe.
“Look, I’ll even treat you to hot cocoa at this candy store I know in Brooklyn. I have a little money left over from that man on the bench.”
“I can’t. Not tomorrow,” Joe said, heading inside.
“Well, I may not want to go another time,” Sam called after him angrily. “Al is feeling better and we have plans. Big plans. Plans to make real money. We probably won’t have time to play catch any more. So you’d better decide if you’re with us or not. You’re still a greenie, you know. No real American wants to be with a greenie.” The threatening tone in Sam’s voice reminded Joe of their first meeting.
“Give me your answer tomorrow,” yelled Sam as Joe ran upstairs.
Before Joe could escape into his room, Aunt Sophie stopped him at the door. “Supper in ten minutes,” she said. “It is just you and me tonight. Anna is out and Mr. Plucknik ate early. But we only have the kitchen till seven. I promised the Blumbergs they could use it later.”
“Where is Anna?” Joe asked.
“She is attending some meeting about work. She said she would be out late and not to wait up. That girl works too hard. It would break your mother’s heart to see how pale and thin she has become, like a ghost.”
It was true. Anna looked more and more tired every day She bit her nails all the time and her fingers were red and raw from biting and pricking her fingers with the needles she sewed with at work. Joe wished he could make some money so Anna didn’t have to work day and night. He wished he had some money so he could move out of the room with Mr. Plucknik. But how could he get money?
He knew what Sam wanted him to do. Joe was sure that Sam’s hints about making money had to do with stealing. And Joe was sure from Sam’s tone that this time, if Joe didn’t go along, Sam and Al would never be friends with him again. And without them, who would be his friends? Not Avram for sure. Not those babies in his class either. And certainly not those older boys at school who’d made fun of him. What was he going to do? It was lonely without friends.
“Sup-per!” called Aunt Sophie.
“Coming,” said Joe and he plunked down at the battered wooden table for boiled potatoes in a beet soup called borscht and two slices of rye bread.
“How’s the borscht?” asked Aunt Sophie, as he sipped a spoonful.
“Good,” said Joe.
“I walked five long blocks to buy fresh beets,” said Aunt Sophie. “If prices keep going up, I don’t know what I’ll do. I won’t be able to afford anything but stale bread.”
There it was again. The worry about money. Aunt Sophie worried constantly. She complained that the Blumbergs paid late. Only Mr. Plucknik, she said, paid on time.
As Aunt Sophie droned on about the price of food, all Joe could think about were Sam’s angry words, “Are you with us or not? Give me your answer tomorrow.”
Chapter Eleven
The Decision
All through supper, Joe worried about his decision. Part of him couldn’t wait to leap into a new adventure and escape from the hard wooden benches at school and Avram’s constant company at recess. And it was true. It would feel so good to have a pocketful of money. “Here, Aunt Sophie,” he’d say, handing her a month’s rent for the room. “Tell that stinky Plucknik to pack up his dirty clothes and go.” Joe imagined his room without Plucknik. It would almost feel like a palace!
But how could he steal? “A good person is worth more than gold,” Mama always said. “Only money honestly earned can be honestly enjoyed,” Papa always said. And then there were Anna and Aunt Sophie. If Aunt Sophie found out he was stealing, she’d toss him into the street. She’d call him a gonif, a thief, and never speak to him again. And if he was caught by the police, they’d throw him in jail or in a home for delinquent boys. Joe pictured himself being dragged to jail and he shuddered.
And what about Miss Williams and the poem? Joe dug into his satchel for the poetry book. It was so soft and beautiful. He read SEA FEVER aloud again. Each time he loved the words more. They were like music. And each time, the words flowed more easily from his lips.
Oh, it was impossible to know what to do. His head hurt thinking about it.
“Joseph, please get my shawl from my room,” said Aunt Sophie, “I feel a draft on my shoulders.”
Joseph ran into the room Aunt Sophie shared with Anna. Everything was neatly arranged in the cramped room except for a letter lying on Anna’s bed. Joe glanced at the letter. It was addressed to their parents! What was Anna writing? What was Anna planning? He had to know.
Joseph picked the letter up and read.
Dear Mama and Papa,
I know how hard you have worked to pay for our passage to America. I know you are saving money to join us, but I beg you to reconsider.
New York streets are not paved with gold but with misery, sweat and dirt. Although I have work, it is brutal work, long hours hunched over a table with no relief and all for little pay.
Aunt Sophie has little money and must take in boarders. There is little air in our rooms and everything is a struggle.
I am so miserable here and see no future for myself. Joseph has learned English, but Joseph has changed so much since we came.
That’s where the letter ended. Joe put it down and s
lumped on Anna’s bed. What else was Anna going to say about him? Would she mention his friends? Would she tell their parents how he changed his name?
“Jo-seph!” called Aunt Sophie. “Where are you?”
Quickly Joseph grabbed Aunt Sophie’s shawl draped over a chair and ran back to the kitchen.
“What took you so long?” asked Aunt Sophie.
“I . . . I . . .” Joe stammered, but Aunt Sophie, as usual, was so busy talking she hardly heard his response.
“Ah,” she said, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. “That’s much better. I must be coming down with a cold. Would you like some tea and strudel? I made it special.”
Joe nodded yes and bit into the warm strudel. Strudel was one of Aunt Sophie’s specialties but tonight his stomach was in such a knot, he could barely enjoy it.
“What’s the matter with you tonight?” said Aunt Sophie as he picked at the apple and raisin filling. “Isn’t the strudel good?”
“It’s delicious,” said Joe. “I just have a stomach ache.”
“Did those hoodlums you hang around with give you something bad to eat? I tell you those boys are up to no good. That big one, Sam, has a bad look on his face.”
“No,” said Joe. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just tired.”
“Go ahead. Rest. I’ll clean this up by myself.” Aunt Sophie sighed as if she had a heavy load on her shoulder.
Joe threw himself on his cot. His head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He could barely keep his eyes open. Mr. Plucknik was snoring as always, but tonight Joe was so tired, the sound felt like it was coming from far, far away.
A loud knock on the door woke him. It was Aunt Sophie.
“Joseph, get up. You’ll be late for school.”
Oh no! Morning! He’d slept in his clothes. There was no time to change now. Joe leaped out of bed, ran to the kitchen, splashed cold water on his face, grabbed his satchel and raced down the stairs.
And there they were, Sam and Al. They were waiting on the front stoop for his answer, just like Sam said they would.
“Well,” said Sam. “Are you ready to be part of our gang? Are you ready to fill your pockets with money? Are you ready to buy a new cap and look like a real American?”
“I . . . I . . . can’t,” said Joe.
“Why not?” Sam said, a hard, angry edge in his voice. “What’s the matter with you? Are you still a stupid greenie? Are you still too scared to become a real American? Do you want to be stuck with babies all your life in that stupid school reading useless books?” snarled Sam, grabbing Joe’s satchel off his shoulder.
“Hey! Let go!” Joe yelled.
“Why? What’s in here that’s so special?” Sam sneered, opening the satchel. “A small pencil. A notebook, a book of . . .poems? Look at this, Al. This greenie reads poems like a girl.” Sam and Al howled with laughter.
“Give it back,” said Joe. “Give it back or else.”
“Or else what?” said Sam, beginning to tip the contents of the satchel into the slushy snow. But just before the book hit the soggy ground, Joe stepped hard on Sam’s foot and yanked back his satchel.
“What did you do that for, you stupid greenie?” Sam wailed.
“Don’t touch my things,” said Joe, staring at Sam.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” said Sam and he raised his fist and smashed it into Joe’s cheek.
Joe lurched toward the ground, but he didn’t fall. His cheek burned like fire, his heart pounded with anger and hurt, but he pulled himself up. Silently he picked up his wet pencil and notebook, rubbed them on his pants and turned to go.
“Go rot in that stupid school,” Sam shouted after him. “C’mon Al. Let’s you and me make some real money.”
And without another word, Sam and Al took off.
As soon as they were out of sight, Joe ran. His heart was still pounding but he had to get to school. Cradling his satchel like a baby in his arms, Joe ran till he reached his school.
Breathlessly, he slid into his seat, just as Miss Williams walked in.
“Joe, would you please come up and read for us,” she asked after attendance.
As Joe walked to the front of the room, he saw Miss Williams stare at the red bruise on his face, but she said nothing.
“‘Sea Fever’ by John Masefield,” he began.
By the second sentence, Joe glanced up and when he did, his knees almost buckled. There, in the back of the class, stood Mr. Cutler, the principal, listening to every word.
Joe read on and despite the searing pain in his face and his shaky knees, he didn’t stumble over a word.
“Well,” said Mr. Cutler to Miss Williams, when he finished. “I agree something must be done. Come with me, Joseph.”
No! No! Joe wanted to scream. I didn’t do anything. I only cut school twice. Why am I in trouble?
Joe followed Mr. Cutler down the long dim hall, but they didn’t stop at the principal’s office. Mr. Cutler walked past his office and turned down another hall till they reached the stairs. Then Mr. Cutler walked up the stairs to the second floor and down another long dark hallway. Joe’s heart beat faster with each step.
Where were they going?
Suddenly Mr. Cutler stopped in front of a closed door. He knocked and the door opened.
“Good morning Miss O’Grady,” he said to a gray-haired woman inside. “I have a new pupil for your fourth grade class. This is Joseph Wisotsky. He’s a good reader and a fast learner.”
And with that, Joe entered grade four.
Chapter Twelve
All Mixed Up
As soon as school was over, Joe ran home. He couldn’t wait to tell Anna and Aunt Sophie what had happened at school. But halfway there, he saw Sam and Al hovering near a fruit push-cart and Joe quickly turned down an alley to avoid them.
It was still hard to believe that Sam had actually hit him in the face. How could Sam treat a friend like that? Sam had been nice to buy him the rolls near Central Park, show him Uptown and take him on the subway, but he’d abandoned him in the park to face those bullies alone. How could he be so mean? Wasn’t Joe his friend? Didn’t they have fun playing ball together and laughing? Sam was Joe’s first American friend, but how could Sam really care about him if he hit him?
Everything was so mixed up. How could you feel angry and hurt and happy all at the same time? Why did bad things happen with good so you didn’t know how to feel?
One thing he knew. He might as well tell Aunt Sophie and Anna about his face. They’d be pleased he was no longer hanging around with that “hoodlum bunch” as Anna and Aunt Sophie called them.
A sudden wave of relief washed over him. He winced every time he remembered how Sam had dumped his things out on the ground and taunted and hit him. He didn’t want to be around anyone who treated him like that again.
Joe passed the hunched man selling shirts and pants from his pushcart. The man who reminded him of Papa. Papa would be proud of him for standing up to Sam and for reading in front of the class. Papa and Mama would be proud at how quickly Joe had learned English.
He smiled as he remembered Miss Williams’ words when he returned her book at the end of the day.
“I was proud of the way you read, Joseph,” she’d said. “Does your face hurt very much?”
“Not that much,” he’d answered, and it was true. He was feeling so happy about grade four, the pain hardly mattered. Only the memory of what Sam did hurt. It hurt more than his face.
Miss Williams nodded like she understood.
“Thanks for everything,” said Joe, feeling suddenly shy with Miss Williams. He wished she were still his teacher. Miss O’Grady was okay but she hardly smiled. She didn’t make you feel like you were someone special.
A block from the apartment, Joe passed Yossi’s Knish Store. It had just opened. He stared at the window where a DELIVERY BOY WANTED sign hung. He breathed in the warm smells of baking dough, meat and potatoes wafting out from the store. Maybe he could ask them for a jo
b. Imagine! If he delivered knishes, maybe they’d let him have samples. He could give some to Aunt Sophie, Anna, Avram, even Miss Williams. Sol, a boy in his new fourth grade class told Joe he had a job at a bakery and was allowed to take home two-day-old bread for free. Joe smacked his lips at the prospect of warm knishes.
Joe turned down his block. He scanned the street, wondering if Sam and Al were waiting on the stoop, ready to confront him. What would he say to them? How should he behave around them? What if they hit him again?
He wished he didn’t have to face them. At least not today. But if he did, he wouldn’t run or hide. He’d stand tall and look them straight in the eye. After all, he was in grade four now.
But there was no one on the stoop except a scrawny gray cat mewing hungrily from the second step.
“Oh my God! What happened to your face?” exclaimed Aunt Sophie, when he ran upstairs. “I bet those hoodlums you hang around with dragged you into a fight. You see what hap-pens when you play with rough boys? Does it hurt? Should I get you a cold compress?”
“No. It’s fine now,” said Joe. “And…”
“Good,” said Aunt Sophie. “What a day I have had. Some young hoodlum stole all the money in my purse just as I was about to pay for my chicken. Why would someone steal from a poor woman? Now I have no chicken for soup tomorrow.”
As Aunt Sophie continued to curse the thief who took her money, Joe thought about Sam. That thief could have been Sam or Al. That thief could have been Joe himself, if he’d gone along with their plans.
“Aunt Sophie,” he said, interrupting her moans about the thief. “They moved me up to grade four today at school.”
In an instant, the pained look on Aunt Sophie’s broad face disappeared like a dark cloud after a rain. “I always said you were smart as a scholar,” she said, hugging Joe tight. “It was just a matter of time till you spoke English like an American.”
“And I’m going to look for work tomorrow. I’ll find a job and help out with the rent and food,” said Joe.
