by Kit Duncan
Two days before school let out for the Christmas holidays I cried all the way home. I cried so hard the tears froze into little solid crystals half way down my cheeks.
Mama was in the basement ironing when I got home. I stomped into my bedroom and sat on the edge of my bed, and I cried some more. When she didn't immediately come upstairs, I cried louder, hoping she could hear me through the floor boards. Still no response. I began to wail.
In twenty seconds Mama flew up the steps, was in my room, holding me, rocking me, and telling me everything was going to be fine. I sobbed a little more, then quit crying.
"Now, Honey," Mama brushed my hair and my tears out of my eyes. "What's got you so upset?"
"Sam Young told me I couldn't be in the Christmas play because I killed Baby Jesus!" I blurted out, and then I cried some more, and Mama hugged me some more.
When I was almost done crying, Mama looked at me and asked, "Why would Sam say a thing like that?"
"He said my last name is Morgenstern, and that's a Jewish name, and the Jews killed Baby Jesus, and now I'm going to hell!" I could nearly feel the scorching flames of eternal damnation licking my toes, and I started wailing again.
Mama held me close and rocked me for a long, long time. She smoothed my tangled hair with her hand, and she began humming an old Irish lullaby. After awhile she pulled away a little, holding me gently by my shoulders.
"I'm sure Sam didn't mean to be unkind," she said.
"I don't care if he meant to or not!" I said. "Anyhow, he's a liar. I'm not Jewish!" I squinted with uncertainty and added, "Am I?"
"No," Mama smiled. "But it would be okay if you were. Jewish people did not kill Jesus. People killed Jesus, and some of them were Jewish, and some of them were Romans. Mobs aren't religious, they just hide behind religion sometimes. Don't you ever let anyone tell you that Jews are bad people, Sweetie."
"Then why would Sam say so?"
Mama thought a few seconds before she answered. "I expect he just got a little confused is all," she said.
"And what's wrong with being a Morgenstern?" I asked.
"Nothing in the world," Mama said. "It's a fine name."
"Why would Sam think it's a Jewish name?"
"Well," Mama explained, "there are a lot of Jewish people who came to America from Germany, like your Papa's grandpa. Some people just assume that anyone with a German name must be Jewish."
"Well, that's just stupid!" I huffed.
"I know," Mama agreed.
I thought a few minutes and asked, "Do people ever accuse Papa of being Jewish?"
"Not accuse, Sweetheart," Mama corrected me gently. "Remember, there is no shame in being Jewish. But yes, sometimes people mistake him for a Jew."
"What's wrong with being a Jew?"
Mama paused quite a while, and I could tell this was one of those times she was contemplating whether or not to tell me something now or tell me to wait until I was a little older.
"Some people," she spoke tentatively, weighing her words carefully, "just don't know any better. Some people think certain groups of people are less valuable because of their religion, or their skin color, or, oh, any number of things. If a person is different from them, they think the person just isn't as good as them."
"What happens to Papa when people think he's a Jew?" I asked Mama.
"Every now and then," she paused a minute, then looked me squarely in the eyes, "not too often, but just every once in a while, a person will refuse to buy a car from Papa because they believe he's Jewish."
"But doesn't he tell them he's not? Doesn't he tell them he's Catholic?"
"No."
"But why not, Mama?" I asked. "Why does he let people think something that's not true? If he told them the truth maybe they'd buy a car from him after all?"
Mama smiled. "Your dad doesn't want that kind of money, Sweetie. He says he'd rather be a poor man than capitalize on prejudice. Anyway, he says most people in Louisville aren't prejudiced against Jews, so there's no fear we'll be moving to the poorhouse anytime soon."
After supper that night, while I was drying dishes with Mama, I said, "So I guess that means I can play down by the barn from now on?"
Mama put her dish rag into the sudsy water and looked at me. "Whatever makes you think that, Honey?"
"If it's wrong to be prejudiced, then there's nothing wrong with me playing with the colored kids, is there?"
Mama said nothing, and a sober look masked her face. I thought it best to not ask anything else right away. She emptied the sink and went into the living room, and I finished drying the dishes in the strainer. After I had put away the last of the glasses I went to the dining room table and began drawing a Christmas tree and snowman to send with my next letter to Aunt Myrna. Mama and Papa were suddenly sitting down at the table, one on each side of me.
"Hi, little Squirt," Papa smiled at me, and Mama smiled. I set my crayon on the table.
Papa cleared his throat. "I heard you had a little run into with Sam today."
"Yes," I said. "But I'm all done with that. Mama explained everything to me."
"Well, yes, I suppose she did," Papa glanced at Mama, and she looked back at him, and I noticed they both seemed a little nervous.
"About the barn, Honey," Papa said.
"What about it?" I asked.
"Well, it's not that there's anything wrong with colored people."
"I know," I said.
He continued, "It's just that we'd rather you not play with them."
"Why not?" I asked. "Mama said it's wrong to think others aren't as good as us just because they're different."
"I know, I know, Honey," Papa said. "And Mama's right."
"I know," I said.
"It's just that, well," Papa coughed anxiously, like a man trapped. "Well, for now, we'd just rather you stay up on Thistlewood."
"But I don't understand," I said. "Wouldn't that be like someone not buying a car from you because he thought you were Jewish?"
Papa looked back at Mama, and she looked at him, then they both looked helplessly back at me. They were encased in a culture that I was too young to know about, and they knew they were trapped, and they did not know how to get free.
"For now, Sweetheart, let's just not go to the barn or past the barn, or anywhere near the barn. For now let's just stay up on Thistlewood."
"I don't understand, Papa," I said.
"I don't understand, either, Honey," Papa whispered, and he hugged me very, very tight.
CHAPTER 10
