The Woodcarver's Daughter

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  My brother looks so happy. I picture him skipping stones or running, riding a bicycle, hitting a ball. Avram needs to do these things as badly as I need to carve. I shouldn’t judge him. Or try to stop him. “I hope you do make enough money,” I tell him. “And that you can buy the best bicycle in all of New York.”

  Chapter 6

  Iron

  I start skipping school. Not every day. Just once or twice a week. I know it’s wrong. But I think of the woodshop and how disappointed I was to be told no. Well, skipping school is my own way of saying no right back. I have a hunch Avram knows, though he says nothing. I’m grateful for his silence.

  I spend my “free” days roaming the neighborhood, making sure I avoid Essex Street, where I might run into Papa. One day, I almost collide with Mama, who is taking a basket of mended clothes to its owner on Hester Street. I realize that I’ll have to be more careful.

  The next time I skip school, I duck into the Seward Park Public Library, a red brick building on East Broadway. It’s warm, it’s free, and best of all, it’s crammed with books! I’ve never seen so many books in one place. I want to read them all.

  Reading takes me completely outside of myself. I’m not awkward Batya with the heavy accent and the worn-out clothes. No, when I read, I’m the fine lady in the ermine-trimmed cape, the clever detective who solves the crime, the mermaid who swims beneath the waves. What better escape could anyone want?

  One day, a librarian in a starched white blouse and gray flannel skirt asks if I would like to fill out an application for a library card. I shake my head. It’s not that I wouldn’t like a library card; I’d love one. But I can’t risk her asking me questions, like where I live or why I’m not in school. And if Mama or Papa sees me with a book, they’ll want to know where I got it. So I now have to avoid the library too.

  The next morning, I leave the apartment with Gittel and Avram. Once we get to the street, I tell them, “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

  “Slowpoke,” says Gittel. “You’ll be late.”

  “So what?” I say.

  Gittel shakes her head, and she and Avram walk on. After they’ve gone, I happen to look down at the street. I see a nickel winking up at me from the sidewalk!

  I can buy so many things with a nickel: three bagels, a bag of nuts, candy galore, or five egg creams—a fizzy chocolate drink that I’ve recently come to love. But I decide to use the nickel as subway fare—to go somewhere else, some other neighborhood.

  Even though I know my parents wouldn’t approve, I’m going to do it anyway. Mama and Papa don’t understand how hard it is for me here. Gittel and Avram have both found a way to belong in this new place. Sarah and I have not. And Sarah is locked into her silent world where it seems harder and harder for me to reach her. I miss her, but what can I do about it? I feel so helpless. So sad.

  All the more reason to escape, if only for the day. A pair of glass globes marks the entrance to the subway station on Grand Street. I go down the stairs. My nickel buys a paper ticket that I hand to the ticket chopper. He puts it down the glass chute and turns a crank, and the chopper gobbles up the ticket.

  On the platform, I sit down on a bench and wait for a train. A couple of times I get up and look down the dark tunnel to see if it might be coming. But the edge of the platform is scary, and I immediately scoot back to the safety of the bench.

  Finally, a train approaches. Oh, the noise it makes when it arrives, thundering into the station like a thousand horses all at once! I cover my ears, but I keep my eyes wide open.

  The subway car is painted a dark, glossy red. The seats are wicker-covered and trimmed in the same color.

  The doors slide shut behind me, and the train takes off with a little jolt. I grab a pole and hold on tight. We’re going so fast. Even Mala’s gallop is nowhere near this speed. I walk over to the window and, pressing my hands against it for support, peer out. Glimpses of tunnel, mysterious lights, dark stone walls. There’s a whole underground world here, right beneath my feet: trains heading north, south, east, and west. I could stay down here, traveling on one or the other, all day. But I want to see the city above as well as below. So when the train pulls into the next station, I get out.

  Once I’m in the street again, I begin walking with no particular direction in mind. Soon, I come to a wide street called Fifth Avenue. How elegant it is! I see women wearing fur coats and matching hats. One wears a beaded cape and carries a parasol of black silk. Holding her arm is a fine gentleman in a dark coat.

  I see several long motorcars too: black, cream-colored, or the color of the wine Papa pours on Shabbos. Soon I come to a long, curving stone wall that surrounds a big park. Horses, lined up and harnessed to carriages, wait patiently along the wall. I look past the carriages. Trees! Finally! So this is where they keep them.

  I hesitate, unsure if I’m allowed to enter. Maybe it costs money to go inside. But I see people walking in and out. No one charges them admission. So I go in.

  Even with the bare trees, the park is lovely. I walk until I get tired and have to sit for a while on a bench. Eventually, I head back out into the street. Where is the subway? I think I can find my way back to it.

  Suddenly I realize, with dawning panic, that I don’t have a nickel to get home. I’ll have to walk. But in which direction?

  I look around. I see a lady pushing a baby buggy and a man with a small dog. I decide it’s better to approach the lady, though I really would like to pet the dog.

  “Excuse me,” I say, wishing I didn’t have such a strong accent. “Can you tell me how to go to Stanton Street?”

  “Stanton Street?” says the woman. “That’s way downtown. You can take the subway. It’s around the corner.”

  “I want to walk,” I say. Can she tell I’m lying?

  “Really?” asks the woman. “It’s very far.” I feel her studying me, taking in the outgrown coat, the shawl. “Here,” she says, suddenly reaching into her purse. “Take this.” She gives me a nickel, the price of the fare.

  “Are you sure?” I’m half grateful, half ashamed.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” says the woman.

  “Then thank you!” I say. “Thank you so much!”

  “I wouldn’t like to think of you walking all that way alone,” says the woman, glancing at the baby, who’s asleep in the buggy. “It’s so far.”

  I hurry down the subway steps. How foolish I was! And how lucky. Next time, I have to remember that I’ll need money not only for my trip but to get home as well.

  Of course, money is not so easy to get. Papa and Mama have to pay rent as well as buy food and Mama’s sewing supplies. There’s almost nothing for luxuries, certainly not for subway rides like the one I just took. I know that any money I need I will have to get myself. But how?

  Avram has a job delivering buttons. Gittel makes money with her needle. What can I do? Although I ponder this the entire ride, I come to the Grand Street station without an answer.

  When I walk into our building and check the mailbox downstairs, I see a letter from the school addressed to Mama and Papa. I pluck it from the batch of mail before anyone else can see it. I have a strong feeling that the letter is about my many absences. I wish I could rip it up, but I don’t dare. So instead, I tuck it into my biscuit tin. Mama and Papa will never look in there.

  The next day, I go to school. I’m afraid to miss two days in a row.

  At home that afternoon, I find Mama in a tizzy. In her lap is a dress made of emerald-green taffeta. All around her lie scraps of black velvet ribbon and dark green lace.

  “It’s this dress!” she says when I ask what’s the matter.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I made a mistake in the hem, and I have to redo it. It’s for a fancy lady uptown, and she wants it tonight. But I told Mrs. Feldman I would deliver these clothes too. I won’t have time to do both! Can you take them to her?”

  “Of course, Mama.” I set down my books and pick up the basket.

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nbsp; “Thank you!” Mama says, and she writes down the address.

  Mrs. Feldman lives on Rivington Street. It’s not far. I find the building and ring the bell. Mrs. Feldman is waiting at the door.

  “Right on time,” Mrs. Feldman says. She gives me three cents as a tip. I tuck the copper pennies into my pocket, where I can almost feel them glow. Here is my answer! I can make deliveries for Mama and earn tips for my effort.

  My plan works out perfectly. Mama appreciates the help, and I appreciate the money. Pretty soon, I have twenty-five cents stashed away in my secret tin. Twenty-five whole cents. Just think of how many rides I can buy with that much money!

  But there is something else I want to buy too: colored pencils, colored paper, and a pair of blunt-edged scissors. I teach Sarah to fold the paper and draw the simple outline of a girl on the folded rectangle. Next, I show her how to cut the girl out and unfold the rectangle to reveal a chain of paper dolls, all holding hands. Sarah’s face opens into a broad smile. She gestures excitedly to me. I can see that she wants to make more. Soon the floor is covered with chains of paper dolls. I’ve spent ten of those precious pennies well.

  For the next few days, I force myself to go to school, but the following week, I once again convince Gittel and Avram to go on without me. Then I double back in the other direction. In my pocket are fifteen cents—five to take me on a ride to some new and unknown place, and five to bring me safely home again. The final five, I’ll spend on candy—sour lemon drops, perhaps, or a red-and-white-striped peppermint stick. Or maybe I’ll buy a whole bag of chocolate marshmallow twists: chocolate on the outside and sweet, fluffy filling inside. For the first time, I can see that America is a place of many choices. And right now, some of them are even mine.

  Chapter 7

  Jewels

  I take the train toward a place called Brooklyn, which is at the very tip of the city, bordered by the same ocean we crossed to get here. Now that I’ve seen the ocean, I have an urge to see it again.

  I study the subway map posted in the station. The last stop on the train is Coney Island. Coney Island will be my destination.

  It’s a long ride, but I don’t mind. I have my bag of candy and a newspaper someone left behind on my seat. Slowly, I turn the pages of the paper as I munch on a marshmallow twist. I can read all the words easily now. The train emerges from its underground tunnel onto an elevated track. I put aside the newspaper so that I can look out the window, gazing at the sky, which today is a bleached, wintry blue. I’ve come to like some things about New York City, but I still miss the open spaces of the country I left behind.

  At last, the train reaches the Coney Island station, and I get off. Only one other person is left in the car, a girl with a kerchief tied at her chin. She looks as if she could be from our village, but she walks quickly away before I can be sure. After I’ve watched her go, I start walking too.

  The houses are lower here, and the streets not as crowded. The smell of the sea is tangy and sharp. The wind is sharp too, but I don’t mind. In fact, it feels good, whipping through my hair.

  Soon I begin to see signs advertising the most astounding things: Ramos the Amazing Sword Swallower, The Bearded Lady, Aaron’s Acrobatic Troupe, Jerry’s Jugglers. I’ve stumbled upon an amusement park. It’s kind of like the fair, back in Russia, but bigger. I pass a roller coaster and a Ferris wheel. The great machines are silent and still now, but I can almost imagine what it would be like to be here on a summer day.

  I come to a round structure that looks like a giant cake. It’s all boarded up, but one of the boards is loose. There’s a sign near it:

  Mittendorf & Grau

  Latest, Improved

  CAROUSEL

  In Operation from April through October

  Mermaid Avenue, Brooklyn, New York

  No one is around, so I step closer and jiggle the loose piece. It moves easily, letting me peek inside. There, behind the wooden covering, is a ring of the most beautiful carved horses I have ever seen. Horses leaping, horses prancing, horses with their front hooves held high in the air as if they’re about to begin a dance. Their wooden tails stream out behind them; their wooden manes rise in wild peaks. They’re painted in a rainbow of colors: scarlet, apple green, royal blue, violet, pumpkin, ebony, and dazzling white. Some have real plumes attached to their heads; others have bridles covered with glittering jewels. Some are decorated with carved wooden flowers. There are other animals too: a spotted frog with a waistcoat, a kangaroo, and a zebra. But my eyes keep coming back to the horses.

  This carousel is far bigger—and grander—than the one I saw in Russia. These horses belong in an entirely different realm. They are dream horses, made by miracle workers. I have to come back here to see them spin and turn. I have to!

  Finally, I turn away. I’ve eaten all but two of the marshmallow twists, which I’m planning to give to Sarah; I want to see her smile when she takes the first bite. I start to feel a little rumble of hunger, but if I use my remaining five cents for food, I won’t be able to get home. Besides, everything around here seems to be closed and shuttered. The wind has picked up, and I’m cold as well as hungry. I should go home.

  I see another sign hanging in front of a building.

  Mittendorf & Grau

  Carousel Works

  Mittendorf and Grau—I just saw those names. Through a large plate glass window, I see more than a dozen men wearing leather aprons like the one Papa used to have. Some are standing; some are sitting. Occasionally one will come through the doors and go into a building right next door. I walk straight up to the window to get a better look.

  Stacks of crudely carved horse heads stand in one corner. Legs are in another pile, bodies in yet another. I watch, fascinated, as a young man stirs something in a pot. It looks like molasses, dark and sticky. It must be glue, because he uses it to put the pieces of the horse together. He attaches a clamp to hold the glued pieces together and places them on a rack to dry. These are carousel horses!

  I’m so absorbed that I barely notice the stout man with the tweed jacket as he hurries by; he brushes so close that he bumps my shoulder.

  “Sorry, girlie!” he says in Yiddish. I watch as the man goes into the building next door. I’ve been so interested in the carving and gluing that I haven’t paid much attention to that building. But now, I follow at a slight distance and walk up to the window.

  There are more horses, only not so crude anymore. Their bodies and heads are more finely carved, and each of their faces has a different expression. They’re also covered with thick, white paint. Is this the color they’re going to be when they are done? I think of the carousel I saw and decide that the answer is no. And when I see one of the workers pick up a sheet of sandpaper and begin rubbing, I know I’m right. Sanding is done before the final staining or painting. I watched Papa and the other workers enough times to know that.

  I see a man in a smock dip a brush into a can of chestnut-brown paint and begin applying it to one of the white horses. Next to him are several large, open boxes of fake jewels—blues, reds, pinks, purples. So this is where the horses are painted and decorated before being sent out into the world. I could stand here all day, but the stout man comes out again, and this time, he looks at me more closely.

  “You like the painted ponies?” he says, still speaking in Yiddish.

  “Oh no!” I answer in English. I don’t exactly choose English; the words just pop out. “I don’t like them—I love them!”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he says, switching to English too. His accent is like mine. “Want to come inside and get warm?”

  “Yes, please.” I follow him into the workshop.

  “I’m Gus,” he says. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Batya Bright.” The new name doesn’t sound too bad. In fact, I like the way it sounds. Lively. Fun, even.

  The men have stopped for lunch, and food begins emerging from tin pails: hunks of salami, dumplings, pickled herring, rolls, bagels
, and slabs of cheese. My stomach rumbles. I still have two marshmallow twists in my pocket, but they’re for Sarah, and I’m not going to eat them no matter what.

  “Hey, fellas, can’t you see our guest is hungry?” Gus says. Caught!

  “Who’s hungry?” says a man with a gold front tooth and a thick mustache. “We can’t have that!” He pulls off a piece of his bagel and hands it to me. All the other men contribute small portions of their own food, and soon I’m munching happily.

  “So what brings you out here, katzeleh?” asks Gus. Katzeleh. That’s Papa’s nickname for me.

  I shrug. And brace myself for what’s next.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” asks the man with the gold tooth.

  “Watching all of you is better than school!” I say boldly. The men laugh. And to my great relief, they don’t ask again.

  After the eating is done, a girl comes into the room carrying a teapot. “Sophia!” cries Gus. “Come meet our new friend, Batya.”

  Sophia smiles, and I recognize her—the girl in the dotted kerchief. “Would you like some tea?” she asks.

  I see the other men have brought their own glasses or cups. “I have nothing to drink from.”

  “I’ll get you something.” She pours tea for the men and leaves, returning with a cup. “You can use this.” The tea is hot and sweet.

  When the men return to work, I follow Gus into the paint shop. He stops in front of a gray horse. The horse’s mane and tail are mahogany colored, and his saddle is the color of an eggplant, trimmed with gold. Gus applies a coat of clear, shiny varnish all over the head and body. He works quickly and neatly.

  “There.” Gus wipes off the brush with a strong-smelling liquid. “Turpentine,” he explains, noticing my wrinkled nose. He points to the gray horse. “Now he needs to dry, and then he’ll be decorated.”

  “With those?” I gesture to the gem-filled boxes.

  “Yes,” says Gus.

  I sigh and Gus looks at me again.

  “You want to paint, katzeleh?”