The Doll Shop Downstairs (10 page)

Then, at the bottom, I write a little note asking Miss MacKay if she will read my letter to Bernadette Louise. I worry about this part for a while. Maybe she will think I'm being silly. But writing is the first thing that has made me feel better since Bernadette Louise was taken away, so I know I have to do it. I address the envelope, and when Mama sends me to Mr. Bloom's store for parsley, I bring the letter with me. There is a mailbox right across the street, and I watch the envelope—now sealed, addressed, and stamped—slide down the blue metal chute.

Nothing happens after that. I wait—for what, I'm not sure. I don't actually think that Bernadette Louise is going to write me back, do I? Still, I can't shake the feeling that my writing to Bernadette Louise will help.

It's November now. The days get shorter, and it's turning cold. Sophie, Trudie, and I have to wear scarves, knitted hats, and coats when we walk to school. I can see my breath, white and cloudy, in the chilly, morning air. I've grown so much this past year that my old coat doesn't fit. Mama says she will give it to Trudie, and she will make me a new coat. Together, we go to a big fabric store on Orchard Street. Up a long flight of stairs, the store is a great, open room filled with bolts and bolts of fabric, all standing on end with narrow aisles in between the rows. Midnight-blue velvet, black and gold brocade, plaids and checks, silks and wools. Every kind of fabric in the world must be there. I help Mama choose the fabric for my new coat. It's dark brown wool, soft and nubby. I like it because I think it looks very grown-up. We choose black buttons and black braid for the trim. I even sew on some of the trim myself.

Maybe I am getting too old for dolls, I tell myself. Maybe I don't even want a doll anymore. But then I see Sophie playing with Victoria Marie, and I know that I will never, ever, be too old for dolls. I am just writing those very words in my notebook—and underlining them, too—when Mama calls me downstairs. I snap the book closed and tuck it into my pocket. Is there a chore I have forgotten? Or maybe she needs me to get something from Mr. Bloom's store.

When I get downstairs, I wish I could go running back up them again. There is Miss MacKay. In one hand, she holds an embroidered tapestry bag. In the other, she holds a letter.
My
letter—I recognize the handwriting right away. Her cane is nowhere in sight.

“Anna, Miss MacKay came back to see us,” Mama says. I can't tell from her voice whether she thinks this a good thing or not.

“Nice to see you again, Anna,” Miss MacKay says.

“Nice to see you, too,” I mumble. Am I in trouble? I still can't tell.

“I got your letter. I read it to Bernadette Louise, just like you asked.”

“You did?”

“Yes. And do you know what she said?”

“She said something?” My voice is high and squeaky. I know that dolls can't talk. Miss MacKay must know that, too. Is she making fun of me? I feel my cheeks heat up and I steal a glance at Mama. But she is smiling. And when I look back at Miss MacKay, she is smiling, too. Cautiously, I let my breath out. It doesn't look like I'm in trouble.

“Bernadette Louise said she wanted to come back here. And live with you.” Miss MacKay looks in her bag and pulls out a wrapped package and hands it to me. “You open it.”

When I do, I find Bernadette Louise inside.

“You mean you're giving her to me?” I say.

“Yes, I am.”

“Really and truly?” I ask.

“Really and truly,” says Miss MacKay.

“But why?” I say. I still can't believe this is for real.

“Because I think this is the right home for her. I thought so when I first met you. And then when you sent the letter, I was sure.”

“I did miss her,” I confess. “Writing to her seemed to help.”

“Writing often does,” says Miss MacKay, and her gaze drifts off, as if she is thinking of something else. But then she looks at me again. “You know, I've had this doll since I was a child. She belonged to my grandmother.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I was rather rough on her I'm afraid. And then she was misplaced for a while when I moved, and so she ended up in terrible shape. But when she came here, you made her well again.”

“I loved her when she was broken, too. But I thought she would be happier being whole again,” I say.

“I think that's true,” says Miss MacKay. “I've been wanting to give her to another girl—but only a girl who would play with her and love her the way you do. I hadn't found the right one—until now.”

“Thank you,” I say, running my fingers over Bernadette Louise's shiny black hair. “Thank you so much.” Funny how I still feel like crying, only now for a very different reason.

“Yes, thank you so much,” says Mama. There is a noise on the stairs, and then I see Sophie and Trudie come into the shop. They are both holding their dolls and I can see that they can't wait to find out what is happening. “Please let me introduce my other daughters. This is Sophie,” Mama says. “And this is Trudie. Girls, say hello to Miss MacKay.”

“Pleased to meet you,” says Sophie, and then, when Sophie gives her a little nudge, Trudie says the same thing.

“You know, it's so raw out there,” says Mama. “Wouldn't you like to stay and have a cup of tea with us before you go?”

“I would be delighted,” says Miss MacKay, who unbuttons her coat and hands it, along with her hat, to Mama. While Mama chats with Miss MacKay, I quickly tell Trudie and Sophie what has just happened. Sophie gives me a hug while Trudie turns and pulls on the sleeve of Mama's dress.

“Can we have a tea party, Mama?” she asks. “For the dolls, too?”

“I think that's just what we should do,” says Mama as she smiles down at her. We all head upstairs to the kitchen, where I help set the table while Mama brews the tea. The dolls sit at the box that is sometimes a bed and right now a table and enjoy their tea served from the special yellow tea set. Sophie, Trudie, and I tell Miss MacKay all about all the wonderful things that have happened in the doll shop downstairs. And it seems as we talk—our voices mingling, overlapping, yet each eager to be distinct and to be heard—that the most wonderful things are still to come.

 

A
UTHOR'S NOTE

I've always loved dolls. I played with dolls as a child and collected them an adult. Dolls, and the little girls who love them, have been at the heart of many of my books for children. My interest in the topic led me to read about a girl named Bertha Alexander. Bertha's father, a Russian Jewish immigrant, repaired china, porcelain, and bisque. People brought him their chipped plates and cups, cracked teapots, and broken platters to fix. Since at that time, dolls were made of china, porcelain, and bisque, he fixed them, too. He established America's very first doll hospital, on the Lower East Side of New York City. The Alexander family lived in an apartment above the shop; sometimes Bertha and her sisters were allowed to go downstairs and play with the dolls that were waiting for repair. What a treat
that
must have been.

Then the First World War broke out in Europe. America didn't join in right away. But the effects were still felt by many Americans. Trading with Germany became difficult, and then impossible. In 1917, the United States government imposed an embargo on German-made products. This meant that our country would neither buy products from Germany nor sell the Germans any products that were made here. Since Germany was the world leader in doll and toy manufacturing, the doll parts needed by Bertha's father came from Germany. Once the embargo was imposed, the parts were no longer available.

Bertha, who later changed her name to Beatrice, was by this time already a grown woman, with a husband of her own. She was worried about what would happen to her parents and wanted to help them. That's when she came up with the brilliant idea of making her own dolls, dolls that didn't depend on German parts. Setting up shop on her kitchen table, she began experimenting. Thus, a doll-making empire was born. Madame Alexander dolls, with their blue and pink flowered boxes and finely tailored clothes, became known and loved by generations of girls all over the world.

This seemed to me like the perfect idea for a children's story. The characters and the details would be my own, but the setting would be taken from Beatrice's real-life experience. So
The Doll Shop Downstairs
, while fiction, has its roots in a real, historical moment. An immigrant family that made its home on the Lower East Side of New York City, a craft learned in Europe, a bevy of little girls living above a doll repair shop, a terrible war that took so many lives and caused hardship and suffering in so many others—these were the factual elements I used to weave a tale of my own. I hope that it will inspire a new generation of readers to think about those long-ago times in a fresh, sympathetic, and more immediate way.

G
LOSSARY OF TERMS

BISQUE—fine, unglazed porcelain; has a matte, or unshiny, finish

 

BUCKRAM—a stiff fabric of cotton or linen used for linings

 

CHINA—glazed porcelain; has a shiny finish

 

EMBARGO—a legal restriction on buying and selling goods between two countries

 

GLAZE—the finish put on porcelain, often very shiny

 

MUSLIN—a kind of coarse cotton cloth

 

ROSH HASHANAH—Jewish New Year

 

SHUL—Jewish house of worship

 

SKEIN—a loosely coiled length of yarn

 

SUKKOS—Jewish harvest festival

 

YOM KIPPUR—Jewish Day of Atonement; holiest day in the Jewish calendar

T
IMELINE