The Doll Shop Downstairs (3 page)

Saturday is our day of rest. We don't work in the shop or at home. Instead, we put on our best dresses—Mama made these, too—and together we walk to
shul
. While Mama and Papa go upstairs, Sophie, Trudie, and I head downstairs to the children's service that is led by Miss Epstein. She reads from a big book with beautiful color illustrations: Noah and the ark, Jacob and the angel, Rebecca at the well. I like the stories so much that Miss Epstein lets me look at the book by myself when the service is over and the other children are playing.

On the way home, it starts to pour. No one thought to bring an umbrella, so we have to hurry. Even so, we still get soaked. At home, I have to squeeze water out of my stockings and stuff crumpled balls of newspaper in my shoes so they won't lose their shape.

After lunch, I feel bored and restless. Usually we take a walk on Shabbos. I like seeing the streets—usually so noisy, so crowded—quiet and still. Once, I saw a cat with her newborn kittens inside a doorway; another time, I found a broken locket in the shape of a heart glinting up at me from the gray cobblestones. If it had been a normal busy day, I never would have noticed it.

Today, though, is not a day for a walk. The rain hits the windows with a sound like pebbles being tossed, and I can hear the noise of the wind as it blows. This is a day for staying inside. A day for the doll shop. I go and look for my parents. Papa is having a nap. Mama is in her chair, darning socks. I ask her if we can go down to play. Maybe even have a tea party.

“A tea party? For the dolls?” asks Mama. Sophie and I both look at her. Will she agree? “You've all worked so hard this week,” Mama says. “I think you girls could have a little party today.”

So after Mama helps us gather what we will need, we all head down to the doll shop. This time, I don't even try to get ahead of Trudie but just let her go first. She rushes to the box-that-is-a-bed and takes out her doll. Sophie follows her, but I stop to take the cover off Goldie's cage. “Hello, little fellow,” I say to him. Does he understand me? Probably not, but he hops along his perch so happily that I can't help believing he is glad to see us. I take my doll and bring her close to Goldie, so he can see her, too.

Sophie flips the box over and covers it with the pillowcase. “There's the table,” she says, “and the tablecloth.” I have to admit, Sophie can be very clever. She's also pretty, with straight, shiny brown hair that stays neatly braided. Not like mine, which is thick and wild and is always a bit of a mess.

Next we set the table with three old saucers Mama no longer uses. The saucers are chipped, but they have a pretty pattern of grapes around the borders. There are no proper cups, but Mama offers me a thimble for Bernadette Louise, who is the smallest of the dolls. For the other two, she gives us small tin measuring cups. The smallest ones, one-eighth, are just the right size. And maybe they'll help me with fractions, I think, holding one in my hand. I know fractions are coming soon, and I am dreading them.

Mama also gives us a small glass saltcellar. “That can be the centerpiece,” she says. And when she brings the sweetened tea down to pour, she brings a small box of animal crackers, too.

“Look at those!” exclaims Trudie, delighted by the lion-, giraffe-, and hippopotamus-shaped cookies.

Mama puts the cookies on the plates and lets Sophie pour the tea before she goes upstairs. The tea is cold; Mama made it yesterday. We can't light a fire because lighting a fire is considered work, and we are not supposed to work on Shabbos, which lasts from Friday evening to Saturday night. But the tea is good anyway, strong and sweet. The saltcellar shines like crystal on the white tablecloth. “There are no chairs,” says Trudie. It sounds like she might start to cry.

“We'll be the chairs then,” says Sophie quickly.

“What do you mean?” Trudie asks.

“Let's each take our doll and put her on our lap. That way she can eat and drink comfortably.”

“Oh yes!” cries Trudie.

“Do you like tea?” I ask Bernadette Louise. I don't really expect a reply, but it does seem that she has a special, contented look on her face that means, “Yes, I do like tea.”

Sitting here in the shop with my sisters and the dolls, I find myself thinking about what happened when Sophie brought home
her
arithmetic exam with a big red A on the first page. I was so jealous of the fuss Mama and Papa made. You'd think no one in the world had ever gotten an A before. It made my B seem, oh, I don't know—shabby somehow.

But right now, even that disappointment seems to fade. After we finish our tea and cookies, we pretend that my doll, Bernadette Louise, is getting married. Sophie pins the pillowcase around her to make a wedding dress; Angelica Grace and Victoria Marie are the bridesmaids. Later, I offer to stay downstairs and clean up by myself. Sophie and Trudie think I am being nice, but the truth is that I want to be alone so I can tell Bernadette Louise all about my week: the worry about the examination, Trudie's teasing, Sophie's lack of sympathy, my own jealousy because Sophie did better than me. I don't actually talk out loud to her; I don't have to. I pretend she understands what I'm thinking as well as what I'm saying. Sometimes I don't know how or why this comforts me. But it does.

3

H
APPY BIRTHDAY

Spring is birthday season in our family. Trudie's comes first, on April 30. Mine is a few weeks later, on May 15, and Sophie's is just three days after that.

“My pretty spring flowers,” says Mama. “We'll have to think of a birthday treat.” I know that there isn't money for a big party or lots of fancy presents. Still, Mama and Papa always try to make the occasion special. Last year, we brought a picnic to Central Park, all the way uptown. Mama spread a big blanket on the grass, and we had sandwiches, cold tea, and fruit, and for dessert, Papa pulled foil-wrapped chocolate coins from his pocket. This year, Mama says we can do the same thing, but adds something new.

“How would you girls like to visit F.A.O. Schwartz?”

I am not sure what F.A.O. Schwartz is, but before I can ask, Sophie says, “F.A.O. Schwartz? The big toy store on Fifth Avenue?” Sophie, as I've said, knows so many things.

“Yes.” Mama nods. “Our shop has been doing well, so Papa and I thought each of you could pick out a small present.”

“A present! From the toy store!” Trudie begins to sing the words, and adds a little dance. “A pres-ent! A pres-ent!”

“It will have to be a very small one,” Mama says. “We don't have money to buy you each a doll. But something small, maybe something dolls could use, would be all right.”

“You mean like clothes?” I say.

“Yes,” Mama agrees. “That's a good idea. “We'll go to the store first, and then we can walk up to Central Park for our picnic.”

“A pres-ent! A pic-nic!” sings Trudie. She is so excited. And so am I.

On a Monday in late May, there is a school holiday. That's the day Papa chooses for our picnic. He'll close the shop early and we'll leave by noon. Of course it turns out to be the busiest day the store has had in a while. Goldie twitters and chirps madly from all the activity. First a man with bushy whiskers comes into the shop with a broken doll that he holds by the foot. He seems to be in an exceedingly bad mood.

“Children!” he fumes, setting the doll on the counter. “Always breaking something.”

“Dolls are fragile,” Papa says, examining the doll. “But don't worry, we can make her as good as new.”

“When?” asks the man. It seems to me he is rude, but Papa speaks to him politely anyway.

“Next Thursday,” says Papa. As he is writing up the ticket, a lady comes in. She is with a girl, a little younger than me, in a sky-blue linen dress. The girl's eyes are redrimmed, like she's been crying; in her arms she clutches a great big baby doll with a cracked head.

“Do you think you can fix her?” the lady asks Papa when he is finished with the man. The girl stands shyly behind the lady, still clutching the doll.

“May I?” Papa asks the girl. He takes the doll and gently runs his fingers over her head. Then he looks at the girl. “I know I can,” says Papa with a smile. She sniffs a bit, but she manages a small smile back at Papa.

Then two more people—a short man whose white hair is very thick and a lady wearing gold-rimmed spectacles—come into the shop. They are both carrying dolls that need mending. So many dolls that need Papa's and Mama's loving hands. What would they do without them?

Finally, the customers are gone and Papa is able to put a big sign on the door that says CLOSED. Mama has packed a lunch that Papa carries in a big straw basket. We walk to the Second Avenue El and climb the stairs that lead up to the platform. Papa buys us each a ticket, which we then drop into the chute of a big wooden ticket chopper. A man in a uniform and cap works a handle to chop up the tickets. Trudie is a little bit scared of the ticket chopper and doesn't want to go near it. But I reassure her that there is no way the chopper can grab her hand, and she finally is willing to drop her ticket in.

The shiny brown train comes almost right away and when the doors slide open, we step inside. The car is very new and smart looking; the floors are red and the seats are covered with wicker. When the train pulls out of the station, we girls are jolted a little bit and we laugh. “Hold on!” Papa tells us as we each grab a strap. “Hold on tight!”

We ride for about twenty minutes, and when we get off at Thirty-fourth Street, we are in a different world. We have left behind the packed, narrow streets of our neighborhood—Essex, Delancy, Orchard, Ludlow, Hester, and Rivington—that are crammed with shops, horses and wagons, pushcarts, and crowds of people. You can buy almost anything you want on those streets: poppy seeds and pocketknives, socks and soap flakes, buttons and bagels. And there are so many languages you might hear: Yiddish, German, Polish, Romanian, and Russian, sometimes all at once. Our parents are from Russia, so they speak Russian and Yiddish. They only learned English when they came to America, before any of us were born. Sometimes Mama and Papa speak Yiddish when they don't want us to understand what they are saying.

But here we find wide streets, like Fifth Avenue, that are filled with fine shops selling silk parasols, evening gloves, and the most amazing hats I have ever seen. Some are decorated with fake fruits and flowers, or even, in one case, what looks like a real stuffed bird. And the people are so elegant here; they stroll rather than hurry and push the way they do downtown. I don't hear any Yiddish or Russian, only English. At least Mama and Papa know how to speak English, even if they have accents and sometimes forget a word or two and have to go fishing for it in another language. My friends Batya and Esther both have parents who speak only Yiddish.

I glance at Mama, whose clothes are not as expensive and well tailored as most of the other ladies who walk past. But no one else has Mama's perfect posture, or that special way of tilting her head when something she likes catches her eye. I feel proud of her, and even though I think it is sort of babyish, I slip my hand into hers as we walk. Mama smiles down at me.

Soon we come to the toy store at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-first Street. Inside, there are whole counters that contain nothing but dolls: big dolls and small dolls, baby dolls and grown-up lady dolls, dolls that come with a steamer trunk full of clothes or their very own doll-sized furniture.

“That doll has a canopy bed!” says Sophie. “Look at the ruffles on the bedspread.”

“I've never seen so many dolls,” says Trudie.

“They do have a huge selection,” says Papa. And it's true.

Even sophisticated Sophie is impressed. She touches a tall, auburn-haired doll with a crimson gown and pearl tiara. “Maybe this one is a countess,” she says. But Mama gently reminds us that there is probably nothing we can afford here, so we keep on looking. I am awed by the racks of doll dresses and all the accessories that go with them.