The Doll Shop Downstairs (9 page)

“There!” I say proudly. “They look just grand!”

“They do,” agrees Sophie.

“But what about the other three dolls?” Trudie asks.

“There are
other
dolls?” asks Mama.

We bring the other three dolls so that Mama can see. Two are baby dolls—I don't know why, but I've never liked baby dolls—and the other is a tiny boy doll, the kind you would use in a dollhouse. Still, they need fixing, so it seems only right that we should fix them. One of the babies has a cracked head, and both are very dirty. It's easy enough to wash them off, and Mama disguises the crack with an old baby bonnet that belonged to Trudie. The other baby doll is missing both legs. Papa doesn't have any more doll legs that fit, but suddenly, I have an idea: using an old square napkin, I wrap the doll up as if she were a real baby wrapped in a blanket. Everyone agrees this is a very good solution. The tiny boy doll is also missing a leg, but because he wears long pants, it's easier to stuff some old cloth into the pants leg to fill it out. He is still without a foot, but Papa fixes that by carving and shaping a small piece of cork and then painting it black, to match the doll's other shoe.

“That's better,” Trudie says, when all those dolls are fixed, too. “But what do we do with them?”

Mama and Papa look at each other. It seems like they haven't thought of that.

“We could keep them here and try to sell them,” Sophie says.

“It might be hard to sell them in this condition,” says Papa.

“Mr. Karnofosky might buy them, though,” I say. Mr. Karnofksy buys and sells old stuff that people are getting rid of. We got our worktables from him.

“Now that's a good plan,” Papa says. “I'm sure he'll give us something for them. Not a lot, but something.” Papa looks at his watch. “He should be by very soon, too.”

When Mr. Karnofsky comes down the street with Bessie and his wagon, tooting his long tin horn, Papa steps outside to flag him down. Mr. Karnofsky stops in front of our building.

“Hey, Breittlemann,” he says to Papa, clapping him on the back. “What have you got for me today?”

“Anna, can you show Mr. Karnofsky what we have?”

I give him the dolls, one at a time. He looks them over very carefully and then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a quarter.

“How's that?” he asks, handing the money to Papa but looking at me.

“That's just fine,” says Papa. They seal the deal with a handshake, and Papa gives Sophie, Trudie, and me a penny a piece for candy.

“A penny! I want to spend it right now!” Trudie says.

“Is that all right, Mama?” Sophie asks. “Can we get some candy now?”

“What if we went to the bakery instead?” I say, before Mama can even answer. “We could buy some fancy cookies and have a doll tea party. We haven't had one in such a long time.”

“A party!” says Trudie, “That's even better than plain old candy. Can we, Mama? Please? Can we?”

“I guess that would be all right,” Mama says.

Papa and Mama have finished working for the day, so Trudie and I go back inside and clean off one of the tables, while Sophie goes around the corner to Zeitlin's Bakery on Grand Street to get the cookies. Then Mama and Trudie go upstairs. Mama has some mending to do before supper, and Trudie is going to get the tea set. I am left alone in the shop, and just as I have finished wiping the counter clean someone walks in. It is an old lady wearing a dark green dress and long, dark gloves. Her hat is dark, too, and adorned with a few faded but soft looking flowers. She moves slowly, one hand resting on a silver-tipped cane.

“Hello, may I help you?” I say. I remember Mr. Greenfield's visit; I'm good with customers.

“Is this Breittlemann's Doll Repair Shop?” the woman asks.

“Yes, but we aren't taking any dolls to fix right now. We do have some new dolls to sell, though.” I pick up one of the fairies to show her. “See?”

“She's charming, but I'm not here to buy a doll. Or to drop one off,” she says. “I'm here to pick up a doll I left some time ago. I had a note from the owner—would that be your father?” I nod, and a very slow, fluttery feeling starts in my stomach. It is not a good flutter, though. “He asked me to pick up my doll. I'm afraid I haven't been well lately, and so I didn't answer his letters. But here I am and I can take her with me today.”

Now, in addition to the fluttery feeling, there is a bad feeling in my chest, like my heart is knocking against my ribs, trying to get out. And my face feels hot, the way it does when I get a fever.

“What kind of a doll is she?” I ask.

“She's a very pretty china thing. Dark hair all wound up around her head. One of her feet is missing though, and her arm is cracked. I have the ticket right here.” She holds out a creased slip of paper. But I don't need the slip of paper to know that the doll she means is Bernadette Louise.

“I'll get her.” I am trembling as I go to get the doll from her box. “Here she is,” I say, handing her to the woman. I am trying not to cry.

“Yes, that's her,” says the woman. “But she's been mended.” The woman looks confused. “In his letter, your father said that he couldn't repair her without the parts he needed.”

“Well, when he didn't hear from you, he thought that ... I mean ... you see—”

“We thought that the doll wasn't going to be claimed, and so we let our Anna keep her.” I turn to see Mama standing there by the stairs. Trudie is right behind her. Mama explains how the others were left behind, and we had just assumed this one was, too.

The woman looks down at the doll and then at us. “Did you wash and press the clothes yourself?” she asks me.

“Yes.”

“And you sewed the lace on her sleeve?” the woman continues.

This time I just nod, because I am afraid if I say anything, tears will pour out, and I do
not
want to be a crybaby.

“I see her broken foot has been replaced, too.”

“The girls found some leftover parts,” explains Mama.

“I didn't mind that her feet don't match. I thought that Bernadette Louise would rather have the foot than not,” I manage to say.

“Bernadette Louise?” asks the woman, clearly puzzled.

“The doll,” I say. “That's what I called her.”

“I see,” says the woman. “I see.” She looks down at the doll and then at me again. “Thank you for taking such good care of her.”

“Would you like me to wrap her?” Mama steps over to the counter and begins looking for the paper and bags. When the woman reaches for her purse, Mama shakes her head.

“This is a kind of makeshift repair,” she says. “We don't expect you to pay for it.”

“But you put so much work into her,” the woman protests. “I insist.” She hands Mama three quarters, and Mama thanks her. Then, taking the wrapped doll, she leaves.

After she goes, I feel Mama's hand on my shoulder. I am going to cry now, I can tell, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I suddenly understand how Trudie must feel. Although she has been crying a lot less lately, I am reminded of how hard it is to control yourself when you really need to cry.

“I'm sorry, Anna,” says Mama in a gentle voice. “I know how much you loved that doll.”

“Uh-huh,” is all I say. The tears are hot on my face, but I don't wipe them away.

“What's wrong?” asks Sophie, who has just come back with a white bakery box of cookies.

I let Mama tell her the story. I don't feel like telling it myself.

“I'll let you play with my doll,” says Sophie when Mama is done. “We can share.”

“Me too,” says Trudie. “We can have the tea party and you can hold Angelica Grace.” This only makes me cry more. I don't want to share, and I don't want to have a tea party. Mama gives my shoulders squeeze.

“We'll find a way to get you another doll,” says Mama. “You wait and see.” She turns to Trudie and adds softly, “Let's have the tea party another day.”

“Too bad we sold those dolls to Mr. Karnofsky,” Sophie says. “Maybe we could return the money and get one of those baby dolls back.”

But I don't want another doll, especially not one of those stupid old baby dolls. I want Bernadette Louise and only Bernadette Louise.

9

T
HE LETTER

In the weeks after Bernadette Louise is taken away, I can't stop thinking about her. Mama has to ask me the same thing three times in row before I hear her. It's just as bad at school. Miss Abbott, who is always so nice, asks me to stay after class and wants to know why I have not been paying attention. Another, stricter teacher might have smacked my knuckles with a ruler, so I mumble something about having a lot to think about now. Then I tell her that I am sorry, and that I will try to do better. I can't even look at her as I say this. Instead, I have to look down at my shoes, which I was supposed to polish but didn't. They have scuff marks all over the toes, and Mama will be cross with me when she sees them.

At home, Trudie and Sophie try not to make too big a fuss about their dolls when I am around, and they are pretty good about sharing them with me. But it's not the same. I don't even want to play with their dolls. I don't really want to play with anything, it seems. Instead, I take out the twenty cents I keep hidden away in a special pouch. The money comes from different places—some of it I found, some I earned, some Papa gave me. I have not wanted to spend it on candy. I've been saving it for something really special. Now I know just what that something is. I walk to the stationer's store on Grand Street where I buy a small, ruled notebook, and I begin writing in it. This makes me feel better, so I keep doing it. I write about Bernadette Louise, school, my family, the woman who came and took my doll away. I write until my pencil point gets dull, and my hand hurts. Then I tuck the little book into the pocket of my dress, where I know it will be safe. Sometimes Sophie or Trudie asks me what I'm writing, but I don't want to say too much about it.

“Just this and that,” I tell them.

Trudie wants to see, but I say no, it's private. I can see her disappointed look, so I tell her that if she saves her money, I will take her to the store to buy her own notebook. She likes that idea so much that she runs into our room and starts counting her pennies right then and there.

It is October. The days are getting cooler, and it gets dark earlier now. The war is still going on in Europe, and I feel sad thinking of all those poor soldiers outside in the cold. Mama's brother Lev went into the army not long ago and has not been heard from since. I've caught Mama crying sometimes, and I know this is why. I write about all of it in my notebook, and when I do, it's as though I have been carrying a heavy stone that I am finally able to set down.

Suddenly I have an idea that is so obvious, I can't believe I didn't think of it before. I will write a letter to Bernadette Louise. True she is only a doll, but that doesn't matter. I remember the notes I used to tuck in the box with her and know that this is the right thing to do.

I wait until my sisters are busy and Mama is in the kitchen cooking supper. I know she keeps paper and envelopes in a drawer in the shop, so I quietly go downstairs to take what I need. I don't think she would mind, but somehow, I don't want ask, either.

The shop looks different now. The shelves are filled with the new dolls Papa and Mama have been making, not the old ones they used to fix. But at least they are filled with something.

Then I have to do a really sneaky thing, something that makes my heart pound. I go to the oak card file where Papa keeps the names and address of his customers. I flip through the cards, just the way he did when he was writing to all those people about coming to pick up their dolls. It's easy to find the one I am looking for. He's very organized. I stare at the name and address of the woman who came and took Bernadette Louise away:

When I take the card out of the box, my hand feels a little shaky. It's not really wrong, I tell myself. But if that's true, why do I feel so nervous? I copy the address into my notebook and put the card away. I also take two penny stamps from Papa's drawer. I make a promise to myself to leave the next two pennies I get in the drawer to repay him. Then I hear Mama calling me to set the table, so I have to hurry back upstairs.

I don't have chance to sit down and write the letter until two days later, but when I do, I know exactly what I want to say. I write it in my notebook first, so I can make any changes I need to make, and then I copy it over onto the sheet of Mama's letter paper, using my very best script. Miss Abbott gave me a gold star for my penmanship, so I can certainly be neat when I want to. This is what I write: