“It’s not good for two women
to be in one kitchen,” she says.
But if only she would invite
my other bubby—
Mom’s mother—into her kitchen,
maybe she could learn a thing or two
about cooking!
Keeping Kosher, Maryland-Style
Most of the kids are Catholic
who live on our street,
so they don’t worry much
about what they eat.
But we aren’t allowed
to mix milk with our meat,
or eat bacon, shrimp, crab,
or pickled pigs’ feet.
And we use separate dishes
for milk foods and meat
and paper plates for crab cakes
(’cause sometimes we cheat).
Trying to Be Polite at Eunice’s House
Eunice and I mostly go
to my house after school
because she thinks it’s more fun
than a circus.
But today we go to Eunice’s
for a change
(which I like because it’s nice and quiet).
She asks if I’m hungry,
and of course, I say yes
because I love to eat
(maybe too much).
She offers me kielbasa,
a Polish treat,
and I say, “No thanks,”
even though my stomach
is growling for it.
“How about a ham and cheese?” she says,
lifting her eyebrows.
“No, thank you,” I say,
and worry she’ll think
I’m the pickiest eater
in all of Baltimore.
“Don’t like ham and cheese either?”
she asks,
with her hands planted on her hips.
“Nope,” I say,
willing my stomach to hush up.
“What do you like?” she asks.
“Everything else,” I say,
and I don’t try to explain
why I can’t eat pig,
because I came over to Eunice’s house
to play.
I don’t want my Jewish eating rules
to get in the way.
My Dumb Neighbor
Peggy Schmidt,
this new girl in the neighborhood,
is coming over to play
for the very first time.
I open the front door
and find her staring up
at our doorjamb.
“What’s that thing?” she points.
“It’s a mezuzah—
a Jewish thing,” I tell her.
Then we go down to the cellar
to cut out paper doll clothes
and she’s looking at me
with eyes wider than bicycle tires.
She comes right up to me
and starts poking her fingers
through the black curls
on the top of my head.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m looking for your horns,” she says.
I’m not usually a shouter,
but I’m sure you could hear my voice
in the next county
yelling, “WHAT?”
Mom told me
that there are dumb people who think
that Jews have horns.
Only I never thought
I’d meet one
in my own house.
After School
Jimmy Lenchowski chases me
like an angry storm
and calls me “Jew bagel”
and screams at me
about how I killed Jesus Christ.
When he comes after me,
my stomach starts jumping rope
and I run like a rabbit
to escape his attack,
run all the way home
and never look back.
Maybe I Should Be More Like Marian
Say what I feel,
do what I want,
act on a dare.
Maybe I should be more like Marian.
Go where I want,
never be scared.
The Memory Dance
Bubby Etta comes to visit
and I ask her to tell us a
how-it-was-in-the-old-country story.
First she closes her eyes,
to see the past better, I guess.
Then her body starts to sway
like she’s doing a memory dance
and the words,
in her old-country accent,
come
tumbling
out.
"In Russia I was a midwife.
One night a man knocked on my door.
‘The baby’s coming; the baby’s coming' he yelled.
"I rushed to his house with him.
It vas outside of our village,
where no Jews were allowed.
"I brought out the baby from the mother
and then I brought another baby from the mother
and then I brought the third baby from the mother.
"The man was so shocked
he fainted.
"I brought thousands of babies into this world
and never lost even one.
"They trusted me
with their babies,
but they called my people
zhyd.
"They trusted me
with their babies,
but they wouldn’t let the Jews
study at university
or vote
or learn Russian in school
or live where we wanted.
"They took us from our homes
in the middle of the night
and marched us through the streets,
and sometimes they beat us...
"but they trusted me
with their babies"
Bubby stops swaying,
opens her eyes,
wipes the wetness from her cheeks,
and says,
"Here in America, I can bring babies into this world
and I can live where I want
and I am not afraid
to be who I am."
Even in America
Today after school,
when Jimmy Lenchowski
starts yelling
about how I killed Jesus Christ,
I think about the story
Bubby told me yesterday
and how in America
she doesn’t have to be afraid
to be who she is.
Well, neither do I.
So for the first time
I yell right back at Jimmy,
“I couldn’t have killed Jesus,
because I wasn’t even born then,
but my brothers are going to kill you
if you don’t leave me alone!
And believe me,
I have a lot of them.”
Jimmy’s eyebrows shoot up
and he stands there
looking like he just got punched.
Then he turns and runs
as if my brothers are at his heels.
And after that,
I’m not one bit scared
of Jimmy Lenchowski
anymore.
Maybe I’m Not Cut Out to Be the Good Little Mother
There’s always someone in this family
who needs something from me,
always someone pestering me.
I’m just trying to do my homework
at the kitchen table
when Annette asks me to cut a kaiser roll
for her.
Eager to get back to my homework,
I snatch the knife
and slice more than the kaiser roll.
Suddenly blood’s gushing out
of my finger
and a piece of it’s dan
gling
like a yo-yo on a string.
Annette’s pointing at it,
screaming, “Blood!”
like my head’s been chopped off.
Then she runs for Raymond,
who rushes me to the corner druggist.
The druggist wraps my finger
tightly in cotton
and holds it
till the blood stops spurting.
I think I’ll stay
far away from kaiser rolls
for a while
(and maybe little sisters
who need me to do things for them, too),
at least until my finger
stops hurting.
Raymond Gets into Trouble
A postcard comes home
from Hebrew school.
“Raymond Paul absent for a week,” it says.
“Where were you?” Dad asks him.
Raymond tells him the truth.
“I was watching the serials
at the Roxy Theatre.”
“I’ll fix you, Raymond,” Dad says.
Then he tells me to go upstairs
and get my brightest dress.
I come down with the rainbow one.
Dad makes him put it on
and go outside
when it’s time for his buddies to gather
in the back alley.
That fixes Raymond, all right.
He decides he looks much better
in Hebrew school
than in my rainbow dress.
Not Everything Can Be Mended
I’m squished in bed
between Marian and Annette,
thinking about Ray
and how his friends were all snickering
when they saw him
and how I wouldn’t want to be Ray.
And even though it’s really late,
I just can’t sleep,
so I go downstairs.
Mom’s sitting in the overstuffed armchair,
staring right through the picture
on the wall
of her father in Russia.
She has a threaded needle in one hand,
a button in the other,
and a crumpled shirt on her lap.
A pile of clothes lies next to her,
waiting to be mended.
And I don’t know why,
but she starts telling me
this story that I never heard before
about Bubby Etta,
about how she divorced Mom’s father
and married Jacob,
about how she put Mom in a baby basket
and left her on Mom’s father’s doorstep
in Russia,
while Bubby Etta sailed for America
with her new husband, Jacob,
and promised to send for Mom
as soon as she had the money for a ticket,
but it took thirteen years
before Bubby sent the ticket.
That’s when I make up my mind
to stop talking to Bubby Etta
for at least
thirteen years.
Staying Mad
After school the next day
I’m on my way past
Bubby Etta’s house
on Baltimore Street.
I think I smell her chicken schmaltz soup
with pieces of challah floating in it
that she makes special for me
when I stop by,
or maybe she’s baking her pirogen
with raisins and nuts,
soaked in so much honey
that when I take a bite,
it drizzles down my chin.
She’s probably wearing her housedress
that looks like a flower garden,
and if I went inside,
I bet she’d wrap me in her hugging arms
the minute she saw me.
I’d stay in those arms
for a while,
since it’s hard to get hugs in my house.
Then she’d want to know all about
what I’ve been doing,
and she’d listen hard,
like I was the only grandchild she had.
I’d talk for a while
because good listeners
are hard to find in my house.
But I won’t stop in
on Baltimore Street
today.
No.
Today
I’ll walk right by.
A Bad Sign
When I finally get home,
my head still filled with thoughts
of all I’m missing at Bubby’s,
I see a sign posted in front
of our row house—
AUCTION.
I go inside to ask Mom what it means,
and she tells me
that our house will be sold
because Dad loaned some money
to Bubby Etta’s husband, Jacob,
and he couldn’t pay Dad back.
“How can we lose our house
just because Zayde Jacob
couldn’t pay Dad back?”
I ask.
Now I’m even madder
at Bubby Etta.
First she leaves Mom in Russia
and now her husband
leaves us without a house.
My insides feel like I swallowed
a whole bucketful of needles,
and I try not to cry.
“Where will we live?” I ask Mom.
But I don’t get any answers.
That Night
Dad writes a letter
to President Roosevelt,
asking for his help.
And I start picturing all of us kids
being sent to an orphanage
or sleeping in the diner.
So I go inside and start praying
as hard as I can
that we’ll get to keep our house.
I never prayed for anything before,
but this sure is worth praying
my heart out for.
Somebody Listened
It’s only been ten days
since Dad sent the letter
and I prayed my heart out,
so I don’t know
who answered our prayers first,
God or the president,
but when I get home from school today,
the auction sign is gone
and the house I’ve lived in
my whole entire life
is still ours.
I feel tons lighter
and want to hug and kiss somebody,
maybe even President Roosevelt,
who has become my family’s
hero.
An Explanation, Sort Of
When Mom gets home from work,
before she starts cooking dinner,
she takes me aside.
“Bubby Etta tells me
you haven’t stopped by
to see her lately,” she says.
“I don’t want to see her,” I say.
“She left you in Russia,
and Zayde Jacob almost
left us without a house.”
“Edith, you must stop
being mad at Bubby Etta,” she says.
“But how could she leave you behind?”
I ask,
getting mad all over again.
“I was a baby, too little to travel.
Many making that journey
died on the way,” she says.
“Bubby did the best
that she could.”
“Would you ever leave me behind?”
I ask Mom.
“I would never
leave any of my children
behind,” she says.
And I believe her.
Disappearing Act
Today I take the long way home
so I won’t have to pass
by Bubby Etta
’s house
since I’m still not
ready to forgive her.
When I get home,
Melvin runs to greet me,
his eyes as wide as potato latkes.
He grabs my arm with his sticky hands.
“Come ’ere!” he yells
as he pulls me toward the parlor.
“What is it, Melvin?” I ask.
Then I hear a tiny voice cry out,
“We’re here inside!”
“Where?” I call back.
“In dere,” Melvin says,
pointing to the folded-up bed,
and all I see sticking out...
is Jackie’s puny head.
They’re Lucky I Found Them
Lenny, Sol, and Jack
said Mom left them sleeping