The Cats in the Doll Shop (5 page)

“I hope she'll like dolls,” I say. “Do you think she will?”

“Doesn't everyone like dolls?” Trudie says. She reaches down to touch her own doll, which is in a box on the floor just beside the bed. Even though Sophie and I have asked her a hundred times not to do this, she insists on keeping the box right there, where we are apt to stumble on it.

“We can show her the doll shop,” I say. “I'll bet she'll love it.” I feel a pang when I remember that I had wanted to make Tania a doll but never got around to it. And the ideas I had before—the Russian princess, the Spanish dancer—somehow seem wrong to me now.

The next day drags by. I keep looking at the big clock that hangs on the front wall of my classroom. It seems to me that the slender black hands do not move at all but are frozen in place. History, geography, arithmetic . . . Will the lessons ever end? Our teacher, Miss Marsh, is not even here today. She is out sick, and we have a substitute. She is very young and giggles nervously when she has to give us instructions. I feel sorry for her.

Finally it is three o'clock, and as soon as we are dismissed, I race down the stairs in search of my sisters. We agreed that we would walk home as a group and greet Tania together. We don't stop to look at anything along the way, and even though today I have my allowance money in my pocket, I am not tempted for a second to stop for a root beer or penny candy.

But when we all clatter into the shop, we see Mama bent over her sewing machine and Papa at his desk, just like it's a normal day. There is no sign of Tania, no sign that today is different from yesterday or the day before.

“Where is she?” pants Trudie, dropping her satchel.

“She's still on Ellis Island,” Mama says, turning to face us. “Papa went but he couldn't get her today.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“There were so many people,” Mama says. “Everything took much longer then we expected. But Papa will get her tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I say. I was so sure she' d be here by now.

“What's Ellis Island?” Trudie asks. “Is that where the lady with the torch stands?” Mama has told us about seeing the tall statue, Lady Liberty, from the boat.

“No, silly!” says Sophie. “The statue is on a different island. When you get to America, you have to pass through Ellis Island first.”

“Did you have to go through Ellis Island, Mama?” Trudie wants to know.

Mama repositions the fabric under the needle of the sewing machine. “I did, and so did Papa, and so does almost everyone else who lands here.”

“What do they do there?” asks Trudie.

“They ask a lot of questions. There are some forms to fill out. A doctor examines you to make sure you don't have a contagious disease.”

“What if you do?' Trudie wants to know. “Have a contagious disease, I mean.”

“Sometimes the officials won't let you in,” Mama says.

“What if that happens to Tania?” I ask. It would be terrible if after coming all that way she were not allowed into the country.

“It won't,” Mama says firmly. But somehow, the way she says it makes me think she is trying to convince herself as much as she is trying to reassure me.

“Mama, is Tania all alone on Ellis Island?” Trudie asks. Her voice sounds a little frightened, which is just how I feel.

“No,” Mama says. “She's not. Aunt Rivka's friend is with her.”

Trudie sighs and clomps upstairs. I follow her. A whole night and day to wait. It seems like Tania will never, ever get here.

Our room has been scoured in anticipation of Tania's arrival—furniture dusted and shined, floor mopped and waxed, curtains pressed and starched. And the new beds are here! Last week, Papa went uptown, to a furniture store on Fourteenth Street, and ordered two white, enameled iron bunk beds. This morning, just before we left for school, a scarlet truck with gold lettering on the side drove up to our building. All of our neighbors gathered round or poked their heads out of their windows to watch the deliverymen bring the new beds upstairs.

There are new mattresses on each bed, springy and firm, and new pillows, too. We still have our old blankets, but Mama sewed each of us a new coverlet to spread over the blanket during the day. Mine is red-and-white checks, Sophie's is gray-and-white checks and Trudie's is pink-and-white checks. But Mama ran out of checked material, so Tania's is just a pure, deep blue, the color I imagine her eyes will be.

I stretch out on the top bunk of my new bed, ready to settle in with my library book—it's about unicorns—when all of a sudden, a loud, rumbling sound erupts from my stomach.

“What was
that
?” Sophie says.

“I guess I'm a little hungry.” I say.

“I guess so!” Sophie says.

At lunch today, I was so excited telling my friends Esther and Batya about Tania's arrival that I barely even touched my lunch. By the time I got around to eating it, the bell had rung and I had to scoot back to class. So now, starved, I climb down from my new bed and head to the kitchen. Dinner won't be ready for a while, so I fix myself a snack of bread and butter sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and pour a glass of milk. Sitting down at the table, I stub my toe on Trudie's satchel, so I lug it out of the way. It's so heavy. What does she keep in there anyway—lead weights?

I take a big bite of the bread. Just then I get an idea—it's a
brilliant
idea, too—about what kind of doll I will make. Gobbling my bread quickly, I rub my sugar-coated lips with the back of my hand. Good thing Mama is not here. She would scold me for not using a napkin. But I am in a hurry.

Still, I stop to cut off a teensy-tinsy slice of cheese for Ginger Cat. I am only supposed to use scraps, but I don't see any right now, and I want to leave something in her dish. Then I run downstairs, leave the cheese in the box outside, and step into the doll shop.

I find Mama bent over her machine, sewing a batch of doll clothes. Kathleen is attaching the caps to the heads of some Nurse Nora dolls. Her husband Michael is piling some boxes on a shelf, and Papa is at his desk, going over some figures on a pad. He's wearing his glasses and a small frown. Figures always make him a little cross. I know just how he feels—figures and arithmetic make me cross, too. “Did you need something?” Mama looks up from her sewing machine.

“I want to make a doll,” I tell her.

“A doll?” she asks. “You mean one of our dolls—Nora or the fairy?”

“No,” I say looking down. I had wanted this to be a surprise. But that's not possible. “I want to make a doll for Tania. As a present. She might not have a doll, you know.”

“Why Anna, that's such a thoughtful idea,” Mama says, smiling. “What sort of doll did you have in mind?”

“It's a secret. Do I have to tell?”

“Of course not,” Mama says. “Just let us know if you need anything.” She goes back to her sewing. I stand there for a minute, looking around for materials, parts, and supplies. I can use one of the bodies from Nurse Nora, and one of the faces, too. I just need some yarn for the hair . . . now where could it be? Didn't Papa used to keep all the yarn right on the shelf over there?

“Lookin' for something, darlin'?” says Kathleen. I turn. Kathleen has bright red hair and a whole face full of freckles. Her big, friendly eyes are round and amber. She and her husband Michael came over from Ireland. Sometimes, she tells me stories about her cottage back in an Irish village, and about the hard times long ago when the potato crops failed and people didn't have enough to eat. Like my parents and Tania, Kathleen and Michael made “the crossing.” And like Tania, they spent time on Ellis Island.

“Is there a spare doll body and head I could use? And I need some yarn, too,” I say.

“I think I can help with that,” Kathleen says. I love listening to her. Her lilting accent makes everything sound like a song. She climbs on a stepladder and brings down a box of yarn. So that's where it's kept. Yellow, brown, black . . . But I choose a rich orangey-red, a color that's like Kathleen's hair. Then she pulls out a box of fabric scraps and another of odds and ends left over from the doll hospital days. “Can you use what's in here?” she asks.

“Yes. This is perfect.” I peer into the box. “Thank you so much!” Kathleen goes back to attaching the dolls' caps. Michael finishes stacking the boxes and brings one of them to the door. He has black hair that stands up from his head like fur, and a beard covering his wide, jolly face.

“I'm steppin' out to deliver this now, Mr. Breittlemann,” he says to Papa. Papa nods briefly and looks back down at the figures. Michael gives me a wink before hoisting the box in his strong arms and heading off.

I find a little open space on one of the tables and lay out my materials. I am going to make a schoolgirl doll. She won't be a fantasy or a fiction. She'll be a regular girl just like me. Or Tania.

Since I helped design and make the very first Nurse Nora, I have some idea about where to begin. I start by securing the orange wool to the doll's scalp, using glue and adding a few stitches, just to be sure it will stay put. Then I plait the yarn into two neat braids and tie the ends with snippets of black ribbon. I cut out the pieces for a simple costume: gray flannel jumper and white blouse. When I have sewn the pieces together by hand, I slip them on the doll and tie a bit of black velvet ribbon at the neck. That looks pretty.

“How are you farin'?” Kathleen asks. I look up to see her standing in front of me. She's wearing her jacket and her hat.

“Are you going home?” I ask.

“It's five thirty,” she says, glancing at the clock on the wall.

“I'm going to keep working,” I tell her. I got so involved with making the doll that I lost track of the time.

“Good luck with your dolly,” she says, and heads out the door.

“It's almost time for dinner,” Mama says from where she sits by the machine.

“Just a little while longer,” I plead.

“All right,” Mama says. “But come up as soon as I call you.” Mama turns off the machine, and Papa puts aside his figures. They go upstairs, and I am alone in the shop, except for Goldie, our pet canary. Canaries are the only pets Papa will allow. He says customers like their singing. We've had Goldie for years, but recently, Papa brought home a lady friend for him. Her name is Zahava, which means “Goldie” in Hebrew. My sisters and I think this is so funny: Mr. Goldie and Mrs. Goldie.

I look in the box Kathleen gave me. Inside I find a few leftover things from back when our shop was for repairing dolls, not making them—a pair of ribbed, white socks, and a pair of shiny, black shoes. The socks are just right, but the shoes are a bit too big. I stuff the toes with crumpled bits of paper. Now they fit fine.

I hold the doll up and away from me so I can inspect her. The braids are good, and so is the outfit. But it seems to me she needs something more, something that will make it clear that she is a schoolgirl and not just any girl. At once, it hits me. A satchel. The doll should have a satchel, like the ones my sisters and I lug back and forth to and from school every day. A satchel carries books, of course. But it also carries a snack, a note from a friend, a test with a bright red A on top. Satchels carry a sweater, mittens, a forgotten lemon drop you are so happy to find. I wrapped Bernadette Louise in a towel and brought her to school in my satchel. Trudie's satchel is always filled to bursting. I remember how heavy it was when I stubbed my toe on it earlier today. The more I think about it, the more important the satchel seems. This doll
needs
a satchel. And it is up to me to make it.

“Anna! Dinner!” calls Mama. Dinner
now
? I just got the very best idea I have had all day.

“Coming,” I call. I set the doll on the table. “I'll be back,” I whisper. If I can talk to my own doll, I can talk to this one, too.

I bound up the stairs, shove my hands under the faucet, and sit down at the table. Mama is serving vegetable
kugel
, which is a noodle pudding, and patties that she made from leftover chicken. It's a meal I usually love, but tonight, I bolt the food down and beg to be allowed to return to my work downstairs.

“What are you doing anyway?” Sophie asks. “I haven't seen you all afternoon.”

“It's a surprise,” I tell her. “You'll see when it's done.” I turn to my mother. “Please can I go back down, Mama? Just for a little while?”

“Are your lessons finished?” Papa asks.

“We don't have any!” I say happily. “Miss Marsh was out sick today and there was a substitute teacher. She didn't give us any work to take home.”