Bridge to America, page 6
"It's him all right," said Benyomin. And I had to agree that something about him was unmistakable—the way he carried himself like he was so important, the way he sort of sniffed down his nose at people going by on the road.
All these months, he must've been growing in my head. And now here he was no bigger than any ordinary man. But he looked as mean as ever.
Benyomin and I inched backwards—slowly, so as not to draw attention to ourselves. He was heading right toward our house.
What should I do? Run inside and beg Ma? Please don't give me away. Please.
Or should I run and hide? That's what my whole body was screaming. Run and hide. Run and hide.
But no. Then Ma would be angry with me and have even more reason to give me away.
Why now, though? We'd made it all the way through winter. We'd survived the pogrom. Why had she sent for him now? Was it too hard to feed us all? Was I eating too much? More than my share?
I'd promise to eat less. I'd promise.
A plan was forming in my head. The man mustn't reach our house. He mustn't speak to Ma.
"I'm stopping him," I said and lurched forward.
Benyomin pulled me back. "Are you crazy?"
But I tugged free, my heart nearly busting out of my chest. I had to keep the man away from Ma. I ran so fast that I knocked right into him.
"Uh!" He pinched his mouth together and brushed himself off.
"Excuse me, sir." I stepped back.
He gave a sniff and started walking toward our house again.
I hurried alongside—trying to think of what to say. "I'm Mrs. Myzel's boy," I blurted out. "And Ma says we're doing much better now. She says I don't need to go with you."
He stopped and looked down at me. "Is that so?"
"Yes. I even have these new leather boots. See?" I showed him.
"I see," he said, but his eyes were on my torn pants, not my boots—which still looked new and shiny in my head. But when I really looked, I saw they were scuffed and worn. "Here," he offered me a candy wrapped in shiny paper. Once Beryl had brought me one like that from Vilna. My mouth watered. "Go ahead. Take it." He shook it at me impatiently. "I need to speak to your mother."
"No thank you." I held my hands tightly behind me so they wouldn't do what I didn't want them to. He shrugged, put the candy back into his pocket, and started toward our house again.
"Wait, sir," I called, not knowing what to say, only knowing I must stop him. "I'm not a good boy. Your wife wouldn't want me."
He looked down at me and stroked his nose with his pointer finger. "Is that so?"
"Yes. You should find someone else for her."
"I'll decide that for myself." He sniffed. "Now I need to talk to your mother."
"I won't go with you," I shouted out. "I'm not a good boy." I stood in front of him blocking the way.
"I see!" he spoke sharply. "I see that's quite true. A good boy would not think only of himself. He'd think of his family." He gave me a look that cut right into me. "He'd want to help them if he had the chance."
Oh, I hated him! But what he said was true. Poor Ma. Always worried about food. Now there'd be one less mouth to feed. Now my family would have more to eat.
"I must speak with your mother." He pushed me aside and walked up the path, his face set with those dark frown lines. It sent quivers through me. How could I ever go with such a man? I'd miss Ma something awful. Tears filled my eyes. I'd miss everyone.
By now, he was at our door. He gave a sharp knock. In no time, Ma opened it.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Myzel." His mouth formed a stiff smile—showing all his teeth. "I was just talking to your little boy here. He told me you are doing much better." He lifted both eyebrows in a question. Ma shot a quick look at me and then turned back to the man. I hoped with all my heart she wasn't angry at me for saying that. "But..." the man went on. "It seems that you are still doing rather poorly. And I want to help you. My offer still holds. I will gladly take the boy."
I wanted to throw myself at Ma and beg her, "Please don't make me go. Please." But I forced myself to say, "I'll go, Ma. If you want me to." I nearly choked into tears. But I held them back and worked hard to think about all the extra food they'd have without me.
"He'll have a good home," the man went on. And I desperately hoped he was telling the truth. "He'll have everything that you can't give him—a far better life than this." He threw a disgusted look around our house. "I'm sure you'll agree it's the wisest thing to do."
Ma's face stiffened. "No," she said as clearly as any word I'd ever heard in my life. "My son is right. We don't need your help."
My heart almost stopped beating. I could have melted right into the ground I was so weak with relief.
"Hmph!" He sniffed. "You are a foolish woman."
Ma gave him a hard angry look but kept her mouth closed tight.
The man glared back at her. "Perhaps you will recognize the wisdom of my offer and change your mind before it's too late." He stuck his chin up and sniffed again. "For now, I must be gone. Good day." He strode quickly back to his carriage.
As soon as he was safely away, I ran to Ma and threw my arms around her. "Thank you, Ma!"
She frowned at me. "Don't be foolish, Fivel. That's not worth a thank you. You're my son."
"But what about that paper he gave you?" I drew in a shaky breath. "Are you still keeping it—in case you change your mind?" My voice was thin and quivery, but finally, I'd asked.
"What paper?" Ma shook her head. "He didn't give me any paper. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I know what he means," Kvola spoke up. "Don't you remember, Ma? Last time he was here that man gave you a paper with his name and address. You put it right where it belonged that very same day." She nodded firmly. "Into the fire."
"You did?" I looked up at Ma and rubbed my runny nose with the back of my hand. "So you didn't send for him?"
"Send for him?" Ma gazed at me with a sudden softness in her eyes. "Fivel, did you really think I might give you away?"
"Yes." A sob tore out of me.
"Oh, my Fivel." Ma gently stroked my head. "I'd never do that. It hurts too much. Believe me. I know." She lifted my face and looked straight into my eyes. "I'd rather starve. Do you hear me, Fivel?"
A thin trickle of tears crept down the sides of my nose. "Yes, Ma. I do."
CHAPTER 16
After that, Benyomin and I played with the wheel just like always—nothing different, but for me, everything was different. My whole world was sunnier than it had been for the longest time. Benyomin was still better at the wheel. But I was taking good long turns nowadays, too.
One day, on one of my longer turns, the mail wagon drew into view. I stopped short, not caring at all that the wheel had dropped. "Look, Benyomin! Come on." I pulled his sleeve. "Let's go!" We'd been staying so close together lately, I was sure he'd come.
But he waved me on. "No. You go."
"Please?" I hated leaving him for anything—even this. "Just this once?" He looked as if he might come so I added, "I have such a good feeling today."
But that didn't work how I'd hoped. He frowned. "You always say that. And there's never anything for us. You should know by now. But go ahead with your good feeling. I'll just take my turn." He grabbed the wheel and started running with it.
"Don't go far," I called after him—even though I knew he wouldn't.
Ma was baking bread. Soon it would be out of the oven. Hot and fresh. We both wanted to be there. So no matter what happens at the mail shack, I told myself, with bread in the oven, it's still a good day. And I still have a good feeling.
"See you soon," I shouted and raced off.
My heart galloped the whole way and almost beat me there. By now, the mail wagon was pulling away. As always, tingles swept through me when I walked through the doorway and up to the counter.
"Do you have anything for the Myzels?" I asked.
For once, the man behind the counter took a real look without my even asking. That alone made me grateful. He rummaged around, and then, I could hardly believe my eyes, set a package down in front of me.
I gaped in disbelief. "For the Myzels?"
"That's what it says." He pointed to the writing on the package. "The Myzels. Ragotke Road. Vilkomerski: Poland. Is that your family?"
"Yes." My heart was dancing like crazy.
"Here." He pushed it toward me. "It's from America."
"From America!" What a delicious sound that made in my mouth! "Thank you!" I clutched it to me and hurried out, running through the shtetl in great flying leaps.
Benyomin came racing up. "What? We got a package?
"Yes! And I'm giving it to Ma."
"Just let me see it for a second." He reached for it.
But I held on tight and ran for all I was worth.
I tore into the house shouting, "Look Ma! Look what we got!"
Ma, Hannah, and Kvola rushed over. Benyomin dashed in right behind me. With everyone watching, I proudly handed the package to Ma.
She held it as if it were something holy. I hugged myself. Our house smelled so good with Ma's bread just out of the oven. We watched as she carefully, almost tenderly, removed the brown paper wrapping, then the stiff cardboard, and then more brown paper. We barely breathed as she lifted off the last piece of paper and uncovered a large wooden picture frame. There under the glass, was a black and white photograph. A man with soft, kind eyes.
"Look! It's Pa!" exclaimed Kvola.
Hannah sucked in a breath.
Pa. I gazed, unable to get enough.
"Let me see." Benyomin bent close to the frame.
"He's so handsome!" I looked up eagerly at Ma.
But, strangely, she did not seem happy. She shook her head—not hiding her disappointment.
"A picture?" Her voice took on a harsh edge. "After all this time—a worthless picture! In a wooden frame, no less!" Her face turned hard. "He thinks so much of himself? Uh! Such a waste of money!" Her voice rose. "Why?!" A big blue vein on her neck bulged out. "Why would he do this to us?" Tears welled in her eyes, but she rubbed them angrily away. "Of all things!" Her voice grew hateful. "We're starving!" She screamed at Pa's picture. "Are you meshuggeneh? We can't eat a picture!" she shrieked. I'd never seen her so upset. It was as if all the years of waiting and never hearing, all that was exploding out of her.
"But Ma," I said softly. "Don't you see...?" I tried to explain how it was for me, "Now I know his face. I know my pa." I gently touched his cheek. My handsome pa.
"It's a worthless picture!" Ma screamed. "Worthless!" She snatched it off the table and before any of us could stop her, she strode over to the oven and shoved it into the fire.
"No!" I cried. "You can't do that!" I'd never said such a thing to Ma before. But a big aching piece of me was in there with it. "I need it!" I rushed over and, not even thinking, plunged my hand in and wrenched it out.
The picture was already in flames. I dropped it on the floor. Glass shattered everywhere. Flames curled around the edges of Pa's face. Heart pounding, I stamped them out with my boots.
"I need his picture," I said more firmly than I'd ever said anything to Ma, tears spilling down my face. "I need it." I held my burnt fingers to my mouth and leaned down close, wiping my eyes to see what was left. The edges of the picture were singed and crumbling. But his soft, kind eyes and his handsome face were still there.
And what was this showing from under the singed edges? Something green. With raw, burnt fingers, and pounding heart, I carefully, carefully lifted Pa's picture and set it on the table. And there, showing plainly, as if it had floated straight out of my dreams and onto our hard dirt floor, was money—money from America—more than we'd ever seen.
For a few seconds we stared, stunned. Pa had held all of this in his own hands. He'd hidden it safely—just as I'd always hoped. And now, with trembling fingers, I scooped it up and handed it to Ma, still warm.
Ma's lips quivered. With tears in her eyes, she looked at me with such a mixture of shame and pride. "I can't believe it!" She held the money in both hands and burst into sobs.
But we children believed it. We jumped up and down hugging each other and shouting, "Pa sent money! Pa sent MONEY!"
"Shh!" Ma quickly shoved all of it into her straw mattress. "We mustn't tell anyone. Someone could steal it." Her face stiffened. "We don't know who we can trust."
"Well I know who," I said with certainty. "We can trust Beryl. Always."
Ma's face smoothed with relief. "Ah lebmeh dine kuppaleh." A blessing on your head. She patted my head. "Go right now, Fivel. Tell him I'll come by soon. Maybe he'll know what it's worth. Who knows? Maybe it's enough to get us to—" She stopped, not daring to say it aloud. But nothing could stop me. Already, my heart was singing it over and over. America. America. America.
I headed straight to Beryl's, gulping in great breaths of air.
Halfway there, Lila rushed up to me. "Fivel!" She caught me by the elbow. "Nu? You got a package?"
"Yes—from Pa!" I exclaimed and yanked my arm free. "He sent us a picture of himself!" And I ran off as fast as I could, laughing out loud.
"Beryl!" I shouted as I rushed in the bakery. "Pa sent us money!"
"What? He did?"
"Yes. And I found it! It was hidden inside a wooden picture frame." I jumped up and down. "Ma threw it into the oven. But I grabbed it out just in time."
"Thank goodness!" he exclaimed.
"It's this much." I showed him, holding a thick space between my thumb and pointer finger.
"Ai, yai, yai!" Beryl rocked his head back and forth. "It must be a fortune!"
"Yes," I agreed. "Ma will come soon. She needs to know if it's enough to get us to America. You'll help us, won't you?"
"What a question!" Beryl threw his hands in the air. "I'll do everything I can."
CHAPTER 17
As soon as he could, Beryl went to Vilna to find out about our money. I was waiting on the road when he got back, wanting to be the first to know.
Then I raced home. "Ma!" I exclaimed. "We're going to America!"
Ma clapped her hands over her heart. Tears welled in her eyes. She sat down—as if the news was too much for her. "Oh! What a miracle, America!" She patted her heart to calm it down. "Oh my goodness! I'll send for Rifka right away!" Her face lit up as I'd never seen before.
"Rifka?" I asked.
"Who's Rifka?" asked Benyomin.
"Oh, my goodness." Ma looked suddenly sad. "You don't know, do you?" She turned to me and then to Benyomin and said quietly, "Rifka is your sister."
Our sister? My mouth dropped open.
"We have another sister?" asked Benyomin.
Ma nodded. "You don't remember her, do you?" But she said it more to herself than to us.
"Well I remember her!" Kvola burst out. "I remember everything. They were both too little. But I'll never forget when Grandfather took Rifka away in his wagon. I was so mad. I tried to kick him." She gave a strong kick at the air. "I started to run after the wagon, but you held me back."
Ma nodded. "It took all my strength." She looked sadly from me to Benyomin. "You don't remember Rifka at all?"
"It's no wonder!" Now Hannah spoke up. "You never even let us mention her. I was afraid she was dead. You always hushed us. Always." Hannah, who never raised her voice, had all this spilling out of her. "Why, Ma? Why was it so terrible to even say her name?"
Ma closed her eyes for a second. Then quietly looking down at her hands, she spoke: "It was too hard. You can't imagine. It hurt too much." She shook her head, and pressed some tears away with the corner of her apron. "I was beginning to think I'd never get her back." She turned to me and Benyomin. "When you were very little, your grandparents—Pa's parents—took Rifka to make it easier on me until Pa sent for us." Ma sighed. "I never thought it would take this long. Never." She got a faraway look, as if watching from a long time ago. "I wonder how big she is now." Her voice grew soft and melting. "She was such a little girl back then."
Rifka, I thought to myself. Rifka. So that's what Ma had meant by "one child poorer."
I have another sister, I told myself trying to make it real. Rifka. Another sister. I wonder what she's like.
Suddenly Ma jumped up and clapped her hands to her cheeks. "The money!" she exclaimed. "Heaven forbid anything should happen to it now. We're so close. We must get boat tickets right away! Ai, yai, yai." She rocked her head in her hands. "Boat tickets! How will we get them? Someone must buy them for us. But who? Who can we trust not to run off with our money? Or, heaven forbid, send us to the wrong place? I must speak with Beryl right away."
She hurried out. I ran after her, anxious to hear everything.
"Calm down," Beryl told Ma, as soon as she blurted out her fears. "I know of some people in Vilna. They won't steal your money," he promised. "They'll buy your tickets and arrange everything. Don't worry."
Of course Ma worried. We all did. Even though we trusted Beryl, how could we be sure about these other people? But finally Ma told Beryl, yes, he should give them our money. Then she sent a message to Grandfather telling him to bring Rifka. There was a lot for Ma to worry about getting everything ready. All new problems. Ma called them zisseh tsuris. Sweet problems.
Soon it seemed everyone in the shtetl had heard we were going to America. People started coming to say good-bye and wish us a safe journey. I'd often see Ma and Hannah and Kvola hugging neighbors and friends, all crying together.
"Why are you crying?" I asked Hannah one time.
"It's hard to say good-bye," she told me.
But it wasn't hard for me. We were going to America! I wasn't crying. I could hardly wait. I went to the shoemaker to tell him I'd be wearing his boots to America.
"So, my boots will touch American soil," he said wistfully. "I'm glad they still fit you."
I didn't tell him that, by now, they were so tight my toes curled under and that Ma kept scolding me to stop wearing them.
I planned to arrive in America in my leather boots no matter what—not in some dead soldier's shoes, like Benyomin's. He'd found them after the pogrom. They were so big they kept flopping off his feet. That's not how I wanted to set foot in America. No thank you!
