The Woodcarver's Daughter Read online

  “No, to carve!” I blurt out. “I want to carve the horses, the tigers, the rabbits—anything, I don’t care! But really, the horses most of all.”

  “Carve?” says Gus. “Hmm. We do take on apprentices. But they’re always boys.”

  “Boys, boys, boys!” I say. My cheeks feel hot, and I know they’re turning pink. In a minute, I might actually start to cry. “That’s all I hear! Boys carve. Girls don’t. Why not? My papa is a carver, and I want to be one too!”

  I’m worried I’ve said too much. Gus will be angry, and he’ll ask me to leave.

  “Your father is a carver? Where does he work?” Gus doesn’t sound angry. Only curious.

  “Well, he was a woodcarver. In Russia. But there was a pogrom in our village. The shop burned down. We had to leave.”

  “Didn’t we all?” Gus’s voice is sad.

  “Now he works in a grocery store,” I say.

  “Why don’t you tell him about us, katzeleh? The bosses are always looking for good carvers.”

  “All right,” I say. But I know I won’t tell. If I do, I’ll have to explain about skipping school, the subway rides, and the hidden letter.

  Gus walks me to the door. “Come back and see us,” he says. “Bring your papa too.” I nod and smile, but guilt makes my stomach tighten. How I wish I could bring Papa here! He misses being a woodcarver. Not that he ever says as much; even when I asked him, he said, “We do what we have to do, Batya.” But I could see the sadness in the set, straight line of his mouth.

  The subway train comes almost immediately. When I reach my stop, I head up the stairs. The last light is fading, and the wind feels even sharper. I bury my chilled hands in my pockets. The marshmallow twists are still there. But wait, what’s this? I pull out something pink and sparkling: a teardrop jewel. It’s one of the fake jewels from the shop. Gus must have slipped it inside when I wasn’t looking. I stare, wishing it would offer solutions to my problems. But the trinket just glitters in my palm, and after a moment, I tuck it carefully back in my pocket.

  Chapter 8

  Silence

  Of course I know I shouldn’t go back to the carousel shop. There are so many reasons: I’ll get caught, my parents will be angry, and my teacher will be angry. Still, whenever I manage to get hold of a few nickels’ worth of coins, I hop on the train, and off I go.

  Lately, the shop has been busy, gearing up for the summer season. Gus and all my other new friends are making horses not only for the carousel in Coney Island but for carousels all over the country. I hear the men name their destinations: Saint Louis, Missouri. Cleveland, Ohio. New Orleans, Louisiana. Saint Paul, Minnesota. Towns in Virginia, Georgia, and even California. Some horses will be used on brand-new carousels. Others will replace horses on existing carousels. Even the most well-carved wood warps and cracks over time, so new horses are always needed somewhere.

  Even though I’m not allowed to carve, the men are still grateful for my help. Gus shows me how to prepare the glue. It comes in large, dark squares that look like soap. He teaches me to put a square in the pot and then, when it begins softening, to stir until it starts to boil. Only when it’s boiling is it hot enough to use. But it’s also dangerous; one day a dot of glue burns my wrist, and although the burn is small, it hurts all day long.

  I also sweep the floors and hand the men rags or brushes. And Gus shows me where and how to attach the jewels to the bridles and saddles. I love everything I’m learning, but my fingers itch to carve. Still, I know I ought to be grateful for what I’m allowed to do.

  Soon I get to know all the other men in the shop: Vanya and Karl, Fritz and Giuseppe, Marco and Sasha. All these men are immigrants too. They come from Russia, Poland, Germany, and Italy. And I get to know Sophia, who’s Vanya’s niece.

  “Do you want to be a woodcarver?” I ask.

  “Heavens, no!” she says. “I want to be a nurse or a teacher. But you have to go to school for those jobs.” Sophia is fourteen and doesn’t go to school anymore. “You’re in school, right?” she asks. I nod. “But you come here instead?” I can tell she finds that puzzling.

  “I don’t like school,” I tell her.

  “I would love to go to school,” she says wistfully. Too bad she and I can’t trade places. Then we’d both be happier.

  Sophia tells me it was hard for her to learn English. “Once, I thought pig meant dog. I kept calling ‘Here, piggy, piggy,’ to a dog I wanted to pet. Everyone laughed at me. Or I’d get lost on the subway or bus because I couldn’t ask for directions or follow the signs.”

  I wish I had met her when we first arrived here and I felt so embarrassed to be struggling with the language. It would’ve been reassuring to know that I wasn’t the only one who had trouble.

  I feel at home at the shop. The men share their stories and their food, and they’re always giving me little things: jewels, feathers, bits of ribbon and leather. I save all of these scraps for Sarah, though I can’t give them to her until I can think of a way to explain how I got them. The only men I don’t meet are Mr. Mittendorf and Mr. Grau. Gus doesn’t think they would like having a girl around the shop, so whenever they come by, I swiftly slip out or hide.

  In February, I begin to notice a change in the light. Dusk comes later now, and the five o’clock sky still shows a bit of pale winter sun. And soon enough, spring arrives. How glorious it is! I use two precious nickels to take a ride back to Central Park, where the trees are now covered in delicate green buds. I see a patch of crocuses, some lilies of the valley, and a whole hedge of brilliant, yellow-branched forsythia. And then there are the birds. No chickens, of course. No owls. But scrappy gray and brown sparrows, chattering madly on the sidewalks, and pigeons.

  But just as the world seems to be coming to life, Mama gets sick. She can’t go to her factory job and can’t do any sewing. There are no more tips without Mama’s sewing. Even though her head aches and she is coughing, Mama tries to get up, but Papa says no.

  “You go back to bed,” he says. “The girls will help.” Gittel makes soup and bakes bread. I clean and take care of Sarah. Poor Sarah. She grows angrier and angrier in her silent world. She cries for no reason and flings the owl I made across the room. It doesn’t break, but there is now a dent on the beak where it was smooth before. She rubs her finger over the damaged spot, tears running down her cheeks. “I’ll fix it,” I tell her, even though I know she can’t hear me. “I’ll make it as good as new.”

  So it’s a huge relief when Mama feels well enough to get back to her job and her sewing. Lots of work has piled up, and I’m busy once more, trotting all over the neighborhood making deliveries. When I have four nickels’ worth of tips, I decide to celebrate: two nickels for subway fare, and two nickels for candy.

  I spend a long time at Mrs. Gottbaum’s store on Orchard Street and come home with glittering crystals of rock candy, licorice whips, coconut creams, wintergreen mints, and an orange lollipop, fat and round as a harvest moon. “Here,” I say to Sarah. “For you.”

  But Sarah just looks at it before handing it back. She doesn’t even seem angry anymore. She seems defeated, which I feel is much worse. I kiss her on the forehead and tuck the lollipop in my apron pocket for later.

  * * *

  Armed with my nickels and my candy, I set out the next day. When I get off at the Coney Island subway station, I can see gulls wheeling in the sky, squawking as they hunt for food. At the carousel shop, Gus greets me like an old friend.

  “We missed you. Sophia too—she’s been asking about you.”

  The shop is busier than usual. Sophia tells me that there are big orders from far-off cities, and the men have to rush to fill them in time. They carve, they glue, they sand, and they paint. The air is filled with sawdust, and the sound of the tools creates a sweet music. There’s a lot for me to do too. At the end of the day, I’m tired but happy. I race to the train, aware that I’ve stayed later than usual. Well, Mama and Papa are so busy that it’s unlikely they’ll notice. And even
if they do, I suppose I can make up some reason why I was delayed. The thought of lying—again—gives me a pang, but what else can I do? If I tell, I’ll never be allowed to return to the shop.

  I climb the stairs two at a time, hoping that Mama isn’t home yet. But when I open the door, I have a shock. Not only are both Mama and Papa at home, but they’re sitting at the table with Miss Flannery.

  “Hello, Batya,” says Miss Flannery. “It’s good to see you.”

  “H-h-hello,” I stammer.

  “Batya, Miss Flannery say you no go to school. True, this?” Mama’s English has improved, but her words sometimes still come out in the wrong order.

  “Well . . .” I’m more ashamed than I would have thought possible.

  “We sent letters home . . .” continues Miss Flannery.

  “Letters?” asks Papa.

  I just look at the worn floorboards, wishing I could disappear beneath them.

  “Batya?” Miss Flannery prompts.

  “I have the letters,” I say miserably. “I’ll get them.” I fetch the tin and hand the letters to my mother.

  “Let me,” Miss Flannery says. She opens the letters and reads them aloud. There’s a long silence when she has finished.

  “Miss Flannery,” Papa says at last. “Our Batya, she good girl. We must let her say what happen.”

  “Yes,” agrees Mama. “Batya must say.”

  “Well, I, uh, you see, at first, it was just because of the woodshop. I wanted to go so much, but they wouldn’t let me, and—”

  Suddenly there’s a loud crash, followed by the sound of wailing. Mama jumps up, and Papa follows. Miss Flannery and I remain at the table. But I can’t look at her, and so I look down at my scuffed black shoes with their peeling leather and cracked toes.

  When Mama and Papa reappear, Mama is leading Sarah by the hand. Sarah hangs back, her face red and tear-streaked. She must have had another fit of temper.

  “I sorry,” Mama says. “This Sarah. I can no help. Get so angry.”

  “Hello Sarah,” Miss Flannery says gently. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “She not hear you,” Papa says tapping his ear for emphasis. “No work.”

  “You mean she’s deaf?” Miss Flannery asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “She got a fever on the boat. She hasn’t been able to hear since then.”

  “I see,” says Miss Flannery. “I want to know more about that. Much more. But first, I want to hear what you have to say, Batya. About why you’ve been missing school.”

  So I go back to my story, shy at first. But soon it all comes tumbling out—my frustration about not being allowed to work with wood and my discovery of the carousel shop.

  “Batya was wrong to lie,” says Papa sternly. This is the worst part of all—disappointing Papa. But his next words are an utter surprise. “The carving. How bad our Batya need to carve.” He pauses, thinking. “Batya, show teacher.” I must look puzzled so he switches to Yiddish. “Get the animals you made. I want her to see them.”

  I leave the room and return with all the animals I’ve carved: the owl with his dented beak, the fish, the kitten, the rabbit, the bear . . . and I add one more, taken from my pocket. It’s the head of a horse, carved from the bit of wood I found at school. I wished I could have carved an entire horse, but the piece of wood wasn’t big enough. I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever done.

  Miss Flannery looks at the animals, running her fingertips over their carved surfaces, inspecting the smallest details. “These are wonderful. Simply wonderful,” she says.

  I smile. Whatever else happens, at least Miss Flannery understands. Papa smiles too. Even though I was wrong to lie, he’s still proud of me.

  “I’d like to show these to the woodshop teacher,” Miss Flannery says. “And the principal. When they see them, I know that they’ll make an exception and let you take woodshop. You have my word.”

  Woodshop at school! Can it be?

  “There’s one more thing, though,” says Miss Flannery. She sounds serious, and I see the anxious looks Mama and Papa exchange. “I’d like you to bring Sarah to the school for an evaluation.”

  “An evaluation?” I ask.

  “Yes,” says Miss Flannery. “To see if she can learn to speak with her fingers. Sign language. Though she may never be able to hear again, she may be able to communicate like that.” She brings her face close to Sarah’s. Sarah backs away slightly and clutches the damaged owl tightly.

  “It’s hard to live in silence, isn’t it?” she says to Sarah. “No wonder you’re so angry. But I think we can help you, Sarah. I hope you’ll let us try.”

  I hold my breath. Will Sarah hit her? Throw something? But no, Sarah just looks steadily at Miss Flannery. After a moment, she reaches out and touches the teacher’s kind face.

  Chapter 9

  Music

  Thanks to Miss Flannery, Sarah starts going to school right along with us. She attends a special class for children like her. None of them can hear, but all of them can learn. Soon Sarah is “talking” with her fingers, signing words like hungry, thirsty, and sleepy. I’ve attended some of the classes so I can learn the signs and teach them to the rest of the family. Now that Sarah is able to communicate with us, she is much happier.

  Meanwhile, Mama gets a new job—at a dressmaker’s shop uptown, on Twenty-Third Street. She says it’s much nicer than working in the factory, and the owner, Mrs. Wadjenska, gives Mama leftover fabric. Mama is able to make us each two new spring dresses. One of mine is a red-and-black plaid. The other is blue with white buttons.

  I feel so grown up and, yes, even ladylike in the new garments. The first time I wear the blue dress, Gittel tells me how nice I look. The compliment makes me try harder with my appearance. I polish my shoes. I keep my apron clean and pressed. And I get what I think is a brilliant idea. But it’s not something I can do by myself. I need help. So I ask Gittel.

  “You want me to what?” she fairly shrieks.

  “You’re always telling me how messy my hair is. And you’re right. But it’s so hard to keep it tidy. So if you cut it, right to here—” I put my hand to the bottoms of my ears, “it’ll look neat all day long. Please, please, please, won’t you do it?”

  “Mama won’t like it,” she says, but I can tell she is thinking it over.

  “Blame it on me!”

  “All right,” she grumbles. “But you’d better stay still.”

  I sit down and barely even breathe. Gittel moves around me, scissors in hand. She takes the job very seriously, measuring with a comb, tilting my chin this way and that, snipping all the while. Soon the floor is littered with hair. Finally, she sets the scissors down. “Take a look.”

  I pick up the hand mirror. Is that poised, grown-up-looking girl really me? My hair is shining, neat and smooth, curling just the slightest bit beneath my ears.

  “You know, I thought it was going to look dreadful,” Gittel says. “But I was wrong. Batya, you look beautiful!” Gittel has never given me so much praise in her whole life. I jump up and fling my arms around her. She hugs me back.

  And that’s how Mama finds us when she comes through the door. She’s shocked, but I explain my reasons as I sweep the snipped hair, and she calms down.

  “It’s pretty,” she says at last. She turns to Gittel. “You did a good job.” Gittel and I both beam. And I decide to make Gittel a sewing box where she can keep her supplies. It’ll be a surprise.

  Best of all, I take Papa to the carousel shop, where he does some sample carving and is hired on the spot. He buys new tools and a new leather apron. Now that he’s carving again, he wants Avram to become an apprentice. “The boss will make a place for you,” Papa says. “You’ll learn to carve horses.”

  “No time,” says Avram. “I have to go to school.”

  “School is almost over for the year,” Papa points out. “You’ll have the whole summer.”

  “Papa,” Avram says, “I don’t want to become a carver. Not of carousels or any
thing else.”

  “Why not? It’s a fine trade.”

  “But not the trade I want, Papa,” Avram says. His tone is respectful but firm.

  “I don’t understand,” Papa says.

  Mama sighs. “Things are different here,” she tells him. “You have to let him make his own way.”

  I think of the shiny blue bicycle Avram has bought with his very own money. Now he can pedal around the neighborhood making even more deliveries.

  Papa looks from Avram to Mama and back with a lost look on his face. “I just always thought I would pass it down, the way your grandfather passed it down to me.”

  “Why can’t Batya become an apprentice?” Avram asks.

  “Girls can’t be apprentices,” says Papa.

  “That was back in the old country,” Avram points out. “Maybe it’s different here. Everything else is.”

  I pray that he’s right.

  I have to go to school now, so I can’t spend long days at the carousel shop anymore. But I am finally allowed to attend woodshop, just as Miss Flannery promised.

  I’m the only girl in the class. The boys tease me about doing boys’ work.

  Once, I yell at them, trying to make them stop. They only tease me more.

  At home, I confide in Avram.

  “Ignore them,” he says.

  “Ignore them?” What kind of advice is that?

  “It’s only fun to tease someone if there’s a reaction. But if you ignore them, it’s no fun for them anymore.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m a boy, right? So I know how boys think.” He gets up, and I notice how he’s grown. Avram says he’s a boy, but soon he’ll be a man.

  The next time I go to woodshop and Iggy Rothstein starts chanting the usual taunts, I look right through him, as if he’s a pane of glass. Iggy isn’t used to being ignored, so he tries again. “Batya likes to do what boys do.”

  “Iggy!” says the teacher sternly. “Behave yourself!” Flustered, Iggy goes back to work.

  Later, Iggy comes over to me again. I tense, waiting for the teasing to start. But Iggy just watches as I sand the piece of wood in my hands. He doesn’t say a word. I feel uncomfortable, but I keep my eyes down and continue to work.