She waited, it seemed, hours, and then children began to arrive and play in the schoolyard. Finally, a bell rang in the yard, and the teachers came out and lined the children up, preparing to march them into their classrooms. Bella dragged her body to search for the third-grade line. And when she found it, her heart stopped completely, for it was as she feared, she was the tallest in the class. She could not even conceal herself in the crowd. She stuck out like a spindly tree in an empty lot.
They reached the classroom and the teacher called the roll and assigned them seats by height, putting Bella in the back row, where she would not be able to hear. But Bella did not dare to say anything. Then, as she went through their names once more, she stopped at the name of Isabella Brez. She peered at Bella and said sharply, “Isabella, it is expected that you will comb your hair before you come to school.” Bella's face burned, and the children looked around at her and tittered. She did not hear anything the teacher said the rest of that day.
After school, Bella dawdled, looking into shop windows in the new neighborhood, but not too long. She felt people were looking at her, that they could see she was gawky and stupid, and they would know from her manner that she had no friends. She would go home and drop off her books and take the money Momma had left for her and go right back out to buy food for dinner. Sometimes she passed girls playing ball or jumping rope in the street, and her heart yearned toward them a little, but she pulled herself up. “I am a big girl,” she said to herself.
But then, there were hours to kill before it was time to make dinner, and she would sit at the round table drinking coffee and continuing the daydream she had been creating at school.
Bella/Anastasia had a clock to wake her up in the mornings, one with a bell that rang when it was eight o'clock. No. No. Anastasia/Bella's momma came in to wake her each morning, saying sweetly, “It's time to get up, Anastasia, dear,” and when she got downstairs, Momma had cocoa with whipped cream on it, and French toast waiting for her. Yes. And Anastasia's poppa was there too, in a striped vest with a thick gold watch-chain across it. He was eating his eggs and drinking his coffee, but he always looked up when Anastasia came in, and smiled, and said, “Good morning.” And he would ask her how she slept, and whether she had pleasant dreams, and Anastasia/Bella would say yes, because she always had pleasant dreams.
And Poppa would kiss her forehead before he left for work, and then Momma would sit her on the high stool, and softly brush her long blond hair which, just like Bella's, was down to her waist. But Anastasia's hair made long spaghetti curls all by itself, and her momma would brush them into shape and put a pretty hair-ribbon in her hair, one that matched her dress, like Margie Jasinski's. And Momma would kiss her good-bye, making sure she had her little bag of lunch. Anastasia's lunch was white bread and butter, with hard candies for dessert. And as she walked to school, people turned in the street and said, “What a pretty little girl,” and Bella would always smile to herself with pleasure, but never let on that she heard. In the schoolyard, the girls her age were jumping rope, and when she entered, they would all turn and smile and cry, “Here's Bella!” They would wait for her to join them, and she would run, dropping her books, and jump right in, she didn't even have to take an end, because they liked her so much. She jumped right in and never faltered, she jumped and jumped and her hair bounced, and after a while, she would stop and take an end just out of kindness, because it was only fair. It was fair to give the others a chance, because Bella never missed.
My mother always combed my hair. Every school morning, after breakfast, she would make me sit on the stepladder-stool that was painted the same color as the kitchen table and chairs, but had no decal on it, and would brush my long, thick, knotted hair with a hairbrush of pure pig bristle that she had bought from the Fuller Brush Man, and that, she told me many times, was a
very good
brush. She told me this in such tones of reverence, almost awe, that I thought it must be something extremely valuable and kept it for thirty years. I was shocked, when finally I was forced to replace it, to find that hairbrushes were not at all expensive.
As she stood behind me brushing, then combing, I would frequently cry out: “Ouch!” Tears would stream down my face. I vowed that when I was grown up and had a little girl, I would not hurt her when I combed her hair. My mother hurt me every morning, and my scalp grew so tough that to this day I can pull out a single hairâthe most painful way to pull hairâwithout feeling it. She brushed vigorously, combed straight down, and my eyes were ringed with red from tearing when she got through. She made two thick braids, and tied them with matching hair ribbonsâif I had not lost one. If I had no hair ribbons, she just used the rubber bands.
On special days, when we were going out, she would curl my hair with the curling iron, making long spaghetti curls. I hated this even more than the brushing, mostly because of the awful smell of burning, and I vowed I would never inflict such a thing on any child of my own. Nor would I inflict upon them the morning dose of cod-liver oil my sister and I were fed, in a large tablespoon, before our orange juice. It tasted terrible, but Mommy said we had to have it, that it would keep us healthy. I hated the orange juice too, because it was cold and had little bits of orange in itâMommy squeezed it fresh every morningâand it made my mouth burn. And then there was the oatmeal with cream. I hated that worse than anything except the cod-liver oil. Sometimes Mommy cooked Cream of Wheat, which was a little better. I would usually leave my glass of milk or drink only as much as Mommy demanded. I began to drink it only when she poured some coffee into it. Sometimes Mommy boiled an egg for me, but in those days, eggs were fresh and had been fertilized, so they had a strong taste which I now love but which in those days bothered my tender child's palate. All in all, I hated mornings. There wasn't much anyone could do to please me. The truth was, I didn't want to get up early, and wasn't hungry when I did: and this has remained true.
And every night, after the fight to get me to go to bed, my mother would kiss me good night, and send me to Daddy, who would also kiss me, and then Mommy would always say, “Pleasant dreams,” and I'd say it too. I would go up and read by the dim light of my bed lamp until I heard Mommy and Daddy preparing to come upstairs. Then I'd switch off the light, and slide down under the covers and close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. But Mommy always came in to see that I was covered, and if I was awake, she would kiss me good night again.
When I had children of my own, I remembered my own prescriptions, and was very careful combing my little girl's hair into braids. Once in a great while, I'd pull by mistake, and she'd cry out grouchily, her eyes tearing, and glare at me as if I had committed this crime intentionally. I'd always say I was sorry, but inside I was smiling, thinking about how any misery expands to take up all one's space. And I never used a curling iron on her hair. But I did inflict braces on her.
And every night, I kissed my children good night and wished them pleasant dreams, and they returned the wish and went into their rooms. And before I went to bed, I would go in to check them, and they would be sound asleep, Arden with her eyes open just a crack, so you couldn't be sure she was sleeping, and Billy with his thumb in his mouthâclear through until he was ten years old. They would be pink and sweet-smelling from their baths and their sweat, and warm with sleep, and my heart would roll over as I looked at them, and often I'd kneel down by the side of the bed and lay my face on their cheeks and put my arms around them, and kiss their cheeks and just stay there for a while. They never woke, or knew I'd done this. And guessing from the way they act now, it seems they never knew, never felt my love.
And sometimes, as I knelt there beside them, my heart would ache about a cross word, or flash of irritation I'd tossed them that day. Not that they didn't deserve some reprimand once in a while, but on the whole, they were wonderful kids, and most of my crossness had to do with my own miseries. I felt sorry, I'd vow to be more careful the next day, and I would be, for a whileâ¦.
I must add that neither of them, or Franny either, has ever reproached me with the little acts of cruelty I visited upon them. There must have been some that I didn't notice at the time, so wouldn't remember. I guess if one has to put up with one's children not recalling the love, one is rewarded by them also forgetting the moments of hate. Or whatever it is. I remember one time, Arden was about thirteen. And she came in from school late, around five, very excited. Some friends were there, I was preparing dinner, Toni was helping me peel vegetables. And Arden was glowing, and cried out, “Oh, Mommy! I've found the most wonderful book, it's like poetry it's so beautiful. Have you ever heard of it?” And she held up
The Prophet,
by Kahlil Gibran.
I groaned. “Sentimental slop! I found it in the attic, it had been my mother's, she'd loved it, and at your age I thought it was wonderful too. But it's trash,” I informed her.
Her face fell. “Well, I like it,” she mumbled. She left the room.
Toni turned to me. “That was really cruel. She was all excited about that book. Why did you do that?”
I stopped. Why had I? Maintaining high literary standards, regardless of cost? How ridiculous! “I don't know. You're right,” I said, puzzled at myself. But it was done, and could not now be remedied. Except that I never again doused her excitement like that. At least I don't think I didâ¦.
It was a Sunday in January, and I was eight. It was a gray day, cold and bleak, without snow, a depressing winter day. It was even more depressing because Mommy wasn't speaking to us. She often stopped speaking, and I never knew why; but this day was heavier somehow. She hardly spoke even to Joy, who went out early to play with a little girl from across the street. I stared out the kitchen window, and could see them toddling around in the yard, bundled up against the weather, trying to build a snowman out of the tarnished remains of last week's snowfall. The tension mounted in the house, and I spent most of the day in the front room Mommy called the porch, sitting on the floor and drawing. My father was working in the cellar. I never knew what he did down there. But he came upstairs for something, and I heard him ask my mother something in a pleasant voice. She barely answered him. I stood up, and when my father came through the living room, I went up close to him and whispered.
“What's the matter with Mommy today? She's so
mad.
”
Surprisingly, my father did not deny my charge. He whispered back, “She's mad because we forgot her birthday.”
“When is her birthday?”
“Today.”
I was appalled. I went back to the porch and just stood there. My heart hurt. How terrible, to have your birthday forgotten! But then, I hadn't forgotten it, I had never known when it was. Mommy never had a birthday partyâneither did Daddy. Well, neither did we for that matter, not at least that we could remember. But we got presents on our birthdays. I had not gotten a present for Mommy. And it was Sunday, and the stores were all closed, and anyway, I had no money.
I went up to the room Joy and I shared, and examined my few possessions: a scrapbook, a couple of games, and my small library, about eight books. There was nothing there Mommy would want. But I also had a few treasures. I decided Mommy would understand that I didn't have money, and she might cheer up if someone remembered her, and if I gave her something pretty.
I worked for several hours, pasting cotton fabric into an old shoe box. The material was scraps from the slipcovers Mommy had made for the porch chairs. Then, I lay inside the few treasures I owned: a pretty pinecone I'd found in the fall; a picture of a beautiful lady I'd cut out from a magazine; and a necklace made of unpolished stones that my uncle Eddie had made himself and sent me last year. The box looked terribly empty, so I took some hair ribbons whose mates had been lost, and made them into bows, and put them among the treasures. Then I closed the box and tied it up with another ribbon and, my heart beating with nervousness, ran down to give it to Mommy.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking and drinking coffee. A roast was baking, and the kitchen smelled delicious. I ran up to her.
“Happy birthday, Mommy!”
She turned, surprised, and took the box I held out. Slowly, she untied the ribbon and removed the cover. She peered inside. She looked up at me angrily. “What do I want this junk for?” she cried, thrusting the box back at me.
A
S I RECONSTRUCT IT
, Euga was not doing well in the orphanage. She was so young, only four and a half, to be separated from her mother; and I think they must not have had facilities for little girls. For whatever reason, the orphanage authorities told Frances that when Eugenia was five, ready to go to kindergarten, she would be released. The boys had to stay on. These priorities seem strange, but I think of the many photographs taken by Jacob Riis, a little earlier, of homeless boys sleeping in alleys. There were still thousands of them in the city.
Frances was overjoyed. Euga had her fifth birthday in August, and could start school in February of 1914. The authorities, though, let her go in January. The night they fetched her from the orphanage, the boys watching them mournfully through the high fence (they had been allowed to walk that far with them), Momma didn't cry much at allâonly when she said good-bye to her sons. She laughed and wiped tears from her cheeks that were a different kind of tears, and she carried Euga part of the long way back to the train, while Bella carried the empty food basket.
That night, they had strawberry jam with their black bread and butter, and Momma picked Euga up and sat her on her lap, and rocked back and forth. She almost crooned to her, “My baby, my baby, my precious one,
moja droga
Genya.”