The library in Greenbush is different from the library in the city. In the city you know you couldn’t read all the books in a million years. In Greenbush if you lived in the town all the time you would be able to read up one shelf and down the next. You could finish all the books in the library in a couple of years.
I took out Eight Cousins because I had only read if three times and The Princess and the Goblin because I had forgotten some parts in it and Little Women because I always take that out. When I got the books home, Grandpapa picked up each book and turned it over in his hand. “Yah, that’s a good one,” he said, although I was sure he had no idea what the book was about.
Grandmama just shook her head. “Sit and read all day and nothing gets done. A waste of time.” But she gave me some cookies to eat under the apple tree.
I had just opened my book when out of the corner of my eye I caught a quick movement. It was a chipmunk. It crept close and sat up staring at me. I tossed it a piece of cookie. That scared it away, but in a minute it was back eating the crumb. I kept tossing the pieces closer and closer to me. The chipmunk crept up to me. He rested one paw on my hand while he nibbled the last piece of cookie. He was so busy eating he let me run a finger down his back. The fur was soft and warm. The bones were so delicate I was almost afraid to touch him. I stopped thinking all wild animals were ferocious.
The Rat
High
above the altar
of the country church,
God shines in the window
disguised as a dazzle of sun.
On this rainy Sunday
the window is dark.
A lie has crept
into my life
like a
long-
tailed
rat
and
nibbled
away
the
shimmer.
I wanted to go home. Back to the city. I missed my mother and father. I missed my aunts and uncles. I’d rather play with Lucille Macken than with a chipmunk. So one day while my grandparents were out weeding the vegetable garden I sneaked a sheet of paper and an envelope. I wrote a letter to my parents.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I hate it here. It’s all vegetables and fruit and my grandparents are too old and there’s no one for me to play with and there aren’t enough books in the library and the lake won’t go away. Come and get me before I die of boredom.
Your loving daughter,
Elsa
Here’s the worst thing. I had spent all the money my mother had given me, and I didn’t want to ask my grandparents for money. I would have had to explain why I wanted it, and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. So I stole a nickel from Grandmama’s purse for a stamp. When I walked into town to mail the letter I felt like a policeman was following me. I told myself that no one would ever know, but I didn’t believe me.
On Sunday, as they always do, my grandparents got all dressed up for church. Grandpapa lifted away the long board that kept the garage door shut. He backed out his old Packard. He drove us very slowly the three blocks to the Lutheran church. We could have walked faster than Grandpapa drove. His hands were so tight on the wheel and he was staring so hard at the road that you would have thought we were going a hundred miles an hour.
I sat next to Grandpapa. Grandmama sat in the back seat, very straight, with her head held up like a queen. She even waved at some people on the street as though they were her subjects. My grandparents are very proud of their car. It’s ancient, but it looks new because it gets dusted every day and it’s hardly ever driven. So when, halfway to church, it started raining, Grandpapa was upset. I’m sure he thought it would be much better for us to get wet walking than for the car to get wet.
Sitting in church, I could see the lightning and hear the thunder. I was really frightened. Pastor Auch’s sermon was about Moses coming down from the mountain with the Ten Commandments. The pastor read every one of them. When he came to “Thou shalt not steal,” there was a horrible clap of thunder. I wished I hadn’t stolen the nickel. But worse was yet to come.
As we were leaving the church, Grandmama asked Pastor Auch if he and Mrs. Auch would like to come for Sunday dinner. I had never been in the same house with a minister, and I was sure that before the day was over he would discover what I had done. I guess I thought he had X-ray eyes and would be able to look right through me.
As soon as we got back to the cottage, Grandmama flew into the kitchen. In a minute’s time the oven was stuffed, and all four burners on the stove were covered with pots. Grandpapa, with an apron tied around his waist, was peeling potatoes. I set the table with the good Haviland china and the cut-glass pickle dish.
I guess I expected Pastor Auch to come stamping into the house with his black suit, maybe shaking his fist. In the pulpit with his arms raised and his voice booming out, the pastor looked like a giant. The man who appeared at the front door of the cottage was short, with a plump belly and a big smile. Mrs. Auch was tiny and sort of hopped into the house like a sparrow.
There wasn’t much time to worry about Pastor Auch finding out about what I had done, because right away the food started coming. There was chicken soup with homemade noodles; Koenigsberger Klopses, which are a sort of meatballs; mashed potatoes and gravy; string beans; sweet-sour lettuce with sugar and bacon and vinegar; biscuits; strawberry jam; and lemon meringue pie. Whenever anyone stopped talking for a minute, Grandmama would say, “Have another helping.”
It was about halfway through dinner when Pastor Auch gave me a funny look and said, “I know a little secret about you.” My heart was beating so hard I was sure everyone could hear it. I knew God had seen me steal the nickel, and I thought he had passed the word on to Pastor Auch. Pastor Auch leaned across the table. He fixed his eyes on me and said, “Your grandfather tells me you write poems.”
I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
“I write poems, too,” he said and gave me a sly wink. “About baseball.”
I guess my mouth dropped open because he explained, “Baseball is like life. We have our chances at bat and we have our innings. Sometimes we strike out and sometimes we hit a home run.” He looked around the table to be sure everyone was impressed.
“You are so right, dear,” Mrs. Auch said. Grandmama hurried to agree with her.
“Yah, yah,” Grandpapa said, but he was holding his napkin to his mouth, and I could see he was trying not to laugh.
I breathed a sigh of relief, but I still knew that what I had done was wrong. Even when Mom’s letter arrived saying, “We’ll drive up next Sunday,” I felt nothing good would come of it.
The only good thing today was that the rain made the lettuce in my garden grow a couple of inches. “In another week,” Grandmama said, “we can have some of it for dinner.”
“But it’s so much smaller than the lettuce in your garden,” I said.
“Yah,” she said, putting an arm around me, “but little is more tender.”
Broken Promises
The wild iris I gathered,
flights of purple birds
that withered overnight.
The mourning dove’s nest
in the Scotch pine,
a cradle for two eggs,
two white promises,
until the red squirrel came
and left behind
a wreath of twigs.
All day I hear the sad cry of the mourning doves. I love the sound of their name when I say it aloud. They are big plump birds that like to perch on wires strung between the electric poles. They sit up there and cry their hearts out. Since I was feeling pretty sad myself, I liked to hear them. Grandmama says misery loves company.
I noticed one of the birds disappearing into the branches of a pine tree. After watching it fly back and forth from the tree several times, I crept quietly up to see what was there. Near the bottom of the tree was a ragged nest of twigs. I caught my breath. In the nest were two little white eggs. I hurried
away as fast as I could.
After that I checked the nest each day. I never stayed more than a few seconds because I didn’t want to scare off the mother bird.
Today was the day before my parents promised to come. I was feeling happier because I was sure they would take me home with them. I went to check the nest. I hoped the birds had hatched so I would have a chance to see them before I left.
It was still early morning, but already the sun was that white shimmering color it gets when it’s going to be a hot day. In the field the grasshoppers bounced up and down ahead of me. I didn’t see the mother dove, but I wasn’t worried. Sometimes she was gone from the nest for several minutes. As I got closer to the tree, a red squirrel scurried out of a branch near the nest and began chattering crossly at me.
The red squirrels were my favorite squirrels. Compared to the big bushy-tailed ones, the tiny red squirrels with the white bellies and fur-tufted ears were like toys. Grandpapa didn’t like them. “Those red squirrels,” he said, “they’re little but they do a lot of mischief.” I thought he was talking about his fruit trees.
The squirrel leaped to a higher branch and then jumped to a nearby tree. I looked down into the nest. Instead of the two eggs I expected to see, there were broken bits of white shell. I knew the red squirrel had eaten the eggs.
I ran crying to Grandmama, who tried to comfort me. “The birds will build another nest,” she said. “The red squirrel doesn’t know any better. He was only looking for food. Think of all the eggs we eat.” I made a vow never to eat another egg.
“Come. I’ll show you something,” Grandmama said. I followed her into the living room. “Look there at the rug. No fringe.” It was true. The fringe on the long red-and-white-striped rag rug had disappeared. She tiptoed across the room to the bookshelf and pulled out a handful of books. Behind the books was a nest made out of shreds that once had been the fringe on the rug. Inside the nest were five naked baby mice scrunched into a pink squirming ball. She put the books back. “Never mind the mourning doves,” she said. “You can keep an eye on the mice.” I felt like I had been given something back.
Later I heard Grandpapa say, “But Gussie, you told me to get rid of the mice. You had a conniption when you found the nest. I never thought I’d live to see the day you allowed mice to run around in our house.”
“Well, Carl, I’ve changed my mind. Leave them be. We’ll have mice instead of doves.”
“What do you mean? Since when has there been a dove in the living room?”
Grandmama just laughed.
There was another disaster. This one in my garden. The lettuce was all chomped up by some rabbits. But it was easier to forgive the rabbits than the red squirrel. The lettuce would come up again.
In the afternoon when I went into town to get the mail, the postmistress handed me a letter from my parents. It said they wouldn’t be coming after all. “There is something wrong with our car,” Mom wrote. “I’m afraid it will be a few weeks before there is money to fix it. Your father still hasn’t found a job. I know you will understand.” She said it was hot in the city. I was lucky to be near the lake. She was sure that by now I was getting to like the country. She sent her love.
This time I couldn’t cry because I was in town where people could see me. Right across the street squinting at me was the boy with the red hair. I would have died before I let him see me cry. I couldn’t even run home to Grandmama for comfort. I couldn’t tell her I had written my parents to come and take me home.
When I got back to the cottage, Grandmama must have seen that something was wrong because she said to me, “With a face like that you could curdle milk.” Then she rolled up her sleeves and made strawberry shortcake, which she knew was my favorite dessert.
The Gully
When they call my name
I run away to a hidden place.
Down the bank I hand myself
from tree to tree toward
the dark trickle of creek,
the boggy tangle of snarled
willows and grasses where frogs
squat like slippery green stones
and swallowtails and dragon flies
sit on my knees.
I can’t believe I made myself climb down into the gully today. The sides of the gully are steep. To keep from falling I had to grab at bushes and tree trunks. When I finally got to the bottom, I was surprised to find a little creek. All this time I hadn’t known the creek was hidden down there. The grassy banks on either side of the creek stick up like the walls of a green room. Overhead the sky is a blue ceiling. My room is furnished with fallen trees for chairs and boulders for tables. There are jewel weed and wild iris for decoration.
I’m not the only one who uses the room. Birds are everywhere. There are large black birds at the top of the trees and bluebirds and red birds. There are birds that hammer so hard on the trees you would think their brains would get rattled. There are small yellow birds that fly around together. When I sit quietly the birds splash in the creek and snatch at the flies that hover over the water. Once a yellow and black butterfly landed on me. I knew what it was because my grandfather said butterflies like that are called swallowtails. I liked the word so much that I kept it.
I sit on a log and watched the trickle of water move over the bright stones and sandy ridges of the creek bottom. There are bugs that walk on the water. The creek moves so quickly that I thought it must be anxious to get someplace. I decided to see where it was going.
The floor of the gully is squishy to walk on. Frogs jump out at you. In some places the grass is as tall as I am. When you’re exploring, the best thing is that you don’t know what’s coming next. That’s the most frightening thing, too.
I kept on walking in the direction the water was going. After a bit I saw a clearing ahead. There was the beach, and beyond it the lake!
Standing in the lake was Grandmama. She had her skirts tucked up to her knees. She was bending over, washing her hair. I had never seen her hair undone. It spread out on the water in brown swirls. After squeezing out the water, she sat down on a large rock at the water’s edge to dry her hair in the sun. With her hair around her shoulders and her face turned to the sun, she looked as young as my mother. There was a smile on her face, and I saw that Grandmama has thoughts that have nothing to do with me or Grandpapa. She has secret thoughts just like I do. That was as much a surprise to me as finding the creek hidden in the gully.
Air Mail
The ocean is wider
than the lake,
across its distance
their letter
calls our name.
With pen and ink
we pull them toward us.
We write,
“Hurry.”
I went to the library today to take books out about birds and flowers. I want to keep track of everything I see in the gully. After I went to the library I stopped at the post office. There was a letter for my grandparents. It was written on thin white paper with a lot of strange stamps. Letters like that come from Europe.
When I gave it to Grandpapa he said to Grandmama, “It’s from Kurt Roth.” As he opened the letter, his hands shook so that he tore a bit of it. “They have closed his art gallery and taken away all of the paintings.” Grandpapa’s face was pale. “What harm could they see in paintings of flowers and trees and sailboats?”
“Kurt always had his own way of painting things. That’s what they don’t like. Does he say how Ruth is?”
“She has been dismissed from her position with the school. It is becoming too dangerous for them to stay in Berlin. He says many artists have already left. Kurt says there may be a way for him to get out of Germany. He wants to know if we could find him work here.”
“Why do they have to leave Germany?” I asked.
My grandparents had forgotten that I was there. Now they gave me a long look.
“She’s too young to hear such things,” Grandpapa said.
“She has already heard them
,” Grandmama answered.
Grandpapa sighed. “It is a terrible thing, Elsa, but because our friends, Kurt and Ruth, are Jewish, the German government has taken away their living. Hitler is telling artists what they must paint and writers what they must write. Now it is not even safe for Jews to be seen on the streets. It is hard to remember when we are so comfortable here that people can be so very cruel. Our friends will have to give up their home and everything they own and come away.”
“If they are lucky enough to escape,” Grandmama said. “Write them at once, Carl. We must do all we can to help them.”
Grandpapa sat down at the kitchen table to write his reply. “As soon as I finish, Elsa, you can take my letter into Greenbush and mail it.”
While he wrote, Grandmama bustled about making noodles, folding the dough and chopping it into long strands. Whenever she is upset she cooks something, usually something that takes a lot of pounding or chopping.
When the letter was finished, I took it to the post office. Grandmama had given me some paper to carry it in so I wouldn’t get fingerprints on the envelope or smudge the writing. I studied the address as I dropped it into the mail slot. I had looked up Germany once on the map, and I knew how far away it was. I wondered if the letter would get there in time.
Talk
All week long
my grandparents
explain themselves,
their talk scrambling
my thoughts.
Tonight I am greedy
for my own company,
hungry to know
what I am up to.
When I sit in a room
listening to people
a branch taps at the window
and the tree outside is me.
Every night after supper is over I settle into one of the big overstuffed chairs in the living room to listen to my grandparents. They talk about how the corn and beans and peas and tomatoes are coming along. They talk about the apple and plum and peach and pear trees. In detail. It is almost as though they are talking the garden and orchard into growing. It seems like all their words will turn into carrots and apples and beans.
That Wild Berries Should Grow Page 3