by Rona Arato
“Uh-oh,” Shoshi muttered, as smoke rose from the cart and the top of a soot-covered head with two yellow eyes popped up.
“That’s it! The monster!” Mrs. Finklestein screamed.
“Be quiet,” hollered the inspector. Then to the translator he said, “Please tell her to be quiet.”
“That monster ate my sausages,” Mrs. Finklestein continued.
“What is she saying?” the inspector asked the translator.
“That a monster ate her sausages.”
“What monster?” asked the inspector. The translator shrugged.
“There is a monster in the coal!”
The inspector beckoned two doctors, who proceeded to push through the crowd.
“I tell you there is a monster in that cart,” yelled Mrs. Finklestein.
“Are you insane, woman?” shouted the inspector. “Quiet down.”
“What is she saying?” asked one of the doctors.
“Something about a monster in the coal,” said the translator.
“You don’t understand. It’s not me. It’s them. They’re crazy! They’re thieves, no goodniks, with monsters that steal people’s food.”
The doctors looked at each other and grabbed Mrs. Finklestein’s arms.
“No, no, you don’t understand,” she said, as they lifted her into the air. “You won’t get away with this,” she shouted at the Kapustins. The men carried her from the room, kicking and screaming.
“Oy.” Mrs. Kapustin clapped a hand to her forehead. “If she keeps talking like that, we are finished, KAPUT!” They were now at the front of their line.
“Speak up. I can’t hear you with all this noise. Is that your name? Kaput?” the translator asked.
“Nicht.” She shook her head.
“Kaput nicht.” The inspector wrote something on a piece of paper. “Now, Mrs. Kaputnik, do you have anyone waiting for you in America?”
The translator repeated the question in Yiddish.
“My husband is in America.”
“Good. And where will you live?”
She listened to the translator, then replied. “We will live with my husband’s brother, who owns a restaurant on Hester Street.”
“Hester Street. Hmmm.” The inspector tapped a finger against his cheek. “So, you have relatives waiting for you, you know the name of the street where you are going, and these people have a business.” He stamped their paper, handed it to her, and moved on to the next family.
“We made it.” Shoshi hugged her mother and her brother.
They joined Salty, who was leaning against the wheelbarrow, his hand on top of the coal pile.
A guard approached him. “Get that filthy cart out of here,” he snarled.
“Jest makin’ a delivery,” said Salty.
“Deliveries are at the back of the building.”
The coal shifted, and the top of Snigger’s head appeared between the cracks. Salty pushed it down.
“Ahh choo!” Snigger sneezed.
Salty whipped out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. “Coal dust,” he said, faking another sneeze.
“Out! Now!” ordered the guard.
“Let’s go,” said Salty. He lifted the handlebars of the wheelbarrow and headed for the exit. The family followed him out of the hall. They passed an office selling railroad tickets. Salty explained that people going west, to places like Chicago or California, bought their tickets there. “Ye don’t need those because ye’ll be goin’ to Manhattan.” He led them out of the building and across the grounds to the dock. He stopped in front of an empty ferryboat. The cart trembled as Snigger, black with coal dust, jumped out.
“Quick, get in the boat,” Salty said.
Moshe ran after him. “Shoshi, help me!”
Shoshi dashed ahead and ran in front of the terrified beast. “Snigger!” She stamped her foot.
Snigger stopped and lowered his head. Shoshi rubbed his ears and led him onto the boat. As she and Moshe started to climb aboard, their mother issued a stream of questions in Yiddish. “What is going on? Who is this man? Why does he have your animal? Where is he taking us?”
“Mama, this is Salty,” said Shoshi. “He saved Snigger on the ship and hid him in the boiler room.”
“He’s our friend, Mama,” said Moshe.
Shoshi switched to English. “Salty, this is our mother.”
“Happy to meet ye …” Salty looked at the paper that their mother held in her hand. “… Mrs. Kaputnik.” Shoshi translated.
Mrs. Kapustin wearily shook the sailor’s hand. “Mrs. Kaputnik? Who is Mrs. Kaputnik?” she asked. “This English is different from Feivel’s teachings.”
Judging by her confused look, Salty knew something was wrong. He pointed at her, then at the paper. “Ye are. See, for yer name, it says Mrs. Kaputnik. ’Tis what the inspector wrote.” Shoshi translated his words. Mrs. Kapustin blanched.
“But that is not our name. The inspector will have to change it,” Moshe piped up.
“Aye, that is impossible,” Salty replied. “If it’s on that paper, it’s official. Ye’ve been admitted into the U-nited States of America as Kaputniks and Kaputniks ye will be. Welcome to America.” Salty shook her hand again. He looked over his shoulders. “Now, we had better get off this island before they send us back where we came from. Into the boat, all of ye.”
Salty started the engine, and the kids stumbled onto the deck. “Mama, come on,” Shoshi said, noticing her mother’s hesitation.
“How do I know this man isn’t a pirate? How do I know he won’t kill us all?”
Shoshi relayed her mother’s concerns to Salty.
“Ma’am, if ye be wantin’ to get to New York, ye’ll need to trust me and get on this boat now.” Mrs. Kaputnik’s gaze followed Salty’s to a stocky guard marching in their direction.
“Mama, please come aboard,” Shoshi begged.
Reluctantly, her mother climbed on board the small boat.
Salty gunned the engine, and the boat headed toward the New York shore.
“How did you keep this boat empty?” Moshe asked, as they steamed across the Hudson River.
“I put that up.” Salty showed them a sign tacked on the side.
THIS BOAT IS RESERVED FOR VERY SICK PEOPLE WITH CONTAGIOUS DISEASES.
His beard bobbed up and down with laughter. “And now, I’m going to get all of ye safely ashore. Hee, hee hee. New York City, ready or not, ’ere comes the Kaputnik family and Snigger, their fire-breathing dragon!”
CHAPTER 7
Welcome to New York
The boat ride from Ellis Island to New York took forty-five minutes, more than enough time for everyone to collect their thoughts and plan for their arrival.
Shoshi was enjoying the ride. On her right, the Statue of Liberty’s torch glowed against a milky-white sky. Ahead of her, New York’s buildings gleamed in the brilliant sunlight.
“We’ll have to talk about what to do when we reach shore,” said Salty. “Smugglin’ this creature in is the easy part. Gettin’ ’im through the streets of this city is somethin’ else entirely. Now tell me, Mrs. Kaputnik, where exactly is it ye be goin’?”
“Say my right name.”
“Ma’am, but Mrs. Kaputnik’s yer name now,” said Salty. “It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t ’cha think? Tell me, where ye be goin’ once we dock in New York?”
“Hmmm, a new name for a new country,” their mother said. She lifted her arms, waved at the Statue of Liberty, and in English said, “Mrs. America, I want you should meet Mrs. Kaputnik and Shoshanna and Moshe Kaputnik.”
“Mrs. Kaputnik, me thinks ye’ll do fine in America,” said Salty.
Mrs. Kaputnik reverted to Yiddish. “Where are we going in New York?”
Shoshi was surprised. In all the years since Papa left, Shoshi had never seen her mother at a loss for action. If it was snowing and the cracked walls of their house leaked frigid air, she heated up the stove, sat in her rocking chair, and warmed them all with her storie
s. When they grew and couldn’t afford new clothes, she altered their old ones until they fit perfectly and looked like new. If there wasn’t enough food to make a meal, she pulled together scraps and invented a recipe. And hadn’t she always bragged about Uncle Mendel’s restaurant? How Papa had loaned him money to start it, and how they would all be welcome once they got to America? Why, then, was she unsure of herself now?
Mrs. Kaputnik straightened her shoulders, pulled the crumpled letter from her pocket, and showed it to Salty. In her halting English, she said. “Hester Street. See – famous restaurant.”
Shoshi turned to Salty. “Salty, what did you mean when you said you don’t have a name on shore? Was your name changed at Ellis Island, too?”
Salty shook his head. “Salty is the only name ye need to know.”
“Why were you afraid of the immigration officers catching you?”
“ ’Tis a long, sad story.”
Clang! Clang! Snigger had smashed his head against the side of the boat, trying to dislodge a bucket that was stuck to his snout. “Snig, snig,” came his muffled cry.
“Blimey, the beast got ’is head stuck in the fire bucket.” While Salty watched, Moshe grasped the bucket and held Snigger’s neck in place, and Shoshi and Mrs. Kaputnik grabbed his tail.
Finally, the bucket flew off with a pop, sending Moshe skidding across the deck, landing with a thud against a wooden storage locker. He rubbed his head. “You sure are a load of trouble.”
The dragon bounced up and down and back and forth, rocking the boat violently from side to side. He snorted a fireball into the air, sank to his knees, and meekly lowered his head against his paws.
“Aye, Mrs. Kaputnik, ye do have a problem. I don’t think I’d be bringin’ this ’ere thing with me to anyone I wanted to give me an’ mine a home.”
“What are we going to do? We can’t abandon him.” Shoshi crawled over to Snigger and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Moshe patted the dragon’s side. “He’s really not that bad. In fact, he’s quite good. For a dragon.”
“But still, ’e is a dragon – a wild beast that can’t ever truly be tamed. Aye, ’tis a problem ye’ve got ’ere, no doubt about that.”
It occurred to Shoshi that a baby dragon might be a lot of fun when it hatched in your house in Vrod, but here, on the threshold of America, a dragon was a problem. She exchanged glances with Moshe. Obviously, he was thinking the same thing. Maybe he should have given that dirty cracked egg back to the peddler. But if he had, Snigger wouldn’t have been there to save them from the Cossacks. “We have to take Snigger with us,” she said.
Salty sighed. “Leave ’im with me.” When they protested, he stopped them. “Only ’til tomorrow. I’m goin’ to dock at the East River. It’s close to where ye want to go, and there be such a den of thieves down ’ere, one monster more or less will go unnoticed. Ye go find yer uncle and get yerselves settled.”
Moshe looked at him in surprise. “How can you do that? What about your ship? Don’t you have to go back tonight?”
“I’ve a few days shore leave while the ship gets repaired.”
“I didn’t know it was broken,” said Shoshi.
“Funniest thing. Number one engine jammed right up ’bout the time we reached New York.” Salty grinned. He steered the boat through the harbor, bringing it to a stop at a sagging wooden pier.
“How will we find you?” Shoshi asked, as they gathered their bundles and prepared to leave the boat.
“Don’t ye worry ’bout that none. I’ll be findin’ ye.” Salty offered his hand to Mrs. Kaputnik, who rose shakily to her feet.
Again, Shoshi translated. Mrs. Kaputnik spoke slowly and carefully in English. “Look for us at the fanciest restaurant on Hester Street, and ask for the owner, Mendel Kapustin.”
“good-bye, Salty. good-bye, Snigger.” Shoshi hugged Salty and gingerly patted Snigger. Then she followed her mother and brother onto the dock.
Salty held on to Snigger and watched them go. Snigger roared, and for a moment, Salty could see the outline of the blaze of his breath. The fiery sparks cooled to ashes and drifted upriver on a puff of wind. The Kaputniks disappeared into the grimy air of the city. “Calm down, lad. It’s jest you and me fer tonight, but ye’ll be seein’ ’em again tomorrow.”
He led Snigger to the lifeboat, settled him inside, and covered him with a blanket. Then, Salty stretched out on the deck and drifted into an exhausted sleep, unaware of a cloaked figure that stood in the shadows watching with a sly, excited smile.
CHAPTER 8
This Is Family?
What to do now? New York was hot, vast, and confusing. As the Kaputniks lugged their bundles through street after unfamiliar street, Shoshi wondered if they would ever make sense of this place. Her mother, however, was forging ahead with the same determination she’d shown throughout their adventure. Every few feet, Mrs. Kaputnik stopped to question passersby. Some people replied to her in Yiddish; from others she got questioning looks, shrugs, and a few rude answers.
The family trudged along streets crammed with people and pushcarts, until they reached Hester Street. The street was lined with narrow buildings pressed close together. There were stores on the street level and what Shoshi assumed were living quarters above. People were everywhere, sitting on stoops; leaning out of windows; shouting to each other; and elbowing their way along the jammed sidewalks.
Shoshi’s heart sank. This was America? The Goldene Medina? Such a hot, smelly place could not be the magic land she’d been hearing about all her life.
A man in a long black coat and skullcap pushed by Moshe with a wheelbarrow filled with fruit. He yelled strange words, and as he passed Moshe, the cart’s wheels sprayed the boy’s pants with mud. He set his bundle down and brushed at the stains with his hand. “Are we at Uncle Mendel’s yet, Mama?”
“When we get there, I’ll let you know,” his mother said. Sighing, she stopped in front of an open doorway. “Wait. I will ask in here for directions.” She went inside and caught her breath as foul air engulfed her. Immediately, she saw the source of the smell. A woman, frail and bent, her head covered with a scarf, was sitting on a low stool, plucking a chicken. Holding the bird’s legs in one hand, she pulled out feathers with the other, humming softly under her breath and occasionally reaching down to pat a gray cat curled up at her feet.
“Good evening,” Mrs. Kaputnik said in Yiddish.
“You want to buy a chicken?” the woman replied. She smiled a toothless grin.
Mrs. Kaputnik sighed with relief. “We have just arrived in New York, and I am looking for my husband’s brother.”
“You won’t find him here,” the woman cackled. She turned back to her plucking, and her swift fingers sent feathers flying through the air. The cat howled in protest, as a downy shower tickled its face.
Mrs. Kaputnik raised her voice. “Please, I am looking for Mendel Kapustin. He has an elegant restaurant on Hester Street. This is Hester Street?”
“This is Hester Street, but there are no elegant restaurants here.” Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.
“Oh, but there is. I have a letter,” Mrs. Kaputnik pulled the crumpled paper from her pocket. “Mendel Kapustin’s Russian Soup and Tea Parlor.”
Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. “That, you should excuse the expression, is not a restaurant, it is a pig sty!” She spat on the ground. “Two doors down,” she said. She tossed the chicken into a metal pail by her side. “Zol zein mit glick. Good luck to you,” she called out, as Mrs. Kaputnik backed away. She reached into a wooden crate, pulled out another chicken, grasped its legs, and started yanking out its feathers.
“Mama, I’m tired and hungry,” Moshe whined.
“Me too, and this bundle is heavy,” Shoshi said.
“Stop your kvetching, both of you. After such a long journey, we have only a few more steps and now you complain?” They stopped under a striped awning in front of a dirty window with the words Hester Street Russian Soup and Tea Parlor written in Yiddi
sh and English. “See, we are already here. Look, we only arrived today, and now we will be guests in this most elegant establishment.” Mrs. Kaputnik pressed her nose against the glass.
Elegant? Shoshi and Moshe exchanged puzzled glances. Elegance was the ship’s first-class dining room, with its sparkling lights and crisp white tablecloths. Their mother’s nose had rubbed a clear spot on the grimy windowpane. Through it, they saw a dark narrow room with a few small tables, soot-blackened walls, and a dirt-encrusted floor. This was Uncle Mendel’s famous restaurant?
As they entered, their mother took one look at the dingy interior and screamed. A man walked out from behind a curtain at the back of the room. He had an enormous stomach that rolled over the edge of his stained white apron, and his thick brown beard waggled up and down as he walked. He rubbed his hands together and spoke in English, and then he switched to Yiddish. “Good day, good day. We are not yet open for supper, but if you are hungry, I can give you hot soup.” He waved to a table covered with a greasy, food-spotted cloth.
“I should live so long that I eat your filthy soup. So this rat-infested hole is what you’ve done with my husband’s money?”
“Husband?”
“You don’t remember me? Your brother’s wife? Your sister-in-law, Ruth?”
The man tilted his head, squinted, and looked her up and down. “Aiieee.” He slapped his forehead. “Of course! But how would I recognize you? I thought you were in Russia. What a wonderful surprise. When did you arrive? Come.” He pulled out a chair. “Sit, sit. Imagine my brother’s family, here in my restaurant!”
“Thank you.” She put an arm around each of her children. “This is your nephew, Moshe Kaputnik, and your niece, Shoshanna Kaputnik.”
“Kaputnik?” He scratched his head and gave her a puzzled look. “What is this, Kaputnik?”
“It is our new American name,” Mrs. Kaputnik said proudly. “From Ellis Island.”
“What is this mishigas? You are KAPUSTIN!”