The Doll Shop Downstairs

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “I guess so,” I say. “I mean, yes.” I am thrilled he is buying them but also confused. Why does he need three dolls? What will he do with all of them? I am trying to figure all this out as I wrap two of the dolls in tissue. Then he hands me three crisp dollar bills and a small white card.

  “I’ll be back,” he says, as he takes his package and walks out the door.

  After he is gone, I stare at the money. Three dollar bills. I don’t think I have ever seen three dollars all together before. I start to climb the stairs, eager to show Mama. Then I look at the card. It says:

  MR. IRA GREENFIELD

  HEAD BUYER

  F.A.O. SCHWARTZ

  FIFTH AVENUE AND THIRTY- FIRST STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  “Mama!” I call before I am even up the stairs. “Mama, you won’t believe what just happened!”

  7

  THE ONES WHO STAYED

  Mr. Greenfield keeps his promise and comes back two days later to pick up the third Nurse Nora doll. By the time he arrives, we have made three more dolls; they sit neatly on their shelf, ready to greet him.

  “Do you have any other kinds of dolls?” Mr. Greenfield asks Papa.

  “We have designs for others,” says Papa. I know he is thinking of the other dolls we drew. “But we haven’t actually made them yet.”

  “I’d be interested in seeing those when they’re finished,” says Mr. Greenfield as he takes the Nurse Nora dolls, wrapped and bagged, under his arm. “I’m going to try to sell these at the store, and if they do well, I want to start selling the others, too.”

  Our dolls, for sale at F.A.O. Schwartz! Papa looks so happy. After Mr. Greenfield leaves, he gives each of us a hug.

  “We did this together,” Papa says. “I couldn’t have done it alone.” Then he takes out the drawings of the queen and the fairy. “We need to start making these others,” he says. So that is just what we do.

  In September, school starts. I’m in fifth grade now, and my classroom is next door to the seventh grade, where Sophie is; Trudie’s third-grade class in on the floor above us. Batya and Esther are both in my class again; we haven’t seen each other in a while, and we have so much to talk about. My teacher, Miss Abbott, has springy red hair that is always escaping from its bun, and the bluest eyes. I don’t even mind arithmetic so much anymore; Miss Abbott has a way of explaining things so that I really can understand.

  Little by little, the doll shop becomes a doll factory. Papa gets two old tables from Mr. Karnofsky, the junk man who comes around with his gentle old horse, Bessie, and the shelves that once held broken dolls and boxes of parts now hold bolts of fabric and baskets of other materials used to make the new cloth dolls. Papa and Mama spend their time cutting, sewing, stuffing, and painting. Some of our neighbors pitch in with the work. In exchange, Mama does their sewing for free. Soon, queen dolls and fairy dolls join Nurse Nora on the shelves. Mr. Greenfield comes back and buys two more nurse dolls, as well as three queen dolls and three fairy dolls. “People are asking for them,” he says.

  Other customers sometimes come in and buy dolls, too. The stout lady who bought the first Nurse Nora returns with her niece and two of her niece’s friends. Maybe they tell other people about our dolls, because soon more girls are coming in and asking for them. Goldie sings and chirps all day; he likes the activity. Sophie, Trudie, and I help out, too. There is hardly any time to spend playing with our dolls in the shop anymore, no more make-believe or let’s-pretend. The yellow tea set is packed away in its woven straw basket. I put Bernadette Louise back in her box with the other dolls. Even though I am not playing with her, I like knowing she’s there, waiting for me. Sometimes I write her little notes saying Miss you or We’ ll have a tea party again soon, and tuck them into the box with the dolls. Writing to someone, even a doll, brings you closer to them.

  “Papa, do you think the war will ever end?” asks Trudie one day as she is helping bundle small bits of yarn for hair.

  “Mama and I pray for that day all the time,” he answers. I know that he received a letter from his brother recently, and he is so grateful that for now, everyone back in “the old country” is all right. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered whether you would ever start fixing dolls again. Whether the shop would ever be like it used to.”

  “I hope it will,” he says. “In the meantime, we’re lucky that we can do something else instead.”

  I read the papers now—not just the headlines—after Papa has finished. I skip over the hard words, trying to understand what is going on. And though I would not say it out loud, I don’t think the fighting is going to end any time soon. Germany marched into Belgium; Japan declared war on Germany. The poor soldiers dig trenches and climb inside to shoot at the enemy. I can’t think about it too much because it makes me frightened and sad.

  Fall is filled with Jewish holidays. A few weeks after school begins, it is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. The evening of the holiday, Mama roasts a chicken, and for dessert we dip apples in honey, to sweeten the coming year. They are so sticky and good. In the morning, we go to shul. Ten days later, it is Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. Rosh Hashanah is a happy holiday but Yom Kippur is serious; we spend the day in shul and the grown-ups fast. Even the children’s service with Miss Epstein is more restrained. Although no one tells me to do this, I silently ask God if he will please, please do something about the war. I feel better afterward, even though nothing happens right away. Mama always says that God works in mysterious ways. I hope that she is right.

  As soon as Yom Kippur is over, we start to get ready for Sukkos, the seven-day festival of the harvest. Papa builds a sukkah—a three-sided stall with a thatched roof—outside on the tiny patch of tightly packed dirt in back of the doll shop. Mama has tried many times to plant a garden in the spot, but the soil is bad and there is very little light because of all the buildings around us. Still, there is enough room for the wooden poles of the sukkah, and after Papa puts the leaves of the roof on, we all help to decorate it with the fruits and vegetables Mama buys from the neighborhood pushcarts.

  One day during Sukkos, we decide to bring our dolls out back. We know we are not supposed to do this, but I have invented a game that we all want badly to play. We pretend the dolls are magical elves that live in an enchanted forest; they have the power to make the apples and pears on the roof of the sukkah grow huge, and they use the giant fruit to feed everyone who is hungry—

  Papa comes through the back door. “Why are these dolls outside?” he asks.

  Oh no—we’ve been caught.

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” I say. “It was my idea. I know we shouldn’t have done it.”

  Papa looks at me sternly, and then at the dolls. They do look like they are having a good time.

  “Well,” he says, a little less sternly now, “don’t let it happen again.” Then he asks, “Are these the unclaimed dolls?”

  “Three of them, Papa. There are three more.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember now. I’ll have to write to their owners again.”

  We abandon the game and follow Papa inside. He goes to his oak card file, copies out the addresses onto the cream-colored envelopes, and writes six letters. Three of those letters go to the owners of Angelica Grace, Victoria Marie, and Bernadette Louise.

  “What will happen if they don’t answer this time?” asks Sophie.

  “Let’s wait and see,” says Papa. But I have already begun to hope that somehow, some way, Bernadette Louise will actually become mine.

  A week later, Papa receives the first reply. It seems that Angelica Grace’s owners do not want the broken doll back. They have bought their daughter a new doll, and they tell Papa that he may keep this one if he likes. The following day, the letter that was sent to Victoria Marie’s owner comes back unopened, with a large black stamp that reads: RETURN TO SENDER. ADDRESS UNKNOWN. Replies to the letters about Bernadette Louise and the other unclaimed dolls never come at all.

  “
Well,” says Papa, “I guess that means the dolls belong to you girls. They haven’t been claimed, and I think it’s fair enough that you keep them.”

  We are seated at the table, having an after-school snack of rice pudding. At Papa’s words, Trudie jumps up and pushes her bowl away.

  “Really, Papa? Really and truly?” She is hopping from one foot to the other.

  “Really,” says Papa. Trudie and Sophie look at each another. Then they clatter down the stairs, eager to see their dolls. Only I remain where I am, looking up at Papa.

  “What about Bernadette Louise?” I ask. I know Papa said “you girls,” but after all, there was never any reply about my doll; maybe he will tell me I have to wait until there is.

  “You know, that doll has been here for nearly a year. I wrote to her owner twice and never did hear back. I think that’s long enough to wait, don’t you?”

  “You mean ... ?”

  “Yes, she is yours,” he answers. I hug him tightly before I run downstairs. Papa seems more like Papa these days: warm, patient, and kind. He didn’t even get too angry when we broke the rule about taking the dolls out of the shop.

  “Thank you, Papa!” I call over my shoulder. “Thank you so much!” A store-bought china doll of my very own—I can hardly believe it’s for real.

  8

  GONE

  Now that we actually own our dolls, we want to fix them, not let them stay broken. But Mama and Papa are too busy making new dolls to help us, so one day after school, Sophie, Trudie, and I decide to try on our own. Even though Papa said there were no more parts, we will look one more time. We hunt inside cabinets and behind the counter, on shelves and in the closet, searching for any parts that Papa might have missed. After twenty minutes, we are ready to give up when Sophie spots a box way up on the top shelf; it is nearly hidden by a basket of yarn that sits in front of it. The only reason she can see it at all is because she has climbed up on a chair to look. But the chair is wobbly, and she gets down. I find the stepladder and hold it steady for her.

  “Careful!” Trudie says, and I have to smile because she sounds so much like Mama. Sophie is careful and brings the box down slowly. It is covered with dust, and we all start to sneeze. But it is worth it: inside are treasures.

  “Look!” says Sophie, as she holds up a small package wrapped in cotton wool. Eagerly, we unwrap it. Dolls’ eyes. Angelica Grace needs an eye. But two of these are brown, and the wrong size anyway. The other is blue and looks as if it will fit, but it is not the same shade of blue as Angelica Grace’s existing eye.

  “What else is in here?” I ask. We find a wig, a few dusty arms, and several legs.

  “Not exactly what we need ...” says Trudie. But to my astonishment, there is not a trace of a whine in her voice. Instead, she adds, “Maybe we can use them anyway.”

  “Maybe we can,” says Sophie. “We can show Papa and see what he thinks.”

  “I had no idea these were here!” Papa exclaims when we bring the parts upstairs. “If I had known, I might have been able to fix some of the dolls I sent back. But as long as you’ve found them, we might as well use them now.”

  “When can we do it, Papa?” asks Trudie. “Today? Right now?”

  Papa smiles. “Give me a little time,” he says. “And remember—these parts aren’t the right ones; the results won’t be perfect.”

  “They’ll be perfect for us,” I tell him, and my sisters nod eagerly in agreement.

  Papa carves out a bit of time each day to work on our dolls. He inserts the eye—a deep, dark blue—into Angelica’s hollow socket. Even though the colors don’t match, she looks interesting and even mysterious. He is able to use the wig—it’s a pretty shade of strawberry blonde, not unlike her original color—for Victoria Marie. The wig is too large, but Mama fixes that by taking it in with a needle and thread. And to replace Victoria Marie’s missing clothes, Mama uses scraps from her basket to sew new ones—a long black-and-white polka dot dress, a white apron, and undergarments, too. Papa can’t replace the doll’s legs—he doesn’t have ones that are the right size—but he files down the broken toes, and Mama paints them to match the color of Victoria Marie’s skin. Then Sophie figures out how to sew her some shoes using bits of black felt and snipped-down pieces of her own worn-out shoelaces. Finally, Papa shows her how to use a bit of wire to attach shiny black beads to the two holes in the doll’s ears.

  My doll, Bernadette Louise, is given a new left foot to replace the missing one, though the two feet look quite different. And although Papa can’t fix her cracked arm, I add some lace trim to the sleeve of her dress—which I have washed, sewn, and ironed—and that completely hides the crack. By Thursday, all three dolls have been mended.

  “There!” I say proudly. “They look just grand!”

  “They do,” agrees Sophie.

  “But what about the other three dolls?” Trudie asks.

  “There are other dolls?” asks Mama.

  We bring the other three dolls so that Mama can see. Two are baby dolls—I don’t know why, but I’ve never liked baby dolls—and the other is a tiny boy doll, the kind you would use in a dollhouse. Still, they need fixing, so it seems only right that we should fix them. One of the babies has a cracked head, and both are very dirty. It’s easy enough to wash them off, and Mama disguises the crack with an old baby bonnet that belonged to Trudie. The other baby doll is missing both legs. Papa doesn’t have any more doll legs that fit, but suddenly, I have an idea: using an old square napkin, I wrap the doll up as if she were a real baby wrapped in a blanket. Everyone agrees this is a very good solution. The tiny boy doll is also missing a leg, but because he wears long pants, it’s easier to stuff some old cloth into the pants leg to fill it out. He is still without a foot, but Papa fixes that by carving and shaping a small piece of cork and then painting it black, to match the doll’s other shoe.

  “That’s better,” Trudie says, when all those dolls are fixed, too. “But what do we do with them?”

  Mama and Papa look at each other. It seems like they haven’t thought of that.

  “We could keep them here and try to sell them,” Sophie says.

  “It might be hard to sell them in this condition,” says Papa.

  “Mr. Karnofosky might buy them, though,” I say. Mr. Karnofksy buys and sells old stuff that people are getting rid of. We got our worktables from him.

  “Now that’s a good plan,” Papa says. “I’m sure he’ll give us something for them. Not a lot, but something.” Papa looks at his watch. “He should be by very soon, too.”

  When Mr. Karnofsky comes down the street with Bessie and his wagon, tooting his long tin horn, Papa steps outside to flag him down. Mr. Karnofsky stops in front of our building.

  “Hey, Breittlemann,” he says to Papa, clapping him on the back. “What have you got for me today?”

  “Anna, can you show Mr. Karnofsky what we have?”

  I give him the dolls, one at a time. He looks them over very carefully and then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a quarter.

  “How’s that?” he asks, handing the money to Papa but looking at me.

  “That’s just fine,” says Papa. They seal the deal with a handshake, and Papa gives Sophie, Trudie, and me a penny a piece for candy.

  “A penny! I want to spend it right now!” Trudie says.

  “Is that all right, Mama?” Sophie asks. “Can we get some candy now?”

  “What if we went to the bakery instead?” I say, before Mama can even answer. “We could buy some fancy cookies and have a doll tea party. We haven’t had one in such a long time.”

  “A party!” says Trudie, “That’s even better than plain old candy. Can we, Mama? Please? Can we?”

  “I guess that would be all right,” Mama says.

  Papa and Mama have finished working for the day, so Trudie and I go back inside and clean off one of the tables, while Sophie goes around the corner to Zeitlin’s Bakery on Grand Street to get the cookies. Then Mama and Trudie go upst
airs. Mama has some mending to do before supper, and Trudie is going to get the tea set. I am left alone in the shop, and just as I have finished wiping the counter clean someone walks in. It is an old lady wearing a dark green dress and long, dark gloves. Her hat is dark, too, and adorned with a few faded but soft looking flowers. She moves slowly, one hand resting on a silver-tipped cane.

  “Hello, may I help you?” I say. I remember Mr. Greenfield’s visit; I’m good with customers.

  “Is this Breittlemann’s Doll Repair Shop?” the woman asks.

  “Yes, but we aren’t taking any dolls to fix right now. We do have some new dolls to sell, though.” I pick up one of the fairies to show her. “See?”

  “She’s charming, but I’m not here to buy a doll. Or to drop one off,” she says. “I’m here to pick up a doll I left some time ago. I had a note from the owner—would that be your father?” I nod, and a very slow, fluttery feeling starts in my stomach. It is not a good flutter, though. “He asked me to pick up my doll. I’m afraid I haven’t been well lately, and so I didn’t answer his letters. But here I am and I can take her with me today.”

  Now, in addition to the fluttery feeling, there is a bad feeling in my chest, like my heart is knocking against my ribs, trying to get out. And my face feels hot, the way it does when I get a fever.

  “What kind of a doll is she?” I ask.

  “She’s a very pretty china thing. Dark hair all wound up around her head. One of her feet is missing though, and her arm is cracked. I have the ticket right here.” She holds out a creased slip of paper. But I don’t need the slip of paper to know that the doll she means is Bernadette Louise.

  “I’ll get her.” I am trembling as I go to get the doll from her box. “Here she is,” I say, handing her to the woman. I am trying not to cry.

  “Yes, that’s her,” says the woman. “But she’s been mended.” The woman looks confused. “In his letter, your father said that he couldn’t repair her without the parts he needed.”