American Progress

by Veda Boyd Jones

  Carrie was ashamed that she hadn’t practiced well at all the past week. Opening the Beethoven book, she turned to “Moonlight Sonata.” It was her favorite. “This one,” she said.

  When Carrie played it, the song didn’t sound nearly as lovely as when she heard it on the radio played by a full orchestra. Slowly, she picked out the melody, stumbling a few times on the left-hand part.

  “Pretty good.” Miss Tilden set about to drill her on the rough spots, setting the metronome to pace out the rhythm. From there, they moved to Beethoven’s famous “Ode to Joy.”

  “While Beethoven appeared to be a religious man,” Miss Tilden said coolly, “we in modern society understand that he was simply clinging to any panacea—any remedy or cure-all—that would comfort him at this time.”

  “The book says he was totally deaf when he wrote this symphony,” Carrie said.

  “That’s true. And when he wrote many of his other symphonies and an opera.”

  “But I don’t understand, Miss Tilden. I know if I were a musician who had lost my hearing, I would turn to something more than a panacea. I would turn to someone like a loving God who cares about me.”

  Miss Tilden looked at her for a moment. “If there were a loving God who cares, that loving God would have kept Beethoven from being deaf.”

  “My aunt Frances says God doesn’t stop bad things from happening, but He promises never to leave us. Through the bad times, He’s always there.”

  “That, my dear Carrie, is a highly debatable issue. Now let’s stop wasting time talking about the piece. Please play it. All right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As Carrie played the majestic piece, the words to the hymn taken from its melody ran through her head. They sang it often in church:

  Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love;

  Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, opening to the sun above.

  Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; drive the dark of doubt away;

  Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day!

  Perhaps Carrie could pray that God would drive the “dark of doubt” away for Miss Tilden. Carrie couldn’t imagine not knowing and loving God. While it was true that her parents didn’t pray and read the Bible as much as Aunt Frances and Uncle Kenneth—nor for that matter, as much as Uncle Hans and Aunt Elena—they still took Carrie to church every week.

  When the lessons were over, Carrie asked, “Did I tell you that I’m taking tennis lessons this summer, Miss Tilden?”

  “I think you mentioned it.”

  “I’ll bet you’re a good tennis player.”

  She nodded as she touched one of the little curls at her cheek. “I can hold my own.”

  “Why don’t you come and play a set or two with me after I take my lesson next week?”

  “And where might this be?”

  “At the country club.”

  Miss Tilden gave a bright little laugh. “Sorry, Carrie, I’m not part of the elite class. I wouldn’t fit in at your fancy country club.”

  “You’d be my guest. It’s a very nice court. Will you come?”

  “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

  “I’ll call you the day before to see what you’ve decided.”

  “Okay, kiddo. Good enough.”

  As Carrie tripped down the stairs, she was singing under her breath, “Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; drive the dark of doubt away….”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Babushka

  Would you drop me off at the sandlot on Franklin Avenue?” Carrie asked Mother on their way home.

  “Shouldn’t you go home and practice what you learned this afternoon?”

  “I promise I’ll practice right after supper,” Carrie replied.

  “All right. But remember, a promise is a promise.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Mother slowed the car at the corner vacant lot, where two teams of boys were playing a game of baseball. There was Violet sitting all by herself on the grass under a shade tree. Quickly Carrie kissed her mother good-bye. “I’ll just leave my books in the car.”

  “I’ll take them in for you, dear,” Mother said.

  Carrie jumped out and ran across the lot to where Vi was sitting. Her friend was surrounded by wildflower chains that she’d been weaving. Mostly long-stemmed daisies and brown-eyed Susans.

  “Vi,” she called out. “Is our team winning?”

  Vi looked up, but she didn’t smile. “Well, there you are. I thought you’d run off for good. Why didn’t you come back?”

  “I had to go take my piano lessons.”

  “No. I mean before that. You stayed with that pitiful Jewish girl for a long time.”

  “Oh, Vi,” Carrie said sitting down. “She really is pitiful. My heart aches for her. Her parents died on the ship coming over. Can you imagine how all alone she must feel?”

  Vi proceeded to weave another chain of daisies and said nothing, so Carrie kept talking. “She was entranced with the little kitten. I came to ask the three of you to help me ask around the neighborhood about the kitten, but you’d already left.”

  “So when you knew I had come to the lot, why didn’t you come here?”

  Carrie couldn’t believe what Vi was saying. “Well, as I was saying—I had to find out if the kitten belonged to anyone.”

  Vi’s voice was cool. “Her uncle could have done that.”

  “I suppose he could have, but I offered.” This was silly. Why was Vi so upset?

  “That shows where I rate,” Vi said sullenly.

  Ignoring the comment, Carrie plunged on. “Anyway, I found out no one had lost a kitten, so I told her it was hers.” She paused a minute trying to think of something else to say. “Guess what she named the kitten?”

  Vi shrugged, showing she didn’t know nor did she care.

  “She named it Vanya, which means gift of God.“

  Vi looked up from the daisies in her hand. “What would she know about God?”

  Carrie thought a minute, wondering how to answer. She knew so little about Jewish people. “They worship God, Vi.”

  “Sonny told us that the Jews killed Jesus. You’ve read the Easter story. You know that’s true.” Vi shook her head. “I can’t believe you’d want to be friends with the very ones who killed Jesus. What kind of Christian are you?”

  Carrie stared at her friend. The two of them had been so close for more than a year. Never had one angry word passed between them. Now this. “Dvora is just a little girl, Violet. She’s our age. I don’t think she had a thing to do with killing Jesus.”

  Suddenly the winning home run went sailing over their heads, bringing their conversation to a halt. The game was over, and the boys were whooping and hollering something fierce. The girls couldn’t have continued their conversation if they’d wanted to. And Carrie definitely didn’t want to.

  The four of them went trooping back to the Simmonses’ house for lemonade and cookies that Opal had prepared. The boys could talk of nothing but the wonderful plays they’d made and the home runs they’d hit. Thankfully, Vi didn’t bring up the subject of Dvora.

  Carrie relished the long, hot days of summer, but school was looming just around the corner. Every time she passed the Carrutherses’ place to go play with Violet and Nate, she wondered if Dvora had yet given up her babushka. But then she would see the girl either sitting at the window in the apartment or sitting on the steps with the kitten in her lap. And without fail, the babushka would still be tied on her head.

  One afternoon, Nate and Garvey were off playing ball again, and Vi and Carrie had played together in the attic for hours. When it was time for Carrie to go home, she was by herself walking past the Carrutherses’ house. Yerik was out front in the circle driveway polishing the Packard.

  “Excuse me, Miss Caroline,” he said as she approached. “Could you spare a minute?”

  His voice startled her. She hadn’t expected him to speak to her. “I have a few mi
nutes,” she answered.

  He shook his head. “About Dvora,” he said.

  “Is she ill?” Carrie asked. The girl had seemed as frail as a china doll.

  “No. Not in body at least.” Yerik folded the polishing cloth in his hands. “I’m a bachelor man, not a father. I know so little about young girls.”

  Carrie could see how that might be a problem.

  “It’s about the babushka.”

  “Oh,” Carrie said, now understanding the problem.

  “You see, Miss Caroline, the babushka belonged to Dvora’s sweet mother—my sister, Chava. And before Chava, it belonged to our mother—Chava’s and mine.” There were tears in Yerik’s eyes, but Carrie was polite and pretended not to notice.

  “On the ship, before Chava died, she used her last remaining strength to remove the babushka from her own head and place it over Dvora’s.” Yerik swallowed hard and continued to fold and unfold the polishing cloth. “It is the only article my niece has of her mama’s. This is why she refuses to take it off.”

  The story was sad enough to make Carrie cry, and she hadn’t even known this Jewish mother who died out on the ocean somewhere. “Why are you telling me this?” Carrie asked. She was supposed to be home for supper in just a few minutes.

  “I am presuming too much to speak to you of this.” His eyes turned shyly to the pavement at his feet. “Yet I thought because of your kindness with the kitten, that perhaps you might talk to her of the babushka.”

  Carrie hesitated for a moment. “I suppose I could take just a minute with her.” This was silly, because she had no earthly idea what she could say that would make any difference.

  “Come, I’ll show you to the apartment.”

  “I know the way. Shall I just knock?”

  “Yes, just knock.”

  As Carrie walked around the house to the garage, it occurred to her to say a quick prayer. After all, God knew how Dvora’s heart was broken at losing her parents.

  The Levinskys’ apartment was furnished quite simply and was scrubbed as spotless as Aunt Frances’s house. Dvora greeted Carrie warmly. “Welcome to our house, Carrie,” she said. “Come and sit with me.” She waved toward a small wooden kitchen table. She fixed strong tea in glasses with no ice.

  She showed Carrie the box that was supposed to be the kitten’s bed. “But,” she said, “mostly Vanya wants to sleep with me.”

  “That means she loves you.”

  Dvora gave a shy smile. “I think she does.”

  “Before school begins,” Carrie said, “I’d like to help you fix your hair. May I do that?”

  Dvora’s hand flew to her braid, which was entwined with a bright red ribbon and coiled around her head—all covered, of course, with the scarf. “My hair is not right?”

  “Your hair is very pretty, but I can help you make it look more American.”

  Dvora pointed to Carrie’s long braids. “Down like yours?”

  Carrie nodded. “May I try? Not today, but another day?”

  “But the babushka …,” Dvora said, her eyes getting all misty. She toyed with the tie beneath her chin.

  “The cloth is beautiful. Was it woven by your family?”

  Dvora nodded. “Woven many generations ago.”

  “Could you show me more closely?” Carrie asked carefully. “Could we spread it out on the table?”

  “Yes. You will better see how lovely it is.” With that, Dvora untied the scarf and spread it out across the table.

  Carrie admired the intricacies of the weave and the delicate floral pattern. “It would make a lovely sash.”

  “A sash?”

  “Worn at the waist.” Gently she took the cloth, folded it, and put it around Dvora’s waist.

  “Girls at your school wear a sash?”

  Carrie nodded. “They do.”

  “They don’t wear babushkas?” Dvora pointed to her head.

  “No, Dvora. No one at Washington Elementary School wears a babushka.” Carrie took the cloth and folded it loosely about Dvora’s neck. “It could even be a scarf at the neck.”

  Dvora nodded and smiled. “I can see that it might be a scarf at the neck.” She took the babushka from Carrie’s hands and tied a little knot at her neck. “Uncle Yerik is taking me to purchase shoes and school dresses tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Carrie said. “That’s good. The salesladies at the stores will help you make the right choices.” Carrie rose to go. “I’ll help you with your hair on another day.”

  “Thank you, Carrie. Again you have been a friend to me.”

  As Carrie hurried out the drive, she hoped against hope that Violet wasn’t looking out of her window.

  A welcome gray thunderstorm moved across the city the week before school began, settling the dust and cooling the terribly hot temperatures. And it provided Carrie and Garvey and the Bickersons with another wonderful day to play in the attic.

  This time, Garvey had his head wound up in a turban, which made him look ridiculous. “I’m Rudolph Valentino,” he said, throwing a tablecloth about his shoulders for a cape. “I’m the sheik.”

  Vi laughed at his antics. “You don’t look anything like Rudolph Valentino,” she protested. “Rudolph is handsome. His eyes are sultry, and his hair is slicked back all shiny with nothing out of place.”

  “Well, this is just pretend anyway,” Garvey said, laughing. As he whirled his cape, the turban unwound and fell to his feet.

  “I’d rather be Douglas Fairbanks playing Robin Hood,” Nate said.

  “That would be fun,” Vi agreed. “And I could be Maid Marian.”

  Garvey, picking up a cane and holding it like a staff, was now ready for the new game. “I, of course, will be the biggest and strongest one of his merry men—Little John.”

  “Who will I be?” Carrie wanted to know.

  “Why, my lady-in-waiting, of course,” Violet replied.

  Although Carrie felt she’d been a trifle cheated, still they had fun with the game for several hours. The rain continued to beat down on the attic windows as they played. Even when Garvey got a little overly enthusiastic with his staff and accidentally hit Nate in the head, no one got upset.

  Then Nate happened to remember something. “Garvey, guess what? The Yankees are playing this afternoon. Why don’t we go to your house and listen to the game on the radio? Wouldn’t it be great to hear the Babe slug a couple of homers?”

  “I have a better idea,” Garvey said, removing his pretend cape. “Sonny’s gone to work for the day. Let’s just go down and listen on his radio set.”

  “What a great idea,” Nate said.

  “He’ll kill you if he finds out,” Vi said. But Carrie could tell she was just as excited about the idea as the boys were.

  “He won’t find out,” Garvey said. “We’re not going to hurt anything. All we’ll do is turn the set on, tune it in, then turn it back off again.”

  Vi was already pulling off her long dress-up dress. “Come on,” she said to Carrie. “This’ll be great fun.”

  Carrie didn’t think it would be great fun at all. But she said nothing. Reluctantly she folded up her old dress, placed it back in the trunk, and followed the trio down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 8

  Secret in the Closet

  We’ll act like we’re going outside,” Garvey said quietly. “Then we’ll enter from the outside entrance. That way Opal won’t get suspicious.”

  “Keen idea,” Nate said, really getting into the drama of the escapade.

  Carrie couldn’t see any fun in sneaking around and snooping into another person’s belongings. But she said nothing.

  “I get to turn it on,” Nate said as they came down the steps from the outside entrance and quietly entered the room where the radio set was kept.

  “Then I’ll tune it in,” Garvey said. “I’m used to doing that with our set at home.”

  Carrie wondered if Garvey remembered that her family purchased a radio months before his family had, and her father had al
lowed her to tune it in the very first day it arrived. There was really nothing to it, but Garvey made it sound as though it required special ability.

  The four walked over to the workbench where the radio was sitting. The place was littered with wires and tubes and gadgets of all kinds. Wiring charts were posted on the wall above the radio, and books about radio sets were lined in a row against the back wall. Sonny now worked at a radio shop downtown. It was obvious he was quite taken with radios.

  Garvey studied the titles of the books. “I bet these books are hard to understand,” he said. “I’m doing well to get through a couple episodes of The Radio Boys.“

  Once the game was tuned in, Carrie wondered how long it would be before Vi became bored with listening. After all, Vi had always said that watching a ball game was boring. Listening was even more so.

  “Let’s sit down over here,” Vi said, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of it all. She seated herself on a chenille rug and waved to Carrie to join her.

  Although it didn’t look any too clean, Carrie supposed the rug couldn’t be any dustier than the attic. She sat down and prepared to endure.

  At home, if Father listened to a game, Carrie could go off and play by herself or read in her room. But now she listened as the fasttalking announcer described play after play that meant nothing to Carrie.

  “Shh!” Garvey said at one point, even though no one was talking. “The Bambino is at bat.”

  “Come on, Number Three,” Nate said, referring to Babe Ruth’s uniform number.

  When the homer was slammed, Garvey, who was leaning close to the radio, jumped for joy. As he did, his arm accidentally knocked two glass radio tubes to the floor. One bounced. The other shattered.

  All four friends were silent for a moment as the announcer continued the play-by-play, accompanied by sounds of cheering crowds in the background.

  “Aw, Garvey,” Nate said. “What’d you have to go and do that for?”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to.”

  “You should have stayed back a ways,” Vi scolded.

  “I had to stay close to keep it tuned in.”

  “Now we’ll have to go buy another tube,” Nate said.