by Lois Lowry
Anastasia stifled a groan. There was nothing she wanted to do less on a Saturday than take a trip down Memory Lane with her father. But she smiled sweetly, and said, "Sure, Dad."
I brought it on myself, she thought, and went to brush her teeth.
"Mom," said Anastasia, as her father got the car out of the garage, "up in my room, on my desk, is a big feather. Would you take it to Sam when you go to the hospital? I promised him."
"Sure."
Out in the driveway, her father honked the horn. Anastasia sighed. "He really knows how to ruin someone's Saturday," she said.
Her mother picked up the crossword puzzle again. "Good for you, Anastasia! Ruin! Four down. The clue was 'to devastate.'"
"Right. That's what I meant. He's completely devastated my Saturday." She went glumly out to the car.
"My father never had a car," announced Dr. Krupnik as he pulled into a Boston parking garage. "Never in his whole life did my father own a car. If he had owned a car, he would never have been able to afford six dollars for parking in a garage. Six dollars would have fed our whole family for a week, back in 1935."
Anastasia tried to look interested. Actually, she was bored stiff. Though she had never seen her father's childhood home before, she had heard all his dull poverty stories. Every twelve-year-old kid had, she was quite sure. Every twelve-year-old kid in the entire world had to listen to things like "When I was your age I walked five miles to school in my bare feet." Or, "When I was your age I had to milk twenty-three cows by hand before the sun came up, in the middle of winter." Or, "When I was a kid, all we got for Christmas was an orange and a pair of mittens." Probably even Rockefeller kids had to listen to things like that.
Anastasia vowed that when she had children she would never ever tell them what a deprived childhood she had had. That she had had to work as a maid when she was only twelve. That she had lived in a house with an old refrigerator that couldn't make reliable ice cubes. That she had never in her entire childhood been taken to Disneyland.
She looked around as they left the garage.
"Dad!" Anastasia said. "This is Quincy Market, for Pete's sake! I've been here before! I hate Quincy Market! It's all tourists! Did you live here when you were a kid? Did your father run a boutique or something?"
Her father looked at her in surprise. Then he looked around at Quincy Market: at the restaurants, art galleries, gift shops, pubs, and clothing stores. He began to laugh.
A middle-aged couple, each carrying a camera, glanced at Anastasia and her father, and frowned. Nearby, a young man with a scraggly mustache tuned his violin and began to play; someone tossed a coin into his violin case, which was open on the brick sidewalk.
"Of course I didn't live here. This wasn't even here when I was a kid. I mean, the buildings were here—you can see that the buildings are very old—but in those days, when I was a boy, this whole area was..." He stopped talking, scrunched his nose, moved aside to let a throng of tourists pass, and tried to think of the right word.
"The pits?" asked Anastasia, beginning to get the picture.
Her father grinned. "Yes. It was definitely the pits. Anyway, where I lived was over this way. Come on."
He guided her across a street, under an underpass—she could hear the cars zooming overhead—and onto the sidewalk in front of an Italian meat market. A burly dark-haired man wearing a white apron called to them from the doorway. "You want chicken? We got lotsa chicken parts on special today! Eighty-nine cents a pound!"
"No, thanks," her father called back. "Not today."
"Lamb chops?" the butcher called. "Loin lamb chops?"
But they were already around the corner. Anastasia's father was guiding her as he looked for street signs.
"Salem Street," he said, almost to himself. "If we go down Salem Street, and then turn right, I think ..."
She trotted beside him, dodging the people. Children darted here and there, calling to each other. From upper windows women leaned, calling to the children. In storefront doorways, men stood, calling to the women in the windows.
One of the men called to Anastasia, "Hey, Blondie, you and your papa wanta pizza?"
Actually, Anastasia would have loved a pizza, as long as it didn't have anchovies. Anchovies always made her think of her goldfish. She had always suspected that unsold goldfish ended up as pizza anchovies.
But her father was striding ahead of her, looking down side streets. She said, "No, thank you," politely to the pizza man and ran to catch up. "Maybe later," she called back, over her shoulder, but the pizza man was already calling to someone else.
From an open window above her somewhere she could hear familiar music. Anastasia looked up. A woman was reaching from the window, hanging diapers on a clothesline that stretched across to the next building. The music was coming from behind the woman.
"Dad," she said, pulling at his sleeve. "Listen. Someone's playing that opera that you always play."
He stopped walking, listened for a moment, and then looked up at the woman, who was snapping diapers straight as she pinned them to the line.
"Puccini, eh?" her father called. Ordinarily, Anastasia was grossed out when her father spoke to total strangers in public. But somehow it seemed okay here. The woman grinned down from her window and called something back to Dr. Krupnik, in another language.
He smiled, waved, and called, "Ciao!"
"Chow?" said Anastasia. "That sounds like a good idea. All these restaurants smell terrific."
"No: ciao. That's Italian. It's just a greeting."
Two little boys ran past, chasing each other, almost knocking over a woman pushing a baby carriage, and disappeared into a candy store. The woman with the baby called after them angrily and then turned to jounce her baby back to sleep. Anastasia couldn't understand what she was saying.
"Dad," Anastasia said, "everybody's speaking Italian!"
"It's their native language," her father explained. "They know how to speak English. If they were talking to us, they'd speak English. But to each other they speak Italian. Here: I think we want to turn down that next street. It's been so long since I've been back here."
They turned to the right, down a twisted, crooked street so narrow that she didn't see how a car could possibly get through. One had, though, and had parked, and it had a ticket that said VIOLATION, in big letters, on the windshield. Shabby buildings rose on either side and shadowed the street. Old women sat knitting, in lawn chairs, right on the sidewalk. Two men played checkers at a card table set up in a doorway; a dog by their feet yawned and scratched at a flea. Children scampered and giggled and chased each other. Babies cried; mothers scolded; a cat slept, unconcerned, in a window.
Even the graffiti spray-painted on the side of a building were in Italian.
"There it is!" said her father triumphantly, and he pointed to an undistinguished brick building on the corner. "Third floor rear!"
They climbed the three cement steps that led to the doorway, and peered inside. A row of metal mailboxes was attached to the wall. Anastasia read the names aloud: "Castelucci, De Luca, Ronzoni, Di Benedetto.
"It sounds like the cast of a Fellini movie," she said.
Then she looked around again, at the tiny street throbbing with life, at the children, the grandmothers, the cats, and dogs. She listened to the noises: doors slamming, radios playing, the shouting, arguing, laughing, singing. "As a matter of fact," she said, "being here is like being in a Fellini movie."
Her father grinned. "I love it," he said.
"I love it, too," Anastasia admitted. "I thought it would be boring, coming here, but it isn't. But there's something I can't figure out, Dad. Were you Italian when you were a kid?"
He laughed. "Anastasia, do I look Italian?"
She studied his face carefully. A little chubby. Head bald on top; remaining hair red and curly, with some streaks of gray on the sides. Pink nose, with dents in it because his glasses had slid down a bit, the same way hers did when it was hot and her face got s
lippery. Curly beard.
"No," she said finally. "You don't."
"My parents came here from Czechoslovakia. This whole area, when I was young, was a place where immigrants from many different countries settled. My father came here first. Then, after he'd saved enough money, he sent for my mother."
"What about you? What about your brothers? Did she come alone, and leave you behind in Czech—— in Czech——I can't say it."
"Czechoslovakia. No, no. We were all born right here. Third floor rear."
"Not in a hospital?"
"Hospitals were too expensive. I told you, Anastasia, my family was poor."
She cringed, waiting, but he didn't say anything about unwashed.
He was wrinkling his forehead, looking around, remembering. "My father was a tailor. At first he worked for someone else. But I don't know where that was. It was before I was born. By the time I came along, he had his own shop; it was around the corner and down about half a block."
He looked around the corner and down. But there was nothing except an Italian restaurant, a dry cleaner, and a pastry shop.
"Well," he said finally, "it's gone now, of course. But in the summer, when I wasn't in school, I used to carry his lunch down to the shop every day."
"Were there other people around from Czech—— from Czech——Rats, Dad; I still can't say it."
"Czechoslovakia. Sure there were. Lots. A whole community. Some of them were even old friends from the same village back in the old country."
"Where did they all go? Why aren't they here now?"
"Let's walk, and we'll find a place to have some lunch." He put his arm around her shoulders, and they turned onto another street, walking slowly. "Where did they go? Different places, I guess. They all worked hard, and saved, and looked for good places to raise their children. I think they looked for places that reminded them of the old country. My mother and father eventually bought a little house farther out, where they could have a yard and my mother could have a garden."
"But he never ever had a car," Anastasia mused. "I thought everybody in the suburbs had to have a car."
"Nope. He could never afford a car. But he sent all five sons to college," her father said proudly.
"And then two of them died," Anastasia prompted him. "I remember you told me that."
"Right. My brothers Joe and Ben. Both of them killed in the war."
"That is so sad," said Anastasia. "When I thought my brother was going to die, I couldn't stand it."
"But there's still my brother George, in California."
"Uncle George. He and Aunt Rose always send me neat stuff on my birthday. An Indian necklace once, remember?"
Her father nodded. "And then, of course, there's Irving."
Anastasia groaned. "The doctor. He is so boring, Dad."
"Anastasia!"
"I'm sorry. But he is."
"I guess you're right. Irving was always boring, even when he was a kid."
"But you liked him anyway, didn't you, Dad?"
"Sure I did. I still do. He's my brother."
"Like me and Sam. Even when Sam is boring, I still like him," said Anastasia.
Her father began to laugh. "Anastasia, Sam is never boring!"
"True," she acknowledged. Then she said, "You know what, Dad? I know someone who hates her whole family."
"Extraordinary," said her father. "Extra-absolutely-ordinary. Unless her whole family are ax murderers or something."
"No. They're just your basic family types. They do some dumb things, though."
"We all do. I remember just last week I blew up at you because you used all the ice cubes and didn't put the ice trays back. That was a pretty dumb thing."
"Which was? Not putting the trays back? Or blowing up about it?"
"Both, in fact. But we didn't hate each other because of it. I think your friend must be just pretending to hate her family."
"Why would she do that?"
"Beats me. Hey, you hungry yet? Want some chow?"
"Ciao!" said Anastasia.
"Ciao to you, too!" said her father.
Two nuns walking past looked at them curiously, nudged each other, giggled, and walked on.
"In here okay?" asked her father. Anastasia nodded, and they entered a small Italian restaurant.
"I'm glad the Italians didn't scrimp and save and move away, like the Whatchamacallits," said Anastasia, after two mouthfuls of spaghetti. "I'm glad they stayed here."
"Well," said her father as he ate his antipasto. "Lots of Italians moved away to the suburbs, too. But some of them chose to stay here even after they could afford to move."
"They stayed because they liked it, I bet."
"Sure. They made it into something like a part of Italy. A little bit of Naples or Florence. It felt like home."
Anastasia slurped a long piece of spaghetti when she thought no one in the restaurant was looking.
"Dad," she said slowly, "I was really mad at you this morning."
He poked in his antipasto with his fork. "You want an anchovy?"
"Yuck," said Anastasia. "Blecchhh."
"A simple 'No, thank you' would be sufficient," her father said, and ate the anchovy himself. "I was pretty mad at you, too."
"I know you were. But the reason I was mad was that you didn't even give me a chance to explain."
"There isn't any explanation for bigotry," he said. "Not ever."
"I know that. I really do. But I wasn't even thinking about what I was saying. It was the way I was saying it. I was imitating Mrs. Bellingham. Mrs. Bellingham is so awful."
"You know," said her father, "I agree that Mrs. Bellingham did a pretty thoughtless thing when you applied for one job and she sort of tricked you into another. But on the other hand, Anastasia, I've decided that she's not such a bad person after all."
"Dad! She made me be a maid!"
"You didn't let me finish. I read in the local paper that she's giving a party next week. Did you know about that?"
"Did I know about that? Who do you think is going to be a maid at the party?"
He poked at the last bits of lettuce in his salad. "Oh. I see. Well, let's try looking at it in a different way, Anastasia."
Now Anastasia was getting mad. "There isn't any other way. No matter how you look at it, a maid is a maid is a maid is a maid."
"Not always. How about being a maid for a very worthy cause?"
Anastasia made a face. She couldn't think of a single cause worthy enough to justify Anastasia Krupnik's being a servant. A scullery maid. A slave.
"The paper said that it's a benefit. People are paying enormous amounts of money to go to that party," her father said.
"I know. A hundred dollars apiece," said Anastasia, almost smiling as she thought of the wonderful disaster that she and Daphne were going to cause.
"And all of that money," her father went on, "probably twenty thousand dollars, is going to go to the pediatric section of the hospital. The same place that saved Sam's life."
Oh, no. Oh, no. Anastasia's heart sank. Her heart sank and her stomach churned. A whole plateful of spaghetti began to move inside her stomach. She felt first hot and then cold. Her hands began to sweat.
"Holy Moley," she said under her breath. "Excuse me, Dad."
She ran to the ladies room. Four dollars and ninety-five cents' worth of spaghetti with sausages and mushrooms. Right down the drain.
10
It was too late. It was just too late, and Anastasia knew it, but she called Daphne anyway, on Sunday afternoon, after she had recovered from being sick.
She had thrown up four times on Saturday. Her parents blamed it on the sausage in the spaghetti. You could never tell, her mother said, what people put into sausage. She had heard rumors about dead cats and ground-up tennis shoes. Anastasia's father threatened to call the Board of Health, but he couldn't remember the name of the restaurant.
Anastasia knew it wasn't the sausage anyway. The sickness had started in her brain and her heart
—and in her conscience—and had worked its way down, very quickly, to the sausage, which was an innocent bystander.
By Sunday afternoon her stomach felt okay. But her conscience was terminally ill.
"Jeez," said Daphne on the phone, after Anastasia had explained, "there's nothing we can do now. I don't even know the names of any of the people I gave invitations to. The only thing I can think of is to call in a bomb threat so the party will be cancelled."
"No good. I think that's a federal offense. If we got caught, we'd go to prison. I'm already nervous enough about making friends in seventh grade. Imagine what prison would be like. I can't think of one single thing to say to a bank robber or an ax murderer."
"Anyway," Daphne pointed out, "we don't want the party cancelled. Then the hospital wouldn't get the twenty thousand dollars."
"Right," said Anastasia. "The party has to be held. But we'll have to try to keep it from being a disaster. Forget about humiliating your grandmother."
"Yeah. We'll just keep an eye on all the weird guests. Keep them from making awful scenes. If the drunk guy starts getting drunk..."
"Or the dope dealer starts trying to sell drugs..."
"Or if that crazy lady comes with her bag full of dog food..."
"We'll just ask them to leave," said Anastasia.
"Politely," said Daphne.
"But firmly," said Anastasia.
"And quietly," said Daphne, "so my grandmother never knows what's going on."
"Then the party will be a success," said Anastasia, beginning to feel relieved.
"And the hospital will get its money," said Daphne, "and we won't get into trouble."
"Daphne," said Anastasia, "I really wish we hadn't dreamed up this idea in the first place."
"I know the feeling," said Daphne. "I feel that way about most of my crazy ideas. Usually by then it's too late."
***
Sam's homecoming on Monday was something of a disappointment to Anastasia. She had expected to meet the car when her mother drove in, to help carry Sam up to his bed, to sit there with him and read him stories, to feed him custard—maybe even soft-boiled eggs—and say soothing words. But she should have known better. Sam had been driving the nurses crazy for two days now with his high spirits, good health, and energy. Ever since his mother brought him the feather, he had worn it Scotchtaped to his bald head and had pulled Bald Eagle commando raids in the hallways of the pediatric ward. There had even been, the nurses told Anastasia's mother, a terrible collision involving a bedpan.