“That yours?” Iggy said at last. I nod.
“Well, it’s not too bad,” he says gruffly. “Actually, it’s pretty good.” He walks away.
“Thank you,” I call out after him. Although he doesn’t turn around, I know he’s heard me.
A few days later in class, Iggy asks me for help with his birdhouse.
At recess the next day, he runs up to me and taps my shoulder. “Tag!” he calls. “You’re it!”
I grin as I dart off after Iggy. I’m fast, and it doesn’t take me long to catch him. “You’re it!”
After this, the boys include me in all their games. And the girls do too. Now, I start looking forward to school and am actually sorry when the term ends.
June again. So much has happened since last year!
As a treat, Papa takes us all out to Coney Island. This is the first time I’ve been to the amusement park after dark, when what seem like a thousand brilliant lights flood the night sky. And we’re going to the carousel! After all the months of working in the shop, I feel I have a claim to it. It belongs, in part, to me.
Along the way, Papa buys us ears of roasted corn and apples that have been dipped in red candy. But I’m impatient to get to the carousel. Soon, we hear the lively music—calliope, cymbals, drums—and there we are, right in front of it.
How splendid it is, spinning like a top, horses rising and falling as if they’re dancing. It’s even better than I imagined when I stood here in the cold, peering in through the loosened slat of wood.
“Did you make any of those horses?” Gittel asks Papa.
“No,” Papa says, smiling down at her. “But next summer, you’ll see my horses. They replace a few every year.”
“I helped with some of them,” I add.
“You!” Gittel is surprised. “I knew you were going to woodshop instead of sewing. And I know about all the animals you carve. But I didn’t know you knew how to make great big carousel horses!”
“Well, I still have a lot to learn,” I say. “I didn’t do any carving. I just helped decorate them.”
“Which ones?”
“You see that brown horse? With the lilac saddle?” Gittel nods. “I did his harness and his bridle. The jewels too.”
“He looks very grand,” Gittel says.
“And that white one? I did her bridle and saddle. And a little bit of her ears—the man who was doing them was sick, so I finished up.”
“You did a wonderful job.” So now Gittel is praising my work along with my haircut. I puff up with pride.
“And when Batya’s finished with that woodshop class, I bet she’ll be ready to carve one of those horses from start to finish,” says Avram. He puts his arm around my shoulders and gives me a hug.
First, a compliment from my oh-so-perfect sister, and now a hug from my brother—what else will this day bring?
“Anyone want a ride?” asks Papa.
So we all get on, even Mama and Papa. I choose the white horse. To me, she is perfect. The horse circles once, twice—and the third time, I lean over, just past her proudly arched neck, and I catch the brass ring.
Later, Avram rides the roller coaster, which is too scary for me, and after that, we all take turns shooting darts at a target. I’m not very good at darts, but Avram wins a glass rooster that he gives to Sarah. Riding home, Gittel and Sarah fall asleep, and even Avram dozes lightly. I’m tired too but remain awake, replaying the evening in my mind. The carousel ride was the best part.
I look down at my hands, the hands that still long to carve, and that’s how I see the rooster slipping from Sarah’s loosened fingers. I catch it before it can fall to the floor and break. I think of the chickens back at our cottage, but the memory seems distant now, and it no longer makes me ache. I cup the rooster carefully in my hands, determined to keep it safe for Sarah.
Chapter 10
Ash
Over the summer, we still have chores, but at least now I can whittle again. Papa brings me wood from the carousel shop. But these bits and pieces no longer satisfy me. I’ve learned to handle larger, more serious tools, like a saw and a gouge. My hands need more than the little whittling knife can offer.
I’ll just have to wait until school starts in September. Although Miss Flannery won’t be my teacher, she made sure I’d be allowed to take woodshop again. I’ve already made a shelf that I gave to Mama, who declared it was perfect for her spices. Next, I’m going to start on that sewing box for Gittel.
We meet some other kids in the neighborhood and play tag, hide-and-seek, and hopscotch. We blow bubbles using wire loops and a flat pan of soapy water. Avram teaches us to play stickball. Gittel and I don’t like it at all, but Sarah does. Who would have thought that such a little girl could hit a ball so hard or run so fast? If it rains, we stay inside and draw or make paper dolls.
One morning late in July, I’m washing the breakfast dishes. Avram is out making a delivery on his bicycle, and Mama has gone uptown to the dress shop. Gittel is out with Sarah, and Papa is at the table with his coffee and the Yiddish newspaper. Mama still drinks tea made in the samovar we brought from Russia. But Papa has switched to coffee.
Today I’m planning a trip to the library; I’ve started going again. The librarian even remembered me. “I’m glad you came back,” she said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to fill out the papers so you can have a library card?”
This time, I agreed, and now I lug books back and forth from East Broadway to our apartment. I was excited when I came across a biography of Helen Keller. Like Sarah, Helen lost her hearing from a fever. And she lost her eyesight. Like Sarah, she was angry for a long time. But then a wonderful teacher—sort of like Miss Flannery—named Anne Sullivan helped her. Helen was able go to school and then to college! Now she leads a happy, full life even though she can’t see or hear. This book gives me so much hope. I’ve read it twice, and I want to read it to Mama and Papa.
All of a sudden, I hear a strange sound. “No!” Papa bursts out, pushing the paper away. It falls to the floor, and the pages fan out at his feet.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“A fire late last night! In Coney Island! There was so much damage . . .”
“Not the carousel shop?”
“Not the shop. But so many of the rides—and the carousel! Gone!”
Images fill my mind. Fires, jugglers, stampeding horses, Mr. Moskowitz. I burst into sobs.
Papa gathers me in his arms. “I’m sorry I scared you. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I thought we left Russia to get away from all that! But it’s followed us here!”
“What?” says Papa, looking confused. After a moment, though, he understands. “No, katzeleh. It wasn’t like that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” says Papa. “It was an accident. Just a horrible accident.” I must look unconvinced because he adds, “No one was hurt.”
“No one?” I ask.
“No one,” Papa says firmly. “The amusement park and the carousel were closed for the night. Everyone was gone.”
“How did it start?”
“The police will investigate. But you know how easy it is for wood to catch fire.”
I do. There are tin pails filled with sand at the carousel shop. Sand, Gus explained, can smother a fire. But if this fire started at night, there was no one to dump sand onto the flames.
“What happened is very sad,” Papa says, refolding the paper. “But it will be fixed. You’ll see.” He glances at the clock. “I have to go to work now.”
“Please, Papa, let me come with you!”
Papa hesitates. Is he thinking about the terrible morning after the pogrom? “All right. But you’ll have to hurry.”
The ride seems to take forever. Usually, I love it when the train emerges from underground and I can look out the windows. But today, I barely notice, and I fret every time the train makes a stop. Finally, we pull into the last station. I’m so impatient that I jump out of my seat and race down
the steps. Papa rushes to keep up.
First, we go to see the carousel. We can’t get too close because the police have put up ropes to keep people back. We can see chunks of charred wood and piles of ash. I can make out a few horses that haven’t been completely destroyed. But not many.
“Let’s go,” Papa says. “They’ll need me at the shop.”
When we arrive, we see Gus holding a clipboard. He looks down at it as he barks orders to the men swarming around. Papa quickly joins them. I remain off to the side. No one notices me, not even Sophia, who is there too.
Suddenly the activity stops. I wonder why until I see the man in the linen suit and crisp shirt. Mr. Mittendorf. I’ve seen him before, though I always made sure he didn’t see me.
The workers gather around him. “The carousel suffered terrible damage in last night’s fire,” he begins. “We’re grateful no one was hurt. But the carousel is ruined, and we’ve lost all the horses we had scheduled to ship out. And here we are at the height of the summer season, gentlemen. The absolute height.” He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and pats his face. “That means we’ll have to double our production schedule. The shop will be open for extended hours, and there’ll be two shifts. If any of you know any carvers in need of work, have them see me right away.”
“Excuse me,” I amaze myself by saying. I’m so nervous that my voice comes out squeaky and high. No one hears me. So I try again. “Excuse me, Mr. Mittendorf. Would you let me help?”
He swivels around sharply. “Who,” he demands, “are you?” His angry stare is frightening, but I stay where I am and stare straight back at him.
“I’m Batya Bright,” I say. I still speak with an accent, but I no longer mind. The accent is part of who I am. “That’s my father. Over there.” I point to Papa.
“Well, Batya, thanks for your offer. But the answer is no. We’ve never had girls as apprentices before. Only boys.”
“Why can’t girls be apprentices?” I don’t know where my courage comes from. “I’m good at carving, Mr. Mittendorf. If you’ll only—”
“I’m sorry,” says Mr. Mittendorf. “I’m a busy man. Now will you excuse me?”
“Mr. Mittendorf, I speak, please?” Papa steps forward. He has taken off his cap and twists it in his hands. “My Batya, she is good carver. Everyone say so. And you need help, Mr. Mittendorf.”
But Mr. Mittendorf is not convinced. “No girls,” he says. “That’s final.”
He turns again to the crowd of men. “I want everyone in the paint shop.” The men shuffle out. Papa lags behind, squeezing my shoulder as he passes.
“We tried, didn’t we?” he says softly.
“You would make a good carver, I know you would,” adds Sophia.
I nod and remain where I am. After all the activity, the shop seems very quiet now. I look around; there are several roughly carved horse heads sitting on the floor. I’ve watched how heads like these are finished many times. I’ve stood by as Vanya or Marco used the tools to shape the features and bring the animal’s face to life.
Suddenly, I have an idea that makes my heart pound. The horses need to be finished. And I need to carve. Gus showed me how the carvers work from wooden models called prototypes. Well, there’s a prototype right here. I can follow it.
But the heads are heavy. I can’t lift one by myself.
I see one on a worktable. It seems as if it’s waiting for me, begging me to finish it.
I’m scared but ready. Everything I’ve done so far—watching Papa, carving my own animals, working here and at school—has prepared me. So what if I’m scared? I pick up a gouge, look at the wooden prototype, and begin.
As I work, my hands almost feel as if they don’t belong to me. They’re so sure. So confident. I know how to apply the right amount of pressure here, to chip away at some excess wood there.
It’s hard work. I have to use all my strength, not just in my hands but in my arms and shoulders too. My face and my body grow damp. But I don’t stop.
After a while, I’ve carved one of the almond-shaped eyes, and then the other. Next, I move down, toward the lips, curving back over the teeth. They’re difficult to get right, but I keep working, glancing at the wooden prototype every so often. If I just take away a little more here and round it a little bit more there . . .
An image of Mala comes into my mind. How eager she was when she saw the lump of sugar, how her nostrils flared and her eyes widened when Papa tried to shoe her, the way she twisted her head and arched her neck. Mala! I still miss her, but I know that she wouldn’t be happy here in the city with the cobbled streets, the noise, and the crowds. Her spirit is in me, though. And it guides me as I work.
“What are you doing?” asks a stern and unfamiliar voice.
Startled, I look up. There stands a man in a pea-green suit and a black-banded straw hat—Mr. Grau, the carousel company’s other owner.
“I’m carving this head.” I try to keep my voice steady.
“How dare you! That head is very costly. You’ll ruin it.”
“I know it’s costly, sir,” I say. “My father works here. He’s a carver. I’m a carver too. Look.” I point to the work I’ve done—the proudly flared nostrils, the lips, the beginning of the tongue.
“You did this?” Mr. Grau leans closer.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I’d never spoil one of your fine horses. If I didn’t know how to carve, I wouldn’t touch it.”
“You did all this?” Mr. Grau repeats, more to himself than to me. “Why, this is quite good. Quite good indeed.” He looks over at me. “Who did you say you were?”
“Batya Bright.” I look at the horse. It seems to me that even though she isn’t finished, she is looking right back at me, giving me courage.
At that moment, Mr. Mittendorf reappears. When he sees me, his expression darkens.
“Why are you still here?” he demands. “You should be waiting for your father outside.”
“George,” says Mr. Grau, “just look at this.”
“What?” says Mr. Mittendorf angrily. “Has she actually been touching our horses? With tools? I’ll have her father fired at once!”
“George!” interrupts Mr. Grau. “Stop yelling for a minute and have a look, would you?”
Mr. Mittendorf stops talking but is still frowning as he inspects the horse’s head. He looks at it from every angle, and after that, he runs his fingers over it for good measure. “Is it possible?” he murmurs.
Mr. Grau says, “That’s what I wondered too. But she’s good—she really is. And we need every pair of good hands we can get right now.”
“You’re right about that,” Mr. Mittendorf says grimly. “You!” he calls to me. “Come here.”
“Yes, sir?” I’m trembling.
“Would you like to be an apprentice for the rest of the summer?”
Would I like that? Haven’t I hoped and dreamed, practiced and waited for this chance? “Yes, I would.”
“It will be a lot of work,” he continues. “The schedule will be busy. You’ll have to come in early and stay late, do what you’re told, and not question anything. Can you do all that?”
I lived through a pogrom, I left my home and sailed across the ocean, I learned to speak and read a new language, I taught myself to carve and found a way to learn the other skills I needed, so yes, I think I can do that.
I answer with a simple “Yes.”
“Then you can come in for the summer to learn and to work with your father. Even if you are a girl.”
Yes, I’m a girl, I think proudly. A girl who can carve as well as any boy, better than my big brother, almost as well as my papa. I’m Batya, and I’m not just the woodcarver’s daughter anymore. I’m Batya, the woodcarver. Just you wait and see.
Author’s Note
I have always loved carousels, and I clearly remember the carousel in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, where I took my earliest rides. The great, leaping horses frightened as well as transfixed me; at first, I would only s
it with my father on the high-backed stationary bench—painted deep red and trimmed in gold—as the merry-go-round whirled and spun. Gradually, I worked up the courage to sit on a stationary horse, my father waving from the sidelines, and then, one memorable day, I sat astride a leaping white horse all by myself. I can still taste the triumph I felt.
I’ve continued to love carousels, and even when I no longer wanted to ride them, I always took the opportunity to see a new one in any town or city I visited. I liked to see the differences in style, the variation within the form. My own children rode the carousels in Prospect Park, Central Park, and Coney Island; they too were carousel lovers. But it was only recently that I learned about the connection between European-born carousel carvers—expert craftsmen who made a home in America—and my own Russian Jewish roots.
Many of the Jewish woodcarvers from eastern Europe—men who had helped decorate their shuls with lions, arks, and bimahs—were forced by widespread persecution and anti-Semitism to leave their homes and adapt their talents to the new land in which they found themselves. An exhibit at New York City’s American Folk Art Museum charted this journey, demonstrating how the skills learned in service to God were used toward entirely different ends in America.
The show identified the work of individual carvers, pointing out their particular stylistic trademarks. But there were no women carvers, and a small note explained that this was because girls were not allowed to join the woodworkers’ guild.
In that one offhand comment, I had found the kernel of a story. What if there had been a girl who wanted to carve? What would she have done? That ambitious girl became Batya. I tried to imagine a situation in which a girl would have been exposed to the life of a carver but prevented from taking up that life herself because of the rules and conventions of her time. But I also wanted to imagine a solution to the problem, a creative way for her to overcome the obstacles through a combination of courage, perseverance, and talent.
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