twenty-seven

“A festive dinner,” Barbara said, “with pork and noodles, and Aunt Ida brought apple strudel.”

The Uncle had counted out all the money, telling me there was more than enough to pay Mr. Eis and buy fabric for the second dress. “And with that,” he said, “comes your ticket.”

I didn’t answer; I waited until we had almost finished dinner before I began, and then, almost trembling with excitement, I asked, “Dear Barbara, could you live in two rooms in back of a shop?”

“I could live anywhere,” Barbara said.

And then I turned to the Uncle. For the first time, I was going to win a battle with him. I was like a Prussian soldier. “There’s an empty shop next to Schaeffer’s,” I said.

“Empty since the Frohlings went down to Varick Street in Manhattan and took a train west,” Barbara said, cutting into the strudel. “Can you imagine?”

There was a bubbling in my chest that came up into my throat. “I saw the owner today. It’s for rent at a very low rate.” I swallowed. What did I know about low rates or high rates or any rates at all?

The Uncle was eating strudel, hardly paying attention to me. Maria, my hat over her head, was tugging at him, wanting a taste of apple.

“I told the owner to hold it for us, that Lucas wanted to rent it.” I wanted to look up at his face, but I didn’t have the courage.

For one more second there was silence. Then he smacked his hand on the table. “Where is your head?” he asked.

“The ticket money,” I said, and slapped my hand on the table as hard as he had. “I’m not going home,” I said, and then, not being able to let go of it entirely, I went on, “Maybe someday, somehow. But don’t you see? I can begin to sew in a shop. Soon we’ll have enough money for a machine. Mrs. Koch offered to help. You and I will have a business together.”

There was silence. Then Barbara pushed her chair back with a crash. “You are not going home! Oh, Dina!” She came around to my side of the table and hugged me so hard I didn’t get to see the Uncle’s face. I heard him mutter, though, “That girl. That girl. What will she do next to me?”

“If . . . ,” I said to all of them, suddenly worried, “if you want me to stay.”

“Ah, Dina,” said Barbara, and Aunt Ida reached out to pat my hand, smiling. But it wasn’t until later, much later, that I heard what the Uncle had to say.

Ernest had begun to cry then, and Aunt Ida, after more hugs, remembered she wanted to be home before dark, and Barbara suddenly went into her bedroom, telling me over her shoulder that there was a letter from Katharina. “I put it away for you,” she said, going into her bedroom, “and almost forgot.”

It was time for me to take down the wash from the roof. I tucked Katharina’s letter into my pocket and went up with the basket. At the wall that ran around the edge, I stopped to look at the bowl of sky lighted by a full moon.

The tiniest square of the East River far along the edge of Brooklyn was visible between two buildings, reminding me of the ship I had taken, that endless trip.

When I closed my eyes, I could almost see the shop next door, and the small section where Johann was making beautiful locks and keys. I couldn’t wait to tell him.

Johann Schaeffer, who sometimes called me Juliana, and sometimes Christina Dina Bina. I thought then about being here, about going into the stores and understanding what people were saying.

I looked out at the city and thought about wrapping my arms around it. I was beginning to love Brooklyn, with its heat and its cold, its dust and its dirt. I thought of Breisach, that beautiful festive town with its river and its cathedral, and knew I’d always be homesick for it. That was the price I’d have to pay, the same price everyone who came to this country might have to pay. At least I thought that was what Johann had meant: we would always have a longing to go back, and a longing to stay.

Katharina’s letter was in my pocket with all her news from home. I’d wait until I’d folded the wash, savoring the thought of opening that envelope and seeing her small square letters. And maybe this time she’d tell me about the baby she had hinted at.

I began at the far end of the wash line, dropping the pins into the basket, folding Maria’s small flannel sheets, Ernest’s cotton diapers. Suddenly the door to the roof opened. It was the Uncle. He stood there looking over the city as I had. At the clop of horses, he said, “The health department wagon. Not frightening anymore. The fear of the smallpox is over.” He hesitated. “I often wondered, Dina, was it a dream Barbara had about the men coming?”

I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about. I leaned over to flatten the mound of wash in the basket.

“Did you save them that day?”

I smiled. He didn’t have to know everything. “A dream,” I said.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, and hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I remember something about my sister, your mother.”

I wondered if I would ever stop missing Mama.

“If,” the Uncle said. “She was always saying that.”

If you hadn’t forgotten the bread . . .

“I’ll say just this,” the Uncle went on. “If you hadn’t come . . .” He stopped then, and I could see he couldn’t talk.

But what he had said was enough. More than enough.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He went downstairs then with the basket, and I stayed to read Katharina’s letter, to hear her news at last.

5 December 1871

Dear Dina,

I think it’s time for you to know our surprise. Krist’s dream, like mine, has always been to go to America. So my dear sister, we are sailing on the S.S. Bremen late next month and should be there by April.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to send for Mama and Friedrich and Franz someday. Wouldn’t that be something?

I will look for you at the port, and together we will shed oceans of tears as we hug, this time for joy.

All my love,
Katharina

Darling,

Katharina says she will be wearing your hat. Of course!

Mama