WHEN I WOKE up on Wednesday morning, Ida was packing my clothes into a suitcase. Papa was dead a week, shiva was over, and she was giving me up.
I pretended I was still asleep and watched her. There wasn’t much to pack, only the suit I wore to Papa’s funeral, a change of underwear, Gideon’s cast-off knickers that didn’t fit me yet, and my winter coat, which was too short in the arms and which barely buttoned across my chest. She didn’t pack Papa’s carving or my treasure box, so I got up and put them on top of my clothes. I didn’t ask where I was going. Wherever it was, it would be an improvement.
The suitcase was Papa’s banged-up big one, which he’d brought with him to this country. If I’d owned anything heavy, it would have gone right through the worn fiberboard covering.
Ida snapped the suitcase shut. “I’m sorry, Dave,” she said, straightening up, “but I can’t buy food and pay the rent by myself. If I don’t have you, I can be a boarder somewhere.”
I nodded.
“Abe would understand.”
He would never understand. But I did. She was a louse. And Gideon was a louse. And Uncle Jack and my other relatives were lice.
“You’ll have enough to eat at the Home.”
Home? The Home? She meant—
“Let’s go. The orphanage is . . .”
I was a fool never to have thought of it before. I never even thought of myself as an orphan, but what else was I?
An orphanage. Papa would die all over again if he knew.
But maybe it would be better to be an orphan in an orphanage than an orphan living with Ida.
Maybe not.
The orphanage was way uptown. We had to take the subway, thirteen blocks away on Lafayette Street. As we walked, I said good-bye to the neighborhood. In my mind, not out loud, I said good-bye to Ike, the produce peddler who was hollering about his juicy lemons. Good-bye to the Turkish candy peddler and his delicious halvah. Good-bye to the horse, stamping its feet in front of the dry-goods cart. Good-bye to the laundry hanging out a million windows. To the roasted-corn man, and the sweet smell of his corn. To the cobblestones I was walking on. To the street cleaner’s wooden wagon. To the train roaring above us on Allen Street. To the peddler who tugged at Ida’s sleeve, trying to get her to buy a scrub brush. Good-bye to the pickle store, to the sour pickles my friend Ben had taught me to love. Good-bye to Ben too.
We came to the Bowery, the end of our neighborhood. On the other side of the avenue, things were the same but different, and I stopped saying good-bye. The streets were just as crowded and noisy, but lots of the signs were in Italian, and most of the shouting was too. We passed a peddler selling clams and one selling roasted chickpeas, which you never saw near us.
It took us three trains to get uptown. During the ride I had only one thought: I wouldn’t stay at the Home if I didn’t like it.
We got off the subway at 137th Street, and Ida clamped her hand on my arm. We climbed up the subway stairs and the Home was the first thing I saw, the biggest thing around, made of red bricks that went on forever.
Broadway was quieter than the streets in my old neighborhood. There were stores, but only one peddler’s wagon, and a tenth as many people.
There was no entrance to the orphanage on Broadway. We walked next to it along 136th Street. The building, surrounded by a high iron fence, stretched all the way to the next avenue, which was Amsterdam. The handle of my suitcase was loose, and the suitcase banged into my knee whenever I took a step. Ida offered to carry it, but I didn’t want any favors from her.
It was chilly, and I wished I’d worn my coat. We turned the corner, and I saw the front of the asylum. My eyes traveled up to where a pointy tower rose, like a witch’s hat, three stories above the entrance. Below the tower was a clock, and on each side of the clock was a smaller pointy tower. The whole building was only four stories high in the highest part, the middle section. The rest was just three, but each story was very tall. The building wasn’t made for people. It was made for witches, with plenty of room for their hats.
If I didn’t know better, it would have been the last place I’d have guessed was a Home, the last place for kids to live.
We reached the gate. A sign, black letters on white metal, was attached to it. The Hebrew Home for Boys. Ida pushed the gate open just as the clock struck ten. We trudged along a brick path to steps leading to a heavy wooden door.
Still holding me tight, Ida opened the door and a draft of cold air swooshed out, even colder than the air outside. We went in. The door thudded closed behind us and clicked shut. As soon as I heard the click I wanted to leave.
The lobby was bigger than in a movie theater. Next to the door were two long windows. Across from them a marble staircase led up to a balcony. To my left and right were long corridors lined with doors. The floor was black-and-white tiles, and the walls were stone up to my shoulders. Above that they were painted gray-green, all the way up to a faraway gray-green ceiling.
Somewhere someone sneezed, and the sneeze echoed off the stone walls. I shivered.
The lobby was empty. No orphans except me.
“Where do I go?” Ida said.
“You can leave,” I said. “I don’t need you.” I’d wait a minute or two and then leave too.
She ignored me. I heard footsteps and the echo of footsteps. A man entered the far end of the right-hand corridor. Ida walked me toward him.
“Pardon me,” she called. She whispered, “If you get in trouble here, I can’t take you back.”
Fine with me. Excellent with me.
The man walked toward us. He was tall and thin, but when he got close enough I saw that his face was pudgy. His smile looked out of place, like it wasn’t used to being on his face.
“I telephoned,” Ida said. “His father died, and I can’t keep him, but he’s a—”
“That’s all right. We’ll take good care of him.” He turned the smile on me. “How old are you?”
“Eleven,” Ida said before I could figure out what I wanted to tell him. “He’s a good—”
“Ah. I have the elevens. I’m your prefect, young man. You’ll see a lot of me. I’ll tuck you in at night.”
And I’ll yank your nose off.
He said his name was Mr. Meltzer. He said he’d take us to an office where Ida could sign the papers to give me away. But he didn’t take us anywhere. He just stood there, smiling.
“I don’t have any money to give you,” Ida said.
The smile disappeared. “Follow me,” he barked.
The office was a short way into the left-hand corridor. Inside, three men sat at wooden desks. It was as cold in here as it was in the hall. Each man wore a woolen vest under his suit jacket. The room stank from cigar smoke.
Mr. Meltzer explained to the man at the first desk that Ida was here to give me up. The man opened his desk and pulled out three sets of papers.
“You’ll have to sign these,” he said.
Ida let go of my arm, but Mr. Meltzer was between me and the door. She leaned down to sign and then straightened up. “Good-bye, Dave. If I were Rockefeller, I’d keep you and Gideon.”
If I were Babe Ruth, I’d play for the Yankees.
At least she didn’t try to kiss me. She turned to the man at the desk and started signing.
“Come with me,” Mr. Meltzer barked at me.
This was my chance. Ida thought she could give me away. Well, she couldn’t. I picked up the suitcase and held it in my arms, although I could barely reach around it. If it was in my arms he couldn’t hold my hand. “The handle’s loose,” I said.
He held the door open for me, then started down the corridor, away from the lobby. I tried to walk silently, so he wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t next to him anymore. But my shoes clicked on the tile floor. As I walked, I stepped out of them. My socks were silent, beautifully silent. I took a few more steps forward. Then I turned and ran.