1999
On a cloudy spring afternoon, two nine-year-old girls sat on the stoop of a Brooklyn building, throwing breadcrumbs at the pigeons that, attracted by the prospect of food, had flown over from the park across the street.
The first girl had a long auburn braid and a thin, intense face; she was trying to get at least one bird to eat out of her hand by tossing the crumbs closer and closer and then holding some out in her open palm. Unfortunately, the pigeons, while obviously greedy for the food, didn’t seem interested in interacting with any humans.
Her friend, shorter and stouter with cropped, tousled brown hair, threw her last handful of crumbs at the birds so suddenly that several flapped away. She took a deep breath, pulled something out of her pocket and held it tightly within her two closed hands.
“Rachel,” she said, without any kind of preamble, “I’ve got a secret. But you can’t tell anyone, especially not your mother, because she’ll tell my mom, and I’ll get in trouble.”
Rachel gave up on her efforts to tame a pigeon and turned to her friend. “What kind of secret, Annie?” she asked, excited. “I love secrets.”
“Well, I took something from my mom’s drawer that I’m not supposed to touch, but I’ll show you, if you promise not to tell.”
“I promise!” whispered Rachel. “What is it?”
Annie opened her hands to reveal a wooden box; the top decorated by fading red houses with green roofs on a wintry landscape. She pulled the cover off with one hand and held the open box toward Rachel with the other.
There, on a piece of cotton batting, laid a short length of ribbon, worn and threadbare, a faded blue-gray with a bit of darker blue on the edges.
“It’s just an old raggedy piece of ribbon,” said Rachel, disappointed. “It isn’t at all pretty. When I was really little, my grandma Isabeau gave me a shiny jewel once that she said was magic. It was gorgeous, but I dropped it on the subway tracks on the way home and my mom wouldn’t let me go on the tracks to get it back.”
“It’s only faded because it’s really old,” said Annie, not at all fazed at her friend’s reaction. “It’s so old that my great-grandmother Chana brought it to America with her when she came here years and years ago. Mom keeps it in the back of her closet, behind a bunch of old albums. She said when great-grandmother was a girl, she got it from her best friend and kept it as a token for when she’d see her friend again one day, but she never did. See her, I mean.”
“That’s really awesome,” Rachel said, her eyes wide. “The two friends separated forever, but always hoping that one day they’d meet.”
Annie shrugged. She didn’t have quite as romantic a nature as Rachel. “All I know is what my mom told me. She told me a few days ago, because we’re going to your family’s seder tonight and she said I should know something about my own family’s stories so that I can tell one if I want to. And she showed me the ribbon and told me not to handle it too much, because it might fall apart. But I wanted to show it to you, so yesterday when she was running errands I took it out of the drawer.”
“Can I touch it?” Rachel asked. “Just for a second? I never touched anything that old.”
Annie looked doubtful. “Okay, but be careful. If anything happened to it, my mom would kill me.”
She picked the ribbon out of the box and handed it to Rachel, who took it and stroked it slowly. “It feels nice,” she said. “Weird to think that it’s that old.”
“You know,” Annie said in an almost whisper, “My grandma told me once that if I ever went to a wedding and took home a piece of the wedding cake and put it under my pillow, I’d dream about the man I was going to marry. Well, I thought maybe if I put the ribbon under my pillow, I might dream about great-grandmother Chana.”
“And did it work?” Rachel asked fascinated. She paused as a small brown pigeon, possibly wondering if there was any more food to be had, came almost to her foot and stared at her for a moment. Its curiosity satisfied, it settled down and began to preen.
“No,” Annie said. “I mean, I don’t believe that about wedding cakes, because they’d get all squooshed anyway and you’re much better off eating them. But this ribbon is really, really old, and I thought it might work. But I didn’t dream anything.”
Rachel pursed her lips, thinking. “Maybe,” she said, “it’s gotten weak because it’s so old.”
She thought for a moment and then leaned forward, her voice lowering dramatically. “What we have to do,” she said, trying to sound as mysterious as possible, “is to touch the ribbon at the same time, close our eyes and concentrate. That will double the power of the magic, even if it is so old.”
Annie regarded her friend with admiration. “But what if it doesn’t work?” she asked.
Rachel had become caught up in her role. “No, you have to truly believe it will work!” she said. She took one end of the ribbon and held the other out to Annie. “You take the other end. Then we’ll close our eyes and wish as hard as we can that we can find your great-grandmother’s friend.”
Annie shook her head doubtfully. “That doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Even when my mom was a kid, my great-grandmother’s friend would have been so old. Like over 100 or something.”
Rachel just continued to hold out the piece of ribbon. Annie sighed, and gingerly took the other end.
“Now close your eyes and concentrate,” Rachel instructed. “Concentrate on your great-grandmother Chana and her best friend and wish as hard as you can.”
The two girls squeezed their eyes shut. After a moment, the pigeon, encouraged by the lack of movement and attracted to the small piece of material, edged closer. It cocked its head for a moment, examining the pale little piece of material, and then reached out and snatched it out of their hands.
The two girls jumped up. Annie ran forward and tried to grab the pigeon, but all she succeeded in doing was to frighten it into flight—it took off, wings batting at the warm Brooklyn air, and soared across the street and into the park. Annie, dismayed, watched it go.
“My mom’s going to kill me!” she moaned.
“Then we’ve got to go catch it!” Rachel said decidedly and ran to the curb. “Come on, we’ll lose it!”
“We’re not supposed to cross the street without permission,” Annie said, hesitating on the stoop. She looked up. “And it looks like it’s going to rain.”
“This is an emergency, so it doesn’t count. And if it rains, we’ll run back. Come on!”
Annie paused for another moment, and then grabbed the box off the stoop, pushed it back into her pocket, and went to the curb. Rachel seized her hand, waited for another moment while several cars passed, and then dashed across the street, pulling Annie behind her.
Once safely on the other side, the two ran into the park, dodging mothers with strollers, dog-walkers, and other passersby. They followed the main path past a playground, filled with children battling for precedence on the slides and swings; past the park’s inner road, filled with bike riders, joggers, and the occasional car; and down a short slope to the lake, where geese and swans paddled frantically around, snapping up the bits of bread and bagels that were thrown at them by picnicking families.
“We’ll never find it,” Annie muttered, nearly in tears. A few pigeons strutted nearby, but none of them resembled the one that had grabbed the ribbon—and the ribbon itself was nowhere to be seen.
“I bet I know where it went!” Rachel said suddenly, pointing over to the left. “I saw it fly into those trees. There’s a path there; we can follow it and maybe find the pigeon.”
The two girls ran past the lake and into the small wooded area. They immediately slowed to a walk, examining the ground and trees to see if they could catch sight of a pigeon with a faded ribbon in its beak.
As they walked, the concrete beneath their feet became a packed dirt path, and the city noises quickly faded away behind them. Instead, all they heard was the rustle of the freshly leafed trees above, until a mockingbird sang out a warning to its mate. On the ground, new weeds pushed up from the dirt on either side of the path, while bees and flies and spiders around them went about their business of hunting, eating and mating.
Rachel led the way confidently, remembering the walk her mother and Aunt Susan had taken her on only a few months before. Annie followed, almost forgetting her anxiety in the growing feeling that she was having a real adventure.
Suddenly, Rachel stopped.
“I remember that tree!” she said excitedly. It was the old oak tree that had caused her to pause last time; there was still that one large, lower branch, now decorated with bright green leaves, stretching parallel to and nearly touching the ground. She put her hands on the rough wood and leaned over to look beyond it. “There’s a path there!” she cried out. “A hidden path!”
“Like in The Secret Garden?” Annie asked. Annie was a dedicated reader of Victorian and other old-fashioned children’s literature, and had always wondered whether something exciting like in one of those books might happen to her.
“Maybe,” said Rachel who, unlike her best friend, preferred movies to books. “We need to see where it goes.”
“But what about my great-grandmother’s ribbon?” Annie asked dutifully, although she was as curious about where the path led as Rachel was.
“Maybe the pigeon went this way,” Rachel said, now completely dedicated to exploring the new path. “Maybe we’ll find it here. Come on!” And without waiting for a reply, she hoisted herself onto the fallen branch and slipped down onto the other side. Seeing herself without any kind of alternative—and now equally as eager to explore what she now saw as a storybook quest—Annie followed.
The path beyond the fallen tree was narrower than the other; in places, patches of grass and leaves left from last year’s autumn nearly obscured it, and they had to step carefully past bushes full of sharp twigs and brambles. Annie, who had been taught never to go on a hike without clear, painted blazes to show the way, asked, “Shouldn’t we mark the trail so we can find the way back?”
“This is Prospect Park,” said Rachel confidently. “How large can this forest be? If we get lost, we just have to keep walking in the same direction and we’ll find our way out eventually.”
Despite that, the path went on for a bit longer than either girl expected. Annie stopped once to pick some wildflowers that, despite the earliness of the season, were full grown; she thought she’d perhaps take them back and put them in a vase for the seder. “Have you ever seen anything so pretty?” she asked, holding them out and admiring them. Rachel grinned at her. “They are nice,” she admitted.
They kept walking—and then abruptly the path opened up into a clearing.
The two girls looked around, astonished. “I didn’t know there was anything like this in Prospect Park!” Annie exclaimed.
“Neither did I,” Rachel admitted, “and I live right across the street.”
The circular clearing was filled with grass and a few early flowers; the trunk of a long-dead tree lay along one side. The surrounding trees were large enough so that only a little sunlight filtered through their branches. “This is so cool!” Rachel said enthusiastically. “I bet we could have plays here. This can be the stage and that,” she pointed to the log, “can be the orchestra seats!”
She immediately placed herself opposite the log and struck a pose. Annie, who was used to Rachel’s attacks of dramatic enthusiasm, obediently sat on the log, put down her flowers, and tried to look like an audience.
“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,” Rachel declaimed, waving her arms to indicate the wind. “The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding, riding, riding…”
“Ribbon!” Annie suddenly squealed.
“That’s what I said,” Rachel said, annoyed at the interruption, but then stopped as she saw her friend run to the edge of the clearing and pick something up with an air of triumph.
“You were right!” Annie called, waving the small piece of faded ribbon in one hand. “You were right! Here it is!”
“And there’s another!” Rachel had seen a flash of red just beyond where Annie stood. She ran over to it; Annie turned around and stared.
A piece of bright red cloth, larger than the ribbon, was tied to a stick that had been stuck in the ground. Annie fingered the cloth curiously. “What do you think it is?” she asked. “A flag?”
“Maybe it’s decorating a grave,” said Rachel. “Look, there’s a stone right next to it. Maybe someone’s buried there. A pet mouse or something.”
“People don’t put flags next to graves,” Annie said doubtfully. “Unless they’re veterans or something, and then it’s an American flag.”
“Well, let’s see,” Rachel said. “Help me.”
Annie put the ribbon carefully in her pocket, and joined her friend in pulling at the rather heavy stone. After a few minutes, the girls managed to pull it up and over, exposing the dirt underneath.
“There’s something buried here!” Rachel said happily. “I’m going to pull it up.”
“Be careful,” whispered Annie, concerned that they might indeed be disturbing the interment of a pet or some other creature.
“It’s a jar or a bottle or something like that,” said Rachel, and scraped at the dirt until she could pull the jar out. She examined it carefully. “It’s got a note inside! I’ll bet we’ve discovered the meeting place of two lovers, whose parents won’t let them marry, so they have to leave notes arranging trysts in this romantic glade!”
She twisted the lid of the jar open, removed the paper, and carefully unfolded it. “It’s got writing on both sides. But it’s in Hebrew,” she said, disappointed. “I can’t read it.”
Annie looked over her shoulder. “That isn’t Hebrew,” she said. “That’s Yiddish. It’s got vowels, and Hebrew doesn’t use vowels.” She added defensively, “I only know about it because my mom taught me the letters and a few words, and said she’d send me to Yiddish school if I wanted.”
“Can you read it?” Rachel handed the note over, and Annie examined it for a moment. “Not really,” she finally admitted. “It’s in handwriting, and I can only read print, and only a little.” She looked at it more closely. “I think this is a name,” she said, pointing to the top of the page. “I’ve seen it in one of the readers my mom showed me. It says Chana.”
Rachel sat back on her heels. “Chana?” she asked breathlessly. “Like your great-grandmother Chana?”
Annie stared at her for a moment and then shook her head. “That doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “It can’t. In Borough Park where all the really religious Jews live I’ll bet there are lots and lots of Chanas.”
“How about the other side?” Rachel asked. When Annie hesitated, she said, “Oh, come on. Please? I found your ribbon for you.”
Annie put her finger to the top line of the paper and sounded out the letters silently, her lips moving as she tried to read the unfamiliar lettering. “The first word is something like “Tierer,” she said. “The second is…S…So…Sophie. I think.”
“Or Sophia?” Rachel said and took back the paper as though it would tell her something she missed. “My great-grandmother’s name was Sophia.”
The two girls stared at each other for a moment. Finally, Annie shook her head. “Don’t be silly,” Annie said. “My great-grandmother lived in Russia until she was a teenager and then came to America. Where did yours live?”
“Germany,” said Rachel, remembering a chess game and a pair of antique earrings. “And she never came to America.”
“So there. They lived way far apart and probably didn’t even have telephones, so they couldn’t have been friends. And look,” she pointed at the red cloth, “that’s not nearly as old as the ribbon. It’s practically new.”
“Maybe,” Rachel said, undeterred, “we’ve time traveled. Like in Doctor Who.”
“Or maybe it’s just a coincidence and we should put the note back where it belongs so that the person who is supposed to get it won’t miss it,” said Annie firmly. She folded the note and returned it to the jar. “Come on. It’s getting late.”
Reluctantly, Rachel closed the lid, put the jar back in its hole and covered it up. The two girls patted down the earth and then, together, pushed the stone back to its former place. They sat back and regarded their handiwork.
“Annie?” Rachel whispered. She thought again of the pond not far from the path to this clearing, where not too long ago she had helped her great-grandmother—whose name was written on this note. Who had said that she once knew a Russian girl named Chana. Was this clearing—and Annie’s ribbon—part of the same story?
“Yes?” Annie asked.
“What if this is really a magic place? What if that really is a note that your great-grandmother left for her best friend?”
Annie shook her head, but she bit her lip as she considered the possibility. “Even if it is,” she finally said. “we did the right thing. We put everything back where it’s supposed to be.”
“But that’s not enough,” said Rachel. “We should let them know that we’ve been here. That we know it’s them.” She looked at Annie. “We need to give them back the ribbon.”
Annie reached into her pocket and pulled out the ribbon. She stroked it lightly with her thumb. “I told you—my mother will kill me,” she said reluctantly.
“This is more important.” Rachel reached over and took Annie’s other hand in her own. “Don’t you see, this will show that we know.”
“But we don’t know. Not really!” Annie looked down at the ribbon and then at the red cloth. Then she took a deep breath and tied the ribbon to the stick, just above the cloth.
“I guess I can think of something to tell my mom if she finds out,” she said. “And you’re right. This is more important.”
Rachel nodded, and then looked down at her wristwatch. “Hey, we gotta go,” she said, suddenly alarmed. “My mom is going to be looking for us. We need to get dressed for the seder. Come on!” She jumped to her feet and dashed out of the clearing and down the path.
Annie stood as well, but just as she was going to run after Rachel, she stopped and paused for a moment. The first drops of rain began to patter on the grass; a cool breeze blew through the clearing. Annie watched as the two pieces of cloth, bright red and faded blue, danced together in its wake and then tangled together.
“Shalom, Chana,” she whispered. “Shalom, Sophia.”
And then she turned and ran after her friend.
