All through supper, Joe worried about his decision. Part of him couldn’t wait to leap into a new adventure and escape from the hard wooden benches at school and Avram’s constant company at recess. And it was true. It would feel so good to have a pocketful of money. “Here, Aunt Sophie,” he’d say, handing her a month’s rent for the room. “Tell that stinky Plucknik to pack up his dirty clothes and go.” Joe imagined his room without Plucknik. It would almost feel like a palace!
But how could he steal? “A good person is worth more than gold,” Mama always said. “Only money honestly earned can be honestly enjoyed,” Papa always said. And then there were Anna and Aunt Sophie. If Aunt Sophie found out he was stealing, she’d toss him into the street. She’d call him a gonif, a thief, and never speak to him again. And if he was caught by the police, they’d throw him in jail or in a home for delinquent boys. Joe pictured himself being dragged to jail and he shuddered.
And what about Miss Williams and the poem? Joe dug into his satchel for the poetry book. It was so soft and beautiful. He read SEA FEVER aloud again. Each time he loved the words more. They were like music. And each time, the words flowed more easily from his lips.
Oh, it was impossible to know what to do. His head hurt thinking about it.
“Joseph, please get my shawl from my room,” said Aunt Sophie, “I feel a draft on my shoulders.”
Joseph ran into the room Aunt Sophie shared with Anna. Everything was neatly arranged in the cramped room except for a letter lying on Anna’s bed. Joe glanced at the letter. It was addressed to their parents! What was Anna writing? What was Anna planning? He had to know.
Joseph picked the letter up and read.
Dear Mama and Papa,
I know how hard you have worked to pay for our passage to America. I know you are saving money to join us, but I beg you to reconsider.
New York streets are not paved with gold but with misery, sweat and dirt. Although I have work, it is brutal work, long hours hunched over a table with no relief and all for little pay.
Aunt Sophie has little money and must take in boarders. There is little air in our rooms and everything is a struggle.
I am so miserable here and see no future for myself. Joseph has learned English, but Joseph has changed so much since we came.
That’s where the letter ended. Joe put it down and slumped on Anna’s bed. What else was Anna going to say about him? Would she mention his friends? Would she tell their parents how he changed his name?
“Jo-seph!” called Aunt Sophie. “Where are you?”
Quickly Joseph grabbed Aunt Sophie’s shawl draped over a chair and ran back to the kitchen.
“What took you so long?” asked Aunt Sophie.
“I . . . I . . .” Joe stammered, but Aunt Sophie, as usual, was so busy talking she hardly heard his response.
“Ah,” she said, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. “That’s much better. I must be coming down with a cold. Would you like some tea and strudel? I made it special.”
Joe nodded yes and bit into the warm strudel. Strudel was one of Aunt Sophie’s specialties but tonight his stomach was in such a knot, he could barely enjoy it.
“What’s the matter with you tonight?” said Aunt Sophie as he picked at the apple and raisin filling. “Isn’t the strudel good?”
“It’s delicious,” said Joe. “I just have a stomach ache.”
“Did those hoodlums you hang around with give you something bad to eat? I tell you those boys are up to no good. That big one, Sam, has a bad look on his face.”
“No,” said Joe. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just tired.”
“Go ahead. Rest. I’ll clean this up by myself.” Aunt Sophie sighed as if she had a heavy load on her shoulder.
Joe threw himself on his cot. His head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He could barely keep his eyes open. Mr. Plucknik was snoring as always, but tonight Joe was so tired, the sound felt like it was coming from far, far away.
A loud knock on the door woke him. It was Aunt Sophie.
“Joseph, get up. You’ll be late for school.”
Oh no! Morning! He’d slept in his clothes. There was no time to change now. Joe leaped out of bed, ran to the kitchen, splashed cold water on his face, grabbed his satchel and raced down the stairs.
And there they were, Sam and Al. They were waiting on the front stoop for his answer, just like Sam said they would.
“Well,” said Sam. “Are you ready to be part of our gang? Are you ready to fill your pockets with money? Are you ready to buy a new cap and look like a real American?”
“I . . . I . . . can’t,” said Joe.
“Why not?” Sam said, a hard, angry edge in his voice. “What’s the matter with you? Are you still a stupid greenie? Are you still too scared to become a real American? Do you want to be stuck with babies all your life in that stupid school reading useless books?” snarled Sam, grabbing Joe’s satchel off his shoulder.
“Hey! Let go!” Joe yelled.
“Why? What’s in here that’s so special?” Sam sneered, opening the satchel. “A small pencil. A notebook, a book of . . .poems? Look at this, Al. This greenie reads poems like a girl.” Sam and Al howled with laughter.
“Give it back,” said Joe. “Give it back or else.”
“Or else what?” said Sam, beginning to tip the contents of the satchel into the slushy snow. But just before the book hit the soggy ground, Joe stepped hard on Sam’s foot and yanked back his satchel.
“What did you do that for, you stupid greenie?” Sam wailed.
“Don’t touch my things,” said Joe, staring at Sam.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” said Sam and he raised his fist and smashed it into Joe’s cheek.
Joe lurched toward the ground, but he didn’t fall. His cheek burned like fire, his heart pounded with anger and hurt, but he pulled himself up. Silently he picked up his wet pencil and notebook, rubbed them on his pants and turned to go.
“Go rot in that stupid school,” Sam shouted after him. “C’mon Al. Let’s you and me make some real money.”
And without another word, Sam and Al took off.
As soon as they were out of sight, Joe ran. His heart was still pounding but he had to get to school. Cradling his satchel like a baby in his arms, Joe ran till he reached his school.
Breathlessly, he slid into his seat, just as Miss Williams walked in.
“Joe, would you please come up and read for us,” she asked after attendance.
As Joe walked to the front of the room, he saw Miss Williams stare at the red bruise on his face, but she said nothing.
“‘Sea Fever’ by John Masefield,” he began.
By the second sentence, Joe glanced up and when he did, his knees almost buckled. There, in the back of the class, stood Mr. Cutler, the principal, listening to every word.
Joe read on and despite the searing pain in his face and his shaky knees, he didn’t stumble over a word.
“Well,” said Mr. Cutler to Miss Williams, when he finished. “I agree something must be done. Come with me, Joseph.”
No! No! Joe wanted to scream. I didn’t do anything. I only cut school twice. Why am I in trouble?
Joe followed Mr. Cutler down the long dim hall, but they didn’t stop at the principal’s office. Mr. Cutler walked past his office and turned down another hall till they reached the stairs. Then Mr. Cutler walked up the stairs to the second floor and down another long dark hallway. Joe’s heart beat faster with each step.
Where were they going?
Suddenly Mr. Cutler stopped in front of a closed door. He knocked and the door opened.
“Good morning Miss O’Grady,” he said to a gray-haired woman inside. “I have a new pupil for your fourth grade class. This is Joseph Wisotsky. He’s a good reader and a fast learner.”
And with that, Joe entered grade four.