Something landed on my arm. I flicked it away without looking, thinking it was a fly. But then something bounced off my face, and that didn’t feel like a fly at all. I looked at the table where it landed and saw that it was . . . a piece of a protein bar?
I looked up and saw Parker, giggling, a half-chewed protein bar in her hand. She eats two of those nasty things for lunch, plus a green smoothie. “Finally!” she said between chews. “You two have been absorbed in that book all period.”
It was true. Madeline and I had eaten our lunch in record time so we could read more of Anna’s diary. I was hesitant to bring it to school, but Madeline begged, and swore nothing would happen to it. I covered it with paper, like we have to do with our textbooks, and then, before lunch, Madeline added a special waterproof cover on top of that. With those two layers, it was pretty safe from crumbs and spills, and—big bonus for keeping it secret—it looked just like any other book.
I’m glad I caved too, because Anna’s story was the perfect lunchtime read. At first I thought it’d be hard to focus in the cafeteria, but it was amazing the way the outside noise had turned to static as soon as I started reading about Frida. (Frida! Would she make it to Chicago? If only I had her diary too.)
“What is that, anyway?” Parker asked.
“Yeah, what is it?” asked Magda, who was next to Parker. As usual. I’ve never seen Parker without Magda except at Hebrew school, seeing as Magda’s Catholic. They braid each other’s hair, borrow each other’s clothes, and finish each other’s smoothies when the other is feeling full.
“That book must be really good,” Parker continued. “You guys were, like, zombies.”
“OMG, is it about zombies?” said Magda. “Because then I want to read it too.”
Madeline moved her reading glasses to the top of her head. I closed the diary and placed it carefully in the zippered portion of my messenger bag. Then I looked up and completely ignored their questions. “What’s up?” I said.
Parker looked like she wanted to press on about the diary, but Magda gave a playful raise of her shoulder. “So, Imani,” she said. “How’s Ethan?”
“Who?” Madeline asked.
“Ethan Bloom!” Magda cried.
Parker chewed her protein bar as she spoke. “He’s been looking over here all through lunch. He’s so obsessed with you, Imani.”
I risked a quick glance in the direction of Ethan’s table. He must’ve been reaching into his backpack or something, because all I could see was his sandy-colored hair. I don’t know what I would’ve done if he’d been looking—waved? pretended to be looking at someone else?—but I was still kind of disappointed that he wasn’t.
“Okay, he’s doing something now,” Parker said, “but I swear he’s been looking over here every thirty seconds, just waiting for you to stop reading so he could come talk to you.”
“Or lock eyes across the room,” Magda said with a giggle. “There’s nothing more romantic than locking eyes across a crowded cafeteria.”
“Oh yeah,” Madeline said, sarcastic. “Love in the time of tater tots.”
I laughed. “That was good.”
“Wasn’t it? I just came up with it right now.”
“Very clever.”
“Thank you.”
“He’s looking again,” Parker sang.
I didn’t want to look, but how could I help it? Sure enough, Ethan’s eyes were on us this time, but he was at the far end of the table next to ours, so if he wasn’t reaching into his backpack, where else was he going to look? I summoned my courage to give a small wave. He glanced nervously behind him, then waved back.
“Awww,” Magda said, her voice and shoulders going up, like she was meeting a puppy. “You two are so cute.”
“Oh my God,” Parker said. “Did I tell you he RSVPed yes to my bat mitzvah? You two can dance together!”
“Come on,” I said, but my cheeks were totally warm.
Parker sat down opposite me, and Magda sat next to her, her legs straddling the cafeteria bench. “I wish my bat mitzvah was sooner,” Parker said.
“I know I can’t wait,” Magda said. “It’s going to be the third-best party of my life.”
“Third?” Madeline asked.
“After her wedding and her quinceañera,” Parker explained between bites of protein. “In whichever order.”
Madeline nodded, doing a remarkable job of keeping a straight face. “Got it.”
(If I hadn’t been adopted, would I have a quinceañera instead of a bat mitzvah?)
“When’s your B.M., Madeline?” Magda asked.
“Ew, don’t say B.M.,” said Parker. “It means, like, something else.”
Magda giggled. “When is your bat mitzvah?” she asked Madeline again.
“Not till September. But I’m just having a small luncheon after, no party.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fun anyway,” said Parker, ever the diplomat. She finished chewing her lunch and smiled for Magda, who studied her braces for protein particles.
“You’re good,” Magda told her. “What about you, Imani?”
“June fourteenth,” I replied. “But I’m not having a party either. I’m getting a gift instead.”
“Ooh, what are you getting?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said casually. There was no way I was getting into my “exotic” adoption mystery with Parker and Magda.
“You should ask for a big party!” Magda said.
I laughed.
“Her gift isn’t for you,” Madeline said. “Imani’s going to ask for something meaningful.” She elbowed me gently on this last word. It reminded me of my filing cabinet espionage last night, and my tortellini lunch turned over in my stomach. I felt so bad about what I’d done, I didn’t want anyone to know, not even Madeline.
“You should ask for a smartphone, Imani,” Parker said. “I need to send you snaps and emojis. You’re, like, the only person in the whole seventh grade without one.”
That is too true. Even Madeline has her mom’s old Android. But my parents are completely overprotective about me being on the internet. I’m the only person I know who has a limit on “screen time,” and they only let me join Facebook, like, five months ago, and by then no one was even using Facebook anymore. No need to put yourself out in the world like that, my mom likes to say. Especially not in seventh grade.
I don’t see what the big deal is. Going online is nothing compared to Anna, who had to really go out in the world—across the ocean!—by herself, in seventh grade.
“I still think you should ask for a party,” said Magda. “Or a date with Ethan Bloom.”
“Are we seriously back to that?” Madeline asked with a sigh.
The bell rang right then, so Parker and Magda rushed back to their table to get their bags. Magda gave the top of my arm a squeeze on her way.
“Blah,” Madeline said, moving her reading glasses into their case. “I wish they hadn’t come over. We barely had time to read anything. My house after school?”
“Tennis,” I reminded her.
“Oh yeah.” We moved from the cafeteria into the hall, and Madeline had to talk loudly over the noise. “Can you wait to read more together, then?”
“Maybe,” I said, but I don’t think she heard me. She was walking backward down the hall to social studies, and I was moving backward the other way, to Spanish.
“Hasta la vista!” she called.
“Adios, amiga!” I spun around—and bumped right into Ethan. Our heads collided, skull to skull.
He straightened his glasses. “Ouch.”
“Sorry!” I rubbed my forehead and hoped that if I was visibly sweaty, he’d think it was because I was in physical pain.
“Watch it, Williams,” he said, and I laughed way too hard. He grinned. “What was in that bowl you brought for lunch?”
“Tortellini,” I told him. “It’s my favorite food.”
“Just tortellini, or any cheesy pasta?”
“Tortellini.”
“What about ravioli?”
“I’ll eat it,” I said, “but it’s not as good. It’s so flat. The pasta-cheese ratio is all off.”
“How about lasagna?”
I shook my head.
“Manicotti.”
I smiled.
“Stuffed shells!” he said, pointing triumphantly.
I laughed. “If you name any more types of pasta, I’m going to be late for class.”
He lowered his hand. “What do you have now?”
“Spanish,” I told him. “Second floor. You?”
“French.”
We stood there for a second, not saying anything. His glasses were still kind of slanted from our collision, but it didn’t look too dorky. People were moving past us, talking and pushing. It made me think of Anna, who’d soon be on the crowded streets of New York City.
“See you at tennis?” Ethan said.
“Yeah,” I said. The boys’ and girls’ teams practice on separate courts, so the most we could do is wave to each other. My stomach sort of flip-flopped, though, at the thought of waving to each other.
“Okay,” Ethan said. “Later.”
I gave a small wave and went back to walking. Parker and Magda were about five feet away, against the wall, grinning. Apparently, they’d witnessed that whole thing. “Obsessed!” Parker mouthed. Magda’s in my Spanish class, but I shook my head and hurried past them anyway, not wanting to talk about Ethan.
Determined to not think about Ethan either, I turned my thoughts to Anna. Was she going to love New York or hate it? Were her cousins going to be nice? Would she go to school in Brooklyn? She’d be the new girl from another country—would that make her more interesting or more of an outcast? At least she wouldn’t look different on the outside, unlike me, being one of six non-white kids in my whole school. Then again, English wasn’t her native language. That’d be sort of like when I’m in Spanish class, only all the time, not just for that forty minutes. I may look different, but at least I can talk to people. And, obviously, my adoptive home has been my home all my life.
As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, I imagined I was here for the first time, just off the boat from another country, walking into a strange new world.
3 September 1941
t. August 1950
Dear Belle,
I have just finished dinner and come back to my room . . . yes, I have a room all to myself now. We had roast chicken and potatoes, and there was so much of it, Hannah put the extras in the icebox for tomorrow! Extra food, can you imagine it? She says that on Sunday we will have a special dinner for my first weekend in New York. She has not said what it will be . . . she wants to keep it a surprise. Mamelikanner, what will I do if it is fish? You understand . . . is there a more repulsive food than fish? So oily, and it smells like sewage, and when served whole, that dead eye stares up at the ceiling from the platter. Ewww! Remember when Kurt used to make a show by putting a big piece of fish on his fork and LICKING it, just to make us cringe? I shudder to picture it. I would rather lick the bottom of my shoe!
Of course I will not say this to Hannah. I cannot tell you how kind she and Max have been . . . it would be horrid to appear ungrateful. So far I have been eating everything and making sure to say it is delicious even when it’s not, like the strange beans we had my first night here. (And my, I was sick of beans. Are you still eating beans every night? I suppose you are, if Papa’s friend is still giving him sacks for free.) Most of the food is delicious, however. Still, I take only one helping of everything. I don’t want to be a burden, and I want them to have enough money to sponsor you and everyone else. So even if it is fish on Sunday, I will force down a whole serving, without so much as plugging my nose.
We are fortunate to have cousins so kind as Max and Hannah. They even came to New York Harbor to meet me and bring me to their apartment here in Brooklyn. I am glad they did, because until the moment the ship arrived in port, I had only thought about making it to America, and it never occurred to me to consider how I would get from New York Harbor to their address in Brooklyn. I had only begun thinking about this when I walked down the ramp and onto dry land. (After so long at sea, it is a strange sensation to be on land again! You’ll see.) Behind a gate, a large group of people stood waiting, and what a relief to see one of them holding a paper with my name written across it, plain as day. I approached the man, and the woman standing next to him, who was looking very glamorous in a short fur jacket and a navy blue hat. She looked excited. As I got closer, she said, “Anna?”
I said, “Mrs. Schoelstein?” and her red lips broke into a smile, revealing the whitest teeth you have ever seen. She said, “Call me Hannah!” and threw her arms around me, and I was wrapped in soft fur. Oh Belle, just wait until you feel her coat. It’s so glamorous! Simply touching it made me think of you, and I had to pull out of Hannah’s embrace before I began to cry.
To my surprise, Hannah looked like she might cry herself. “Welcome,” she said warmly.
I was missing you with extra passion and could not smile, which made me feel rotten because here was Hannah being so kind, and I was not. Hannah did not seem bothered, though. She was more bothered by Max, who was terrifically intent on folding up the paper with my name. Hannah poked his arm and spoke to him in Yiddish. (Yes, Yiddish! To think that all this time, Mama and Papa were so intent on us learning English and not Yiddish!) Finally, Max looked me in the eye. He seemed to be studying me. Perhaps he was trying to find resemblances to Papa. That is what I was trying to find in him . . . but I could not find any. I still cannot. They are cousins, but they are nothing alike. Here is why:
Max is so short . . . shorter than Hannah, even when she removes her high heels . . . and his hair is almost gone. What’s left of it is blond . . . another difference.
Max does not wear glasses.
His eyes are a deep brown, unlike our green-gray.
Their noses. Papa’s is rather small (do you agree?), but Max’s is VERY large and full of indents, as though he pressed his face into a bucket of sand.
Papa is always charming around strangers, but Max would have remained silent if Hannah hadn’t kept poking him. After the fifth or sixth poke, he finally nodded politely and said, in English, “Welcome, Anna.”
Then we all set off onto a train called the “subway” to go to Brooklyn, 64th Street in Bensonhurst (Hannah said that is the name for this part of Brooklyn). How nice it was to have them lead the way . . . to have an adult to take care of me again.
Belle, I have so much I want to record. About the apartment here (floral wallpaper . . . dark wood furniture that is very elegant . . . soft rugs), about Hannah’s closet of fur coats, about Max’s pair of uncles who eat dinner with us (both bald, both grumpy), about the streets and the buildings and the smells and the sounds. But as overcome as I am with everything, I am also overcome with sadness. How I wish you were all here to see and hear and smell everything with me! Even if Kurt had come along, then I would have someone to share this with. But for now, I will continue to pretend we are together by writing in this journal, until you arrive and we can truly share everything once again.
With much, much love,
Anna
4 September 1941
t. August 1950
Belle,
Today I received a letter from home! Hannah placed the envelope on my plate before lunch, and when I saw Mama’s handwriting on it, I almost fainted. It would have been nice to read it privately, but I could not wait even a moment. I must have looked very conflicted, because Hannah laughed and said, “Go ahead! Open it!” Then she hurried away to ready the laundry for pickup, which was very kind of her.
I’m going to keep the letter someplace safe, so I will always have it. How lovely to read Mama’s words, and now I can read them whenever I’d like. It’s funny that Mama told me Oliver’s drawing is of a ship . . . I would have known even if she had not. She mentions a letter from you, but it has not yet arrived. This one is dated 23 August, the day the Mouzinho set sail.
I must have read Mama’s letter six times before I realized the laundry had been weighed and sent off and my lunch was in front of me. Hannah said that she was waiting to pour my seltzer until I was ready, otherwise it might have gone flat.
She said, “I hope they’ve received our message that you arrived safely. They must miss you terribly.”
I said, “They will come soon,” but here is where I began to wonder, and my happiness about the letter began to spoil. I assumed Hannah would rush to agree and assure me it is so (I have only just met her, but it seems her optimism is in line with Papa’s). But she didn’t . . . not quite. She smiled, yes, but her lips stayed closed. And instead of saying “Of course they will!” she merely replied, “Oh, I do hope so.”
There was a sadness in her smile, and it made me a bit cross. Who is Hannah to say if you are coming or not? What does she know about living in occupation, or Mama and Papa’s plans, or living here while everyone who matters is there? Who is she to say, “Oh, I do hope so,” because what does she know of hope? My desire for the rest of you to arrive is not merely hope. I am yearning . . . no, longing for . . . no, I NEED you to come . . . there is not a word in any language strong enough to describe it. Even if Hannah does “hope so,” and she was not just saying this to be polite, it is nothing compared to the feeling that swallows me whole, as I write this, “hoping” that you will come.
Your sister,
Anna