Stock Anything Is Possible

A Child's Journey to America and Hope
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5439-4747-2
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 228 Seiten

Sara's family isn't safe. In Russia in 1909, the country's leaders encourage soldiers and even neighbors to attack and exploit Jewish people-people like Sara and her family. They leave their home country for a new life in America, but will they find the peace they're looking for?

Autoren/Hrsg.

Stock, Barbara

Leseproben

Chapter 1 FEARS AND TEARS “Sara, you’re so lucky you’re going to America tomorrow,” my truly best friend Nettie says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. We’re sitting on her stoop, dressed in our warmest wool coats, hats and mittens, sticking out our tongues to catch snowflakes. It is December, 1909. We live in Slonim, a town in Russia, a place not safe for us. We’re leaving tomorrow. We’re Jewish. “I know I’m lucky,” I say. “Everyone wants to leave. But Nettie, I wish you were coming with me. I wish you were moving right next door, just the way we’ve always been.” “Soon,” Nettie says. “I know Papa will send us the money for tickets any day now.” “I’m sure,” I say, squeezing Nettie’s mittened hand real tight because I’m not sure at all. Several years ago, our papas left Russia for America. My papa is a carpenter and he’s been working very hard. Every few weeks he sends us a letter and money. Nettie’s papa is a peddler. At first he sent letters but he hasn’t written letters for a long time----no letters, no money. “Let’s run,” Nettie says. I know she wants to change the subject. Nettie is a really fast runner. I have to run hard to keep up. We chase and jump to catch snowflakes. “Stop! Stop!” finally I shout. I’m out of breath. I sit on her stoop. Nettie keeps running for a while longer. She can run forever. Actually, I should be faster because I’m three days older and taller but Nettie’s thinner and more agile. Once she even caught a butterfly in her fingers. She has the longest, most delicate fingers and they are quick like little sprinters. And even with short legs, Nettie climbs trees—not very lady-like but a lot of fun. Slowly Nettie drops to the stoop. “It’s been too quiet,” Nettie says thoughtfully. “Something’s bound to happen soon. Mama says it’s getting worse since Russia lost the war against Japan. The soldiers don’t have enough to eat. Mama heard they’re robbing the farmers.” “The farmers? Why would the soldiers rob the farmers? They’re not Jewish.” I ask. Jewish families are not allowed to own land so they can’t be farmers. “Mama says when they’re hungry, people will steal from anyone. I hope they don’t steal from us,” Nettie says. “I don’t like feeling afraid.” “Oh Nettie, I’m scared just thinking of you here without us,” I say. She nods. We both feel safer with each other close by. Our mamas have grown especially close since our papas left for America. Every Friday Nettie and I help our mamas bake the special Shabbas chalas. Often we eat dinner together. Sharing makes the food go further and feels cozier. “You just get through tonight so you can leave in the morning,” Nettie says. “We’ll be fine. Mama and I are really good hiders.” I shudder to hear her words. Our life here is scary. We live next to the army barracks. Some nights the soldiers get drunk, barge into houses and beat Jewish families, even mothers and little children. When the soldiers and peasants sing rowdy songs, Mama hides us in the cellar or quickly under a pile of heavy blankets in the corner. So far we’ve been fortunate. The soldiers have not entered our house. “Nobody is fortunate forever,” Mama says. That’s one reason we’re leaving tomorrow. Now I jump up. “Nettie, run with me,” I say. Nothing tastes as delicious as snowflakes melting on my tongue. “Run faster, run.” I run as fast as Nettie, even faster, as if I can outrun all my bad thoughts. I don’t want to leave Nettie but I don’t want to stay. I just want to run and catch snowflakes, forever. “Sarala, your mama calls for you,” Nettie’s pudgy mama comes bustling out of my house. She calls me Sarala, my family nickname showing that she loves me. She is like family to us. Slowly I walk home, kicking the snow, thinking of our conversation. What if the starving soldiers come tonight to steal our food and kill us? I must stay up all night to warn Mama. Inside our house no one questions that we must leave. For weeks Mama has been packing, determined to take everything we own. I’d be happy to buy everything new but Mama says we don’t have a money bush so we must pack as much as possible. We’ve packed one trunk with our bedding and feather pillows, dishes, wooden chopping bowl, brass mortar and pestle, and best pots and pans. Essentials. The second trunk is the problem. Mama doesn’t want to leave anything behind. As soon as I enter, Mama hands me her rolling pin and says, “Squish!” Mama thinks I can push down the lace tablecloths the way we push dough for pies. I push but not hard enough to flatten all the cloths. “Mama, you can crochet more in America,” I say, exasperated. “It’s not possible to fit everything.” “This one Bubbe made. I must take it,” Mama says, quiet and calm. Usually I believe Mama but not today. “Mama,” I plead, “you must stop this packing.” But Mama doesn’t stop. When she wants something, she doesn’t think “no.” This time Mama takes out the valuables and lays them aside. “Sit, sit, Sarala,” Mama says. “You, too, Abe and Meyer, come and sit to flatten all the cloths so we have room for the candlesticks.” My younger brothers shuffle to the trunk, groaning. I groan with them. I’m the oldest and I should set a good example but I, too, am tired of all this packing. For days we’ve been sitting on the trunk, trying to stuff in every last one of our belongings, packing and unpacking, working to close the trunk. I push my soft tushy down hard. Mama hands me baby Hymie, only a few weeks old, for a little extra weight. Aha! Abe, the genius, has a new plan: he tucks in the candlesticks and wine cups among the cloths and then stands on the top of the trunk. Meyer follows. Abey is eight, a rectangle, solid and strong. He stands straight like a measuring stick, as if he’s someone important. Meyer is two years younger, a long slight line, wobbling, holding tight to Abe to keep his balance. “Stand still,” Mama says. “Do not bounce.” “Hurray!” we shout. With all our weight, the trunk closes. “Mama, celebrate,” I say but Mama already is tackling the suitcases. We leave her alone. Usually I love everything about Mama—her soft round body, perfect for cuddling. Her blue grey eyes that mysteriously turn green on foggy days. Her long, dark silky black hair sliding down her back, almost to her waist—perfect for braiding. Outside the house Mama keeps her head covered with a babushka or a shaytl. Inside the house Mama lets me braid her hair and twist it into a bun. Mama is known in our village as shana. Usually Mama plays with us but for the past few weeks she’s been strange. She doesn’t look soft and beautiful. She makes lists, shakes her head and makes more lists. Her tone is sharp, not soft as usual. “We have work to do,” Mama says over and over. I don’t like this new mama. My real mama feels far away. “Abe, Meyer, come,” Mama calls with an edge in her voice .Why is she calling Abe? Usually Mama doesn’t ask much of him. He doesn’t cooperate. He questions and argues and tires Mama. So why is she calling him now? “Abey’s outside, Mama,” Meyer says. “Outside? Without asking? Oy!” She throws her heavy woolen cape over her shoulders and runs to the doorway, calling him. “Oy, such a mazik,” Mama grumbles. “Always where he shouldn’t be, doing what he shouldn’t do. Where is that child?” Meyer and I rush to the door to look, too. Darkness comes early in winter. The sky is already misty grey. Abe is nowhere. We call, “Abey, Abey.” “Here I am!” he shouts as he scrambles down from the roof. His thick dark hair tumbles over his face. He’s gone out without a hat. Mama does not believe in spanking. She just glares, which is worse.
“But Mama,” Abe says, “I want to see our whole village. To remember.” “A memory? I’ll give you a memory,” Mama grumbles, moving to the suitcases. “Now try on these clothes. You grow so fast, you’ve probably outgrown them and I won’t have to pack so much.” I don’t like when Mama gets mad at Abe. When she’s angry with Abe, she’s angry with all of us. Fortunately, from down the path I hear the deep voice of Yosl, the book peddler, calling out through his thick, dark beard. “Books for women and sacred books for men,” he shouts, pulling his wooden cart through the ruts in the snow. “Mama, Mama, stop the packing,” I beg. “Yosl is here.” For Yosl, Mama always stops. She takes a deep breath and wipes her hands on her apron. Abe and Meyer are not so interested but quickly Mama and I put on our coats and rush outside. Yosl knows us well. Whenever he comes, if he has something we haven’t read, Mama finds the coins for a book. Oh...