LITMIR.BIZ

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and see her nose twitching. This room doesn’t meet her standards for cleanliness. A desk clerk gives the HIAS man a key and we all squeeze into a closet with lots of shiny brass. The closet—my first elevator—rattles up several flights. I’m nearest to Papa so I hold his hand. He winks. Everything will be fine. He explains that I just ate a Birne, a pear. They were once quite popular in Germany but now, in wartime, they’re hard to find. He promises more pears if I’m a good boy.

      We’re shown a small, dark, dusty room with one bed and a dresser. The man explains that this will be our home until we’re settled in a better place. The HIAS will pay the rent and give us money for food. He gives each of us a piece of paper money with the number “5” on it. I give mine to Papa.

      The next day the man returns to take us to the HIAS office. He wants us to learn how to get there by ourselves. At the HIAS, there are nice men and women who speak any language one could wish. Social workers arrange work papers for Mutti and Papa and English language classes. They help Mutti make contact with former Hannoverians now living in New York.

      We eat most of our meals at a cafeteria next to the hotel. Papa holds me up so I can see the foods on the counter and in the little compartments. I point. Mutti uses veto power when I select only meats and desserts. She insists on vegetables and limits me to one inexpensive dessert.

      Most significant to me that first week in New York City is our bed. We have one large bed in our hotel room—a double bed. Mutti decides that I must sleep in the middle so that I don’t fall out. However, she insists that I sleep in the opposite direction from my parents with my feet near their faces. Papa calls her meshuga and says something about the New York moon distorting her brain. Mutti wins the argument on health reasons that I don’t understand. So I sleep every night between my parents, looking at their feet which stick out from the covers so that I can breathe. My feet are covered at the other end because I’m still small. After a few nights I become accustomed to the smell of Papa’s feet. They smell just like the egg salad Papa selects at the cafeteria. To be sure that my feet don’t smell funny, I never select eggs.

      A woman from the HIAS helps Mutti contact the Strauss family, comfortably settled refugees from Germany. They have a flat and need someone to share the rent. We move into one bedroom in their three-bedroom apartment in Washington Heights. We have use of the kitchen and living room. It isn’t until Papa finds a job and we can afford additional rent that I have my own little “room.” I sleep in a little hallway off the living room. A heavy ceiling to floor curtain allows me to pretend that I have a private space. I like that I can overhear all conversations. Yippee. I finally have my own bed! The Strauss’s son, Walter, has his own bedroom.

      Walter is sixteen and quite independent. I watch him closely so that I can learn how to be an American boy. When he comes home from school, he goes directly to the ice box, takes out a bottle of milk and drinks right from the bottle. He does not need permission to make sandwiches for himself. In America, it seems to me, there are no food shortages, rationing and hunger like in Hannover. One day I go to the kitchen while Frau Strauss is washing dishes. I open the ice box and take out a bottle of milk. I remove the cover and drink just a little bit. I cap the bottle and put it back in the ice box. All the while I pretend not to be watching Frau Strauss—although I eye her carefully. She pays no attention to me. I take a cookie and go back to my little space. No food shortage. I can eat to my heart’s content—and I do.

       X. SCHOOL DAYS

      AS SOON AS WE SETTLE IN with the Strausses, a woman from the HIAS comes to visit. She’s taller than Mutti and dressed in a black wool suit. Papa has taught me to recognize wool. Her skirt comes almost to her ankles. She has a black coat and a black felt hat just like Papa’s hat except that the HIAS lady has a many-colored feather in her hat. And she is carrying a black briefcase. The lady speaks German to Mutti and to me. She says that she has come to visit me. I suspect it’s a trick. No grown-up wants to visit a kid. Nevertheless, I play along.

      “How would you like to go to an American school?” she asks in German.

       “Ya! Ya! Ya! Oh, Ya!”

      Mutti interrupts to tell the HIAS lady that I’ve never been to a school, German or American, and that I can’t speak English.

      I pipe in that I’ve learned many words since we moved to New York. I show off a little of my vocabulary: “Cookie, hot, dog, yes, no, school …”

      “Very good,” says the HIAS lady before I really get momentum. Everyone seems to be in an interrupting mode so I continue.

      “Walter has taught me to say ‘encyclopedia.’” I think that it’s the name of a book. Mutti thinks I’ve said a naughty word and apologizes to the HIAS lady. Mutti tells the lady that I’m usually a good boy. She gives me her angry look with tight lips and half closed eyes burning into me.

      The visitor is impressed. “Can you spell that?”

      I shrug and say a string of letters. “Pretty good,” says the lady. “You still have a little bit to learn so I want to take you to the nearby school today to see if we can get you registered.” All this in German.

      “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I say “Yes!” over and over until Mutti puts her hand over my mouth.

      “Of course, you may come along,” the lady says to Mutti. I’m disappointed. I see adventures ahead and Mutti often says “No” when Papa and others say “Yes.”

      We all put on our warm coats and face the winter air. As we walk, I make clouds with my breath.

      When we arrive at the school, we follow the HIAS lady to an office and we stand against a wall, trying not to be in the way of traffic. A clerk asks us to sit. Eventually the HIAS lady is ushered into an inner room and we wait. I had never imagined that schools have offices. I pictured going into a classroom with other boys my age. I pictured reading and writing and games. That’s how grown-ups described school.

      I try to sit quietly, hoping to make a good impression. Mutti often tells me that squirming makes a poor impression. I’m not quite certain what a poor impression does. However, I do know that this is an important day to make a good impression.

      When the HIAS lady returns, she has a sad face and she’s looking at her feet. “I’m afraid I have bad news,” she begins. “The principal won’t let you into the first grade until your English has improved, even though you’re six years old. You must attend kindergarten until next spring. Then, in the fall, you can attend the next level.”

      Mutti and the HIAS lady discuss the matter for several minutes. They sound as if the sky has fallen, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. I’m not disappointed at all. I’m going to school.

      The HIAS lady explains that we’re to show up here at 8:30 on Monday morning. “Come to this office and someone will take you to the kindergarten classroom.” Then she opens her bulging briefcase and takes out a picture book. “This is a story in English and you should look at it over the weekend. Perhaps you already know the story.”

      I recognize the picture on the cover: A little girl with a red cape and a wicker basket. Rotkappchen. A story my Oma Jetchen told me when I sat on her lap in Hannover. The HIAS lady helps me sound out the title, Little Red Riding Hood.

      “Now let’s go for ice cream if the weather isn’t too cold for you.” Mutti explains to me that it’s customary for Jews to associate sweets with learning. Rabbis usually put honey on the fingers of beginning students. When the student learns to read a new letter or word, the child can lick the honey from a finger. Learning should be sweet.

      At the ice cream store, the HIAS lady pays after she asks me to pick a flavor. I point to strawberry and say, “Red” to show off the new English word I learned from the cover of my new book.

      While I eat my ice cream, trying not to make a mess, Mutti and the HIAS lady have a serious discussion. I listen carefully because they’re talking about me. Mutti tells the lady that I seem unable to see with my right eye. It’s

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