The dream stitcher, p.4
The Dream Stitcher, page 4
Papa snatched meat scissors off the counter and freed an apron from a wall hook. He placed his cracked glasses on his face and examined the cloth. “Not stained too bad, but it’s old. I can spare it.” He stretched the apron across the table and cut it in half. “I’ll sew with Kaminski’s needle and thread. You’ll sew with Pavelchick’s. If I make a beautiful picture, we’ll know Kaminski is a wizard of the worst kind.” He shook his head and laughed. “It would be a miracle! I have no talent for such things. If you make something special...well, let’s worry about that later.”
Papa pushed half of the apron across the table to his daughter, a look of determination fixed on his face. He gazed at her, the look transforming to puzzlement, and he sighed. “Now what do we do?”
“I threaded your needle for you, Papa. Just poke it in and pull it out. You know.”
“I mean how do we decide what to sew?”
Goldye shrugged. She had no idea how this experiment should work. She only knew what she had done to make the wolf, and those steps would have to do. “Make a picture in your head.”
“Okay.” Papa placed a finger on his lips, and his eyes rolled up like he was looking toward the heavens. “I see a cow. I’m going to make a big, luscious cow that I can slice into roasts so magnificent the entire neighborhood will stand in line all the way down the block and around the corner. When Mrs. Shapiro comes in I’ll say, ‘Sorry. Nothing left for you!’”
Goldye laughed. “I’ll sew another wolf. I have one to help me feel brave and I want you to have one, too, Papa. When Mrs. Shapiro complains you’re charging too much you can give her a what for.”
“Excellent! I need a wolf.”
“Now, just close your eyes and sew.”
“Must I close my eyes?” Papa asked.
“That’s what I did, but you can keep yours open if you want.”
“No, the experiment should be the same for both of us. What’s the difference? I’m half blind, anyway.” He removed his glasses, spread his half of the apron across his lap, and poised his threaded needle above it. He closed his eyes. “Okay. Start.”
Goldye closed her eyes. “Take a deep breath, Papa.”
I’ll help you, Queen Mathilda whispered in her ear.
Goldye sent a silent thought to her secret friend. Please. Thank you.
My pleasure, said the queen.
Goldye’s hand started to move. She let herself imagine Papa walking down an alley on a moonless, starless night.
Papa hears the sounds of leather against stone, tapping, tapping closer, and his heart catches. “Who’s there?” He presses against a building for protection, pretending he’s one with the brick. Then he remembers. He reaches into his pocket and the wolf’s heartbeat steadies his way forward in the dark. He removes the wolf from his coat, and it snarls at the approaching footsteps.
“Come on, this one’s not worth it,” a gravelly voice says. “Let’s get out of here.”
The wolf growls an unearthly roar, and the footsteps clack away and off into the distance. The clouds uncover the moon and it lights Papa’s way. He feels courage. He wipes his cracked lens with the wolf and returns the guardian to his pocket.
Goldye’s hand stopped gliding the needle in and out, a signal her picture must be complete. She opened her eyes and returned to her father’s butcher shop. Papa’s back was turned to her. “Are you finished?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Papa. “You?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s look at mine first,” he said.
Goldye placed her stitching upside down on the table so she wouldn’t peek at it, and walked in front of Papa to view the needlework that rested on his lap.
Papa replaced his glasses and peered at his creation. He tilted his head right, then left, then right again. “My eyes aren’t so good. Does it look like a cow?”
A jumble of stitches formed a shapeless, confused clump.
Goldye squinted to get a better look. “Well,” she began, not sure what the mess was or what to say about it, “Maybe it’s a brown and white cow, and that’s a brown spot!” Goldye fingered a line of stitches poking up above the glob. “I think that might be a horn. Good job, Papa!”
“It’s a disaster by a blind person.” Papa laughed. “You’re a sweet girl, but a lousy liar. Well,” he said sighing, “so much for Mr. Kaminski’s magic. Let’s look at yours.”
Goldye’s heart quickened. She patted her sweater and the wolf pulsed courage. “You look first, Papa,” she said.
Queen Mathilda clapped her hands. You’ll be so pleased!
Papa stood and flipped Goldye’s needlework right side up. His face paled. He caressed the stitches, his fingers trembling, then jerked his hand back as though he’d been burned. “Dear God.” A line of sweat broke out on his forehead. He removed his glasses and rubbed the sides of his head.
The worried look on Papa’s face scared Goldye. “Papa, what’s wrong? What did I do wrong?”
He didn’t answer. He avoided her eyes, and this frightened her even more.
“Papa?”
He fell to his knees, clasping his hands and rocking back and forth, his face turned up to the ceiling. “God, I am humbled. I’ve never done anything special in my life. I don’t deserve such a daughter. She is a gift. A miraculous artist. I swear to you, she will have everything she needs. The best. I swear.”
Goldye heard a low, soft growl coming from the table. She stared at the apron fabric. A wolf’s bared teeth gleamed silver. Its black eyes darted, as though it searched for danger. It sat on its haunches, one foot raised, ready to leap from the apron.
Papa snatched up the wolf needlework and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He grabbed Goldye’s hand and pulled her toward the door. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the only man who can help us. Jan Kaminski.”
Goldye ran to keep up with Papa, gripping his hand as he marched down Solna Avenue in silence. He looked gravely resolute, his mood so changed from his usual lightness Goldye thought perhaps she should worry, too. He muttered to himself.
“What, Papa?”
“Sh. I’m practicing.”
“Practicing what?”
“How to ask for an apprenticeship. Now let me think.” He stared ahead as they walked on, finally arriving at Kaminski’s Fine Fabrics.
Papa paused before the door and took a deep breath. He gazed down at her and squeezed her hand, a smile forming on his lips. “Why so worried? Cheer up.” He ruffled her hair and pushed open the door.
At the tinkle of the doorbell, Mr. Kaminski looked down from high on a ladder, acknowledged Goldye and Papa with a slight nod, and continued pulling bolts of fabric from a tall shelf. Clutching the long cylinders under one arm, he scrambled down the ladder and displayed the cloth before his customers, a plump pale woman and an equally pale thin girl. Mother and daughter, Goldye surmised, and since they were looking at fabrics in shades of white, cream, and ecru, Goldye also thought the young woman a bride to be.
“May I help you?” Mr. Kaminski said to Papa.
“Hello, Mr. Kaminski. My daughter and I were in your shop yesterday. You gave her fabric.”
Mr. Kaminski glanced at Goldye then waved off Papa. “Yes, yes. I’m rather busy right now.” Gone was yesterday’s friendly demeanor. Today he seemed annoyed. “If you need more yard goods, you’ll have to wait. Or come back.”
“I’d just like a word with you, sir.”
“A word? Mister....”
“Finkelstein.”
“Mr. Finkelstein, I make a living selling fabric. It’s how I pay my bills. Did you come to talk or buy?”
“Well...” Papa stammered. “My daughter promised you a finished piece. She has it for you.”
“Leave it if you wish. Or keep it. It’s all the same to me. I have a paying customer right now. I’m sure you understand.” Mr. Kaminski ignored Papa, turning his full attention to the mother and daughter.
“I’ll wait,” Papa announced to the empty air. He retreated to a corner of the shop where he found a chair. “Come, Goldye.”
She didn’t follow him. She was drawn closer to the exchange between Mr. Kaminski and his customers and pulled in by the fabric: Vanilla cream colored taffeta, silk the color of mist, ecru satin so shiny Goldye saw the store’s reflection in it. Pristine snow colored organza. Ice colored tulle.
So many choices, mother and daughter argued over each one, changed their minds, and changed them back again.
Mr. Kaminski said, “Surely there’s one you like...”
“Satin’s the one,” the mother insisted.
“What difference does it make?” Her daughter pouted. “None of these will make me happy.” She stormed from the counter in tears.
“Dorit!” her mother called after her. But on seeing her daughter ignore her the woman shrugged. “How much is the satin?” she asked Mr. Kaminski.
Dorit came within arm’s reach of Goldye, who felt the need to comfort her. “Don’t worry,” she said, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “They’re all so lovely. You’ll be a beautiful bride no matter which one you choose.”
Dorit snorted and wiped at her tears. She wasn’t beautiful at all, Goldye had to admit. Her white blond hair hung in strings. Her tiny nose made her dull grey eyes appear crossed. Pallid skin and washed-out features made her look as though she might faint any minute or evaporate into thin air. “It’s not that.” The unhappy bride-to-be glanced at her mother and moved a little further away, motioning Goldye to follow. “May I talk to you? I’ve no one to tell things.”
“Of course.”
“I’m afraid. The marriage is arranged. I’ve never met the groom.” She pressed a hand to her mouth and tried to choke back a sob.
“Oh.” It surprised Goldye to hear such a secret shared by a young woman she didn’t know. But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps it was easier to talk about problems with someone you might never see again. “I have something.” Goldye said, thinking it might help if she shared a secret of her own. “I’ve never shown anyone except my papa.” Goldye pulled the wolf needlework from beneath her sweater.
Dorit bent to examine it closer, and her eyes widened. “Oh, my! It’s...so real.”
Goldye lifted the bride’s hand and placed it on the threads. “Don’t be afraid. See? You’ll feel like this on your wedding day.”
Dorit straightened her spine and her eyes shone like steel. “Brave.”
Goldye nodded. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m sure the man you’re marrying is wonderful and kind. I’m sure he’s the perfect man for you. You can have anything you want from life. Make a wish.”
The bride’s sudden pink flush almost made her look beautiful. She shut her eyes, and fingered the thread. “I want a house in the country. Flowers, and trees, and birds. Three children, two boys and a girl. A dog. I want happiness.” Her features transformed as she pictured her dream, the storm clouds clearing from her brow.
“If you like I’ll sew these things on the skirt of your wedding dress,” Goldye said. “I’ll sew them in green, yellow, blue, red. Every color of the rainbow. I’ll sew matching ribbons at your waistband, all the colors of your dreams. When you walk down the aisle you can touch the threads and the ribbons. They’ll swirl on your satin skirt when you and your husband dance your first dance.”
Goldye couldn’t believe the words flowing from her mouth. It was almost as if Queen Mathilda—a much wiser and older soul—had taken over and pushed Goldye aside. What are you doing? she asked her invisible friend.
Trust me, the queen whispered inside Goldye’s head. We’re up to the task. We’ll be splendid.
The bride opened her eyes and flashed a smile, her teeth a gleaming string of pearls. “You’ll sew my dreams?”
Say, ‘yes’! Queen Mathilda whispered.
“Yes.” Goldye knew she could do it, and this knowing sent a chill of excitement through her.
Dorit’s face crinkled into a look of puzzled concentration as she studied Goldye. “How old are you, anyway?”
Eight years old didn’t seem like the right thing to say, even though that was the truth. Instead Goldye said, “Old enough to sew and young enough to dream.”
What a perfect answer. Queen Mathilda beamed with pride.
Dorit smiled, and she rushed to the counter. “Mama! Mama! I want the satin.”
Her mother sighed with relief.
“And I want this girl to embroider the skirt.”
“What?” Mr. Kaminski stammered, and his hands flailed. “No, no. She’s not part of my shop. I don’t know her.”
“Goldye!” Papa rushed from his chair in the corner and squeezed her shoulder. “What’s going on? Why did you show her?”
“Show her what?” Mr. Kaminski eyes fell on the wolf. He knelt before Goldye.
Goldye avoided Mr. Kaminski’s gaze, for fear of seeing his negative opinion of her work. She kept her eyes fixed on the embroidered wolf, trying to mine the courage within it.
She saw a splash of wet hit the threads. Another. Then another. Goldye looked up.
Mr. Kaminski’s eyes were moist with tears, his face ashen. “Forgive me. It’s just that...it’s been a long time. Such a very long time.”
“Since what?” Papa asked.
“Since I’ve seen work this magnificent.” He placed a finger on Goldye’s chin, lifted her head, and studied her with his sad eyes. “Her work is so much like that of my late wife Alenka.”
Tucked beneath one arm, Goldye cradled a package of ecru satin and skeins of thread, one for each color of the rainbow. She pranced ahead of Papa, her joy flooding the sidewalk and transforming Solna Avenue into her own private playground. Smiling strangers met her eye. Gone were their looks of criticism at her scuffed shoes or faded dress, their nods signaling a desire to welcome her as one of their own. From now on she would work among them.
So much had changed in a single day she wondered at the miracle of her birthday wish. She pinched herself and felt it. This was real. Mr. Kaminski had given her an apprenticeship and her first assignment: embroider Dorit’s dreams for a happy life.
Goldye wanted to bottle this feeling of bliss and weave the tingly buzz into Dorit’s wedding dress before it fizzed out.
She bounded back to Papa. “I’m sewing the minute we get home.”
Papa’s brow furrowed. He reached for her hand and reined her to his side. “Goldye, stay with me a minute. We need a plan.”
“What kind of plan? What’s wrong?”
“Better let me have a few minutes alone with Mama.”
It hadn’t occurred to Goldye Mama might not be excited about her good news. “Are you worried?”
Papa shrugged, but Goldye could tell he was.
“No,” he said.
“Papa, you’re a lousy liar.”
“Mama needs a little wooing every now and then.” He released Goldye’s hand, dug into his pocket, pulled out a shiny coin, and handed it to her. “I’ll talk to Mama while you buy flowers across the street.”
“But it’s not Sabbath.”
“Give me a minute alone with her. She hasn’t even seen the wolf. I’ll show her and tell her the news. When you enter the apartment with a fresh bouquet, particularly because it’s not the Sabbath, she’ll be the happiest mama in Warsaw.”
Clutching the biggest bunch of daisies her coin had allowed, Goldye creaked open the door to the apartment. She hoped her timing was right. Surely when Mama saw the wolf and understood Goldye’s talent, she couldn’t help but be excited for her daughter’s turn of good fortune.
The pitch of Mama’s screaming nearly wilted the flowers. Goldye’s hope fell. She tiptoed into the living room, wishing she might blend into the peeling wallpaper.
Mama wore her disapproval like a badge of honor. She aimed her pointing finger straight at Papa’s heart. “Every day she’s going to walk from here to Solna Avenue?”
“It’s not that far,” he said.
“She’s going to sew every day, all day?”
“Not all day. Not Saturday or Sunday. Jan says...”
“Oh, it’s Jan now. Big shot. You‘re on personal terms with Mr. Jan Kaminski.”
“He says she can take the work home. When she brings it back, he’ll give her more instruction.”
“She’ll be under his influence.”
“Isn’t that the point of an apprenticeship?” Papa looked exasperated, but he controlled his voice from rising.
“She’ll be under his influence for things other than sewing.”
“What’re you talking?”
Mama’s beet red face nearly matched her flowered print babushka. “She’ll learn his beliefs, his likes and dislikes. He’ll teach her to hate Jews. Maybe she grows up to hate her parents.” Mama choked out the words, and now tears flowed.
Papa reached for her hand. “Ruchel, that’s ridiculous. Why would that happen?”
Goldye placed the flowers on the dining room table and joined her parents, taking Mama’s free hand. The hand felt hot and slippery. “Mama, that can’t happen.”
“What if she sees it’s better to live with Poles than with Jews? Not only are their fabrics better, but everything else is, too. Sure, it’s nice she can earn money and save for school. But she’ll learn to want a life she can never have. Or worse. What if we lose her?”
“Why can’t you trust me?” Papa begged. “Things will be fine. You’ll find out I’m right.”
Mama pulled away from them. She ripped her scarf from her head and dabbed her brow with it. Her brown hair spread across her shoulders in damp knots. “What is so terrible about learning to keep a nice house? Am I not good enough for you? Why must Goldye be better than me? Must you always need more? It wasn’t good enough to work for someone else you had to have your own butcher shop. And now we scrimp and save just so you can hang a shingle outside telling the world you’re somebody.”
“What’s wrong with wanting to be somebody?”
“All I want is to survive. When you try for more, bad things happen.”
“That’s craziness.”
