The Cats in the Doll Shop (7 page)

At first, Tania just stares. But after a moment, she reaches out to touch Shannon's hair and then her face.

“Go on,” I say. “She's yours now. You can take her.” I am so glad to see Tania show some interest in something. I know she doesn't understand my words, but I hope that the sound of my voice will make my meaning clear. And it seems to work. She reaches for the doll.

“You made her?” Sophie says as she watches Tania with Shannon. “Is that what you were up to all day yesterday?”

I nod, watching Tania with the doll. She must like her if she's holding her so tightly, right? And yet she doesn't smile. Instead, she has a sad, almost desperate look on her face. And she is holding the doll as if she expects someone to take it away from her.

“She's darling!” exclaims Trudie. “I love her little satchel. Does it open?” Trudie doesn't seem to notice Tania's odd reaction.

“It does,” I say to Trudie. But my eyes remain on Tania, who presses her face against Shannon's hair. Tania's lips quiver, and from her closed eyes, I see tears slowly begin to trickle down her face.

“Tania's crying,” Trudie says, staring at our cousin.

“Maybe she's tired. Or homesick,” Sophie says. She seems puzzled, too.

“Maybe,” I say. But somehow I don't think that's the reason. Or not all of it anyway. No, I think Tania is crying because she can't believe the doll is really hers. Maybe she is not used to receiving something so nice.

“Should we tell Mama?” Trudie asks. Sophie and I look at each other, trying to decide. It turns out we don't have to. With a very loud
sniff
, Tania dries her tears on her sleeve and stops crying. Then she turns to go into the kitchen, still holding Shannon as if she will never let her go.

The next day, Mama walks to school with us. She wants to make sure that Tania is able to find her classroom, and she wants to introduce Tania to the teacher. After all, going to school is part of the reason Tania came all the way from Russia to America.

“Will Tania be in my class?” I ask Mama. I look over at my cousin. Her hair, long, thick, and butter blonde, has been brushed until it gleams, and then plaited by Mama into a pair of heavy braids. I have always envied Sophie's shiny brown hair, which today is tied back with a checked grosgrain ribbon, but I have a hunch even Sophie would agree that Tania's hair is prettier.

“I know you would like that, but no, she'll need to be with younger children for a while,” Mama replies.

“What about my class?” Trudie asks. “I'm younger.”

“No, I'm afraid that won't be the right class either,” Mama says.

“So what class will she be in?” I ask.

“She'll be in with the first graders,” Mama says. “The little ones who are just learning to read.”

First grade! I think. Six-year-olds. I would hate that. Will Tania? I glance in her direction. She is wearing a plaid dress that Mama made for me, and shoes that were once Sophie's. When Mama helped Tania unpack, it was clear that many of her things would need to be thrown away. They were so worn out. Mama will wash what she kept, but until everything is clean, dry, and pressed, Tania will borrow from me. I don't mind. I think the dress looks nice on her. Tania also has a new satchel that Mama must have bought for her.

We are almost at the school now. Boys and girls from all grades are heading in the same direction. They are talking and laughing, grabbing at each other's hats and yanking on each other's satchels. I see my friends Esther and Batya across the street, and we wave to each other. Esther runs over to join us.

“Is this your cousin?” she asks. Esther knows all about Tania. I've been talking about her for weeks.

“It is,” I say. “Do you want to meet her?”

“Oh, yes!” says Esther.

“This is Esther,” I say to Tania. She does that blinking thing with her eyes. I have to admit, it is starting to bother me.

“Hello, Tania,” says Esther with a big smile. “I hope you like our school.”

Tania says nothing.

“She doesn't understand English yet,” I tell Esther. Esther repeats what she has said in Yiddish. Esther's parents don't speak English at all, so Esther speaks Yiddish at home. But Tania still says nothing.

Esther looks at me questioningly. “I guess your cousin is kind of . . . shy,” she says finally.

“She is,” I say. “But we're hoping she'll get over it soon.”

I part company with my mother, sisters, and cousin at the front doors to the school. Trudie heads off to fourth grade, Sophie to eighth. I head off to my own sixth-grade class. And Tania walks down the hall with Mama, in the direction of the first-grade classroom.

All morning long, I think of my cousin in with the six-year-olds. Finally, the bell rings for lunch. Esther, Batya, and I usually stand in line to buy our lunch, and then sit together. I'll ask Tania to join us. But Tania is not in the lunchroom. “Wait for me here?” I ask Esther, who nods. I go up to the first-grade classroom. No Tania. On my way back down, I find her standing alone, outside the lunchroom door.

“Time to eat,” I tell her. I am not surprised when her only reply is the blinking of her long feathery lashes. But this time, I am bolder and take her hand. She flinches a little but lets me lead her inside, where Esther and Batya are waiting. Esther keeps up a steady stream of chatter in both English and Yiddish. Tania nods and shakes her head a few times, but she doesn't speak. And she doesn't really eat either.

I think of the raisin cake, tucked beneath her pillow. Sophie, Trudie, and I agreed that we wouldn't tell Mama and Papa. We don't want to tattle.

Right now, Tania eats a slice of carrot, a forkful of rice. But when we get up to leave, I see her stuff the pockets of the plaid dress with two uneaten rolls. Esther sees it, too.

“I think your cousin is a little strange,” she says to me in a low voice. “She's not eating her food. But she's staring at it.”

“I know,” I say, feeling a pang of disloyalty. I am well aware that Tania does not seem to want to eat in front of anyone. She wants to take the food away, to eat later or to hide. But I don't want to say all this to Esther, at least not yet, so I quickly change the subject.

At the end of the day, I meet my sisters and Tania. We all start out for home. Sophie walks ahead. At lunch, Sophie sat at a table with some of her eighth-grade friends. I saw how she glanced in our direction and then looked away again quickly. It was clear she did not want to be associated with Tania, at least not while she was at school.

I look over at Tania, trying to sneak a look at her pockets without seeming too obvious. Has she eaten either of the rolls she took from lunch? Her pockets don't bulge, so maybe she did. I hope so.

After our lessons—Mama helps Tania with hers—and a supper of meat dumplings, green beans, and roasted potatoes, we give Tania a tour of the shop. We point out where the supplies like buckram, muslin, and skeins of wool are kept and show her the different dolls. Tania, still holding Shannon, expresses no interest at all. So we decide to hold a “fashion show” for our own dolls instead. Tania can be the audience.

Each of our dolls will “model” some of the outfits we have made for her. I have to admit that Sophie's are the best. Using scraps Mama has given her, Sophie has sewn a chiffon dress, a velvet walking suit, a summer dress of lilac-colored linen, and a brocade evening skirt with a matching jacket. Her stitches are so tiny and fine.

We clear off a worktable so we have plenty of room. Trudie is the “dresser” and gets the dolls ready. Sophie and I take turns moving them down the length of the table, and Sophie provides a running commentary. When it is her doll's turn she says, “Victoria Marie wears a summery chiffon dress in a delicate shade of the palest pink. Note the ruffles on the skirt; they look like petals. Heads will turn at the ball when she appears in this stunning design.” I think Sophie is so clever.

Tania watches and listens without seeming to enjoy any of it. Even if she can't understand the words, surely the dolls ought to intrigue her. But she is only interested in Shannon. While Sophie is talking, she plays with the doll's hair and fiddles with her clothing. She opens and closes the buckles on the satchel. She takes off her shoes and socks and puts them back on again. Finally, Sophie stops talking.

“Can I see that doll?” she asks.

Tania looks horrified. She holds the doll more tightly than ever.

“I'll give her right back,” Sophie says.

Still Tania holds on.

“Maybe Mama can explain to her that you just want to look at the doll, not take it away from her,” I say.

“Oh, let her keep her old doll,” Sophie says. “I don't really want to see it anyway.”

“Well, I'd like to see it,” Trudie says. “I want to see her clothes better. And her freckles, too. You did such a good job, Anna! Have you shown her to Papa?”

“Not yet,” I say. I'm glad Trudie likes Shannon, but I wish Tania could share, even for a little while.

We put everything away and are ready to go upstairs when Trudie asks, “What about the cats?” Sophie and I both look at her. “Tania isn't interested in our dolls. But maybe she'll be interested in Ginger Cat and Plucky.”

“You could be right,” Sophie says. She turns to Tania. “Do you like cats?” she asks. When Tania doesn't answer, Sophie drops down on the floor and actually pretends to
be
a cat. She arches her back, and lets out a very convincing “meow.” To my utter surprise, Tania smiles, a small, kind of broken-looking smile.

“Come on then!” Trudie says. “Let's go.” Together, we go out in the yard to inspect the box. Ginger Cat is sitting in it, waiting by the empty saucer. Tania stares at her, blinking furiously. Then she cautiously approaches the cat.

“Careful, she might scratch,” I warn. I pretend to scratch my own arm, so Tania will understand. But Ginger Cat neither bolts nor scratches. Instead, she allows Tania to approach her and even sits still for a second while Tania touches her head very gently. Then the cat opens her mouth in a soft meow.

“She likes Tania,” Trudie says. Tania picks up the empty saucer and takes it inside and upstairs. We trail behind, curious. She hands it to Mama and says something in Yiddish. Mama nods and goes over to the icebox. She takes out a bit of leftover gefilte fish and puts it in the saucer. We follow Tania as she brings the dish downstairs and sets it in the box. Ginger Cat is still there, and she meows again. But this time, it sounds like she is saying “thank you,” before she bends her head and begins to eat.

When we are getting ready for bed, I watch as Tania undoes her braids and brushes out her lustrous golden hair. She sets Shannon on the bed and adjusts her skirt. Well, she likes the doll and she likes Ginger Cat. It's a start. And I have to tell her about Plucky. Tania will certainly want to know about him. Maybe Esther can help me.

But when Tania leaves the room, I find myself noticing that her pillow looks lumpy. Even though I shouldn't, I peek underneath. When I do, I see two pieces of bread, a turnip, and a partially eaten bagel. Tania is storing food under her pillow. And something tells me she's not going to stop.

“Look,” I say to Sophie when I am sure Tania is in the other room. “More food under the pillow.”

“I think we have to tell Mama,” Sophie says. “Not eating at the table and hiding the food away is such a strange thing to do. And besides, it's not sanitary!”

Sophie does have a point. But I want Tania to like and trust me. If I tell on her, that's not going to happen.

“Maybe,” I say to Sophie. “But isn't it like tattling?”

“Tattling is when you are telling to be mean,” Trudie says. “You would be telling because you want help her.” Is this really my little sister saying these words? She sounds so grown up and so wise.

“Trudie is right, Anna,” says Sophie. “I'm going to tell Mama now.”

“Please don't!” I beg. “Wait just a little longer. Maybe I can figure out how to fix things without telling Mama and Papa. Or maybe she'll stop on her own.”

“All right,” Sophie grumbles. “But don't wait too long, or I'm telling Mama. I don't like having food stuffed under the pillow in our room. And I don't like
her
.”

“Sophie! She's our cousin. She's lonely and sad. Can't you understand that?”

“I know, and I'm sorry for her. But being sorry for someone and liking her are not the same thing.”

“She kind of scares me,” Trudie confesses. “Sometimes she seems all right, but other times, she's kind of strange. The first graders think so, too.”