The Christmas Tree (3 page)

Chapter Three

Anna

Once upon a time I was a girl named Anna, after a grandmother I never knew. I had no brothers and sisters, not even a pet, though I used to pretend the cat that yowled in the alley behind our building was mine.

My mother died when I was born and my father died not many years later, when I was five. So I had a feeling more than a memory of my parents. It was a very good feeling, from a mixture of pictures and words that came to me when I wasn't expecting them, most often in the middle of the night.

The pictures were made up of the most beautiful colors, a series of bright lights, reflected from above and below. And I would always hear the same words, spoken in Father's warm, gravelly voice: “The city is our jewel.”

We had a neighbor, Mrs. Ellis, who had always been kind to me. She lived on the ground floor of our building and always kept her door open. Whenever she saw me come in she would call me over for some bread hot from the oven or a piece of yarn to make something with. In the good times, when Father had work, Mrs. Ellis would watch me—or rather, I would watch her. She took in ironing from the ladies who lived in fine houses on Washington Square. I remember spending hours watching her heat her heavy black iron on the stove, then carefully return wrinkled shirts to their original crispness. She could even do lace sleeves.

When Father died I stayed with Mrs. Ellis, but one morning, not long after the funeral, she looked up from her ironing and said, “I wish I could take care of you Anna, but I'm too old to start raising children again. Since there's no one else to tend to it, I'll have to take you there until they find your aunt.”

I didn't know anything about my aunt, or where “there” was, but I was excited at the prospect of an outing, after so many days and weeks of stillness, watching Father get sicker and sicker. Though I missed him, I was too young to comprehend that I would never see him again and I thought he would be pleased for me to be out and about.

“We're great roamers, you and I,” he would say to me. We used to take long walks together, sometimes all the way to Central Park from our little apartment in Greenwich Village.

I packed my few things into a bag, as Mrs. Ellis told me to and we were about to leave when I spotted my father's old satchel hanging on a hook by the stove. After he died it became my most prized possession—it was all that I had left of him.

“Oh, wait just a minute,” I asked Mrs. Ellis, who was always patient with me. “I mustn't forget my satchel for collecting things.”

I heard Mrs. Ellis sniffle and mutter under her breath, “Poor little thing. All she's collected so far has been trouble.”

When I asked her what she meant, Mrs. Ellis patted my face. “Nothing, dear,” she said. “Nothing at all. Now let's hurry along.”

I had only recently learned how to skip and as I skipped alongside Mrs. Ellis I felt happy, especially when I heard we were going to a Children's Home. Much as I'd loved Father, I didn't have any friends my age and I yearned to play games and whisper secrets like the children in the books Father used to read to me.

So when we arrived at the home and Mrs. Ellis asked me if I'd like her to stay awhile I said no. I do remember how hard she hugged me before she left and how eager I was to go inside.

Until that day, I had always been a happy child. How could I not have been with a father who used to greet every morning by peering out the window and asking: “What lies out there for us today?”

We were almost never disappointed. We always found something I had never seen before, something new and wonderful.

Unfortunately, at the Children's Home I found something I'd never experienced before—something I wish I hadn't.

Gloom.

It wasn't just the darkness. Our apartment had gotten sun only in the late afternoon, when the sun moved across the sky to the west. Father had explained that to me one day when I asked how one place could be both light and dark.

Nor was I put off by the home's cavernous appearance, or the noise of so many children. I was a city child and a poor one at that. Comfort and quiet were things I'd read about but not experienced. And the home was well-maintained, under the circumstances.

No, the gloomy feeling came from something that happened just after I arrived.

A soft-spoken lady showed me to my bed, which was the fifth in a long line of beds with their corners neatly tucked in. “You can put your things away and then get to know the other girls,” said the lady, who seemed to be in a great hurry. At the time I took her briskness for coldness. In retrospect I realize the poor thing must have been overworked. There simply weren't enough adults to take care of all the children.

I placed my bag and satchel underneath the bed and waited. Soon a girl with pretty dark hair came along. She was much taller than I was and seemed older, but I had always been small for my age. Father used to call me Sparrow.

“Hello!” I said, probably too brightly. I think I just assumed that she would be glad to see me. I had always been surrounded by loving people.

“What's in the funny bag with the straps?”

That's how she introduced herself. I learned later that her name was Doreen.

I held out my hand like Father had taught me. “My name is Anna,” I said.

“Is that what I asked you?” she replied in an angry voice.

Though I suppose it should have been obvious, I still didn't understand that she didn't want to be friends. I opened my satchel and gently spilled out my precious collection onto my bed. It had belonged to my father and was made up of twigs and leaves and nuts from trees, and pieces of bark. There were also four carefully folded pieces of paper which contained drawings of the various parts of trees. They were labeled across the top, in my father's careful handwriting: Sycamore. Maple. Gingko. Oak. While Doreen watched, I made little piles on each piece of paper. The sycamore leaves, twig, nuts and bark went on the scamore drawing, the oak on the oak, and so on.

“There,” I said, proudly when I was finished.

Doreen leaned over the bed as though examining the things I'd laid out. Then, to my horror, she grabbed the oak pile, broke the twigs, crumbled the leaves into pieces, and threw the bark on the floor, crushing it with her heavy shoe. Only the little acorn escaped by rolling under the bed.

“What a ninny you are,” she sneered and put up her fists, as if waiting for me to try and hit her.

I felt my face burning. I was so angry. But Father had always said anger doesn't cure anything, and I knew it would hurt him to disobey.

So I didn't say a word to Doreen. I just gathered up my twigs and papers, knelt down and swept the crushed pieces of bark into my hand, and gently laid them all back into my satchel.

From then on, I was known by the adults at the home as The Quiet One. I did what I was told, nothing more and nothing less. The women who took care of us were really quite nice. They tried at first to coax me to speak out, to play. But there were so many children to take care of that it was easy for them to forget about me because I wasn't any trouble at all.

As for the other children, they left me alone. The kind ones, I imagine, had their own troubles to occupy them; the bullies like Doreen ignored me once they found I wouldn't rise to their taunts. I simply waited for the day when I could once again look out of the window and not be afraid to ask: “What lies out there for me today?”

❄ ❄ ❄

Then early one day, just after dawn, before the morning bell had rung, I woke up to find myself staring up at two very tall people. Maybe they weren't really that tall, they just seemed so to me. I was six by then. I will never forget the date. It was April 2, 1935, almost a year to the day since I had said good-bye to Mrs. Ellis.

The man and the woman introduced themselves, but I was so sleepy I couldn't make out what they said, just that they had been sent by somebody to pick me up.

I heard the woman say, “Come on, dear, get dressed and pack your things. You're coming with us.”

For a minute I shivered I was so excited, until I remembered the last time a kind lady had taken me somewhere. I didn't object, however. But then, I wouldn't have. I had become compliant. My objective was not to be noticed, and I managed by doing what I was told.

It took only a minute for me to get ready. I left with what I had brought. I hadn't grown very much, so everything still fit except my shoes, which had been passed along to an even smaller girl. I pulled my satchel out from under my pillow, where it had remained, unopened since the day I'd arrived, and I was ready to leave.

“What a marvelous satchel, Anna,” the lady said. “Look at all those straps and buckles! What's inside?”

I was too frightened to reply—or to even look at her. I shuffled along with my eyes on the ground.

The woman whispered something to the man. I couldn't hear what she said, but when I sneaked a glance upward, I saw that she seemed worried about me. I would have liked to answer her; I could sense that she was a kind person. But I wasn't ready to take a chance like that.

I didn't pay much attention to what the grown-ups were chatting about as we walked along. I was too caught up in the moment, of once again experiencing that familiar, happy sensation of being out on the street.

When we arrived at their automobile and the man opened the door, it took me a minute to realize I was supposed to go inside. I had never been inside an automobile before!

I scrambled in and watched with excitement as the man put the key in the ignition and then felt the engine start, with a loud roar and a bump. I wanted to laugh out loud, but I had just spent a year learning to keep my feelings locked inside. Those poor people! They must have thought I was miserable, sitting up so straight in my seat not saying a thing, except
please
and
thank you
when I was given something to eat and drink.

We drove for quite a while, long enough for the scenery flashing by the window to turn from gray to green. This new world seemed vast and a little lonely to me. We went for miles without seeing a person, only a cow here and there. The beauty of the scenery only made me feel increasingly scared and sad as I realized I now had nothing to connect me to my old life in New York, not even concrete.

We turned off the main road onto another road before we finally rounded the bend that led to the most amazing building I'd ever seen. So many fanciful windows and nooks, it looked like something from a picturebook. It was Brush Creek, of course.

I was overcome with the strangest feeling. My parents had sent for me—they had been waiting for me in this wonderful new home, together with the cat from the alley. Maybe Mrs. Ellis was here, too. There certainly was plenty of room for everyone.

I pulled on the car door handle, trying to open it. All of a sudden I didn't care if my happiness showed.

“There you go,” said the man, reaching back and pushing the door for me.

I jumped out of the car and found myself skipping across the lawn. I thought I'd forgotten how.

I began to yell, “Hello! Hello! I'm here!”

The door to the giant house opened and someone came out, a big smile on her face.

I stopped and remained absolutely still as I realized what a terrible mistake I had made.

The person walking toward me was a woman, but she looked very odd, all tucked into a flowing black robe as if she was trying to hide. I had never seen a nun before.

My heart sank and I felt like crying. Of course my parents weren't here. Only more strangeness.

“You must be Anna,” said the cloaked woman. “Welcome to Brush Creek.” She had plump, rosy cheeks and little round eyeglasses. It was hard to tell if she was old or young.

I turned and looked for an explanation from the people who had brought me here.

“Anna, why do you look so shocked?” the woman said. “We told you you'd be coming here to stay with the Sisters, who have so kindly agreed to take care of you.”