The Doll Shop Downstairs

Table of Contents

 

 

THE DOLLS NEED HELP
.

“You all know about the war,” Papa begins. “Well, even though America is not fighting, the war will still affect us here.”

“How, Papa?” I ask.

“Doll parts,” he says. “The parts we use come from Germany. And because of the war, we won't be able to get them. Not for a long time, anyway.”

“Why not?” asks Trudie.

“Because America is going to stop trading with Germany. That's what happens when countries go to war. Everything suffers.”

There is a long, heavy silence while we try to make sense of what he has just said.

“How can you fix the dolls without the parts, Papa?” Trudie finally asks.

“I can't,” says Papa. “At least, I can't repair any dolls whose parts I don't have here already.”

“If you and Mama can't fix dolls, what will happen to the shop? And what will happen to us?” asks Sophie. Those are the exact questions I want to ask, but I am afraid to hear the answers.

“I'm not sure,” Papa says again, looking down at his hands as if he doesn't quite know what to do with them anymore.

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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

 

First published in the United States of America by Viking,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2009

Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2011

 

Text copyright © Yona Zeldis McDonough, 2009

Illustrations copyright © Heather Maione, 2009
All rights reserved

 

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE VIKING EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
McDonough, Yona Zeldis.

The doll shop downstairs / by Yona Zeldis McDonough ; illustrated by Heather Maione.
p. cm.

Summary: When World War I breaks out, nine-year-old Anna thinks of a way to save
her family's beloved New York City doll repair shop. Includes brief author's note about
the history of the Madame Alexander doll, a glossary, and timeline.

ISBN : 978-1-101-54345-0

[1. Dolls—Fiction. 2. Dolls—Repairing—Fiction. 3. Family life—New York (State)—New York—
Fiction. 4. Immigrants—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 5. Jews—United States—Fiction.

6. New York (N.Y.)—History—1898–1951—Fiction.]
I. Maione, Heather Harms, ill. II. Title
PZ7.M15655Du 2009
[Fic]—dc22 2009001934

 

 

 

 

 

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

 

My thanks to Regina Hayes and Nancy Brennan for
their support and their faith, and to Janet Pascal
for her meticulous research and invaluable suggestions.
Thanks, too, to Leon Thurm for his formidable memory.—
Y.Z.M.

 

 

To my mamish, with love.
—H.M.

I

M
EET THE DOLLS

“Don't push!” I tell my little sister, Trudie.

“I'm not pushing, Anna,” says Trudie. “You are!”

“If you two fight, Mama will make us go back upstairs,” says our big sister, Sophie. Sophie is eleven, but right now she is talking to us like she is a grown-up and we are just babies. Well, maybe she thinks Trudie is a baby, but
I'm
not, so I wish she would stop using that tone.

Sophie, Trudie, and I have spent most of the afternoon cleaning the doll repair shop our parents own and run. Now we are allowed to stay in the shop to play. But Sophie is right: if we quarrel, Mama will hear us and make us come upstairs. So I let Trudie go ahead, even if she does shove her way in front of me and step on my foot besides. Trudie
is
only seven so I suppose I should be understanding.

I've always lived above the doll shop on Essex Street. Mama says that a long time ago, when Sophie was a baby, the three of them lived in a different apartment, on Ludlow Street. But to me, Ludlow Street doesn't count. It's Essex Street, and only Essex Street, that is home. Out in front there is a sign that reads:

Underneath the letters is a picture of a smiling doll. Mama painted it. She can paint a picture of anything. She is the one who paints the dolls' faces—the rosy cheeks, the red lips—so well that you'd never know they weren't brand new. I tell her I think she is a magician, but she only smiles and keeps her hand steady on the brush.

Trudie runs ahead of me and reaches for “her” doll, which is made of bisque and has thick, dark hair. The doll is not really hers, of course. All the dolls here are waiting to be fixed by Papa. But while they wait, he lets us play with them. We each choose a single doll at a time—that's the rule—and we have to be careful when we play. The dolls are very fragile and easy to break. The only time a doll can leave the shop is with its owner. We are not owners. We have no bisque or china dolls that belong to just us. Bisque and china dolls are expensive. We used to have rag dolls that Mama made, but they have fallen apart from so much use, and she has not had a chance to make new ones. Papa says that if the shop does really, really well, one day he will buy each of us a doll of our own. But it seems to me that day is a long way off.

“Angelica Grace!” breathes Trudie when she sees her doll. Angelica Grace is a name Sophie came up with. She read it in a book and told it to Trudie. Sophie comes up with all the names for our dolls—she's good at that, but then, she is good at so many things.

Compared to some of the other dolls in the shop, Angelica Grace doesn't look too bad. Her navy pleated skirt and white sailor blouse are only a little wrinkled. Her hair is neat. She even has navy leather shoes and white ribbed stockings on her feet. But one of her blue glass eyes is missing, and there is a big, dark hole where it once was. It makes her look kind of spooky.

Sophie's current doll—she calls her Victoria Marie—looks much worse. The toes of her bare feet are broken, and her blonde hair is always tangled, though Sophie tries to comb it. All of her clothes are missing. But she has the sweetest smile, and tiny holes in her earlobes where real earrings can fit.

The doll that is “mine” is Bernadette Louise. Her face, legs, and arms are made of shiny glazed porcelain. Her dark hair is painted on and decorated with beautiful painted blue flowers. Mama says they are morning glories. On one foot, she wears a black painted boot with a blue tassled garter; the other foot is missing. Her dark red and gold flowered skirt must have been nice once, but it is now torn and stained. Her right arm is badly cracked.

One day, I asked Papa why these three dolls were still in the shop. Usually he mends the dolls promptly and then sends them home again.

“Which dolls?” he asked, and I showed him the three dolls we thought of as “ours.”