Read Online A House of Tailors by Patricia Reilly Giff - Free Book Online

head, the Uncle’s angry face in my mind. What would he say? And just as bad, the money, my savings that I had counted on for going home, had flown away.
    Barbara brought me a glass of cold water with chips from the icebox. I gulped most of it down as I watched Maria in her high chair mimicking the face I made as I sobbed. She reminded me of Friedrich when he was a baby, mouth coated with cookie crumbs, laughing—a handful!
    I’d never see Friedrich again, never see any of them at home again.
    Through the archway into the hall, the sewing machine sat on the worn rug like a huge black beetle. That was where I’d spend the rest of my life, and it was my fault, all my own fault.
    I told Barbara the story of Mrs. Koch. “How was I to know I was in her dressing room instead of her bedroom?”
    She didn’t say, “You should have known.” She didn’t say, “You shouldn’t have been in Mrs. Koch’s closet anyway.”
    I hadn’t told her about eating a little of the jam, which Aunt Ida had suddenly realized from a bit on my chin that I hadn’t noticed.
    And I hadn’t told her that Aunt Ida had sat in the kitchen trying to catch her breath as I watched, thinking I’d have to send for the doctor.
    â€œDo you know the word for
Doktor
in English?” I asked.
    Barbara blinked and shook her head. “Are you that sick?” she asked.
    She clucked over me the way Aunt Ida had clucked when she’d first seen me that morning. “I would have been terrified to try on the hats,” she said, as if I had accomplished some brave feat.
    I ran the cool glass over my forehead. It had been a long hot march back from Aunt Ida’s kitchen.
    â€œWe’ll take a walk,” Barbara said. “We’ll find the ice cream man and sit in the park. . . .” Already she was looking into her pocket, frowning as she pulled out a few coins.
    I didn’t know American money yet, but I could tell from her face it wasn’t enough for all of us.
    I shook my head. The coarse brown fabric was piled up on the chair in front of the machine, waiting for me. I’d have to begin now anyway. “Go ahead,” I told her. “Take Maria.” I waved my hand at the black beetle. “I’ll sew.”
    To show her I meant what I said, I went into the hall, pulled out the chair, and began to pin a pattern to the fabric. I told myself I’d have to be starving in the street to wear such a scratchy thing.
    I heard a banging at the door.
Now what?
I wondered. “Coming,” I called. “Coming right now.”
    I could hear the Uncle roar. So he had heard about what had happened. How was it he was home in the middle of the day, though?
    I took a deep breath and went to the door.
    The Uncle was bent over almost double, and on his back and over his head lay piles of trousers. Dozens of them.
    He straightened up, the trousers sliding onto the floor. He held up his hand. “You are nothing but trouble.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said. “If I ever get money enough, I will take the ship straight back to Hamburg. And from there I’ll go to Breisach, even if I have to walk all the way.”
    â€œAnd worse than trouble,” he muttered. “Always with the mouth.”
    I bit my lip. I remembered Mama shaking her head, telling me the same thing.
    â€œNever mind,” said the Uncle. “Now that service is out of the question, I have taken myself to Mr. Eis, who sells trousers.”
    I looked at them, a mound halfway to the ceiling.
    â€œAll you have to do is seam them together,” he said. “If you begin every morning and work until dinnertime, we might get a dollar a day.”
    We
. He had said
we
.
    I began adding in my head.
    â€œSeventy-five cents for me,” he said, “twenty-five for you.”
    I opened my mouth. “Fifty.”
    â€œDon’t forget. It is my machine, my