Read Online The Ice Cream Queen of Orchard Street: A Novel by Susan Jane Gilman - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Jane Gilman
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devoured our bounty, scalding and doused with sweet mustard, while hiding beneath a stoop.
Later that evening Mama demanded an accounting of everything we’d bought—“I know what things cost. I’d like to know where those extra two pennies are.”
Flora panicked. “Malka bought a knish,” she said.
I stood there blinking. Mama backhanded me across the face. “Stupid, stupid!” she cried. “You want that all of us should starve to death from your selfishness?”
I started to cry. I looked around the kitchen for Papa, but he was gone. He seemed to be at Mr. Lefkowitz’s less and less in the evenings. Sometimes Flora and I spotted him in the streets in broad daylight, smoking and joking with groups of men gathered around various storefronts with stairs leading down into basements. A few evenings, as we made our way home, I thought I’d even seen Papa in the tavern downstairs, though I couldn’t be sure. When I managed to catch his eye at the dinner table once, he winked at me. I kept hoping he might ask me to take another walk with him, or to practice punching. I kept hoping that he might give some indication of when we might leave Orchard Street for a place more like the one we’d seen together in the moving pictures. But he never did. When I tugged on his sleeve and said, “Papa?” he sometimes looked at me blankly for a moment, as if he’d forgotten which daughter I was.
Occasionally, late at night, I could hear him and my mother whispering fiercely—“You spent all of it?” “I told you, Tillie. It pays five to one!” This meant that they were speaking again, which gave me some relief. But mostly I just saw Papa’s back, bent over the ironing board, or the top of his head disappearing down the stairway, or his figure, in the distance, a blur in the shadows of men.
“I’m sorry, Mama!” I cried when she slapped me. “I was just so hungry.”
“Oh, you were, were you? Then go eat some of that gold off the pavements. Go drink from those fountains of milk you were talking so much about.”
One night Papa didn’t come home at all. “He’s out drunk somewhere, is where he is,” said Mama. She had made egg noodles for dinner; my sisters and I were allowed to share his portion. He was home by breakfast, however, so we didn’t get to have his bread.
Two nights later he was gone again. This time my three sisters and I shared his boiled egg.
At dawn, Bella left for her job on Chrystie Street, Rose left for the factory. By the time Flora and I finished our breakfast of bread and milk, Papa still hadn’t returned. It was Friday. “It’s not enough he gets drunk and gambles away all his earnings?” Mama cried. “Now he should show up late for his job and get himself fired as well?
“Go,” she ordered me and Flora. “Work as much as you can today so we won’t all of us be out on the street.”
When Flora and I returned that afternoon, we found our mother furiously hacking away at a piece of fabric with her scissors. She hacked it entirely to bits, then snatched up another and started in. Little patches were flying everywhere, spraying around her, falling at her feet. The girls from Lodz sat with their piecework untouched, staring at her in horror. Mr. Lefkowitz himself was standing behind Mama, trying to stay her wrist without getting clipped himself.
“Tillie, please,” he said. “Leave it be. Go look for him.”
My mother continued clipping away violently. “He wants to play games? Let him play games.”
Mr. Lefkowitz pulled two pennies from his pocket and hurried over to my sister. “Flora,” he said with exaggerated care. He knelt down and looked her straight in the eyes, as if she were a book he was reading. “I think your mother could use some parsley for the Sabbath. Why don’t you and Malka go to buy some? And on your way, look in the saloons, and the barber’s, and anyplace else you might think of where your papa might be.”
Suddenly Mama threw down her
Later that evening Mama demanded an accounting of everything we’d bought—“I know what things cost. I’d like to know where those extra two pennies are.”
Flora panicked. “Malka bought a knish,” she said.
I stood there blinking. Mama backhanded me across the face. “Stupid, stupid!” she cried. “You want that all of us should starve to death from your selfishness?”
I started to cry. I looked around the kitchen for Papa, but he was gone. He seemed to be at Mr. Lefkowitz’s less and less in the evenings. Sometimes Flora and I spotted him in the streets in broad daylight, smoking and joking with groups of men gathered around various storefronts with stairs leading down into basements. A few evenings, as we made our way home, I thought I’d even seen Papa in the tavern downstairs, though I couldn’t be sure. When I managed to catch his eye at the dinner table once, he winked at me. I kept hoping he might ask me to take another walk with him, or to practice punching. I kept hoping that he might give some indication of when we might leave Orchard Street for a place more like the one we’d seen together in the moving pictures. But he never did. When I tugged on his sleeve and said, “Papa?” he sometimes looked at me blankly for a moment, as if he’d forgotten which daughter I was.
Occasionally, late at night, I could hear him and my mother whispering fiercely—“You spent all of it?” “I told you, Tillie. It pays five to one!” This meant that they were speaking again, which gave me some relief. But mostly I just saw Papa’s back, bent over the ironing board, or the top of his head disappearing down the stairway, or his figure, in the distance, a blur in the shadows of men.
“I’m sorry, Mama!” I cried when she slapped me. “I was just so hungry.”
“Oh, you were, were you? Then go eat some of that gold off the pavements. Go drink from those fountains of milk you were talking so much about.”
One night Papa didn’t come home at all. “He’s out drunk somewhere, is where he is,” said Mama. She had made egg noodles for dinner; my sisters and I were allowed to share his portion. He was home by breakfast, however, so we didn’t get to have his bread.
Two nights later he was gone again. This time my three sisters and I shared his boiled egg.
At dawn, Bella left for her job on Chrystie Street, Rose left for the factory. By the time Flora and I finished our breakfast of bread and milk, Papa still hadn’t returned. It was Friday. “It’s not enough he gets drunk and gambles away all his earnings?” Mama cried. “Now he should show up late for his job and get himself fired as well?
“Go,” she ordered me and Flora. “Work as much as you can today so we won’t all of us be out on the street.”
When Flora and I returned that afternoon, we found our mother furiously hacking away at a piece of fabric with her scissors. She hacked it entirely to bits, then snatched up another and started in. Little patches were flying everywhere, spraying around her, falling at her feet. The girls from Lodz sat with their piecework untouched, staring at her in horror. Mr. Lefkowitz himself was standing behind Mama, trying to stay her wrist without getting clipped himself.
“Tillie, please,” he said. “Leave it be. Go look for him.”
My mother continued clipping away violently. “He wants to play games? Let him play games.”
Mr. Lefkowitz pulled two pennies from his pocket and hurried over to my sister. “Flora,” he said with exaggerated care. He knelt down and looked her straight in the eyes, as if she were a book he was reading. “I think your mother could use some parsley for the Sabbath. Why don’t you and Malka go to buy some? And on your way, look in the saloons, and the barber’s, and anyplace else you might think of where your papa might be.”
Suddenly Mama threw down her
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