There were more empty seats than before, I realized as I took my seat and scratched my knees. Now what? Would I ride this train forever, just as I had feared? Would I be sold to some other stranger? Or would Miss Doctor finally agree to send me back to an orphanage?
I knew I needed to keep my wits about me, but for a moment I pretended that this train was headed east, not west, and that Mama and Papa would be waiting for me at the Chicago depot.
"You must be hungry after all that traveling," Papa would say, taking my hand. Mama would take my other hand, and we would walk together to Auntie Manya's for pickle soup and sour rye. I would tell them about Mickey Dooley and jelly sandwiches and old Peony and Oleander, and we would laugh, being careful to be quiet so we didn't wake the boys.
Then I cried myself to sleep so quietly that no one could hear. Not even me.
5. Western Nebraska
"GOBACK TO YOUR seat, Rodzina," Miss Doctor said without even opening her eyes as I slid onto the seat next to her.
"I want to go back to the orphanage."
"I told you, orphanages are not equipped to keep children permanently."
"I will not go somewhere to be a slave. I'd rather die."
Miss Doctor opened her eyes. "The people who come for you orphans do not want slaves."
"No one takes orphans just to be kind. They want unpaid servants. Those old ladies—"
"They would have given you a home, Rodzina," she said, her Z buzzing like an entire hive of angry bees.
"They would have worked me to death and not mourned at all."
"Well, then, Miss Brodski, tell me exactly what it is you want, and the entire mechanism of the Association of Aid Societies, the great city of Chicago, and the sovereign state of Illinois will not rest until they find you exactly the right home."
I figured she was making fun but thought I'd tell her anyway. "Maybe a nice family who wants a daughter, not a servant. With a mama and a papa and some little kids. Boys maybe. Little boys. And I would like them to have a house and a yard and plenty to eat."
She rolled her eyes. "Anything else?"
"Well, they don't have to be Polish. Mama would like it if they were Catholic but Papa didn't think much of any religion at all, so I guess it doesn't matter. He said the Brodskis have been nonbelievers since the sixteenth century, when Pint-Pot Latuski became Bishop of Posen for a bribe of 12,000 ducats, and he did not plan to be the first to defect."
"You can omit the commentary, Rodzina." Miss Doctor took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "You are an orphan. If a family offers you a home, you will take it."
"If I will not be a servant. If I will be safe and warm and fed."
"We will do our best. We always do."
"You mean Peony and Oleander were your best?"
"Go back to your seat, Rodzina."
All night and the next day we rattled and swayed, stopped and started again. My body ached like I had spent the night toting rocks instead of just trying to sleep. Who would have thought someone could get so tired and sore just from rattling and swaying?
Out the window, the empty plains went on and on. Here and there were mileage signs for pokey little towns with western-sounding names: Dead Mule Junction 10 miles, Wild Horse Ridge 25 miles, Lick Skillet this way, Buck Snort that way.
When the train stopped in a town called Rotten Luck, Mr. Szprot took us out to stretch our legs. The air smelled of dust and cows. I watched the little kids carefully to make sure they didn't take off, get run over by a cow, or blow away in the dusty wind.
"My daddy could have named this place," said Spud.
"How do you mean?" asked Sammy.
"He worked at the lumber mill, saved his money, and bought a little store. Then he sold the store and bought a saloon. Then he began to drink, went broke, and went back to work at the lumber mill. Then he died."
"When my dad was drinking, he would whup me with the fry pan, to save me from the gallows, he said," said Joe.
"My pa used to whip me on the soles of my feet so no one could see," Chester added.
They all looked at me. "My papa never whipped me," I said.
"I'll tell you what I think about that in two words: im-possible," said Chester.
"Telling falsehoods is plumb wicked," sang Mickey Dooley. "Lying is a sin. When you go to Heaven, they won't let you in."
"Never," I said. And it was no lie. My papa was big, with big, strong hands. He always said Brodskis work with their heads, not their hands, but it was his hands that kept us alive. He went to the stockyards every day but Sunday, where he slit the throats of pigs born to be hams, lard, and leather for the people of America. Papa stood ankle-deep in blood as the squealing pigs came by, hanging from their feet by an overhead belt, and he took his strong knife and opened their throats. His feet swelled and blistered from all those hours on the hard floor. In the summer he tied a handkerchief over his mouth and nose to keep out the flies and mosquitoes, and the sweat poured off him. In winter the unheated room was thick with steam from hot water and hot blood, and he could barely see to cut the pig and not his own arm. In all seasons he came home stinking of pigs and fear. But for all his size and big hands, my papa was a gentle man....
"Watch the rest of the kids for me for a minute," I said to Spud as I climbed back onto the train.
"Miss Doctor?" I said, standing next to her seat.
She opened her eyes and sighed.
"And they can't hit."
She closed her eyes again.
The next morning, while Mr. Szprot, cigar in his teeth as always, slept and Miss Doctor read her book, I sat and watched Nebraska go by. Slowly I became aware of a ruckus. The boys had plopped down in the aisle and were taking off their shoes and socks. "Goldurn," said Chester, looking at Sammy's right foot, black and crusty with grime, "I bet that's the dirtiest foot on this train!"
"Bet it ain't," said Sammy. Bet—the magic word. Half the carload of orphans came over to look at Sammy's foot and their own, argue, and wager.
Then Sammy took off his other shoe and stuck his left foot into the air. He was right. That one was the dirtiest foot on the train. Peach pits and marbles went into the pocket of Sammy's patched knickers.
Then they all began to unravel their socks. I sure couldn't figure what they were up to. Whistling through a gap in his teeth, Chester wrapped the yarn around a dried-up old apple. He kept winding and winding, and after long minutes he had a ball.
What is it about boys and balls? If there is snow or a stone or an apple and some socks, there is a ball. And if there is a ball, there is a game. I know this because of my brothers, Toddy and Jan, who turned everything round or almost round into a ball.
One time when Mama was to be out late, she gave me ten cents to buy chopped meat so I could have dinner ready when she and Papa got home. While I was slicing bread, Toddy grabbed the meat, rolled it into a round shape, and threw it to Jan. Back and forth went the meatball until Jan made a wild throw, and it hit the ceiling and stuck.
"Get it down," I hollered, punching Jan on his arm, "or you will be the one to tell Papa his supper is on the ceiling."
Toddy lifted Jan, but he couldn't reach it. I lifted Jan, but he still couldn't reach. Toddy took hold of the packing crate that we used for a table and moved it over. I stood on it and lifted Jan, who was then able to scoop the meat off the ceiling. But my foot went through the crate and we tumbled to the floor, meatball rolling into a corner.
Toddy and Jan tried to fix the crate while I dusted off the meatball and turned it into meatloaf. Papa said it was the best he ever ate.
My remembering was interrupted by a plop on my head.
"Sorry, Potato Nose," said Chester as he retrieved the ball. Seemed Sammy, Joe, Chester, Spud, and Mickey Dooley had started a baseball game in the aisle.
Muffled shouts and cheers filled the car: "Yer out!"
"Not by a mile!"
"Slide, Kelly, slide."
"He ain't King Kelly. I am."
"No, me
."
"I'm Cap Anson, star of the greatest team in the league, the Chicago White Stockings," said Joe.
"I want to be the striker," Sammy shouted.
"You?" said Mickey Dooley. "You couldn't hit a bull's butt with a bass fiddle!"
Sammy just laughed—Sammy, who swung at Joe every chance he got. But he didn't get mad at Mickey Dooley. No one got mad at Mickey Dooley. How could you get mad at a kid who was smiling all the time?
Lacey stood quietly and watched them. Then she asked, "What are you doing?"
"We're playing baseball, dummy," said Spud.
"What's baseball?"
"Why, only the greatest game in the world. Yer out!" he shouted at Sammy, loud enough to make Lacey jump.
"How do you play?"
"Git away, Cabbage Head. I got a game to play and you're in my way." Spud turned back to Sammy. "You're out, you no-good, cheatin' lowlife!"
"Ro, you tell me. How do you play baseball?"
Never having seen an actual baseball game, I wasn't at all sure, but I thought I could figure it out. After watching for a few minutes, I told her: "Okay, see, the thrower puts spit on the ball and throws it at the striker—that's the guy with the water dipper."
"Why?" she asked. "Is he trying to hit him?"
"Yes, but the striker tries not to get hit—because of the spit all over the ball, I'd say."
"Why is the striker waving the water dipper around?"
"He's trying to keep that spitty ball away from him. If he by chance hits the ball with the dipper, he runs and tries to hide. And if that guy over there catches it, why, they commence arguing about it."
"Run home!" Chester shouted to Joe. "Go on home!" How could they go home, I wondered, when they were orphans, or as good as, just like the rest of us? Home. I was too sad to talk to Lacey anymore, so I just shut down the explaining machine.
The baseball game turned into a boxing match. Chester sat on Spud, and Mickey cheered him on: "Smack him one! Hit 'im in the head. You can't hurt him there."
Spud and Chester went tumbling down the aisle, rolling like a bowling ball straight into Mr. Szprot. That woke him up, got Miss Doctor's attention, and put an end to the game in a hurry.
"SIT!" Mr. Szprot bellowed. "I don't want to hear a sound above a whisper from you louts. Sit there and thank God that you are here and not sleeping on the streets of Chicago."
At first there was silence, and then Mickey Dooley said quietly, "As the mother skunk said to the little skunk, 'Let us spray.'"
They all erupted into laughter, and I thought Mr. Szprot might put us off the train right there in Louse Creek, Nebraska, but Miss Doctor pushed him aside. "Rodzina," she said, "take this rowdy bunch and keep them quiet."
"But Miss Doctor, I didn—"
"Rodzina!"
I decided to tell them a story. That always quieted my brothers. Toddy and Jan were not twins but were born so close together and looked so much alike, everyone thought they were, for you couldn't tell where Toddy left off and Jan began. When they grew from babyhood to little boyhood, they did everything together. They even died together in a fire, which devoured Auntie Manya's house while she was looking after them there one night. After that, Auntie Manya went away, and we didn't see her again, tiny Auntie Manya who smelled of mothballs and tomato soup. I had told Toddy and Jan stories each night, and after they died I just continued, even though they were not around to hear. For a long time in the dark I told stories to little boys who were not there.
The orphans all gathered in the front of the car, close to the warmth of the stove. I settled myself in my seat by the window. Poking at some new holes in the knees of my stockings, I began. "I'll tell you about the time my papa won a pig in a raffle. He thought he'd lead it home on a string like a dog, but the pig, being no dog, just grunted and sat down. Papa tried to carry it. The pig squealed and squirmed so much, Papa dropped it and had to chase after it through the muddy streets until he caught it again. Papa decided he and the pig would take a streetcar."
"Get outa here," said Sammy. "You can't take a pig on a streetcar."
"I know that and my papa knew that, so he went into a bakery and got a flour sack. He put the pig in the sack, tied it up tight with string, and waited for a trolley. He paid his nickel, sat down, and shoved the pig underneath his seat. The pig began to squeal, and to cover the noise, Papa began to sing."
"What did he sing?" Lacey asked.
"That doesn't really matter. He—"
"But I want to know. What did he sing?"
"For Heaven's sake! Maybe 'Silver Threads Among the Gold' and 'The Song of the Polish Legion.' Now can I continue?"
Lacey smiled and nodded.
"Finally the pig grew silent."
"Was he dead?" asked Lacey.
"No, he was just quiet. Unlike you. Papa sat back and relaxed. And then an awful smell filled the streetcar. The air grew greenish and thick. The smell was coming from where Papa was sitting. People stared at him. They grumbled and moved away. Finally the streetcar rumbled to a stop, and the driver stood up and looked at Papa. Papa looked at the bag and the dark stain slowly spreading on it. He stood up, picked up the bag of pig and pig ... stuff, tipped his hat, and got off the streetcar." The orphans at my feet began laughing and slapping their knees—quietly, so as not to arouse Mr. Szprot again.
I finished my story. "He walked all the way home with that sack stinking in the sunshine. Even on Honore Street we could smell him coming. We ate on that pig for a month and laughed every time."
"I never heard of a sack full of pig before," said Mickey Dooley, "but I once knew a man had a sack full of snew."
"What's snew?" Lacey asked.
"Nothing. What's new with you?"
That Mickey Dooley. You never could get anything out of him but a joke. He was happy as a fly in a pie. He could be mighty annoying with his jokes, but I thought he must be the happiest kid I ever saw.
Everyone started telling funny stories then about their folks. "My pa," said Spud, "was so lazy, he used to hire someone to do his snoring!"
Sammy said, "We was so poor, even the cockroaches were starving."
"My ma was the knittingest woman you ever saw," Mickey Dooley put in. "She'd take yarn to bed with her at night, and every once in a while she'd throw out a sock."
And another day passed on the train, taking me from a lonely Chicago to who-knows-where. I ate jelly sandwiches, washed faces, stopped fights, and told stories.
Toward suppertime all was quiet and I had a few minutes to myself. I watched out the window. Soon we would be in Cheyenne, and someone else might want to take me, and I would not want to go. What would happen to me? Through the growing dusk, I could see distant tepees, herds of grazing animals, dark unknown shapes. My thoughts were as gloomy as the night.
The train stopped at an eating station but, occupied with our cold potatoes and wrinkled apples, we did not get off. The water tower, painted with an advertisement for Stonebreaker's Indian Gum Syrup for the Gut, was ringed by emigrant wagons. As I watched, families tended horses, pitched tents, and unloaded big iron kettles, rocking chairs, and old battered trunks tied with rope.
I imagined Mama and Papa there with them, going west. "My Rodzina," Papa would say, "my little jelly doughnut. Come down from that train and join us in our wagon. We will all go west together and open a restaurant, where we will sell your mama's egg noodles and poppyseed cake."
"Polish girl," Mr. Szprot called to me from the door of our car. "Come here."
What now? I got up and plodded over to him. "I do have a name," I told him.
"What?" Mr. Szprot asked.
"Me. I have a name. Rodzina. My name is Rodzina."
He and Miss Doctor stepped off the train and motioned me to follow.
Mr. Szprot said, "Polish gi—" but Miss Doctor interrupted. "Miss Brodski," she said, "we must send some telegrams from the station here. We want you to keep the children quiet and orderly."
"Make everyone stay put," M
r. Szprot added.
I nodded and climbed back on the train. I was completely in charge. My chest swelled with importance.
"All right, you guttersnipes," I said to the orphans under my command. "Pipe down and stay put."
The car was full of giggles and snorts. I gave them the stink face. "What's so funny?" Not a word. I looked around. "Where's Lacey?" The whole car exploded into laughter.
Spud pointed out the window at the covered wagons. "I told that copperknob those was circus wagons," he said through his guffaws, "and there was clowns and acrobats and an elephant. And the dummy believed me!"
"WHERE IS SHE?" I bellowed.
"Out there," he said, "going to the circus."
Radishes! I wasn't even in charge for five minutes and one of the orphans was missing!
"I'll go get her. All of you stay here!" The girl was feebleminded. A circus indeed! I tore out the back door and over to the wagons.
It was a mild evening for early April, not quite dark yet. Folks were sitting around a fire, and there was Lacey in the middle, eating cornbread, with butter and a big smile all over her face.
"Lacey," I called. "Come here." The folks all turned to look at me.
"You the body told this child we was a circus?" one woman asked.
"No, that was Spud. He enjoys tormenting Lacey because she is slow. Come on, Lacey. We got to get back before Miss Doctor and the Szprot do."
"Now, wait a minute," said a gent with long skinny arms and big yellow teeth like piano keys. "You don't want to let that Spud fella think he got the best of Little Miss here." He scratched his sunburned nose. "Have a seat. We ain't no circus, but I can do this—" He pulled six potatoes out of a sack and juggled them like a regular music-hall fellow. I knew we should hurry back, but I had never seen someone juggle potatoes before, so I sat.
"And I this." An old man pulled out a fiddle and began to play "Turkey in the Straw," while a black-and-white dog walked on his hind legs, an old lady in a yellow sunbonnet pulled an onion out of Lacey's ear, and a fat little boy did ten somersaults in a row. Lacey and I ate pie and popcorn and drank apple cider, so good after our days of jelly sandwiches, and we clapped and cheered.