September 18, 2005
by Frank Ephraim
This is a work of fiction.
The apartment on Broome Street on New York’s Lower East Side is steamy in the sweltering heat of July. Odd smells waft from the old furniture; the dark brown wood casts a depressing mood over the crowded room. Only a single bright square—crisscrossed by shadows of the fire escape—illuminates the floor, its shellac worn by generations of tenement dwellers. Emma kneels on the floor and tries to concentrate on her book. The English is still hard, but Mama says she must learn to read her new language. “Next Monday the school starts,” she said yesterday, “and Mr. Sondheim will take you there on the first day for registration.” Mr. Sondheim brought Mama and Emma to this apartment. It has one room, a little kitchen. The toilet is down the hall.
Mr. Sondheim had met them at the dock when the ship arrived in New York. He is a nice man—bald, with a gray beard and a twinkle in his eyes. He gave Emma a small basket filled with chocolates wrapped in brown and silver paper. That was in May of last year, 1947. Mama works all day in a clothing factory. Emma is too young to go to work, but she feels so much older than the other ten-year-old girls that live in the building. They are supposed to be her new friends. They always laugh when she tries to speak English. So Emma avoids them and stays in the apartment trying to keep busy.
And that is what she is doing at this moment, cutting patterns into folded pieces of old newspaper. The result always brings a surprise when the paper is unfolded to reveal the design. An old woman on the ship that brought Emma and Mama to New York had shown her how to do that. That woman could produce wonderful patterns—rows of paper dolls, swans, and stars. It helped pass the time.
Last night Mama let out a cry just as Emma was in the hall. With her heart pounding, Emma ran into the apartment to see her mother, the old piece of newspaper rolled up in her hand, swatting at something on the floor. The cutouts lay scattered about and Emma thought Mama was angry at her.
“Dirty pest. He ran into the closet. Maybe he is hiding in the newspaper.”
Emma had seen it before. A large insect with a flat gold-colored body. Mr. Sondheim had told Mama about them. They had a strange name—“kakratch,” or something. He said to use “Flit,” an insect spray, and he made a pumping motion with his fist. “That will kill them,” he had added. Mama shuddered when he said that.
Emma puts her book down on the floor. It is time for making more cutouts, and she opens the closet door to reach in for an old newspaper that is stored there.
With a shriek she scurries backwards as she spies the insect on top of the stack of newspapers. In a few rapid spurts the cockroach makes its way onto the floor as Emma stares down from atop the light green, threadbare bed cover. The insect halts briefly and then moves forward. The sunlight turns the wings into a golden hue. Emma’s body is rigid, her eyes fixed on the cockroach, and then she shifts them towards the door to measure the distance for a quick escape.
But before she acts, several smaller cockroaches make their appearance. Emma bolts for the door, slams it shut, and runs down the hall just as three of her new friends are trampling up the stairs.
Gasping, Emma tries to tell them what she saw.
“Kakratch, kakratch!” they mimic, laughing. Emma wants to cry, but she controls herself. She had done that before when, with Mama, they had hid in the attic as Nazi troopers searched their house, looking for Papa.
That night Mr. Sondheim arrives with food for supper and three candles. It is Friday night, and Mama lights two candles for Sabbath before they eat. Emma knows the third candle will be lit tomorrow. It is the day set aside to remember Papa, who never came back from the war in the East. Mama never says much about that, but she will cry tomorrow.
Tonight Mr. Sondheim also brings a small bottle of wine and he makes the blessing, after which he lets Emma sip from the cup. It is very sweet and Emma wants another sip, but Mama casts a forbidding eye and shakes her head.
“So, Emma, are you ready to go to school on Monday?”
Emma does not answer because she is afraid the other children will tease her.
“Oh, yes,” Mama says as she nods her head toward Emma to encourage her to agree. “Or do you want to work in a clothing workshop also when you are older?”
Mama is glad she has a job but complains about the long hours, the bad light, and the nasty foreman. But she never tells this to Mr. Sondheim. She is always nice to him.
“Listen to your Mama, she wants the best for you,” he says in his gentle voice. “Maybe you will be a doctor someday and live in a big beautiful house,” says Mr. Sondheim as he spreads his hands wide. Emma smiles at him but quickly looks down at her plate as Mama serves the corned beef and mashed potatoes.
Mama and Emma share an apple after supper, and Mr. Sondheim reaches into his vest pocket. He selects a quarter from the coins in his hand and gives it to Emma.
“This is for your lunch at school, young lady.” “
Thank you, Mr. Sondheim,” Emma says as Mama looks on with an approving smile. Emma knows she is happy about the “thank you” because she had so often scolded Emma for not saying it.
“Always good to have a little pocket money,” Mr. Sondheim says as he slips the coins back into his vest pocket. Then he chuckles and tells them a story about the man who lived in their apartment before he died.
The man was short with a very bad limp and he sold newspapers down at the corner. During the bitter cold of winter, he wore an old black overcoat, and in the humid summers, he dressed in a well-worn white long-sleeved shirt, but always the same dark blue woolen pants. The newspaper vendor belted out the headlines to passersby. He had a practiced way of swiftly folding a newspaper as the buyer handed him coins in payment. Everybody called him Sol.
Sol Weisman was found dead one dark early morning waiting for the newspaper truck to dump its daily delivery at his feet. He had no relatives, so the community paid for his funeral. Only when the local ward commissioners came to go over his effects did they discover he had over $25,000 stuffed in his mattress.
Mr. Sondheim sips his second cup of wine and slowly shakes his head. “Poor man, he did not know better.” Mama manages to smile just a little, but Emma gets up from her chair in the kitchen, walks to the bedroom, and stares at the bed. Mr. Sondheim sees this.
“Oh, no, all of Sol Weisman’s furniture was removed,” he says quickly. “The refugee committee supplied this furniture. It was donated by some nice people.”
The next morning Emma at first does not want to reach into the closet for a newspaper. Perhaps she should go downstairs and play with the other girls. They have dolls and make clothes for them with needles and thread. As she sits on the bed the cockroach appears and slowly makes its way out of the closet. Then, one by one, smaller cockroaches follow the first one as Emma watches in fascination.
“A family of insects,” she thinks. “Only a mother, no father.” A feeling of empathy flashes through her as the brood of small creatures moves furtively about. She slips off the bed, and as her feet touch the floor, the cockroaches scatter, then make for the space under the closet door.
Emma walks to the closet, opens the door, and sees the last of the insects disappear behind the stack of newspapers. She kneels down and slowly pulls the papers away from the inside wall. The morning sunlight shines into the closet. There is a very narrow gap between the floor molding and the wall. That must be where the insects hide.
As Emma puts her fingers over the gap, she feels that a piece of the three-inch-high molding is loose. She easily pulls it away, revealing a large hole in the wall. There is no sign of the cockroaches, but Emma kneels lower to see inside the hole.
Several strands of twisted black cord lie at the edge of the hole, and Emma hesitates. What if that is the nest of the cockroaches? Or perhaps something else filthy? But she is curious and the insects no longer repel her. Her small fingers slowly touch the cords and loop around one of them. As she pulls, Emma realizes that the cords are attached to a flexible material, and as she continues to pull, the neck of a pouch appears. Her body obscures much of the light, but the pouch is made of dark leather. She pulls harder and feels as if there is something heavy inside. No, she thinks, maybe I should push it back, there could be something creepy inside. Emma removes her hand from the pouch and wipes the dust off on her skirt. She waits. All is quiet, nothing moves, and there are no sounds.
With her index finger she probes the pouch. A little poke here, then a little harder. Whatever is inside feels solid—not a dead mouse. She overcomes her fright.
At last she holds the neck of the pouch, but Emma cannot lift it while crouching on her knees, so she drags it out of the closet. The pouch is black, as revealed when her hand brushes the leather, disturbing the caked dust coating. Emma’s heart is pounding with anticipation as she pulls open the pouch.
The glint of bright metal momentarily disorients Emma as she tries to grasp what she sees. Her small hand reaches inside the pouch, and her fingers rake out a dozen golden coins. She cannot believe what she sees. She covers her eyes with her hands and shakes her head. Slowly Emma drops her hands and lifts her eyelids just a bit. The coins are still there, and her small hands, fingers spread wide, pounce on them. She squeezes the coins in her fists and lets them slide back on the floor.
Suddenly Emma freezes. She turns around to make sure no one is behind her at the door. She turns back to look at the coins again to make sure she is not in a dream. Yes, the shiny golden coins are still there. Are they real?
Emma is curious. There are designs on the coins: the larger ones have a bird on one side, the smaller ones show the head of an Indian. Emma can read “$10” on the smaller ones. She starts to count the coins and stops after reaching 100.
Emma cannot wait to tell Mama.
But Mama will tell Mr. Sondheim.
And Mr. Sondheim will take the pouch away.
Now only Emma knows the secret, a hiding place guarded by the golden cockroach and her family.
Emma looks at the pouch, then at the hole. She cups her face in her hands, closes her eyes, and thinks. What would it be like to buy the things she wants? Oh, those beads in the shop window at the corner. And Mama—she would be so happy with a new winter coat.
But Mr. Sondheim will take the pouch away.
A wave of anger wells up and Emma clutches the pouch for a long time. No, the coins are hers now; no one can take them away. Then she pushes the pouch back into the hole inside the closet and sets the molding in place.
©2005, Frank Ephraim. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this website are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
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