A House of Tailors by Patricia Reilly Giff Page A

It was clear that this was the best street in Brooklyn! It wasn’t that the houses were so different—they were still made of the same brown stone—but the steps were higher and wrought-iron gates were everywhere. Even the horses in the street looked elegant. They had been brushed until they gleamed, and were attached to carriages that waited for their owners to step outside.
    Carriages with velvet seats!
    I whooshed up the steps of the house in back of the Uncle, pretending I lived there and the horse belonged to me. What would I name him?
    â€œPay attention,” the Uncle said as he pulled the knob of the doorbell.
    In a moment, Aunt Ida was in front of us, round in her long white apron. I thought again that she looked like Mama except that she ate much more. I could sympathize. I was hungry already and I had just finished breakfast.
    â€œAh, Dina.” She pulled me inside, glancing up at the great stairs that led to the second floor, shooing the Uncle toward the back of the house with three fingers, and whisking me down one flight into her kitchen.
    The kitchen was as large as the Uncle’s house.
    Aunt Ida smiled at my hat with its droopy edges, took it off, and placed it on a shelf. She straightened my collar, then reached for a starched apron on a hook. She twirled me around, tying the apron strings around my neck and yanking gently at the ones down at the bottom. “Later,” she said, “you can tie those, too. Pull up your dress to form a little bustle over them and it will be easier to work without falling all over your skirt.”
    Next she poured me a coffee mixed with condensed milk and slid a plate of toasted bread over to me. And all the time she was talking, asking about Breisach and the Rhine River—my river—and Mama, and Katharina, and the boys, clicking her tongue over poor Papa, whom we would never see again.
    I slid onto a high stool, watching her prepare a breakfast tray, while I took bites of the buttery bread that melted in my mouth, and sips of the sweet coffee.
    â€œMrs. Koch came from nearby at home,” she said. “Heidelberg.”
    I had been there once, a small bit of a town tucked in the mountains.
    â€œShe came here with her husband,” Aunt Ida said. “They worked hard, so hard, at horse training.” She leaned over to take a nibble of the bread. “And now they are rich.” She paused and leaned forward. “Are you homesick?”
    Homesick. I felt a terrible longing for home in my chest. Even if I saved all I earned, it would take years before I’d see my river again.
    But I wasn’t going to tell Aunt Ida anything about my plans to go home again. I wasn’t going to tell anyone.
    I gave a quick shake of my head, and by that time Aunt Ida was telling me about herself. “I work hard, too.” She swept her hands around to show me the immaculate kitchen. “Someday soon there will be enough money for me to join Peder out west.”
    â€œHow long ago . . . ,” I began.
    â€œTwo years, long years,” she said. “But he is building a house for us and tilling the land. And soon I will bring money for a cow and some hens.” She shut her eyes tightly. “I will take the train from Manhattan at Varick Street, a long ride, out to the fields and the hills. . . .”
    A bell was ringing somewhere upstairs, and Aunt Ida handed me a tray. “Take this up. Can you manage? Knock on the door with one hand. Don’t drop it. . . .” She wiped her hands on a towel. “Top of the second set of stairs.”
    She took three or four steps behind me, tying the bottom strings of the apron and pulling my skirt through so I had room to walk, and up I went with the tray, up two flights of red carpet with fat blue blossoms.
    The tray was filled with more of the buttery bread, a pot of coffee, and a pitcher of cream. There were two little bowls, one filled with raspberry jam and the other with