The Doll Shop Downstairs by Yona Zeldis McDonough

dolls, for sale at F.A.O. Schwartz! Papa looks so happy. After Mr. Greenfield leaves, he gives each of us a hug.
    â€œWe did this together,” Papa says. “I couldn’t have done it alone.” Then he takes out the drawings of the queen and the fairy. “We need to start making these others,” he says. So that is just what we do.

    In September, school starts. I’m in fifth grade now, and my classroom is next door to the seventh grade, where Sophie is; Trudie’s third-grade class in on the floor above us. Batya and Esther are both in my class again; we haven’t seen each other in a while, and we have so much to talk about. My teacher, Miss Abbott, has springy red hair that is always escaping from its bun, and the bluest eyes. I don’t even mind arithmetic so much anymore; Miss Abbott has a way of explaining things so that I really can understand.
    Little by little, the doll shop becomes a doll factory. Papa gets two old tables from Mr. Karnofsky, the junk man who comes around with his gentle old horse, Bessie, and the shelves that once held broken dolls and boxes of parts now hold bolts of fabric and baskets of other materials used to make the new cloth dolls. Papa and Mama spend their time cutting, sewing, stuffing, and painting. Some of our neighbors pitch in with the work. In exchange, Mama does their sewing for free. Soon, queen dolls and fairy dolls join Nurse Nora on the shelves. Mr. Greenfield comes back and buys two more nurse dolls, as well as three queen dolls and three fairy dolls. “People are asking for them,” he says.
    Other customers sometimes come in and buy dolls, too. The stout lady who bought the first Nurse Nora returns with her niece and two of her niece’s friends. Maybe they tell other people about our dolls, because soon more girls are coming in and asking for them. Goldie sings and chirps all day; he likes the activity. Sophie, Trudie, and I help out, too. There is hardly any time to spend playing with our dolls in the shop anymore, no more make-believe or let’s-pretend. The yellow tea set is packed away in its woven straw basket. I put Bernadette Louise back in her box with the other dolls. Even though I am not playing with her, I like knowing she’s there, waiting for me. Sometimes I write her little notes saying Miss you or We’ ll have a tea party again soon, and tuck them into the box with the dolls. Writing to someone, even a doll, brings you closer to them.
    â€œPapa, do you think the war will ever end?” asks Trudie one day as she is helping bundle small bits of yarn for hair.
    â€œMama and I pray for that day all the time,” he answers. I know that he received a letter from his brother recently, and he is so grateful that for now, everyone back in “the old country” is all right. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œI just wondered whether you would ever start fixing dolls again. Whether the shop would ever be like it used to.”
    â€œI hope it will,” he says. “In the meantime, we’re lucky that we can do something else instead.”
    I read the papers now—not just the headlines—after Papa has finished. I skip over the hard words, trying to understand what is going on. And though I would not say it out loud, I don’t think the fighting is going to end any time soon. Germany marched into Belgium; Japan declared war on Germany. The poor soldiers dig trenches and climb inside to shoot at the enemy. I can’t think about it too much because it makes me frightened and sad.

    Fall is filled with Jewish holidays. A few weeks after school begins, it is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. The evening of the holiday, Mama roasts a chicken, and for dessert we dip apples in honey, to sweeten the coming year. They are so sticky and good. In the morning, we go to shul. Ten days later, it is Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. Rosh Hashanah is a happy holiday but Yom Kippur is serious; we