The Doll Shop Downstairs by Yona Zeldis McDonough Page A

spend the day in shul and the grown-ups fast. Even the children’s service with Miss Epstein is more restrained. Although no one tells me to do this, I silently ask God if he will please, please do something about the war. I feel better afterward, even though nothing happens right away. Mama always says that God works in mysterious ways. I hope that she is right.
    As soon as Yom Kippur is over, we start to get ready for Sukkos, the seven-day festival of the harvest. Papa builds a sukkah —a three-sided stall with a thatched roof—outside on the tiny patch of tightly packed dirt in back of the doll shop. Mama has tried many times to plant a garden in the spot, but the soil is bad and there is very little light because of all the buildings around us. Still, there is enough room for the wooden poles of the sukkah, and after Papa puts the leaves of the roof on, we all help to decorate it with the fruits and vegetables Mama buys from the neighborhood pushcarts.
    One day during Sukkos, we decide to bring our dolls out back. We know we are not supposed to do this, but I have invented a game that we all want badly to play. We pretend the dolls are magical elves that live in an enchanted forest; they have the power to make the apples and pears on the roof of the sukkah grow huge, and they use the giant fruit to feed everyone who is hungry—
    Papa comes through the back door. “Why are these dolls outside?” he asks.
    Oh no—we’ve been caught.
    â€œI’m sorry, Papa,” I say. “It was my idea. I know we shouldn’t have done it.”
    Papa looks at me sternly, and then at the dolls. They do look like they are having a good time.
    â€œWell,” he says, a little less sternly now, “don’t let it happen again.” Then he asks, “Are these the unclaimed dolls?”
    â€œThree of them, Papa. There are three more.”
    â€œOh, yes. I remember now. I’ll have to write to their owners again.”
    We abandon the game and follow Papa inside. He goes to his oak card file, copies out the addresses onto the cream-colored envelopes, and writes six letters. Three of those letters go to the owners of Angelica Grace, Victoria Marie, and Bernadette Louise.
    â€œWhat will happen if they don’t answer this time?” asks Sophie.
    â€œLet’s wait and see,” says Papa. But I have already begun to hope that somehow, some way, Bernadette Louise will actually become mine.
    A week later, Papa receives the first reply. It seems that Angelica Grace’s owners do not want the broken doll back. They have bought their daughter a new doll, and they tell Papa that he may keep this one if he likes. The following day, the letter that was sent to Victoria Marie’s owner comes back unopened, with a large black stamp that reads: RETURN TO SENDER. ADDRESS UNKNOWN. Replies to the letters about Bernadette Louise and the other unclaimed dolls never come at all.
    â€œWell,” says Papa, “I guess that means the dolls belong to you girls. They haven’t been claimed, and I think it’s fair enough that you keep them.”
    We are seated at the table, having an after-school snack of rice pudding. At Papa’s words, Trudie jumps up and pushes her bowl away.
    â€œReally, Papa? Really and truly?” She is hopping from one foot to the other.
    â€œReally,” says Papa. Trudie and Sophie look at each another. Then they clatter down the stairs, eager to see their dolls. Only I remain where I am, looking up at Papa.
    â€œWhat about Bernadette Louise?” I ask. I know Papa said “you girls,” but after all, there was never any reply about my doll; maybe he will tell me I have to wait until there is.
    â€œYou know, that doll has been here for nearly a year. I wrote to her owner twice and never did hear back. I think that’s long enough to wait, don’t you?”
    â€œYou mean ... ?”
    â€œYes, she is yours,” he answers.