like to clear something up, Julian,” she said.
He looked at her expectantly, his blue eyes reminding her of his mother’s, just like the cat’s-eye marble Mariasha had had as a child.
“I loved my brother,” she said. “Maybe too much.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want to hear our story, so I’m going to tell it to you from the beginning. Then, maybe you’ll understand.”
The clanking sound of the radiator started up and the room filled with stale heat.
“My parents came from Russia in the early 1900s,” she began. “They ran away to escape the pogroms against the Jews, hoping to find safety in America. A place to raise their children.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “My father, I think, was in love with America. The land of liberty, he used to say. But he also felt, like many of the other immigrants, that he had to do his part to help shape America. He was very active as a social democrat. And that was how my little brother and I were taught to see our country. As a place where equality should prevail. Where everyone deserved a fair shake—black, white, immigrant. Everyone.”
She told him about how poor her family had been, how her father had gotten sick when she was a little girl. That after she’d heard the doctor talking about germs and using separate plates, she was always reluctant to eat food her mother hadn’t prepared. She recounted how her father had been a thinking man, an educated man, who wanted her to study, to learn, to teach her brother. He would read books to her and made her promise to read them to Saul.
“My father died when I was seven,” she said. “My mother was left alone with little money to raise two young children. She took in laundry and sold eggs to neighbors from our tiny apartment.”
Julian’s face was in a frown, as though he was picturing this.
“Saul was not even three when Papa died,” Mariasha said. “Mama was busy trying to support us and my brother became my responsibility.”
She looked at the sculpture of Boy Playing Stickball . They were a couple of ragamuffins, she and her brother, living their childhoods with practically no supervision.
“I read him the books my father had read to me. Stories by Sholem Aleichem. Books and pamphlets I didn’t fully understand at the time. About equality for all.”
She leaned her head against the chair and closed her eyes. “They have a name for children who grew up like my brother and me,” she said. “Red-diaper babies. Children whose fathers or mothers were sympathizers with certain communist ideals.”
Julian looked startled. “So were you a communist?”
Mariasha released a long heavy breath. “Let me tell you the whole story, then you be the judge of what I was.”
June 1932
Mari watched the stickball game from the stoop of their apartment building. Last inning. Man on second. Saulie’s team behind by one.
It was hot and there was no breeze. Even the diapers on the clotheslines between the tenements hung motionless. Mari’s heavy black braid made her back sweaty. She threw it in front of her shoulder and fanned herself with the book she’d borrowed from the public library. Campfire Girls at Work. Next month, she was going to camp for a week and she wanted to learn everything she could about camping. This was the fourth Campfire Girls book she’d read. She couldn’t wait to hike in the woods and learn how to build a fire, where she’d roast marshmallows and tell spooky stories.
Saulie was up at bat, clutching the broom handle low, his dirty white shirt pulling out of his overalls. He was four years younger than Mari—ten and small for his age—but he was one of the best hitters on the street. He could win the game for them now.
The pitcher, a twelve-year-old named Louie from around the corner, threw the rubber ball. Saul swung. The stick connected with a thwap and the ball went flying over the second baseman’s head toward the butcher shop.
Mari jumped up. “Go
He looked at her expectantly, his blue eyes reminding her of his mother’s, just like the cat’s-eye marble Mariasha had had as a child.
“I loved my brother,” she said. “Maybe too much.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want to hear our story, so I’m going to tell it to you from the beginning. Then, maybe you’ll understand.”
The clanking sound of the radiator started up and the room filled with stale heat.
“My parents came from Russia in the early 1900s,” she began. “They ran away to escape the pogroms against the Jews, hoping to find safety in America. A place to raise their children.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “My father, I think, was in love with America. The land of liberty, he used to say. But he also felt, like many of the other immigrants, that he had to do his part to help shape America. He was very active as a social democrat. And that was how my little brother and I were taught to see our country. As a place where equality should prevail. Where everyone deserved a fair shake—black, white, immigrant. Everyone.”
She told him about how poor her family had been, how her father had gotten sick when she was a little girl. That after she’d heard the doctor talking about germs and using separate plates, she was always reluctant to eat food her mother hadn’t prepared. She recounted how her father had been a thinking man, an educated man, who wanted her to study, to learn, to teach her brother. He would read books to her and made her promise to read them to Saul.
“My father died when I was seven,” she said. “My mother was left alone with little money to raise two young children. She took in laundry and sold eggs to neighbors from our tiny apartment.”
Julian’s face was in a frown, as though he was picturing this.
“Saul was not even three when Papa died,” Mariasha said. “Mama was busy trying to support us and my brother became my responsibility.”
She looked at the sculpture of Boy Playing Stickball . They were a couple of ragamuffins, she and her brother, living their childhoods with practically no supervision.
“I read him the books my father had read to me. Stories by Sholem Aleichem. Books and pamphlets I didn’t fully understand at the time. About equality for all.”
She leaned her head against the chair and closed her eyes. “They have a name for children who grew up like my brother and me,” she said. “Red-diaper babies. Children whose fathers or mothers were sympathizers with certain communist ideals.”
Julian looked startled. “So were you a communist?”
Mariasha released a long heavy breath. “Let me tell you the whole story, then you be the judge of what I was.”
June 1932
Mari watched the stickball game from the stoop of their apartment building. Last inning. Man on second. Saulie’s team behind by one.
It was hot and there was no breeze. Even the diapers on the clotheslines between the tenements hung motionless. Mari’s heavy black braid made her back sweaty. She threw it in front of her shoulder and fanned herself with the book she’d borrowed from the public library. Campfire Girls at Work. Next month, she was going to camp for a week and she wanted to learn everything she could about camping. This was the fourth Campfire Girls book she’d read. She couldn’t wait to hike in the woods and learn how to build a fire, where she’d roast marshmallows and tell spooky stories.
Saulie was up at bat, clutching the broom handle low, his dirty white shirt pulling out of his overalls. He was four years younger than Mari—ten and small for his age—but he was one of the best hitters on the street. He could win the game for them now.
The pitcher, a twelve-year-old named Louie from around the corner, threw the rubber ball. Saul swung. The stick connected with a thwap and the ball went flying over the second baseman’s head toward the butcher shop.
Mari jumped up. “Go
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