miles. Tsar’s police chase behind. I lead them into forest where I know all secret places. And then—I disappear.”
I watched my dad’s back as he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He’d never shown me his emotions before. My brain felt as if it would explode. I wanted to know so much more.
“Did you run all the way to America?”
Dad turned and smiled, then began to laugh. I started to giggle. We were laughing together—it felt wonderful. I didn’t want that to stop. Maybe now Dad and I will stay close, like this.
“Silly girl, America is across very big ocean. First, I go to Germany, work there few years, make enough money to bring whole family by ship to America—parents, two brothers and two sisters, all leave Poland. Never again we fear Tsar’s police.”
“Where did you meet Mamusia?”
“Ach, your mother, she was beautiful Polish girl, strong and brave,” Dad said. His blue eyes began to sparkle. “Has she already told you how she escaped the Bolsheviks, come to America, alone—no family, no nothing?”
I nodded. Rising from my little stool, I moved toward my dad, hoping he would draw me into his arms and hug me close. Instead, he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. With deliberate care, he rubbed the lenses of his glasses. I waited, arms limp at my sides. Dad slid the glasses into his trouser pocket, turned away from me, and walked out of the room.
Dad’s Polish Family in America, early 1900s
Discoveries, Secrets, and Deception
Art, Mermaids, and Music
At Eleanor B. Kennelly Elementary School, the “in girls” wore one of two hairstyles—flipped up or rolled under, not a strand touching a shoulder. They dressed in pastel pink, yellow or blue sweater sets and skirts over puffed petticoats. During lunch, they clustered together like a flock of geese. If one looked up, they all looked up. I sat alone at the next table, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, hair in braids. They all stared and snickered at “Immigrant Girl.”
Blocking out everyone else in my fourth grade classroom, I was hunched over the black-and-white exercise book braced open by my elbow, my right arm in constant motion until the pile of colored pencils wore down to stubs. Miss Quail, standing over me, knew I wasn’t working on our class assignment, The Ancient World. My notebook overflowed not with words, but with drawings of daily life along the Nile. I imagined slaves hoisting terra cotta water vessels; women with flowing black hair bound with different colored ribbons, scrubbing clothes in the river; children playing in the water; babies’ heads peeking from woven baskets lined up along the riverbank.
Miss Quail was like her namesake bird. I had looked it up in the school’s Britannica: Quail (bird)—small, plump and handsome of figure; moves with rapid bursts of energy and is quick to settle when interrupted. In the classroom, Miss Quail behaved like her avian twin.
“What do you have there?” Her voice was curious, not scolding. I looked up. Were her green eyes interested in me or my drawing? When the class began to study The Ancient World, my imagination had decided to stay there. Miss Quail made a decision that would change my life. She excused me from daily study period and Thursday art class, and she liberated me to work on my own. For the rest of fourth grade, I could dream by night and paint by day.
On 1950’s extra-wide rolls of butcher paper, my imagination recreated daily life in ancient Egypt, Rome, and Mesopotamia. At first, I showed my work only to Miss Quail. Until she went public with my art. My paper murals stretched across all four walls of our classroom. Fourth grade suddenly got a lot of visitors—kids, teachers, and parents. Sometimes they came over to talk to me at my desk. “Immigrant girl” had suddenly become “class artist.” If I wanted to, I could sit with the gaggle of “in girls” during lunch—they had short memories. Not me.
Miss Quail’s nurturing was like a mother bird teaching her young how to leave the nest. She knew how to inspire me to believe in myself and fly with confidence. For the rest of that year, I could see that being “different” wasn’t bad; it was about learning to fly strong.
After fourth grade, whenever my confidence dropped, I turned to my sketchbook. On a blank page, I’d draw a beautiful Q shape over and over and think about Miss Quail. And I’d put over each Q a golden halo, the same color Grandma S used in her embroidery. Both Grandma S and Miss Quail made me feel worthy and nurtured my love of beauty. Making something beautiful always made me feel secure and strong.
Fourth grade had been a time of transformation. Fifth grade would be the year of acceptance and celebration. Lotte came from Copenhagen, Denmark with her single mom to live in Hartford, Connecticut for one year. On the first day of school, we each headed for the same vacant table in the cafeteria. True to habit, the flip-ups at the next table all turned to stare at her.
Lotte’s slim figure in a simple robin’s egg blue jumper and crisp yellow linen blouse gave her an air of quiet modesty. Unless she was provoked by sarcasm or stupidity.
“Denmark,” one of the flip-ups asked. “Isn’t that where all the icebergs are?”
“No, we haven’t got any icebergs in Denmark, we have mermaids.”
I loved Lotte’s humor—like Danish butter, smooth and delicious.
It turned out we also took the same route home after school. Our houses were only a few blocks from each other. The porch of Lotte’s red brick, two-story house was clean and tidy, no clutter of dusty outdoor furniture, just two sculptured terra cotta planters overflowing with freshly watered red geraniums that flanked both sides of the front door. I could see a willowy version of Lotte standing in the doorway. “You must meet my momma,” Lotte insisted. Her momma gave me a passionate embrace laced with the heady scent of Shalimar. Right away, I knew Danish mothers were different from other mothers, especially mine.
That year in Hartford it stayed hot and muggy right through September. The second week of school, Lotte invited me to spend Saturday afternoon at her house. Asking her to mine would take a lot longer.
Walking up the porch steps, I heard waves of feminine laughter through the open windows. Lilting words in a language I didn’t understand somehow told me a lot of fun was going on inside.
Several times I pressed the doorbell. No one came. I tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Mother always locked our front door. Danish people must not worry about criminals. I let myself in and followed the laughter through the entryway into the living room. Two shiny metal fans whirring at high speed on opposite sides of the room did little to cool it down. But, it wasn’t the heat that shocked me.
Four bare-breasted women hooting with laughter were clustered around a card table. None of them had a stitch of clothing on their top parts. Each woman held a glass of sparkling liquid in one hand, and in the other, a fan of playing cards. Every card they slapped down or picked up from piles in the center of the table came with another burst of laughter. I’d never seen a group of women having so much fun together—definitely not four bare-breasted women! One of them twisted around to a tiered, metal stand and helped herself to mini-triangle sandwiches and yummy-looking cookies.
“Oh, my sweet new daughter is here!” Lotte’s mother said. I recognized her face, but not her two rosy breasts. Her joyous smile and knowing blue eyes took in my awkwardness. “Little one, come
