Letters From Rifka Read Online Free PDF Page B

him. “Wait here,” he said.
    He went to the other room, the room where the doctor sat. He came back shortly.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, returning to his post at the window.
    “Is it not enough?” Papa asked, reaching into his pockets. “You need to have more?”
    “No more,” the man said. “What you ask is impossible. The child cannot go.”

    “Why can’t I go?” I demanded.
    The man paid no attention to me. He spoke to Mama and Papa. “If the child arrives in America with this disease, the Americans will turn her around and send her right back to Poland. My company will have to pay the cost of her return. If my company has to do this for your daughter, the doctor and I will no longer have our jobs. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
    Tovah! I can’t go to America! They will let Mama and Papa and Saul and Nathan go. But they won’t let me. I cannot stay here in Warsaw without Mama and Papa! How can I live without Mama and Papa to care for me, to protect me?
    Yesterday Mama gave me a handful of money and sent me outside to wait for her and Papa.
    “You stay out of trouble,” Mama said. “We’ll try our luck at this steamship company; perhaps they will not mind about your ringworm.”
    Outside, a bony old man with a nose like a parsnip sat with a basket at his feet full of round orange fruit. I stared at him and stared at him. Finally I went over.
    “What is this?” I asked in Polish, pointing to the fruit. From a distance, I had seen a similar fruit in Motziv at the market outside our inn. That fruit was small, more yellow than orange, with patches of green. These were perfect autumn-colored balls.

    “Oranges,” the old man answered. He had no teeth in his mouth.
    “How much for one?” I asked, inhaling the bright smell of fruit wafting up from his basket. My stomach grumbled eagerly and my mouth grew wet.
    “How much you have?” he asked. When he spoke, bits of spittle stretched between his lips. He stared straight at me. I was not being clever then, Tovah. I held out my handful of money. He took it all and handed me one orange.
    A few moments later, Mama came out and saw me biting through the bitter skin of the fruit. “Where did you get that?” she asked. “Where is the money I gave you, Rifka?”
    I took her to the old man, but the man cried, “There you are! Thief! You steal my oranges! Help! Police! What monster are you, to steal from an old man!”
    “I did not!” I cried. “I paid you. You took all the money I had!”
    “Liar!” the old man screamed. “Liar and thief!” His spittle flew through the air. A drop landed on the back of my hand. I rubbed and rubbed it against my coat but I could not get the feel of it off me. Finally Papa gave him more money to quiet him.
    I lost our food money, Tovah. Mama yelled at me and Saul made a horrible face. I bit my lip to keep from crying. The taste of the orange still danced
in my mouth. I will never eat another orange as long as I live!
    Mama said, “What will we do? We have to eat.”
    “Hush,” Papa said. “I will think of something.”
    “It is not your fault, Rifka,” Nathan whispered. He tried smiling, but his dimples barely showed.
    Now we have no money for food. Tovah, I think there is no hope I will ever be clever.
    That tells you about Warsaw. How can Mama and Papa leave me in such a city?
    Warsaw is bigger than any city I have ever seen. The buildings are so tall, I get dizzy looking up at them. There are carriages that move without horses to pull them. They are called “cars,” and they prowl the streets like frenzied wolves.
    Warsaw is a horrible place, Tovah. I can never stay here.

    Pray for me, please,
    Rifka

… As conquered by the last cold air,
When winter whistles in the wind,
Alone upon a branch that’s bare
A trembling leaf is left behind.
    — Pushkin
     
     
    December 1, 1919
Warsaw, Poland
     
     
    Dear Tovah,
    Papa and Mama met with a lady from the HIAS. That is the Hebrew Immigrant Aid