Fiction
Jiraporn looked up. Mother was approaching, shaking her head. "Bad news, Little Mango Tree. I talked to Bouchar. He says we lose the house unless we pay the remaining mortgage in one month." "But so much money!" Jiraporn protested, hugging herself. "We can't harvest enough rice to pay that, let alone feed ourselves and the spirits." Mother nodded dismally, and sat down next to Jiraporn. Gently, she pried the knife and half-peeled, slightly ripe mango from her daughter's fingers. "I don't like to see you with a knife, Jiraporn. You might cut yourself." Jiraporn's soft, dark eyes restlessly watched her mother's hands wield the knife, sliding the dull, silvery blade across the scarlet-gold fruit in a peeling motion. "But Mother, I must help somehow. You let Vichai work the plow." "Well, he is much older than you," Mother stated primly. Vichai was seventeen, three years older than Jiraporn. She paused a moment in her peeling, then stood abruptly and strode away across the smooth dirt. "Go work on your math homework, dear," she added over her shoulder. Jiraporn's eyes grew moist and shiny, and she clenched her fingers in her loose black hair. Yes, she could go do her algebra while her whole family starved and lost their house and rice field. She tilted back her head and looked up into the shady branches of the kiwi tree. "But I would rather die than be idle and useless," she murmured to their rustling, sunlit leaves. A cicada chirped nearby, and a large cricket alighted on her navy blue skirt to rub its silken wings. "Next," Jiraporn confided to the cricket, "she'll be locking me inside." Sighing, Jiraporn stood up, brushed off her clothes, and hopped onto her brother Vichai's bicycle. Pedaling with her feet, she gripped the handlebars and steered it over the dirt in front of her house to the narrow path that led to the market. The wheels spun slowly, bumping over loose stones and gravel, jostling Jiraporn from side to side. Yet she was relaxed and confident. It was not the first time she had taken her brother's bike while he was away in the fields. And she had pinned a note to a banana tree so her mother wouldn't worry any more than she always did. "Jiraporn!" Visit exclaimed when she pulled up beside his stand and got off her bike. He grinned. "Off on your own again?" Jiraporn shrugged. "I need help, I guess. What are you selling today?" she asked suddenly, avoiding the subject. "Scallops?" "Nah, carp. Got the best here in all of Thailand." He gestured to the wooden bins of fish. "You must really be distracted to mistake carp for scallops." "So I'm blind," she said carelessly. "Just one more thing to worry about." There was a brief silence and a man walked by, selling cotton and banana bunches. At last she said heavily, "The truth is, Visit, Bouchar is taking our house away if we don't pay by next month. We promised two months ago to pay, but we just don't have that much money." Visit's wrinkled face was grim. "Nasty landlord. How much?" She told him. "I need a plan. A good one. I do all this schoolwork that's supposed to make me smart since Mother won't let me work, and now I have a chance to put it to use and I can't think!" Jiraporn buried her face in the white cotton sleeve of her blouse. Visit sighed and patted her back. "Maybe I can cheer you up. It's not much, but . . ." he wrapped two fish in some greasy brown paper. "Take this home to your mother. By the way, that Anna Kuankaew came by the other day." Jiraporn nodded absently, stuffing the fish into a wicker basket nailed to the bike's handlebars. Anna Kuankaew was a rich lady who had come by once, wanting to buy their mango tree, but Jiraporn wasn't really interested. "Thank you!" she said with sincerity, pedaling off. "Wish I could help!" Visit called after her. "It's outrageous!" exclaimed Mother in anguish when Jiraporn slipped quietly into the kitchen. Mother set a dish of steamed rice and prawns on the table and put her hands on her hips. Jiraporn stood, still and solemn, for a moment before going to place the parcel of fish on the table. "Explain yourself," Mother commanded angrily. "How dare you ride a bike, you could have been overturned and died!" Calmly, Jiraporn said, "Visit gave us some fish." "Take it back," snapped Mother. "I'll not be accepting charity." "It's not charity, Mother," put in Vichai from the corner, sitting down cautiously on a low stool, "it's a gift." Shaking her head, Mother sighed and placed a pitcher of coconut milk and some sliced mango beside the prawns and rice. Seating herself, Jiraporn poured coconut milk into her cup and put food on her plate. They ate glumly, in silence, except for one point when Mother, wiping her mouth on her apron, muttered, "If your father was alive everything would be fine." Lying on her mat that night, staring at the filmy gray mosquito netting that floated beneath the dimly burning lantern, Jiraporn wondered sleepily what it was like to make a difference. The next morning was hot, and Jiraporn opened the door to let some fresh air in as she cooked a simple noodle soup with mushrooms. Mother entered with an armful of bananas. "Sorry about yesterday, Little Mango Tree. I 'spect it's on account of that money." She dabbed at red eyes and sniffed. "'Fraid I cried a great deal last night." Dropping her spoon, Jiraporn bent over and comforted her mother, hugging her. At least that was one thing she could do. As she drew back, Mother set the bananas down and started making tea. After a moment, Jiraporn begged, "Please let me harvest rice, Mother." Mother stopped, her hand above the ceramic teapot which she had placed, full of water, on the
Fiction
When my mother died the summer I graduated seventh grade, the first thing I did after silently returning home from her funeral with my father was dig through my trash bin in search of a previously ignored leaflet distributed by our local Parks and Recreation. I then signed myself up for every class, workshop and camp they had listed. If my father was mystified or annoyed by my actions, he kept it to himself. Perhaps he was so overwhelmed by his own grief that it didn't strike him as odd at the time. I also plastered my bedroom walls with the activity schedules for each class until there wasn't a square inch of wall that wasn't completely covered. It became an obsession. I attended each class religiously, never missing a beat. It took me from sunup to sundown every day and gave me a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I stayed up late into each night working on this or that small class project. The classes I took covered a whole range, from kayaking to keyboard to cheerleading to modeling. In art I painted pictures of daisies and smiling fairies. I wrote poems in a kind of singsong rhythm about balloons and happy cows. There was nothing I was doing that even hinted at my loss. Something would have to break me and my newly focussed life because it was all an act. I lived like an actor who can't get out of character and leads a kind of half-life. No one seemed to understand me anymore, myself least of all. It happened in poetry class. I had been just about to hunker down for another three-hour session, and had a particularly sugary first line in mind when Mrs. Tucker, the instructor, made an announcement. "Today we're going to have a special assignment, we're going to write about some things that make us sad. Any examples?" She looked around cheerfully, her watery blue eyes slightly magnified by rectangular glasses. She was the typical well-meaning but clueless teacher. She didn't seem to see the irony in her merry expression as she repeated the assignment: "Write about something that makes you sad" . . . smile . . . something that makes you sad . . . She had started to pass out the papers when I asked numbly if I could be excused to go to the bathroom. She smiled. "Yes, you may." I slipped out the door into the main hall of the YLC or youth learning center where the class was held. I didn't go to the rest room, though. I just leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling. I had been there longer than I had thought because suddenly my teacher was there, bending over me, and looking anxious. "Elle, are you all right? I thought you were just going to the bathroom . . ." She looked at me as though expecting an answer; an answer to what? Did she think I knew every little thing about myself?!? Wait, I was being stupid. This was a simple question. The answer wasn't simple but at least I could give the answer she was expecting to receive. "Yes, I'm fine," I said. "Good." She looked satisfied as I followed back to the classroom, noting how her walk resembled that of a duck's. Ducks seemed like a good subject for a poem. Then I remembered. My assignment was to write a poem about something sad. Instead of writing, I drew a cartoon-like duck wearing a purple vest (not unlike the one she had on). Then I sketched a cartoon of the actual Mrs. Tucker. Mrs. Tucker wandered aimlessly around the room, every so often saying things like "Good job!" and "A nice beginning." Even when she criticized, she beamed as though she were saying something nice. When she stopped by my desk, her smile flickered and she drew her penciled eyebrows together in a look that might have been annoyance if she hadn't maintained a partial smile. "Elle, you've never had trouble getting started. Why the exception today?" How could I answer that? "Ummm," she peered closer at me, "yes . . ." "It's. . . hard," I offered thickly. She relaxed her expression and sighed. "You should have said you were having trouble, I could have helped you sooner." She got down on her knees so her face was level with mine. "Write down five things that make you sad," she said. "I don't know." "I'm sure you can think of something; everyone is sad sometimes." "Not me." After I said this I realized both how childish it sounded and how utterly untrue it was, but I kept my mouth closed. "It's not a bad thing. Everyone . . ." I cut her off. "I said nothing makes me sad, and I mean it, OK??" She suddenly became uncharacteristically crisp. "I don't believe it. You were sad when you forgot to do your homework that one day. You said, 'Mrs. Tucker, I'm very sad that I forgot my homework.' You said it, I heard you! I rememb- . . ." Then it burst. All the fury and fear and grief and even guilt that had been silently smoldering inside me these past months burst. "Do you think that's what real sadness is?!?" She looked taken aback. "Well, I . . ." "Do you??" My voice rose to a pitch. The other students started turning on me, looking annoyed, and alarmed and even . . . sad. Suddenly my pen flew to the paper and my hand started scribbling down words faster than my mind could take them in. I wrote about metal screeching against metal, muffled screaming, flashing red light reflected on water-drenched pavement, dark silhouettes being carried past on stretchers. Then there was fluorescent light shining on bare white walls. A naked light bulb, bathing everything in a blinding glow. Though the light never really ceased, somehow, in that empty timeless
Fiction
I was playing with them, actually playing with them. They were just like Dad's rug, but my size, and alive! I cuddled in their soft black fur. Their padded leather paws threw me and I fell, laughing. We rolled into each other and onto each other. And their big round eyes looked at me, comfortingly. They felt the same way towards me as I felt towards them. Their claws gently played with and tangled my long brown, curly hair. "Ann, Ann! Where are you hiding this time!?" I gave each of them a big hug, which they returned with licks that filled my whole face. "Ann, Ann! Come out, come out, wherever you are." Where could such a small three-year-old girl be hiding? "Here I am, Daddy." Where was that from? Oh, from over there, all the way across the valley, right outside the big forest. I ran to her as she ran to me. She gave me the biggest hug she could. "Where have you been?" "Oh, Daddy, it was so much fun. I was playing with black furry animals, like your coat and rug." "Wow!" I said, laughing. "You've got a great imagination. Well, Daddy's going hunting and he wants you to go with him, do you want to?" I asked her for the first time. Her face lit up brighter than the sun. "Really, can I?" "Yes, this time you can." She was unaware of what hunting really was, but she knew I did it for a living, and it had to do with animals, that she then could keep forever. * * * The clear, blue sky slowly shifted into green and yellow leaves. The long valley changed to brown evergreen trunks. I hadn't ever been in the woods except this morning when I went a few feet into its shadowy depths. I was a little frightened so I clung to Daddy's legs. But he acted very different. He was calm and blended in with the trees. I did anything but that. I was like a baby bird struggling to get the first worm from its mother. Suddenly Daddy froze. I froze as well. He tiptoed lightly off the path and into the dense forest. I stayed frozen from fright, unable to move. I saw Daddy's head tilt cautiously from behind the tree trunk. His hand gestured for me to come. My young girl stalked towards me, her eyes open like two full moons. We walked a little further into the forest. I could hear something very distinct. It was a buzz accompanied by scratching and patting. I stopped and cleared away the branches of an overgrown shrub. I saw a big mother bear picking out the honey from a bumblebee's nest. Quietly, I lifted Ann so she could see the big animal. I set her down, while raising my rifle to eye level. Slowly, I pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang and Ann fell over into the mud. "Daddy, what was that about?" "Come," I said. * * * What had happened? I wanted to see the big beautiful animal more. But obviously the loud noise had scared it away. "Come," he said again. Then he walked through the shrubbery. I followed. Without looking around I said, "I want to see it again." All he said back was, "Look." I raised my head to see the bear lying there with its eyes closed. One small part of its thick black hair had turned slightly red. "Did it fall asleep?" "Of course it did." The bees were still humming around their broken-up nest. The bear still had honey around its mouth. Daddy ran up to the bear. "Won't you wake it?" I whispered. "Of course," he said, "I forgot." I wish I could just tell her the truth, but I couldn't, she wouldn't understand. "Do you remember how to get back home?" I said to her. "Yeah, Daddy, you just follow the path back until you see the house." "Well why don't you go back, I'll be here awhile, to see if the bear gets up." "Can I stay with you?" My mind was racing my words, but losing. "It's getting late. I think you should go back." "OK, fine." * * * I started walking back, but turned behind a pine tree to wait and see what Daddy was really doing. I could still hear him even over the sweet songs of the birds and the chirping metronome of the crickets. My eyes closed and I was lulled to sleep. Taking such a young girl hunting with me was not such an easy feat. She had too many questions that she would regret asking and I would regret telling. I was almost done carrying the bear on the new but old-looking sled that I had made out of old sticks from the forest. The sled was brittle and I would probably burn it in tonight's fire. I couldn't wait to give Ann the stuffed bear for her fourth birthday. I reached the valley that was glazed by the full moon. Now I could see our house that was just across the valley. The heavy sleigh jerked across the dry grass, and before I knew it, I was home. I crept inside, past Granny who was sleeping in her old wooden rocker with her knitting in her lap, past our room where I could hear Janet, my wife, snoring, till I came to Ann's room where I quietly opened the door to look into the darkness. Faintly, in the murky light I could see her bed, with no one in it! * * * I woke up to the hooting of an owl. The crickets were still chirping and I could feel the warm breath of an animal. I looked to the side to see one of the bears I played with that morning. I looked away to see the two other bears on top of each other both with frowns on their
Fiction
"Brandon! Brandon, can you weed the flower bed in the front yard?" Mom called from the kitchen. I let out a groan. "Aw, Mom, please don't make me! I had to go with Dad to the store in that stupid backfiring car. Can't I rest a little?" "But it looks sloppy, and Mrs. Kelly is coming over for coffee and a chat this evening," my mom pleaded. "Can't Chris?" I asked in my most faked tired voice. "Brandon Newton, you are the most self-centered boy in the world! You know just as much as I do that your older brother is doing college homework. Now you get out there, and do what I tell you!" "All right!" I cried out angrily, bouncing out of the soft leather couch. In a fuming rage, I slammed doors and yelled at my sister. To make matters worse, when I grabbed the hoe I scraped the side of the car. This only added to my anger because I knew my dad was not going to let me off easy. My anger began to lose its steam as I pulled weeds and stacked them into piles. After a few minutes, I felt better. I surveyed my work with pride. Since I had learned to walk, there had always been something inviting about warm, soft earth. Even though I was nearly thirteen, I dropped the hoe and sprawled myself onto the ground being careful not to damage my mom's tulips. I let out a sigh and closed my eyes. Gosh, I thought. Wish I'd lived in the old days; then I wouldn't have to wash cars or weed gardens. Well, at least not wash cars or have to ride in ones that backfire. I grinned sleepily. That ride was such a joke! I started to laugh. "Hey! What are you laughing at? Get up. Mother wants us to weed the potato patch with Sarah." "Eh . . . what?" I mumbled in disbelief, staggering to my feet. Potato patch? Where in the name of sense did a potato patch spring up in the middle of town? Then I looked around in bewilderment. Where was I? What had happened? Everything seemed vaguely familiar, only where were the cars, sidewalks, and manicured lawns? Instead, there was a large farmhouse and a barn with two draft horses tied out in front. My older brother Chris stood in front of me. "Come on. Mother wants us to weed the potato patch." "All right, Chris," I mumbled, picking up what I supposed to be my baseball cap. Instead, I stared in disbelief at a floppy felt hat like the type you would see in an old Hollywood western. "Come on. Quit gawking and get to work!" Chris growled, pulling me around the barn and shoving me in the direction of a field. "Here, take this and start weeding," he ordered, handing me a hoe. In a daze, I began to work the hoe and dig weeds out of the moist earth. "Let's see who can weed the most," my little sister Sarah suggested. In disbelief I stared at her. Her sturdy little legs stuck out of a faded blue dress, and a white sunbonnet dangled from her neck. It was then that I noticed Chris wore boots that went up to his knees, brown pants, and a coarse cotton shirt. I, also, was dressed like him, only I wore a faded red shirt and suspenders. What's happened? What's wrong? I cried to myself. Everything is so different! For the next two hours, I worked my way down the rows of the patch. Soon my hands blistered, and my back ached from bending over. The hot sun beat down, making me think I was the most ill-treated boy in the universe. My hands smarted. I was never so glad to hear the dinner bell in my life. We all trooped into the house. I was startled. The house was changed like everything else. There was no dishwasher or freezer but nothing seemed unusual to the rest of my family. I began to get scared. Was the life with cars, freezers, and dishwashers all a dream? Was this a dream? Would I ever wake up? Would I have to do work like this all my life? My dad's voice interrupted me. "After dinner, Chris, you and Sarah go and keep weeding the patch. Brandon, you can clean the wagon because tomorrow I'll be heading into town, and it squeaks something fierce." For a split second my heart leaped when I heard I wouldn't have to weed potatoes. It fell, though, when I heard I would have to clean the wagon. I had never done it, but something inside told me it was no easy job. "OK, Father," I answered. Then I wondered why I had called him Father. I glanced at him, but nothing seemed amiss. Strange, I thought. I had called him Dad forever, and now something possessed me to call him Father. He didn't even bat an eyelid. After dinner, I set to work cleaning and oiling the wagon. The axle grease smelled awful, but I smeared it on without trying to look disgusted. I cleaned the rust off the springs of the seat and wondered why Dad just didn't go and buy a car. It would be a lot easier to wash, I thought, forgetting I had once thought it would be fun to live in the old days when there would be no cars to wash. When I finished, I looked with pride at the wagon. "Not bad, son," Dad remarked, coming up behind me. "Ride over to the Gilberts on Bess and get that new saw blade he promised me." "Yes, sir," I answered. As I saddled Bess, I wondered that I knew how to saddle a horse since the only ones I had ever ridden were at the county fair. In my mind, I tried to place where the Gilberts lived. Finally, I remembered they lived
Fiction
Whenever I see Joanne, I always notice the red scar on her beautiful long legs. Although it was just a small scar, it seemed so noticeable on her feminine and beautiful legs. Joanne is the prettiest girl in my class. She has deep chestnut hair that she can flick about her face and shining crystal eyes glittering behind her little spectacles. We had been the best of friends, until one day . . . It was my ninth birthday then. I threw a big party and invited tons of friends for a grand celebration at my house. I, of course, had not forgotten about Joanne. She was specially appointed as the clown of the show because of her comical face and humorous jokes which always bring us tears of laughter and leave us many happy memories. That day, she dressed up in a big clown costume and had colorful makeup blotched all over her face. She looked messy but funny at the same time. We watched her perform the magic tricks, and burst out laughing at her pretended clumsiness. After that, we played all sorts of games and enjoyed ourselves tremendously. The only time I felt a bit sad was when they reluctantly left one by one and could not sleep over at my house. Soon, there was only Joanne there to accompany me. I brought her into my bedroom and showed her the wonderful presents I got from my parents. All too fast, it was time for her to leave. I had to bid her a gloomy good-bye as her car slowly disappeared into the streets. The next morning, I was awakened by the mind-bursting yells from my infuriated mother. "Where's the watch I bought for your birthday? Do you know how expensive it is? And you just lost it like that? Your father and I saved every penny to . . ." "Yeah, yeah, can you stop shouting and making such a big fuss? It's just in the drawer of my desk!" I murmured drowsily with eyes half open. "I've looked, it isn't there!" my mother barked at me. Her news hit me with a pang as I jumped out of my cozy bed and ran helter-skelter toward the desk. "It can't be!" I remembered so vividly that I had put it . . . "Oh no, it's gone!" My heart sank like a deflated balloon as I tried to recall where on earth I had put my precious watch. Suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue, a name that I refused to think of at the moment flashed across my mind. "No, not Jo, it can't be her!" I tried to convince myself but had to face the bald fact. She was the only one who entered my bedroom the night before and also the first one to see my watch. I remembered her face green with envy as I showed it to her. She must have wanted it so much that she couldn't help taking it. No, stealing it. I felt the rebellion and fury at this thought and called Joanne to come at once. I dressed quickly and ate my breakfast. At about eight in the morning, I heard the doorbell ring. Joanne was standing on the porch. She waved happily to me as if nothing happened. I glared at her in a fierce, smoldering way and she was intimidated by my coldness. I approached her and blared, "Give me back my watch, you thief!" "Huh? What?" "Stop acting as if you're innocent!" "I didn't take it!" "Yes you did, you stole it!" "I really didn't take it!" "Oh, so you want to deny it!" "Please, I don't have it!" "Right!" I felt my face going as hot as fire. Without thinking, I took the crystal photo frame she gave me yesterday with the photo of us in it and smashed it hard onto the floor. Broken pieces of crystal and splinters fired off in all directions. I heard a small scream from Joanne but I chose to ignore it and stomped back into my bedroom. I slammed my bedroom door shut and threw myself onto the bed. "I hope it hurts, she deserved it!" I muttered angrily under my breath. Then, I felt tears prickling behind my eyes, before I knew it, they flowed fast and free down my cheeks like scattered pearls. I impatiently wiped them away with my hand and closed my eyes. I'm supposed to be the victim but why am I crying? The next day in school, I told everyone who would listen to me that Joanne had stolen my watch. At first nobody believed me, but they began to see the "true colors" of Joanne as I told them my evidence along with the details. Then, the news about "Joanne the thief" spread far and wide. Joanne, of course, was a total disgrace. No one talked to her the whole day in school. I was happy to have my other good friends surrounding me during the break, listening to my explanation of how I found out that Joanne was a stealer. I was certainly delighted to see Joanne being left out of the conversation, feeling sad and miserable. So week after week I had not spoken a word to Joanne and, when the weeks turned to months, Joanne had made a few friends (who doubted what I said about her) and I started hanging around with a new group of friends. I was enjoying myself so much with my new group of friends that I hardly noticed her. But one afternoon, when I came home from school, I plopped my school bag down beside my bed as I watched my favorite TV show. After that, I decided to finish my homework first before I went roller-skating with my friends. As I took out my books, something shiny under my bed caught my eye. Being curious, I pulled it out and to my surprise, it was my watch!
Fiction
Do you think that it's possible to love someone you have never met? Is it possible to love someone who lived and died before you were even born? Cécile Cosqueric, a sixteen-year-old girl living in Paris, France in 1919 is whom I'm talking about. I believe her life was meant to touch mine. I am a twelve-year-old American girl, living in Atlanta, Georgia in the year 2002. Cécile is not a famous girl, nor is she a relative of mine. Cécile is actually an ordinary girl. If I have never met her, then how can I know her? Right now, I hold in my hand a letter—a fragile, discolored envelope, aged by time. This letter could fall to pieces in my hands if not held gently enough. A beautiful, flowing script graces the front, created by a hand well practiced. A pen dipped in an inkwell has addressed the letter, yet another giveaway to its age. The postmark is my clue as to exactly how old this letter is, and it's the postmarks that also help me put the letters into order. You see, I hold in my hand just one letter. But on the table in front of me are seventy-five letters! A letter is hard to come by in today's world. I am an ordinary girl living in "the new millennium." Letters are no longer a popular form of communication. Since there is no need for letters, I have probably only written five in my entire life! E-mail is today's replacement letter. E-mail is easy and convenient. Why write a letter when it is so time-consuming, and not quickly received? E-mail is instantly received, and easily disposed of. Just a click of the delete button, and the computer will ask, "Are you sure you would like to delete this?" After the "yes" button is clicked, the e-mail is completely deleted, lost in cyberspace and never to be read again. The thought of writing seventy-five letters is so contrary to the "You've got mail" culture of today. The thought of saving seventy-five letters is even more contrary. Who would save the letters for so many years? Who were these letters sent to? Over a span of four years, there was only one recipient of all of these letters. Her name was Ruth. Like me, she was another twelve-year-old American girl. Each letter made the journey from Paris, France, across the Atlantic Ocean, to Colorado Springs, Colorado. The two girls were pen pals, and their friendship developed solely through their letters. They never met in person. As I open the first letter sent to Ruth that was previously opened over eighty years ago, I feel excited. I pull out the faded pink paper and begin to read. A special note in the top left-hand corner says, "I put my letter in the letterbox the day of the peace." Cécile was referring to the end of World War I. Her letter describes herself as a French girl looking for an American girl to correspond with. She is sixteen years old and lives in Paris with her parents. She has a twenty-year-old brother, Lucien, (nicknamed Lulu) and a "pretty" cat named Bidart. Her letter gets somber when she describes in broken English, "There are many American soldiers in Paris. Near my house bombs are dropped in a house which have been demolished, many persons have been killed." I can't imagine the tragedy she has seen at such a young age. She ends her first letter with many questions about Ruth and her country. Her final salutation reads, "By waiting news from you, I kiss you, Cécile." Cécile's second letter describes a historical site. Monday was a fine day, July 14th, a large parade passed under the Arc de Triomphe, then American soldiers with their flags, the sailors and Pershing; English soldiers, Belgians, Italians, etc . . . and at last French troops composed of several men from each regiment. Four-millions of persons have seen the soldiers pass. Cécile describes the celebrations that continued after the parade. On the grands boulevards there was thousands and thousands of people crying, running, dancing, singing, pushing [selling] guns that were taken on the front. I have seen an English nurse on the top of a gas lamp in the street, singing the "Marseillaise" and the "God Save the King." Round her was 500 more perhaps singing with her. Farther in the avenue de l'Opera an American soldier was singing too, while other American soldiers was making noise with the motor of their motor cars. What a jazz band!!! Before I go any further, I would like to explain how these girls, separated by half the globe, got each other's addresses and began to write the letters that would grow into a loving friendship. After World War I, there were many children whose parents died in the war. Americans looked for ways to assist them. Money and letters from American schoolchildren were sent to cheer them. Ruth was one of those schoolchildren who wrote a letter to a war orphan as a class assignment. Louise Drogorn was the orphan who received the letter in Paris in 1919. She was a friend of Cécile Cosqueric. Louise knew Cécile wanted an American girl to correspond with, so she gave Cécile Ruth's address. Opening each letter, one by one, I feel as though I am opening pieces of lost treasure, because each envelope has a treasure inside. I feel so privileged to be given a window back in time. Cécile becomes very real to me because of the things she has enclosed in each envelope. I open up one letter, and a pressed flower falls out. This dry, brittle, lifeless flower once brightly adorned Cécile's hair at a party, as she went on to explain in her letter. Cécile was very interested in fashion, movies, and actresses, like many girls today. She sent newspaper articles about French actresses, pages from 1920s Parisian fashion magazines, and wrote of her favorite
Fiction
Daddy had said today would be our special day together. We would have gone to the movies and had pizza, but no, he was off rescuing yet another animal from its abusive owners. Couldn't he have waited until tomorrow? I walked outside and sat on the porch. I guess he couldn't have waited. The poor animal was probably in terrible condition, judging by the rest of the animals Daddy and I had rescued. Daddy and I rescue abused pets and wildlife and bring them to our barn where we feed and heal them until they can be re-entered into their natural habitat or given new homes. Some of them have died, but most of them have survived. I always wonder what he's going to bring back. Usually a dog or goat that had been treated terribly. The fall leaves were just turning and I listened to the wind rustling through them as I thought about the importance of rescuing animals. Sometimes I just wished Daddy had a normal job, like a lawyer or something. Suddenly a roaring noise interrupted my reverie and Daddy's truck came hurtling into the yard with the horse trailer bouncing along behind. I jumped up and ran to the pickup as it slowed and Daddy jumped out. His hair stuck out at strange angles, and he seemed unusually flustered about it. I started to ask him about it, but he interrupted me. "Fern! Go get a halter and lead rope and some hay. Go! Quickly!" I ran, instantly recognizing the urgency in his voice. When I got to the barn I dashed into the tack room and grabbed Gypsy's purple halter and the first lead I could find and gathered up some hay from Ben's empty stall. "Fern! I have to get this horse out! Come on!" "I'm coming!" I called as I sprinted back to the trailer. Panting, I handed Daddy the halter and lead rope. "I don't need the hay right now, but I'll tell you when I do," Daddy said as he climbed up into the battered green trailer. "I may need some help up here." I started to climb up but he motioned me down. "No, in a second. Just wait." I pulled down the ramp and looked inside. I could just make out the outline of a horse. "OK, hand me the hay now." I leaned in and handed the hay to Daddy. I faintly heard him murmuring to the horse. Coaxingly, he patted the horse on the neck. It calmed slightly, and Daddy, taking advantage of the moment, showed it the hay. It whickered faintly and began to nibble. Gently, Daddy tugged on the lead rope. A big mistake. The horse shied and reared. It threw its head back, nearly banging it on the roof. "Watch out, Fern! He'll bolt now! Move!" Daddy yelled to me as he flattened himself against the inside of the trailer. I jumped out of the way just as the horse came charging down the ramp. "Don't bother chasing him. He can't run very far. Watch." Daddy had come down to stand next to me. But I was agape at the state the horse was in. He was barely discernable as a horse, covered in mud and caked dirt. A gaping wound on his hip slowly oozed blood. His emaciated body quivered as he slowed to a halt, chest heaving. His ribs showed through his hide. I couldn't believe that someone would do something that horrible to an animal. "What's his name?" I asked Daddy. "Who knows? You name him." "Frizbee," I murmured to myself. I walked slowly toward Frizbee. He swung his head around and watched me warily. I whispered to him and didn't look him in the eye. The trick was to appear unthreatening. I walked up and slowly took hold of his lead rope. Wearily, he followed me to the barn. I led him into Ben's stall and took off his halter. I filled the bucket on the wall with warm water from the tack room sink and grabbed a sponge and the grooming box from the shelf and returned to where Frizbee was, standing in the exact same place I left him in. This horse needed some serious help. I curried off the muck and treated the wicked cut on his hip and gave him a tetanus shot, just in case. I sponged off the sweat and blood and rubbed him down with a rag. I dragged out the extra horse blanket we had had ever since Splash died. I carefully placed it over him and buckled it. I softly patted him and went into the feed shed to make him some hot bran mash. When I came back, Daddy was standing by the stall, looking in. "Good job, honey," he said, hugging me. I glowed with pride. As I fed Frizbee his mash, I knew that I had done something wonderful for him and that my whole life would be dedicated to helping animals regain the joy of life.
Poem
Behind your vacant stare, Memories lie hidden, Faltering and fleeting The distant remembered, The present, unrecallable. Never afraid before Shadows of freshly plastered seams On my living room wall, Now haunt you, transporting you Back to the barbed-wire camps. So vividly you recall Your Nazi captors, And your escape Yet, it is my name that Escapes you now. Your smooth fingers glide nimbly Over the piano keys. You are at peace; Lost in reveries, Only to wake up To a confused reality. Although your memory is extinguishing, On your delicate face, A smile has found a permanent home. Your gentle touch, warm eyes Still illuminate my heart. Hands joined, ancient and innocent Float together on waves of love.
Book Reviews
One Eye Laughing, the Other Weeping: The Diary of Julie Weiss
One Eye Laughing, the Other Weeping: The Diary of Julie Weiss by Barry Denenberg; Scholastic, Inc.: New York, 2000; $12.95 When someone says the word "Jewish" do you feel a sudden rush of hate, a thrill of fear, or does it even stand out enough that it makes you feel anything at all? For Julie Weiss, a Jewish girl who is about twelve years of age, that word means fear and confusion. One Eye Laughing, the Other Weeping is a book about the Holocaust. A book about the astounding measures the Nazis took while trying to banish the Jewish culture. Julie experiences the horrors of the Nazis, firsthand. This author does an amazing job of creating a young girl that is just like the children today. Julie worries about growing up, making friends and going to school. But then one day her world is shattered. The Nazis take over Vienna and suddenly there is more to her life than just fun and games. Now, she has to worry about whether or not her life and her family's lives are in danger. Friends turn into enemies and respect turns to hatred. The Nazis chant in the street, "Kill the Jews, kill the Jews!" Is it possible that they could kill Julie? Julie is immensely confused. Why is it that suddenly Jews are thought to be terrible monsters instead of just human beings? Before Hitler had entered Julie's life she hadn't thought anything of her religion. Her family never went to the synagogue, never prayed and never thought very much about God at all. So, why is it that suddenly she is thought to be this disgusting thing that everyone hates? Could it be that the only reason that she is considered Jewish is because Hitler says she is? This book is portrayed to you in fascinating diary entries. One night Julie writes about when the Nazis barge into her home. As the Nazis go through her family's house, throwing things out of windows and destroying everything in sight, Julie sits silently in fear. Then, suddenly her brother and father are yanked out of the house. Outside, they are forced to scrub the sidewalk to rid it of anti-Hitler signs. Eventually, the men and boys realize that the liquid they are scrubbing the sidewalk with is not water, but a kind of paint stripper that burns their hands. If they stop scrubbing they are punished severely. Many other events like that one are referred to in the book. One man who refused to do as the Nazis ordered had gasoline poured over him. Then, they lit a match and as the man protested and screamed that he would do anything the Nazis wanted, he was burned to death. The author, Barry Denenberg, tells the truth, plain and simple. Although I cried at many times throughout this book I am glad that I have finally found a children's book that tells the unvarnished truth. One Eye Laughing, the Other Weeping will tell you what really happened in those years so long ago. It will not hide the story behind curtains of lies. I have read many books about the Holocaust, but none were quite as moving as this one. Thankfully, I have never experienced the constant fear that Julie must have lived with every day, but when three buildings were attacked by terrorists in the United States I experienced as much fear as I have ever felt in my entire life. Though no one I knew was hurt or killed there, the thought of all those who were chills me to this very day. The fear that most American citizens felt on September 11, 2001 was a small taste of what so many people who lived during the Holocaust had to survive with day in and day out. As Barry Denenberg weaves history and the life of an ordinary girl together, this story comes alive. Suddenly, you're reading much more than the diary of an ordinary, young girl. You're reading a book about human cruelty and human kindness. You're reading a book about something real that may have happened to your ancestors. Read this book to find out what will win in Julie's story, evilness or goodness?
