“Mamusia,” I shrieked, “where are my clothes?”
Mother stood, legs splayed, facing the white enamel stove. She had one hand on her hip as she stirred something thick in a large aluminum pot. I grimaced from the smelly mystery food that sputtered over the rim.
“Ach, the clothes.” Mother didn’t even turn to look at me. “I decide Auntie Geynia take them to daughter Krystyna in Poland. Good girl deserve few nice tinks.”
The Cinderella dress and patent leather shoes were too small for me now. I’d grown. But they were still the few “nice tinks” that hung in my closet. And they were mine! When Mother gave them to Auntie Geynia to take back to Krystyna in Poland, she gave away more than just my clothes. She stole the only things that made me feel beautiful. I never forgot her betrayal.
A New Pair of Loafers
My cousin Theresa was so pretty and popular that she could’ve been on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. Her dark hair was short, sculpted, and fashionable. She wore pink lipstick. A strand of pearls circled her neck and her pastel cashmere sweater stretched over her nice, full bosoms. Because Theresa was a teenager and I was still in sixth grade, I always hoped some of her perfection would rub off on me.
Theresa in high school, 1950s
Early fall on a Saturday morning, I was in the kitchen at my desk, trying to sketch the backyard apple tree in vivid autumn colors when Mother marched past me and grabbed her canvas shopping bag from the pantry. “Theresa and Ciotka Clarcha coming for visit today.” Across the kitchen, down the back stairs she stomped. I watched her cross the yard and enter the garage where the Packard was parked. No telling where Mother was headed or when she’d be back.
A couple of hours later, I heard her come in the front door and go directly down the hall to her bedroom—odd. I decided to snoop. The bedroom door stood open just enough to reveal Mother’s back and the canvas shopping bag she’d tossed on the cluttered floor. I tried to get a better look. All I saw was a chocolate brown shoebox from G. Fox & Company peeking out of the bag. Spying on Mother was dangerous business. I hustled up the stairs to my bedroom. Soon I heard a door slam—that told me Mother was heading for the kitchen, probably to get ready for our guests. I envisioned how she’d poke into the large tin on top of the Frigidaire for krusticy. Mother bought them in bulk from Kazanowski’s, and I never saw her throw any stale ones away. I had fun watching guests try to soften rock hard krusticy by dunking them in their glass mugs of hot tea.
In my bedroom I paced and wondered what was in that chocolate brown box. Had Mother decided to buy me a new pair of shoes to make up for the wardrobe she’d stolen from me to give to “good girl” Krystyna in Poland?
Cheerful voices rising from downstairs interrupted my guesses. I raced down the stairs to fling myself at Aunt Clara and Theresa. Polish-English bounced between Mother and Aunt Clara. Theresa didn’t have to learn Polish. She spoke American English only.
“How’s school going so far?” Theresa wrapped a sisterly arm around my waist.
“Just great,” I lied. This wasn’t quite the moment to tell her about The Boyle. I flashed Theresa the EFP (escape-to-the-front-porch) hand signal. In seconds we were out the door, heading for the porch glider. The seats stank of mold and who knows what else. We each pinched our nose with one hand and with the other brushed off dust clearance for our bottoms. Plopping down, we enjoyed the breeze wafting across the porch. Theresa’s green eyes brightened when she talked about the latest boy with a crush on her. “I wonder if he’ll ask me to the fall sock hop?”
I’m sure my eyes didn’t sparkle when I described the boring reading list for English class. They probably lit up when I talked about my latest art project, then teared up when I launched into being under siege from the devil in blue.
Theresa squeezed my hand. “Things will get better, you’ll see.”
I doubted that.
“Danusia, Theresa—come inside now!” Mother’s voice could penetrate even a closed door. We popped up and marched inside and headed for the kitchen. “Ciotka Clarcha is going now to grocery shopping,” Mother said. “She wants make dinner for us!”
I felt bad that Aunt Clara had to buy her own ingredients. She was the disciple of healthy eating, and Mother was the atheist. Mother’s food was either fried greasy or boiled tasteless, and the only jam allowed on the breakfast table was strawberry. I vowed when I grew up, not one bite of Polish food would enter my mouth. Never ever again would I eat strawberry jam!
We’d just said good-bye to Aunt Clara when Mother announced, “Theresa, I show you something. Both wait here!” Mother sped down the hall to her bedroom. Theresa and I sat rigid in the wood chairs at the kitchen table, grimacing at the smells of food-encrusted dishes piled high in the nearby porcelain sink. Desperately I wanted Aunt Clara to walk into the kitchen laden with grocery bags of fresh food. But instead, Mother burst in, face beaming, hands clutching the chocolate brown box.
With calculated slowness, she looked back and forth from Theresa to me. Then she sat down—in front of Theresa. “I want you see what I buy!” Mother slid the shoebox at Theresa, whose quick reflexes stopped it from flying off the table. “Go ahead, open!”
With delicate fingers, Theresa lifted the lid, parted the layers of tissue paper and drew out a shiny new pair of cordovan penny loafers. The label on the box read Size 6-Medium.
“You like?” Mother demanded.
Theresa stole a quick glance at me. I aimed back a glare. We both knew that she was already wearing a new pair of penny loafers with two glowing copper pennies tucked into the leather slots, right where they belonged.
Mother’s right foot tapped. “What you think?”
“Well … um …,” Theresa threw me a hopeful look. “Auntie Hania … these are really nice loafers. Any girl would like them.”
Mother loved praise. “What size you wear, Theresa?”
“Um … I’m a size six, Auntie Hania.” Now, Theresa looked nervous. Mother looked happy. And I must have looked incensed. I bit my tongue until I tasted blood. With Mother, I had learned that showing her my tears and pain only gave her more control over me.
“Danusia size five and half.” Mother’s chin wobbled as she nodded. “New loafers too big for her—perfect for you!” She snatched the loafers out of Theresa’s hands, jammed them into the tissue paper, forced the lid back on, and thrust the box at Theresa. “You take. Is gift!”
No one refused Mother—not even Theresa.
Enraged, I wanted to dash to my room, make a fat, ugly paper doll of Mother, and shred her to pieces. After that, to draw a beautiful Theresa in my sketchbook and smear thick brown and red poster paint over every part of her. Instead I stayed silent and brooding in the kitchen.
After Theresa and Aunt Clara left, I went upstairs and got my treasured box of paper dolls, its battered lid still covered with pictures of fashion models from glossy magazines. It was stuffed with handmade paper dolls I’d been crafting for years. But I couldn’t depend on those dolls anymore. The time had come to let go of my little girl illusions. I carried the cardboard box out to the back yard, flipped open the lid, and watched the layers of bright paper dolls flutter away, carried off by the wind.
Eventually, Theresa would make things right—we were more like sisters than cousins, too close not