If you're an author like me, you've heard this advice dozens of times. "Murder your darlings!" It means that no matter how much you love something you've written, if it doesn't make your overall manuscript better, cut it. Kill it. Murder it!
But the words I've sweated over in The Other Traitor are still my 'darlings.' No—they're more than that. They are based on stories my mother told me about her childhood, which make them all the more precious. So, while I may have 'killed' them for greater good of The Other Traitor, they are very much alive, and I've decided to share them here.
If you've already read The Other Traitor, you may be interested in the deeper back story about Mariasha (Mari). But if you haven't yet started the book, there are no spoilers in these 'outtake chapters'—just a taste of what it was like growing up in Brooklyn during The Great Depression...and a little girl's dreams.
Mari rolled her toy car across the wood floor. The car had been filled with chocolate when Papa gave it to her, but the candy was all gone.
"Keep your husband in the separate bedroom," the stiff man with the black bag said to Mama. "Away from the children."
He spoke Yiddish, not English like some of the fancy grownups, but Mari still didn't like him.
She pushed the little car across the living room rug, around Mama's pink sofa that Mari wasn't allowed to sit on, behind the lace and velvet drapes, then past the man's big shoes. They weren't polished. Papa always polished his shoes.
"And have him use his own dishes," the man said. "Separate plates, cups, silverware, so the germs don't spread."
Mama had opened all the windows, but it was still hot. Mari could hear a pushcart going by in the street, pots and pans jangling.
Her baby brother's diapers and Papa's handkerchiefs hung from the clothesline out by the fire escape. No matter how hard Mama scrubbed, she couldn't get all the brown spots out.
Mari's dress tangled between her legs as she pushed the car along a wood plank to the dining room rug with funny shapes like monkeys. Malpeleh. Little monkey. That's what Papa called her. She crawled under the table, chair legs all around like a big cage. Like where the monkeys at the zoo lived.
"Uh-uh," she grunted like a monkey.
"Call me if he has another episode," the man said.
Mari heard Saul start to cry. She jumped up with her car and ran to the big bedroom. Her baby brother was standing in his crib shaking the brass bars. He had on only a cloth diaper and his face was scrunched up.
"Don't cry, Saulie." She gave him her toy car.
He shook it, then banged it against the bars. It used to be Mari's crib, but now she was five years old and slept in the big bed with Mama.
"Mamimamimami."
"That's right," Mari said. "Mari. Say Mari."
Saul was too big to pick up, so Mari climbed into the crib with him. At the top of the bars were shiny brass balls. When she was a baby she liked to suck on them.
Saul banged on the bars with the car. Mari was afraid Mama would get mad.
"Let's be monkeys," she said. She scratched under her arms. "Uh-uh. I'm a monkey."
Saul dropped the car and shook his little hands. "Uh-uh. Mamimami."
"No. Not mami. Say monkey."
"Uh-uh," Saul said.
Mari heard the front door close, then Mama's heavy feet coming to the bedroom.
"What are you doing in there, Mariasha?"
"Playing monkey." She scratched under her arms. "Uh-uh."
Mama lifted Saul out of the crib and held him on her big hip. His little feet stuck into the flowers on her dress and he put his thumb in his mouth. "It's like a furnace in here," Mama said. "Let's go downstairs and get some air."
"I want to play up here."
"Don't bother Papa."
Mari heard Mama and Saul leave. She picked up the car and pushed it in and out of the bars of the crib. She wished she hadn't eaten all the chocolate when Papa gave her the car. Each piece had been wrapped in pretty foil paper. Red and blue and gold. She'd flattened them out and kept them in her special box with her marbles, a piece of chalk, and a roller skate key she found. She was almost big enough to have roller skates.
Papa coughed.
Mari sat up and listened.
He coughed again. Then she heard him spit.
Mari left the car in the crib, climbed out and crawled down the hall, as quiet as a mouse. A splinter stuck her knee. "Ouch!"
"Is that you, malpeleh?" Papa's voice sounded too soft. Like when Mari was a baby and he'd kiss her goodnight.
She went to the doorway of the little room. Her room before Papa got sick. The walls were covered with the pretty flowered paper she loved, but something was wrong. The room was dark and hot and smelled like Papa's medicine. How did it used to smell? She couldn't remember.
Papa was sitting up on two pillows, wearing pajamas even though it was daytime. His eyeglasses were on the little table next to a glass of water. His eyes looked wrong. Too big and dark. Like someone punched him.
"I got a splinter in my knee," Mari said.
"That's terrible," Papa said. "Shall I have a look at it?"
Mari glanced down the hallway. She didn't want Mama to get mad, but her knee hurt.
She went up to the bed. Her big papa looked silly in the small bed. His black hair hung over his shiny forehead, not combed back like he always wore it. Papa liked to tease Mari that she had his stick-straight hair, not Mama's pretty red curls.
"Show me where it hurts," he said.
She pointed and Papa held her knee. His hand felt warm.
"Tell your Mama to take the splinter out with a needle. Make sure she holds it over a flame first. " He covered his mouth with his handkerchief and coughed into it. Red spit. He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. "Not fair," he said.
Mari felt sad. It wasn't fair. She hated wearing dresses like a girl. Boys didn't get splinters in their knees.
"Would you give me the newspaper, malpeleh?" he asked.
Mari looked around the room. The newspaper was on the dresser that used to be hers. But Mama had moved Mari's clothes into the big bedroom. Now Mama and Mari slept together in the bed where Papa used to sleep.
"Here, Papa. Read it so Mama can wash the floor." Mama always covered the wet kitchen floor with Papa's old newspapers.
He laughed, but it turned into a cough. The cough wouldn't stop. She got scared.
Papa held up his hand. "I'm okay." He took a sip of water, then put the glass on the table. "Would you like to learn how to read?"
Mari clapped her hands together.
"Come closer."
She wanted to snuggle with him, but the bed was too small and Papa was too big, so she sat by his pillows.
"This newspaper is called Forverts, or Forward, as they say in English. I'll teach you the Yiddish letters." And he pointed to the big letters at the top of the page. "This is a fey." He made the sound of the letter. "This an alef, and it sounds like this." He made the sound. "This is a reysh. A vov. Another vov." He went through each letter, making the sounds. "Now you do it."
Mari pointed to each letter, said its name and made the sound.
"You're a smart little monkey," Papa said. "And only five years old." He coughed and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. "There's a special school I want you to go to."
"Mama says I'm going to school after the summer."
"Yes, but that's a public school where you'll speak English and learn American history. In the afternoons, I want you to also go to der Arbeter Ring shule. The Workmen's Circle school. Mostly boys go, but you're smart enough. They'll teach you Yiddish and they'll teach you how to think. Would you like that?"
"Yes, Papa."
"And when your little brother is old enough, you'll make sure he studies, too. You'll take care of him for me, won't you?"
Mari nodded her head.
Papa took Mari's hand and squeezed. Hard. But Mari didn't mind. She squeezed back. Held on as tight as she could. So she wouldn't lose him. Like when they went to the beach at Coney Island. And there were so many people. And she was scared she'd get lost. But Papa held her hand. And wouldn't let go.
The front door slammed.
Mari jumped off the bed. Let go of Papa's hand.
Mama stood in the doorway, Saul on her hip. "Mariasha," she said in a whisper. "Get out of here. Quickly."
Mari ran out of the room, past her mother holding her thumb-sucking brother.
"Are you crazy, Chaim?" she heard Mama say, her voice loud now. "What if she catches it? Is that what you want? To make your daughter sick like you?"
Mari climbed into the crib and pushed the toy car back and forth. Back and forth. She closed her ears so she wouldn't hear Mama scolding Papa. She hated Mama shouting. She hated Papa coughing in the wrong bed. She hated the strange man with the black bag.
"Fey," Mari said. "Alef. Reysh. Vov. Vov." She pictured each letter and made the sound. And she pushed the little car that Papa had given her in and out of the bars of the crib.
Bars like the ones in the monkey's cage at the zoo.
Mari was dressed like the other girls. Red scarf, white blouse, blue skirt. But she was different from the other girls here at Public School 149. They were all giggling and touching each other, bored with the school assembly, but Mari didn't feel like giggling or touching. She felt like yelling.
Outside it was snowing. Flakes stuck to the window panes, but Mari kept her eyes straight ahead. On the red, white and blue flag up on the stage.
She didn't belong here. She didn't belong anywhere. She used to love going to school, especially der Arbeter Ring, but now that was impossible. Not that it mattered. There was no one to read Yiddish stories to anymore. No one who cared.
Gray-haired Mrs. Kalmen in her plain navy dress blew into her pitch pipe and waved her hand.
My country tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing.
Mari sang as loud as she could, louder than the other children.
Land where my fathers died.
Without warning, her eyes filled with tears and her throat closed up. She tried to sing, but the words got stuck. The song was about Papa. They were singing about Papa.
Voices all around her.
Land of the pilgrims' pride.
From every mountainside
Let freedom ring.
Papa was dead. He was always talking about liberty and freedom.
Someone always has to die, he liked to say. Someone has to pay.
But if it was such a great country, why did it have to be her papa?
Early the next morning, there was a knock on the apartment door. Mari covered her ears with her pillow. Probably someone to buy eggs.
The knock came again. A gentle tapping sound. She glanced over at Mama, who was still asleep next to her in the big brass bed, her long red braid on top of the patchwork quilt. Mama snored and jerked the way she did when she had a bad dream. She had been up late last night doing laundry and ironing for the neighbors. Saul was too little for Mama to leave the house to go to work.
Mari pushed aside the heavy quilt and got out quietly, sorry to leave the warm bed. It was still dark in the room, the heavy velvet drapes pulled closed. She padded down the hallway barefoot wearing only a long undershirt, shivering in the cold. She should have wrapped herself in Mama's wool shawl.
There was a narrow path in the small foyer. The mirrored china cabinet where Mama used to keep her pretty cut glass vases was gone. Stacked up against one wall were crates of eggs that Mama sold to neighbors. The eggman came every week to bring fresh eggs and take the old crates away.
An icy draft hit Mari as she opened the door. She expected to see one of the girls from the neighborhood come to pick up eggs, but it was Mr. Levine from der Arbeter Ring. She crossed her arms in front of her undershirt, ashamed to be seen like this by an important man.
He made a sound of surprise. "Excuse me," he said, turning his head and eyes away from her. He wore an overcoat that was too big for him and snow was melting on his galoshes and the brim of his hat.
Why was he here? Mari had stopped going to der Arbeter Ring school over a month ago, before Papa died. And then it hit her. Mari had borrowed a book of Yiddish stories from the shule. Did he think she stole it? But she was planning to give it back. It was just that Mama said there wasn't enough money to return to school.
"I came to speak to your mother," Mr. Levine said.
"I'll get her." Mari ran to the bedroom, trembling all over. What if he called the police and they came to arrest her?
"Mama. It's Mr. Levine from der Arbeter Ring."
Mama jerked her head up and blinked her eyes. "What in heaven's name?" She got out of bed, slipped on her housedress and shoes, then twisted her braid into a bun. "Do you know what he wants?"
Mari quickly put on a skirt and blouse. "I borrowed a book. I'll get it." She raced to the little bedroom where her father had stayed while he was sick. Three-year-old Saul slept there now. The book was on the nightstand. She had been reading her brother a story every night even though he didn't understand them. He seemed to like when Mari read to him and cried when she left the room.
Saul sat up in bed, his red curls a tousled mess. "I'm hungry, Mari. Make me an egg?"
"In a minute." She grabbed the book of stories and went to stand by the wall in the living room, where she could see Mama in the foyer with Mr. Levine.
Mr. Levine's mouth was turned down like a crying clown's. "So sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Hirsch."
"Mariasha is getting your book," Mama said. "She loves to read. Sometimes she doesn't know when to stop. I hope she doesn't ruin her eyesight."
"Book?" Mr. Levine said.
"Here, Mr. Levine." Mari held it out for him. The book had a red cover and some of the pages were coming out. "I was just borrowing it."
Mr. Levine rubbed his cheek.
"I didn't steal it."
He shook his head. "Oh, Mariasha. I'm not here about the book. Keep it for as long as you like."
Mari let out the breath she'd been holding in. He wasn't going to have her arrested.
Saul ran into the foyer and wrapped himself around Mr. Levine's legs.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Levine," Mama said, prying Saul off the man. "He misses his father."
"I understand." Mr. Levine patted Saul on the head. "A shayner boychick," he said, then straightened up. "But I'm here to talk about Mariasha. Why she's stopped coming to der Arbeter Ring."
Mari picked up her squirming brother. He was almost too big for her to hold, especially with the book in her hand.
"Mariasha's a bright girl," Mr. Levine said to Mama. "It would be a shanda to stop her Yiddish education. Please, have her come back. Your husband wanted that for her. He told me he hoped his daughter and little boy would get a college degree someday."
Mari's heart went pitter-patter. Papa had wanted her to go to college?
Mama looked down at the crates of eggs. "My husband had lots of dreams. Lots of debts, too."
"If you can't pay anything right now, that's okay," Mr. Levine said. "We don't want to lose such a good mind."
"That's very generous of you, Mr. Levine." Mama held her hand over the rip on her housedress where it was missing a button. "But we don't take charity."
Mr. Levine lowered his chin, tipped his hat, then he left.
Mari felt a terrible sadness inside.
Mama straightened a couple of egg cartons, then took out two eggs for Mari's and Saul's breakfast. Mama liked to say that selling eggs wasn't so terrible. They wouldn't have been able to afford to eat eggs otherwise. But Mari would rather go to school than eat eggs.
Mari put Saul down on the floor and followed Mama into the kitchen. She still had the book in her hand. Maybe she should have given it to Mr. Levine, after all. Through the kitchen window, she could see sheets frozen on the clothesline, snow piled up on the fire escape and windowsill.
Mama lit the gas burner on the stove with a long match, then got the glass dish of butter from the icebox. She dropped a pat of butter into the iron frying pan and filled the black kettle with water for tea. Saul crawled under the stove and started playing with the pots. There were three chairs around the wood table. Mama had sold Saul's highchair to Mrs. Silverman's daughter who just had a baby.
Mama cracked the eggs and dropped them into the pan. "You read to Saul?" Mama asked.
Mari pressed the book against her chest. "They're good stories. Bible stories. He likes them."
Mama flipped the eggs, her shoulders hunched, strands of red hair coming out of her braided bun. Saul banged a pot cover against the floor. "Keep reading to him," Mama said. "Many books."
Mari was confused. Where would she get many books from?
Mama slid the eggs onto two plates and set them on the table. Then she went to the jar on the icebox and took something out.
"Here, Mariasha," Mama said, putting the dollar in her hand. "Give this to Mr. Levine when you go back to der Arbeter Ring this afternoon. Tell him we don't need anyone's charity."
Mama wanted her to go to the Arbiter Ring school? Mari's heart skipped like it was playing hopscotch. She looked back up at the money jar, then down at the frying eggs. Through the doorway, she could see the pile of clothes Mama had washed and ironed last night on the living room sofa.
"No, Mama. That's our food money." The words hurt her throat, but she said them anyway. "And I don't want to go to that dumb school."
Mama turned from the stove and gave her a funny look. Was she angry? Pleased? Why didn't she hug Mari and tell her how proud she was?
Mama put the dollar back in the jar.
The book of Yiddish stories felt hot in her hands. She had read them all to Papa. She remembered him lying in bed, pillows propping up his head. Looking funny without his glasses. So proud of her. He wanted her to go to college.
Land where our fathers died.
The eggs sizzled in the frying pan.
Mari felt an ache in her heart. As though by doing what she thought was right, she had done something very wrong.