Free The Ice Cream Queen of Orchard Street: A Novel by Susan Jane Gilman Page A

help, of course. Perhaps Papa had found the place in America with the gold and the beautiful furniture. Or changed his mind and sailed to South Africa to make amends with Uncle Hyram. Africa was a very big place, perhaps as big as New York. I pictured my family, crammed back into steerage berths, rocking in time with the heaving sea. I imagined my father in Uncle Hyram’s dry-goods store deep in the desert, miserable, missing all of us terribly, wishing he could come back. Then, suddenly, my mother appears—surprise! My father’s face explodes with happiness. Right away he says, “Where’s Malka?” My mother tells him, “Oh, Herschel, she had a terrible accident. We have to go get her.”
    And that will be it—what convinces him to return to America immediately and what convinces my mother and him to stop fighting. Me, in the hospital. Soon they will all sail back to America together, this time with plenty of gold and bread in their pockets. Soon they’ll be arriving. They’ll go straight from the pier to the dispensary to carry me home.
      
    My voice was ruined from all the crying and wailing. It was like paper. I could barely speak above a whisper. But it didn’t matter. I wanted to remain quiet, for when my parents returned. I had to show Mama that my big mouth wouldn’t cause her any more tsuris .
    A doctor came in to examine my leg, hips, and ribs. The pain was unbearable, but I had no voice left to cry out with. A nurse asked if I needed to use the toilet. I simply nodded. When the enormous rabbi returned, I stared at the transom over his head the entire time. I noticed floaters in my vision, those little translucent bugs of cells; I followed them up and down. It helped me to stay quiet, to keep still. Only once could I manage to speak. Accompanied by a doctor, the worried-looking young woman in the white blouse leaned over my bed and stared directly into my eyes. “Malka, kindeleh ,” she said softly, clutching my arm. “Can you hear me? Do you know where you are? Do you understand what has happened to you?”
    I stared right back at her. “Mama and Papa are in Africa,” I whispered hoarsely, “getting some gold.”
    The nurses began regarding me oddly. Another doctor examined my leg and manipulated it methodically. I thought he’d be impressed by my ability not to cry out, but when he left the room, he just shook his head.
    The next morning Gertie came in. For some reason, since I had gone mute, people began talking to me extremely loudly and slowly, as if I were deaf as well. Whipping off my top sheet, Gertie bellowed, “YOU’RE MOVING, MALKA. TO THE ASYLUM UPTOWN.”
    “Oh, Gertie,” another nurse scolded from across the room. “Don’t scare the child.”
    Gertie glanced at her—then at me—with irritation. “WE CAN’T TAKE CARE OF YOU HERE ANYMORE, MALKA. WE NEED THE BED FOR OTHER PATIENTS WHO ARE MORE RESPONSIVE.”
    I didn’t understand this. I had tried to be quiet, to be good. Certainly I wasn’t singing or being a wisenheimer or keeping secrets. I wondered how Mama and Papa would be able to find me once I was moved. “Promise?” I whispered feebly. “You’ll tell Mama where I am?”
    Gertie frowned and eyed me with a sort of pity. “Oh, your mama knows, kindeleh . Who do you think is sending you? The orphan asylum is where all the women put children they can’t care for any longer.”
    Yet just then, in the corridor outside my ward, the staff seemed to be arguing. Several languages collided at once. Mi dispiace.…Oh, Mr. Aaronson, please. Let the child…kindeleh… Per favore. È per il bambino. Devo aiutare .… He can’t be serious.…Do you have a better suggestion? Gertie appeared in the doorway and pointed to my metal bed, frowning. A stooped man entered the ward. His face was fleshy and sad, though his gleaming mustache was twirled up hopefully at the ends. He moved heavily. When he reached my bedside, he gave me a wan smile.
    “I sorry,” he said. “I no speak