Free A House of Tailors by Patricia Reilly Giff

him. In Breisach I would never have spoken to a stranger.
    â€œIn America it’s different,” he said, almost as if he had walked into my brain and looked around to see what I was thinking.
    I couldn’t help smiling, but I kept my eyes down.
    â€œYour name is . . . ,” he began.
    I took a taste of my ice cream.
    â€œHedwig?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œAnna Maria?”
    Another shake. Another taste of ice cream.
    â€œJuliana?”
    I smiled. It was my favorite name.
    â€œAh, Juliana. That’s my grandmother’s name. She lives in Freiburg.”
    Freiburg. Grandmother’s house.
    I turned to him. Ice cream forgotten. Manners forgotten. “Where?”
    â€œWater Street.”
    Not far from the Rhine. He knew the swell of it on a stormy day. He knew the barges, and the small birds that hovered over the water looking for fish. I rubbed my eyes with my thumbs.
    â€œHow long have you been here?” he asked.
    I shook my head. “It seems like forever.”
    â€œYes.” He nodded. “I am here three years.”
    He was older than I. Maybe just those three years. I wanted to tell him about the terrible pains in my chest when I thought about Breisach, about how when I awoke in the morning I didn’t want to open my eyes in such a strange place.
    But I thought he must know it, too.
    â€œAnd sewing . . . ,” I began.
    â€œI want to be a locksmith.” His face lighted. “To make beautiful heavy keys, thick locks.” He broke off. “And you?”
    A locksmith, I thought, like Papa. “I don’t want to sew, either.” But then I thought about the hats I had made, the excitement of choosing fabric, the planning, adding lace, or flowers, or feathers. But that was different, not the same as the drudgery of the long seams, the endless hems, the boring pockets. Fashioning hats didn’t count as sewing.
    We were silent, watching the horses clop by, listening to the oompah-pah of the German band playing music on the corner. And then we saw a funeral carriage, its sides made of glass so we could see the coffin inside, and people walking behind.
    â€œDead from the smallpox, I guess.” Johann turned toward me. “It’s getting worse every day. The health department comes to knock on people’s doors and take the sick to the hospital.” He shook his head. “It’s to stop the spread of the disease, they say, but most people who go to the hospital die, packed in tight with very little care.”
    I thought of the red ribbons Barbara and I had put around the apartment even though the Uncle said it was nonsense.
    My ice cream was gone. The time had gone, too. I had to get back before the Uncle did, to make a dent in that pile of trousers that was waiting for me. I nodded at Johann; then I stood up and started down the street.
    He called after me. “Come back tomorrow, Juliana.”
    I thought I just might do that. I might even tell him my real name.

fifteen
    I saw the health department wagon in front of our place, the two men with their dark beards knocking on someone’s door, just as Johann had said. I hurried past them, but one called after me. “Say hello to the little girl who waves at herself.”
    He meant Maria, I realized, but I was too afraid to answer. I took the stairs as quickly as I could, happy to see the apartment door. The Uncle was waiting in the hallway, walking back and forth.
    â€œDina,” he said, sounding excited. “You’re to come with me now, to Mrs. Koch.”
    My eyes opened wide. I never wanted to see Mrs. Koch or her beautiful house again. I felt my face flush every time I thought of that morning with her breakfast and the hats. But the Uncle was hurrying me out the door. I went past the kitchen first, seeing a plate of cakes on the table, and took one to nibble on as we went down the stairs.
    â€œDoes she ever stop eating?” the Uncle muttered to himself, taking