The Collected Stories by Grace Paley Read Free Book Online Page B

paper from the office. We made new shapes and hung them on the walls and glued them to the doors.
    The teachers became happier and happier. Their heads were ringing like the bells of childhood. My best friend, Evie, was prone to evil, but she did not get a single demerit for whispering. We learned “Holy Night” without an error. “How wonderful!” said Miss Glacé, the student teacher. “To think that some of you don’t even speak the language!” We learned “Deck the Halls” and “Hark! The Herald Angels” … They weren’t ashamed and we weren’t embarrassed.
    Oh, but when my mother heard about it all, she said to my father: “Misha, you don’t know what’s going on there. Cramer is the head of the Tickets Committee.”
    â€œWho?” asked my father. “Cramer? Oh yes, an active woman.”
    â€œActive? Active has to have a reason. Listen,” she said sadly, “I’m surprised to see my neighbors making tra-la-la for Christmas.”
    My father couldn’t think of what to say to that. Then he decided: “You’re in America! Clara, you wanted to come here. In Palestine the Arabs would be eating you alive. Europe you had pogroms. Argentina is full of Indians. Here you got Christmas … Some joke, ha?”
    â€œVery funny, Misha. What is becoming of you? If we came to a new country a long time ago to run away from tyrants, and instead we fall into a creeping pogrom, that our children learn a lot of lies, so what’s the joke? Ach. Misha, your idealism is going away.”
    â€œSo is your sense of humor.”
    â€œThat I never had, but idealism you had a lot of.”
    â€œI’m the same Misha Abramovitch, I didn’t change an iota. Ask anyone.”
    â€œOnly ask me,” says my mama, may she rest in peace. “I got the answer.”
    Meanwhile the neighbors had to think of what to say too.
    Marty’s father said: “You know, he has a very important part, my boy.”
    â€œMine also,” said Mr. Sauerfeld.
    â€œNot my boy!” said Mrs. Klieg. “I said to him no. The answer is no. When I say no! I mean no!”
    The rabbi’s wife said, “It’s disgusting!” But no one listened to her. Under the narrow sky of God’s great wisdom she wore a strawberry-blond wig.
    Every day was noisy and full of experience. I was Right-hand Man. Mr. Hilton said: “How could I get along without you, Shirley?”
    He said: “Your mother and father ought to get down on their knees every night and thank God for giving them a child like you.”
    He also said: “You’re absolutely a pleasure to work with, my dear, dear child.”
    Sometimes he said: “For godsakes, what did I do with the script? Shirley! Shirley! Find it.”
    Then I answered quietly: “Here it is, Mr. Hilton.”
    Once in a while, when he was very tired, he would cry out: “Shirley, I’m just tired of screaming at those kids. Will you tell Ira Pushkov not to come in till Lester points to that star the second time?”
    Then I roared: “Ira Pushkov, what’s the matter with you? Dope! Mr. Hilton told you five times already, don’t come in till Lester points to that star the second time.”
    â€œAch, Clara,” my father asked, “what does she do there till six o’clock she can’t even put the plates on the table?”
    â€œChristmas,” said my mother coldly.
    â€œHo! Ho!” my father said. “Christmas. What’s the harm? After all, history teaches everyone. We learn from reading this is a holiday from pagan times also, candles, lights, even Hanukkah. So we learn it’s not altogether Christian. So if they think it’s a private holiday, they’re only ignorant, not patriotic. What belongs to history belongs to all men. You want to go back to the Middle Ages? Is it better to shave your head with a secondhand razor?