Young Writers Society

Kind of a slow start, but it'll speed up.

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“Then, the handsome prince married Cinderella, they left the palace in a beautiful golden carriage, pulled by four white horses,” I linger. In unison, every child, that is clustered about my feet, leans towards me with anticipation and hope glittering in their bright eyes. I smile back, “and they lived happily ever after. The end.”

All at once, the small group of two and three year old girls applaud and chorus with wide grins plastered across their young faces, “Yay!”

Behind the sea of girls, who sit Indian style on a rug with alpha-numeric symbols stitched on multicolored squares, Ms. Cathal, the Head of the Home, stands and also applauds, “Thank you, Meg.”

I smile again and nod my thanks to her. Just as I move to get my sack, a quiet voice calls out from somewhere amongst the many faces of orphaned girls, “Can you read us another one, Meg?”

My eyes skim over the crowd, “Pardon?” I reply, still trying to find the source of the voice, “Who was that?”

All is quiet, and no one budges for what seems to be like decades before a bit of shuffling and moving about occurs. Then, finally, she hesitantly rises; it’s Rava, an Indian girl from Kakinada, India. Her serene and quiet nature is what makes her different from all of the other girls, but it makes her quite shadowed and hidden as well.

My brows furrow as I gaze at the shy girl who quickly averts her eyes from my own, “Did you say something, Rava?”

Still, her eyes are downcast, “Yes,” she speaks, “I-I want you to read another one; another story.”

“Oh,” I offer an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry, but I only brought one book today.”

Her features slacken, “Oh,” I hear her mumble disappointedly, still not daring to look at me, “Okay, then.” she sits back down.

I try to offer her hope by chiming in, “But, hey, what about if I bring you three stories the next time?”

For the first time since my visit, she levels her eyes with mine and grins ecstatically, “Yeah!”

Altogether, the rest of the girls break into smiles, crying with utter joy, “Yeah! Three stories next time!”

Ms. Cathal weaves her way to the front of the playroom to stand beside me, “Alright, then, three it is.” I rise from the cherry wood rocking chair and gather my belongings into my purple sack. It’s tossed over shoulder and onto my back before I turn to Ms. Cathal, who gathers me in a warm hug, “Thank you again for coming, Meg, you have no idea how much this means to them,” Our embrace is broken when we pull apart, “Just look at them, Meg, see how happy you’ve made them?”

I do just as she says and scan the bundle of giggling girls. There are girls from all over: the Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens, and Staten Island. Each coming from different circumstances, each holding a heart-breaking story that explains why they’re here, but they each have come here in search of the same exact things: love, care, and a family. They’re smiling and laughing, talking and giggling, playing and enjoying one another’s company.

A strong wave of emotions sweeps strongly over me once I look back into Ms. Cathal’s eyes; she rests her hands on my shoulder, “If you think they’re happy now, you should see their reactions when I announce ‘It’s the weekend!’. They go crazy!” she laughs, the many creases beneath her eyes deepening as her face scrunches, “Just by you spending a few minutes with them every Saturday and Sunday,” she finishes, a serious tone in her voice, “has a major impact on them. I appreciate your dedication to them, Meg, and I can never be grateful enough for your undying commitment.”

Just hearing those words pass over Ms. Cathal’s lips has put me in the jolliest of moods, because doing for others has such a strong effect. I smile warmly back at Ms. Cathal and nod to her, “You’re very welcome,” I reply, moving to the door that leads me out of the playroom, “Bye, girls!” I wave to them all.

They seize their chattel long enough to turn to me. About thirty pairs of small hands, all different colors and sizes, wave back at me, and they chorus with, “Bye, bye, Meg!” Still waving back, I push the double doors open and make my leave.

______

The long exhausting walk back home leaves me worn and tired. I maze through bustling streets and hop over and around the slick mud puddles from last night’s undying rain, and I weave through damp forests of trees with matted canopies and thick prickly bushes. But, aside from the drudgey walk home, the scenery of New York really captures and captivates my eye.

Walking on the streets gives me the opportunity to see what makes New York so alluring to so many people.

It’s normal for the people here to zig-zag around like clueless cockroaches, but, today, everybody seems to be really busy and the newspaper stand is being overpowered with the madness of people trying desperately to get a hold of the news, ‘What’s all the whoop-lah about?’ I wonder mentally, ‘It must be pretty important if everyone’s so stirred up about it.’

“Out o’ my way, you!” an elderly man shouts, roughly shoving me out of his path, “‘Tain’t easy for me to be hobblin’ about on this here bad leg o’ mine, and you just standing there, like a gaping fish fresh out o’ water, isn’t exactly makin’ it any easier!” he growls with an icy glare cast my way.

“O-Oh,” I stutter, taking notice in the sight of the aging man’s prosthetic left leg, “I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean to be your way.”

“Your apologies don’t mean nothin’ to me, Girl, just take notice and be aware of your surroundings!” he glowers once again, his deep brown eyes burning holes into my own, and swiftly turns away. The grumpy old man, dressed in rain boots and a heavy trench coat that reaches his mid-shin, wiggles and wobbles his way to the front of the group, moving like a seaman fresh off of his boat, to get a newspaper.

I’m still rooted to my spot, purple sack slung over my right shoulder. More people are coming to grab a paper, pushing and shoving like buffalo, so that they can spend their money on the New York Times.

“Did you hear?” a woman says from behind me. I turn around to ask what she’s talking about, but she apparently wasn’t speaking to me, for the tall African American man to her right responds.

“Hear what?”

“About Flora Williams, of course!”

‘I wonder if this Flora person is why everybody’s so high sprung,’ It’s wrong and incredibly rude to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation, but my curiosity is driving me insane. Quickly, I pull out my red CD player and place the Koss headphones over my ears. I turn the player on, so that it looks like I’m actually listening to something, but I turn the volume down to its lowest notch and continue listening to the two people behind me.

“Flora Williams? I’ve never heard of her.”

“How can you not know about her? She’s the most wanted woman in all the country!”

“Really? Why?”

“She’s done the most awful of things,” The woman doesn’t sound as though she’s from around here. Her strong accent gives away that she’s most likely from London, and the man beside her sounds as though he’s come straight from Jamaica.

“What did she do?” he enquires.

At this, I lean back a little so that I can hear them better, for this is something I too want to know more about, “She’s stolen the notes, journal entries, and documents of Rena Finder!”

“What?” he cries, “I’ve heard of Rena! Wasn’t she only ten during the holocaust?”

“Yes!” the woman responds, “Rena Ferber, now Mrs. Finder, was born in 1929 and was merely age ten when the Nazis invaded her home in Poland, forcing her family and herself away to KZ Plaszow. Her father was killed at Auschwitz, both her mother and herself were forced to work as slaves, laboring in Emalia, which was Oskar Schindler’s enamel and ammunition factory, and she was almost killed when she accidentally destroyed a machine! But she, as well as one thousand two hundred other Jews of the Holocaust, were saved by Schindler. Today, she is seventy-eight years old.”

“Well, what does Flora plan to do with her journal entries?”

“Well, supposedly after Rena sold her papers to a company in New York, where they were put on display after Rena found them locked away in her basement when she thought that she had lost them, Flora, a criminal just released two years prior to Rena agreeing to pass over her documents, must have thought that she could successfully steal them without getting caught. It’s been said that she’s going to sell them to some movie producer in California. No one knows who it is, but word has it that the two of them are pretty close.”

“How did she do that? Isn’t that museum heavily guarded at all times?”

“Yes, but, somehow, she’s broken in and taken them all!”

The mans tsk’s, “I can’t believe people these days,” he grumbles disappointedly, and I can almost sense the equally as disappointed shake of his head.

“Mm-hmm,” the woman agrees, “The things we’d all do for money. Sickening, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” I’m shocked at what I’ve just heard. My mouth hangs agape and my eyes are enlarged to the size of tennis balls. Someone stole Rena Ferber’s journal entries and documents? The Ferber Papers? Someone deliberately broke into a tightly secured building to take the works of one of the few holocaust survivors?

“Hey,” the woman says, this time speaking to me as she taps on my shoulder, “Kid, are you going to just stand there and listen to music all day, or do you plan on moving anytime this millennium?”

I’m so surprised at the news, that I forget that I’m just standing in place, blocking everyone’s way. Without bothering to answer her, I turn off my player, cram it into my bag, and bolt straight home.