My Aunt Manya , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Jose Patterson

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45 pages

English

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My Aunt Manya is a period novel set in Russia at the end of the 19th century. The heroine, ten-year-old Sarah, lives unhappily with her much-hated stepmother. Sarah's father has gone to live in New York with his sister Manya while he looks for a job. Sarah's life changes overnight when Aunt Manya writes with news that her father has been killed in an accident. She sends her a boat ticket, some money and an offer of a home. Sarah's family and friends are poor, Yiddish-speaking Russian Jews. Their lives are in constant danger from Cossacks - cruel Russian soldiers who, without warning, kill innocent Jews in attacks called Pogroms. When Sarah's friends get word that a group of Cossacks is camped nearby, they lose no time in helping her to set out alone on the longest journey of her young life. My Aunt Manya is a heart-warming story of Sarah's journey to America on the 'other side of the world.' She becomes an immigrant with just one goal - to live with her Aunt Manya in a free country. Sarah faces difficulties and dangers of the unknown with great courage and determination which, together with the hand of fate, combine to make this an unforgettable story. Readers aged 9-11 years who love adventure will be captivated by Sarah's bravery.

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 novembre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781785894138
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

My Aunt Manya
Based on a true story
by José Patterson
Illustrated by Patricia Drew
Copyright © 2016 José Patterson
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Matador ®
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Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
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Twitter: @matadorbooks
eISBN 978 1785894 138
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador ® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For my good friend Susan Whyman who told me all about Sarah, her brave grandmother
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to my special friend Jackie Finlay, without whose unflagging help My Aunt Manya would not have been published and to Patricia Drew for her wonderful illustrations.
Chapter 1
Sarah looked round quickly to make sure Leah, her stepmother, couldn’t hear.
“It’s no use looking at me like that, Vaska,” she whispered to her black cat purring loudly beside her. He sat perfectly still, his all-seeing green eyes fixed steadily on her face.
“The thing is, Vaska, Papa can’t save the fish heads for you because he’s not here. He’s gone to look for a job on the other side of the world. Look Vaska, I’ll prove it to you.” The cat watched her closely as she scrabbled about in her pocket. “Here it is,” she said, flourishing a crumpled letter. “See, it’s from America and addressed to me here in Piliki in Russia and the postmark is dated September 1891. Papa’s in New York living with his sister, my Aunt Manya.” She played with one of her long brown plaits and frowned. “It’s not fair, Vaska. He should have taken me with him. I’m not a baby you know. I’m nearly eleven years old. Aunt Manya wouldn’t mind and I’m sure she wouldn’t order me about like SHE does. I hate being left behind with HER,” she stopped for a moment to watch the cat’s twitching tail. “I can never do anything right and SHE criticises me all the time and makes me do some of the rough work in the kitchen. That’s supposed to be Olga’s job, not mine. I’ll tell you something else, Vaska. I feel sorry for Olga. SHE gives her orders in Yiddish which we speak, but Olga only speaks Russian. No wonder the poor girl gets muddled. I don’t know about you Vaska, but it seems to me that Olga and I are always in some kind of trouble with HER. SHE doesn’t love me like Mama, God rest her soul, did.”
Sarah looked up to see Yanek the postman wave as he walked past the house. “No letter from Papa again,” she sighed. “I’m sick and tired of telling myself that his letters take a long time to get here.” She swallowed hard and screwed up her eyes, but even that couldn’t stop hot tears trickling down her cheeks and dripping slowly on to the cat. As if to comfort her, Vaska stretched himself, nudged her chin with the top of his head and curled up in her lap.
She was suddenly startled by the sound of familiar footsteps. They were quick and heavy – a sure sign that trouble was on its way. Vaska heard them too. He leapt off Sarah’s lap and fled like a streak of lightning.
“ Olga’s gone!” Leah shouted angrily, gasping to get her breath back. “I’ve sent her packing. Stupid, careless, clumsy peasant girl. Come and see what she’s done!” She pointed to a storage jar which lay smashed to pieces scattering yeast all over the floor.
“See, d’you see,” she snorted. “I can’t start baking challah bread for Shabbos without yeast.”
Sarah bit her lip as she looked down at the mess. The smell of yeast always makes me think of Mama when I used to help bake the challahs. It was my job to sprinkle poppy seeds over them before they went in the oven .
“Here,” Leah snapped. “Take this money and get me some from the baker. Don’t dawdle. Be quick about it.”
As soon as Sarah was out of the house she bumped into Yanek. “I’m glad I’ve seen you, Sarah. I walked right past your house earlier and forgot this.” He handed her a package and hurried on.
She turned her precious parcel over and over. It’s from Papa! At last! Shall I open it now? she asked herself. Is it good news or bad news? Has Papa got a job or is he still looking? Does he like living in New York with Aunt Manya? I hope he’s missing me , she sighed as she put the parcel safely in her pocket. “I’ll open it later so I have something to look forward to,” she murmured.
The baker’s shop was heaven on earth! Sarah’s nostrils quivered with the warm, comforting, yeasty smell of freshly baked breads, delicious cakes and pastries piled high on the counter and on shelves around the shop. What a choice! Black bread, bagels, rye bread, plaited challahs, crusty rolls, onion rolls, apple strudel, sponge cakes, cheesecakes – the list was a long one.
The baker gave Sarah the packet of yeast then stopped. “Just a minute! Aren’t you Joseph and Malka’s little friend, Sarah?”
Sarah nodded.
“’Course you are, and that’s good because I’ve just remembered something. Wait there.” He rummaged under the counter.
“Malka was in the shop earlier and left this behind,” he said, holding out a bag of bagels. “She’s always in a hurry, that woman! Can you take them to her? It’ll be a shame to let them go stale.”
Sarah nodded again.
“Good girl. I knew you would. And this is for you,” he smiled as he handed her a slice of caraway seed cake.
She had just reached the door when he called out. “Sarah, come back here, I’ve got something else for you.” She munched happily on her cake while she watched him scribble a note and fold it up. “Give this to Joseph, it’s important,” he said quietly.
Sarah hadn’t gone far before the tantalising smell of fresh baked bagels – a roll with a hole, she used to call them when she was little – was just too tempting. She grabbed one and took a first delicious crispy bite.
“ I know Malka won’t mind,” she spluttered with her mouth full. “She’s generous and kind and so is Joseph. Between the two of them they’ve looked after me like a second mother. I’ll open my parcel with them. They’ll be just as excited as I am.” Malka answered the knock on her door and couldn’t help smiling when she saw Sarah, crumbs round her mouth, clutching a parcel and a bag of bagels.
“Come in, child. What a kind girl you are to bring my bagels.” She pretended to count them. “I hope you were hungry enough to eat one or two on the way here!” she laughed and winked at her. “Joseph,” she called out, “my special bagel messenger has just arrived!”
“Look, look, I’ve got a parcel from Papa!” she shouted. “I don’t know what’s in it. Oh yes, and this is for you, Joseph,” she said, handing him the note from the baker.
“There’s only one way to find out, Sarah,” Joseph smiled, pocketing the note. “Calm down child, and open it.”
Sarah could feel the pulse in her throat and her hands began to tremble as she started to unwrap the package. Inside was an old book. She let her fingers slide gently over the black leather cover. “I know what it is,” she nodded excitedly. “It’s Papa’s Hebrew daily prayer book. Look! Here’s his name on the inside cover. I remember him telling me that as well as all our prayers, Jews have a blessing for almost everything you can think of and this book is full of them!” She smiled as she turned over the pages. “Oh! What’s this?” she asked as an envelope slid out from between the pages. “I expect this is for me too.” She opened it carefully and found a letter, a ticket and some money. She unfolded the letter, carefully smoothed the creases out and then examined it closely.
“ Oy vey – bother,” she said, frowning hard. “I hate grownup scribble! I can’t make it out at all!” She looked at it again. “It doesn’t look much like Papa’s writing either. I don’t understand. Will you read it please, Joseph?” she asked, tugging on her plaits while she waited. Joseph’s head was bent low over the letter so she couldn’t see the grave expression on his face.
“Well, are you going to tell me? What’s the news?”
“My dear child,” Joseph hesitated, then went on: “I’m afraid that it’s bad news and …” he stopped and looked at her. Sarah’s face was as white as a sheet.
“It’s Papa, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Something terrible has happened to him, hasn’t it? Tell me,” she whimpered, “please tell me.”
Joseph gripped her hands tightly. “Boris, your dear father, God rest his soul, has been killed in a road accident,” he said gravely. “This letter is from your Aunt Manya. She wants you to go and live with her in New York. She’s sent you a boat ticket and some money for the journey.”
Sarah sat quite still as if she were in a trance. “Oh Papa! Papa!” she cried. Then she slowly stroked her cheeks and round her chin – the very places where Papa used to tickle her with his beard. How vividly she remembered reading with him, going for walks with him, sitting next to him on his wagon, and best of all, in his carpenter’s workshop, a row of nails pressed carefully between his lips and his hammer gripped firmly in his strong hand. When the memory faded she felt the blood drain from her face and