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  “And fast, too,” Carrie reminded them, “before Sonny gets home.”

  Garvey reached into his pocket. “We’re all in this together. Let’s pool our money for the new tube.”

  Nate groaned as he dug in his pockets. Among the four of them, they had ninety-five cents, fifty of which came from Carrie. That certainly wasn’t how she’d planned to spend her extra money.

  “You girls sweep up the glass,” Garvey instructed, “and we’ll be back with a new tube in a few minutes.”

  As soon as the boys were gone, Vi looked around the room. “Where do you suppose Sonny would keep a broom and dustpan?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t look like he uses a broom very often.”

  Vi ignored the comment as she continued peeking into corners and opening doors.

  Carrie went toward the stairs that led up to the back hallway. She thought there might be a closet under the stairs, and she was right. Opening the door, she reached up to pull a light chain. The bulb illuminated a small closet full of cleaning supplies. Opal probably kept extra things down there so she wouldn’t have to tote them up and down the stairs.

  As Carrie reached for the broom, she noticed something lying in the corner. Something white. She froze where she stood. “Vi,” she said softly. “Come here.”

  “What is it? Did you find a broom?”

  “Yes. And something else.”

  Vi peered around the door frame. “What? I don’t see anything.”

  “In the corner.” Carrie stepped out of the way.

  “It looks like an old sheet to me.” Then Vi drew in her breath. “Oh my goodness. Is that what I think it is?” She knelt down and gently picked up the corner of the cloth. Out fell a hood with the eyes cut out. Vi looked up at Carrie, her eyes wide. “Sonny’s a member of the Klan,” she said in a frightened whisper.

  Carrie had heard her father talk a great deal about the horrors of the Ku Klux Klan. He never had a good word to say about their scare tactics and their hatred for people of other races and faiths. She thought of Dvora and Yerik next door, and she shivered.

  “I knew Sonny had been keeping some pretty late hours,” Vi said. “Now I know why.” Refolding the robe and hood, she said, “Let’s hurry and get the glass swept up. We’ll tell the boys about this when they get back.”

  The new radio tube cost eighty-nine cents, which made Carrie thankful she didn’t buy those kinds of things every day. A Popsicle and a movie were much cheaper.

  Nate gave the six-cents change back to Carrie since she’d contributed the most toward the new tube. The broken glass was put in a paper bag to be disposed of in the garbage can in the back of the house. But first, the girls took Nate and Garvey back to the closet to show them the robe and hood.

  Carrie could tell Garvey was trying hard to mask his shock. He grabbed the hood and pulled it over his head. “Look at me,” he said in a silly tone. “I’m in the Klan!” Pulling it off again, he added, “Too bad we don’t have this up in the attic. What a great game that would be.”

  “Garvey,” she scolded, “that’s not very funny.”

  “Oh, you’re just an old stick-in-the-mud,” Garvey spouted back to her.

  Nate was more cool about the discovery. Perhaps he’d known all along. “So what’s the big uproar?” he said, directing his attention to his sister. “Sonny’s almost eighteen. I guess he can do whatever he wants to, can’t he?”

  “But the Klan …,” Vi countered. “He may have helped burn crosses in the yard of some black person—or at the home of a family of Catholics.”

  “Burning crosses never hurt anyone,” Nate snapped.

  Carrie glanced at Violet. Her friend gave a shrug.

  “I’d better get on home,” Carrie said.

  “The rain’s let up,” Garvey said, elbowing Nate in the ribs as though to knock him out of his serious mood. “Let’s go see if anyone wants to play ball.”

  On her way home, Carrie thought about the Klan robe. She’d seen photos of Klan marches in the newspapers. It was eerie to think that she personally knew someone who was hiding under one of those crazy getups.

  When she got home, she went to her room and wrote a new poem in her poetry notebook:

  Evil deeds avoid the light.

  Evil men ignore what’s right.

  Klansmen feed on fear and hate.

  Hurrying to mischief, they cannot wait.

  CHAPTER 9

  Country Club Encounter

  On the first day of school, Dvora looked very nice in her blue linen dress with the babushka draped like a sash at her waist. Her braids hung down her back rather than wound around her head, just as Carrie had shown her. Dvora had been attending English classes with other Jewish children whenever Yerik could take her. But her uncle had very few free hours, so the lessons were limited.

  While she looked much like all the other children on the playground, it was when Dvora opened her mouth to speak that the truth came spilling out. Her broken English was difficult to understand. Not that she spoke much. In fact, during the first few days of school, she seldom talked to anyone.

  There were other immigrant children at Washington Elementary that fall. Nearly all of them were ignored just as Dvora was. But Carrie didn’t know the other immigrant children. She knew Dvora, and her heart broke for her. How strange the schoolroom must look to this girl so new in this country. A girl who had been accustomed to a tiny cottage in a small village, surrounded by farmland. Dvora didn’t even know what chalk was. Nor Crayolas. Carrie longed to reach out and help the Jewish girl. But she also wanted to keep her friendship with Vi.

  Vi and Garvey were with Carrie in the fifth-grade classroom. Nate was in sixth grade. Carrie had looked forward to this year because Mrs. Harwell was known all through the school for her unique nature and science projects.

  Potted plants perched on nearly every windowsill—from ferns, to cacti, to African violets. A large terrarium held a garter snake, a frog, and a lizard.

  Outside the window, the teacher had rigged up a bird-feeding station. The students were assigned to take turns putting out the feed each day. A bird book was kept on a table near the window, and a notebook where they could chart which birds came to feed was also kept there.

  Carrie immediately liked Mrs. Harwell. She took special note of how kind this teacher was to the immigrant children, including Dvora.

  Recess time at Washington Elementary meant baseball games. Nearly every boy wanted to be included. Sometimes they played one grade against another. Other times, they voted captains and chose up sides. Baseball cards were in their pockets, and scores and statistics were spoken with great accuracy. Heated arguments could be heard over whether the Giants or the Yankees were the best team. Nate and Garvey were always for the Yankees—mainly because that was the Babe’s team. At times, Carrie wondered how the boys could ever study because their brains were so filled up with baseball.

  Convincing her piano teacher to come to the country club to play a game of tennis had been more difficult than Carrie had first thought it would be. Miss Tilden continued to give feeble excuses. Carrie suspected if she were taking lessons any place other than the country club, Miss Tilden might have accepted right off.

  Her tennis lessons were now after school on Thursday afternoons. That meant she had to hurry home from school and change into her tennis togs so Mother could drive her out to the club.

  One afternoon as she was finishing up a lesson, Carrie hung back, helping Mr. Clausen pick up all the balls and put them in the wicker basket at the side of the court.

  “Thanks for your help, Carrie,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be going? Isn’t your mother out there waiting on you?”

  “She won’t leave without me,” Carrie answered absently. She had a question to ask, but she had no idea how to begin.

  Mr. Clausen stopped a moment, wiping his forehead with the white towel slung about his neck. He still held his wonderful summer tan, and his blue eyes were positively electric.
“Is there something on your mind, Carrie?”

  “Well, yes. Now that you ask.”

  “About tennis?”

  “No,” she said, smiling. “Never about tennis.”

  “I thought not. Then what is it?”

  “You’re going to be a pastor someday. What would you say to someone who said to you that they hated Jews because the Jews killed Jesus? What would you say to such a thing?”

  Mr. Clausen’s handsome face grew serious. “That’s a very important question, Carrie. I’ve certainly heard that said from time to time. Usually it’s said by someone who is looking for reasons to hate or dislike someone.”

  Carrie thought of Sonny and nodded.

  “The truth of the matter is, each one of us killed Jesus. He died for the sins of every man and woman, every girl and boy. He bore our sins for us, so it was our sins that killed Him.” He paused and looked at her a moment. “Does that make sense, Carrie?”

  “I think so.”

  “Of course, we know from reading the Gospels that a group of Jews and Romans plotted together to do the actual killing. But don’t forget there were hundreds of Jews at the same time who followed Jesus, who believed in Him, and who loved Him very much. We know that’s true, don’t we?”

  Carrie gave a vigorous nod.

  “In fact, it was that handful of Jewish followers who started the church after Jesus’ resurrection.” He put his arm on her shoulder to steer her toward the clubhouse. “It was God’s choice to have Jesus born into the Jewish bloodline. In my opinion, that means I owe a great deal to the Jews. God called them His chosen people. I can do no less.”

  “Wow, Mr. Clausen. I never thought of that.”

  “Does that answer your question?”

  “It sure does.” Carrie suddenly felt much less bothered by Vi’s question.

  “Any more questions?”

  “Just one. My piano teacher doesn’t believe in God. If I invited her to come and play tennis with me, would you talk to her?”

  “Your piano teacher?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can she play tennis?”

  Carrie tried to remember what Suzette Tilden had said about tennis. “Some, I think.”

  He nodded and smiled. “Why, sure. If you get her here, I’ll talk to her.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Clausen.” Carrie really did have to hurry then. She could see Mother standing at the clubhouse door with her arms folded and looking horribly impatient.

  Two weeks later, Carrie was just finishing her piano lesson at Miss Tilden’s apartment. For the umpteenth time, she invited her teacher to come play a game of tennis with her.

  “It doesn’t matter if you’re not very good,” Carrie said, “because I’m not very good, either.”

  “You never give up, do you? Oh, all right, Carrie. When shall I come?”

  Carrie was suddenly so excited she could hardly think. But she was able to set a time following her tennis lesson and give directions to the tennis courts. “If anyone stops you, just say you’re a guest of Nolan Clausen. He’s my instructor.”

  “Nolan Clausen.” Miss Tilden scribbled the name on a notepad. “All right, Carrie,” she said as she ushered Carrie out the door. “I’ll see you and the elite country club tomorrow afternoon.”

  The next step in Carrie’s plan was to ask Mother to play a game of doubles following her tennis lesson. That was almost as difficult as getting Miss Tilden to the courts in the first place. “You’ve paid all this money,” went her argument. “Wouldn’t you like to see how I’m doing?” Then she added, “Think how much fun we’d have.”

  Finally, her mother said yes, as well.

  All day at school on Thursday, Carrie was nervously thinking about the get-together that afternoon. She was sure Mr. Clausen could help Miss Tilden understand about God and to come to know how much He loves everyone.

  The day was unusually warm for late September, and the sun was shining. All during her lesson, Carrie was in her worst form ever. She never was very good, but on this day, she played horribly. Mr. Clausen never got upset with her. In fact, he was smiling. “You seem to have your mind in other places today, Carrie,” he said.

  “I suppose I do,” she admitted.

  Just then, a voice from behind her called her name. She whirled around to see Miss Tilden looking chic in her pleated skirt, trim middy blouse, and neat little canvas shoes with turned-down cotton socks. On her bobbed hair sat a jaunty beret. Her lips were rouged even more than usual.

  “Miss Tilden! There you are,” Carrie exclaimed.

  When Carrie introduced the two, Miss Tilden gave Mr. Clausen her loveliest smile. They shook hands and were quickly calling one another Suzette and Nolan.

  At just the right moment, Mother arrived dressed and ready to play. Since Mother knew the two instructors, there was no need for further introductions. Mr. Clausen suggested he and Miss Tilden play mother and daughter. But Miss Tilden said she didn’t think that would be very fair.

  “I’ll team with Mrs. Ruhle,” she said, “and you be a support to your student here.”

  Mr. Clausen smiled and nodded. After the first set, Carrie realized what Miss Tilden meant. She was a much better player than she’d let on.

  At first, Mr. Clausen was playing to humor Miss Tilden and to make things easy for her. That ended quickly. Carrie laughed to see how much dancing around Mr. Clausen had to do just to keep up with Miss Tilden’s expertly placed lobs and backhands. She kept him on his heels quite a bit.

  With Mr. Clausen beside her, Carrie felt more confident than she ever had. Suddenly, in a real, honest-to-goodness game, all his instructions came home to her, and she rose to the occasion. And Mother’s game wasn’t anything to complain about. In the end, there was fierce competition and some hard playing—Mother and Miss Tilden won two sets to Mr. Clausen and Carrie’s one.

  In the midst of the laughing and shaking of hands at the end of their matches, Mr. Clausen suggested they all have something cold to drink before leaving. Carrie was hoping he’d say such a thing. She also hoped Mother would say yes, and she did.

  The three adults were complimenting Carrie on her game, which made her feel terrific. They sat around one of the patio tables, enjoying the cool breeze that had come up. Small talk followed as they sipped their iced drinks.

  Presently Carrie said to Miss Tilden, “Mr. Clausen here is still in school, just like you are.”

  “Oh, really?” She looked over at the tennis instructor, her plucked brows raised. “Studying what?”

  “He’s in divinity school,” Carrie informed her. “Someday he’ll be a pastor.”

  As soon as she said those words, a mask fell over Miss Tilden’s face. Her rouged lips pursed together in a frown.

  Carrie quickly plunged on. “One day, he’ll be preaching in the pulpit telling people all about God’s love and mercy. Won’t you, Mr. Clausen?”

  Mr. Clausen, too, had caught Miss Tilden’s sudden reaction. “That’s right, Carrie.”

  “Fleecing the sheep,” Miss Tilden said, her voice suddenly cool and aloof. “Isn’t that an apt description for most so-called preachers? Standing up there looking holy, telling people how to live, yet never quite making it themselves. Telling the people to give to the church so they can pay the rent.”

  Mother straightened her back. “Pardon me, Suzette, but that’s not at all what a pastor does. Of course, no one is perfect, but the pastor’s job is to point us to God and to God’s Word. While Jesus is our true Shepherd, our pastors are the ‘undershepherds.’”

  Carrie listened in amazement as her mother gently continued. “I’ve gone to church nearly all my life. Through those years, God’s Word and God’s people have always been a source of comfort and strength to me.”

  The words surprised Carrie. She hadn’t heard Mother talk like that for a very long time.

  Suddenly, Miss Tilden’s chair scooted noisily against the flagstones. “So,” she blurted out to Carrie, “is this why you’ve plotted and
planned to corner me here? Has your little scheme worked? Did you think if I were talked to by a good-looking man that I’d be suddenly converted?”

  “Oh, no—” Carrie started.

  But Miss Tilden was not listening. She stood up. “Well, let me tell you, better people than you have tried and failed. Just consider that this is one fish that got away. I’m not jumping to any hook, no matter how good the bait looks.”

  With that, she stomped across the patio and into the clubhouse.

  Carrie felt as though she wanted to wither up and die.

  Mr. Clausen reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t fret, Carrie,” he told her. “Your heart was in the right place. Just keep praying. I don’t think Suzette is nearly as tough as she appears.”

  The words were no encouragement at all. Carrie didn’t know how she would face her piano teacher ever again.

  CHAPTER 10

  World Series

  The Babe’s the greatest!” Garvey stood with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. He was on the school grounds, facing off with another fifth-grader named Wally.

  “He is not,” Wally spouted back. “He’s a has-been. My uncle lives in New York. Goes to see him play right there in the brand-spanking-new Yankee Stadium. He says the Babe doesn’t train properly, and he’s getting too old. He’s all washed up.”

  “That’s a bunch of hogwash,” Garvey retorted. “What does your uncle know, anyhow? How can you call forty-one home runs being washed up?”

  “He’s almost twenty-nine years old,” Wally flailed back, now almost nose-to-nose with Garvey. “That’s too old to be playing ball.”

  “For other men, maybe,” Garvey conceded. “But not for the Babe. He’s bigger and better than all the rest.”

  Carrie and Violet were sitting on the jungle gym, listening to the feud, a feud that seemed to go on endlessly now that the World Series was only a week away. That morning, in the first hour, Mrs. Harwell had announced that the ladies who worked in the school office planned to keep the radio on during the Series. They promised to report the scores at the end of each inning. Every boy in fifth grade cheered the announcement.