“The Red Coat”
D. Pedecis
Dace knew in her heart that this new year, 1957, would be wonderful. She and her parents had moved to a new neighborhood, away from the old one where the other kids had known one another since birth. A neighborhood where it was hard to make friends if you hadn’t known one another forever.
She hated her old school and every morning asked her mother why she had to go to school.
“You are a smart girl. If you are going to be an American, you need to learn about our new country. When you finish high school, you can go to college.”
More than anything, Dace wanted to be an American. She wanted a new name, too. She wanted to be Susie Brown. A real American girl’s name. It embarrassed her that not even teachers knew how to say her name correctly. Somehow, it seemed like her fault for having such a hard-to-say name. Roll call made her cringe with embarrassment.
Americans said her name so that it rhymed with “Nazi.” Kids knew about Nazis and taunted her by calling her “Dace the Nazi.”
Most kids at her new school seemed nice and not as stuck up. When she started fourth grade in September, her kind new teacher introduced her to another girl named Debbie who had just moved to this part of town and didn’t know anyone else, either. A third girl, named Wendy, joined them. When they were together, it did not matter if none of them fit in with the popular girls, the “soshes.”
Wendy, Debbie, and Dace, the Double D and W Gang, preferred horses to boys. They preferred climbing trees to shopping. They preferred reading to primping.
Everything would have been fine, except for one thing.
Papa hated red. Dace didn’t know why. She didn’t ask. People like what they like. And don’t like what they don’t like, Mama said.
This year would be wonderful because she would finally become an American. In a few weeks they would go to court and her family would become citizens
Dace and Wendy were walking to Dace’s house for the first time to meet her parents after school. The plan was to do their homework and to have supper afterward.
Wendy had on her red Christmas coat with a black velvet collar she’d received from her grandparents who lived in another state.
“My Papa hates red,” Dace said without thinking.
“Why?”
Dace shrugged, “I don’t know. He just does. He says it all the time. ‘I hate the reds! Everybody should!”
Wendy’s face started to crumble.
“Do you think he’d hate my coat? And me, for wearing it.”
“I don’t know.” Seeing tears spring to Wendy’s eyes, Dace exclaimed, “Of course, he wouldn’t. You’re my friend!”
“I don’t want to be your friend!”
Wendy abruptly turned and ran in the other direction, toward her own home.
Stunned and heartbroken, Dace stood frozen before starting to follow.
“Wendy, wait!” Dace ran after the other girl. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I want to be your best friend. Please! I don’t know why I said that.”
Wendy kept running. “I don’t care. I don’t want to be your friend anymore!”
Dace felt tears rolling down her face as she ran after her friend. “I love your coat! It’s very pretty. I wish I had a coat like it.”
Wendy ignored her, ran into her house, and slammed the door so hard Dace could hear it from the middle of the street. It felt like the door had hit her in the face. She went to the gate that hung open on its rusty hinges and yelled, “I don’t want to be your friend, either!”
It was time to give up. Rejection hurt. She turned and, shoulders slumped, walked toward home.
Mama stood in the kitchen bending over the open oven door, poking a fork into a roasted chicken that smelled yummy. Dace waited until Mamma took the chicken out of the oven and put tin foil over it before speaking. Maybe she could tell Dace how to get back Wendy’s friendship.
“Mama, I made Wendy cry,” she said with a sob.
“What happened?” Seeing Dace’s tear-stained face, Mama took her daughter in her arms and pressed her against her side. “Hush, hush, my dear child. I am sure you did not mean to.”
Dace gulped and shook her head against her mother’s ribs.
Mama pulled back. Took a hanky out of her apron pocket and wiped her daughter’s face. “Let me make some hot chocolate for you. When you are a bit more calm, you can tell me.”
Mother and daughter sat at the kitchen table sipping hot chocolate in silence.
After a few moments, Dace asked, “Why does Papa hate red?”
“Hate red?” Mother’s forehead puckered between her brows. “What does that have to do with what you are concerned about?”
“He always says, ‘I hate ‘red.’ Wendy’s new Christmas coat is red. When I told her what he said, she got mad and said she doesn’t want to be friends anymore.”
“Oh, my poor, sweet girl!” Mother bit her lip. “You did not think before speaking, did you?”
Dace hung her head. “I guess not. Does that mean I’m bad?”
“No, it just means that you need to learn to think before you speak.”
Looking serious, Dace nodded. “I’ll try really hard. But why did Wendy get so mad and cry?”
“Do you remember when you first told me about your new friend and I asked you to tell me about her?”
“Uh-huh.”
“One of the things you told me is that her family is on welfare. Do you know what that means?”
Dace shook her head.
“It means that her family is poor and needs help from the government. The red coat is probably the nicest thing she has.”
“Ohhh!” Dace drew out the word. “I made her feel bad about her pretty new coat. I didn’t mean to.” Tears brimmed in her eyes.
“Now don’t you start crying.” Mother cupped Dace’s face in her hands and kissed her nose. “That’s why you must learn to think before speaking.”
“Do you think I can get Wendy back, Mama?”
This time, it was Mother who shook her head. “I don’t know, but if you approach her politely and explain that it’s not the color red your Papa hates, but the Reds, she’ll understand and make up with you.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow! What do I say?” Dace’s face turned sunshine bright.
“Not so fast.” Mother put her hand on Dace’s wrist. “Wait a couple of days. Give her a chance to cool off and miss you.”
On Monday, when Dace approached the table in the school lunchroom, the table where the DWD Gang usually sat together, Wendy wasn’t there but alone at a table in a back corner. A tiny smile appeared on her face when she saw Dace, then disappeared.
“Hi! Can I sit here?”
Pretending indifference, Wendy shrugged and kept eating her PB&J sandwich. “I don’t care. It’s a free country.”
“Latvia, the country my family is from, isn’t a free country.”
Still pretending not to care, Wendy took a sip of milk. But Dace could tell she was listening and hurried on.
“It’s not the color red my Papa hates. It’s the Red Army he hates. They stole our country and sent people to a freezing place called Siberia to work in forced labor camps.”
Wendy put down her half-eaten sandwich. Her eyes were wide.
“Ladies and kids were separated from the daddies. Nobody did anything wrong. The Reds just wanted our country and lots of other countries, too. People died there, My family had to run away so that wouldn’t happen to them.”
“Oh. My gosh! How awful! I’m sorry!”
Two weeks later, the DWD Gang sat together on a hard wooden bench in a courtroom and watched Dace’s parents- raise their hands in front of a judge and become American citizens
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