CHAPTER ONE

Sweet Semester, 1945

"Fifth grade with Miss Fitzgerald is going to be the best grade ever!" I said to my friend Sunny Shapiro as I tried balancing myself along the curb. "Imagine! Being in a real newspaper."

"And becoming famous!" said Sunny.

We were on our way home after our first day of school, still filled with the exciting news Miss Fitzgerald had given us just before dismissal.

"Class," she began, "even though it's only September, I want to tell you about a tradition that I follow every year at the end of the semester in January. Some of you might already know..."

Before she even had a chance to finish the sentence, the kids shouted out, "Sweet Semester, Sweet Semester!" Everyone in school knew about Miss Fitzgerald's popular event held each year.

"That's right, class. Sweet Semester. To celebrate the end of what I hope will be a sweet semester for all of us. And I'm telling you about it now so that you'll have plenty of time to prepare for it. Plenty of time to give it lots of thought."

She then went on to tell us what I already knew from my brother, Artie, who also had Miss Fitzgerald when he was in fifth grade three years ago.

Sweet Semester is a contest and here's how it works. We each bring in a dessert that we've made by ourselves, along with the recipe, and an essay about why we chose to make that particular dessert. Then everyone gets to taste each entry and vote on the winner. Miss Fitzgerald chooses the winning essay.

Just when I thought Miss Fitzgerald was finished telling us about Sweet Semester, she added something unexpected and wonderful.

"Class, this year, for the first time, I plan to invite a newspaper reporter and a photographer to come here and join us. And the winner -- or winners -- will have their pictures taken, and be written up in...theChicago Daily News!"

The whole class went wild. We were yelling "Yippee!" and jumping in the aisles. And by the time the bell rang and we ran out of the building, Sunny and I could practically see our pictures right there in a major Chicago newspaper, shaking hands with Mayor Kelly.

"I just thought of something," I told Sunny as I hopped off the curb. "I can't cook and I can't bake."

"Come to think of it, I can't either," said Sunny.

"My cakes fall and my cookies look like pancakes."

"Same here, Dorrie. And don't forget. We have to write that essay."

"I'm not worried about writing the essay. I've got lots of erasers. But you can't erase a bad cake. I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Me neither," said Sunny, "but let's not worry yet. The end of January is a long way off. And in the meantime we can experiment."

"The one thing I know for sure is that I'll make something chocolate," I told her. "It definitely has to be chocolate."

"What did Artie make for Sweet Semester?"

"He piled three marshmallows on top of each other and called it a snowman."

"He made one snowman? How was that enough for the whole class?"

"It wasn't," I said. "And he didn't win either."

When I walked into the kitchen I found my mother pouring hot cocoa for Artie and me.

The cocoa was really good this time. Not like usual when she boils the milk so hot that skin forms on the top. There's nothing that makes me gag more than floating skin on top of milk.

"Miss Fitzgerald told us about Sweet Semester today," I said as I sipped the cocoa. "And guess what! This year the winners will get written up in the Chicago Daily News, with their pictures and everything."

"Ah, I can see it all now," said Artie, putting his cup down on the table and swiping the air in front of him in a grand motion. "Right on the front page...Dorrie Meyers wins Sweet Semester with pineapple upside-down cake!"

"I hate pineapple," I told him. "And I don't have to be on the front page. I'd be happy to see myself right in with the want ads. Or the crossword puzzle. I just want to make something wonderful. And original. Only I don't know what."

"I'm sure you'll think of something when the time comes," my mother said as she put on an apron.

"I can help you make a marshmallow snowman," said Artie.

"Great idea, Artie. But no thanks."

I brought my empty cup over to the sink and turned to Artie. "By the way, when you wrote your essay, what did you say about your reason for making a marshmallow snowman?"

"I wrote that marshmallows are fun to eat and almost everyone likes them and this was a unique way to make a snowman any time of the year and it wouldn't melt and you wouldn't even need any snow."

I shook my head and laughed. In a way, I wished I could be more like Artie. Not worry so much. Just do any old thing without thinking about it or caring, and whatever happens, happens.

While I was washing out the cup, my mother was rummaging in the cupboards, pulling out her Mixmaster, mixing bowls, measuring cups, and all kinds of ingredients. I could see she was getting ready to do some serious baking.

My mother is a wonderful cook and baker. She is famous for her carrot cakes. But today when I saw her taking out the jar of honey, I knew what she was getting ready to bake. A honey cake for Rosh Hashanah -- the Jewish New Year. And this would be our first Rosh Hashanah since the war with Germany and Japan ended.

I love celebrating Rosh Hashanah, when relatives come over. We eat all kinds of sweet foods. Sweet kugels, sweet carrots, apples dipped in honey, and of course, my mother's honey cake. Sweet foods for a sweet year.

I think honey cake is okay for the adults. They seem to like it. But for me there is nothing like chocolate.

"Do you think you could bake a chocolate cake while you're at it?" I asked my mother.

"Another time," she said. "I'm so far behind. And there's so much I have to do yet."

So I just hung around and watched as her hands worked their magic: measuring, sifting, pouring. I thought maybe if I watched real hard every time she baked, really studied, I could learn something.

Maybe some of her magic would rub off on me.

Copyright © 2008 by Charlotte Herman

CHAPTER TWO

Rosh Hashanah

Crash! Bang!

"No, no! Get away!" My mother was screaming from the kitchen.

At the sound of the crash Artie and I ran in from the dining room where we had been playing with my Uncle Jack's dog, Buddy. But Buddy got there first and in a flash he was attacking my mother's pot roast lying on the floor.

"No!" yelled Uncle Jack. "Drop it!" With one hand he grabbed Buddy's collar and tugged at him while my mother pulled the roast out of his mouth.

And as Buddy was lapping up the carrots and onions and gravy from the linoleum, my mother was drying her tears with her apron.

Artie and I cleaned up the floor with some wet rags, but there wasn't much to do because Buddy pretty much cleaned it up for us. He just stood there licking his mouth and wagging his tail like it was the best meal he ever had.

"You crafty canine," Uncle Jack said to Buddy. "Stop looking so smug."

Buddy is a black-and-white English springer spaniel with adorable floppy ears. Spaniels are good hunting dogs, so I guess that's why he was so quick to get at the pot roast.

"I don't know how it happened," my mother said. "The pan just slipped out of my hand." She sank into a chair.

"Don't worry," said Uncle Jack. "I can go out to the butcher shop and see if they have any more meat."

Even though the war was over, there was still a shortage of meat. And sometimes it was hard to get.

"No, don't bother," she said shaking her head. "There won't be anything left. And I have plenty of chicken." She let out a deep sigh. "I just don't know where my mind is lately. I can't concentrate on anything."

Uncle Jack sat down at the table next to her. He had stopped by earlier that Thursday saying he was in the neighborhood, walking Buddy. But I think he came over to sample some of my mother's cooking. He knew she was preparing for our big meal on Friday night. I guess he didn't count on Buddy doing the sampling too.

"I can't tell you how worried I am," my mother said as she sipped a cup of tea and wiped away some more tears. I didn't think the tears were just because of the roast.

They sat at the table, close together, talking softly. But I could still see and hear them from across the kitchen where I was gathering up the wet rags.

"I'm worried too," said Uncle Jack, digging into a piece of sweet noodle kugel. "The last letter I got from them was way back in 1941. I remember because it was the year I bought the Plymouth."

It's well known in our family that Uncle Jack, who is my mother's brother, measures time by his 1941 Plymouth. Everything that's ever happened in his life is either BP or AP. Before Plymouth or After Plymouth.

"That's when I last heard from them too," my mother said. "And ever since the war ended I've been sending letters to anyone I can think of, trying to find out what happened. Four months already and I haven't gotten any answers."

"What letters are you talking about?" I asked, recovering a stray carrot from under the table.

"Oh, we're just talking family talk," my mother said, which is what she always says when she thinks I'm not old enough to understand something.

"Well I'm family too, aren't I?" I took Buddy by the collar and led him back into the dining room. "Come on, Buddy. I guess we know when we're not wanted."

On Friday night the relatives came to celebrate the new year. Bubbie -- my grandmother -- came with Uncle Jack and Aunt Esther, who is my mother's sister, and a pot of stuffed cabbage. Uncle Louie and Aunt Goldie, who are on my father's side of the family, brought sweet and sour meatballs. Nobody brought anything chocolate.

When we sat down at the table, my father said the blessings over the wine and challah bread, and passed around slices of apples that we dipped into honey.

"L'shanah tovah!To a good year!" we wished one another. "May we hear good news from Europe."

My mother and Aunt Esther carried in the steaming bowls of chicken soup, and Artie and I helped bring in the roasted chicken, sweet carrots and kugels, the stuffed cabbage, meatballs, and salad. There was so much food -- even without the pot roast -- that we had to take the vase of flowers off the table to make room.

Everything looked delicious. "I'm starving," I said to Artie as I started to fill my plate. I didn't think anyone else heard me. But Aunt Goldie did. She was sitting right next to me.

"Sweetheart, what do you know from starving?" she said. "The children in Europe...theyare the ones who are starving."

She said that to me just as my fork was about to pierce a second meatball. I had counted on a third one, too. I love sweet and sour meatballs. And stuffed cabbage. But now, after Aunt Goldie said that, I lost my appetite. How could I fill up my plate with all kinds of wonderful food when children in Europe were starving? So I just took a small piece of chicken and a spoonful of carrots.

"That's all you're having?" Aunt Goldie said when she saw my plate. "Sweetheart, take something else. No wonder you're so skinny."

I can never understand why some of my relatives keep reminding me that I'm skinny. Like I don't already know.

"Maybe later," I told her.

While we ate, the subject of the letters came up again. The conversation started in English but quickly and quietly switched to Yiddish. As if Artie and I couldn't understand what they were talking about.

When we were small and my mother and father didn't want Artie and me to understand what they were saying, they'd speak to each other in Yiddish. And many of my relatives often speak Yiddish when they get together, especially when they get excited about something, like when they get into an argument. Didn't they realize that somewhere along the way we figured them out? That by now we could understand them?

I pretended to be studying the bubbles in my glass of ginger ale and Artie concentrated on the chandelier above the table.

I listened to them talking about the letters they had been waiting for but weren't receiving, and talking about Bubbie's sister, Sophie, from Lithuania. And then more names: Mina and Joseph and their son, Victor. I knew that Victor was a distant cousin of mine. A second cousin, I think.

Bubbie sat quietly, pushing the meat and rice around on her plate with her fork, listening to the conversation.

"We would have heard something by now. It can't be good."

"Europe is in so much chaos. It's too early to know anything about anybody. People are scattered all over."

What happened to Sophie? And Mina and Joseph and Victor? Hearing all this talk about them made me think of a newsreel I saw one time.

A few months ago I went to the Central Park Theater on Roosevelt Road with my mother and father to see a movie starring Esther Williams. She's a fantastic swimmer. But what I can't understand is how she can swim and do ballet underwater and still come up with dry hair. And how can she breathe and smile at the same time?

Anyway, what I remember more than the movie was the newsreel: "The Eyes and Ears of the World." It was all about Hitler, and Germany surrendering. And it showed American soldiers and German soldiers, and huge ovens and ashes all around them. And the people in the theater were crying. My mother and father, too.

Usually my father likes to go out to a restaurant after a movie. He loves restaurants. My mother doesn't. She always says she can make anything better and cheaper at home. But this time, even my father didn't want to go out to eat.

"What was that all about?" I asked when we left the theater. Nobody said anything. They just put their arms around me as we walked home together. But I didn't need to ask them. I knew what I saw. I saw ashes. The ashes of people who perished in the war.

Copyright © 2008 by Charlotte Herman

CHAPTER THREE

My Mother's Bridge Club

The synagogue hummed with the Rosh Hashanah prayers on Saturday and Sunday. I sat up in the balcony with my mother and listened to the cantor chant the most beautiful melodies. And when the rabbi spoke of all the Jews who were killed in Europe, women cried into their handkerchiefs.

"And many of those who survived are broken in body and spirit," he said. "They have lost everything. Their homes and their families. They have nowhere to go."

When he spoke about all those people who didn't have families anymore, I leaned in closer to my mother and thought about how lucky I was to have her. My father and Artie, too. They were sitting downstairs with the men. I wondered if any of the men were crying.

On Sunday I heard the blowing of the shofar, the ram's horn, and goose bumps sprouted on my arms. I knew the sound was to make us think about the year gone by, and to look ahead to the new one.

At times I studied the ladies' hats. Large hats. Crazy hats. With flowers and feathers, or even fruit. And I knew that I would never wear hats like those when I grew up. Why would I ever want to walk around with fruit on my head?

It seemed that Rosh Hashanah put my mother in a quiet, thoughtful mood. So I was happy to see how she brightened up a few days later when she made her announcement.

"My club is coming over tonight. I need you to help me clean up."

"Club?" I asked. "Since when do you belong to a club?"

"My new bridge club. The girls and I have decided to get together once a week to play cards. I'm having the first meeting."

My mother set out little dishes filled with chocolate-covered candies of different shapes and sizes.

"Don't eat any of the bridge mix," she said. "I need to make sure there's enough for tonight."

"You mean they make candy especially for people who play bridge?" I asked. "Then why don't they make candy for people who play Monopoly and checkers?" I aimed my hand toward one of the dishes. "Can I have just one piece?"

"All right. Just one."

I picked out the biggest piece of candy I could find. It was round. I bit into it and discovered a chocolate-covered malted milk ball. It reminded me of the malteds I get at Ziffer's Drugstore. I wanted another one.

"Can I have just one more?" I asked.

"If there's any left after tonight you can have some tomorrow."

When the girls came over, Artie and I hid in the room we share. We could hear them through the walls. They were talking very loudly. They were laughing. They were cackling.

"Like witches," Artie said.

"Like chickens," I said.

My mother was cackling right along with them. I could tell she was having a good time.

As I listened to their voices something occurred to me. "You know, everyone except Ma has an accent -- from Europe," I told Artie.

"Ma has one too," Artie said.

"No she doesn't."

"Sure she does. And so does Dad."

I listened really hard, but I still couldn't tell.

"I think you're imagining it," I told him, and I flopped down on my bed. "All I know is they'd better save us some of the chocolate-covered malted milk balls."

"And the chocolate-covered peanuts and raisins," said Artie.

We waited for them to go home. But they didn't. Their laughing and cackling filled the air as I drifted off to sleep, praying that they wouldn't eat up all the bridge mix.

There was plenty of bridge mix left in the morning. My mother said I could take some for recess. So I took the malted milk balls and Artie took the peanuts and raisins.

After school my mother let me help her cook the chocolate pudding that we were having for dessert at supper time.

I love chocolate pudding. It's so rich and smooth and chocolaty. And I love cooking it, too. I like the way it thickens and bubbles as it gets hotter and hotter.

"Ma," I said as I was stirring, "do you have an accent?"

She came over and set down the cups she'd brought me for the pudding. "I suppose I do. Why do you ask?"

"Well, last night Artie said you have one. And that Daddy has one too. But I never noticed."

I poured the pudding into the cups and my mother put them in the Frigidaire to cool. Then I sat down at the table with the pot to lick whatever was left of the pudding. First with a spoon, then with my finger. I wondered if chocolate pudding would be good to bring for Sweet Semester. Probably not, I thought. Too ordinary.

"I mean, you don't sound like the ladies -- the girls -- from last night," I continued. "Or the neighbors. And you sure don't sound like any of the aunts and uncles, like Aunt Goldie or Uncle Louie."

My mother sat down across from me. "That's because they were older than I was when they came from Europe to America. The older you are when you come to a new country, the harder it is to lose the accent."

My hands and face were messy from all that licking and scraping, and just as I was getting ready to clean up, Artie came home. When he saw me he laughed and called me a chocolate-covered Dorrie.

"Very funny," I said as he ran off. I went to the sink to wash up and said, "So, Ma, how old were you when you came here, anyway?"

"I was fourteen. The oldest of my brothers and sisters. And Uncle Jack was the youngest. He was just five. So that's why he doesn't have an accent."

That evening at supper, as I dug into the cold, thick chocolate pudding and slowly licked off each spoonful, I listened closely as my mother and father were talking. And I discovered something. They actually do have accents. Funny how I never noticed before.

Copyright © 2008 by Charlotte Herman

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Excerpted from My Chocolate Year: A Novel with 12 Recipes by Charlotte Herman
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.