Alice Rogarshevsky slammed the door shut out of her tenement flat and tromped down the stairs in a rage. Her breath came out in sharp, incensed rasps. She took one glance at her flat door, considered returning to her grieving mother, decided not to, and proceeded to march down the four flights of stairs to the entrance of the tenement and into the crowded streets.
In her hand she clutched a dollar, and Alice tried not to sense the crackle of the material every time her hand clenched in frustration. Though, her hopes were futile, and guilt rushed into her chest, strong and wretched. That dollar held in her fingers would rid her impoverished family a few meals, no doubt, but Alice's need of escape overruled the impulse to return the money to her mother and two brothers.
Alice tugged the door open and stared at the bustling throng of Baxter Street – the heart of the Jewish district. Alice paused to catch her breath, and without another hesitation, dashed across the street and lost herself within the horde of pushcart vendors, children, mothers and an assortment of peddlers. Alice's eyes searched ravenously for a garment shop – her key for a disguise – and proceeded to run up and down the street.
Finding none, and crying in frustration, she set her concentration of various pushcart vendors. She spotted a man with a stall of boys' suspenders, and rushed over to him.
"For a brother?" the man asked kindly in Yiddish, and Alice nodded curtly.
"Ja," she muttered, and presented the vendor with the dollar.
The vendor's eyebrows flew up into his cap as he registered the money – there was a large chance he had never seen so much cash in one sitting. With trembling hands, he took the dollar, and exchanged the change. Alice pocketed the eighty-five cents' change, picked out a blue-and-green suspender from the stall, murmured, "A sheynem dank," and continued to search for her other supplies – knickers, a flat cap, a button-down shirt, and a yard of cloth.
She quickly purchased the following items, and entered a filthy and hidden alleyway. With her breathing accelerating in panic, Alice carefully created a barricade of boxes around and ducked low so no one would see her. Then she hurriedly sheared off her dress, grabbed the bundle of cloth, and began to wrap it around her chest. All the while her eyes never ceased to rove around the alley for any unsuspecting intruders.
When she was sure her chest was tightly bound, she tugged on the shirt and knickers, snapped on the suspenders, and arranged her hair into the cap, noting to herself the need for a trim. As she tucked in the last lock of hair, Alice couldn't help but feel a wave of sadness overcome her. If it wasn't for her drunken old man, Alice wouldn't have been forced to escape to the streets and live as a newsboy. If it wasn't for his alcoholism, she would have still been in a dress, working at her old garment shop.
But it was too late to go back, and with dread, Alice acknowledged that fact. Whether she liked it or not, this was her life now, and against her better judgments, it was going to stay that way. Alice balanced her situation in her head. It was either stay to the streets, or return to her enraged father, who, without a doubt, would immediately beat her until she couldn't move. Alice bit her lip, and shook her head, wishing the image of her father's expression to leave her head.
With an elongated sigh, Alice stuffed her dress into a trash can. Arranging her cap so that the visor overshadowed her eyes, she turned on her heel, and exited the alleyway. Alice tried to envision a bright future, but it wasn't easy, seeing only hard times ahead.
And so, at fourteen years of age, Alice Rogarshevsky left home and became a newsie.