Ice Cream Town Read online

  Ice Cream

  Town

  Ice Cream

  Town

  BY RONA ARATO

  In memory of my dad, who

  was the inspiration for Sammy

  RA

  Copyright © 2007 by Rona Arato

  EPub edition copyright © June 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of Fitzhenry and Whiteside or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5, Fax (416) 868-1621.

  By purchasing this e-book you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered or stored in or introduced into any unauthorized information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Fitzhenry and Whiteside.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Published in Canada by Fitzhenry and Whiteside, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, ON L3R 4T8

  Published in the United States by Fitzhenry and Whiteside, 311 Washington Street, Brighton, Massachusetts 02135

  www.fitzhenry.ca [email protected]

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Arato, Rona

  Ice Cream Town / Rona, Arato.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55041-591-9

  ISBN-10: 1-55041-591-3

  eISBN: 978-1-554559-947

  I. Title.

  PS8601.R35I24 2007 jC813'.6 C2006-903250-5

  U.S. Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  (Library of Congress Standards)

  Arato, Rona.

  Ice Cream Town / Rona Arato.

  Summary: Wit and his beautiful singing voice keep Sammy out of trouble in the rough New York streets in 1920.

  ISBN-10: 1-55041-591-3 (pbk.)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55041-591-9 (pbk.)

  eISBN: 978-1-554559-947

  1. Survival Skills - Fiction - Juvenile Literature. I. Title. [Fic] dc22 PZ7.A7386Ic 2007

  Acknowledgments

  We acknowledge with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

  Design by Wycliffe Smith Design Inc.

  Cover Art by Cynthia Nugent

  CHAPTER 1

  End of a Journey

  1920

  Sammy leaned over the ship’s rail. “Come here, come here.” He motioned to a white seagull circling overhead.

  The bird hovered in midair, studied the boy with beady yellow eyes, and then swooped down and snatched the meat from Sammy’s outstretched hand.

  “He took it! See, Max? I told you he would. Seagulls will eat anything. Even a smelly sausage,” Sammy laughed, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

  Max grinned. “Wait until Mrs. Kowalski finds her sausage missing.”

  “Uh-oh. I think she already has.” Sammy pointed to a short, pear-shaped lady, who was storming toward them across the deck. Her hands clawed at the air, as if she were swimming through it.

  “You!” The woman’s arm shot forward, her hand outstretched like an arrow pointed at Sammy’s heart.

  “Hi, Mrs. Kowalski.” Sammy waved.

  Max removed his cap and held it against his chest. “And how are you this beautiful morning?”

  “How am I? How am I? Hungry—that is how I am. You boys should be ashamed of yourselves, stealing a woman’s food.”

  Sammy forced back a giggle. “Why would we steal your food, Mrs. Kowalski? We are good boys.”

  “Good?” She shook a plump finger under Sammy’s nose. “Good for nothing, that’s what you are.”

  “And you, Max Blimsky,” she added, turning to his friend. “You the Americans should send back.”

  “They should send you back because you smell bad,” Max muttered to Mrs. Kowalski’s back as she turned to greet Sammy’s sister Malka.

  Malka stepped between the boys and the angry woman. Sammy noticed how pale she was, with dark smudges under her eyes.

  “Max, apologize to Mrs. Kowalski. And you, Sammy. Are you making trouble again? I’m sure Sammy meant no harm.” Then Malka broke into a coughing fit that left her gasping for breath.

  Mrs. Kowalski pulled Malka against her chest and pounded her back. When the coughing subsided, Malka sagged against the woman’s shoulder.

  “Malka, darling. Such a cough you cannot have on Ellis Island. You do not want the doctors to think you have consumption. People with consumption they always send back to their own country.” Mrs. Kowalski sighed deeply.

  “And you two.” She gave Sammy and Max a withering look. “Malka has enough problems without you making more trouble for her.”

  Mrs. Kowalski stomped away. Malka glared at her younger brother.

  “Sammy. Did you steal her food?”

  Sammy wrinkled his nose. “You know that smelly liverwurst she had hanging from the ceiling over her bunk?”

  “Everyone knows that sausage. It stinks up the whole cabin.”

  “It was making poor old Mr. Finkelman sick. So Max climbed up and cut the string.” Sammy tried to look contrite but a smile tickled his lips. “And I got rid of it.”

  Malka placed her hands on her hips. “And exactly how did you get rid of it?”

  “We were going to put it in there”—Sammy pointed to a wooden toolbox near the railing—“but…”

  “But what?”

  “We were trying to open the box, and the ship tilted.” Sammy made a swooping motion with his arms.

  “Then I slipped and hit the rail,” said Max.

  “And the sausage flew out of his hands.” Sammy pointed toward the water.

  “And then?” Malka was still staring at Sammy, but a smile had replaced her frown.

  “And then,” Max opened his arms wide, “a seagull grabbed it in its beak and flew away.”

  “That is what happened, Malka. Really,” said Sammy.

  “Oy, Sammy. What am I going to do with you? And you, Max.” Malka shook her head and a coppery curl danced against her cheek. “Go back to your mother so she can worry.”

  “Look! Look!” a man standing behind them shouted. “The Statue of Liberty!” Suddenly, everyone on deck crowded up to the ship’s rail. Men shouted, women cried, and the man who had first spotted the statue hoisted a small boy onto his shoulders.

  “See, Gino? See how she holds her torch? She is welcoming us to America.”

  The little boy clapped his hands.

  Sammy threw his arms around Malka’s waist. “We are here, Malka. We are finally in America!”

  “Yes.” His sister smiled. And once we are in New York, you can drive Papa crazy. He will have his hands full, but I suppose he can take care of you.”

  Sammy’s smile faded. How would Papa take care of them? While he, Mama, and Malka were starving because there was no food in their village, Papa was safe and wellfed in America. After the war, while they waited for Papa to send them steamship tickets, Mama and Malka got sick with the flu. Then Mama died. In his head, Sammy knew that none of this was his father’s fault. But in his heart, he still blamed his father for their suffering.

  Sammy and Max watched two fat tugboats attach ropes to the steamship to pull it into port.

  “How can those little boats pull this big ship?” Sammy said.

  “I’m little and I can pull anythi
ng. See?” Max held up his arms and flexed his muscles.

  Max was eleven, a year older than Sammy, with light brown hair, brown eyes, and a wicked grin. He was Sammy’s height but wider, with muscled arms and hands made strong from digging the soil on his father’s farm.

  “Can you pull that?” Sammy pointed across the deck to a cart loaded with baggage.

  “C’mon.” Max motioned for Sammy to follow him. When they got to the cart, Max grasped the handle.

  “Sammy! Max!” Malka stepped in front of them. “Stop that. Sammy, come downstairs. We have to get our things.”

  “Yes, Malka.” Sammy sighed. “See you in New York, Max.”

  Sammy and Malka climbed down into the steerage section of the ship. After the fresh air on deck, the stink of the overcrowded sleeping quarters choked them. The smell of vomit, unwashed bodies, filthy clothes, and overflowing slop buckets made breathing unbearable. They had spent ten days in this airless dungeon. Ten days of eating the dried fish, salami, onions, and hard bread that Malka had brought for the trip.

  Sammy packed his bag. “Malka, things will be better here.”

  “Can they be worse?” Malka asked, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. She checked their bunks. “Do we have everything?”

  Sammy inspected their parcels: a canvas bag filled with his clothes, Malka’s battered valise tied together with a thick rope, and Sammy’s good-luck box—a red and gold tin chocolate box that his mother had brought back from a long-ago visit to Warsaw. Sammy carried that box everywhere. He slept with it under the bunched-up shirt he used as a pillow.

  Someone had stolen Malka’s good silk purse on the third night of their journey. But no one was going to steal Sammy’s personal treasures: the green speckled stone from the river that ran through his town of Logov, the English word book that Papa had sent from America, and the small picture of his mother taken the year he was born. He opened the box and studied the image of a dark-eyed young woman in a white blouse with ruffles that tucked up under her chin.

  “Hi, Mama,” he whispered. “We are in America. Soon we will see Papa.”

  “Sammy!”

  “I’m coming, Malka.” Sammy kissed the picture, returned it to the box, and snapped the lid shut. He hoisted the bag over his shoulder. Malka took their suitcase, and together they clambered up the stairs and out of steerage for the very last time.

  After the ship docked in New York Harbor, Sammy and Malka waited for their turn to board the ferry that would take them to Ellis Island.

  Malka smiled. “See, Sammy? We are really in America.” She pointed to the tops of the tall buildings beyond the docks.

  “The first-class and second-class passengers, they are in America,” said a man standing beside them.

  “Why is that, Mr. Kowalski?” said Malka.

  “Because for them, the inspectors came on board the ship. They were finished many hours ago. Poor third-class passengers like us; we have to go to Ellis Island, where they will decide if we are fit to enter America.”

  “Come, Abraham.” Mrs. Kowalski stepped up and took his arm. “We do not want to miss the ferryboat.” She turned to Malka. “Remember what I told you, Malka darling. Whatever happens, do not cough during the inspection! And you.” She glared down at Sammy. “Take care of your sister. And”—she shook her finger in his face— “no more pranks!”

  Sammy pulled off his cap and held it over his heart. “I promise, Mrs. Kowalski.”

  Sammy looked around the crowded dock. It seemed to him that the entire world had arrived in America on the very same day. People moved like bubbles in a wave, bumping into each other, heads disappearing then bobbing up again and rising above the crowd. Everyone clutched bundles or valises. Women pushed. Babies cried. Everyone was in a hurry to become American. He searched for Max but could not find him in the crowd.

  Finally, it was Sammy and Malka’s turn to board the ferry. A man in uniform blew a whistle and motioned for them to move up the gangplank. A short time later, Sammy stared over the boat’s rail at the castle-shaped building on an island just beyond the Statue of Liberty. He thought, That is Ellis Island, where our new lives will begin. Soon we will be Americans.

  Then a voice deep inside him whispered, I hope.

  CHAPTER 2

  Ellis Island

  Sammy and Malka walked to the baggage room of the main building. After they left their luggage, a woman attendant pinned numbered tags to their clothes.

  “I feel like a dress for sale in the village marketplace,” Malka said, looking down at the tag.

  Sammy laughed. “If you are a dress, then what am I?”

  Malka looked him up and down. “You are a suit.”

  Sammy laughed as they walked across the hall to the main floor of the inspection building. There they lined up in one of the narrow lanes separated from each other by metal railings. As they waited, doctors and nurses inspected them. Back and forth they walked. They looked at the immigrants from head to toe, stopping here and there to ask questions.

  “Where are you from?” a woman in a stiff white blouse and long black skirt asked Sammy. When he didn’t answer, she switched to Yiddish.

  “Logov,” Sammy said. “In Poland.”

  The woman made a note on a pad of paper and moved on.

  The doctor came next. He wore a black wool suit.

  Around his neck was a metal instrument connected to a rubber tube. The doctor stopped next to a lady in front of Sammy and told her to open her mouth. He looked inside, checked her ears, and marked her dress with blue chalk. Then he checked Sammy and Malka. After repeating the mouth and ear exam, he moved on.

  Sammy let out a sigh. No chalk, and Malka had not coughed once. He didn’t know what the chalk mark meant, but he thought they had probably passed some part of the test to enter America.

  Next came the most frightening part of the day: the “eyehook exam.”

  “The doctors are looking for trachoma,” the man behind Sammy said in a rumbling voice, which made people all down the hall turn to look at him. “People who have it go blind.”

  Sammy whirled around. “Stop frightening everyone!” he shouted at the man.

  “Frighten them?” The man rolled his eyes so the brown parts almost disappeared under his heavy lids. “I am only saying what is true. Trachoma is contagious. That means—” He thrust his face into Sammy’s. Sammy gagged at the man’s garlicky breath. “That means that if one person has it, he can give it to everyone else.”

  “I guess the authorities don’t want blind people in America,” Sammy said as he moved behind Malka to escape the man.

  As the line inched along, Sammy walked ahead to see what the doctors were doing. Then he ran back to Malka.

  “Ychh.” He scrunched his face into his most disgusted expression. “I don’t want the doctor turning my eyelid inside out.”

  “Stand still and be quiet.” Malka put her hand on his shoulder. “We are almost finished.”

  Malka went up to the doctor first. Sammy watched as the doctor lifted each of her eyelids and turned it inside out with a sharp, S-shaped hook. When it was his turn, he balled his hands into fists and clenched his teeth.

  “I felt like I was being attacked by an angry bird with long sharp claws,” he said to Malka when the doctor was done with him.

  “At least it is over,” she replied. “And we passed.”

  He and Malka moved farther up in the line. Suddenly, Malka started coughing. She covered her face with her hands. The doctor turned and looked at them.

  “Malka, stop coughing,” Sammy pleaded.

  Malka doubled over and clutched her stomach.

  The hair on the back of Sammy’s neck stood up. He knew what was coming. The doctor walked over to them. He asked Malka if she was all right. When she continued coughing, he reached in his pocket, pulled out his chalk and marked Malka’s dress with a P. Sammy later learned that each chalk mark was for a certain condition—B was for back, Ct meant trachoma, E was for eyes, and P
was for people with physical and lung problems.

  Sammy clung to his sister. For the first time since Mama died, he felt like he was going to cry.

  In spite of his stern look, the doctor who examined Malka was very kind. “We will keep her in the hospital for a few days to see if she gets better,” he said. He motioned to a woman in a white uniform, who took Malka’s arm.

  Malka hugged Sammy. “Don’t worry. It is only a little cough. As soon as the doctors see that I do not have consumption, they will let me leave.”

  “What about me?” asked Sammy. He trotted along behind Malka.

  The nurse held up a hand. “You cannot come to the hospital. You will stay in the living quarters until your sister is better,” she said. She turned to a young attendant. “Barbara, please take this young man to the dining hall. He must be very hungry.”

  Sammy followed the woman down a wide corridor. He pushed his worry for Malka to the back of his brain and forced himself to think about his first American meal.

  The dining hall was a long room with tall windows and two rows of wooden tables and benches. Sammy felt lonely sitting down, surrounded by strangers. But when the food arrived, he forgot everything but the pleasure of eating a good meal.

  During the war, there had been times Sammy had almost starved to death. His first dinner in America was a feast. It started with a steaming bowl of beef broth with barley, followed by boiled beef with chunks of carrots and boiled potatoes, bread, and sour pickles. At the end of the meal, Sammy patted his stomach. It was good to feel full. But the feast wasn’t over. The servers brought out dessert.

  The dessert was the strangest food Sammy had ever seen or tasted. The red stuff in his bowl looked like rubber and wiggled when he touched it with his spoon. Wiggle-jiggle. Wiggle-jiggle. Fascinated, Sammy poked it and poked it.

  A young girl sitting across from Sammy stared at his spoon with eager blue eyes. “If you aren’t going to eat your Jell-O, can I have it?”

  Sammy popped a spoonful in his mouth. It tasted like the wild berries he used to pick in the woods behind his village. He pushed it around with his tongue until it coated the inside of his cheeks and squished through his teeth. Then it melted and slid down his throat, smooth as the cream from the top of a milk bucket. He turned back to the girl.