Ice Cream Town Page 10

  The weather had warmed, the days were getting longer, and the stickball games were on again. After cheder, Sammy stood on the curb watching, but at first no one asked him to play. Then he saw Herschel.

  “Hey, Sammy, you wanna join us?” Herschel called, when he saw him leaning against Mr. Gershom’s pushcart.

  “Naw.” Sammy pulled a rubber ball from his pocket and tossed it in the air. “I have better things to do.”

  “Yeah, like stealing from Kaufman’s?”

  “Think what you want,” Sammy replied and continued tossing the ball.

  Herschel walked over, took his arm and led him to the sidewalk. “Play without me.” He waved to his team. “My buddy Sammy and I are going for a walk.”

  Sammy started to pull away, but Herschel’s grip was firm.

  “C’mon, Sammy. I wanna talk to you.”

  “About what?” he asked as they walked to Delancy, turned right, and headed for the river.

  Herschel stopped in front of Cohen’s Candy Store. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll buy you an ice cream.”

  Mr. Cohen eyed the boys suspiciously as they hopped on stools at the counter. “You haven’t been in for ice cream lately, Sammy. You okay or what?” Mr. Cohen wiped the surface with a white cloth.

  “We had a fire,” Sammy said.

  “Your family, they are not hurt?”

  “They’re fine.” Sammy stared at his reflection in the mirror behind Mr. Cohen’s head. “But no one is happy.”

  Mr. Cohen sighed. “I call it the Greenie Disease. People come to America expecting gold. Gold in the streets, gold in the air. And instead, you know what they get? Smoke. Ashes. Shmutz! But you.” He pointed his finger in Sammy’s face. “You’re a good boy. You don’t want to be with hoodlums.” He glared at Herschel. “I don’t want you should make trouble.”

  Herschel slapped a dime on the counter. “Two ice creams.”

  “You pay, you stay.” Mr. Cohen scooped two balls of ice cream, put them into glass dishes, and topped each with a bright red cherry. “Enjoy.”

  “You pay, you stay,” Herschel mimicked as Mr. Cohen walked off to help a woman with two children at the candy counter. “As if we’re not good enough for this dump.”

  “It’s not a dump,” Sammy said. “Mr. Cohen is nice.”

  “To you, he is.” Herschel dug his spoon into the ice cream. “So, Sammy, it’s time you came back to the gang.”

  The gang. The very word made him feel stronger, less lonely. Yet Herschel meant trouble. And didn’t he already have enough of that?

  “The stickball team needs you.”

  Herschel had insulted his family.

  “You’re the best at gettin’ balls back from Mr. Gershom.”

  Because of Herschel, Sammy had almost gone to jail.

  Sammy turned to face him.

  Herschel twirled around on the stool. “Meet me and the boys at Klopchuck’s after the stickball game tomorrow.”

  “For what?”

  Herschel smiled. “To be with us.”

  “Herschel, I don’t want to steal again. I only want to play ball.”

  “Sure you do. That’s okay with the guys.” Herschel spooned the last of the ice cream from the dish, threw the spoon on the counter, and jumped off the stool. “’Bye,” he said as he headed for the door. When he got there, he turned and pointed at Sammy. “Be at Klopchuck’s,” he growled. “That’s an order!”

  CHAPTER 22

  Back to Kaufman’s

  Herschel, Moishe, and Tommy were waiting in front of Klopchuck’s when Sammy arrived.

  “Welcome back.” Herschel slapped his back.

  The boys gathered around him as if he were a long lost relative, which, in a way, he felt he was. They all said that the gang was more like a family than real families were.

  “Hey, guys, you know our Sammy boy is special?”

  “Special? How?” Moishe looked Sammy up and down.

  “He gets special treatment at old man Cohen’s. Don’t you, Sammy?”

  Sammy shook his head. “He treats everyone the same.”

  “Sure he does.” Herschel slapped Sammy’s back. “Only he treats you just a little bit better. Hey, Sammy, you still work at Kaufman’s?”

  Sammy shuffled his feet. He didn’t think he liked where this conversation was heading.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah,” Sammy replied.

  “Good. On Saturday nights when they unload boxes, we’re gonna help ourselves to the contents. Listen, Sammy.” Herschel put an arm around his shoulders. “They got so much stuff there, you think they’re gonna miss a few things?”

  “They count everything—”

  “Yeah, and if a handkerchief or two boys’ caps go missing, whaddya think they’ll do? They’ll get more. That’s how it works in America. Besides,” he squeezed Sammy’s shoulder. “You’re the most important part of this operation because you know the manager—what’s his name?”

  “Assistant manager. Mr. Goldman.”

  “Right.” Herschel snapped his fingers. “Goldman. You can keep him talking while we do our stuff. You don’t have to take a thing. You’re just” —he scratched his head—“a decoy. Like in a movie I saw, where one guy talks to a bank teller while the others rob the vault. You’re not stealing. All you do is keep the man away from us. Maybe you can sing,” he laughed, “like you do for Mr. Gershom.” He paused. “Don’t blow it, Sammy. This is your initiation back onto the team.”

  Sammy looked from Herschel to Moishe and then to Tommy. Their eyes were all on him.

  Suddenly, Sammy relaxed. “Sure. Why not?”

  “That’s my boy,” Herschel said. “That’s our Babe.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Max Joins the Team

  The stickball game was well under way when Sammy noticed Max standing on the sidewalk. A pile of garments was piled at his feet. His cap was pulled low over his forehead. The brim hid his eyes, but Sammy could feel the intensity of his gaze.

  “Hi, Max.” He waved and received a halfhearted wave in return. Sammy motioned to Max to join the game. Max shook his head. He had deliveries to make, Sammy knew, but he could sense that Max needed to join in the fun.

  Sammy walked over and gently tugged on Max’s sleeve. “Hey, c’mon. No one will care if you’re a few minutes late with that stuff.” He pointed to the pile of coats.

  Max pushed his cap back on his head and blinked. “I have to deliver them to the factory by five o’clock.”

  Sammy called to Mr. Gershom. “What time is it now?”

  The pushcart owner pulled a brass watch from his apron pocket. “Ten minutes after four!” he called back.

  “The factory’s only two blocks away. Come on.” He grasped Max’s hand. “You can play for a half-hour, and then run all the way there.”

  Max looked down at the coats.

  “Here.” Sammy picked them up and went up to Mr. Gershom. “Can you watch these?” Before he could answer, Sammy dumped the coats on top of the pushcart.

  “Hey, what’s going on over there?” Herschel stomped over from the pitcher’s spot.

  “We have a new player,” Sammy said. He thrust Max forward.

  Herschel looked him up and down. “Can you catch?”

  “I think so.” Max held up his hands. “They’re big enough.”

  Herschel laughed. “You play outfield.”

  The batter tapped his stick against the ground. “Hey, you guys. What’s going on over there? Are we playing or talking?”

  “Aw, hold your horses.” Herschel whirled around. “We got a new player here. You.” He jabbed a stubby finger at Max. “Over there.” He watched as Max trotted to his place, then spun back to the batter.

  “Play ball!” Herschel shouted, and the game resumed.

  The batter hit a fly ball and Max jumped up and caught it. “Got it!” he shouted, his voice the happiest Sammy had heard since they left Ellis Island.

  Two outs later, it was the Sluggers’ turn to
bat, and Sammy hit a home run. Much to his surprise, Max followed with another. “Max, you really can play.” Sammy pounded his friend on the back. “How do you like it?”

  Max grinned. “It’s a lot more fun than carrying—oh boy! What time is it?” He grabbed Sammy’s arm, then turned terrified eyes on Mr. Gershom. “What time is it?” he shouted.

  Mr. Gershom turned from the apples he was stacking into a mound on his cart. “Five-fifteen,” he said, glancing at his watch.

  Max dropped the stick he had been swinging, raced over to the cart, and grabbed the garments Mr. Gershom had piled on top of the potatoes.

  “Hey, Max!” Sammy called out. But Max was already running up the street as if his life depended on it, the pile of coats bobbing on top of his head as he ran.

  Max didn’t come to school the next day or the day after that. After his cheder class, Sammy went to the Blimsky’s tenement on Canal Street and climbed the four floors to their apartment. The stairwell was dark and the stairs strewn with garbage. Sammy sniffed an unpleasant odor that he recognized as an overflowing latrine. When he reached Max’s apartment he knocked—softly at first, and then, when no one answered, louder. He was about to leave when the door creaked open and he found himself staring in horror at Max’s mother.

  Sammy hadn’t seen Mrs. Blimsky since the day she got married and left Ellis Island. He remembered a pretty woman with light brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a ready smile. This woman looked ten years older. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair bundled into a hairnet, and her soft figure hidden by a shapeless gray dress.

  “Mrs. Blimsky?” Sammy said.

  “Sammy. Such a surprise.” A brief smile flickered and then disappeared. “You are looking for Max?”

  Sammy nodded. “He didn’t come to school. I was worried that he was sick.”

  Mrs. Blimsky started to speak but stopped as the door swung open. Her husband pushed her aside. He was dressed in a black suit and starched white shirt. Sammy noticed that the skin on his hands was soft, with carefully clipped fingernails.

  “So, you are the troublemaker?” he growled, his black eyes so sharp that Sammy felt as if they were boring holes into his skull.

  Sammy stepped back.

  “Max does not have time to play with balls and sticks,” Mr. Blimsky growled. “Now, please—if you will leave us alone.” He closed the door in Sammy’s face, leaving him standing in the dark, smelly hallway, suddenly terrified for the safety of his friend.

  CHAPTER 24

  Aunt Tsippi Comes to Call

  That Saturday, the Levins sat down to lunch in their own apartment for the first time since the fire.

  “Malka, it’s so good to see you back here.” Aunt Tsippi swooped into the kitchen like a fresh wind, wearing a wide-brimmed yellow hat and carrying a bunch of purple flowers.

  “Lilacs.” She took a deep sniff. “The first breath of spring,” she cooed, arranging them in the tin pail Malka used for a vase. “There.” She stepped back and admired her handiwork. “Such a beautiful color.”

  She tilted her head and studied Malka’s face. “I’ll make you a lilac hat. With a bow, right there.” She tied an imaginary bow under Malka’s chin. “The lilac will be lovely with your hair.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Tsippi.” Malka leaned forward and kissed her cheek. She took the flowers into the front room and set them in the center of the table, next to the challah and her mother’s brass candlesticks.

  Malka and Aunt Tsippi said the blessing over the candles. Then Papa lifted the kiddush cup for the blessing over the grape juice.

  “Isn’t this wonderful, all of us together?” Aunt Tsippi took a sip and smiled. “Malka, your chicken soup is divine.” She reminded Sammy of a bird—twittering and chirping, her bright eyes darting from one person to the next.

  “Too bad Pearl isn’t here,” said Aunt Tsippi.

  “Yeah. And Joshua.” Sammy still wanted to teach that rat a lesson.

  Aunt Tsippi turned to Malka. “I haven’t seen your young man lately. What was his name? Mr. Silver, Mr. Copper…?”

  “Goldman. Mr. Goldman,” Sammy corrected her.

  “Such a nice man,” Aunt Tsippi cooed.

  “A breaker of the Sabbath,” Papa growled.

  “I like him,” Sammy piped up.

  Malka kicked him under the table. “Does anyone want more soup?”

  “How old are you now, Malka? Seventeen?” Aunt Tsippi clicked her tongue. “You should have a young man calling.”

  “You don’t have a man, Aunt Tsippi,” Sammy said, rubbing the sore spot on his shin.

  Aunt Tsippi sighed. “After I wouldn’t marry Mendel, I met Dietrich. He made men’s hats.”

  “So, what happened?” Malka asked.

  Aunt Tsippi leaned forward. “I introduced him to your Aunt Pearl. Oy, such a mistake. One talk with her and pfft.” She made a motion like a bird flying. “Dietrich flew away.” She folded her hands on the table and leaned forward. “I don’t want you should do what I did.”

  The two women stared at each other until Malka broke the silence. “Sammy, collect the soup bowls while I bring out the chicken. Aunt Tsippi, you’re going to love my potato kugel (baked pudding). It’s Mother’s recipe, but I’ve added grated onion and black pepper,” she said and went to the kitchen.

  Aunt Tsippi looked after her, pursing her lips into a bubble-shaped frown. Then she turned to Sammy. “So, Sammy,” she whispered in his ear. “Maybe it’s time for you and me to do some matchmaking.”

  “Matchmaking?”

  “Between Malka and Mr. Goldman.”

  Sammy looked at his father, who was dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “What about Papa?”

  “That,” said Aunt Tsippi, “is what I call a Williamsburg Bridge question—we will cross it when we get there.”

  A pounding on the door interrupted them. Sammy crossed the room and opened the door. Mrs. Blimsky practically fell into the room.

  “Is Max here?” She looked anxiously around the room. Her eyes were red, and her hair was bursting in frizzy waves from her hairnet.

  Aunt Tsippi stepped around Sammy and took Mrs. Blimsky’s arm. “Please, come sit down.”

  “No.” The woman wrenched her arm away and turned to Sammy. “Where is he? My Max, you know where he went?”

  Papa got up from the table, and Malka came out of the kitchen. “Sammy?” Papa said. “What is this about?”

  “I don’t know, Papa.” Sammy turned to Mrs. Blimsky. “I haven’t seen him. What happened?”

  They grouped around the woman, who was becoming more agitated by the second. “Last night Max and his, his…my husband, they get into a fight. Max ran away,” she sobbed.

  Aunt Tsippi handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped her nose. Sammy noticed a red welt on her right cheek. Aunt Tsippi saw it, too.

  “What is this?” she demanded.

  Mrs. Blimsky’s fingers flew to her face. “Nothing. I bumped into the door.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Aunt Tsippi said.

  Papa stepped around her and faced Mrs. Blimsky. “Tell us, this fight. What was it about?”

  “Ever since Max was fired from the factory—”

  “What!” Sammy stared at her in horror. “When was he fired?”

  “Last week. He was late bringing back the coats. My husband says he is no good. Playing in the street instead of working, and Max screamed at him, and they—” She sobbed louder. Aunt Tsippi led her to the sofa and Malka handed her a glass of tea.

  “Here, drink this. You will feel better.”

  Mrs. Blimsky wrapped her fingers around the warm glass.

  Sammy wished the floor would open up and swallow him. He was the one who had convinced Max to play in the stickball game.

  “My Max is so unhappy,” Mrs. Blimsky said between sips of tea. “He says New York is ugly. It is a terrible place to live. It is my fault. I brought him here because I thought we would have a better life than in Poland.”

&nbs
p; “It’s not your fault!” Sammy exploded. “Why does Max have to work all the time while his stepfather sits in a coffee house all day?”

  “Sammy. That is enough,” Papa said.

  “But it’s true,” Sammy insisted. “Max wants—” He stopped in mid-sentence. “I think I know where to find him.” He turned back to Mrs. Blimsky. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”

  Before anyone could speak, Sammy was out the door and racing toward Canal Street.

  CHAPTER 25

  Where Is Max?

  Sammy hadn’t been back to Mr. Kempel’s garden since his visit with Max the previous October. Yet he had a feeling that Max might go there. As he ran, he tried to ignore his rising sense of fear.

  Because it was Saturday, many stores were closed for Shabbos. Families were taking advantage of the warm spring weather to walk and visit with friends. Sammy dodged a baby carriage, ran around an elderly couple strolling hand in hand, and jumped over a fire hydrant in his rush to get to Max.

  Mr. Kempel’s garden was smaller than Sammy remembered, and there were fewer flowers. Sammy spotted the old man. He wore the same gray wool coat and was sitting on a folding chair near a patch of red and yellow tulips. He looked up as Sammy approached.

  “So, young man. Is it spring already?”

  “I meant to come sooner, Mr. Kempel,” Sammy panted.

  “Your friend, he is already here. You are, maybe, looking for him?” He pointed to the far end of the building, where a huddled figure crouched against the wall. “To me, he won’t talk. Maybe to you, he will say what is wrong with him.”

  Sammy walked over to Max and knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”

  Max didn’t answer.

  “Your mother came to our house. She is worried about you.”

  “I’m not going back.” Max sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Max, what happened?”

  “I hate him.” Max shouted so loud that Mr. Kempel leaped from his chair and hurried over.