Ice Cream Town Page 11

  “I tried to get him to come inside. I brought him food.” He pointed to a plate of bread and cheese sitting untouched by Max’s foot.

  “It’s his stepfather,” Sammy said. “He is very mean to Max and his mother.” Turning to Max, he pleaded, “Please come home with me.

  “He hit her,” Max sobbed.

  “Who?” Mr. Kempel asked.

  “My mother.”

  The old man knelt and took Max’s face in his hands. For the first time, Sammy noticed a purple welt just under his friend’s left eye. “He did this to you?”

  Max nodded.

  Mr. Kempel shook his head. “Oy, you poor boychick.”

  Sammy reached out and touched Max’s shoulder. “He won’t hurt you anymore. Please, come with me.” Sammy held out his hand.

  After a minute’s hesitation, Max grasped it and struggled to his feet.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kempel,” Sammy said. “We are going home now.”

  “Come back next week. We will plant sunflowers over there.” He pointed to the other side of the lot. “When they grow tall, birds will come to eat their seeds. Even in New York,” he added, “birds come if you give them seeds.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Max Makes His Escape

  Sammy opened the door to an apartment filled with people. Max’s mother was sitting on the sofa with Malka on one side and Mrs. Baldani on the other. Papa was pacing the width of the living room. Aunt Tsippi was passing around glasses of tea, and Maria was sitting on the floor, an open book in her lap.

  “I found him,” Sammy announced as Max followed him into the room. Max’s mother raced over, wrapped Max in her arms, and burst into tears.

  “Sammy!” Maria jumped up and hugged Sammy around the waist. “We thought you were lost. We thought you had fallen in the East River, but Papa said that you and Max had crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and were hiding in Brooklyn.” She stopped and gasped for breath.

  “Hey, Maria,” Sammy laughed. “It’s okay. We’re safe. No one is in the river.”

  Everyone relaxed. Mrs. Blimsky hugged Max, pushed his hair off his forehead, and hugged him again. Malka urged everyone to drink more tea. Mrs. Baldani passed a plate of cookies that she assured them came from the kosher baker. Even Mr. Baldani—who was rarely seen because he worked the night shift and slept all day— popped a mustachioed head around the door to say he was on his way to work.

  Only Papa remained silent. Standing by the window, arms folded, head bowed, he seemed to be praying. Sammy was disappointed. He had found Max and brought him back safely, yet his father didn’t have one word to say to him.

  A commotion at the door made everyone turn around. Mr. Blimsky—bareheaded, black coat unbuttoned, his face a fireball of anger—burst into the room.

  “I thought I would find you here!” he bellowed, shaking a fist at his wife and Max.

  “This is why I bring you from Poland? To leave your home and your work, and run to strangers?” Shaking with anger, he grabbed Mrs. Blimsky by the shoulders and shook her so hard her hair tumbled over her shoulders. Then he turned to Max.

  “And you, you ungrateful—” He raised his hand, but before he could connect with Max’s face, Sammy’s father came from behind and stopped his arm.

  “No more hitting,” he commanded, twisting Mr. Blimsky’s arm so that the two men were facing each other.

  Mr. Blimsky yanked his arm back and raised it, but Mr. Levin stopped the punch and backed the other man against the wall.

  “What kind of man hits his wife?” he shouted. “What kind of man beats his son? It is not enough for you that they work night and day?” Papa roared.

  Sammy stared at him in amazement. He had seen his father angry but never in such a rage. His heart swelled with pride.

  “You do not tell me how to run my family,” Mr. Blimsky sputtered. He pushed Papa away. “Kati, Max, come with me.”

  He walked toward the door and turned. “Did you not hear me? I said, ‘Come’!”

  When they didn’t move, he stepped toward his wife and stepson.

  Sammy’s father moved between them. “I think you had better leave now, sir,” he said in a commanding voice.

  Mr. Blimsky opened his mouth as if to protest. Sammy stepped up beside his father.

  “Max does not want to go back with you,” he said.

  Max joined him. “My mother does not want to go back, either,” he said in a strong, if slightly shaky voice.

  Mr. Blimsky looked from Papa’s clenched jaw to Max’s clenched fists. Then he glared at his wife, who turned away.

  “So.” He shook his head. “This is my reward for rescuing you and bringing you to this country. Now you can rot here.”

  With a swish of his coat, Mr. Blimsky stomped out and slammed the door.

  Aunt Tsippi was the first to speak. “You and Max can stay with me until you find a place to live,” she said, slipping an arm around Mrs. Blimsky’s shoulders.

  “Can Max sleep here tonight?” Sammy asked his father.

  Papa looked at Malka. “Is it all right with you?”

  “Of course,” said Malka. “The boys can have my room and I will sleep on the sofa. If,” she added, turning to Mrs. Blimsky, “it is all right with you.”

  The woman nodded. Tears streamed down her face. “I do not know how we will live.”

  “As before,” said Papa. “Only now, the money you earn will be for you and your son. Malka—they need seamstresses at your factory?”

  “Always.” Malka nodded.

  “Now,” said Papa, glancing out the window. “It is time for us to say Havdallah. It is the service that ends our Sabbath,” he explained to Mrs. Baldani. He picked up a braided candle and his prayer book from a shelf behind the sofa. He lit the candle and then began chanting the closing Sabbath prayer. Then he lifted a silver shaker and passed it around so that everyone could sniff the sweet spices inside, for a sweet new week. When he was finished, Papa poured three drops of grape juice in a saucer and put out the candle flame.

  “Shavua tov,” he said, and everyone repeated his wish for a good week.

  For a while, Sammy had forgotten about Kaufman’s, but he suddenly remembered that this was a special night.

  “I have to go,” he announced to the room at large. “Can Max come with me?” he asked Mrs. Blimsky.

  “Thanks!” he shouted, at her hint of a nod. Grabbing Max’s arm, he pulled his friend down the stairs. The gang was waiting for him at Klopchuck’s, and he was already late.

  CHAPTER 27

  Hatching a Plan

  So, you showed up.” Herschel stepped from the shadows of Klopchuck’s Pickle Palace. “Hey, boys, Sammy came through.” Tommy and Moishe stepped forward and greeted him.

  “I brought Max,” Sammy said.

  “Sure. Why not?” Herschel pumped Max’s hand up and down. He looked up at the darkened sky. “Okay, everyone. It’s time.” Squaring his shoulders, he turned toward Broadway. Like a row of soldiers, the boys fell into line behind him.

  For once they were quiet, as if everyone was planning his own moves—what he would do and how he would do it. It was an unusually cool night for May, but Sammy’s hand was clammy with sweat. He had put one of Mr. Goldman’s quarters into his pocket, and he kept turning it over with his fingers. For courage, he told himself—but it was really to remind him why he was there.

  Max trotted along beside him. Sammy noticed that he walked with a lighter step, as if enjoying the freedom of not carrying a load of coats.

  Sammy shot him a wicked grin. “Herschel thinks we’re on our way to rob Kaufman’s.”

  “What!” Max stopped dead in his tracks. “I can’t get into trouble.”

  “Relax.” Sammy clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll protect you.”

  As they approached Kaufman’s, Herschel held up a hand to stop them.

  “Now, listen. We’re going around to the back. One at a time. Sammy, you go first. Max, you stick with Sammy. The workers are busy, so they
won’t notice you if you’re quiet. Remember, take things we can sell. All right, Sammy. This is your big test. You wanna play stickball with our team, you prove yourself tonight.” Herschel shoved Sammy toward the alley. “Now, get going!”

  Sammy looked at the other boys’ faces. Tommy was scowling, and Moishe was tapping his foot. And Herschel? He looked like Papa on Sammy’s first day of school, stern but somehow proud.

  Sammy and Max walked around the corner and down the alleyway behind the store. He choked on the smell of rotting garbage. His foot slipped on something soft and squishy, a banana peel, and he almost fell. Sammy picked his way around the garbage and tried to ignore the rustling sounds that told him the alley rats were scrounging up their dinner. Then he saw an open van loaded with wooden crates. A man in overalls was standing on top, handing the crates to another man on the ground. He tossed them to a third man, who piled them along the wall.

  “All right, that’s enough,” the man on the ground shouted. “Let’s get this stuff inside, and then we can come back for more.”

  The man on the truck jumped down, and together they carried the boxes into the store. Sammy waited until both were inside and walked up to the truck. He had seen a few motor trucks on the Lower East Side, but a lot of deliveries were still made by horse and buggy.

  Sammy turned to Max. “Stay at the truck and pretend you’re waiting for me. I’m going into the store to get help.” He went inside and looked up and down the aisles. They were empty. He ran up the stairs and looked into Mr. Goldman’s office. It, too, was empty. He raced back downstairs and sped out to the alley.

  “Sammy!”

  Herschel blocked his way.

  “Where’ve you been? Let’s get those boxes.” Herschel hoisted himself into the truck. “C’mon, up.” He held out his hand.

  Sammy grasped it and climbed up. The truck bed was half-filled with boxes. What should he do now? He reached for a crate marked Soap. He looked around, and then stopped as someone called his name.

  “Sammy! I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Sighing with relief, he turned to see Mr. Goldman standing with a gray-haired man in a pinstriped suit.

  “This is the boy I was telling you about, Uncle Seth. He’s going to help us unpack. And he’s brought his friends to help.”

  Herschel froze. Moishe and Tommy had appeared at the side of the truck, but Herschel waved them away. They started to run, but Mr. Goldman called out, “I’m really glad Sammy brought all of you. We’ve got a lot of work here. I’ll pay five cents a box, so the faster you unload and unpack, the more money you’ll make. And if you do a good job, you can come back next week.”

  The boys stared at Sammy.

  Mr. Goldman winked. “Isn’t that what we agreed on, Sammy? Five cents a box?”

  “Sure is,” Sammy said, wiping his sweaty palms on the seat of his pants. He turned to Herschel. “The faster we work, the more money we can make. Let’s go.” He winked at Max. “You too, Max.”

  Moishe looked from Sammy to Mr. Goldman, then back to Sammy. “You mean if we unpack ten boxes, we get fifty cents?”

  “Forget it!” Herschel turned and stomped down the alley.

  Tommy followed him, then stopped and turned back. “All we have to do is unload those boxes?”

  “That’s all,” said Mr. Goldman.

  “Maybe we should try it,” he said to Herschel.

  “Yeah, Hersch. We’re already here,” said Moishe.

  Herschel scowled, and then shrugged. He looked at Sammy and grimaced. “All right. But only this one time.”

  As they set to work, Mr. Goldman patted Sammy’s back. “Good job, Sammy.”

  Sammy’s body sagged with relief. He wasn’t sure if he was still going to play stickball for the team, but at least for tonight everything had worked out fine.

  At the end of the evening, Mr. Goldman sat the boys on stools at the counter and served them hot chocolate with whipped cream floating on top. Then he handed each of them five dimes. “You can earn this every week if you work hard.”

  Max licked whipped cream off his upper lip. “I like earning money this way,” he grinned.

  Sammy grinned back. “Better than carrying coats?”

  Max laughed. “You bet.”

  The boys finished their hot chocolate and, one by one, left the store. Max stayed behind with Sammy, who asked Mr. Goldman if he could buy something with part of his money.

  “Of course, Sammy. What do you want?”

  Sammy walked over to a counter and pointed to an item near the back. “I would like two of these, please. How much are they?”

  Mr. Goldman gave him a puzzled look. “If this is what you want. They are five cents apiece.”

  Sammy gave Mr. Goldman a dime and put his purchase in his pocket. Then he took a deep breath. “Mr. Goldman, there’s something I have to tell you. Malka likes you, and she’s been awful to live with since you stopped coming—and Aunt Tsippi says that in America, a girl’s father shouldn’t tell her who to see.”

  Mr. Goldman stared at Sammy as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or throw him out.

  “Please, come for lunch tomorrow,” Sammy pleaded.

  Mr. Goldman shook his head, and laughed out loud. “Oy, Sammy, not only are you a peacemaker, it seems you are a matchmaker as well.” He gave Sammy a firm handshake. “Thank you for the invitation. I will be delighted to come for lunch tomorrow.”

  Herschel stopped Sammy the next morning as he went to Kaplan’s Creamery to buy butter and cheese.

  “Working for Kaufman’s was your idea, wasn’t it?”

  Sammy shrugged.

  “Well,” Herschel jingled the coins in his pocket, “I guess we can work and still be a gang. Whaddya think, Sammy?”

  “Sure,” Sammy said, trying to act as if it didn’t matter one way or the other.

  Herschel slapped his back. “Stickball game this afternoon. Two o’clock. Right, Babe?”

  “Right.” Sammy marched the rest of the way to Kaplan’s whistling.

  The gang was together, and he was still the Babe.

  CHAPTER 28

  Are We Friends Again?

  Did you get the butter?” Malka snapped as Sammy walked into the kitchen. She was mixing batter in a large blue bowl.

  Boy, am I tired of her bad temper, Sammy thought. Pretty soon she’ll be as mean as Aunt Pearl. He handed her the butter wrapped in brown waxed paper.

  “What are you making?”

  “Blintzes. Go set the table.” Malka brushed a strand of hair off her face with a flour-streaked hand.

  Sammy took a deep breath, thinking that his next words might be his last. “I asked Mr. Goldman to come for lunch.”

  “You what?!” Malka spun around so fast that batter flew off her spoon and splattered all over his shirt.

  “He wants to see you.”

  “And what makes you think I want to see him?”

  “Because you’ve been hateful since he stopped coming. Besides, he’s my friend, too.” Sammy held out his coins from the night before. “I work for him.”

  “Then you entertain him.”

  “Malka! Sammy!” Aunt Tsippi burst into the kitchen like a Fourth-of-July rocket. She even looked like one, in a red pointed hat topped with a feathery white plume.

  “Ooh, blintzes. I picked up smoked fish and a rye bread at Katz’s.” She turned to Sammy. “I asked Mrs. Blimsky and Max to come, but they decided to stay home. I think they needed some time to themselves.”

  “I can understand that,” said Malka. “After all they’ve been through.”

  “But Aunt Pearl, Uncle Milton, and Joshua are coming for lunch. Isn’t that nice?” Aunt Tsippi spread her arms wide. “The whole family together, just like in Poland.”

  Oh boy, Sammy thought. He’d really done it this time. Looking around the living room, he felt like he was in one of those really bad dreams—where you’re naked in a group of strangers and can’t escape.

  Sammy was stuck next to the aw
ful Joshua, who kept correcting his English. Aunt Pearl and Uncle Milton sat across from him. Papa was at the head of the table, stiff as a board and sweating in his black suit. Aunt Tsippi chirped on and on about the glorious weather, a new dress shop on East Broadway, and the ooh-la-la hats her boss had just ordered from Paris, France.

  Mr. Goldman, in a starched white shirt and brown suit, said that Paris hats were fine for a few rich ladies, but that the inexpensive clothes at Kaufman’s were what New Yorkers really needed. This brought more glowering looks from Papa, who muttered about people working on Shabbos.

  Then Aunt Pearl lifted her glass of seltzer and, rising from her seat, demanded silence.

  “I want to say how happy I am that no one was hurt in the fire.”

  “Amen, amen, amen,” said Uncle Milton.

  “And, to my darling niece, Malka, I want to welcome her handsome young man—” She placed her hand beside her mouth and whispered to Papa, “What is his name?”

  “Goldman,” Papa answered.

  “Mr. Goldman,” Aunt Pearl ended.

  At which point, Malka dropped her fork, jumped to her feet and fled from the room.

  “Well!” Aunt Pearl fanned her face with her hand. “Such manners. If she were my daughter—”

  “She isn’t, baruch hashem (blessed is God).” Papa lowered his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

  Aunt Tsippi clucked her tongue. “Pearl, you always were a yenta (gossip). Even in Poland, you were into everyone else’s business. I remember when Mrs. Lowenstein complained that you told her daughter Golda not to marry the man the family picked out for her.”

  “Yes,” Uncle Milton chimed in. “He was a good man. Good, good, good.”

  “He was a no-goodnik. Always playing cards. Never working,” Aunt Pearl sputtered. She looked like one of the chickens in the butcher’s cage—all ruffled feathers and a clucking beak.

  Uncle Milton slunk back in his seat.

  “Sammy,” Aunt Tsippi turned to Sammy, “why don’t you and Joshua go downstairs to play?”

  Play with Joshua? Sammy thought he would rather hang from the fire escape by his toes. Aunt Tsippi’s pleading look, however, told him he didn’t have a choice.