Ice Cream Town Read online

  “Come on, Joshua,” he said, as they headed for the door. “I’ll introduce you to Simba.”

  “Simba?”

  “I think you’ll like him. You two have a lot in common.”

  They found Luigi and Tony lounging on the front stoop.

  “Watch where you’re going,” Luigi sneered.

  “Sorry,” Sammy muttered.

  Luigi jumped in front of them, blocking their way. “Who’s your friend?” He pushed Joshua’s shoulder.

  Sammy had been staying away from Luigi ever since the fire. The Baldanis had punished Luigi for leaving Maria. They made him scrub their entire apartment, floor to ceiling, and Luigi was looking for a chance to get back at Sammy. “Leave him alone, Luigi.” Sammy pushed him back.

  “Oh, the hero is getting tough. Climbed any fire escapes lately?” Luigi shoved Sammy. He lost his balance and sprawled on the sidewalk.

  Sammy had had enough bullying. Jumping up, he socked Luigi in the stomach. Luigi doubled over. Then he straightened as Tony grabbed Sammy from behind, and the two of them started using Sammy for a punching bag.

  “Stop it!” Joshua shouted, then turned and ran back toward the building.

  “No you don’t.” Tony let go of Sammy and stepped in front of Joshua, blocking his escape.

  Sammy fought back, kicking their shins, butting his head into Luigi’s chest and scratching his face.

  Whoom! Tony’s fist flew into Sammy’s mouth. Bam. Sammy smashed Tony’s chin and pulled him into the street, dancing him backward until they crashed into Mr. Gershom’s pushcart.

  Reaching behind, Sammy picked up an onion and smacked Tony with it. Tony pushed Sammy away, reached for a pile of potatoes, and started throwing them at him, one by one. Then something white and round whizzed past Sammy’s head and landed splat on Tony’s head.

  Sammy looked over his shoulder and saw Joshua toss another egg, which landed in Luigi’s hair. Luigi threw a tomato at Joshua, and the next thing Sammy knew, the two of them were rolling around in the street. Simba, who had escaped from Yichel, was bouncing up and down on Luigi’s chest.

  “Stop it, you ruffians!” Mr. Gershom tried to break up the fight, but Luigi pushed him away.

  Maria, who had been playing with her friends, ran up to them. “Stop fighting!” she demanded. “Mama will kill you! Poor Sammy.” Standing on her tiptoes, Maria pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and patted Sammy’s cut lip. “Look what my awful brother did to you.”

  “Did to him?” Luigi pointed to his eye. “What about me?”

  “You’re a bully,” Maria said, shaking her head so hard her black braids whipped across her face.

  “Good fight, Sammy.” Herschel came up and pounded him on the back. “Tommy and I were going to help, but you and your friend were okay on your own.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you were.” From the corner of his eye, Sammy saw Luigi and Tony slink into a doorway. He turned to Joshua. “Thanks for the help. Looks like they are gone.”

  Something tugged at Sammy’s pant leg. It was Simba. Sammy picked up the monkey and placed him on his shoulders.

  “We didn’t need you, Herschel.” He patted the creature’s head. “We had Simba.”

  Joshua limped over to them. His hair was covered in smashed tomatoes, his pants were torn at the knee, and blood trickled from his nose.

  “Wow, Sammy.” He grinned. “What a great fight.” He held up his fists. “We beat them, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah, great fight.” He looked at Joshua’s right eye, which had swelled to the shape and color of a ripe eggplant. “But I have a better idea. Let’s play stickball.”

  Simba bounced up and down on Sammy’s shoulders.

  Mr. Gershom, who was standing behind the boys, said, “Again with the stickball. And who’s going to pay for all these vegetables?” He scowled but his eyes were twinkling. “At least in the winter, I get some peace. So, better a stickball game than you gonifs (thieves) using my vegetables to kill each other.”

  “Who’s your friend, Sammy?” Tommy asked.

  “You mean Simba?”

  “No. Him.” He pointed at Joshua.

  “My cousin from Brooklyn.”

  “THE Joshua?” Herschel and Tommy exchanged smirks.

  Sammy nodded. “THE Joshua.”

  “So, Josh, you think you’re up to playing with the Babe? We could always use an extra guy on our team.”

  Joshua rubbed his bruised chin. “The Babe?”

  Herschel grinned. “You mean your cousin never told you that he’s a stickball star? Why, he can hit a ball from here to the Williamsburg Bridge. What do you think?”

  Tony reappeared. “Hey, Herschel. Luigi left, so we need another player.”

  Herschel looked at Tony’s swollen eye. “You gonna play like that?”

  “You bet. And we’ll win. What d’you say, pipsqueak?” He pointed to Joshua. “You wanna play on the winning side?”

  “You bet I’ll play with your team,” Joshua said. “I can hit as good as him.” He pointed at Sammy.

  “We’ll see. Okay, everyone.” Herschel motioned to Max, who had just arrived. “You’re with the Sluggers. Hey, everyone, what are we waiting for? Let’s play ball.”

  Sammy handed Simba to Yichel.

  The Sluggers were first at bat. The broom handle felt as if it were carved to fit Sammy’s hand, and the rubber ball was as light as one of Malka’s matzo balls. He played his best ever. And even though he hated to admit it, Sammy could see that Joshua was hitting and catching pretty well, too. The score bounced back and forth like the rubber ball itself as the teams hit, caught, ducked, and ran around the bases.

  Passersby stopped to watch; pushcart owners shouted; and the occasional automobile honked them out of the way. At one point, when Sammy was out in the field, he saw Malka and Mr. Goldman watching from the front stoop of the tenement. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought they were holding hands. Maybe Malka would be nice again.

  Then he heard the crack of the bat and looked to home plate just as Joshua hit the ball right past his face. He reached up to catch it, and then pulled his hand back as the ball sped toward Mr. Gershom’s pushcart.

  The game stopped. Mr. Gershom bent down, picked up the ball, and tossed it up and down in his hand.

  “Isn’t anyone going to get it?” Joshua asked when no one moved.

  “Our rule is: you hit it, you get it.” Herschel took the broomstick from Joshua’s hands. “But be careful. Mr. Gershom’s tough.”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll show you how to do it.” Joshua swaggered up to Mr. Gershom. “Excuse me, sir. That is our ball.”

  “It is?” Up and down, up and down Mr. Gershom bounced the ball.

  “We want to finish our game.

  Mr. Gershom smiled. “So, boychick. What’s it worth to you?”

  “It’s not worth anything, Mister. We just want our ball back. It’s ours,” Joshua whined.

  “It is?” Mr. Gershom slid the ball under a pile of potatoes. “Maybe it’s time I should close up for the day.”

  “Hey,” Joshua began, when Mr. Gershom spun around and put on his scariest face.

  Eyes glowing, teeth bared, he shouted, “You think you get this back for free?”

  Joshua’s face crumpled, and he looked as if he were about to cry.

  Mr. Gershom peered at Sammy, touched his finger to the side of his nose, and winked. “Sammy knows the price, don’t you, boychick?”

  That he did. Trying not to swagger, he strolled over to the pushcart. “What song will it be today, Mr. Gershom?”

  Mr. Gershom took a breath so deep that the buttons almost popped off his checkered shirt. He stroked his mustache. “Dona Dona.”

  “I don’t know it,” Joshua complained.

  “This is an excuse? You don’t know it?”

  Sammy stepped up to them. “I’ll teach you the words. The song is about a calf on its way to market.” He began to sing.

  Oyfn furl ligt a kelbl,

&n
bsp; Ligt gebundn mit a shtrik.

  Hoykh in himl fleet a shvelbl,

  Freyt zikh, dreyt zikh, heen un tsurik.

  Dona dona dona dona,

  dona dona dona da.

  Dona dona dona dona, dona dona dona da.

  At first he sang alone. Then Joshua joined in the second chorus, and they sang together.

  They sang until Mr. Gershom wiped tears from his eyes; until Mrs. Schwartz came out from her bakery and clamped Sammy’s face in her floury hands; until Mrs. Baldani turned off her phonograph and stood on the fire escape to listen. They sang until Policeman O’Malley climbed down from his horse, Yichel stopped grinding his organ, and Simba scampered over and climbed back on Sammy’s shoulders.

  They sang until Malka and Mr. Goldman crossed the street to stand beside Sammy. Sammy kept right on singing until Aunt Tsippi and Papa leaned out the apartment window and joined in.

  Then Aunt Pearl and Uncle Milton came downstairs to collect Joshua.

  “Look at your chin. Oy, and look at you!” she moaned, turning his head from side to side. “What have you done to your clothes? They are ruined. And you.” She turned to Sammy with a look usually reserved for rats and mice. “For one hour, I can’t trust you. What is that thing on your shoulder?”

  “This is Simba,” Sammy said. Simba tipped his hat, and then grabbed Aunt Pearl’s dress.

  Aunt Pearl screamed, and Joshua kicked Sammy in the shin.

  “We are taking you right home, young man,” Uncle Milton said, grabbing the back of Joshua’s collar. “Home, home, home.”

  Good riddance, good riddance, good riddance, Sammy thought as they huffed down the street. When they reached the corner, Joshua stopped, turned, and ran back.

  “That was great, Sammy. Can I come and play with you again?”

  “Uh, sure, Joshua,” Sammy said. He nudged Max, who had walked over to stand beside them.

  “Thanks, Sammy.” Joshua raced back to his parents.

  “Hey, Max, what do you think?”

  “I think sticking with you is going to get me into a lot of trouble,” Max laughed.

  “So,” Sammy said, “what is life without a little trouble?” He handed Simba to Yichel. “Next time, Simba plays third base.”

  Yichel laughed. He ground out a tune on his organ, and life on Orchard Street swirled all around them. When Sammy walked back to the apartment at last, Papa was at the table waiting for him. “So I see you showed your cousin Joshua a good time?”

  “We played stickball, Papa.”

  “And the fight?”

  “You saw it?”

  “The whole neighborhood saw it.”

  Sammy gulped.

  Papa sighed and shook his head.

  Mr. Goldman stepped forward. “Don’t be angry at him, Mr. Levin. I saw the whole thing. That ruffian Luigi started it.”

  “I told Luigi no more fighting. Then he left and the rest of us played stickball instead,” said Sammy.

  “Papa,” Malka stepped forward. “Ira has something to say to you.”

  “Yes?” he looked up at Mr. Goldman. “What does the Shabbos goy have to say?”

  Mr. Goldman took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Mr. Levin, a Shabbos goy is a non-Jew who works for Jews on the Sabbath. I am Jewish and I work for myself.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Levin, this is a new country, and sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do. I’ve told my boss that from now on, I don’t want to work on Saturdays—he says that Saturday is the day he needs me the most.” He held up his hand as Papa started to speak.

  “No. Let me finish. I am saving my money to open my own menswear store. I found a place to rent on Hester Street, and when I have my own place, I promise you that it will be closed on the Sabbath.”

  Papa raised his eyebrows. “Closed on the Sabbath? Even if other shopkeepers stay open?”

  Mr. Goldman hesitated. “Even if it means losing business. And, and—” He rushed ahead before Papa could speak again, “I want to ask your permission to see your daughter Malka.”

  Papa closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. Rocking back and forth, he looked like he was praying. Maybe he was, Sammy thought.

  “Papa.” Malka stepped up to her father. “Why did you bring us to America if you don’t want us to live like Americans?”

  Papa lowered his hands and raised his eyes. To Sammy’s surprise, they were twinkling. “Malka, Mr. Goldman—and you too, Sammy. I am not saying that the old ways are the only ways. Of course America is different from Poland. But if we lose our traditions, someday soon we will forget who we are.”

  Turning to Mr. Goldman, he shook his head. “Mr. Goldman—”

  “Ira,” Mr. Goldman corrected him.

  “All right—Ira. Our people have waited five thousand years for the Messiah. My family waited five years in Poland to come to America. My wife—” He waved at Sammy and Malka. “Their mother died waiting. I waited in America for the war to end, and then I waited for the doctors on Ellis Island to let my son and daughter enter New York.”

  Placing his hands flat on the table, Papa pulled himself to his feet. “Waiting seems to be something that we Jews do very well. So.” He looked at Malka and Mr. Goldman, who were standing still as statues, holding their breath. “I suppose I can wait a few more months for my daughter’s young man to stop working on Shabbos.”

  Malka threw her arms around his neck. “Papa, thank you, thank you!”

  Papa hugged her back and sighed. “We have had enough sadness in this family. Maybe now, it is time for a little joy.”

  As if on cue, Aunt Tsippi waltzed into the apartment singing at the top of her lungs.

  Pack up all your cares and woe,

  Here I go, singin’ low,

  ’Bye, ’bye blackbird.

  “Imagine,” she cooed. “Listening to the great Al Jolson in your own home. Tomorrow I am buying a phonograph, and one for you, too, Rubin. If you’ll listen to it.”

  “On weekdays, I will listen. On Shabbos, I will sing in the synagogue. Thank you, Tsippi. It’s a good idea, but I will buy one for myself.”

  Mr. Goldman put an arm around Sammy’s shoulder. “Sammy has a great voice, Mr. Levin. Maybe one day he’ll sing with Al Jolson.”

  “First let him sing in the synagogue at his bar mitzvah.”

  “A good idea,” said Mr. Goldman.

  Everyone agreed. While they were busy talking about his bar mitzvah, Sammy snuck out of the apartment and bolted down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 29

  Meyer Kempel’s Garden

  A few days later, when Sammy met Herschel and the gang at Cohen’s Candy Store, Max was already there.

  “Mama and I found our own apartment,” he said. “We are moving tomorrow. Malka got Mama a job at the dress factory. And I’m going to work at Kaufman’s,” he added proudly.

  “That’s wonderful news.”

  “The only problem now,” said Max, “is that I have to go to cheder.”

  Sammy grinned. “So, we’ll suffer through Rabbi Lichtstein’s lessons together.”

  “Okay, guys. Now that we beat the pants off Luigi’s team, it’s time for us to make sure they know who the boss is around here,” Herschel said, snapping his suspenders.

  “No more fights, Herschel,” Sammy said.

  “Who said anything about a fight? I want to stake our claim to the corner by Klopchuck’s,” he growled between clenched teeth.

  Sammy shook his head. “You go, Herschel. Max and I have something else we have to do.”

  “We do?” Max asked.

  Sammy poked Max in the ribs. “Yes, we do.”

  “What kind of something else?” Herschel demanded. “Remember, Sammy, we are a gang. We stay together.”

  “Not this time.” Sammy turned to Max. “C’mon. See you later, Herschel.” He waved as he and Max walked away.

  Max looked at him in awe. “Won’t Herschel be angry that we’re leaving?”

  “He�
��ll get over it,” Sammy grinned. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his purchase from Kaufman’s. “We can see them later. Now you and I have to deliver these.”

  Mr. Kempel was crouched on the ground when the boys arrived. He had replaced his coat with a rust-colored sweater, frayed at the elbows and collar. His face was covered with a fine spray of whiskers.

  “So, you remembered me,” he said, rising stiffly to his feet.

  “You said to come back in the spring,” said Sammy.

  “And look what you came back to.” Mr. Kempel pointed to clumps of broken bushes and flowers strewn across the ground. “No-goodniks! Bums! They have nothing better to do than tear up my garden.”

  “Who did this?” Max said in a horrified voice.

  “Bums, that’s who did this.”

  “You can replant the flowers,” Sammy suggested.

  “Why?” Mr. Kempel waved a hand at the destruction. “I am an old man. Why should I work hard so those bums can tear my flowers up again?”

  “We’ll plant them for you.” Sammy turned to Max. “Won’t we?”

  “We’re strong.” Max flexed his muscles. “We can dig up the soil.”

  “And what do you suggest I plant?” Mr. Kempel grumped. “Potatoes?”

  “How about these?” Sammy handed him the paper packets. “They’re sunflower seeds,” he explained. “You know, so the birds will come to eat them?”

  Mr. Kempel’s eyes widened. “You brought these for me?”

  Sammy continued. “I came to visit you last week. You weren’t here and I saw what had happened.”

  “So you bought me seeds?” Mr. Kempel’s face softened into the hint of a smile. He took the packet and poured some seeds into his hand. “And so, if we replant this Garden of Eden, who will keep the bums from tearing it up again?”

  “Me, Max, and our gang.” Sammy turned, placed two fingers in his mouth, and let out a shrill whistle. “Come over here!” he called to Herschel, who had been hovering in the doorway of a bakery across the street.

  Herschel swaggered over. “See, I told you that you need me, Sammy.”

  “Of course we need you.”

  Herschel studied the ruined garden. “Sure we can fix it. I’ll get the rest of the guys. Oh, and while we’re at it— there are some pretty yellow flowers in that little park near the school. I’ll bring some of them over.”