Ice Cream Town Read online

  Biting his lip, Sammy shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. Cohen. I’m okay. Really.” He gave Mr. Cohen a shaky smile. Then he limped over to the curb and stared at the book pages soaking in a puddle.

  What was he going to tell Miss O’Malley?

  Herschel and the team were already in the street. “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “What happened to your leg?”

  “I fell. It’s only a scrape.” Sammy rubbed his hands on his pants.

  “Okay, let’s go. You’re at third base again.”

  The stickball game was going strong in spite of the occasional honk of an automobile, which forced the boys to move out of the way. The Sliders were shouting at Tommy, who was eyeing the batter with the concentration of a cat stalking a bird. Tommy tossed an underhanded pitch that bounced once and sailed toward the batter, who smashed at it with his broom handle. Thwack!

  The ball sailed right toward Sammy. He jumped up, caught it, and then threw it to the second baseman, who tagged the runner out.

  Now it was the Sluggers’ turn at bat. Moishe was up first and hit the ball in a straight, hard line. He dropped the bat and ran around the bases.

  “Home run!” Herschel jumped up and down as Moishe slid across home plate.

  Tommy pushed Sammy forward. “Let’s see if you can repeat your home run.”

  Sammy grasped the broom handle, which was almost as tall as he was. The top of the broom wobbled in the air. He steadied his grip and swung. The ball soared to the left, then bounced and landed, kerplunk, on top of Mr. Gershom’s pushcart.

  Mr. Gershom bent down, picked up the ball, and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Rats!” Herschel threw his bat on the ground. “That was our last ball. We don’t have fifteen cents for another one. The game’s over.”

  “Ask for it back.”

  “Ask old man Gershom? I’d rather climb into the lion cage at the zoo.”

  Herschel was afraid of Mr. Gershom? Sammy couldn’t believe his ears.

  “When it lands on his pushcart, he says it’s his,” Moishe said. “He hates us playing in the street.”

  “He hates us, period,” said Herschel. Sammy had to admit that Mr. Gershom did look mean, with his twirling black mustache and fierce scowl.

  Sammy had been scared in Poland. He had been scared at Ellis Island. And earlier he had been scared of Luigi. Sammy was tired of being afraid.

  Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath. “I am going to get your ball back.”

  Herschel turned to the other boys. “You guys in the mood for a funeral? We’ll send this guy off in style.”

  Ignoring him, Sammy threaded his way through the skipping children and the women who crowded around the pushcarts. He waved to Yichel and Simba, and then he marched up to Mr. Gershom.

  “Sir, you have our ball.” He pointed to Mr. Gershom’s pocket.

  “Yes, and I’m going to keep it. You ruffians—always in the street, chasing away my customers! Pah!”

  He spat on the ground, barely missing Sammy’s foot. He leaned over and furrowed his eyebrows. They looked like black snakes crawling on his forehead.

  “You want your ball back, you pay for it!”

  Pay for it? Sammy patted his empty pockets.

  He remembered being a hungry six-year-old on a street in Logov, begging for food. An old woman had held out a scrap of bread. She said, “You want this, boychick? What you pay me for it?” Sammy didn’t have any money. He sang for her instead. And when he was finished, the woman blinked back tears. “Sing it again,” she said, pressing the bread into his hands.

  He had sworn he would never sing again. But what else could he do? He remembered the song, “Dona Dona,” which his mother used to sing to him. He took a deep breath and began to sing.

  Oyfn furl ligt a kelbl (On the wagon lies a calf),

  Ligt gebundn mit a shtrik

  (Lies down tied with a rope).

  Hoykh in himl fleet a shvelbl (High in the sky flies a swallow),

  Freyt zikh, dreyt zikh, heen un tsurik (Enjoys itself, turns itself there and back).

  Dona dona dona dona,

  dona dona dona da.

  Dona dona dona dona,

  dona dona dona da.

  After he finished singing, he blinked. Something was different. All along Orchard Street, people had stopped arguing, bargaining, and squeezing fruit. They were listening to him.

  Mr. Gershom stared down at Sammy, his dark eyes strangely glazed. “Here, boychick,” he said. And he pressed the rubber ball into Sammy’s hand.

  “Hey, Babe Ruth, don’t hog the ball.” Herschel waved Sammy back to the game. “Wow! You’re a hero,” he said, slapping Sammy on the back.

  CHAPTER 10

  A Gang Means Security

  The day after the stickball game, Sammy met Herschel coming out of Cohen’s Candy Store. His sandy hair flopped over his left eye, while his right eye studied Sammy with a harsh blue intensity.

  “You know, kid, you’ve got spunk.” He draped an arm over Sammy’s shoulder. “I can teach you the ropes around here. There are two ways to live in this neighborhood. You can be part of our gang or you can try to make it on your own.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t recommend being on your own.”

  Sammy thought of Luigi and knew he did not want to be alone. But he also knew that Herschel and his friends were often in trouble. Did he want to be part of a street gang?

  Did he have a choice?

  “Meet us after supper in front of Klopchuck’s Pickle Palace on Orchard and Delancy Streets.” Herschel popped a stick of gum into his mouth and handed one to Sammy. “Be there at six-thirty. Don’t be late.”

  After the supper dishes were washed, Sammy told Malka he was going out.

  “Where?” She wiped her hands on her apron.

  “To see my friends.”

  Malka smiled. “I am so happy you are making friends. All right, you may go, but be home before it gets dark. The days are getting shorter,” she reminded him.

  Whistling, he ran down the four flights of stairs and along Orchard Street. Herschel and his friends were waiting at the corner.

  “Sammy. Welcome to our gang. You know Tommy and Moishe. And this,” he said, reaching into the barrel and fishing out a pickle, “is our prize for the night. “C’mon, Sammy, take one.”

  “I, I didn’t bring any money,” Sammy said.

  “Who needs money? Right, fellas?” The others snatched pickles and stared at Sammy as if daring him to do the same.

  “You afraid? You weren’t afraid of Mr. Gershom.” Herschel tilted his head and studied Sammy through narrowed eyes.

  Sammy knew that stealing was wrong, but he wanted to be part of the gang, so he reached into the briny water and grabbed a pickle. “I’ve got one,” he called out, holding up his prize.

  “Again, I catch you stealing.” Mr. Klopchuck ran out of his store waving a broom. Sammy thought what a great stickball bat it would have made; but at the moment, Mr. Klopchuck looked like he wanted to hit a home run with the boys’ heads.

  “Run, Sammy!” Herschel grabbed his arm and pulled him up the street. “Come on. This is the best part.”

  The boys dashed into the alley, followed by Mr. Klopchuck, his white apron flapping like pigeon wings.

  “Follow me.” Herschel led them through a series of twists and turns until they had left Mr. Klopchuck and his broom way behind.

  “Whew,” said Herschel, leaning against a wall and gasping for air.

  Sammy wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. A spatter of water landed on his head. Looking up, he saw laundry hanging from wires strung between the tenement buildings. A woman leaned out an open window and emptied a dishpan full of soapy water. Herschel pushed him out of the way just as the water splashed on the ground beside him.

  “Do you do this every night?” Sammy gasped.

  “Except when we do even better things.” Herschel poked him in the ribs.

 
“Stick with us, Sammy boy. All right, everyone. Eat up,” he said, waving the pickle like a spear.

  “So, wasn’t this fun?” Herschel asked as they walked back to Orchard Street.

  Sammy wasn’t sure if it had been fun, but he had to admit it was better than staying home.

  “Yes. Fun,” he said.

  If this was what it took to live in New York, he would have to get used to not listening to his father. Survival, that was the key, he told himself. Whatever it took, he was going to survive in this strange new world.

  CHAPTER 11

  Friends Make You Strong

  Now that he was a member of Herschel’s gang, Sammy felt strong. He had protection against Luigi and his pals. He couldn’t wait to see his stuck-up cousin, the awful Joshua. He laughed, imagining the look on Aunt Pearl’s face when his gang swaggered up to her darling boy and made him shake with fear.

  Every day after school, Sammy roamed the streets with his new friends. At first, when they stole fruit from Mr. Gershom’s pushcart or pastries from Mr. Schwartz’s bakery, he hung back. But when Herschel threatened to kick him out, he joined them. He drew the line, however, at Mr. Cohen’s candy store. Mr. Cohen had been nice to him, and Sammy would not steal from him.

  It was on one of these walks that Sammy made his best discovery. He and Herschel were on Canal Street when he noticed a splash of red in the middle of a vacant lot across the street. Sammy crossed the road.

  An elderly man in a worn, gray wool coat was squatting on the ground, patting the soil around a clump of geraniums.

  Sammy stepped up to him. “Your flowers are beautiful,” he said.

  The man grunted and continued his work.

  “We had flowers in Poland,” Sammy said.

  The man looked up. His watery blue eyes were sunken in a face crisscrossed with leathery wrinkles. “Nothing grows in this rotten place.” He spoke with a heavy Yiddish accent, and his voice sounded rusty, as if he didn’t use it very often.

  “Your flowers are growing.” Sammy looked around the lot, which was sandwiched between two soot-encrusted tenements. Half of the lot was covered with tin cans, old newspapers, and rotting food; the other half had been cleared. Red, yellow, and purple flowers were planted on the cleared half.

  The man dropped his shovel and turned on his heels. “You like flowers?” He scratched his whiskered chin with a dirt-stained hand.

  “My mother used to pick them in Poland.”

  Placing both hands on the ground, the man pushed himself to his feet. When he stood, his coat fell to the tips of his worn black shoes.

  “Your mother, she would like, maybe, to see my flowers?”

  Sammy’s eyes filled with tears. “No.” He shook his head.

  “No? Why not?”

  “She died,” Sammy whispered.

  “Hey, Sammy!” Herschel called from across the street. “Come on. We have to meet the guys.”

  Sammy ignored him, and Herschel crossed over. “Whaddya doing?”

  “Talking to Mr.—” Sammy turned to the old man.

  “Kempel. Mr. Meyer Kempel.” The man pulled himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much taller than Sammy.

  “Sammy Levin.” Sammy held out his hand. “And this is Herschel.”

  Herschel stuffed his hands in his pocket. “What is this place?” He looked around the lot with the sneering expression Sammy had already begun to dislike.

  “What do you think it is? It’s a garden,” Sammy said.

  Herschel shrugged. “Looks like a vacant lot to me.”

  “Then I feel sorry for you.” Mr. Kempel turned back to Sammy. “You, young man, see beauty through the shmutz (dirt). Your friend here,” he added, shaking his head, “sees only the shmutz.”

  Mr. Kempel clapped a hand on Sammy’s shoulder. “Come back in the spring. We will plant flowers so the birds will come. Even in New York, birds will come if you let them.”

  “Why were you wasting time with that crazy old man?” Herschel demanded as they continued their walk.

  “Because he wants to make something beautiful.” Sammy hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. Sometimes he didn’t understand Herschel. Nothing mattered to him except the gang, and keeping Luigi’s gang away from their corner.

  “Well, he’s wasting his time. It’s almost winter. Those flowers are only going to die in the cold. Come on.” He grabbed Sammy’s arm and pulled him up the street. “The guys are waiting for us at Klopchuck’s and we’re already late.”

  Now Sammy was the one who never came home. He spent more and more time with the gang. On days when there was no stickball game, he would walk over to see Mr. Kempel and help him with his garden. These were his favorite times—softening the hard earth with his shovel and helping the old man clear the ground.

  One day, Sammy bumped into Max, who was hurrying home to pick up his mother’s sewing before proceeding on his rounds.

  “Sammy,” he said as they turned onto Orchard Street. “Do you hate it here?”

  “Sometimes,” Sammy admitted.

  “At least you don’t have to work all the time.” Max sniffed, and Sammy realized his friend was fighting hard not to cry. “Everything is ugly! Everything.”

  “Max,” Sammy grasped his friend’s shoulders. “Not everything. Come, I want to show you something.”

  “I can’t, Sammy. I have to—”

  “No, you don’t.” Sammy stomped his foot. “This will only take a few minutes.” He turned and ran up the street.

  “C’mon!” he shouted.

  Max hesitated and then followed.

  A cold wind blew off the river. Sammy shivered, and buttoned his jacket. His hands felt raw, and he wished he’d remembered to bring his mittens.

  Mr. Kempel was clearing a space in the dirt near the wall. He was draped in the same shabby coat, and his black felt cap was pushed back on his head so the tips of his ears glowed red with the cold.

  “So, here you are again,” he said without looking up.

  “I wanted to show my friend Max your garden.”

  “Come in April. It will bloom in the spring.”

  Max looked at the clumps of geraniums lining the wall. “It’s beautiful now,” he said.

  “See, I told you.” Sammy draped an arm over his friend’s shoulders. “Not everything in New York is ugly.”

  A light winked on in a window across the road. Max looked up at the darkening sky. “I have to go,” he said in a panicky voice. “Goodbye, Mr. Kempel. I’ll see you in the spring.”

  Sammy watched him race down the street, his short legs pounding the pavement. “I have to go, too,” he said to Mr. Kempel.

  Herschel and the gang would be waiting for him. And he didn’t want to keep them waiting.

  CHAPTER 12

  Keeping Traditions in a New World

  As the school year wore on, Sammy’s father worked longer hours at the factory and spent his evenings at union meetings. Malka worked from early morning, when Max delivered her piecework, until bedtime. When she wasn’t working, she went out walking with Mr. Goldman, a man she had met shopping at Kaufman’s Five-and-Dime Store on East Broadway. And as Sammy spent more and more time in the streets, he realized that no one at home even noticed that he was gone. He was on his own.

  Saturday was the only day the Levin family spent together. They got up early and walked to the small synagogue down the street. It was in a converted store. The men sat up front, and the women sat behind a curtain in the back. Sammy loved sitting with Papa and listening to the rhythmic chanting of the prayers.

  One Saturday in early November, Papa made an announcement on the walk home. “You are almost eleven, Sammy. I have enrolled you in Rabbi Lichtstein’s cheder (a school where Hebrew is taught), so you can study for your bar mitzvah in two years. You will go after school every day but Friday.”

  Sammy shuddered. “But, Papa—”

  His father’s voice was stern. “You must prepare to become a Jewish man.”

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sp; Sammy’s stomach knotted into a fist. How could he be busy every day? Herschel would kick him out of the gang. And without the gang, he would be just another greenie without protection.

  Malka had invited Mr. Goldman for Shabbos lunch. She had pinned her coppery hair up in a soft roll on top of her head, and she wore a new white ruffled blouse and a pale blue skirt. She set the table with a starched white cloth. In the center, the silver kiddush cup they had brought from Poland gleamed beside the golden braided challah.

  Mr. Goldman wore a gray suit with a white shirt, and his light brown hair was slicked back from his thin, serious face. He brought a box of chocolates for Malka.

  “I would have brought wine, but since Prohibition has become a law, we will have to make do with this,” he said, handing Papa a bottle of grape juice.

  Sammy knew he was referring to the law, passed earlier that year, which made drinking any kind of alcohol illegal.

  Papa shrugged. “So, we will drink grape juice. “It isn’t the worst thing we Jews have had to endure.”

  Malka thanked him for the candies and smiled. “Please.” She motioned toward the table. “Come and sit down.”

  Papa was in a happy mood. After he made the blessings on the juice and bread, Malka served bowls of steaming chicken soup with her homemade noodles. As they ate, Papa and Mr. Goldman talked.

  “So, you work in a store, Malka tells me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Goldman’s pale eyes blinked behind his wire-rim glasses. “It’s a big store where they sell clothes and household goods, all under one roof. It’s the way of the future. In time, these little shops”—he swept his arm in the direction of the street— “will all be gone.”

  “Hmm.” Papa took another slice of challah. “And what do you do in this wonderful place?”

  Mr. Goldman straightened his tie. “I am the assistant to the manager. One day,” he said proudly, “I will own my own department store—yes, Malka.”

  Papa harrumphed, Malka blushed, and Sammy concentrated on his soup—and on the boiled chicken and noodle pudding that followed. As Malka cleared the dishes, Mr. Goldman pulled a gold watch from his pocket.