Ice Cream Town Read online

  “Goodness, I didn’t realize the time.” He turned to Papa. “Please excuse me, Mr. Levin, but I must return to the store.”

  “Oh dear, Ira,” Malka said. “I made strudel for dessert.”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Lewis gave me an extra hour for lunch, but I promised I’d be back by three o’clock.”

  Papa leaned forward, stroking his beard. “On Shabbos you work?”

  Mr. Goldman shrugged. “I do what I have to, Mr. Levin. This isn’t Poland.”

  “No, it is not Poland.” Papa shook his head. “In America, I thought we were free.”

  “Yes, politically we are free, but when you work, you must do what your boss tells you.”

  Papa drummed his fingers on the table.

  “When I came here, Mr. Goldman, I could have had a job as a tailor in a men’s suit factory in the Bronx. The owners weren’t Jewish, and I would have had to work on Saturday because their Sabbath is Sunday. I said, ‘No. I am a Jew and I will remain true to my religion.’ Now I am only a cutter, and I earn less money at Drucker’s, but I have my Shabbos.”

  Mr. Goldman folded and unfolded his napkin. When he looked up, Sammy could almost hear his mind working. Yes, he was thinking. You chose to work for lower pay and look where you put your family, in a stinking tenement, where your daughter sits all day hunched over a sewing machine in poor light, stitching dresses to keep the family fed. Were those Mr. Goldman’s thoughts or his own?

  Papa rose to his feet. “Mr. Goldman, I will ask you to please honor our customs and stay for the rest of the meal.”

  “I wish I could,” said Mr. Goldman, pushing back his chair and standing. “But my custom is to honor my commitments, and I promised to be back at Kaufman’s by three o’clock.”

  He held out his hand to Malka. “It was a lovely meal. Thank you.”

  He turned to her father. “Goodbye, Mr. Levin. Goodbye, Sammy.”

  After he left, the family sat in silence.

  Then Papa cleared his throat. “Malka, I do not want you to see that young man again.”

  “But, Papa—”

  “Malka, Mr. Goldman is a very nice person, but he is not an observant Jew.”

  “Why are you so rigid, Papa?” Malka’s face flushed with anger. “This is America. Life is different here.”

  Her father leaned forward and stroked his beard. “Malka, this may be America, but if we give up our traditions, who are we?”

  “The same people we always were, only happier.”

  “Papa,” Sammy interrupted. “Miss O’Malley told us that people come to America from all over the world and live together. She says that’s what makes America different from every other country.”

  His father shook his head.

  “Your Miss O’Malley is right. But on the other hand, she is also wrong.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he focused his dark gaze on Sammy. “We came here because at home it was not good. We were poor. We were always afraid of the soldiers. Here we are free to live. This does not mean that we left our history behind in Poland. Your grandparents, may they rest in peace, were religious people. Do you want to throw their beliefs, and ours, out the window like garbage?

  ”Your Ira is a fine young man. But I cannot allow him to destroy our ways. I do not want you to see him again.”

  “Sometimes I wish we had never come here,” Malka sobbed.

  Sammy blinked hard. He hated it when Papa and Malka fought, and it was happening more often lately.

  After the blessings were over, Papa and Malka went to their rooms. Sammy cleared and washed the dishes. Then he went down to the street.

  Herschel was waiting for him on the stoop.

  The Revenge of Tarzan is playing at the movie theater on Broadway.”

  “I can’t spend money on Shabbos.”

  “This is America, Sammy. You can do whatever you want. Besides,” Herschel said, smiling wickedly, “who said anything about money? We’ll sneak in.”

  How could Sammy go to the movies after what had happened upstairs? Then he thought of what Papa had told him about stealing. When they were on the ferry from Ellis Island, Sammy’s foot had touched a piece of paper. Bending down, he realized that it was an American dollar. His first American money! He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Sammy, that is not yours.” Papa held out his hand.

  “Yes, it is, Papa. I found it.”

  “And how do you know it doesn’t belong to someone else on this boat?”

  “I don’t, but—”

  Papa took the dollar bill and held it above his head. “Has anyone lost this money?” he called out.

  A young woman in a long black skirt ran up to him. “It is mine. Thank you for returning it.”

  So, like a snap of the fingers, Sammy thought, his American money was gone.

  “Papa, how do you know it was her money?” he asked. “Maybe she lied about it.”

  “I do not know that it was hers,” Papa answered, patting Sammy’s shoulder. “But I do know that it is not ours. You are an honest boy, Sammy, so always remember. What does not belong to us is never ours to keep.”

  But now, Sammy thought, sneaking into a movie theater wasn’t like taking money, was it? And anyway, Papa never cared what he did when he left the apartment. Besides, Herschel had found Sammy’s weak spot.

  Next to ice cream, the thing he loved best about America was the movies. Once, Malka had taken him to see a Charlie Chaplin film. The little man with the cane and mustache made him laugh so hard he thought his ribs would crack.

  “Is Tarzan funny?” he asked Herschel.

  “Tarzan lives in the jungle, and he’s tough. Like us.” Herschel flexed his muscles.

  Sammy looked up at the apartment. Papa was taking his Saturday nap. Malka was sulking in her room.

  Herschel followed his gaze. “Why is your father so old-fashioned? Doesn’t he know this is America?”

  “Of course he knows.” Sammy could feel anger scalding his insides like boiling soup.

  “So, why does he live like he is still in Europe?”

  Sammy studied Herschel, suddenly realizing that he knew nothing about him. “What does your father do?” he asked.

  Herschel’s eyes darkened. “None of your business.”

  “What do you mean, it’s none of my business? You know what my father does.”

  “Everyone on the street knows what your father does. He’s a big union leader, making trouble for management. Are you like him?” Herschel crouched down and balled his fists. “Hey, Sammy. Do you cause trouble, too?”

  Sammy’s insides were on fire. “Hey, Hersch, what’s gotten into you? Why are you acting this way?”

  “Maybe I don’t like greenies comin’ here and tryin’ to change things. I’m sure glad I don’t have a mean old crazy father like yours.”

  Sammy punched him. He hit Herschel in the stomach so hard that his breath blew out in a whoof!

  Herschel doubled over and groaned. For a minute, it looked like he was going to fall down, but he regained his balance and socked Sammy. Blood streamed into Sammy’s eye so he couldn’t see.

  Sammy tried to get his bearings, but before he could move, Herschel hit him again. This time his fist landed, smack, on Sammy’s mouth. Blood from his cut lip dripped off his chin and spattered across his clean white shirt. His dinner was churning in his stomach, and he had to swallow hard to keep from throwing up.

  Sammy took a deep breath and balled his hands into fists. Gathering all his strength, he threw an uppercut that caught Herschel under his chin and knocked him on his back.

  “Sammy, stop that!” Suddenly Malka was there. She grabbed his arms. “Fighting on the street like some hooligan. And on Shabbos. Just look at your shirt. We’ll never get the blood out.”

  Sammy’s hand throbbed, his lip felt like a piece of raw liver, and his eye was beginning to swell.

  Herschel picked himself up. “You are as crazy as your father.” He rubbed his chin. “Forget a
bout being in our gang.”

  Sammy was about to hit him again when Malka grabbed his arm. He wrenched out of her grasp.

  “You go sneak into the movies,” he shouted, spraying blood and saliva in Herschel’s face. “I hope you get caught and thrown into jail. I’m going home to spend Shabbos with my family.”

  He dashed into the building and stumbled up the stairs.

  CHAPTER 13

  A Not So Good Report Card

  During the second week of November, Sammy got his first report card. Miss O’Malley handed them out at the end of the school day. When she got to Sammy, she asked him to stay behind when the final bell rang.

  “I thought you would do better,” Miss O’Malley said. She pressed her lips together. “You’re a smart boy. I hate to see you waste your brain. By the way,” she said, tilting her head and studying him, “how did you like the book I loaned you? Treasure Island?”

  Sammy’s face felt like it was on fire. “Um…” He swallowed. “I haven’t read it yet.”

  “You haven’t?” Miss O’Malley looked hard at Sammy. “In that case, I think you should return it so another child may read it.”

  Sammy lowered his head. “Uh, can I keep it a little longer?”

  Miss O’Malley folded her arms across her chest and studied him. Sammy felt as if her eyes were boring holes into his skull.

  “Sammy,” she said in her soft, lilting voice. “Did you lose the book?”

  Sweat dripped down Sammy’s back. He nodded.

  Taking him by the arm, Miss O’Malley pushed him gently into a seat, pulled up a chair, and sat down facing him. “Sammy, do you know how precious books are? Books teach us about the world. They tell us stories. And,” she added, shifting in her chair so she was directly facing him, “they cost a great deal of money. How did you lose it?”

  Sammy shrugged. He couldn’t tell her about Luigi.

  Miss O’Malley sighed. “You were careless with it because you think that books are unimportant. If you are going to succeed in life, Sammy, you must value knowledge. Now tell me. How will you replace it?”

  Sammy sank lower in his chair. “Does it cost a lot of money? My sister gives me a nickel every week.”

  Miss O’Malley stood and walked to the front of the room. A shaft of sunlight touched her red hair, making it glow like Mr. Kempel’s geraniums. Sammy sat quietly while she rummaged through some papers on her desk.

  “That book cost one dollar, and I will accept your offer to pay for it,” she said. “Money alone will not teach you the true value of reading, however.”

  “Here.” She wrote something on a piece of paper. “This is the address of the public library on Broadway. It is free. I want you to go there and select a book to read. Then you and I will discuss it together.”

  She handed him the paper. “Now, Sammy, does that seem fair?”

  Sammy took the paper and sighed. “Yes, Miss O’Malley.”

  “Good.” A bell rang. “I’m sorry you had to miss your recess.”

  Sammy returned to his seat and stuffed the paper in his pocket. “One more thing to worry about,” he muttered. Herschel was not going to like this new development at all.

  What would he do about his report card, Sammy wondered as he went home. Papa and Malka would be angry that his grades were not good. And he’d been skipping Hebrew classes for the past week.

  After his fight with Herschel, they hadn’t spoken for two weeks. Then one day, Herschel asked Sammy to come back to the gang, or rather the stickball game. He said they needed him because Sammy was the only one who’d ever gotten a ball back from Mr. Gershom. And Sammy had been lonely. He knew that if his father found out, he’d be furious. But without the gang, Sammy felt like a nobody.

  On the way home, Sammy stopped at a pushcart selling hot pretzels. He felt in his pocket. Today was Thursday, and he had two pennies left from the nickel Malka had given him. Once she saw his report card, there would be no more nickels. Then he remembered that even if he got his nickels after this week, they would go to Miss O’Malley to pay for the book.

  Fishing out a penny, Sammy bought a pretzel and walked on, licking the tangy salt crystals off the warm, yeasty crust. As he passed Yichel, the organ grinder smiled and Simba lifted his cap. Sammy waved and walked on, past Mr. Gershom’s cart.

  “Hello, boychick!” Mr. Gershom called. Since Sammy had sung to get the team’s ball back, Mr. Gershom had been friendly, even if he still shouted at all the other boys. He said Sammy should sing for him more often; it brought customers. But Sammy didn’t want to sing—except when he needed a favor, like now.

  “Hey, Mr. Gershom. I learned a new song.”

  “So?” Mr. Gershom leaned forward, his snaky eyebrows climbing up toward his wispy gray hair.

  Sammy leaned against the cart and stared at a pile of shiny red apples. “You want I should sing it for you?”

  “Of course I want you should sing.”

  Sammy pulled his report out of his pocket. “First, sir, please, I need you to sign. On here.” He pointed to a line at the bottom.

  Mr. Gershom took it. “Sammy, this is your report card. This, your father should sign, not me.”

  Sammy sighed. “Papa is not home, and I must return it to the teacher. Please. Just make an X. Papa won’t mind.”

  An X? Mr. Gershom frowned.

  Sammy nodded. “That’s how Papa signs everything.” Sammy averted his eyes.

  “Okay, if you say so.” Mr. Gershom plucked a thick pencil stub from behind his ear and marked an X where Sammy pointed. Handing back the report card, he waved both arms and shouted, “Come, come! Our young Sammy is going to sing for us.”

  Immediately, the sidewalk around the pushcart filled up with women bundled in scarves and coats against the November chill, several holding small children also wrapped in warm coats and hats. Two men abandoned their chess game at Schwartz’s and raced onto the street, their hats and scarves flapping as they ran. Sammy looked up and saw Mrs. Baldani leaning over the fire escape railing. She waved and he waved back.

  “So, you are waiting maybe for an orchestra?” Mr. Gershom wagged his eyebrows.

  Swallowing his guilt, Sammy stood in front of the pushcart, pulled himself up to his full height, and started to sing.

  Oyfn pripetshik brent a fayerl (On the fireplace burns a fire),

  Un in shtub iz heys (And inside the house is hot),

  Un der rebe lernt kleyne kinderlekh (And the rabbi teaches little children),

  Dem alef-beyz (The ABCs).

  Zet zhe kinderlekh, gedenkt zhe tayere (See then, children, remember then, dears),

  Vos eer lernt do (What you learn here),

  Zog zhe nokh a mol (Say then again),

  Vos eer lernt do (What you learn here),

  Zog zhe nokh a mol…

  When he got to the chorus, his listeners, who already knew the song, joined in.

  “Zog zhe nokh a mol, Vos eer lernt do…” they sang.

  The more he sang, the better Sammy felt. Everyone around him was laughing and clapping. A woman in a frayed headscarf and shabby gray coat tapped her foot, and a dark-haired woman lifted her baby daughter onto her shoulders and danced around in a circle. Sammy’s insides glowed like the Statue of Liberty’s torch. He was making people happy and he liked the feeling. When the song was over, he was actually smiling.

  Until he remembered his report card and the lost book. And then he felt as if he had walked under a bucket of garbage dumped from an upstairs apartment.

  Broadway was Sammy’s favorite street. It was wide, not narrow and clogged with pushcarts like Orchard Street. Instead, there were beautiful stores that sold clothing, pots, pans, and furniture. He imagined that the fancy streets in uptown New York would be like this.

  Broadway was crowded, and everyone seemed to have somewhere to go. There were lots of cars; their horns blared—a sound that Sammy came to think of as their New York City song. Trolley tracks stretched down the middle of the road. A horse-drawn
streetcar with a sign saying it was going to the Fulton Street Ferry rattled past.

  The library was on the ground floor of a large building. Sammy had never been in a library before. In fact, until he came to New York, the only books that he had read were prayer books and the dictionary his father had sent him to study English. Walking into the library was like entering a new world. The long room was lit by electric lights hanging from the ceiling. Sunlight streamed through windows set high in walls that were lined with shelves of books.

  “Can I help you, young man?” A tall, skinny lady with pale blond hair wrapped in a bun smiled down at him. “I’m Miss Schwartz, the librarian. Have you been to the library before?”

  Sammy figured he still looked like a greenie if she had to ask him. He shook his head.

  “Well then, perhaps I can show you around. Were you looking for a special book?”

  Sammy nodded. “Treasure Island,” he said, pronouncing the words very carefully.

  The librarian nodded. “An excellent choice.” She walked over to a shelf, ran her finger across the spines of books, stopped, and pulled one off the shelf. “Treasure Island, written by Robert Louis Stevenson.” She handed it to him.

  “I can take this home?” he asked.

  “You’ll need a library card.” She led Sammy to a high desk by the front door and handed him a piece of paper and a pencil.

  “Can you write in English?”

  Clutching the pencil, he stared at the paper and chewed his lower lip in concentration.

  “Here, let me help you. What is your name?” Miss Schwartz took his hand and guided it across the paper.

  “Sammy Levin.”

  “Good, Sammy. Put an S here.”

  Together they filled out the form. Then Miss Schwartz took a card from a drawer, wrote Sammy’s name on it, and stamped it with a rubber stamp.

  “Here you are, Sammy Levin. You now have your very own library card. It’s free and you can use it to take out books. We’ll start with Treasure Island.”

  She stamped a date on a slip of paper glued inside the book cover. “This book is due two weeks from today. You must return it on time, and when you do, you can take out another one. Do you understand?”