Ice Cream Town Read online

  “Yes, thank you,” he said, slipping the library card into his pocket.

  He sat at one of the long tables and opened the book. The words were a bunch of strange squiggles and shapes. He sounded out each letter, but when he formed them into words, they didn’t make sense.

  “Hello.”

  Sammy looked up. His neighbor Maria was staring down at him. She pointed to the book.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Treasure Island.” He held it up so she could read the cover.

  “I can help you.” She smiled. There was a space between her two front teeth, which made her look really cute.

  “Here.” She sat beside him and turned to the first page.

  Sammy hesitated. First of all, he reminded himself, boys did not play with girls. But they would be reading, not playing. Second, there was Luigi to consider. He was a bully. Did Sammy want to be friends with his sister? He looked at Maria, who was waiting for him to start reading.

  Forget Luigi, he decided. Maria is a nice girl. You can be friends with her if you want.

  They began to read:

  Squire Trewlawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end…

  CHAPTER 14

  The Goldene Medine

  As November progressed, the days got shorter and the weather turned cold—but the stickball games kept getting longer. Since Sammy’s singing performance, Mr. Gershom had become the Sluggers’ biggest fan. The team would pay the ransom every time the ball landed in Mr. Gershom’s pushcart—Sammy would entertain him by singing Jewish songs.

  “Who,” Sammy said to Herschel, “would have thought that crusty old Mr. Gershom would be sentimental?”

  Malka had changed, too. But not for the better. Her cheeks were no longer rosy, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Sammy wondered if it was because she no longer went out walking with Mr. Goldman. Or maybe it was the long hours that she sat hunched over her sewing machine, straining her eyes to see. In the apartment’s dim light, her foot pumped the pedal, up and down, up and down, until she said her leg felt as if it would fall off. Whatever was wrong, his sister had developed a sharp tongue.

  “You shouldn’t be roaming the streets after dark,” she snapped one day when he raced into the apartment. Sammy was surprised that she noticed. Most of the time, no one seemed to care where he was, as long as he did the dishes after supper.

  “It’s okay, Malka. I know my way around.”

  Malka sighed. “I don’t want you out on the streets, Sammy.”

  Their father came home a few minutes later, and they sat down to eat. After he recited the blessing over bread, Malka served them cabbage borscht with sour cream. The hot broth warmed Sammy’s insides.

  The late summer heat had given way to late fall’s chill, and the apartment was cold and damp. Wind seeped through cracks in the walls, and the walls seemed to be crying with condensed moisture from the leaky pipes.

  Papa ate quickly, mopping up the last of his soup with chunks of bread. When he was done, he wiped his mouth and beard, and leaned back in his chair. Looking around the table he sighed. “So, Sammy. You have a report card to show me?”

  Sammy lowered his eyes. “I took it back to Miss O’Malley.”

  “Without my signature?” Papa raised his eyebrows.

  “It did not need one,” he whispered.

  Papa drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “And this report card, Sammy. You maybe didn’t want I should see it?”

  “Oh yes, Papa,” he lied. “But you were busy, and I had to get it back right away.”

  Papa pursed his lips. “Rabbi Lichtstein says you missed a few cheder classes. More than a few,” he added, his expression turning sour. “You want to explain yourself?”

  Sammy’s cheeks burned, and the cabbage borscht sloshed like stormy waves in his stomach.

  Papa’s fingers drummed louder. “It has maybe to do with this ball and stick game I see you playing?”

  Sammy tried not to smile. “Stickball, Papa,” he corrected him.

  “Stickball, shtickball. Your job is to go to school and cheder. You want I should send you to work instead? Like your friend Max?”

  Sammy pictured Max, weighed down by stacks of coats. Did he want to be like him, with a father who only cared about the money he brought home?

  “Is this what I work for? Do you think I want to work in that factory? In Poland, I was a tailor. I was skilled and respected. Here I am one slave in a long line of slaves. But I do it for you, Sammy. So you should be able to go to school.”

  Sammy hung his head. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’ll go to Rabbi Lichtstein’s cheder after school.”

  “And the next report card, you bring to me. You know why they call this the goldene medine, the golden land? Not because you pick gold coins up from the street. It is the goldene medine because America is a land of freedom and opportunity. Here you can get an education and be anything you want.” He slapped the table so hard the dishes rattled. “Anything!”

  He sighed. “Don’t waste your chance, Sammy.”

  After he washed and dried the dishes, Sammy opened the window and climbed onto the fire escape. Turning up his collar against the cold, he sat on the edge and looked into the street. The stores were closed for the night. The pushcarts were gone. The few people who were outside walked quickly to get in from the cold.

  He had known that Papa would learn about the skipped cheder classes sooner or later. Now he was in a muddle. He had to go, but he didn’t want to stop hanging out with Herschel and his buddies. Papa said this was the goldene medine because anyone could get an education. For Sammy, the goldene medine meant a place where you always had money. Maybe not gold, but shiny copper pennies to buy whatever you wanted, like an ice-cream cone every day of the week.

  “Sammy, come inside. You’ll catch cold.”

  Malka climbed through the window and stood above him. “Papa’s right. You need an education.”

  “What about you?” Sammy twisted around so he could see his sister. “You’re not in school.”

  “I’m sixteen. That is too old for school. I’ll work…and someday I’ll get married…” Her voice broke.

  “To Mr. Goldman? I haven’t seen him for a long time.”

  “I don’t see him anymore.” Malka’s voice turned harsh. “Sammy, I’m going inside, and I’m closing this window. If you don’t come in, you’ll sleep out here and freeze to death.”

  Sammy followed Malka into the apartment. Papa had gone to bed. Through the walls Sammy could hear the Baldani children laughing and shouting at each other. He went into the room he shared with his father and lit the gas lamp on the crate beside his bed. His eye fell on the library copy of Treasure Island. Picking it up, Sammy turned to the first page. He wanted to be able to read it out loud next time he saw Maria. He wanted to be able to discuss it with Miss O’Malley.

  Using his dictionary, he read slowly, looking up words and trying to piece the story together. He was still reading when Malka said good night and went into her bedroom. He kept on reading until the lamp’s wick burned to ashes and sputtered out.

  When he slept, he dreamed of pirates combing the streets of New York. They were searching for gold coins, but instead they found slippery streets, slick with layers of vanilla ice cream.

  CHAPTER 15

  A Family Thanksgiving

  As if I didn’t have enough problems,” Sammy muttered to himself. Aunt Pearl had decided it was time to invite the family to her Brooklyn apartment for Thanksgiving dinner. Sammy knew all about Thanksgiving. Miss O’Malley had told the class the story of the Pilgrims’ first winter in America. Sammy thought it was great that the Pilgrims and their neighbors, the Indians, shared a feast to give thanks for a good harvest. He wasn’t sure it was such a good idea for his family and Aunt Pearl’s to do the same.

  Miss O’Mally had said it was traditional on Thanksgiving to ea
t turkey. She showed the class a picture of a brown bird that looked like a big, fuzzy chicken. How could a turkey fit into a soup pot? Sammy wondered, staring at the enormous bird. When he said as much to Herschel, Herschel called him a dumb immigrant, just off the boat. In America, Herschel said, you didn’t boil turkeys. You roasted them in an oven. That was fine, Sammy supposed, if you had a big oven. The Levins’ was a narrow box with four leaky gas burners on top. So maybe it was a good thing, after all, that they would eat their first turkey dinner at Aunt Pearl’s.

  Malka and Sammy were excited about the trip to Brooklyn. They had often walked to the end of Delancy Street and admired the tall expanse of the Williamsburg Bridge that stretched across the East River into Brooklyn. One Sunday, Malka, Mr. Goldman, and Sammy had walked the entire length of the bridge and then turned around and walked back.

  This time they were taking the subway. Sammy thought the subway was one of the best parts of New York. Imagine, he thought, trains running in underground tunnels! Sometimes, on the street, he would stand near a subway grate to feel the earth shake as a train rumbled under his feet. A subway ride cost a nickel. For that amount, you could go anywhere in New York. His father said the train to Brooklyn had opened in 1915, only five years before Sammy arrived.

  Thanksgiving morning dawned gray and cold. When Sammy looked out the window, he saw that the fire escape was dotted with snowflakes. Malka bustled around the kitchen, preparing the noodle pudding that she was taking as her contribution to the meal.

  When everyone was dressed, Papa looked at Malka’s ruffled white blouse and black skirt, and frowned. “Maybe you should wear one of the dresses your Aunt Pearl gave you. After all,” he said, stroking his chin, “she went to all that trouble to bring you the clothes.”

  “Used clothes, Papa. The things she won’t wear anymore.” Malka tossed her head. “We may be new in America, but we are not beggars who have to wear other people’s rags.”

  “Wear the coat. A good wool coat is not a rag.”

  “It is if it is too big and falls below my feet.” Malka put on her own black coat with silver buttons, and wound a red scarf around her neck. “I will not wear Aunt Pearl’s ugly hand-me-downs.”

  Papa threw up his hands. “Wear what you want. Now come.”

  The Levins trooped downstairs, along Delancy Street and into the subway tunnel. Sammy had been on the subway before, but never under the East River. The thought of traveling beneath all that water made the hair on his neck prickle. He thought of Max. He wondered if Max’s stepfather would let his mother stop working long enough to cook a turkey.

  The trip to Brooklyn only took ten minutes. Sammy was disappointed. He had hoped to be on the train for at least an hour. Miss O’Malley had told the class that the Brooklyn subway now went all the way to the boardwalk at Coney Island. Malka said she would take him there in the summer, when the boardwalk was open, and they could swim in the ocean.

  Aunt Pearl lived in a three-story brownstone building on a quiet, tree-lined street. Her apartment was on the second floor. The minute Sammy entered the building, he saw the difference between it and their tenement. The marble hall floor was spotlessly clean. The stairway was wide enough for two people to walk side by side, and the walls were painted a light brown color, like coffee with lots of cream.

  Aunt Pearl’s apartment was as different from the Levin flat as the flat was from their house in Poland. At their apartment, you walked right into the kitchen. Here you entered a hallway where you could leave your coats and hats in a built-in closet. A door on the left opened into the kitchen. Sammy peeked in and saw white cupboards, a sink, an icebox, a big iron stove, and a table with four chairs. A short, square woman wrapped in an enormous white apron was stirring a pot on the stove.

  From the hallway, they went into the front room. Ahead, two glass doors opened onto a large room with a four-poster bed. A hallway on the left of the living room led to two more bedrooms.

  Sammy’s eyes bulged. All these rooms for only five people! On Orchard Street, ten people would crowd into an apartment half this size. He examined the furniture. Aunt Pearl must really like lace, because there were white lace doilies on the backs and arms of all the chairs. The lamps had lacy shades, and white lace cloths dotted the polished wood tables that were scattered around the room.

  Sammy watched Malka studying the apartment, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed with what he was sure was envy. Her gaze settled on a long table next to the windows. It was set with white gold-rimmed dishes; silver knives, forks, and spoons; and sparkling glasses. Everything matched. No chipped bowls and cracked plates here.

  The doorbell rang, and Aunt Tsippi came in. Sammy rushed forward so he could see her hat before she took it off. Sure enough, it was a masterpiece with red and black feathers, a small stuffed bird, and enough netting to catch a whole school of fish.

  Aunt Tsippi hugged him. “Sammy, look at you! Six months in America, and already you’ve grown a foot. Hasn’t he, Rubin?”

  Papa looked him up and down. “I see only two feet.”

  Sammy laughed and Aunt Tsippi smiled.

  Aunt Tsippi sat down on the couch next to Malka. Aunt Pearl, who had been in the kitchen supervising the maid, made her entrance wearing a shiny green dress with pearl buttons and a white lace collar and cuffs. “I wish our Sarah was here,” she said, sinking into an overstuffed chair.

  Tsippi sighed. “I do, too. Remember how she told us stories when we were little? Such an imagination she had.”

  “The one about the old woman in the forest? You used to be so frightened that you would beg her to stop.”

  “Remember the part where the chickens jumped from the trees and almost scared the old woman to death?” They laughed.

  Aunt Tsippi looked around the room. “At least we are all together.”

  Aunt Pearl shook her head. “Yes, but look at them.” She pointed to Sammy and Malka. “Like ragamuffins they dress.”

  “Pearl, stop being so hard on them. Remember when we were new? What it was like? Everything was so strange.”

  “We learned.” Pearl shrugged. “It was the war that ruined them. Why did Rubin leave them there to go through that terrible war?”

  The front door opened. Joshua and his six-year-old sister Leah trooped in. Leah was about half Joshua’s size. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were rosy from the cold. She was followed by Aunt Pearl’s husband, Uncle (“the doctor”) Milton.

  “We’ve been skating on the pond at Prospect Park,” Joshua said, turning to show Sammy the leather boots with sleek metal blades slung over his shoulder. “Do you skate?”

  Sammy shook his head. In Logov, some of the kids had skated on the river when it froze, but he never had skates. Besides, how could he skate when he was so hungry that he could barely stand?

  “Give him time. The winter hasn’t even started,” Aunt Tsippi said. She bent forward to Leah, who was standing shyly in front of her. “Let me see your smile,” she said, patting the girl’s curly blond hair.

  Leah grinned, exposing two missing front teeth. Aunt Tsippi reached into her black velvet purse and pulled out two nickels. “One for each tooth.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Tsippi.” Leah took the money with a shy smile.

  “Well, well, well.” Uncle Milton rubbed his hands together. “At last we have everyone together.”

  We’d have been together a long time ago, Sammy thought, if Aunt Pearl weren’t such a snob. Just because Uncle Milton was born in Brooklyn and was a second generation American, Aunt Pearl thought her family was better than the Levins.

  “Welcome, welcome, welcome.” Uncle Milton pounded Papa on the back. “And lookee, lookee, lookee. Can this be our little Sammy? Well, well, well. Here we are, all together.”

  Uncle Milton said everything three times. Sammy hoped his uncle wouldn’t keep this up all day. If he did, it was going to be a very, very, very long dinner.

  Aunt Pearl passed around a tray with glasses of seltzer with strawberry syr
up. She apologized that it wasn’t wine.

  “Prohibition.” She wrinkled her nose.

  Sammy took a glass and walked over to the window. The streetlamps were coming on, and they cast a soft glow on the deserted sidewalks. In Poland, he had never heard of Thanksgiving. In America, it seemed that everyone, no matter where they came from, celebrated the holiday.

  “Hey, Greenie.” Joshua appeared beside him. “Did you ever see one of these?” He pointed to a table where a wooden box with a huge horn-shaped device jutting out of it gleamed in the sunlight.

  Sammy nodded. “It’s a phonograph.” The Baldanis had one, only theirs was smaller and not as fancy.

  “Bet you don’t have one.”

  “My neighbor has one, and we listen to it all the time.” Sammy didn’t tell him that they listened through the walls.

  Joshua turned a hand crank on the side of the box. A disk sitting on top began to turn. He set the phonograph’s arm on the disk. A man’s voice singing about bluebirds filled the room.

  “Too bad you don’t have a phonograph.” Joshua smirked. “We listen all the time, especially on Saturday morning when I don’t go to school.”

  “We go to the synagogue on Saturday morning. It’s Shabbos,” Papa said, striding across the room. “Sammy, wash your hands. Aunt Pearl wants us to sit down to eat.”

  Aunt Pearl turned to the table and picked up a little silver bell. Ding, ding, ding. It rang three times. Ding, ding, ding. Just like Uncle Milton talked.

  The family gathered around the table. Aunt Pearl sat at the head, Uncle Milton at the foot, and everyone else scattered in between. When they were all settled, Aunt Pearl lifted the bell and rang it again. Ding, ding, ding. The woman from the kitchen brought out an enormous bowl. Aunt Pearl called it a tureen. The woman ladled soup from the tureen into gold-rimmed soup bowls.

  At home, Papa started every meal with a blessing over bread. But here, no one blessed anything. Sammy watched them eat as if the food were about to be snatched away at any minute. But no one at the table looked undernourished to Sammy. After the soup, the woman brought in the turkey on a large white platter. Its golden brown skin crackled with juices. Sammy had never seen such a big bird. That turkey could have fed half the people in Logov, he thought. The woman set it in front of Uncle Milton, who picked up a sharp silver knife and a matching fork and started cutting the turkey into thin, even slices.