Boruch Levi stepped forward menacingly and stood with one foot in front of the other, as if he were preparing to assault the much smaller man, testing his head against the wall.
Although Matti did not give ground and tried not to reveal any fear, he was intimidated. He knew that Boruch Levi was fully capable of doing what he threatened. What really convinced him to walk amiably through the door was the junkman’s near-maniacal baiting tone. This insulting, insufferably arrogant pillar of medieval piety would be only too pleased to do him bodily harm, and tonight Matti had every incentive, at least ten thousand of them, to play tomorrow’s game against the Detroit Tigers.
His mother arrived with a suit jacket and tie.
“The Krimsker Rebbe wants to see my little Matti?” she asked in curious amazement.
“Yes, your little Matti is a very big man. He plays baseball for the St. Louis Browns,” Boruch Levi deadpanned.
Mrs. Sternweiss nodded; she had never understood the game, all those people running to step on those little cushions—but it was true that the world went meshuga over the whole business. Why, Jewish children, even right in the synagogue, treated Matti the way they used to treat the rebbe in Krimsk.
“Maybe the Krimsker Rebbe has a nice Jewish girl for Matti,” she suggested. “Once he’s there, it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
“No one knows what the rebbe might think of,” Boruch Levi answered in complete honesty.
He opened the door for Matti and said good-bye to Mrs. Sternweiss, wishing her a good Sabbath.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
UNCERTAIN AS TO THE BEST ROUTE TO THE REBBE’S—he hadn’t been there in years—Matti hesitated. Boruch Levi promptly took his elbow and firmly guided him in the proper direction.
Offended at this custodial act, Matti asked derisively, “You’re still playing policeman?”
“They tell me you’re a thief. Ballplayer, you want to be a thief, rob a bank like a mensch.”
No sooner were the words out than he regretted them. Boruch Levi had wanted to utilize the element of surprise. The less Matti knew, the less he might be inclined to run away. Above all, he didn’t want a joker like Sternweiss to guess the reason for the visit before the rebbe knew about the problem.
What a bum this one is, Boruch Levi thought. And his poor mother thought I came to propose a marital match for her little jewel. He shook his head at such maternal innocence and filial abuse. He wanted to give Matti a few good slaps for that alone. Matti’s smart mouth—just like vulgar Malka’s—had prompted his intemperate response. As he thought of his own mother and sister, his antipathy for Matti increased and became a burning personal vendetta, his specialty.
“Your father’s dying, and you’re making a play for the nurse!” he had told Matti, who was obviously smitten with the day nurse, Penny Pinkham. “The beds in the hospital are for the sick, not for the sons of the dying to climb in with the nurses. You’re a generous boy, Mattus, you want to leave a tip? It doesn’t have to be yours; a box of candy is just as sweet.”
Such disgraceful sick-room carryings-on had scandalized Boruch Levi; indeed, they still did. And Matti Sternweiss wasn’t the only one. It was practically a plague, some social infection in the sick rooms that raged between the Jewish boys and the shiksa nurses. Boruch Levi was in very good health, thank God, but when he helped pay for a sick Jew’s hospitalization, he made sure that it was in a Catholic hospital. The nuns weren’t interested in the sick man’s sons, and they didn’t have anything better to do than care for the sick. They weren’t thinking about their boyfriends, and they weren’t running out to buy a new dress. Give them a box of caramels, and they would pray for you all day.
Boruch Levi continued with his calming thoughts of nuns and their fondness for caramels. The only disquieting aspect was the greatness it imputed to their husband, Jesus. Through his Irish friends he had learned a good deal about the church; Boruch Levi had even congratulated Doheen’s family on their good fortune when their niece took holy orders. But Boruch Levi wasn’t one to let theology bother him. Leave that stuff for the rabbis and priests, who had time for it since they didn’t work in a junkshop or walk a beat, with the exception of that silly Rabbi Max and his rotgut. Even if Boruch Levi didn’t believe in Jesus a lot of people did, and if not divine, he certainly must have been the equal of the chief and Isidore Weinbach. At any rate, those nuns deserved the caramels on their own merits, since they worked so hard. Boruch Levi really admired that. He could use a few like them in the junkyard.
In spite of Boruch Levi’s stinging insults and accusations, Matti, too, was really very calm. Until Boruch Levi’s outburst, Matti had felt like a schoolboy dragged along kicking and screaming against his will. Although technically he was still Boruch Levi’s prisoner, now that he knew what this crazy business was all about, he had something to reflect on, and as long as Matti had something to analyze, he could remain very cool, indeed. He never concentrated so well as when the bases were loaded and the count had gone to three and two on the batter. With thousands yelling themselves hoarse, every player tensing up like a steel spring—why, Matti could even hear the home plate umpire’s heart beating under his protective pads—Matti would analyze the batter. What kind of day was he having? What were his pitches? What would he be looking for? And his pitcher—what was he throwing? What did he have confidence in? Taking into account the field, the defense, the weather, the sun, the inning, the polish on the batter’s shoe, any gossip he had gleaned from the newspapers, the locker room attendants or bat boys, Matti would choose a pitch and place his catcher’s mitt just where he wanted the ball to cross home plate. More often than not, Matti was right; because of that, Dufer and MacGregor each had a good shot at twenty victories. Yes, Matti liked nothing better than the full count in the bottom of the ninth, and tonight promised to be a squeaker.
Boruch Levi had come for him on the Sabbath, and he was taking him to see the Krimsker Rebbe. The only way Boruch Levi would get involved was through his brother-in-law, Barasch Limp Legs. Matti did not believe that Barasch would have willingly betrayed him, since Barasch’s passion for Matti’s pursuit had always exceeded Matti’s own. No man, least of all a cripple, turns his back on a fiery passion like that. Barasch never would have told Boruch Levi. So it must have been his wife, that sly, hateful, horsey woman Malka. Deserting the peddlers in the junkyard, she had driven out the gate. Rejoicing that she was not around, Barasch had no idea where she had gone. “As long as she’s not here, what do we care?” he had crowed, but obviously Matti had been right to care: she had driven out of the yard to see her arrogant, pious brother Boruch Levi. And what did he do after his sister’s visit? Here Matti was not so certain; it depended on what information Malka had given him. Probably Boruch Levi had visited Barasch, but Matti was stumped; he couldn’t imagine Barasch betraying Matti’s passion for Penny Pinkham under threat, or that Boruch Levi’s pious arrogance would permit him to strike a cripple.
But Boruch Levi had used the word “thief,” so he wasn’t coming just to warn Matti not to corrupt his brother-in-law. Boruch Levi definitely knew about the bet. Perhaps Malka had overheard them, or perhaps she had even found the ten thousand dollars and realized that something fishy was up: maybe someone had seen Barasch with so much money at the bookies. Might Boruch Levi know about the bet but not know which bookie held it and want to find out so he could recover the money? But that idea didn’t make sense, because Boruch Levi knew that he could just beat it out of Matti, especially since Matti couldn’t afford to sustain any physical injuries during the baseball season. There was no doubt that the rugged junkman was capable of inflicting such wounds. No, Matti suspected that the money was in Boruch Levi’s hands. But why the Krimsker Rebbe? Matti didn’t have an answer, but he did like the fact that Boruch Levi had come alone, for that suggested that the police didn’t know. Matti wasn’t certain of this, since he knew Boruch Levi to be very thick with the highest brass on the police force, but if they knew, they, too, pre
ferred to handle it quietly through their loyal friend and admirer, and that was almost as good.
The final consideration was that Matti had committed no crime. Barasch Limp Legs had made a bet, which apparently was no longer with the bookie, so it wasn’t even a bet. Since Matti had wisely not involved other persons, who could prove anything? So what if they had been found out? The police weren’t involved. Unfortunately, Matti would not profit by ten thousand dollars. So it was unfortunate, but it wasn’t so bad. Easy come, easy go.
As usual, the analytical exercise—Matti himself termed it an art—calmed him. His conclusions weren’t very upsetting either. The odds certainly favored Matti, and that was all one could reasonably expect of life. The only thing that Matti couldn’t fathom was the reason for their immediate destination. If Boruch Levi wanted to exert some moral influence upon Matti, why weren’t they going to Rabbi Max, Boruch Levi’s own rabbi and Matti’s mother’s spiritual guide as well? Why the Krimsker Rebbe?
Although Matti’s entire success was based upon his personal maxim, What you don’t know can hurt you, he welcomed tonight’s enigma. He was very curious, almost eager, to see the Krimsker Rebbe. In recent weeks, and throughout the day, Krimsk had seemed to be falling out of the sky onto his head. The first thing this morning, he had had that crazy notion that the doomed mail plane had been bringing him a letter from Krimsk, and then all those old-fashioned thoughts about Jews and goyim as if he had been expecting a pogrom to start in the ballpark, not to mention Barasch’s crackpot code about Beryl Soffer’s match factory in Krimsk. Hadn’t even the rebbe himself crossed Matti’s mind? Something about the Krimsker Rebbe and his real Indians compared to the American League ones from Cleveland? Krimsk seemed to be falling out of the sky all right, just like that all-metal airplane spewing flame. The airmen had thrown out the mail sacks, saving them at the price of their lives. Lieutenant Max Miller rode his modern chariot into the fiery ground. What a terrible fate for such a noble talent! Such tragedy, even in America. Matti wondered if the Krimsker Rebbe knew about the postal aviator, may his soul rest in peace. There was nothing left for the farmers to do but pick up the letters.
“Did you bring back many letters from Krimsk?” Matti asked.
“Quite a few,” Boruch Levi grunted.
“Have you delivered them all?”
Boruch Levi scowled affirmatively. After his threats and abuse, why was Matti Sternweiss so relaxed as to have nothing better to think about than Krimsk?
“I thought you might have one for me,” Matti said, half joking.
“Who would write you?” Boruch Levi asked scornfully.
“No one.”
“So?” Boruch Levi grunted.
“Boruch Levi, what was it like to return to Krimsk?”
Taken aback, the junkman continued walking in silence.
“Is it really a different world?” Matti asked simply.
“For most of us.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Boruch Levi saw Matti nod in understanding, and he began to feel as though Matti was escorting him to an interrogation rather than the other way around.
“Did you see any airplanes over there?”
“No,” Boruch Levi answered, wondering about everyone’s sudden interest in airplanes. An hour ago the rebbe had been talking to Sammy about flying, and now of all things Matti Sternweiss was asking about airplanes in Krimsk! Might Matti be the pilot the rebbe was talking about?
Boruch Levi realized uneasily that his curiosity was overcoming his contempt. He no longer luxuriated in the overwhelming urge to bash Matti’s face in. Had his disgusting brother-in-law Barasch Limp Legs corrupted Matti? But what difference did that make tonight? They all had a problem now; Doheen and the chief were waiting for an answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“BASEBALL IS AN IMPORTANT PART OF AMERICAN LIFE. Although it’s just a game, it’s not just a game; it’s the American pastime. It’s not like games in Krimsk. There only children played games. Here children play them, too, of course, but so do adults. The adults get paid to do it. It’s a regular business. Mainly for the goyim.”
Boruch Levi had been anxious to lay the problem at the rebbe’s feet, but now he found that he did not even know how to begin. The rebbe was seated on the couch in his study. Boruch Levi and Matti sat in straight chairs at the table and had to stare uncomfortably through the light to see the rebbe. Persevering despite the difficulty, Boruch Levi tried to duck down slightly so that he could see whether the rebbe understood what he was saying.
“Various important cities have teams. Matti is a baseball player for the St. Louis team, the Browns. Not all the players do the same thing. Matti has an especially important job. He ...”
Here Boruch Levi came to a lame halt. He really had no notion of what Matti did in that foolishness where they all dressed like clowns with children’s caps, but he felt it essential to explain just how terrible Matti’s behavior was. Inviting help, Boruch Levi glanced quickly at Matti, but the player, who was short enough to view the rebbe, was staring intently at the holy man, not at all aware of Boruch Levi’s predicament. The junkman felt his collar tightening around his neck and the sweat forming on his forehead, as if his behavior were in question.
“Matti is a special person in the game. He ...”
Boruch Levi turned to Matti and heard a voice say, “He has been the St. Louis Browns’ catcher, squatting behind home plate for the past three years.”
Although Boruch Levi had not seen Matti’s lips move, he still nodded appreciatively to him, since he had been expecting him to speak. Realizing that it must have been the rebbe who had spoken, Boruch Levi turned and bent under the lamp to find the rebbe sitting with his usual vacuous expression.
“Yes,” Boruch Levi confirmed, but with a confused finality. Since the rebbe seemed to know everything about Matti and baseball, he really didn’t know how to continue.
The rebbe, indeed, needed no explanatory lectures about baseball from anyone, least of all Boruch Levi. When Matti’s late father had come to the beis midrash for help with his wayward son, the rebbe had dispatched Reb Zelig to the ballpark to find out exactly what Matti was doing. It wasn’t easy, for Reb Zelig had no more natural affinity for the game than did Boruch Levi. The rebbe had to send him back to the grandstands time and time again until he could explain the fine points of the game. When he finally received the information, the rebbe immediately recognized that the butcher’s gifted son had fallen to great depths of degradation.
The apparently innocent national pastime of the neo-Egyptian exile reeked of those vile sins for which a Jew must forfeit his life rather than transgress the commandments. In front of men, women, and children, they played the game in pajamas, veritable sexual lewdness. The communal chant of “Kill the umpire” was an invitation for the spilling of blood. The three white bases above ground symbolized the idolatrous Christian trinity. Only home plate, buried in the dirt, retained a suggestion of solitary unity, and there, thank God, Matti resided. There could be no doubt as to the depths of the idolatry, for Reb Zelig reported that every time a batsman scored a home run, the otherwise quiet, dignified customer seated next to the sexton would intone, “Holy Jesus!” and offer him a bottle of beer.
The rebbe realized, too, that baseball, like all powerfully seductive impurities such as the witch Grannie Zara, posed as life, when in reality it was death. Played by nine men on a side, together the two sides created the number eighteen, the numerological equivalent of the Hebrew word for life, chai, but in reality, just as with Grannie Zara, the two nines opposed each other and never could reach true life. That nine represented the symbolic number of baseball was confirmed in the regulation nine innings, during which the pajama-clad degenerates pranced about the three white bases (spitting upon home plate and striking it with their bats), while the paying customers aspired to “kill the umpire” and revered “Holy Jesus.” It came as no surprise to the Krimsker Rebbe that they had baseball problems.
&
nbsp; “What exactly is the baseball problem?” the rebbe asked.
“Rebbe, Matti is planning to cause the St. Louis Browns to lose tomorrow’s game. He had my brother-in-law, the cripple Barasch, bet ten thousand dollars in cash this afternoon on the opposing team. Matti has been named in a Chicago grand jury investigation by big-syndicate gamblers as having planned to perform an illegal act.”
“Is this true?” the rebbe asked Matti.
“Yes, basically it is, but not the part about the syndicate. They contacted me, and I turned them down cold, but the money, Barasch, and my intent to fix tomorrow’s game . . . that’s all absolutely true,” Matti admitted in complete candor.
“Good,” said the rebbe, nodding his head affirmatively. “This is what we have been waiting for!”
Matti and Boruch Levi were both completely taken aback, but it was Boruch Levi who burst out, “No, Rebbe, it’s not good at all! You don’t understand. The chief himself said that it’s the national pastime, sacred. He said that if cards, dice, and horses aren’t enough for Matti, why, it’s too bad. The very reputation of our fair city is at stake.”
Flushing red in angry agitation, Boruch Levi paused for breath.
“What else did the chief of police say?” the rebbe asked.
“He and the inspector said that in Chicago the goniff responsible for cheating in last year’s World Series was one of ours, and that another Jewish cheater, right here in St. Louis, wouldn’t look very good. The chief said that the best thing would be for the Browns to win, but above all, no heavy bets should be placed on the other team. Matti has to contact the syndicate and tell them the business is off. They warned that if something funny happens tomorrow, Matti and Barasch will wake up in jail.”
Boruch Levi was relieved now that he had managed to convey the problem.
Big League Dreams (Small Worlds) Page 13