Big League Dreams (Small Worlds)

by Allen Hoffman

  Matti anxiously listened to the distant reverberations of the telephone ringing in Malka’s messy kitchen above the junkyard. When a child answered, he became hopeful. Matti asked to speak to the boy’s father and waited for Barasch, but instead he heard the sly, slovenly voice of Malka.

  “Hello,” Matti said as confidently as he could. “May I please speak to Bernard?”

  He heard no more than a quiet click as she hung up. Matti stared forlornly at the earpiece, then rang the operator to try again. Once more the same ringing and the same voice.

  “Malka, this is Matti Sternweiss. Please don’t hang up. I would like to speak to Barasch about something that is extremely important to all of us.” He paused for a moment but didn’t receive any response. “I know you don’t like me, and I understand why. Believe me that things have changed for the better. Until now I have been misleading your husband, and I would like to tell him that it is all over.”

  He paused for an answer, but she remained silent.

  “Malka, I’m sorry about what I did to Barasch. May I please speak to him?” he pleaded.

  “Drop dead, you bum,” she answered simply in her crafty, measured tones and hung up.

  Matti hung up sadly and sat back for a long minute, reflecting on her response. He couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t promise to return Barasch to his St. Louis self, but Matti knew that for his own sake he would have to try. If he really wanted to speak to Barasch tonight, he would ask Boruch Levi to call and have Malka put her husband on the line. At any rate, he might mention that Malka had hung up on him and hear what Boruch Levi had to say about it. Matti left two nickels on the desk and opened the door.

  Well into his mopping, Ray had left a dry pathway for Matti that led past the soda fountain. The surrounding wet tiles glistened with a shiny splendor under the bright overhead lights. A trace of a quick, quiet shadow flickered across the shiny reflective tiles like the fluttering of dark wings. Matti glanced up to be sure that this almost imperceptible shadowy rhythm beating its way toward him was not a product of his imagination. He watched the four large blades of the electric ceiling fan silently stirring the air. He even closed his eyes for a moment to discern whether a breeze reached his face. Disappointed, he opened his eyes and began to follow the dull, dry way left especially for him.

  “Had a great game this afternoon, Mr. Sternweiss!” Ray called out over the swishing of his large, wet mop.

  Matti nodded. As he passed the soda fountain, Burt lowered his head a bit in a respectful seconding of his helper’s statement. In the mirror on the wall behind Burt, Matti could see the high school sweethearts, thoroughly enraptured with themselves and their ice cream. They were carefully spooning so that each bite was accompanied by a helping of rich, hot fudge and an even thicker adoring glance that encompassed their confections and themselves. They were blind to Burt’s drooping eyelids and tired stance; they didn’t see Matti staring at them in the broad mirror; they didn’t hear Ray working his long hairy mop in great bubbly swaths across the floor; and they had no idea whatsoever that the stiff wooden blades of the ceiling fan spun endlessly through the air above them. Matti turned from watching them and smiled at Burt. The older man nodded in gentle agreement; a brief indulgent smile creased his face, revealing the slightest trace of envy at such romance and innocence at closing time.

  Matti continued around the freestanding cosmetic counter in the center of the store. Through the open double doors he could see the random lights of the automobile traffic on Delmar. He wondered whether Boruch Levi had returned from the chief’s house. Matti wasn’t in any hurry; if Boruch Levi wasn’t home, he might disturb the rest of the family. He was curious, however, as to the good news. Normally, he would attempt to analyze the situation and try to figure out what message the chief of police wanted Boruch Levi to pass on. Times were, however, no longer normal, and Matti had no desire to analyze or even to guess. He would find out soon enough. He was more curious about his new life, but that too would take time. By the door he felt a slight breeze, but he couldn’t tell whether it was generated by the fan inside or was wafted through the still darkness facing him.

  “Gee, Mr. Sternweiss, aren’t you going to buy a paper? It has some picture of you!” Ray exclaimed, breathing heavily, with beads of sweat clinging to his forehead.

  Matti had forgotten all about it.

  “Yes, I think I will,” he said gently.

  He took a thick edition off the bulky stack on top of the glass cigar counter and dropped a dime into the smoothly worn heavy wooden bowl.

  As he stepped outside, he scanned the front page. There didn’t seem to be any particular good news, or any particular bad news either. He turned down the tree-lined side street toward his car. In the deep darkness, he shuffled instinctively through the various Sunday sections to the one that had always been of such great importance to him. Approaching his car, he came into the golden pool of a softly glowing gas streetlight. The banner headlines across the top of the sports section proclaimed, SIRDY STOPS TIGERS. It seemed so long ago. He was faintly surprised that it didn’t say SIRDY BURNS TIGERS, but he realized that then it would have to read MATTI BURNS TIGERS, and it couldn’t possibly say anything other than Sirdy. That was the way it had to be, but he preferred the finality that “burns” implied. “Stops” sounded all too temporary, as if the Tigers would have another chance at Matti, or worse, at his old self, Sirdy. Well, well, thought Matti as he lifted the page slightly to get a better look at the large photo centered so dramatically under the headlines.

  He remembered floating above them all in triumphant weariness. He recalled his lack of exuberance and joy, but he was surprised and mildly disappointed to discover that in the picture he wasn’t wearing his hat. At his moment of glory on the holy Sabbath day, he paraded bareheaded under the vault of heaven. That was appropriate to Sirdy, all right; but the somber expression of victory was all Matti.

  It was during such considerations of self that a voice softly called, “Hey, Sirdy.” Matti wasn’t the least bit surprised, and for the briefest moment he thought that the newspaper itself was speaking to him. He glanced up over the sports section to see a slender man with a widebrimmed fedora pulled low over his face. In the street a large, vaguely familiar sedan with its lights off stood double-parked. Matti glimpsed someone behind the wheel, but he turned from the car to the man in the shadows, who stood as if he were holding or presenting something. Matti lowered his newspaper so he could see what that might be. Even in the soft yellow gaslight, the all-metal chrome automatic gleamed brightly, but that paled in comparison to the brilliant, fiery flash that exploded from its barrel, first once and then again in lethal, incandescent bursts.

  As Matti fell, he threw the sports section aside. He had no sensation of hitting the ground, but as he lay staring at the gently glowing light, he heard the noise of running feet, and then without any warning, he had a rich, sweet taste in the bottom of his mouth, as if he were slowly dissolving the hard candies of his youth. A sedan door slammed, and a motor accelerated in a muffled roar as the large automobile abandoned Matti. But he never heard it, for he was listening to the sound of many voices crying, “Thank you, Reb Mattus!” and he was answering, “Blessed art Thou, O Lord,” even though tears flooded his eyes.

  The ambulance arrived within an hour, but it really made no difference. The driver saw the two holes in the chest and realized that even if they had been there when it happened, the victim could not have been saved. After they stowed the body in the back, there was nothing else that they could do except to wander over the dark lawn collecting the various sections of the morning paper.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE BRILLIANT SUN STOOD DIRECTLY ABOVE, ITS SHADE-LIMNING rays revealing nothing of the cortege’s direction as each vehicle sat tightly hiding its own shadow. But the measured pace, the dirgelike cadence of the muffled engines, the rigid geometry of the long automotive line, all told the destination: onlookers removed their Sunday hats and bo
wed their bared heads in the blazing light at the shadow of death. The seemingly endless procession of the largest Jewish funeral St. Louis had ever seen rolled slowly and irrevocably west on Delmar Boulevard toward the cemetery beyond the city limits. Where churches released their congregations, hundreds stood respectfully in Sunday finery with beads of sweat dotting their foreheads and often with tears of anguished tribute for their city’s slain hero, who had refused to betray their trust and affection.

  Those fans hoping to catch a glimpse of Sirdy’s St. Louis Browns teammates were disappointed, for after escorting the casket as honorary pallbearers at the funeral parlor, they left for the ballpark. They had all attended: a stern-faced Zack, a bewildered Mack, a tearful Dufer with an equally lachrymose Penny Pinkham on his arm, a mournful but ever-solicitous Bill, who offered St. Louis Browns smelling salts to anyone who was faint. They followed the plain wooden coffin to the hearse, boarded a special bus for the ballpark, and arrived in time for batting practice.

  Everyone who watched the somber journey to the cemetery saw the chief of police’s automobile, and they might have noticed His Honor the Mayor in his large Pierce-Arrow. They certainly couldn’t miss the police motorcycle escort leading the procession. Approaching a busy intersection, the lead outrider momentarily sounded his siren. At the unexpected wail on a quiet Sunday morning, people turned their heads two blocks away, half expecting to see a bank robbery in progress.

  Riding with Mrs. Sternweiss in the limousine immediately behind the hearse, Boruch Levi heard the intermittent blasts with all their frightening, violent implications. He harbored no illusions as to the criminals’ identity: for him they were not anonymous. Although he was angry, the subject did not interest him; Matti was dead. His square jaw set in stoic mourning, Boruch Levi stared out the open window and wondered anxiously what the Krimsker Rebbe would say by the grave.

  Boruch Levi had offered the rebbe the honor of speaking first at the funeral parlor, but the rebbe had announced that he would speak at the cemetery. Boruch Levi explained that in St. Louis eulogies were delivered in the spacious, well-appointed auditorium, where everyone could sit comfortably instead of standing under the broiling sun, but the rebbe responded that he would be brief. Boruch Levi suspected that the rebbe did not want to speak at the funeral parlor because he would not be the sole speaker. Yitzhak Weinbach had insisted that Rabbi Dr. Emmanuel D. Morgenstern, dean of the city’s Reform rabbinate, speak, too, since it was to be a communal funeral. Boruch Levi had consented—with the public dignitaries and the press attending, someone had to be sure to express the appropriate Jewish sentiments—but he had sandwiched the pompous Rabbi Doctor between a European-born Conservative rabbi and the nondescript chaplain of the Jewish Hospital. Predictably, the various speakers had all acclaimed Matti’s courage, passion for justice, love of America and its glorious national pastime, noble contribution to national decency, and general sobriety. In stentorian tones they mourned his untimely death and decried murder most foul. Matti had proven so worthy of America’s blessings, Rabbi Morgenstern explained, and now we must continue in Matti’s footsteps with our faith in justice and love of country unabated as he would so certainly command.

  After such flowery speeches, Boruch Levi half feared and half hoped that the Krimsker Rebbe would get up and tell the truth. But what was the truth? That Matti had gone too far and couldn’t escape unscathed? That Matti had done penitence? That the greed of the police had killed him? That Boruch Levi’s own boastfulness had incited that greed? That the grand funeral was a self-serving, hypocritical farce?

  Mrs. Sternweiss stifled a sob, and Golda, Boruch Levi’s wife, took her arm in comfort. Golda seemed less nervous at funerals than she did at any other time, as if the tragic moment itself could never equal her perpetual trepidations. Whatever the truth, Mrs. Sternweiss had reason to mourn; she had lost her only child. Boruch Levi looked back out of the rear window. Reb Zelig was at the wheel, and next to him sat the rebbe, looking as if he were asleep, but Boruch Levi knew better.

  Boruch Levi turned back to notice that there were no more spectators. There were no more sidewalks either. They had left the city with its pedestrian amenities and were entering the pastoral county. Occasional roadside stores intruded—lonely reminders of the city among the meadows, trees, and farms. It wouldn’t be long now. Boruch Levi had given instructions for the hearse to stop at the cemetery’s great wrought-iron gates.

  “What would the rebbe like us to do?” Boruch Levi asked.

  “Have the hearse pull inside the gate. I’ll speak out here,” the rebbe instructed.

  When the great crowd gathered around the entrance, the rebbe stepped from his car. Standing on the running board, he could not command their attention.

  “Lift me up!” the rebbe ordered Boruch Levi and Yitzhak Weinbach.

  “What?” Yitzhak Weinbach stammered.

  “Lift me up. Put me on the roof of my automobile.”

  “Oh,” responded Yitzhak Weinbach.

  Boruch Levi was already hoisting the rebbe into the air when Yitzhak drew closer to help. The rebbe planted a shoe firmly on his shoulder and, with the powerful Boruch Levi still propelling him upward, nimbly skipped onto the roof. At the sight of the Krimsker Rebbe in his long black coat and beard apparently floating above them, the large throng grew suddenly quiet and attentive. The rebbe paced the length of the roof before turning and addressing them.

  “You are stunned, saddened, even shattered by the death of Mattathias Sternweiss. Not long ago, he felt the same way about the death of Lieutenant Max Miller, the distinguished postal aviator. Matti was wrong. The aircraft’s fiery explosive crash was terrible, but it was so terrible precisely because the man had been so high in the sky. The fall was catastrophic, but others will follow, and eventually one will succeed. Matti was wrong, and so are you. Matti ceased to mourn Lieutenant Max Miller. Matti Sternweiss was a pilot. He flew higher than any of us. His crash was catastrophic, but eventually, but eventually . . .” The rebbe’s voice broke. He lifted up his arms as if imploring heaven. Words failing to express his desire for salvation, he stretched toward heaven, even leaping toward it, only to be drawn down by merciless gravity. He landed with a dull thumping on the automobile roof, only to leap again and again. Then he stopped and covered his face with his hands. Tearfully, he looked out at the sea of faces and spoke in strong, confident tones.

  “We must mourn, but not for Matti. He served holiness. Forget the fancy talk. We mourn today for ourselves and the Shekinah, the presence of the divine. Moses has contended with the overseer and lost. We remain in bondage to impurity. Let us mourn.” The rebbe promptly sat on the Ford’s roof as if already mourning the bondage of his people to impurity. He crept froglike toward the edge and slid off quietly into the pool of upturned faces. Boruch Levi managed to catch him and keep him from stumbling.

  Yitzhak Weinbach poked his head between the rebbe and Boruch Levi. “What do we do now?” he implored in a whisper meant only for them.

  The rebbe did not answer immediately. He seemed distant and preoccupied. “What do we do now?” Yitzhak Weinbach beseeched.

  “Do we have a choice? Bury him,” the rebbe answered matter-of-factly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THEY BURIED HIM IN A GRAVE JUST LIKE ALL THE others; they had no choice. But the crowd that buried him was not the same crowd that had halted at the cemetery gates to listen to the rebbe. Curious, fearful, seeking the thrill of proximity to someone touched by a more articulated, glorious fate, they had come as spectators—respectful to be sure, but observers, hoping to be touched by that dramatic tragedy that was the life of Matti Sternweiss. Without quite understanding the rebbe’s words, they watched him leap toward heaven only to fall back to earth, and in some mysterious way they accepted his command and fell with him into mourning. As a community of mourners they somberly followed the simple wooden casket to the grave. Pained, mute, and contemplative, they heard the first shovelsful of hard, dry earth thump
ing upon the coffin lid with the hollow echo that announced the lifeless void within.

  The Krimsker Rebbe’s words touched everyone. Even those few who were already mourners when they arrived at the cemetery experienced fundamental changes. Bedraggled, ungainly, wild distraught eyes rolling in brute terror, Barasch Limp Legs hobbled, inarticulate in his pain. Indeed, he had refused to attend the funeral. With the help of the children, Malka had trapped him in the junkyard, wrestled him down from a pile of tires where he teetered like a delirious scarecrow, and stuffed him into the passenger seat of the pickup truck. Afraid that he might bolt at a stoplight, she drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on his coattails. She loaded the boys onto the back, where their red heads glinted in the sun like identical spools of copper wire. Inside the cab, Barasch slumped down like a hopelessly collapsed auto chassis, wrenched askew and ridiculously bent. Malka released her grip on his dirty coattail; such a junk heap as Barasch seemed incapable of motion.

  At the funeral parlor, she took his arm and dragged him along. Like a wreck under tow, he bumped about, offering no resistance. Much to her surprise, at the sight of the simple wooden coffin, salty tears trickled from Malka’s small, squinty eyes. She could not have cared less about Matti; the news of his death had even brought a sly smile to her rapacious lips. But as she stood by Matti’s coffin, she had the sinking feeling that her beloved American husband Bernard, the courtly dandy, lay dead inside the box in front of her, and that she was left with the shabby Krimsk remains called Barasch. Bending his head, he stared with wild, rolling eyes at his legs of differing lengths. When he was led by Malka or his sons, his shoes scraped like an old horse collar being dragged back to the barn. He shuffled to the cemetery gates when the Krimsker Rebbe climbed onto his automobile and began to speak, and Barasch listened.