Mrs. Kaputnik's Pool Hall and Matzo Ball Emporium

by Rona Arato

  “What is that thing?” Mrs. Kaputnik demanded.

  “It’s a pool table, my dear woman. Combine that with your matzo ball toss, and from now on this establishment will be known as,” he held up a sign:

  MRS. KAPUTNIK’S POOL HALL AND MATZO BALL EMPORIUM

  “I shall replace your sign with this one to let people know that this is the most original restaurant and entertainment center in New York.” Suddenly he became serious. He looked around, as if expecting ears to pop out of the walls. “A word of warning – in this neighborhood, it can be dangerous to be too successful.”

  “How can success be dangerous?” asked Mrs. Kaputnik.

  “There are scoundrels who make their living by wresting money from hard working shopkeepers.”

  “No one steals my money,” said Mrs. Kaputnik.

  “What about Uncle Mendel and Aunt Sadie?” asked Shoshi.

  “That was different. They are family.”

  “I’m talking about gangsters who will try to take from you what is yours. I must warn you to be careful,” said Mr. Thornswaddle. “Do not trust strangers, and if you ever hear the name Nick the Stick, run the other way. That is,” he said with a stern glance at Mrs. Kaputnik, “if you want you and your children to remain safe.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Who Needs Protection?

  “If we have to have boarders, I’m glad they’re the Shmuels,” said Shoshi. It was the Sabbath and the restaurant was closed. She and Moshe were on the fire escape, waiting for Mama to call them inside for lunch.

  The Shmuels had been in the flat for two weeks. Mrs. Shmuel was a small woman with a shy smile and brown hair, which she covered with a scarf. When her husband introduced her, his head snapped up, his shoulders un-slumped, and he glowed with pride. The couple took up residence in the bedroom, and, once Mrs. Shmuel had covered the bed with a handmade red-and-gold cover and matching cushions, the space looked warm and homey.

  Every morning, Mrs. Kaputnik rolled up the mattress that she and the children slept on in the front room. Mr. Shmuel would then set up his sewing machine on a small table near the window. All day, he stitched shirts brought to him by a young boy, like the one Shoshi had seen on their first day in New York. Mrs. Shmuel took over the cooking in the restaurant, much to the relief of the Kaputniks and their customers.

  “She really knows how to cook.” Moshe sniffed the tantalizing aroma of roast chicken and potato pudding. “And she didn’t scream like Aunt Sadie did when she saw Snigger.”

  Shoshi liked the Shmuels. It was just that the apartment was small and there was no place to be alone. In Vrod, she’d picked wildflowers in grassy fields, walked along the riverbank, and followed shady paths into the woods. Here, her only refuge was the fire escape.

  It had rained that morning, and the air smelled fresh. With most stores closed for the Sabbath, Hester Street was quiet. Life was finally settling into a routine. Shoshi watched a man in a black coat and hat walking home from synagogue with his son.

  It was July. In September, she and Moshe would start school, but for now, they could concentrate on the restaurant and the search for their father. Mr. Thornswaddle had shown them how to shoot matzo balls with long sticks called pool cues. His “barking” had attracted customers, and Mrs. Kaputnik’s Pool Hall and Matzo Ball Emporium was always full of customers shooting pool, tossing matzo balls, and eating Mrs. Shmuel’s cooking. But one thing still bothered Shoshi. Mr. Thornswaddle seemed overly interested in Snigger. He had told them to keep Snigger inside to keep the dragon safe. But Shoshi thought about the whispered exchange that Thornswaddle had had with Salty before the sailor returned to his ship. If they did know each other, could their secret exchange have something to do with Snigger?

  “Everything is going to work out, Snigger,” she said, stroking the dragon’s head. “Maybe you’ll even learn to fly.”

  “Snig, snig, snigger.” The dragon opened a yellow eye, and then drifted back to his dragon dreams.

  Aloysius P. Thornswaddle had been right. Matzo balls cooked by dragon fire were a curiosity, but those same matzo balls tossed against cans or hit with a pool cue were irresistible.

  Once customers got over their fear of Snigger, he became everybody’s pet. The Kaputniks’ regular customers came to gawk, and a few children bravely reached out shaky hands to pet him.

  With the increased business, Mrs. Kaputnik found it hard to produce the many batches of matzo balls that their customers now demanded. Since bakeries only made matzo at Passover, when it was traditional to eat it, she decided to bake it herself. Every night, she mixed dough out of water and flour, and then she flattened the dough with a studded rolling pin. The studs made lines in the matzo so it would dry crisp and thin and break into pieces. Mrs. Kaputnik baked it in the oven, and then ground the finished matzos into a fine meal, which she used for the matzo balls.

  Mr. Thornswaddle was a regular visitor. When they asked about his circus, he brushed their questions aside, promising to show it to them someday. He did, however, produce a tattered poster of a man dressed in a black suit with a chalk white face and cherry nose. “A clown,” he explained. What Mr. Thornswaddle seemed most interested in, however, was Snigger. At one point, Shoshi worried that he wanted him for his circus.

  “Never you mind, little lady,” he said, with his customary bow. “I would never harm a scale on your dragon’s tail.” Chuckling at his rhyme, Mr. Thornswaddle hoisted Shoshi on his shoulders and marched around the room. “Trust me. Snigger will remain right here in this restaurant where he belongs.”

  On his next visit, Mr. Thornswaddle brought a guest. “I want you to meet my friend Dingle Hinglehoffer.”

  Shoshi and Moshe had never seen anyone so tall. Dingle Hinglehoffer had blond hair that flopped into his eyes. He wore white-and-blue striped pants and a matching jersey with the words Brooklyn Slobbers on the front. An enormous leather glove covered his right hand.

  “I know who you are,” said Moshe. “You’re the pitcher for the team that never wins.”

  Mr. Thornswaddle picked up a matzo ball and threw it at Dingle Hinglehoffer, who snatched it from the air with one deft movement.

  “Wow!” said Moshe. “Can you do that again?”

  “Not in here.” Mrs. Kaputnik emerged from the kitchen shaking a finger. “Throwing at the cans, you can do. But only cans. And first, you pay.” She held out her hand.

  Mr. Thornswaddle laughed. “We won’t break anything.”

  The men sat, and Moshe and Shoshi joined them.

  “Two bowls of your delicious soup,” Mr. Thornswaddle said. “Trust me, Hinglehoffer, you’ve never tasted anything quite like this.” Mrs. Kaputnik bustled off to fill their order.

  “Mr. Hinglehoffer, why are you dressed so funny? I’ve never seen anyone with such a big glove,” said Shoshi.

  “This is my baseball uniform,” he answered.

  “Dingle Hinglehoffer is the star pitcher for the Brooklyn Slobbers. The team, of which, I might add, I am the current manager.”

  Shoshi planted her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. “Are the Brooklyn Slobbers part of your circus?”

  “They are a sideline, a hobby, and …” Mr. Thornswaddle gulped air, “… the worst baseball team in these Uniteed States.”

  Dingle Hinglehoffer lowered his head. “Yes, it’s true. Our team is always in the cellar. That means we’re at the bottom of the heap. And it’s all because of that brute, Yicky Stickyfingers.” He slapped the table.

  “Yicky Stickyfingers?” said Moshe.

  “He’s the pitcher for our archrivals, the New York Yoinkles.” He wound his arm around and around like a windmill. “When Stickyfingers pitches, we don’t hit. When we don’t hit, we don’t score runs and we lose.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Shoshi. “Haven’t you ever won a game?”

  “Only once, against a high-school team from New Jersey.” He pulled out an enormous handkerchief and blew his nose. “And even then, we only won
by a single point.”

  “That’s why I’ve brought him here,” said Mr. Thornswaddle.

  “We’re not baseball players,” said Moshe.

  “We don’t know anything about baseball,” said Shoshi.

  “That’s easy. I’ll teach you about baseball,” said Dingle Hinglehoffer.

  Mr. Thornswaddle snapped his fingers. “Better yet, we’ll take them to a game at Nebbish Field. It’s across the Williamsburg Bridge, in Brooklyn.”

  “But why did you bring him here?” asked Shoshi.

  “I brought him for the matzo balls, of course.” Mr. Thornswaddle grabbed one off the pool table and tossed it up and down. “They’re perfect. Here, Dingle, try it. Hit those cans.”

  The pitcher took the matzo ball and stood facing the pile of cans. His arm spun around and around until WHAM! The ball smashed into the cans and sent them crashing to the floor. “Zowee!” cried Dingle.

  “What did I tell you?” Mr. Thornswaddle placed his thumbs under his lapels and puffed out his chest. “These matzo balls are your answer. Pitch them, and the Slobbers will clobber the Yoinkles. Mark my words – by this time next month, the Brooklyn Slobbers will not only be champions, we will be legends!”

  By August, the restaurant was busy enough that Mrs. Kaputnik told the children they could start looking for Papa. It was Monday morning, and they were cleaning the tables for the day’s customers.

  “Where will we look, Mama?” Moshe asked. “New York is soooo big.” He spread his arms wide. “And how will we recognize him?”

  His mother pulled a picture from her pocket. It was yellowed with age. “Look carefully and memorize his face. One day you will see it on the street, and you will say, ‘Excuse me. You are Mr. Saul Kapustin from Vrod?’ And when he turns to you and asks how you know, you will say, ‘because we are your kinderlach, Moshe and Shoshi.’” Mrs. Kaputnik pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

  Shoshi thought of the man in the black hat, whom she and Moshe had followed on their first day.

  A sudden hush filled the restaurant. A man stood in the doorway. The pool players put down their cues. The matzo ball tossers lowered their arms. Diners dropped spoons into their bowls, splashing soup onto their clothes.

  The man walked over to Mrs. Kaputnik. He was short and muscular, with a hawkish nose and a small mouth. In spite of the heat, he wore a high-necked white shirt, gray suit, dark-gray hat, and he carried a brass-handled walking stick. “Who is the owner of this establishment?” he snapped.

  “Children, go to the kitchen,” Mrs. Kaputnik said.

  “We want to stay, Mama,” said Shoshi.

  “Go!” She pushed them toward the door.

  “We’d better hide Snigger,” Moshe muttered.

  Shoshi made sure Snigger was inside and closed the kitchen door, leaving it open a crack so they could hear what was going on.

  Mrs. Kaputnik pulled herself up to her full height. “I own this restaurant,” she said. “And who are you?”

  “She doesn’t know me?” The man looked around the restaurant, smiling as people avoided his gaze. “Igor.” He snapped his fingers. His companion, a broad-shouldered man with a fleshy nose, closely set eyes, and ears that stuck out under his corduroy cap, handed him a card, which the man presented to Mrs. Kaputnik. “They call me Nick the Stick.” He lifted his stick to expose a thin sharp knife, protruding from the bottom. “I carry this for protection. Your protection!”

  “That’s the man Mr. Thornswaddle warned us about,” whispered Shoshi.

  “He said if we saw him, we should run,” said Moshe.

  “Shhhh.” Shoshi hushed him. “I want to hear what they’re saying.”

  Mrs. Kaputnik, hands on hips and head thrust forward, looked like she was ready for a fight. “Thank you, Mr. Stick. But I don’t need protection.”

  “Oh, but you do, Mrs. Kaputnik.” He grabbed her arm, pulled her toward a table in the corner, and pushed her down into a chair. At once, the sound of voices and the clatter of utensils resumed. “Igor, explain to this lady why she needs my protection.”

  Igor leaned over the table, his eyes boring into Mrs. Kaputnik’s face. “No one works in this neighborhood without Mr. Stick’s protection. The way it works is this. You pay me, and Mr. Stick keeps bad things from happening to you.”

  “Is that so? And if I don’t pay?”

  “The last man who didn’t give us his money disappeared.”

  Mrs. Kaputnik’s face drained of color.

  “He didn’t care about our rules,” said Igor.

  “You, I trust, are smarter.” Nick the Stick folded his hands on the table. “Now listen carefully. Every Friday afternoon at four o’clock, Igor will come to your restaurant. You will give him twenty-five dollars, and then you and your family and your business will be safe.” “Twenty-five dollars? But that is more than–” “Trust me, Mrs. Kaputnik,” said Nick the Stick. “Being under my protection is worth every penny. Come, Igor.” Igor rushed forward and picked up his boss’s walking stick from the chair. When he handed it to Nick, Mrs. Kaputnik spied a circle beneath the handle.

  Afterwards, the more she thought about it, the more certain Mrs. Kaputnik was that what had looked like a circle was, in fact, a delicately carved wooden rose.

  “Such an evil man. You should have let Snigger bite him,” Mrs. Shmuel said, after the men had left. She wiped her hands on her apron.

  The customers circled Mrs. Kaputnik. “Yes. Let Snigger’s breath show him who needs protection,” someone cried out.

  “Those gonifs. Nobody can make an honest living without greasing their filthy palms.” Mr. Seltzer shook his fist. “In the Old Country, we had the Cossacks. Here we have this, this … stick person stealing the food from inside our mouths.”

  “Stick, Cossack. His horse I didn’t see.” Mrs. Kaputnik leaned against a chair to steady herself. “Besides, if we keep our mouths shut, how can he take our food?” She held up a hand. “So tell me, Mr. Seltzer, how long has this shnorer been stealing?”

  Mr. Seltzer scratched his head. “For as long as I can remember. If you want my advice, Mrs. Kaputnik, every Friday you pay him twenty-five dollars, like he says. We don’t want something bad to happen to you or your children. Not like that poor schnook who vanished.”

  “Seltzer, do you remember the person who disappeared?” asked Mrs. Kaputnik.

  “He wasn’t here so long.”

  She pulled out her photo of her husband. “This, maybe, is the man?”

  Mr. Seltzer studied the picture. “Maybe,” he said.

  “Let me see that,” said a plump woman. She squinted and studied the photo. “Yes, yes, that’s him. He was such a nice man.”

  Mrs. Kaputnik grasped the woman’s arm. “Are you sure, Mrs….”

  “Sophie Schneider. That’s definitely him. How do you know this man?” she asked.

  Mrs. Kaputnik blinked back tears. “He is my husband.”

  A gasp erupted from the crowd.

  “For this I came to America? To discover my Saul kidnapped by bandits?” Mrs. Kaputnik cried.

  Shoshi and Moshe burst into the room. Moshe, red-faced and sweating, grabbed his mother’s arm. “Mama, Mama, Snigger’s gone.”

  Mrs. Kaputnik threw up her hands. “The dragon they’re talking about. I wouldn’t worry. Right now, he’s probably outside scaring people.”

  “No, he’s not. We looked. He’s not anywhere,” said Moshe. “Someone stole him.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Our Dragon Is Missing

  It seemed as if the whole neighborhood had gathered at Mrs. Kaputnik’s restaurant to discuss Nick the Stick and his gang of thugs. Shoshi and Moshe sat in the corner, brooding about Snigger, while the adults voiced their complaints.

  “Mr. Thornswaddle warned us to keep Snigger hidden,” said Moshe.

  “We did. He was in the kitchen. We saw him when we went in there.”

  “But then you wanted to hear what Nick the Stick had to say.” He gave his
sister an accusatory look.

  “Don’t blame me. You wanted to hear him as much as I did,” she said. “Let’s not fight. We’ve got to think of a way to find Snigger.”

  The talk in the restaurant was getting louder.

  “He always terrorizes us with his threats,” shouted Seltzer.

  “I bake and they eat. Without paying me a penny,” said Meyer the baker. He passed around a plate of warm bagels. “Stop that,” he shouted, as Misha jumped up, grabbed a bagel, and scampered away. “Keep that crazy monkey on his leash,” he said to the organgrinder.

  “Keep your bagels out of the way,” said the organgrinder.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Mr. Seltzer.

  “Feed the gangsters matzo balls,” Shoshi said. “That will fix them.”

  Her mother gave her a stern look.

  Shoshi sighed. With Snigger missing, their father kidnapped, and gangsters threatening their livelihood, nothing was funny. They had spent the afternoon combing the neighborhood, but to no avail. Snigger was gone.

  “How do we find him?” said Shoshi.

  “Maybe Mr. Thornswaddle can help us,” said Moshe.

  “Maybe Mr. Thornswaddle took him. We don’t know where he is either.” Shoshi reminded her brother.

  All the adults seemed to be talking at once. Mr. Shmuel held up his hand for silence. “Please listen,” he said in his soft voice. “If we all work together and organize, we can deal with this man.”

  “The tailor is right. We must be united and drive them away,” said Mr. Seltzer.

  “Are you a jokenik? If we organize, we won’t live so long,” said the organgrinder.

  “You’ll live,” said the baker. “Maybe without an arm or a leg …”

  You think this is funny?” Seltzer growled. He and Meyer stood nose to nose, glaring at each other.

  “Funny, shmunny. You want to fight? Save it for Mr. Stick.”

  Shoshi and Moshe left the adults to their argument. It was a hot, sticky night, and door steps were filled with people trying to escape the stifling tenements. Someone had taken the cap off a fire hydrant, and a group of children played in the water that gushed from its spout. They sat on an empty stoop. Shoshi fanned herself with her hand. Her clothes stuck to her body in wet, clammy layers, and her hair foamed around her head in a tangle of ginger curls. Moshe mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. “I don’t think I like America. I want to go back to Vrod,” he said.