“In what lunatic asylum do we reside?” Aba replied.
Harry saw Aba’s eyes meet his father’s. Something passed between them which dampened joviality. Both sighed.
“He is coming! He is coming!” Mishkin, the ex-Berlin soccer player, who had been assigned to spot Asch and race to sound the alarm, shouted if the Nazarene himself were at hand.
Harry, between Aba and his father, turned left and right, scanning the line which began at the Royal and stretched far beyond. It was a picture that would be in history books! Even his mother, after vowing to remain aloof, had joined, saying:
“How many times does one get to see Yiddish writers agree on anything?”
Excited whispers flew from ear to ear:
“There he is … I see him … Does he see us …?”
It reminded Harry of the movie in which the FBI waited outside the theater for Dillinger.
Across Second Avenue a small figure, huddled in an overcoat, waited through the changing of two red traffic lights, trying to make sense of what he saw. Finally, he crossed the street.
“Apostate!” a voice shouted
He nodded his head, shrugged and turned to recross the street. Feet shuffled. It had been too quick. The culprit had denied them mortified flesh. Then a female voice began to sing the Hatikvah. Immediately, everyone joined at the top of their lungs. Locked hands swung back and forth. His father interrupted his monotone screaming to shout to Harry:
“Make a joyous noise!”
Pedestrians stopped. A crowd formed. The choir freed their hands to point at the small, bent overcoat taking tiny steps away. The crowd, ready to play, pointed also. Some sang. One shouted:
“There he is: M!”
The song over, everyone filed back into the Royal, congratulating each other. At the table, Aba said:
“We showed discipline under fire. No one broke ranks.”
His father laughed.
“Suppose he comes back tomorrow or the next day,” Harry asked, “how will you know? How will you keep him out?”
“We will not keep him out,” his father said. “We have told him what we think of what he has done. It is sufficient.”
“I thought you hated him.”
“Perhaps we do,” Aba said, “but blood is thicker than walking on water.”
“Harry,” his mother said, her hand designating Aba, her husband and then sweeping the room, “with them, nothing is ever serious. Just jokes.’’
JULY 1939
CHAPTER
28
THE SWEATING MAN’S SKEPTICAL EYE’S NARROWED TO A SQUINT, HONING his gaze to pierce Harry’s forehead and read the truth. He removed a white triangular cloth hat, revealing a bald head sprinkled with brown age spots and laid it next to a stack of sugar cones. Cocking his head left, he said:
“You sure you’re not one of them rich kids from Sea Gate, just here for the summer? I’ve had too many of you pulled outta here by the ears. And their parents cursing at me.”
Harry spoke rapidly: “I live on 35th street. I go to Lincoln High. I know Schnozz and the big talker who runs the kiddie rides, and …”
The man smiled and held up a believing palm.
“OK, OK, the pay is fifteen cents an hour. On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday you work from six at night to midnight. On weekends you start at noon and maybe go a little later. It depends on the weather. Any problems?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?
“Harry.”
“Mine’s Morey,” he said, lifting a sugar cone out of the stack. Turning toward the two cylindrical white vats which resembled cement mixers, he asked: “Chocolate or vanilla?”
“Chocolate.”
He pulled down a gearstick-shaped handle. Cocoa colored frozen custard filled the cone, growing thinner as it rose, like the decreasing drips on a sand castle. The last drop angled off, resembling the floppy top of a stocking cap. He handed the cone to Harry and laughed.
“Right now you’re thinking: Boy oh boy, all the custard I can eat. In three days you’ll hate it. Believe me.”
Harry licked the smooth sweetness. He didn’t believe him.
A customer rested his girth on the metal counter.
“Gimme a vanilla, and fill it!”
“Always,” Morey said. “Best nickel buy on the Island.”
He built a white spiral taller than Harry’s. In one slurp, the customer decapitated the custard to the rim of the cone and left. Morey pointed an instructive finger:
“Give fat guys more. Fat guys have fat friends looking for cheap things to fill their bellies. He’ll tell his buddies.”
Harry nodded.
Morey winked.
“You just watch me, kid. You’ll learn a helluva of lot more’n pullin’ custard.”
Harry smiled a thank-you.
“Listen, Harry, can you come back around five? It’s the beginning of the July Fourth weekend and the other kid quit on me with no warning.”
“Sure.”
Harry walked his bike onto the boardwalk. He watched cleanup crews, wearing yellow-billed caps and matching oversized gloves sweep the residue of last night’s joy into small mounds: pink strands of cotton candy which clung to sticks like the last feathers of a sick bird, impaled brown apple cores, teeth-gouged corncobs, buns, meat scraps and grease, mustard, and ketchup-stained paper. Other cleaning men stood on the runningboards of small dump trucks, jumping off to shovel the garbage into the truck bed. They moved slowly, screwing up their faces in displeasure while shouting, “Fucking, filthy animals!”
It was midmorning. The beach was a patchwork quilt of bathing costumes and beach umbrellas. At the ocean’s edge, nude toddlers raced toward the water, their parents in lifesaving pursuit. Older children built sand castles. Muscle men fought mock battles, wrestling each other to the ground, checking if any female had eyed their flexed biceps. Sometimes four or five would carry a struggling victim to the water’s edge, where after swinging him back and forth like a hammock while counting to three they would fling him into the water. If a girl was in their grasp, they swung her higher and longer, encouraging her screams and wriggling.
Most of the beach people lay prone, tilting their faces toward the sun, coaxing a handsome tan. Beach umbrellas protected only the aged and babies.
Boys Harry’s age, harnessed to heavy metal containers filled with dry ice and ice-cream pops, tottered though the sand, wary of cops who, under orders from merchants, would confiscate their inventory. Hawking ice cream was one of the jobs Harry had considered after he had lied to Woody, saying he would no longer pick up betting slips because he had been offered a better-paying summer job. The truth was that when he had proudly told Aba of his criminal activity, the response had been an order to stop:
“You are putting yourself in bad company. I am not against breaking the law for pleasure or even principle. But to do it for profit is to join hands with people like the Rockefellers. Very bad company. Not fit for a good American boy.”
Woody had cursed him. His normally dead-white face gone purple, he had shouted:
“And to think I felt sorry for ya! That’s the thanks I get for tryin’ to save your ass … to help ya out.”
“Huh,” Harry puzzled, thinking Woody’s rage had unhinged him.
“What about the fucking bike!” Woody shouted.
“What about it?”
“The deal for that piece of shit I took off your hands. You owe me payments.”
“You said it was an even trade.”
“Shit, I did … Soldier!”
Soldier appeared.
“Damn, hello Harry. How are you?”
“Never mind that shit, you nut case. Listen to me good. Didn’t I say to you just yesterday that maybe it’s time this little shit starts payin’ off the bike I give him?”
Soldier’s fingers masked his eyes.
“Well?” Woody screamed.
“Damn, I’m thinking.”
“What t
he fuck is there to think about, you gassed-up cripple? You remember damn well.”
Soldier removed his hands from his face. He did not look at Harry.
“Damn,” he whispered, “seems like I do remember something like that.”
“Damn right!” Woody said.
He shook a fist at Harry.
“Now, what the fuck are you going to do about that?”
“I’ll pay you.”
“You bet you will. With interest too. Two bucks a week for ten weeks. Got it!”
“Yes.”
“And if you miss one payment … bye-bye bike.”
“I understand.”
“Get the fuck outta here, before I take the bike now.”
Riding home, Harry had heard the sound of running behind him. He stopped and turned. Soldier ran into him. They fell to the ground. Harry jumped to his feet and pedaled away. Soldier shouted:
“Damn, Harry, don’t hate me.”
Harry stopped at a safe distance.
“You came to take my bike.”
“Damn, no! No! I’d never do that. Never!”
Soldier came toward him body bent forward, nose parallel to the ground. He laid his hand on the back fender. Harry pulled the bike away. Tears ran down Soldier’s cheeks, wandering through the stubble. A lump formed in Harry’s throat. He pushed the bike within Soldier’s reach. Soldier stroked it.
“Damn, it’s a nice bike, Harry. And you’re a nice boy.”
“Thanks, Soldier.”
“Damn, Harry, it wouldna made any difference what I said, except for me.”
Harry shrugged.
“Damn, if I woulda said Woody was lying, he woulda said I was crazy and don’t remember nothing. But he woulda got even. Woody always gets even. So I said what he wanted. I shouldn’t, I know. But Harry, I can’t fight … even if I think to. Damn, I smell mustard and my head is like to break.”
Harry grazed a playful slap past Soldier’s cheek.
“Soldier, I know we’re pals.”
Soldier straightened his body.
“Damn, Harry, can I hug you?”
“Sure.”
Soldier put his arms around Harry’s waist. Their cheeks touched. Harry heard the sound of a kiss but felt only Soldier’s beard, first on one cheek and then the other.
“Damn, I learned that from the frogs in France. They do it all the time. It’s nice. They even did it when they gave me a medal. This big general. He smelled like a whore at Rosie’s. You ain’t mad at me, are you, Harry?”
“Never, Soldier.”
“Damn, if you need dough to pay off Woody, just ask me. I got no use for money.”
Soldier backed away.
“Damn. Please Harry, I can’t stand to see nobody cry.”
“I can’t help it Soldier. It’s not bad. It’s not about anything. It’s just crying.”
Soldier sniffed loudly.
“Damn mustard.”
He turned and ran. After a few steps he jumped, then skipped, then ran to begin a new cycle. Harry thought of the montage of athletic events that introduced the Movietone sports.
Harry looked at his watch: two o’clock. Three hours to kill. He decided to take a secret lesson from his employer.
From the other side of Surf Avenue he watched Morey entertain customers, serving the cones with elaborate hand flourishes, like Mayor La Guardia conducting a symphony orchestra. Sometimes he would whirl around and present the cone from behind his back to a child sitting on a parent’s shoulder.
Suddenly the scantily clad clientele was joined by a group of eight kids, ranging in age from about eight to sixteen, dressed in identical dark blue blazers stamped with a gold coat of arms topped by a cross, matching shorts, white, Buster Brown–collar shirts, black knee socks and patent leather black shoes. They marched behind a man whose flour-white face and lampblack brush mustache recalled a silent movie. A swagger stick was tucked under his arm.
Harry crossed the street and edged closer until he could read the lettering on their coats of arms: New York Rectory Orphanage.
Harry thought: I used to be an orphan. It was a time of much screaming in the house. One day his mother had snatched him up and taken him on a thing that had moved and made a terrible noise, which he later realized was the subway. Soon after, Zadeh had come and taken him. He hadn’t seen his mother or father for a long time. When they reappeared, he was surprised. He wasn’t expecting them.
Harry felt a chill. Aba said you felt cold when someone walked over your grave. It also applied to your parents’ graves. He mounted his bike and pedaled furiously, escaping from the orphan curse.
On the Midway, stymied by a wall of bodies that refused to part, he skidded into a narrow dirt alley between the House of Horrors and the Penny Pitch concession.
Two figures wearing oversized sombrero hats tilted forward to obscure their faces ran toward him from the end of the alley. They seemed hostile, perhaps members of one of the gangs from tough sections of Brooklyn who invaded Coney to rob holiday visitors or take pleasure in beating them. He ducked his head into his arms, preparing to cushion the blows.
“Hey, it’s Harry,” a familiar voice said.
“Yah, yah.”
Harry raised his eyes. Before him stood Jo-Jo and Blue Man.
Two more orphans, Harry thought. But maybe not. It seemed important to know.
“Did you guys have parents?
Jo-Jo shook his head slowly from side to side and said:
“Harry, we thought you were our friend. Not like the rest.”
Blue Man looked down at his feet.
“Yah, yah, eventually zey are all ze same. Why don’t you be wise like everyone else and ask: Did your parents have any children zat lived? Don’t you think zat is funny?”
Harry blurted out an explanation. The two smiled.
“Hey,” Harry said, “I don’t even know your real names.”
Blue Man straightened, clicked his heels and bowed slightly from the waist:
“Herr Doctor Yanos Musil, at your service.”
Jo-Jo, attempting an imitation, tangled his feet and grabbed Harry to keep from falling:
“Herr, Mr. Stanislaus Pruyzenski. How’s that for a mouthful?”
They laughed.
“Are you really a doctor?” Harry asked Blue Man.
“Yes. No. I mean not like you mean it. I not cure ze sick. But I am doctor of a university. On my degree it say doctor juris, a lawyer. In Prague all important men are called doctor.”
“Did you defend murderers?”
“No, Harry. I went to ze university only because Mama and Papa say I must. No, I do it for Mama. For Papa I do nozing. My Mama, she is very nice. I wonder what she did after I left?”
“Left for where?”
The Blue Man shrugged.
“I never want be lawyer. To say you did wrong, he did right. You good. He bad. Who knows zis? Nobody. People make believe zey know. Zey are liars. But because I am Herr Doctor, I get good job in Prague in bureau where people who hurt zemselves at work come ask for money. All day I see people who are missing parts: hand, fingers, toe, eye, ear, even nose. Some take off zere clothes to show what is missing or broken.
“I make friends wiz anozer Herr Doctor from my university, who also not want be lawyer. We give away ze most money we can. He do things like zis: one day a man come to him because he is very sad. My friend says the man has lost his soul at work. He give him ze most money and write on record: Zis man lost his soul at work. Until God is found to provide one, he is our responsibility. We laugh about our boss with a briefcase full papers looking for God to give him bill.
“One day a circus from Germany comes to Prague. I go wiz my friend. Is ze first time I ever see circus. My Papa say it waste of money. He never take me. When I walk in, I see men and women way up swinging like shooting stars. I see elephants made into kings and queens by jewels. I see women wiz heads of white fezers standing like statues on running white horses. I know zat all my life I loo
king for zis. A life full of magic.
“I tell my friend I will go with ze circus. He say he would like be up on ze trapeze and never come down. He always saying crazy zings like zat.
“I tell ze man who runs circus I want go wiz him. He show me somezing look like salt. He say is silver nitrate and if I swallow some every day my face turn blue. Zen he will put me in uniform of red and gold and I will stand in front of ze circus and point people to ze way in. He tell me it will not hurt me. Doctor’s use for medicine.
“I turn all blue. But is no good. Ze children afraid of blue face and hands. Zey cry.
“Owner say zere is one zing left to do. I must sit almost naked in a cage and let people look at ze blue man. I say: no, I not animal. The owner say: OK, leave circus. What can I do? I so tired. My head hurt most of ze time. I go into cage zat has on it sign: Blue man from ze moon. People yell at me, srow zings for to make me jump. Want me to eat peanuts like elephant. Zey shake fists. Zey say I from ze devil, dirty freak.
“One day we come back to Prague. My friend come up to cage. I cry.
“He say: ‘why you cry? You are in ze circus. You have what you want. Zat is important.’ I point to blue body. I hit myself. He say: ‘what you showing me, Yanos? I not understand.’ I yell: ‘I blue. I freak!’ He say: ‘I jealous of you. If I could be anyzing in world it would be red Indian.’ Zen he take out a notebook write someting, tear out ze page and give it.”
Blue Man handed Harry a picture frame the size of a pocket mirror. The glass pressed a square of cracked, yellow paper on which black ink swept like hairpin turns through a mountain road. He translated:
Zere is a coming and a going.
A parting and often—no returning.
“I wonder where he is. He not healzy man. Maybe dead. Funny, we about same age, but I zink of him as fazer. See Harry, I was like you when Mama, Papa disappear. I was orphan. But zen I find fazer.”
During the Blue Man’s tale Jo-Jo had sat down on the dirt, his back against a wooden exterior wall. With a piece of straw he absent-mindedly drew stick figures in the powdery earth. Now, he spoke to them:
“I never had a father or found one. My mother said my father died before I was born. What’s the difference … My mother is beautiful.”
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