Copyright 2007 by Libby Sternberg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Bancroft Press (“Books that enlighten”)
P.O. Box 65360, Baltimore, MD 21209
800-637-7377
410-764-1967 (fax)
www.bancroftpress.com
Cover and interior design: Tammy Sneath Grimes, Crescent Communications
www.tsgcrescent.com • 814.941.7447
Author photo: Beltrami Studio, Rutland, VT
ISBN 1-890862-51-7(cloth)
EAN 978-1-890862-51-0 (cloth)
LCCN 2007936856 (cloth)
ISBN 1-890862-54-1 (paper)
EAN 978-1-890862-54-1 (paper)
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
In memory of my father, born Casimir Malinowski, who changed his last name (and mine) to Malin when I was young
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Notes on This Book
The Oregon School Law and Anti-Catholicism
Possible Discussion Questions
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise for The Case Against My Brother
Chapter One
FALL 1922
“Matuski!”
Officer Miller’s voice sounded like a bark in the warm night.
My heart racing, I pretended he had the wrong fellow and kept walking down Portland’s Burnside Avenue, one foot in front of the other. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. . . Steady, steady. . .
“Turn around, you dumb Polack!”
My fists clenched at that, but still I wouldn’t turn. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
An arched alley entry—a shadowy hole—loomed on my right. My breath came fast but his footfalls were faster. I had to lose him, had to keep him off my trail. I couldn’t lead him to Adam. Just a few more steps. . .
“Hold it there, or I’ll—”
His words died as I ducked into the dark entrance. It smelled of moss and damp walls, of something foul and slimy. A sharp vine tugged at my sleeve, but I pulled away. I held my breath and sped to a backyard garden. Beyond that, I’d find an alley, and then I could race off.
No! He saw me, and he was still following me. Just as I made my way into the yard, I heard him cursing and muttering. I imagined him bumping his head on the arched wall, his pace slowed by the thorny vine grabbing his coat. It made me smile.
I looked left and right—nothing but yards and alley—and all more open than the street itself. Crap! I’d mucked up. I no longer had time to scamper away. He’d be in the yard soon, and I’d be an easy catch.
My throat dried up and I couldn’t swallow. My fists clenched and unclenched as I kept looking this way and that, hoping I’d spot a safe haven. What would I say when he asked why I was out and about so late? I had to have an excuse—why hadn’t I thought of that? What was the matter with me? Panic crawled up my chest and knotted my thoughts. If Adam were here, he’d know what to say.
A cat screeched out a meow of surprise and Officer Miller cursed again. The feline skittered into the open and then up onto and above an old rickety porch. There! That was a safe place! I grabbed hold of the splintery wood and followed, speedily hoisting myself up. My hand scraped along the planking’s jagged edge and I felt moist blood bead under my coat. It didn’t matter. I lay flat and still, looking through the porch boards’thin slits at Officer Miller’s hat below.
I held my breath.
He scratched his head, pushing up the bill of his hat. “Matuski?” he called out, but his voice wasn’t so strong anymore. A light went on in a house across the alley. Officer Miller’s head turned in that direction, but he stayed put. He sighed and stomped a foot. He took off his hat and smoothed back his hair.
And then, at long last, he left, heading out the way he came, though more slowly and carefully this time. I counted each step until I couldn’t hear another one. And then I forced myself to wait a good minute or two to be sure the coast was clear.
I stretched, climbed over the porch railing, and crouched before jumping. Ouch! My ankle throbbed from the fall. I brushed off the pain and went into the alley, looking up and down, staring into the darkness. Nothing.
At last, I ran.
It felt good to run, each step leaving something behind—worry, pain, sadness. My breath came fast, and the soft clump-clomp of my feet masked all other sounds. Feeling like the only man alive, I barreled through the city’s dark byways as if a fire-breathing monster were on my tail. My lungs burned for air. My legs throbbed for rest. But I ran on and on and it still felt good.
I ran toward the East, where pink shreds of clouds shyly lit Portland’s sky, signaling dawn’s arrival. I thundered forward—East toward what used to be home.
Glancing behind me again, I ran on into the cool shadows, down Burnside, south on Fifth, left on Yamhill. I ran past parked Tin Lizzies, Buicks, and Studebakers crammed up against the curb near what my Uncle Pete called a “house of ill repute.” There, music and noise floated into the silent city. Someone was playing a popular new tune on a tinny piano—“Carolina in the Morning”—while boozy voices crooned the words:
Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning
Nothing could be sweeter than my sweetie when I meet her in the morning. . .
Carolina wasn’t home, but it was back East. Homesickness choked me.
My steps echoed on empty streets that smelled of wet pine and fuel oil from ships anchored in Portland’s harbor. East, East, East—how I wished I could keep running all the way across the country, over mountains, flat prairies, gentle hills, all the way to the city of my birth, to another harbor that smelled of humid life, to a place, unlike Portland, where at least I had a few friends and a pocketful of fond memories, and where I blended in, like everyone else in a crowd.
I didn’t want to be here in Portland. Whenever I found myself walking or running East, my pace quickened and my energy soared. It was as if home were just over the horizon.
Though the air was cooler now, the sweat on my brow kept my hair slicked down under my cap. As I neared the house I was looking for, I slowed my pace. I looked right and left. No sign of a policeman on the beat. No police cars, either.
Nobody, in fact, to see me walking toward the corner house, where one yellow rectangle of light lit up an upper floor.
He was up and waiting.
After looking up and down the street again, I made three quick raps on the front door, followed by two slow raps—that was the signal. I saw the light upstairs flick off, and a shade move ever so slightly in the ashy dark. Then, a few sec
onds later, I heard the slow creak of the door as he pulled it open.
“You’ve got to get out of here,” I whispered before I even saw his face. “Miller knows you’re here.”
Adam didn’t say a word. As he ran back upstairs, I listened to his ascending footsteps. A few moments later, he returned, this time opening the door fully. Stepping out into the early morning with me, my brother shrugged into an old tweed jacket and placed on his head a flat tan cap that looked a lot like mine. Our mother had bought them through the Montgomery Ward catalog the year before she’d died.
As we walked down the street together, he shifted his small bundle of clothes to his left hand so he could tousle my head with his right. I pulled away. Adam was two years older than me, but I was fifteen, not some pup.
“You shouldn’t be out so late,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice even through the shadows. “Does Pete know?”
“He thinks I’m sleeping,” I said.
“Until he checks on you.”
“He won’t check.” Our Uncle Pete was a sound sleeper, and never one to worry about us when we were out of sight. But he’d be rising soon to start delivering milk. I had to time my return so as not to run into him as he left for the day.
I looked behind me. Though the street was still clear, I picked up my pace. I thought I heard a car engine rumble to life in the distance. The neighborhood was quiet, but lights were flickering on in a few houses. We passed a big brown house, where I heard women’s laughter tinkling into the night. If this was a bad area, police might not be far behind. We had to hurry. Adam, seemingly unconcerned about getting caught, looked at my pockets, even reaching out to pat one.
“I thought you were bringing. . .”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot.” I pulled a cloth-wrapped roll from my right pocket, and Adam grabbed it, unwrapping it and greedily tearing off a portion with his teeth.
“This all?”
“There’s more at Pete’s.” We turned a corner and I touched him lightly on the shoulder. “C’mon, we gotta hurry. He’ll be up soon.” I started running again, but Adam lagged behind as he focused on eating his “breakfast.” At a corner a half block away, I turned back and stage-whispered “C’mon!” as I waited for him to catch up.
“All right, all right,” he said in a low voice. Finishing the roll, he wiped away stray crumbs from his mouth, then hefted his bundle over one shoulder. Joining me at the corner of Ash, he pointed toward the river and the shipping yards. “There’s an empty office at Beely’s Sawmill,” he said. “They’re closed now. I could hide out there.”
“I was thinking you could come home tonight—I get my newspaper money after today’s route,” I said, already starting to feel disappointed and afraid. It was as if Adam thought this was all a big joke, as if he didn’t fully realize the trouble he was in.
Reinforcing my view, he laughed. “Home? That’s the first place Miller’ll look for me, kid!”
I shook my head. “Don’t call me ‘kid.’”
He looked at me through narrowed eyes, his mouth tugging into a smile. “Sure thing,” he said. “Scrawny.”
I would have punched him, but it would just waste time. He knew calling me that was a sore point with me. Yeah, I was skinny and tall, shooting up so fast Pete complained about having to buy me new clothes “every week,” but I could take care of myself most of the time. At least I hoped I could. Adam was forcing me to.
I let my hands unclench. “Miller won’t look for you at home. He follows me. That’s how he figured out you were at the Third Street house. But home? He’d never guess I brought you there. He’s not following us now.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and shivered. Now that we’d stopped, my sweat clamped on my face and body like ice. The weather wasn’t yet cold, but the early morning run had left me damp as a dish rag.
I looked at Adam, waiting for him to see the wisdom of my plan. Staying out in the open was an invitation to trouble. If I could get him home, he’d be safe—at least for a few hours. I’d do my afternoon paper route, get my monthly pay from my boss, then hand it over to Adam so he could hop a train and get out of town. Sure, I might take a whipping from Pete for “losing” the money, but Adam would get safely away.
Adam smiled, his wide mouth lifting his face into that happy-go-lucky grin, which usually made me feel like neither of us had a trouble in the world. But today, it annoyed me. In fact, I again felt like punching him—this time to wake him up to the trouble he was in.
“Smart thinking, Carl. But Miller’s no dope. He might come over again.”
“You can hide in the cellar, near the furnace—in the coal bin if you have to.”
He laughed. “And be black as old Thomas?” Thomas was the Negro Street Araber who sold fruits and vegetables from the back of his horse-drawn cart. “That would be a good disguise.”
Before I had a chance to argue, Adam gave in. “All right,” he said. “I’m too tired to fight. At least I can get more food at home.” He reached out to rub my head again, but I pulled away, walking ahead of him.
The pink and orange strips grew in the Eastern sky, bathing the area in an eerie gray light. Dawn was drifting in with the tide, and soon the city would be bustling with traffic, noise, and work. Pete would be up and on his route by now, so it would be safe to sneak home, as long as Officer Miller didn’t catch us.
“Come on!” I shouted to Adam, sounding as angry as I felt. Without looking back, I took off running. In a second, I heard him following me, and then, as he passed, he showed me a toothy smile. A race!
No longer angry, I laughed and began sprinting, struggling to catch up.
Chapter Two
Adam and I were orphaned last year. Our dad died before I knew him, and our mother passed away from a bad lung fourteen months ago—fourteen months and five days ago, to be exact.
That’s when Adam took charge of things, deciding where we should go and how we should get there. He’s the one who decided we should head West from Baltimore—out to our uncle’s house in Oregon. If it had been left to me, we’d have been starving on Baltimore streets to this day. Adam told me the house wasn’t ours—Ma didn’t own it, he said—and we had to move on.
It was a lot of change to go through all at once, and sometimes I’m not sure I remember everything in the right order or what was real and what was a dream.
During those first few months after Ma died, I was half-expecting somebody to tell me that was a mistake. I even dreamt it that way the night before her funeral. I dreamt I went downstairs in our Baltimore rowhouse and heard someone in the kitchen. Grabbing my baseball bat to ward off an intruder, I’d crept down to the basement kitchen, only to see my mother smiling at me as she stirred a pot on the stove. She looked happy and lively, her brown hair pulled into a bun at her neck, her big white apron covering a dark dress. She looked healthy, the way she’d been before getting sick.
“What you carry that bat for, syneczku?” she asked me, using the Polish for “little son” as if I were still a baby.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Ma,” I said, irritated, but irritation warmed to anger, anger to regret, and I awakened to the sound of rain on the window, feeling as if my bad temper had chased Ma away forever.
Shortly before my mother passed on, she looked at both Adam and me across the kitchen table and said, “You look after your brother.” I figured she was talking to Adam, because he was the older one. But lately I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe she’d been talking to me, too, telling me to help Adam when his easygoing ways got him into trouble.
Adam helped me the day of the funeral, telling me what to wear and how to act, handing me a big white handkerchief before we went into St. Stanislaus’s—just in case I got the sniffles or something, he said. He even poked fun at me, telling me my pants were too short and I looked like I’d grabbed somebody else’s clothes to wear.
He didn’t get the sniffles and neither did I—even when the priest handed Adam Ma’s rosary, which he then gav
e to me. I kept thinking how my ankles poked out of my pants legs, and I wondered if we would have enough money to buy a new pair.
There wasn’t enough money for anything.
After the funeral Mass and burial, Adam sat in our basement kitchen and told me we’d have to move.
“We have an uncle in Portland, you know,” he said quietly. “Pete Cyzska is Ma’s brother—our uncle. I’ve written to him.”
I couldn’t believe it at first. I asked him a lot of questions, but I was only fourteen back then and didn’t know anything. He told me that everything in the house was already sold—he’d seen to it right before Ma died. He told me we needed the money to pay off her debts, but there wasn’t enough to cover all of them. If we didn’t want to go to jail, we had to get out of town.
Jail? I was unhappy enough in school. But I had friends in Baltimore. There was Billy Petrovnov, my best friend, who played ball with me every summer in Patterson Park. There was Julian Grekowski, who was always bragging about how he was going to be president one day. We called him “President Julie,” which made his ears turn red. And there was even Esther Krawiec, who wore the prettiest, cleanest dresses to Mass, and whose mother baked cookies and cakes that Esther shared with me but not the other boys.
Friends and the familiar were hard to give up, but the threat of jail made me break out into a sweat. I wanted to leave that instant. We didn’t leave until a few days later, though, and each day in the house after that talk, I felt like a fugitive, afraid of the meekest knock on the door.
Just before we left, Adam bought me a pair of new pants that fit right.
Then he bought our train tickets and we headed West. Once clear of Maryland, I could breathe again. They’d never find us now, I thought. By the time we reached Chicago, though, I began to think that leaving Baltimore and heading west wasn’t such a great adventure, and homesickness tightly gripped my heart.
The west was supposed to be a place full of cowboys and excitement. But it’s not—at least as far as I could tell from the train. It’s just empty and hot and a kind of lonely that makes you feel scooped out inside, like you’re always hungry and nothing satisfies.
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