The Chosen

by Chaim Potok

  The people beyond the beds immediately to my right and left were blurs, and I could not make them out. Nor could I make out much of the rest of the room, except to see that it had two long rows of beds and a wide middle aisle, and that it was clearly a hospital ward. I touched the bump on my forehead. It had receded considerably but was still very sore. I looked at the sun coming through the windows. All up and down the ward people were talking to each other, but I was not interested in what they were saying. I was looking at the sun. It seemed strange to me now that it should be so bright. The ball game had ended shortly before six o’clock. Then there had been the ride in the cab, the time in the waiting and examination rooms, and the ride up in the elevator. I couldn’t remember what had happened afterwards, but it couldn’t all have happened so fast that it was now still Sunday afternoon. I thought of asking the man to my left what day it was, but he seemed absorbed in his card game. The boy to my right hadn’t moved at all. He lay quietly staring up at the ceiling, and I didn’t want to disturb him.

  I moved my wrist slowly. It still hurt. That Danny Saunders was a smart one, and I hated him. I wondered what he was thinking now. Probably gloating and bragging about the ball game to his friends. That miserable Hasid!

  An orderly came slowly up the aisle, pushing a metal table piled high with food trays. There was a stir in the ward as people sat up in their beds. I watched him hand out the trays and heard the clinking of silverware. The man on my left scooped up the cards and put them on the table between our beds.

  “Chop-chop,” he said, smiling at me. “Time for the old feed bag. They don’t make it like in training camp, though. Nothing like eating in training camp. Work up a sweat, eat real careful on account of watching the weight, but eat real good. What’s the menu, Doc?”

  The orderly grinned at him. “Be right with you, Killer.” He was still three beds away.

  The boy in the bed to my right moved his head slightly and put his hands down on top of his blanket. He blinked his eyes and lay still, staring up at the ceiling.

  The orderly* stopped at the foot of his bed and took a tray from the table.

  “How you doing, Billy?”

  The boy’s eyes sought out the direction from which the orderly’s voice had come.

  “Fine,” he said softly, very softly, and began to sit up.

  The orderly came around to the side of the bed with a tray of food, but the boy kept staring in the direction from which the orderly’s voice had come. I looked at the boy and saw that he was blind.

  “It’s chicken, Billy,” the orderly said. “Peas and carrots, potatoes, real hot vegetable soup, and applesauce.”

  “Chicken!” the man to my left said. “Who can do a ten-rounder on chicken?”

  “You doing a ten-rounder tonight, Killer?” the orderly asked pleasantly.

  “Chicken!” the man to my left said again, but he was smiling broadly.

  “You all set, Billy?” the orderly asked.

  “I’m fine,” the boy said. He fumbled about for the silverware, found the knife and fork, and commenced eating.

  I saw the nurse come up the aisle and stop at my bed. “Hello, young man. Are we still hungry?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s good. Your father said to tell you this is a kosher hospital, and you are to eat everything.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  “How does your head feel?”

  “It feels fine, ma’am.”

  “No pain?”

  “No,”

  “That’s very good. We won’t ask you to sit up, though. Not just yet. We’ll raise the bed up a bit and you can lean back against the pillow.”

  I saw her bend down. From the motions of her shoulders I could see she was turning something set into the foot of the bed. I felt the bed begin to rise.

  “Is that comfortable?” she asked me,

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you very much.”

  She went to the night table between my bed and the bed to my right and opened a drawer. “Your father asked that we give you this.” She was holding a small, black skullcap in her hand.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  I took the skullcap and put it on.

  “Enjoy your meal,” she said, smiling.

  “Thank you very much,” I said. I had been concerned about eating. I wondered when my father had been to the hospital and why he wasn’t here now.

  “Mrs. Carpenter,” the man to my left said, “how come chicken again?”

  The nurse looked at him sternly. “Mr. Savo, please behave yourself.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the man said, feigning fright.

  “Mr. Savo, you are a poor example to your young neighbors.”

  She turned quickly and went away.

  “Tough as a ring post,” Mr. Savo said, grinning at me. “But a great heart.”

  The orderly put the food tray on his bed, and he began eating ravenously. While chewing on a bone, he looked at me and winked his good eye. “Good food. Not enough zip, but that’s the kosher bit for you. Love to kid them along. Keeps them on their toes like a good fighter.”

  “Mr. Savo, sir?”

  “Yeah, kid?”

  “What day is today?”

  He took the chicken bone out of his mouth. “It’s Monday.”

  “Monday, June fifth?”

  “That’s right, kid.”

  “I slept a long time,” I said quietly.

  “You were out like a light, boy. Had us all in a sweat.” He put the chicken bone back in his mouth. “Some clop that must’ve been,” he said, chewing on the bone.

  I decided it would be polite to introduce myself. “My name is Reuven Malter.”

  His lips smiled at me from around the chicken bone in his mouth. “Good to meet you, Reu—Reu—how’s that again?”

  “Reuven—Robert Malter.”

  “Good to meet you, Bobby boy.” He took the chicken bone from his mouth, inspected it, then dropped it onto the tray. “You always eat with a hat on?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s that, part of your religion or something?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Always like kids that hold to their religion. Important thing, religion. Wouldn’t mind some of it in the ring. Tough place, the ring. Tony Savo’s my name.”

  “Are you a professional prizefighter?”

  “That’s right, Bobby boy. I’m a prelim man. Could’ve been on top if that guy hadn’t clopped me with that right the way he did. Flattened me for a month/Manager lost faith. Lousy manager. Tough racket, the ring. Good food, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not like in training camp, though. Nothing like eating in training camp.”

  “Are you feeling better now?” I heard the blind boy ask me, and I turned to look at him. He had finished eating and was sitting looking in my direction. His eyes were wide open and a pale blue.

  “I’m a lot better,” I told him. “My head doesn’t hurt.”

  “We were all very worried about you.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I thought I would just nod and smile, but I knew he wouldn’t see it. I didn’t know what to say or do, so I kept silent.

  “My name’s Billy,” the blind boy said.

  “How are you, Billy? I’m Robert Malter.”

  “Hello, Robert. Did you hurt your eye very badly?”

  “Pretty badly.”

  “You want to be careful about your eyes, Robert.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, either.

  “Robert’s a grown-up name, isn’t it? How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “That’s grown up.”

  “Call me Bobby,” I said to him. “I’m not really that grown up.”

  “Bobby is a nice name. All right. I’ll call you Bobby.”

  I kept looking at him. He had such a beautiful face, a gentle face. His hands lay limply on the blanket, and his eyes stared at me vacantly.

  “
What kind of hair do you have, Bobby? Can you tell me what you look like?”

  “Sure. I have black hair and brown eyes, and a face like a million others you’ve seen—-you’ve heard about. I’m about five foot six, and I’ve got a bump on my head and a bandaged left eye.”

  He laughed with sudden delight. “You’re a nice person,” he said warmly. “You’re nice like Mr. Savo.”

  Mr. Savo looked over at us. He had finished eating and was holding the deck of cards in his hands. “That’s what I kept telling my manager. I’m a nice guy, I kept telling him. Is it my fault I got clopped? But he lost faith. Lousy manager.”

  Billy stared in the direction of his voice. “You’ll be all right again, Mr. Savo,” he said earnestly. “You’ll be right back up there on top again.”

  “Sure, Billy,” Tony Savo said, looking at him. “Old Tony’ll make it up there again.”

  “Then I’ll come to your training camp and watch you practice and we’ll have that three-rounder you promised me.”

  “Sure, Billy.”

  “Mr. Savo promised me a three-rounder after my operation,” Billy explained to me eagerly, still staring in the direction of Tony Savo’s voice.

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “It’s a new kind of operation,” Billy said, turning his face in my direction. “My father explained it to me. They found out how to do it in the war. It’ll be wonderful doing a three-rounder with you, Mr. Savo.”

  “Sure, Billy. Sure.” He was sitting up in his bed, looking at the boy and ignoring the deck of cards he held in his hands.

  “It’ll be wonderful to be able to see again,” Billy said to me. “I had an accident in the car once. My father was driving. It was a long time ago. It wasn’t my father’s fault, though.”

  Mr. Savo looked down at the deck of cards, then put it back on top of the night table.

  I saw the orderly coming back up the aisle to collect the food trays. “Did you enjoy the meal?” he asked Billy.

  Billy turned his head in the direction of his voice. “It was a fine meal.”

  “How about you, Killer?”

  “Chicken!” Tony Savo said. “What can be good about chicken?” His voice was flat though now, and all the excitement was out of it.

  “How come you left the bones this time?” the orderly asked, grinning.

  “Who can do a ten-rounder on chicken?” Tony Savo said. But he didn’t seem to have his heart anymore in what he was saying. I saw him lie back on his pillow and stare up at the ceiling out of his left eye. Then he closed the eye and put his long hairy hands across his chest.

  “We’ll lower this for you,” the orderly said to me after he took my tray. He bent down at the foot of the bed, and I felt the head of the bed go flat.

  Billy lay back on his pillow. I turned my head and saw him lying there, his eyes open and staring up, his palms under his head, his elbows jutting outward. Then I looked beyond his bed and saw a man hurrying up the aisle, and when he came into focus I saw it was my father.

  I almost cried out, but I held back and waited for him to come up to my bed. I saw he was carrying a package wrapped in newspapers. He had on his dark gray, striped, double-breasted suit and his gray hat. He looked thin and worn, and his face was pale. His eyes seemed red behind his steel-rimmed spectacles, as though he hadn’t slept in a long time. He came quickly around to the left side of the bed and looked down at me and tried to smile. But the smile didn’t come through at all.

  “The hospital telephoned me a little while ago,” he said, sounding a little out of breath. “They told me you were awake.”

  I started to sit up in the bed.

  “No,” he said. “Lie still. They told me you were not to sit up yet.”

  I lay back and looked up at him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and put the package down next to him. He took off his hat and put it on top of the package. His sparse gray hair lay uncombed on his head. That was unusual for my father. I never remembered him leaving the house without first carefully combing his hair.

  “You slept almost a full day,” he said, trying another smile. He had a soft voice, but it was a little husky now. “How are you feeling, Reuven?”

  “I feel fine now,” I said.

  “They told me you had a slight concussion. Your head does not hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Galanter called a few times today. He wanted to know how you were. I told him you were sleeping.”

  “He’s a wonderful man, Mr. Galanter.”

  “They told me you might sleep for a few days. They were surprised you woke so soon.”

  “The ball hit me very hard.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I heard all about the ball game.”

  He seemed very tense, and I wondered why he was still worried.

  “The nurse didn’t say anything to me about my eye.” I said. “Is it all right?”

  He looked at me queerly.

  “Of course it is all right. Why should it not be all right? Dr. Snydman operated on it, and he is a very big man,”

  “He operated on my eye?” It had never occurred to me that I had been through an operation. “What was wrong? Why did he have to operate?”

  My father caught the fear in my voice.

  “You will be all right now,” he calmed me. “There was a piece of glass in your eye and he had to get it out. Now you will be all right.”

  “There was glass in my eye?”

  My father nodded slowly. “It was on the edge of the pupil.”

  “And they took it out?”

  “Dr. Snydman took it out. They said he performed a miracle.” But somehow my father did not look as though a miracle had been performed. He sat there, tense and upset.

  “Is the eye all right now?” I asked him.

  “Of course it is all right. Why should it not be all right?”

  “It’s not all right,” I said. “I want you to tell me.”

  “There is nothing to tell you. They told me it was all right.”

  “Abba, please tell me what’s the matter.”

  He looked at me, and I heard him sigh. Then he began to cough, a deep, rasping cough that shook his frail body terribly. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his lips and coughed a long time. I lay tense in the bed, watching him. The coughing stopped. I heard him sigh again, and then he smiled at me. It was his old smile, the warm smile that turned up the corners of his thin lips and lighted his face.

  “Reuven, Reuven,” he said, smiling and shaking his head, “I have never been good at hiding things from you, have I?”

  I was quiet.

  “I always wanted a bright boy for a son. And you are bright. I will tell you what they told me about the eye. The eye is all right. It is fine. In a few days they will remove the bandages and you will come home.”

  “In only a few days?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why are you so worried? That’s wonderful!”

  “Reuven, the eye has to heal.”

  I saw a man walk up the aisle and come alongside Billy’s bed. He looked to be in his middle thirties. He had light blond hair, and from his face I could tell immediately that he was Billy’s father. I saw him sit down on the edge of the bed, and I saw Billy turn his face toward him and sit up. The father kissed the boy gently on the forehead. They talked quietly.

  I looked at my father. “Of course the eye has to heal,” I said.

  “It has a tiny cut on the edge of the pupil, and the cut has to heal.”

  I stared at him. “The scar tissue,” I said slowly. “The scar tissue can grow over the pupil.” And I felt myself go sick with fear.

  My father blinked, and his eyes were moist behind the steel-rimmed spectacles.

  “Dr. Snydman informed me he had a case like yours last year, and the eye healed. He is optimistic everything will be all right.”

  “But he’s not sure.”

  “No,” my father said. “He is not sure.”

  I looked
at Billy and saw him and his father talking together quietly and seriously. The father was caressing the boy’s cheek. I looked away and turned my head to the left. Mr. Savo seemed to be asleep.

  “Reb Saunders called me twice today and once last night,” I heard toy father say softly.

  “Reb Saunders?”

  “Yes. He wanted to know how you were. He told me his son is very sorry over what happened.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said bitterly.

  My father stared at me for a moment, then leaned forward a little on the bed. He began to say something, but his words broke into a rasping cough. He put the handkerchief in front of his mouth and coughed into it. He coughed a long time, and I lay still and watched him. When he stopped, he took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes. He put the spectacles back on and took a deep breath.

  “I caught a cold,” he apologized, “There was a draft in the classroom yesterday. I told the janitor, but he told me he could not find anything wrong. So I caught a cold. In June yet. Only your father catches colds in June.”

  “You’re not taking care of yourself, abba.”

  “I am worried about my baseball player.” He smiled at me. “I worry all the time you will get hit by a taxi or a trolley car, and you go and get hit by a baseball.”

  “I hate that Danny Saunders for this. He’s making you sick.”

  “Danny Saunders is making me sick? How is he making me sick?”

  “He deliberately aimed at me, abba. He hit me deliberately. Now you’re getting sick worrying about me.”

  My father looked at me in amazement. “He hit you deliberately?”

  “You should see how he hits. He almost killed Schwartzie. He said his team would kill us apikorsim.”

  “Apikorsim?”

  “They turned the game into a war.”

  “I do not understand. On the telephone Reb Saunders said his son was sorry.”

  “Sorry! I’ll bet he’s sorry! He’s sorry he didn’t kill me altogether!”

  My father gazed at me intently, his eyes narrowing. I saw the look of amazement slowly leave his face.

  “I do not like you to talk that way,” he said sternly.

  “It’s true, abba.”