Castle Garden

by Bill Albert

  The boy was at least half a head shorter than me and much thinner. His arms were too long for his body and his hands were covered in brown scabs as if he had been dragging his knuckles along the ground. Why was I being compared to this person?

  “Hyman, I want you to take Meyer and show him the playground at the back of the house, please. Meyer, I would like to talk to your mother. We’ll come and get you as soon as we finish. Meanwhile you go out and play with the other children.”

  There was nothing in the entire world I wanted to do less. Hyman Budnitsky appeared to be contagious, at the very least, and if the children in the playground were anything like those outside in the street I was in for trouble.

  “Please, Mother, I don’t . . .”

  “Meyer,” my mother said in a quiet, determined voice.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Miss Wald patted me on the head and propelled me towards the door. The boy followed.

  “Now, I am making you responsible for Meyer, Hyman. He is our guest. I expect you to take good care of him. Yes?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Good,” she said. “Have a nice time, boys.”

  The door closed and I was in the hall with the Waiting People and Hyman Budnitsky.

  Immediately he was not so shy. He stared at me brazenly, looking me up and down with a practiced eye. I say “a practiced eye” because one of his eyes was clouded white like an egg. He stood in front of me, his short legs braced apart, his lip curled in a sneer. Clearly, the settlement had not succeeded in imparting an excessive quantity of civilization to Hyman Budnitsky.

  “So, I gotta be nice to youse? A rich kid, huh? Ha! Dat’s wad I says. Ha! Ha! Dem noices donno nuttin.”

  I could see right away we were going to be pals.

  “Youse knows wad youse is, doncha?”

  “No, what am I?”

  “A paraside, dat’s wad. A paraside suckin at da blood of da poor peoples.”

  I’d had about enough aggravation for one day. I didn’t see why I had to take any more, especially from a one-eyed dwarf.

  “And you are a moron!” I spat back at him. “A stupid sawed-off moron!”

  “Youse wanna make sometin of dat, rich kid?”

  He took a step toward me and stuck out his chin defiantly.

  “Don’t be such a primitive!” I retorted.

  “I’ll show youse prilmitive!” he shouted.

  He pushed me against the wall. He smelled like fried onions. His face was inches from mine, his bad eye, a milky-blue marble floating in the white of an egg.

  The Waiting People in the hall didn’t seem to notice that I was being assaulted, but suddenly a woman appeared and grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “Hyman Budnitsky!” she said severely. “What are you doing there!”

  She was a slight but stern-looking lady, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Small eyeglasses were perched on her nose and attached to her belt by a long black cord. She had a very strong Russian accent.

  Hyman let me go and stepped back, shrugging his thin shoulders.

  “Nuttin,” he said, “I was just goin’ splain ta him bout Socialism, dat’s all.”

  The woman laughed.

  “Socialism is it? You have to hold onta him like that so to explain Socialism?”

  It was the first time I think I had ever heard the word. I figured as long as he didn’t hit me he could explain anything.

  “So, rich kid, youse wan me t’tell youse bout Socialism?”

  “I am completely indifferent, if you must know,” I replied, trying to maintain my dignity.

  I brushed off my clothes. The woman stood watching.

  “Well,” he began, “it’s like dis see, youse plutes sit aroun in youse big houses eatin sponge cake an down in da kitchens da bakers is bakin da sponge cake for youse. But when Socialism comes den da bakers will come up from dem kitchens an say to youse, ‘Plutes,’ dale say, ‘Plutes, bake youse own sponge cake,’ jus like dat.”

  He turned to the women with his hands on his hips.

  “Hyman, that’s tops. Just tops. We’ll have you down at Copper Union soon enough giving at them what-for.”

  “My fadder wouldn’t let me, Miss. He says how youse anarcrisps ain’t nuttin but a bunch of bourgis adventures. Dat’s wad he says.”

  She laughed again.

  “And who are you, my fancy-dressed young man?”

  I drew myself up.

  “I am not your young man, Madam. And my name is Meyer Liebermann.”

  She threw up her hands in mock surprise.

  “Not the Meyer Liebermann?” she said.

  “Yeah, dats ‘im, da meyer a Nu Yok,” added Hyman with an unpleasant laugh.

  I could feel myself blushing. It was really all too much to bear.

  9

  Thankfully the Russian lady stayed with Hyman and me or I don’t know what would have happened in the playground. As it was the children weren’t unfriendly, just curious. In fact, when one boy got too close Hyman pushed him away with a warning growl. He might not have liked me but I was his Plute.

  The Russian lady asked me how old I was. I told her and she seemed inordinately pleased. Did I know the most important event that had happened in America the year I was born, she asked? I couldn’t think of anything, important or otherwise, that happened in 1887. She turned to Hyman.

  “Da Haymarket Martins wus muy-dud,” he answered proudly.

  She motioned to me to sit down next to her on the stairs. Hyman and about a dozen other children crowded around. She then proceeded to tell us the story of the “Haymarket Martins.” It was almost a “once-upon-a-time” story, at least that’s how she told it.

  “Now, children,” she began, “like you know, there is two kinda people in the world, there is the rich people and there is the poor people. The rich people lives in big houses and drive here and there in fancy coaches with fancy horses, they is warm in the winter and cool in the summer and they have all the nice food they want. The poor people lives in crowded tenements, they walk if they gotta go somewheres, they’re always too hot or too cold and they never have enough to eat.

  “Now, the rich is rich ‘cause the poor they makes them rich by working for them for twelve or fourteen hours each and every day. What else can the poor people do? Well, many years ago in Chicago, which is a big city in the West, there was some men who wanted that the poor shouldn’t have to work so hard or so long just so as the rich should be more rich. And these men they decided to have a big parade to show all the rich people what they thought about it. But the rich people was scared with this parade. ‘Why should these poor people have a parade?’ they asked to each other. ‘What they got to complain about? Don’t we give ‘em plenty work so they shouldn’t starve? Now they want less work?’ They laughed, but other rich people didn’t laugh. They said, ‘There’s going to be some big trouble. A riot,’ they said. So, they asked the police to stop the parade. And on the day, which was first of May, hundreds of police and soldiers waited in the alleyways and sidestreets to stop the parade. But, they couldn’t stop it. Do you know why? ‘Cause it was such a peaceful parade, that’s why. Bands playing tunes, unions parading with their big banners fluttering, women and children marching, laughing and having a wonderful time and all for the eight-hour day. It was a big success, and made many working people begin to ask themselves, ‘So why not an eight-hour day?’ and ‘Why not join the union?’”

  She leaned forward, her voice hushed. The children crowded closer.

  “And that is what the rich people was most afraid with, when the people said ‘So why not an eight-hour day?’ ‘Why not the union?’ So the rich people they went back to the police and they said, ‘This will not do at all. We can’t have people talking like this, making speeches, joining unions. It’s not America, that’s what it is not. You g
otta do something and do it double quick.’ So, the police did something double quick, just like the rich people asked. A few days after the parade, six men and young boys was shot in the back during a strike at the McCormick Works. There was a meeting in Haymarket Square to protest. It was a peaceful meeting too, until some evil person paid for by the rich people to cause trouble threw a bomb and the police start in to shoot people left and right and center. Many was wounded and a policeman he was killed. So, who do you think they blame for all this bombing and shooting?”

  “Da voikers!” shouted Hyman.

  “Right, Hyman, the workers, like always, the workers. And it’s just what the rich people wanted, too. ‘No more talking about eight hours and unions!’ they say. ‘Now we’ll talk about blood in the streets, about hanging. ‘When the police arrested eight Anarchists the rich people was even more happy. Judge Joseph E. Gary, in his long black robes and with his long white face, he makes sure they are all convicted and sentenced to death, although the only thing they was guilty of was being Anarchists. Some of them was able to cheat the hangman, but not George Engel, Adolph Fisher, August Spies, or Albert Parsons. Four brave men who had to give their lives for their brothers. ‘There will come a time when our silence will be more powerful than the voices you strangle today.’ August Spies said that just before they sprung the trap. ‘Let the voice of the people be heard!’ That was Albert Parsons. Lucy Parsons and her two little children they cried, the workers all over the world they cried. And what do you think the rich people did? The rich people opened champagne and had a big celebration. ‘No more eight-hour day!’ they shouted. ‘No more unions!’”

  How many times was I to hear that story? Always slightly different, but always tragic and glorious. My new life started on the day I heard that story and it could finish here in Idaho with the same hangman’s ending.

  I see the Irishman’s face floating in front of me here in the darkened cell. He’s laughing and not making a sound. Behind him dangle Jack Kehoe and the white-shrouded Albert Parsons. An empty noose waits next to Parsons. I can’t see what it’s attached to. My imagination? Will they sing songs about me? Tell stories about the brave ‘Idaho Martyr,’ suspended there in the long line of workers’ heroes? Workers’ heroes my ass! I say to hell with that! What good does it do? I don’t want to be one of those kinda stories. I sure as damnation do not!

  But back then, behind the dark house in Henry Street, I could see none of this. I didn’t really care if they hung those men. Weren’t they troublemakers? Imagine, workers not wanting to work. How could they be workers if they didn’t work? Workers worked. Everyone knew that.

  We all sat waiting for more of the story. But, the Russian lady didn’t go on. Her eyes were wet.

  The children were staring at my uptown, rich-person’s, “plute” clothes and polished “plute” shoes. It was I who had called for the police. It was I who hanged the Haymarket Martyrs. It was I who had shouted with joy and drunk the champagne. I tried not to look as guilty as I felt.

  It was at that point that Miss Wald and my mother came out of the house.

  “Miss Goldman,” said Miss Wald, “how are you? We haven’t seen you here at Henry Street for some time.”

  “I’ve been away for a trip,” she replied. “Taking the message to the heathen as you could say.”

  Miss Wald smiled. My mother didn’t.

  “You know Mrs. Liebermann, don’t you?”

  The two women nodded at each other coolly.

  “Come along, Meyer,” my mother said primly. “Say goodbye to your little friends, please.”

  Mothers! Oh boy! The children stood there blankly. I felt myself turning red. These were not the kind of kids that said goodbye to each other. Why didn’t my mother know that? But, I was wrong. Hyman Budnitsky stepped forward and stuck out his hand. I studied it cautiously.

  “Sa’long, Plute,” he said smiling.

  “Goodbye,” I answered shaking his hand. “Very nice to have met you.”

  Hyman Budnitsky laughed at me. The other children laughed with him. Miss Goldman smiled.

  “Little boy,” she called after me. “Now, you don’t forget what I told you. Even little rich boys like you need to remember that story.”

  10

  We started our journey back. I was relieved. My mother was agitated.

  “I most certainly do not approve of that woman,” she said hotly. “I don’t understand why Miss Wald allows her to come in and out of Henry Street just as she pleases, truly I don’t.”

  She went on complaining about how wicked she was and how she was a bad influence on children, but I wasn’t paying attention. The Russian woman wasn’t important and neither was her story. I was thinking about my new self, and wondering if it was going to make any difference now that I knew who I wasn’t. Should I be thankful that I wasn’t stuck in Henry Street with Hyman Budnitsky and the other ragged children? Resentful that I really was a Kike? Grateful that my parents had adopted me? Offended that they hadn’t told me? Nothing added up.

  We passed out of Henry Street. A sign hanging crookedly from a wooden pole read division street but there wasn’t anything except a large open area covered in rubble, as if a gigantic hand had swept blocks of buildings into sharp heaps of gray brick. And the Division Street Jews? Where had they gone? I imagined silent shouts from a thousand bearded faces. Feet kicking, arms waving in the air as a huge hand, my father’s hand, scooped them all up and threw them back into the ocean. So much for the Division Street Moths who could live on air.

  What would my father say to me now? After all, I wasn’t a Liebermann any more. “You want to be a Liebermann?” Now it made sense. It had been a question! Did I want to be a Liebermann? Of course! I just hadn’t been listening with should-be-grateful, non-Liebermann ears.

  Streets and buildings became a blur of shapes and noises. I slumped back into the leather seat and closed my eyes. I had seen and heard too much for one day. I couldn’t fit any more in. That was until the carriage hit a particularly deep pothole and I was bounced awake. We had stopped momentarily in the traffic. On the corner was the most fantastic building I had ever seen. It seemed to go on and on, its street-long balconies supported on thin-columned arches overhanging the sidewalk. I stuck my head all the way out the window to get a better look and could see a gigantic tower, like something out of the Arabian Nights, rising hundreds of feet in the air from out of the center of the building. Perched right on the top was a statue, of gold or maybe brass, although I couldn’t make out who it was supposed to be. But that wasn’t the best thing. Not by a mile it wasn’t. The best thing was the enormous colored posters stuck on the walls.

  Buffalo Bills Wild West Show and

  Congress of Rough Riders of the World

  Indians chasing a stagecoach. The blue-coated cavalry chasing the Indians. And in the center of the poster was Buffalo Bill himself. Buckskin shirt, two pistols, and long yellow hair flowing out from under his hat. He was ready for anything.

  “Mother! Please, can we stop here? Please! Can’t we go? Oh please!”

  “Just calm down, Meyer. And come back from that window right this minute. What on earth do you think you’re doing? What will people think?”

  The carriage started up suddenly and I was flopped back into my seat.

  “But, Mother, we are . . . Look, look!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look there. There!” I said, pointing desperately as the billboard flicked past between the columns and then receded from view. “Buffalo Bill, it says, the Wild West Show. Please, Mother!”

  She leaned forward and stared out the window. After a moment she turned to me.

  “Meyer, I am surprised at you. Buffalo Bill, indeed! Have you forgotten so soon what happened last week? What your father said to you about all of this nonsense?”

  I remembered, the excitement drained
away and I felt worse than before. I ran my finger slowly along the raised seam in the leather seat, pushing down as hard as I could so I would damage my finger, make it bleed. I would show her! It wasn’t fair!

  My parents demanded that I be properly educated. I had to be a credit to the family. And I was left in no doubt of the cost of this education, to them and to me.

  “Meyer,” my father had said stiffly, “do you think I spend my hard-earned money sending you to the finest school in New York City to have you spend your time and my money on this kind of trash? Will you just look at it?”

  On his desk were a large pile of crumpled dime novels that I had been collecting secretly since I was eight years old. He picked one up with his thumb and forefinger, as if it was crawling with bugs, and shook it at me accusingly.

  “Meyer, don’t you know that these things are for people who don’t have an education? Stupid, common people, street-corner layabouts who have nothing on their minds and never will. These are definitely not for a son of mine. What would your teachers say if they knew?”

  I shrugged.

  “The boy has nothing to say!” my grandfather observed from his corner. “Like always, Nathan, nothing to say. What should you expect? Nathan, what? Nothing, that’s what.”

  “We’re having no more of this,” my father told me. “Do you understand me, Meyer?”

  For a few instructive, tantalizing seconds he held a Dime in front of my face, I think it was Buffalo Bill and The Dead-shot Dragoon, but I couldn’t be sure, then he let it drop back onto his desk. My mother, who was standing to one side, shook her head from side to side and made a “tsk-tsk” sound. From across the room my grandfather muttered encouragement. What could I say? An important part of my life was about to disappear into the fire and all the Liebermanns were in on it.

  Every week I would take my allowance and beg one of the servants to go to the newsstand and buy me the latest Deadwood Dick, Jr. or Billy the Kid or The James Boys or Buffalo Bill, especially Buffalo Bill. He was by far the greatest of them all. Buffalo Bill’s Bluff or Dusky Dick, The Sport, Buffalo Bill at Bay or The Gold-seeker’s Doom, Buffalo Bill’s Death-Deal or The Wandering Jew of the Wild West, and many more.