Castle Garden

by Bill Albert

  Would they have called the police if I had been their own flesh and blood? Of course not. I had returned to my roots. The long arm of the pestilential Division Street Jews reaching across the city to defile the happy home of Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Liebernann. I was an unwanted wanted person, a fugitive. All my grandfather’s predictions had come true. Bad blood had finally come out. My adopting parents had been robbed and all because of their good hearts and bad judgment.

  The fat couple finally extracted themselves from the hansom. The door was hanging open. I jumped in and shouted to the driver to take me to the Madison Square Garden. I couldn’t think of anywhere else I wanted to go but at least I had found a way to get there.

  13

  The two policemen crossed the road behind me heading for the park. The hansom started off. Immediately, the driver had to swerve to one side as a fire engine, bells clanging furiously, clattered past, all snorting horses and sparks flying from the cobbles. I had always rushed to see a fire engine, but not this one. I ducked down behind the door. After a few minutes I got up, dusted off my pants, and sat on the edge of the seat. I closed my eyes and there were my parents, hard-faced and unforgiving, the policemen, the pocketbook full of stolen money. Doors slamming one after another so fast you couldn’t say anything, couldn’t reach out your hand to stop them. Only running made any sense.

  Out the window were the same buildings I had seen a few hours before on my journey to and from Henry Street. The Dakota now cast a long afternoon shadow across the road and into the park. I narrowed my eyes in order to make the streets and buildings look more dramatically personal as befit my desperate flight. However, try as I might, I had to admit that, except for the shadows, everything along Broadway was about the same—dirty and noisy.

  The important thing was that I was in the clear. If I was going to get into trouble, I figured at least to treat myself to a visit to Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. That thought just about cheered me up and made me think there was yet hope in my world and that I could find a way back to it. Even then, after all that had happened, I realized that running away for a rich kid like me could only be temporary. So what if I was “an obligation.” Lots of people were obligations, children especially. And, didn’t my mother still love me despite everything that had happened? My father? Well fathers weren’t much good at that kind of thing. And my grandfather was a very old man. He would die soon.

  Back at home it wouldn’t be so terrible and I would have the memory of the Show, something which even my father couldn’t take away. I’d sneak back into the house and when they found me in the morning, tucked up in my bed, the money replaced, less the price of the hansom and the ticket to the show, they would have to forgive me. After all, they wouldn’t send me to jail and there was no one they could give me back to after eleven years and three months. My real mother was probably dead, just like my mother said, my real father nothing but a puff of wind somewhere down among the rubble of Division Street.

  It was nearly half an hour before we arrived in front of the Madison Square Garden. I leapt out of the hansom. The driver, a big beefy man in a badly fitting suit and too-tight derby called after me.

  “Hey youse, boy, where da youse tink you’se going? Where’s me fare den?”

  Another Irishman. This one had cigar ash on his waistcoat and straw on his shoes. He was easy to get rid of. I gave him the fare.

  It was only then that I noticed there were only a few people milling about outside. The ticket windows were closed, their green shades pulled down behind the rounded glass fronts. I had missed the show! At that moment a loud cheer went up from inside the building. I stood staring up at a giant billboard showing me what I was missing. Buffalo Bill in fringed buckskin on his white horse, to his left the Deadwood Stage being attacked by Indians. Slowly I walked along the covered sidewalk looking at the other colored posters which had been plastered on the high brick walls. Buffalo Bill leading a party of U.S. cavalry against a band of Indians, Annie Oakley doing trick shots, Buffalo Bill as a Pony Express Rider. I was so close to it all, just the thickness of a couple of walls. The wind blew a piece of newspaper against my legs. I kicked it away. Caught by the wind it hopped, flattened itself against a column and then flapped into the road. I watched until it came to rest under the wheels of an ice wagon parked on the other side of the road. Just then there was another cheer followed by soft popping sounds. I could hear it even over the noise of the traffic. Annie Oakley or maybe Buffalo Bill doing trick shots. It was torture for me.

  As I stood there with my bag in my hand under the block-long balcony on the filthy sidewalk in front of the Madison Square Garden, I had to admit defeat. I had stretched the string as far as it was going to go. Nonetheless, I didn’t want to go back just yet. I would take a hansom to the bottom of the park and walk home from there. I would get something to eat at the Dairy and then go for a donkey ride or buy a ticket for the Carousel. It was no less than I deserved after what I’d gone through. I searched in the passing traffic for another hansom.

  “Hey, Plute! Plute!”

  I turned. Hyman Budnitsky and four other kids from Henry Street were running towards me. Their boots echoed loudly under the colonnade. As they passed into and out of the patches of light made by the arches on the sidewalk they disappeared only to reappear a second or two later, much larger than before. When they got close enough I could see they were carrying stacks of newspapers under their arms. Coming to a stop a few paces away they approached me watchfully. The pocketbook in my jacket was suddenly bulging all too obviously. I tried to smile.

  “Hey, Plute, wadda youse say? Hey, youse look kinda sick.”

  “Good afternoon,” I replied finally, relieved to encounter a familiar face, dismayed to find it was Hyman’s.

  He didn’t look any more appetizing than he had earlier that day. The scrubbed look had been scrubbed off by street dirt. The butt end of a dead cigar was stuck wetly in the corner of his mouth. Miss Wald wouldn’t have approved, but Hyman and his friends were a long way from Henry Street and the enforced civilization of the Settlement House. Like a duck on a pond, he turned his head to one side so as better to point his good eye at me.

  “Didn’t like the show or what?”

  “No, that’s not it, my hansom was late arriving, that’s all.”

  The other boys giggled.

  “Oh dear!” one of the boys said, mimicking my Upper West Side voice. “My hansom was late arriving!”

  The others began to hop and dance around me laughing and shouting, “My hansom was late arriving! My hansom was late arriving!”

  I tried to look disdainful, but I wasn’t fooling them. They moved closer, jeering at me.

  Hyman told them to shut up.

  “So, youse still wanna see the show, or what?”

  “Possibly.”

  He noticed my bag.

  “Youse goin to stay da night here, or what?”

  “No, just some things I have to . . . Well, I have to take them somewhere afterwards.”

  “I see,” he said with a shrug. “Sure, why not? So, youse wanna come wid us to da show, or what? We was jus goin.”

  “Of course, I would like to very much, but as you can see the ticket booths are all closed.”

  This brought another roar of laughter from the boys.

  “Sure, they is,” said the smallest of them. “Dat’s why.”

  “That’s why what?”

  “For a smart-talkin Plute, you is dumber than Schwartz’s herrings,” he replied.

  “A reg-ler shmuck!” crowed another.

  “A stupid greener,” said one of the others, maliciously shaking his head.

  Again my champion, Hyman Budnitsky, stepped in.

  “Hey, youse guys, give the Plute here a chance, will ya. He might talk fancy an dat but it don’t mean he thinks fancy, right?”

  I was not encouraged by his de
fense, but at least the other boys stopped taunting me. Hyman explained that they knew a way into the Garden. After the show started the guards weren’t so careful and you could sneak in dead easy. It was around the back where the show people went in. I didn’t like the idea, I was in enough trouble as it was, and I didn’t trust him or his friends. I asked him where we were going to sit if we didn’t have tickets.

  He gave me a wink with his good eye.

  “Doncha worry, Plute. Youse jus stick by us.”

  It was not a comforting thought, even with the promise of Buffalo Bill at the end of it all. But, what could I do?

  I followed the five boys to the end of the block where the colonnade ended. Halfway down the cross street there was a wide alleyway. It was dark and at the end there was a big barn door with a few men standing about smoking and talking. I hesitated. Hyman took my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh.

  “Now dis is how it voiks. Listen good, Plute, we don’t want no trouble.”

  He explained that the men were roustabouts and wouldn’t bother us. But just in case there was a guard, we had to keep to the shadows along the side of the alley. When we got near to the door we could hide behind some massive garbage cans that were stacked there. From there we could see what the situation was and then if all was clear we’d make a run for it. It seemed so simple.

  And it was. After hiding the newspapers under a wooden crate, the six of us tiptoed down the alley, Hyman in the lead. I hesitated and looked behind me. The boy there put his finger to his lips and waved me on. I clutched my bag more tightly. What was I doing skulking along a filthy alley with a group of filthy newsboys? Did I want to see Buffalo Bill so badly? It smelled as unappetizing as Division Street, reeking overpoweringly of horse manure and the sharp, sour smell of urine.

  We reached the shelter of the garbage cans, big steel drums reaching above our heads, the sides blackened by fire, and we crowded between them and the brick wall. Out of the cans came the smell of rotting fish which almost, but not quite, blotted out the stench of the horses. I gagged and tried to move away. There was nowhere to move. I was hemmed in by the other boys, all greasy hair, rough cloth, and sweat. Hyman turned and smiled at me. I smiled back.

  “Well, Plute,” he said, “sorry and all dat, but dis is da end of da line for youse.”

  Stupidly, I clutched at my pocket. Then they were on me. I should have cried out, but the attack was so unexpected I didn’t utter a sound. Having Hyman’s hands around my throat was added incentive to silence. I remember his face very close to mine, filling up all the space. He was shouting as he was choking me, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I had half a thought about Miss Wald, her immaculately grand bust and her photographs, then I had no thoughts at all.

  PART II

  1

  Most people get born into their lives only once. With me it was at least three times. A poor immigrant life, which thankfully I never knew; a rich Upper West Side life which I was yanked into; and my present life, which, because of bad decisions, worse luck, Harry Orchard, and a walrus-faced old Irishman, I soon may pass out of altogether.

  The darkness in my cell is complete. My misery is complete. Darkness, misery, and pain all remind me of Hyman Budnitsky. He was the last sight I had of New York and of my old life. Sometimes I think it was a fitting way to close that account. Cast up and then cast out by Division Street. Now, after living on the other side, I understand a lot more about Hyman Budnitsky and sometimes I can manage not to hate him for what he did.

  The first thing I remember, like the last, was the smell of tobacco. It was hot, a drum was beating, and people were moaning, praying. Sure, I was at the Temple Emanu-El and the congregation were saying Kaddish. Funny, but my grandfather often called me “The Kaddish.” I never knew why. When my mother told him to be quiet he would laugh and slap his thigh. Kaddish? Was I dead? I didn’t want to open my eyes and find out. Of course I did and I wasn’t.

  A spectre from all the nightmares of the world was hovering over me. A dark, grimacing face floating in a haze of smoke with bright yellow and red streaks on the cheeks and nose and topped by a set of enormous pointed horns. Never having thought about the Devil I hadn’t imagined him, but there could be little doubt who I was staring at. I was obviously not at the Temple Emanu-El and this was not Kaddish. I opened my mouth to scream. Not a squeak. Only a terrible burning pain in my throat. I tried to pull in some air. That hurt too.

  The face vanished into the smoke and the moaning took up again, the drum beats quickened and someone shoved a rattle made out of a tin can at me, touching me with it on the forehead, the neck, the chest, the leg.

  “Hey! A-Hey!” a voice chanted with each tap. “Hey! A-Hey!”

  With great difficulty I managed to turn my head. A few feet away from me sat a cross-legged Indian! Just like on the posters, but kinda darker looking. Naked to the waist, wearing a white-beaded necklace, braided hair, long and shiny, and a give-away-nothing expression. Next to him another Indian and next to him, yet another. I was surrounded by them and they were all huffing and puffing, making one hell of a noise.

  I was lying on my back and my chest and neck pained me something awful. I tried to sit up to get a better view. A hand on my shoulder pushed me back gently. The Devil face appeared muttering something I couldn’t understand and once again I was tapped all over with the rattle. The chanting continued. A cup was put to my lips and I drank tepid water. The drum stopped and then the chanting stopped.

  Someone was making a speech. I couldn’t figure out any of the words, but I reckoned it was a speech because it sounded so damn sure about itself. Every once in a while it would stop and there would be a communal murmur of agreement. The speech went on for some time, at least I guess it did, because at some point I drifted off. When I woke up it had gone quiet. The speechmaker was gone, the smoke was gone and the circle of Indians was gone. But I wasn’t alone.

  “Wasichu?” a voice asked.

  I managed only a dry gasp.

  “Good?”

  I didn’t reckon it was. Not being able to talk, that is, let alone not knowing where I was. How would I find out if I couldn’t ask? It was my throat, you see. It was like someone had grabbed hold and squeezed it, closing the pipe down to almost nothing. Hurt like I’d swallowed an open razor. My tongue was lying there behind my teeth doing me no good at all.

  A hand under my head lifted me into a sitting position and I was given something to drink. It tasted foul and I choked, the liquid spurted out and dribbled down my chest. I could see where I was now, although that wasn’t a great deal of help as it was nowhere I had ever been.

  I was lying on a dark fur rug on the floor of what I supposed was a railway carriage. It wasn’t moving. There were a couple of rows of polished wooden seats, but most of the room was taken up with three-tiered bunks. Seventeen curtained windows with two-part, pull-down shutters, a few red metal buckets with fire marked on them and at the end nearest to me a black iron stove. The carriage was cluttered with sacks, bundles, blankets, suitcases, as well as buckskins, feathered headdresses, and lots of other Indian things. On the far door was a full-color poster of Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley. That gave me a pretty good idea of where I was. The how and why was something else.

  Outside, some way off, the music of a brass band. My companion, an Indian boy about fifteen years old wearing ordinary pants and a muslin shirt, squatted next to me. He began to talk very slowly in a language of guttural rumbles. When it became apparent that I couldn’t understand he fell silent. After a few minutes he touched my chest with a thin brown finger.

  “Wasichu,” he said. “Pte Zhella!”

  I shook my head.

  “Buffalo Calf,” he now insisted deliberately, once more putting his finger on my chest.

  Buffalo Calf?

  I wanted to tell the boy to stop being ridiculous and to call my mother immediately.

&nb
sp; It wasn’t until some hours later that I discovered no one was going to call her and that I really was Buffalo Calf, Newborn Buffalo Calf to be exact. At least that’s what some of them called me. For some others I was Little Cut-Penis or Little Broken-Rod or Child-Found-in-Alley. As it was explained to me by Charlie Pinto Face, the only one of the Indians who really spoke English so you could make any sense of it, the argument about my name arose because the old ways no longer had the power they once had.

  “When the world was whole, it was the grandmother who could not talk to the father and the medicine man that gave the child his name. Now the sacred hoop is broken and anyone can give a name without waiting the necessary time. So it is that you must live with the burden of more than one name.”

  That was the first of the many burdens and many names which I was to acquire in my new life.

  As I said, I was thrown into that life by Hyman Budnitsky, but at the other end there was Sunset Buffalo Dreamer, my father, who found me naked, bleeding, and unconscious behind the garbage cans in that Madison Square Garden alley.

  “You are part of his great vision,” Charlie Pinto Face told me gravely. “This is why you are here with us and why we now know the full strength of his vision.”

  Though I also wanted to tell Charlie Pinto Face to stop being foolish, I didn’t even dare to think about saying that to Sunset Buffalo Dreamer.

  He sat in front of me looking proud and stern. He was pretty old. A big fleshy nose covered in pock marks, deep wrinkles, especially around his mouth, high cheekbones, and small dark eyes that looked painfully into you and straight out the other side. He wore his hair long and sticking out on top were three feathers. A fringed buckskin shirt with colored beads on it and a flap of cloth down the front of his pants. It was exactly the picture I had expected. Other Indians sat around us in a circle near the stove, backs up against the sides of the railway carriage. Charlie translated for me as the old man recounted his dream.