Grant nodded. “Sure. I remember the radio programs about it, and pictures in the news.”
“There was a picture in the paper of Hitler refusing to shake the hand of a Negro man who won four gold medals. Jesse Owens. He had just beaten all the white people in four track events. Jesse Owens proved he was the fastest man in the world—faster than the whole Aryan nation.”
Slider shook his head, with the same disgusted half-grin, half-glare that he wore when he told Big Joe to shape up and take care of his own kids. “Hitler was congratulating all the gold-medal winners, but when the Negro came for his turn to shake the führer’s hand, Hitler turned away. Some photographer caught got a picture of it. I think anybody who’s that arrogant and biased might be dangerous.”
“So he hates Jews and Negroes?”
“Sounds like it. Hates anybody not part of his Aryan nation.”
Grant could hear footsteps striding down the hall outside, slowing at his door.
Slider went on, “Anybody with that mindset, who thinks he’s chosen by God to lead the world, and hates any other group of people, is a kook in my book. And dangerous—”
Dr. Bronstein stepped into the room and looked from Grant to Slider and back as if he was hesitant to interrupt. Slider quit talking anyway.
“You vouldn’t happen to be talking about Führer Adolf Hitler, vould you?” Dr. Bronstein said in his thick German-sounding accent.
“Ah, as a matter of fact, yes,” Slider said. “Grant here just asked me what I thought of him, and I’m giving my two cents.”
Dr. Bronstein nodded slowly, beard in his hand. “So you tink dis Hitler is a kook? And dangerous?”
Slider swallowed like he didn’t want to start an argument, but he was never one to back down from speaking his mind. “I don’t want to offend you, but, yes, Doctor, I do. Everything I read makes me think the man’s a lunatic. And very dangerous. All my German friends are smart, discerning people. But it seems to me this kook’s pulling the wool over all the Germans’ eyes. Do you have an opinion on him, yourself?”
Dr. Bronstein, who stood tall and straight, sighed and sagged into a chair opposite Slider. “Is dat vhat you get from da news? Dat he is a dangerous lunatic?”
“I’m afraid so. Don’t know what else to think.”
“Dat’s vhat I tink. I vished to tink I vas overreacting. My family in Germany, dey tell me I’m overreacting, but you confirm my fear. I’m almost glad of dat, but I am also sad.”
“Glad?” Grant burst out. He didn’t realize he had been holding his breath.
Dr. Bronstein smiled at Grant, a sad smile. “Only glad dat I am not crazy,” Dr. Bronstein said. “Not glad to hear it. Does da news make it clear how much da führer—Hitler—hates Jews?” asked the doctor.
“Yes,” Slider said. “That’s what the news is about today.” He held up a headline: “Hitler Vows to Dismantle Bourgeois Holdings that ‘Do not Support the New Revolution and the New Reich.’ The paper goes on to say that Hitler claims all Jews, no matter what their jobs, are bourgeoisie and against the ‘New Reich.’”
Dr. Bronstein put his head in his hands. He sat quietly like that for half a minute. When he looked up, his face looked old, as if he hadn’t slept for days. “He believes every Jew is a threat to his Reich. I’m Jewish. My brother and I came to America to go to da university. My mother is dead, but my father, my sisters, my other brother, and nieces and nephews, all my other uncles and cousins still live in Hamburg. I tell dem to come to America, dat dis Hitler is no good, dat the Gestapo is evil, dat dey must leave now while dey can. Dey say, oh, no, the German Reich is a great government, and nothing dat bad can ever happen in our country. Adolf Hitler vouldn’t dare do anyting to so many Jews. You forget da glories of Deutschland because you have been gone so long. Dey don’t believe me vhen I say dey should leave now.”
He shook his head in his hands again and moaned. “Vhat do you tink I can do to convince dem? You see it, too. Vhat could I do?”
Slider scratched the back of his head, considering Dr. Bronstein. “Why don’t you mail them a few copies of newspaper articles from the United States? So they see what the rest of the world is seeing? Maybe it’s like the king of England who left his throne so he can marry the American Mrs. Simpson. I guess English papers were the only ones in the whole world not talking about King Edward and Wallis Simpson, his lover. We knew before the English knew what was going on. Maybe that’s true for German papers and Hitler, too.”
Dr. Bronstein rose from his chair. “Dat is a goot idea. As long as da secret police isn’t opening Jews’ mail. I heard that vas happening, too. But still, I think I vill do that. I have to try. Dankeschön, Mr. O’Grady.”
“Slider.” Slider stuck out his hand. “Sheriff Slider O’Grady.”
“Sheriff,” Dr. Bronstein said. “Ah. A man who pays attention to da vorld.”
Dr. Bronstein lifted Grant’s bandaged arm gently. He made Grant wiggle each finger, bend and straighten each in turn as much as he could. Each movement sent fire up and down his arm. His little finger barely moved.
Grant thought about this man’s family in Germany. Thinking about it helped him not focus on how much his arm hurt. What would it be like to have a führer who hated you because you were a Jew? What if President Roosevelt suddenly said that all Irish had to get out of their houses and give up their businesses and jobs? It was crazy.
Dr. Bronstein moved Grant’s arm in the shoulder socket. Lightning pain shot every direction from his elbow.
“We’ll put da cast on today or tomorrow. I tink . . . I’m not positive,” the doctor said, “but I tink you should get full range of motion back. Dis is vhat’s called an open fracture. Da only ting broken was da elbow tip, and one tendon is cut, but not all da vay through. The nerves seem mostly intact, based on responses of your fingers.”
Grant and Slider looked at each other.
“So by da summer,” the doctor continued, “you’ll be as good as new. Or almost, anyway.”
“Will I be able to pitch?”
“Pitch? Baseball, you mean?”
Grant nodded.
Dr. Bronstein rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure. You’ll be able to play baseball. Can’t promise about dis pitching.”
Grant bit his lip so hard he could taste coppery blood.
Slider shifted in his seat.
The Dr. Bronstein looked at Slider and back at Grant. “So. You are a pitcher, are you?”
Grant nodded, bit his lip some more. “Was,” he finally whispered.
“Pretty good at it?”
Grant shrugged. He couldn’t trust his voice.
Slider said, “The best in town. Maybe in the county. Maybe in about six counties, to tell the truth. A wicked fastball for a thirteen-year-old.”
Grant felt himself flush hot with this praise. His dad had never said anything like that before. Proud of him, but not bragging, just wanting the doctor to understand how important this elbow was. Grant flashed Slider a grateful glance.
“Hoping for da big leagues, are ve? Like dat Feller youngster from Iowa?”
“You know Bob Feller?” Grant was delighted that this German doctor knew about “Rapid Robert” Feller.
“Hmmmm.” Dr. Bronstein stood holding his chin in one hand. “I can’t promise you’ll get all da power back you had in dat arm. It might hurt some for da rest of your life. But . . . dat’s going to be mostly up to you after dis heals.” He stopped and looked from Slider to Grant and back again.
Slider looked at Grant steadily. He didn’t say, it’ll be fine, son. Slider didn’t lie, and Grant knew that it might not be fine. He might never, ever pitch again.
Dr. Bronstein went on. “People dat coddle their injuries usually do not recover completely. You know dis word coddle? It means baby along. If dey say, ‘Oh, I can’t do dat anymore,’ den dey can’t. People dat vork hard are da ones who do. You’re young, too, and you’ll grow some more. Baby it—coddle it—don’t do anyting vith it and let it heal
completely—for two months. Do not try any shenanigans with it before dat.”
He watched Grant’s face. Grant stared back at him. “Two months. Den,” the doctor when on, “beginning of March, get da cast off, and start moving it a lot. By April, you can start throwing a baseball. Den vork it hard. Lift tings with dat arm. In April. Flex it, stretch it. See vhat you can do. I show you exercises den. Stranger tings have happened. I tink if you can pitch again is going to be entirely up to you, young man.”
Grant nodded. He swallowed hard.
In the afternoon, Slider went out and explored the town on foot. Grant fell asleep.
When he came back, Grant caught a faint whiff of vodka on his breath.
“I suppose I need to get back home.” Slider said. “Make sure nobody’s blown up the steeple or anything.” He winked at Grant. “Mamie called the hospital switchboard and left me a message. ‘Lutheran women are complaining about Squaw Island.’ I reckon’ I better go do my job.”
“Squaw Island? You goin’ out there?”
“I don’t know. Guess I’ll check it out. Maybe somebody’s husband went out there and got drunk, and got the brood of hens all up in arms.”
Grant laughed. Laughing made his elbow hurt, so he held still.
Prohibition had been lifted in 1933, but in North Dakota, Indians still weren’t allowed to buy alcohol. Two brothers, Seamus Blue Bear and Sean Moosetracks, had built a still to make moonshine on Squaw Island. Seamus and Sean were full-blooded Irishmen with bright red hair who claimed made-up Indian names when they built a shanty on the Devils Lake Indian Reservation in the middle of swampy land. They didn’t fool anybody into thinking they were Indians, but they sold moonshine to Indians and anybody else who would buy it. It kept everybody happy, except the wives whose husbands got drunk on the stuff, but nobody much complained. That’s where Big Joe went to buy his booze when Grumpy got a mind not to serve him anymore.
“So you’re going? Home?”
“Well, I hate to leave you, but you’ll be okay here. I know you’re safe, that’s for sure. I’ll come back lickety split to get you when they let you out.”
Grant bit his lip and nodded. The days were going to be long and boring without Slider. With his left hand, he picked at the blanket over his legs. But of course his dad couldn’t sit here with him like he was a baby or something.
“Could you find me a book or something first? So I have something to do?”
“I’ll go for a stroll to the public library before I leave. How’s that?”
“That’d be swell.”
That afternoon, Slider came back with four books under one arm.
Arabian Nights, Gulliver’s Travels, Sea Wolf and a collection of short stories by Jack London. Slider set them on the bedside table. “That ought to keep you busy. I gave my word that we’d return ’em, leave ’em at the hospital, or mail ’em back.”
Grant picked them up, one by one, with his left hand. He’d read Call of the Wild and White Fang by Jack London three times each. “Swell. These’ll be the berries, Dad.”
Slider left before supper. “I’ll be back in a flash when they call to tell me you’re ready to get out.”
In the front of the collection of short stories was a poem by Jack London:
“I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze
than it should be stifled by dry rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor,
every atom of me in magnificent glow,
than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.”
Grant decided to memorize it. Every time he thought he couldn’t pitch, he’d recite it to himself. He was going to live, not exist. He would rather be ashes than dust.
Three days later, Dr. Bronstein came in and sat down in Grant’s room. “I called your father. He’ll be here dis afternoon to pick you up.”
“He will?!”
“Now, remember about babying dat arm. No shenanigans dat vould mess up your pitching elbow. Or mess up my fancy surgery on it.” He smiled. “It has got to rest and heal. You hear?”
Grant looked at his cast and nodded. “I promise.”
“I vant to see you back here, den, on March first. I’ll cut da cast off den.”
Grant nodded.
Dr. Bronstein was almost out the door when Grant found the guts to ask, “Did you write to your relatives? In Germany?”
“Yes, I did, young man. I sent dat newspaper. Now all I can do is vait to hear vhat dey tink.”
* * *
Grant and his dad rode back to Larkin in the sheriff’s black Pontiac.
Dr. Connor had told Slider to give him whiskey for the ride to Grand Forks. Now, on the ride home, the pain was a lot less, but his elbow throbbed, and every time they hit a bump in the road, the throbbing shot up to his shoulder and down to his fingers. And this time, he sure didn’t have any whiskey.
“Guess we don’t have to worry about your rifle bein’ off limits ’til you pay for the Christmas lights,” Slider joked.
Grant tried to grin. Nothing was very funny. It hurt too much. And it was too scary. That he would never pitch again.
“Will threw Big Joe in jail for a couple days. To sober him up again.”
“What did he arrest him for, again?” Grant asked.
“Public drunkenness. When I got back, I talked to him more about assault. I know we can’t charge him with assault because he claims he was just trying to help you, but I made him think a little. Kept him two nights, ’til he was completely sober. He went straight to Grumpy’s, and then he went out to Squaw Island to get a couple bottles.” They rode in quiet for a while. Then Slider said, “Dangnammit, Grant. Thinking about what he did to you, I could just kill the son of a buck myself. If he screwed up your pitching arm, who knows what I’ll do.”
Grant nodded and looked out the window. “I hate him, Dad.” If he never got to pitch again, he didn’t know what he’d do, either. He felt like he could kill Big Joe himself if that happened. “I feel it right here.” He touched his stomach with his good hand.
“I know, son. Doesn’t do us any good to hate, though. It’s a waste of energy, but I know.”
When he trusted his voice, Grant said, “Hey, what happened at Squaw Island, Dad?”
Slider smiled at Grant sideways. “Well, I went out and talked to those Irish snake-oil Indians. Told them the womenfolk didn’t approve of their activities.” Slider grinned ahead into the darkness.
Grant waited, but when Slider didn’t go on, prodded him, “So, what did they say?”
“They said it wasn’t their fault. They weren’t going to quit making moonshine because it displeased some church-going women.” Slider kept grinning. “Said it was up to the womenfolk to keep their menfolk happy at home if they didn’t want ’em comin’ out for some nips of hard liquor.” He glanced at Grant and winked. “Can’t say as I blame ’em for that.”
They rode in silence for a few miles. Grant waited, hoping there was more to the story.
Slider didn’t disappoint him. “I said I know I got no jurisdiction as county sheriff on the Indian reservation. All I can do is suggest. So I suggested they oblige me by not sellin’ Big Joe more’n one bottle at a time. They looked at me and said, ‘Sheriff, if we are in charge of monitorin’ every drunkard’s alcohol this side of the Knife River, then the Lord help us all.’
“I took that as a cue to leave. On the way out I asked them to be mindful of the law not to sell alcohol to Indians.
“Sean just grunted. I said, ‘What does that mean?’ And Seamus said, ‘I’ll go to prison any day before I cotton to a law that’s as ridiculous as that one. And my brother here feels the same. Sheriff Slider, the government’s given the Indians so many raw deals, the least we can do is let them drown their sorrows.’�
��
“What did you say?” Grant asked.
“I left. Grant, those boys—Seamus and Sean—might not take very many baths, but they aren’t stupid.”
Nineteen
Little Joe, Big Joe
Grant’s first day back to school, Little Joe didn’t meet him to walk to school. When Grant, with his arm in a sling, slid into his desk, Little Joe was already in his own seat and didn’t look up at him.
At recess, Grant couldn’t play pom-pom pull-away, so he sat at his desk and pulled out Gulliver’s Travels. When the noon bell rang, Joe ate without looking up and then hurried outside.
Orland, Sammy, Sue, and Tommy crowded around Grant’s desk after they ate.
“What was the hospital like?”
“How long do you have to wear the cast?”
“Will you be able to pitch?”
Grant answered all their questions, and when they hurried outside to join everyone else, Grant opened his book.
“Hurt a lot, Grant O’Grady?” a soft voice asked from the classroom doorway.
Grant looked up. Suzy. “Hi. Not so much, once they put the cast on.”
“You’re sort of famous at school now, for your broken elbow, you know.”
“I am? Not exactly how I’d like to be famous.”
“I brought you this.” She held out her hand. When Grant extended his, she dropped a lemon drop on his palm.
“I saved it for you when I heard about your arm. Maybe it will make staying inside for recess today go faster.”
“Thanks, Suzy,” Grant said, “it will.” By the time the words were out of his mouth, Suzy had turned and disappeared as quickly and quietly as she had come.
The lemon drop did help, but not enough.
At the end of the school day, Racehorse Romney excused them, and Little Joe grabbed his books and bolted.
Grant called, “Joe. Wait.”
Little Joe stopped in the cloakroom and waited, clutching his books, not looking up at Grant.
“Little Joe, won’t you talk to me?”
Little Joe shook his head, head down, chin on his chest.
Slider’s Son Page 12
