Big League Dreams (Small Worlds)

by Allen Hoffman

  On Saturday morning the inspector had driven to the very same bookmakers from whom he had confiscated the money on Friday evening; only this time he bet all of it on the St. Louis Browns. Out of respect for Boruch Levi’s guarantee, he placed an additional ten-thousand-dollar bet for himself and the chief. That wasn’t all; after Barasch’s bets and Doheen’s confiscation of them, the odds had moved to eight-to-five in favor of the Tigers, so Matti had won sixteen thousand dollars for the ten thousand bet. The total “good news,” including his original bet, consisted of the twenty-six thousand dollars waiting for Matti. The bookmakers who lost so heavily to Inspector Doheen, however, had seen things somewhat differently. Unable to revenge themselves on police brass, they did so on the man they believed had set them up. Along with the money, there was a bullet waiting for Matti.

  “That was some funeral,” Doheen said respectfully. “It’s all in the paper.”

  Boruch Levi nodded.

  “You want some coffee?” the inspector asked.

  The junkman shook his head. Awkwardly, they eyed the bag.

  “You better count it,” Doheen advised.

  “No need for that,” Boruch Levi answered.

  “We all make mistakes,” Doheen replied.

  Knowing just how fatal Doheen’s mistakes could be, Boruch Levi sat down and started counting. The stacks of bills that gave such an organic impression inside the bag seemed lifeless and lacking all substance in his hands. The more abstract and impersonal they seemed, the better Boruch Levi liked it.

  “It’s all here,” he announced.

  “Let me tie it up for you. It’ll make it easier.”

  The inspector returned the bills to the bag and folded it into a neat package before tying it together with string.

  “There,” he said, “just like a Christmas gift.” Realizing how inappropriate the reference was, he amended it by adding, “or a birthday present,” only to realize that was even worse.

  A grimace of embarrassment crossed his face. He turned to Boruch Levi.

  “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry,” he said in simple honesty.

  “I know. I am, too,” Boruch Levi said and shook the inspector’s hand.

  Boruch Levi picked up the package.

  “Take the newspaper, too. I bought several. It has a quote from the chief.”

  Doheen folded the Globe and slipped it into Boruch Levi’s hand.

  Wearily, Boruch Levi dragged his burdens across the street and up the steps to his home.

  The string-tied package looked less ominous on Golda’s kitchen table. She looked at it in curiosity, but Boruch Levi didn’t enlighten her as to its contents. If she knew that twenty-six thousand dollars in cash lay on her table like a loaf of stale bread, no one would get any sleep. Golda herself would have an ulcer by morning.

  “Matti left some unfinished business that I have to take care of,” Boruch muttered. Golda clucked nervously at the mention of the tragedy.

  Sammy stared curiously at the package. He had heard his father climbing the stairs and expected him to be carrying something much bulkier and much heavier. The boy’s interest in the object ended abruptly when his father put the newspaper down.

  “May I read it?” he asked eagerly.

  His father nodded and turned to make a telephone call. Isidore’s butler answered, and Boruch Levi gave his name. In a moment, Isidore himself came to the phone and greeted Boruch Levi.

  “Did you get it?” he asked.

  “Yes. There was more than we expected,” Boruch Levi answered guardedly; Golda was listening.

  “How much more?” Isidore asked with keen interest.

  “Six,” Boruch Levi answered briefly. His friend understood that he couldn’t talk openly because of Golda and Sammy.

  “Good. That makes a fine sum to invest for Mrs. Sternweiss,” Isidore said. “At least she won’t have any financial problems. You’ll bring it to my office tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Boruch Levi replied.

  There was a pause.

  “Is there anything else?” Isidore asked.

  “I thought that we should let the rebbe know what we are doing. As a matter of respect.”

  Boruch Levi was aware of Isidore’s ambivalence toward the man who had had no desire to become his father-in-law.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Isidore consented.

  “Would you like to join me in telling him about it?” Boruch Levi asked.

  “What do you think?” Isidore asked his friend.

  “I think that you will be making the investments, and you should be there to receive his blessing,” Boruch Levi said without hesitation.

  “Yes, I think that would be a good idea.”

  “I’ll call Reb Zelig to make an appointment.”

  “Good.”

  “Tomorrow in your office, I’ll give you the time.”

  “Did you see the morning paper?” Isidore asked with some interest.

  “No,” Boruch Levi replied, wondering why Isidore should mention it. “But it’s right here. Sammy’s reading it.”

  “Things went very well today. There are some interesting photos. Take a look.”

  “I’ll do that right now, Isidore. Good-bye.”

  “Boruch Levi?” Isidore asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for calling. Thank you for all your calls. I appreciate them.” Isidore hung up.

  The wealthy realtor was not given to emotion, and Boruch Levi felt a warm glow. He also felt good about the rebbe. Perhaps some things could be done here in St. Louis that couldn’t be done in Krimsk.

  “Sammy, tell me about the newspaper story,” Boruch Levi requested.

  Absorbed in the article, the boy didn’t answer. The father joined his son at the table and gently touched the child’s arm.

  “Sammy, are there any interesting photos?” he asked.

  “Are there? Just look!” the boy said excitedly.

  Sammy turned back to the front page to show his father the large, black-rimmed St. Louis Browns’ publicity photo of Matti. In his baseball cap and with his self-conscious talmudist’s smile, Matti looked almost handsome. Boruch Levi saw in that tragic picture all the foolishly noble aspirations of Krimsk in America and understood Matti as he never had before. For a moment, he almost gave way to tears.

  “Forgive me, Matti,” he whispered.

  “What, Pa?” Sammy asked.

  His father simply shook his head, and Sammy flipped to the back page where the story was continued.

  “Look,” Sammy said proudly.

  His hands raised to heaven, the rebbe stood on the auto roof addressing the rapt crowd of mourners. The shot, taken from a distance over the crowd, captured the magical sense of the rebbe’s inspired flight before he fell in mourning. The second picture portrayed mourning, pure and noble. Reb Zelig, eyes closed by tears, chanted the kaddish of faith by the grave.

  “Look, that’s you!” Sammy cried.

  Boruch Levi followed Sammy’s finger into Reb Zelig’s shadow, where he and Isidore stood. Isidore looked haggard and anguished, but to his disappointment, Boruch Levi looked sad but composed. He had the feeling that he was staring at some unfeeling stranger, the way he thought the chief had appeared at the cemetery.

  “Does it say what the chief said?” he asked.

  Sammy skimmed the columns and then began to read, “‘He was a great patriot and a great American, who refused the blandishments of evil and played his heart out for our St. Louis Browns,’ said a deeply saddened chief of police, Michael O’Brien.”

  The boy stopped reading.

  “Is that all?” Boruch Levi asked, hoping that the chief, in spite of his unfeeling look, had said something other than “fancy talk.”

  “There’s more here, Pa,” and the boy read:

  “‘He was the smartest man I ever met in baseball, his death notwithstanding’: Zack Freeling, St. Louis Browns’ manager.

  “‘He was my best friend in baseball. He introduced me to my f
iancée, Penny Pinkham. We were going to ask him to be our best man’: Dufer Rawlings, twenty-game winner.

  “‘We shall miss his bat in the lineup’: Thatcher Jones, pitcher.”

  Boruch Levi was no longer listening. Even had he known who the other speakers were, he wouldn’t have paid attention. It was unfair to expect more, but it was all just fancy talk. That’s what they wanted from the press. Isidore was right; the three photographs told more about the funeral than they had any right to expect. He found the one of Reb Zelig exceptionally powerful. Affectionately, he tousled Sammy’s hair as the boy continued reading.

  The rebbe’s line was busy. Instead Boruch Levi called his sister Malka to remind her of her promise to give her sons Hebrew lessons. One of his nephews answered, and Boruch Levi asked to speak to the boy’s mother. After a few minutes, the child announced that his mother and father had gone to bed and refused to open the bedroom door. Telling his nephew to have Malka call him at his office in the morning, Boruch Levi hung up. The very night following the funeral, too; what a slut, he thought. Those kids will need all the instruction Reb Zelig can give them.

  He tried the rebbe again but still didn’t get through. He toyed with the idea of driving over to speak to Reb Zelig in person, but decided not to. It was almost ten o’clock. It had been a long day for everyone. Neither the rebbe nor his sexton were youngsters. And out of loyalty to Isidore, Boruch Levi didn’t want to go to the rebbe’s home without him. Again the telephone operator told him that the line was busy. A glance at his pocket watch told him that it was already ten o’clock.

  “Sammy, it’s time for bed,” he said with a touch of his usual gruffness.

  A flush of excitement on his tired features, Sammy neatly folded the newspaper and got up from the table.

  “That must have been some funeral,” he said.

  His father merely nodded. As Boruch Levi pulled the light cord, the funeral didn’t interest him; that was over. What did interest him was why the rebbe’s line was busy. As he stood in the dark, he wondered: who, instead of Boruch Levi, was speaking to Reb Zelig?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  BORUCH LEVI NEED NOT HAVE WORRIED. NO ONE WAS speaking on the rebbe’s telephone. Like a pendulum that had grown weary, the earpiece dangled off the cradle. Earlier in the day, all the newspapers had wanted to interview the rebbe. Community leaders wanted a word with him, or at the very least, called to congratulate him on his wise words. These calls had finally ceased by the evening. Reb Zelig thought that he might finally have some peace, but he was wrong. During the evening prayers the phone began to ring incessantly. Racing up the steps immediately after the final kaddish, Reb Zelig was overwhelmed with unending requests for audiences with the rebbe. Every Jew from Krimsk wanted to speak with “his rebbe,” and almost every other Jew who attended the funeral or had read the papers wanted to meet the “Grand Rabbi of Krimsk” (thus the newspapers had referred to the rebbe at Isidore Weinbach’s prompting). It was as if nightfall had created a new world of supplicants in need. Reb Zelig politely took their names and asked them to call back later in the week.

  After the list had grown to more than a hundred petitioners, he left the receiver hanging off the hook and went to see the rebbe. Although he loyally took the names with him, Reb Zelig was really interested in speaking to the rebbe about his own future. The rebbe, uncharacteristically, had not appeared in the beis midrash for the evening prayers. Reb Zelig half expected to find him asleep in the study. If so, he would awaken him to say the evening prayers. That would be a shame because Reb Zelig was more anxious than he had ever been in his life to speak to his rebbe.

  The rebbe’s eulogy at the cemetery had inspired Reb Zelig to intone the most powerful kaddish the city had ever heard. The rebbe’s words had put Reb Zelig’s life together and, of course, resurrected his confidence in the rebbe himself. The sexton had wanted to speak to the rebbe as they drove home from the cemetery, but that would have been inappropriate and disrespectful to Matti. Now the sun had set, and a new day had begun. Now was the time to tell the rebbe that he, Reb Zelig, was ready; the rebbe need mourn no longer.

  The rebbe’s words had elucidated several mysteries, not the least of which was the rebbe’s having called him the tsar’s murderer. All that talk about airplanes—the rebbe had wanted Reb Zelig to become a pilot and had asked Sammy if he wanted to fly—had mystified him, too, but now he understood. The rebbe had invited Reb Zelig to become the pilot, but not comprehending the real intent, Reb Zelig foolishly had refused for lack of time. Instead, the rebbe had turned to poor Matti, who had failed. Greatly to his credit, Matti had understood and had tried to complete the dangerous mission. As far back as Krimsk, Reb Zelig should have saved the Jews, in which case the tsar would have become a righteous man, and all Russia would have been saved from the murderous Bolshevik Revolution. Reb Zelig was years late, but he was finally ready. Proud and fiercely determined, he walked from the kitchen to the rebbe’s study door. He knocked respectfully but with a clear clarion tone—and received no answer. He knocked again, louder and more insistently. The rebbetzin stuck her head out of her door to see what all the fuss was about.

  “Rebbe, it’s me, Reb Zelig!” he called.

  The rebbetzin disappeared into her bedroom, and Reb Zelig remained alone in the hall. He must be asleep, thought Reb Zelig in disappointment. He turned the knob and slowly opened the door to find the study pitch-black. He reached for the cord and pulled the light. Momentarily the sudden flash blinded his aging eyes. When he could see again, he was surprised to find his rebbe sitting on the couch wide awake and staring at him as if he, Reb Zelig, were mad. In addition, the rebbe was cradling his head as if he were in severe pain. For a moment Reb Zelig was uncertain, but he quickly regained his composure, stood nobly erect, and announced, “I am ready.” Receiving no reply, he moved directly in front of the rebbe, as if reporting for duty, and repeated more loudly and aggressively, “My rebbe, I am ready!”

  “Ready for what?” the rebbe asked derisively, as if there were no way to get rid of this madman other than by humoring him.

  Undeterred, Reb Zelig answered in strong, confident tones, “Ready to become a pilot!”

  “Why in the world would you want to do that?” the rebbe asked in genuine curiosity.

  “To save the Jews,” Reb Zelig wanted to answer, but he thought it circumspect to use the rebbe’s own code. “In order to fly the rebbe down to the Osage Indian reservation.”

  “Have you been getting enough sleep?” the rebbe asked.

  “Yes, I think so,” Reb Zelig answered, taken aback at the question.

  “Does your head hurt?” the rebbe asked.

  “No, not at all,” Reb Zelig replied.

  “Well, mine is killing me. I would appreciate it if you would stop pounding on doors and screaming like a maniac,” the rebbe said.

  “I’m sorry,” the sexton apologized.

  “You will not enter again without receiving permission. Is that clear?” the rebbe snapped.

  Reb Zelig nodded.

  “Good,” the rebbe said, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist.

  “But what about my flying?” Reb Zelig asked.

  The rebbe stared at him strangely.

  “I am ready to become a pilot,” Reb Zelig pleaded.

  “Are you crazy?” the rebbe asked soberly. “At your age, the vehicle that comes after an automobile is a wheelchair.”

  The rebbe turned away. Reb Zelig, crushed, left the study, leaving the door open behind him. As he passed through the kitchen toward the steps to his room, he didn’t even notice the telephone hanging off the hook. Nor did he fully realize that he had dropped the list of supplicants into the large wastebasket beneath the sink.

  If Boruch Levi was in the dark about how to contact Reb Zelig, he had guessed completely right about Malka and Barasch.

  Barasch had left the cemetery determined to live. As soon as he returned home, he washed, shaved, and dressed more elegantly than
he ever had. It wasn’t easy. Even if the striking butterfly that emerges from the cocoon bears no resemblance to the homely caterpillar that inhabited it, who knows whether the graceful butterfly still possesses the bumptious heart of the caterpillar who spun its insular, earthbound cocoon? And if it does, what can the butterfly do to satisfy its displaced heart’s yearnings? Fly faster, higher, alighting on ever more beautiful and colorful sunbathed blooms—light, air, breeze, sweet purple violets, pungent red roses, perfumed sticky honeysuckle—and never quite succeeding. But forever trying, and Barasch knew that he must try.

  Malka had witnessed this emergence with delight and increased desire. More than willing to give Barasch the opportunity to try, she invited him into the bedroom and locked the door. That very night after the funeral, she raised the blanket. Barasch entered and tried to bury himself in her robust, living flesh lest death claim him. In a land far from his love, he struggled for his life and called the name of his wife, “Malka, Malka, oy, yoy, yoy!”

  The rebbe had wanted to call Reb Zelig back to close the door, but the pain in his head was too acute. He received minimal relief by cradling it in his hands. He was about to cross the room to close himself off when Shayna Basya walked in.

  “Close the door,” he commanded.

  She complied immediately and turned to greet her husband. When she saw him on the couch cradling his head, she gasped and fell back against the door. She had not seen him sitting like that since he disappeared for five years into his study in Krimsk for his self-imposed exile. She was afraid to speak.

  “Would everyone stop banging on the door? My head is killing me,” the rebbe complained.

  Although fearful, the rebbetzin was pleased that he had spoken first.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I don’t think anything will help.”

  Suddenly she had an idea. “Would you like me to make you some Aunt Jemima pancakes and a cup of Postum?”