by Rona Arato
A few people gave them strange looks, but still no one stopped.
“We have a real fire-breathing dragon cooking soup inside,” shouted Moshe.
“We don’t have the soup yet,” said Shoshi.
“Mama’s making it. I got the carrots and greens from Mr. Schwartz’s pushcart.” He waved at a rotund man in a white apron, who waved back.
“Okay,” Shoshi said. “Let me try.” She cupped her hands over her mouth. “Come inside for soup and matzo balls!”
“My, my, my, that’s no way to get people to listen. You have to get their attention first and then tell them what you’re selling.”
Shoshi looked up and saw a tall thin man with a waxed mustache that curled in twin spirals around his face. He wore a red-and-white striped jacket, with shiny buttons on the front and loops of gold braid on the shoulders. His striped pants were tucked into knee-high black boots. On top of his head sat a narrow stovepipe hat in the same red-and-white as his jacket.
“Excuse my lack of manners,” the man said, bending low and sweeping the hat before him like a fan. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Aloysius P. Thornswaddle. That’s pronounced Al-o-wish-us with emphasis on wish.” He clucked his tongue. “Oh, dear, you don’t understand me.”
“Yes, we do,” said Shoshi.
“Now this is a surprise! Newly arrived children who speak English.”
“We had a tutor in Vrod. That’s our hometown in Russia,” said Shoshi. “Mama wanted us to know English before we came to America.”
“A wise woman, your mother.”
“Where are you from?” asked Moshe.
“Romania. However, I consider myself a citizen of the world.” He did a little dance, one long striped leg wrapped around the other until he looked like a barber pole. “And today, I am a circus barker who will help you sell your wares.”
“What is a circus?” asked Shoshi. She didn’t know whether to fear or embrace this bizarre person.
“A circus is a show with many people performing tricks. And animals – all kinds of animals.”
“All kinds?” Shoshi nervously looked around for Snigger. Would this strange man want him for his circus?
“We are always looking for new talent. But come now. That is not why I stopped to talk to you. See this nose?” He tapped his sharp beak. “It’s a nose for news. I can smell when someone has a story to tell. And you two want everyone to hear what you have to sell. Am I right?”
“We have a dragon in our restaurant,” Moshe blurted.
“Moshe, be quiet!” Shoshi stamped on his foot.
“Ouch!”
“Children, children. Don’t argue. You have a dragon? How extraordinary. A real, live fire-breathing dragon?”
“He cooks food with his breath,” said Shoshi.
“And ’e’s a great ’elp in a ship’s boiler room. Hee, hee, hee.”
“Salty!” The children whirled around.
“I thought you went back to your ship,” said Moshe.
“I did, but then the strangest thing ’appened. The second engine jammed up.” He winked. “Jest wanted ter make sure you two and that beast of yers was alright.” Suddenly he saw Mr. Thornswaddle. “Well, I’ll be. If it t’ain’t …”
“Aloysius P. Thornswaddle.” Mr. Thornswaddle put a finger to his lips and shook his head.
Salty just stared at him.
“Do you two know each other?” asked Shoshi.
“Yes,” said Salty.
“No,” said Mr. Thornswaddle.
“We’ve met,” said Salty.
“Well, briefly. On the ship,” said Mr. Thornswaddle.
“Salty’s ship?” asked Shoshi.
“Yes, when I came over from England.”
“I thought you were from Romania,” said Shoshi.
“Romania first, and then England.” Mr. Thornswaddle pulled out a red-and-white striped handkerchief and wiped his brow. “As I said, I am a man of the world.”
Salty shook his head. “The question is, what are ye doin’ ’ere now?”
Mr. Thornswaddle’s mustache ends twitched like twin snakes. “Waiting for these children to show me their, er, dragon.”
“His name is Snigger.” Moshe folded his arms. “And he’s ours!”
“Of course he’s yours,” said Mr. Thornswaddle. “But what good is a dragon if no one knows about him? You want everyone to meet him, so they’ll come to your restaurant. Wait.” He rushed across the street and talked to the vegetable seller. He returned with a wooden crate. He set it on its end and jumped on top. “You are looking at a Circus Barker Extraordinaire.” He bent his body into a flourishing bow. “Watch and learn.”
Salty held up his hand. “Before ye get started sellin’ yer food or whatever it is ye’re peddlin,’ I’ll say me good-byes.” He turned to the children. “Ye’ll be okay now ’cause yer in good hands.”
“How do you know?” asked Moshe.
A slow smile spread across Salty’s face. “Call it sailor’s intuition. Take care ’o them,” he said to Mr. Thornswaddle. As Salty passed his friend, he leaned in close and whispered in Aloysius’s ear. “A determined stranger is after their dragon. Be careful!”
Salty walked up the crowded street and was gone. Mr. Thornswaddle stared after him. “Well, I’ll be. Imagine that.”
“Imagine what?” asked Shoshi.
“Er, nothing.” He coughed into his handkerchief. “Now children,” he said, regaining his composure, “as I was saying, you have to be a showman to sell people things they don’t necessarily want. What is it your mother is cooking?”
“Matzo balls.”
“What are they?”
“Balls of dough. Boiled,” said Shoshi.
“Right, dumplings!” He stood on the crate and shouted: “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the most original eating experience in these United States. Or anywhere in the world, for that matter.” He turned to Shoshi. “What do you call them again?”
“Matzo balls,” the children chorused.
“Yes. Marvelous, magical matzo balls! Mouthwatering morsels,” Mr. Thornswaddle boomed through cupped hands. “Matzo balls cooked by …” he lowered his voice, “… dragon fire? Oh dear, we can’t broadcast that, now can we?”
“Why not?”
“We must protect the dragon.” He raised his voice. “Come one, come all! Taste these delicious, um – dumplings, straight from Russia; never before eaten on this side of the ocean. But the supply is limited. First in; first served.”
Mrs. Kaputnik appeared. “What is going on out here?”
“Mr. Thornswaddle is teaching us how to be barkers,” said Shoshi.
“Barkers? Dogs bark. Not my children.”
“Please, Madam, do not belittle our humble efforts. My sales technique has been used with great success at circuses and sideshows all over the world.”
“Mr., my family is not a circus. We are respectable people trying to earn a living. Now, I will ask you please to mind your own business.”
Again Mr. Thornswaddle gave a sweeping bow. “My business is helping people like you – new immigrants to this strange and wonderful land. Watch.” He repeated his call. “Step right up, folks! Come to,” he paused. “What is your name?”
“Kaputnik.”
“Come to Mrs. Kaputnik’s Matzo Ball Emporium, the most original restaurant on the Lower East Side of New York.”
“What is an emporium?” asked Moshe.
“A place to buy very special things.” He flashed a smile and wiggled the ends of his mustache.
“Mama, look!” Shoshi tugged at her mother’s skirt. People were crowding through the restaurant door.
“Oh, my! Customers! And I haven’t put the batter into the water. Shoshi, Moshe, come quick. We have to cook the matzo balls.”
Shoshi winked at Mr. Thornswaddle. “Are you coming with us?”
“Of course,” he answered. “I want to meet your dragon.”
CHAPTER 13
Mrs. K
aputnik’s Pool Hall and
Matzo Ball Emporium
“These matzo balls are like rocks. I eat this, I break my teeth!” The woman threw her matzo ball on the pile littering the floor and stomped out of the restaurant.
“That was the last customer,” Mrs. Kaputnik sighed. “In Russia, my matzo balls were soft. Here they are hard. What is wrong?”
“Maybe we need to use more eggs,” said Shoshi.
“More matzo meal?” suggested Moshe.
“It’s the heat. The dragon made the water boil out,” said Aloysius P. Thornswaddle.
“What do we do now?” Mrs. Kaputnik crumpled into a chair. “No food, no money, no business. We should have stayed in Russia.”
Shoshi patted her shoulder. “But then we’d never find Papa. We’ll think of something.”
“Maybe we should publicize the dragon.” Mr. Thornswaddle picked up a matzo ball. “The dragon will be a good draw for the restaurant. On the other hand, we do not want certain people to learn of its existence. They may take advantage of it,” he explained to Mrs. Kaputnik.
“You want we should keep him a secret?” She pointed to Snigger, who had lumbered into the room and stretched out on the floor with his head in Shoshi’s lap. “How do you hide such a monstrosity?”
“He’s not monstrous,” Shoshi protested. “He saved us, and so did these.” She picked up a matzo ball. “These are good to throw. Like when we knocked out the Cossacks.”
“There aren’t any Cossacks in New York,” said Mrs. Kaputnik.
“But we have to do something with these matzo balls,” said Shoshi.
Mr. Thornswaddle jumped to his feet. “Do not despair,” he said. “I will help you find a way.” With a nod of his head and the clackity-clack of his shiny black boots, he left the restaurant.
“Good riddance,” said Mrs. Kaputnik.
They picked up the matzo balls and put them in a large metal bucket. Then they mopped the floor and cleaned off the tables and the stove.
“Tomorrow we must find work,” Mrs. Kaputnik announced. “Otherwise, we will starve.”
Shoshi thought of the boy she’d seen, bent under his load of coats. “Somehow we’ve got to make the restaurant succeed.”
Her mother gave her a severe look. “We must make money to live. Tonight we go upstairs to sleep. Tomorrow I shall think about what we must do to live in this country.”
Life in America kept getting worse. First they got into a fight with Bernie and his friends, then they were robbed by their horrible Uncle Mendel and Aunt Sadie, now the restaurant was a failure, and there was still no sign of their father. Shoshi couldn’t help but wonder what would happen next. As if on cue, her mother announced that they were taking in boarders.
“Boarders! I don’t want to live with strangers,” said Shoshi.
“Why not? We did it on the ship. Besides, it’s what people do here to help pay the rent,” said her mother. “But what if our boarder is like Mrs. Finklestein?” “Or worse,” said Moshe. “And what about Snigger?” “Snigger will stay in the restaurant.” And that was the end of the conversation.
Shoshi and Moshe sat on the worn sofa, trying to look quiet and polite while their mother talked to a man with stooped shoulders, who wore wire-rimmed glasses.
“I’m a tailor so I will need a place to set up my sewing machine. I also play music, and I will need a place to put this.” He held up a violin case.
Mrs. Kaputnik’s brow furrowed. “This apartment is very small. The music will disturb the neighbors.”
His expression turned soft and dreamy. “For music, there is always room.” He had a quiet voice, and when he talked, his hands fluttered like birds. “My wife arrives tomorrow. I will bring her here from the ship.” He handed Mrs. Kaputnik some money.
She accepted the coins. “Thank you, Mr. Shlemiel.”
“Shmuel. A Shlemiel is a fool.” He lifted his chin and his glasses slid down his nose.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Shmuel. It was a slip of the tongue. We are happy to have you. I will clear the back room for you and your wife.” After he left, she joined her children on the couch.
Shoshi made a face. “I liked Shlemiel better.”
“Is he going to sew clothes here?” asked Moshe.
“That’s what he does. Maybe he will make you some new trousers.” She eyed her son’s ever-shortening pants.
“I don’t want boarders,” whined Shoshi.
“Shoshi! We need to live. Without Mr. Shlemiel and his wife, we will not have rent money. The landlord will throw us out into the street. Is that what you want?”
Shoshi and Moshe giggled.
“What? What is so funny?”
“You called him Shlemiel,” Moshe said.
Their mother laughed. “We must be careful not to say that when he’s here.”
“Oh, Mama, why do they call America the Goldene Medina? There’s no gold and everything is so difficult,” said Shoshi.
Mrs. Kaputnik sighed. “Children, life is not always easy. But that does not mean we give up. Maybe somewhere, underneath all the shmutz, there is gold. And, if not, then we will simply have to make our own fortune.”
With the boarder issue settled, Mrs. Kaputnik turned her attention to the restaurant. When they opened their door, the soup pot was full and a fresh batch of matzo balls was cooking on the stove.
While Shoshi helped in the restaurant, Moshe stood outside on his box, holding a bucket of matzo balls and calling to people just like Mr. Thornswaddle had shown him. Still, no one paid any attention.
“Mama’s got to find something else to cook,” Moshe plucked a matzo ball from the bucket. It was like stone.
“Mama’s got to find someone else to cook,” said Shoshi.
Ziggy walked by with a group of his friends. “Hey, look. It’s the Greenies. Why are you standing on that box? To be taller?”
“I’m working, Ziggy. Go away,” said Moshe.
“Working? What kind of work is standing on a box? Hey, maybe he’ll dance for us, like Misha the monkey.” Ziggy shook the wooden crate so hard that Moshe lost his balance and fell onto the sidewalk.
“Stop that, Ziggy! Go away.” He struggled to his feet.
“Why? We’re your friends. Hey, Greenie, what are these?” Ziggy picked up a matzo ball and tossed it in the air. “Catch.” He threw it at Moshe, who caught it and threw it back to Ziggy.
“Wow, the Brooklyn Slobbers could use these.”
“Who are the Brooklyn Slobbers?”
“They’re a baseball team,” said Ziggy.
“What’s baseball?”
“What’s baseball? Wow, you are a Greenie! Baseball is the best game in America. And the Brooklyn Slobbers are the worst team in the country. Their pitcher, Dingle Hinglehoffer, has never won a game against their archrivals, the New York Yoinkels.”
“What does that have to do with matzo balls?”
“They make great baseballs.” Ziggy pulled his arm back and hurled a matzo ball at a stack of cans mounted into a pyramid on a nearby pushcart. They crashed to the ground.
“You bunch of hoodlums!” The pushcart owner shook his fist. Ziggy stuck out his tongue, and he and his friends ran down the street.
Moshe glared after them. “I’m sorry, Mr….”
“Seltzer.” He held up a bottle of water and squirted Moshe in the face. “Ha! That will cool you off. Clean up this mess.”
Moshe picked up the cans and placed them back on the pushcart. Then he gathered the matzo balls. Back on the sidewalk, he felt a tug on his sleeve. It was a young boy. “Can I play, too?” he asked Moshe.
“Play what?”
“The can game.”
A woman carrying a shopping basket stood behind him. “How many of those balls for a penny?”
Moshe looked at Mr. Seltzer.
“Five.” Mr. Seltzer took her coin.
The boy grabbed five matzo balls and tossed them high, laughing as the cans tumbled to the ground. Mr. Seltzer re-stacked the p
yramid. More children lined up, their mothers happy to turn over pennies to amuse their kids while they completed their errands.
“Here.” Mr. Seltzer handed Moshe a stack of coins when the children were gone. “This is your share.”
Moshe counted the money. Twenty-five cents. He looked up at Mr. Seltzer. “How many cans will this buy?”
Mr. Seltzer pursed his lips. “For anyone else, five. For you … ten. But you must set up your game somewhere else.”
“I will.” Moshe grinned. “Thank you.”
Moshe ran into the restaurant. “Shoshi! Mama! this is the Goldene Medina. I made twenty-five cents just by letting people throw matzo balls at cans. Mr. Seltzer sold me ten cans of beans, and we can do that inside the restaurant. Play the game, I mean. So it won’t matter if no one wants to eat your matzo balls.”
His mother gave him a puzzled look. “Cans? Balls? What nonsense are you talking?”
Moshe explained.
Shoshi threw her arms around him. “Moshe, you are a genius!” She danced around the room. Snigger lumbered in from the kitchen. Thump, thump, thump went his tail in time to Shoshi’s tapping feet.
“Well, well, well. Such revelry. And what has happened to cause this exuberant exhibit of mirth?” said a voice from the doorway.
“Mr. Thornswaddle!” The children ran to greet him.
“Yes, it is I, Aloysius P. Thornswaddle.” He swept off his hat and bowed low. “At your service.”
“Where did you go? I thought you’d left us,” said Moshe.
He pressed his hands to his chest. “Ah, your words are arrows in my heart. Would I abandon such a delightful and loving family? Especially one with a magic mascot?” He glanced at Snigger. “I merely removed myself from the scene to allow my brain the time and space in which to come up with a solution to your predicament. And now I see you have developed the same conclusion by yourselves.” He walked over to the pile of cans that Moshe had set up on a table near the window.
Moshe thumped his chest. “I made twenty-five cents from people throwing matzo balls at them.”
“And you shall make even more.” Mr. Thornswaddle snapped his fingers and two burly men entered, carrying a large green-surfaced table. He waved to the back of the room. “Set it over there.”
