The hidden palace, p.39
The Hidden Palace, page 39
Toby wheeled his bicycle back to Broadway, thinking hard.
In January of 1912, Missus Chava had disappeared from the Lower East Side. A few months later, she’d graduated college—and then disappeared again. No address left with her landlady, or the employer who’d been so proud of her, or the university that had educated her. Nothing left behind, except those photographs.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. But first things first: he had the secretary’s telegram to deliver. Where was the nearest branch office? There’d be one on Broadway . . .
He pedaled north, scanning for the familiar sign. It appeared at 134th, tucked between a grocer’s and a tobacconist’s. He coasted to a stop at the corner. He couldn’t just walk in and announce himself, or the manager would call Julius and demand to know why a Midtown boy was poaching telegrams up in Morningside Heights. He’d have to get another boy to turn it in for him. It shouldn’t be too hard to find one; it was a sunny Saturday morning, and if the uptown bench-babies were anything like the ones back home, they’d be finding excuses to loiter out of doors instead of sitting in the office. Sometimes the managers let them play in the alley between calls, just to get them out from underfoot.
He wheeled his bicycle down 134th, to the alley behind the Western Union. Sure enough, a young boy in uniform was leaning against a wall, a half-eaten frankfurter in one hand and an issue of All-Story Cavalier Weekly in the other.
“Hey there,” Toby said.
Startled, the boy looked up at Toby, his mouth full.
“For you,” Toby said, and handed him the telegram and the nickel. “Morningside four five eight five. In good time, too, if you turn it in quick.”
The boy swallowed. “Thanks, uh . . .”
“Toby.” His empty stomach was alerting him to the boy’s frankfurter. “Say, that looks good.”
The boy wrinkled his nose. “I’ve had better.”
Toby grinned. “That so? What’s the best around?”
“The cart at 145th and Saint Nicholas, easy.”
“Eleven blocks north, for a frankfurter? There’s got to be a dozen carts between here and there.”
The boy shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Huh.” Well, what else did he have to do? Maybe the ride would help him think. “Thanks, I’ll give it a try,” he said, and pedaled off.
* * *
The Asylum’s Sabbath service was even more interminable than usual that morning. The rabbi droned on, reciting prayer after prayer. The little children kicked and elbowed one another, while their monitors hissed warnings and slapped fingers away from noses. Kreindel sat among her dormitory-mates, her mind wandering. What had that dream been about? She’d forgotten it all, but it still pulled at her. She wished she could ask Yossele, wished that he could tell her.
She looked up. A small commotion had begun in the front pew. Heads were bending together, exchanging quick whispers, murmurs of excitement:
It’s an Excursion Day!
Wait, who said so? Who’d heard first? It was a boy seated next to the headmaster; he’d spied the clipboard in the man’s hand, had read the glorious words Excursion Roster at the top of the page. An Excursion Day, the first of the season!
The news swept from row to row, and within moments the synagogue was churning with excitement. The rabbi floundered momentarily, then recovered enough to finish the service at near to a shout. With a glare of irritation he ceded the podium to the headmaster, who’d risen to rescue him.
“Quiet, please,” the headmaster called in his most thunderous voice.
The noise lowered to an electric hum.
“Since it seems that spring has arrived at last—”
The hum swelled in expectation—
“—we have decided that today will be an Excursion Day.”
Pandemonium! The synagogue erupted in cheers and stamping. The Asylum youngsters all prized these days spent at the local parks and beaches, where they ate crullers and drank bottled sodas until they grew giddy and unmanageable, and had to be herded back to the Asylum by force. The older residents, however, gritted their teeth in unison. For them, an Excursion Day was a terrifying exercise in adulthood—for there were never enough monitors to watch all the children, and so they, too, were pressed into the role, and made responsible for their charges’ welfare. All knew the stories of boys who’d run off on Excursion Days and had never come back, or girls who’d gotten separated from their groups and disappeared into certain ruin. Likely the stories were just stories; nevertheless it set their nerves on edge.
“Your monitors have the lists,” the headmaster said. “And I will remind you all that it is incumbent upon you to comport yourselves respectfully, as representatives of—”
His admonishments were lost as the synagogue emptied in record speed, the children all rushing to learn where fate had placed them. Kreindel’s dormitory clustered around their monitor with dread as she called out the assignments.
“Altschul and Winkelman, you’re taking Dormitory 2, Room 3 to Colonial Park.”
Kreindel groaned inwardly. Of all the rotten luck! Nearby, Rachel was likewise rolling her eyes in disgust. Kreindel wondered if they’d been paired deliberately. Was she expected to keep Rachel in line, along with the children? At once she felt punished, taken advantage of.
In the hallway, the girls of Dormitory 2, Room 3 already stood waiting in their pairs, quivering with excitement. Kreindel and Rachel took their places at the head of the column, Rachel fixing the yellow ribbon in her hair.
“Don’t you wander off with some boy and stick me with all the work,” Kreindel muttered.
“Why don’t you go and pray about it, Altschul,” Rachel muttered back.
One by one the dormitories were released through the Amsterdam gate, each group peeling off toward its particular destination: south and west to Riverside Park and Grant’s Tomb, or to the nearest streetcar stop for adventures farther afield. Kreindel supposed she’d gotten off lightly, all things considered. There was little to tempt the girls between the Asylum and Colonial Park, only ten blocks of apartments and storefronts. She pictured Yossele watching her in his alcove, fretting at her departure.
It’s not far, she thought to him. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.
* * *
The frankfurter cart was right where the boy had said it would be. Toby bought two, heaped the buns with mustard and sauerkraut, and took the first bite. Sure enough, the sausages were darned good, even worth the ride.
He leaned his bicycle on its kickstand, looking around while he chewed. Had he ever been this far north before? The tenements here didn’t look any more spacious than his, but they still felt different—as though they’d been allotted more sunlight in their windows, more sky above their roofs. The day was growing warmer, and children streamed past him on the sidewalk, the boys in short pants and the girls in gingham one-pieces, all heading toward Colonial Park with nickels for shave ice and Coca-Cola. They didn’t look as dirty as the kids at home, maybe; but a few hours at the park would set matters right.
He finished the frankfurters just as a small procession approached on the sidewalk. At its head were two girls roughly his age, one taller and light-haired, the other small and dark. Behind them, like ducklings, came twelve younger girls walking two by two. All wore the same uniform: grayish-white blouses and stiff brown skirts, threadbare stockings, scuffed shoes. There was no badge or insignia, but none was needed: they had to be from an orphanage.
A distant bell rang at the back of Toby’s mind. Had someone mentioned an orphanage, once? He tried to remember, but it evaded him. One of the girls in front, the taller one, wore a lemon-yellow ribbon in her hair, garishly bright against her drab uniform. As they passed the frankfurter cart, the girl with the ribbon caught sight of Toby watching—and flashed him a smile so baldly flirtatious, complete with eye-batting and hair-tossing, that he couldn’t help but grin.
At once the girl with the ribbon reddened and turned away. Beside her, the dark-haired girl shot her partner a look of exasperation—and then, as they went past, turned back and directed at Toby a glare of pure, withering anger.
At once Toby felt as small as a mouse. He hadn’t meant anything by it, just that the girl with the ribbon was trying awfully hard. But maybe she thought he was looking down on the lot of them. He watched as they marched on toward the park, wanting to go after them and apologize, but that would probably make it worse—
From the direction of the park there came a loud, wet splat and an outraged shriek.
The tenements just west of Colonial Park were home to a group of young boys known throughout the neighborhood for their unparalleled skill at making trouble. The boys had been playing in the alley at 145th, growing ever more bored and restless, until someone spied the twin lines of Asylum girls, heading directly their way.
At once the plan took shape. They ran to the garbage bin behind the grocer’s on Edgecombe and returned with crates full of ammunition: wilted cabbages and mushy potatoes, onions gone dark with mold. Snickering, they stacked the crates, chose their weapons, and hunkered down, a shooting gallery awaiting its ducks.
Rachel, in front and the tallest, was an easy target. The first volley, a cabbage, hit her square in the cheek and exploded, covering her hair and its ribbon with shreds of muck. She staggered sideways, screaming in horror.
The barrage began, a fusillade of rot. The girls fled in all directions, tripping and crying, arms over their heads. Crowing with glee, the boys came out from behind their crates and advanced toward the mouth of the alley, ready to chase the girls back the way they’d come.
Kreindel alone did not panic. She had no reason to; for she had Yossele. She only needed to call him forth. She turned to face the boys, fists clenched in righteous fury—
In the basement, Yossele came alert and rose to a crouch, clay muscles bunched and ready—
—just as a boy on a bicycle raced past her into the alley.
The assailants scrambled back behind their crates as he swept his bicycle into a skid, blocking their exit. He leapt off the bicycle and stalked toward them, pushing up his uniform sleeves. Kreindel realized it was the messenger-boy, the one who’d grinned so rudely at Rachel.
It wasn’t much of a scrap. The other boys were younger and smaller; most of them ran off, rather than fight. Only the two biggest stayed behind—and Kreindel watched, stunned, as the messenger-boy pummeled them both and then chased them down the alley, disappearing behind a corner.
His bicycle lay in the alley before her, abandoned.
Yossele hesitated, confused.
His master had nearly called him. He’d been ready, so ready—but then someone else had arrived at her side instead. This irritated him, though he wasn’t certain why. Kreindel was safe, nothing else ought to matter—and yet he felt resentful, neglected. He sank back, watching.
Kreindel bent down and lifted the bicycle carefully by the handlebars. She’d never touched a bicycle before; it was heavier than she’d expected. The rubber grips on the bars were still warm from the boy’s hands.
Footsteps, in the alley. It was the messenger-boy, sporting a cut on one eyebrow. He seemed surprised to see Kreindel there, waiting with his bicycle.
“I wasn’t stealing it,” she said quickly. “Just moving it out of the way. In case they came back.” She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks.
“Thanks.” He took the handlebars from her.
Flustered, Kreindel looked around. A silent, staring crowd of Asylum girls and neighborhood children had gathered at the alley entrance. Even the frankfurter vendor had come to investigate.
“You okay?” the boy asked her.
“I think so.” She brushed ineffectually at the slime on her uniform, then went to her charges and counted them. There were many tearstained faces, and a few scraped knees—but the worst injury was the blow to Rachel’s cheek, already swelling and turning purple. “I want to go back,” she said, sniffling.
Kreindel sighed. “I suppose we ought to.”
“What if they follow us?” one of the little girls said.
“I’ll come with you,” the boy said at once.
And so the Asylum procession reversed its course, this time with the boy wheeling his bicycle next to Kreindel as they walked. “Thank you,” Kreindel said belatedly, wondering why she felt so tongue-tied. “For helping us.”
“You’re welcome.” A pause. “I’m Toby.”
“I’m Kreindel.”
“I’m Rachel,” Rachel said from Kreindel’s other side.
“Kreindel,” Toby said, surprised by the old-fashioned name. “You’re Jewish?”
“Well, yes,” Kreindel said, a touch warily. “We’re from the A.O.H.”
“What’s that?”
“The Asylum for Orphaned Hebrews. On 136th.”
“Oh. I’ve heard of it,” he said.
“You must not be from around here.”
“Nah, I’m Lower East Side. Born on Chrystie Street.” He paused. “When I was little, there was a boy down the hall from us who disappeared one day. I asked my ma what happened, and she said, ‘He went to the orphanage.’ I bet that was your Asylum.”
“What was his name?”
Toby thought. “Can’t remember.”
“They probably changed it anyway,” Kreindel said, a bitter edge in her voice.
“Is that what happens when you get there? They change your name?”
“If they think it ain’t—it isn’t American enough.”
“Huh.” He wondered if Toby would’ve passed muster.
“I didn’t let them change mine,” Kreindel said.
“I wouldn’t, either,” he said at once.
Was he making fun of her? “Why not?”
“Well, names are important. You can’t just go around changing them.”
“Women do, all the time,” Kreindel pointed out.
He considered it. “But that’s different. That’s for a family.”
“You have to change your name when you marry, it’s the law,” Rachel put in, feeling ignored.
“No, it isn’t,” Kreindel said.
“Sure it is. Everyone does it,” Rachel retorted.
“But that’s custom, not law,” Kreindel said. “There’s a difference. Everyone puts salt on their potatoes, but no one goes around making laws about it.”
Toby grinned.
“What?” Kreindel said, frowning.
“I just like the way you talk. You sound like a rabbi.”
It was a compliment; pleased, she took it as such. “That’s from my father, I guess. He was a rabbi.”
Rachel rolled her eyes heavenward. “And she won’t shut up about it, either.”
“Did you know him?” Toby asked, ignoring Rachel.
Kreindel nodded. “I was eight when he died,” she said, wishing she could tell the truth for once.
“So it was your ma who took you . . .” He wasn’t certain how one spoke of these things.
“No, she died when I was born. I didn’t have anyone else, so I was sent to the Asylum.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” Kreindel said quietly.
On they walked down Amsterdam, the younger girls gathering as close as they dared behind their elders, the better to hear every word. By the Asylum’s standards, this was shaping up to be a legendary incident, something to be talked about for months. Already Kreindel could imagine the tale passing from mouth to mouth: the attack from the alley, the young man riding to their rescue. And she’d be part of the story, too. She could feel it with every moment of attention he paid her, every step they took side by side, separated only by the bicycle.
“It’s nice that you knew your father,” Toby said on impulse, feeling as though he had to level the field between them. “I never met mine. I’ve got my ma’s name, not his.” He trailed off, thinking. Toby Wasserman. Who the hell was that, anyhow? Who would he have been with that man’s name?
“Would you change it?” Kreindel ventured. “If she married someone?”
“No,” he said at once. “I like my name as it is.”
She nodded, pleased by this.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Nearly sixteen,” she said, remembering to lie.
“Oh. I’m fifteen,” he said, stretching the truth.
“Really? You look older.”
“I know. People say that a lot.”
“But you don’t like it?” she guessed.
“Ah, it’s fine. It’s just that everyone expects a bicycle messenger to be a little kid.” He sighed. “I figure I’ll give it another year, tops. Then I’ve got to find something else.”
“Is it fun, being a messenger?” she asked.
“I used to think so. I still do, sometimes. This”—he pointed to his cap—“It’s like a key that gets me through any door in the city. Fifth Avenue, City Hall, wherever. And no one looks at me twice.”
“Huh,” said Kreindel. She tried to imagine what that would be like, to slip through the world unnoticed.
He glanced at her. “What about you? When do they let you leave?”
“When we’re eighteen,” she said, morose. “We’re supposed to learn a trade by then. So we can support ourselves.”
“What’ll yours be?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want a trade at all, not like they mean it. I just want . . .” She trailed off. She’d nearly said, I just want to be a rabbi, like my father. But that was absurd. A woman could no more be a rabbi than a man could be a mother. “I just want to study Hebrew,” she said instead.
“Really?” said Toby. He’d never thought of Hebrew as something a girl might study.
“So she can pray more,” Rachel put in. “She prays all the time, it’s ridiculous.” Rachel’s resentment had been building with every word the two exchanged. They’d paid almost no attention to her hurt cheek—and she’d been the one to notice Toby first, not Kreindel. “She wanted an independent study for Hebrew, but they made her take Culinary Science instead. And I heard she’s awful at it.”
Culinary Science? Toby thought.
“Shut up, Rachel,” Kreindel muttered.
