Authors: Herman Wouk
The scenery changed to small, scattered suburbs, then to large, closely settled ones. Apartment houses, those brick hives that indicate the presence of city dwellers as surely as wigwams indicate Indians, began to fly past in increasing numbers. Herbie's spirits sank lower and lower. Soon he was gazing at a succession of Bronx back yards. The scenery began to appear familiar indeed, and he realized something he had overlooked on the journey outward, being then distracted by Uncle Sandy's speech—this train ran along the “creek,” along the very track he and Cliff had crossed on the day they had encountered the two ragged creek gangsters with their bottles of minnows. He looked sharp, and caught a glimpse of the Place, with the faded red and white sign painted across the top of its long side, “Bronx River Ice Company.” Then the train dived into the tunnel to go under the East River, the same tunnel out of which the freight cars had emerged on that memorable day to cut off the cousins' retreat from the brigands.
It was exceedingly strange to have the two worlds of Manitou and the Bronx collide. Vivid memories revived of his eavesdropping on the business meeting, and his discovery of the combination of the safe. Uncle Sandy began shouting orders about leaving the train, but Herbie heard them vaguely through a swarm of memories and regrets. The scene of the eavesdropping arose in his mind as though it were happening outside the black window before his eyes. He could see his father turning the dial of the safe, hear him saying with sarcastic bitterness, “You'll be interested to know, Mr. Powers, that the combination is my son Herbie's birthday, 1-14-17. I gave him that little honor because with his small hands he smeared the plaster for the cornerstone when he was three years old. …”
The train slowed. Campers began tumbling over each other, reaching for parcels, putting on coats, shaking hands, exchanging last-minute gifts and jokes, retrieving books, rackets, bats, banners, crudely carved wooden canes and dishes, strips of white birch bark, footballs, basketballs, volley balls, baseballs, tennis balls, and all the other debris of summer. Uncle Irish started up “Bulldog, Bulldog,” but it went mighty dismally, a few discordant voices chiming in with his dogged bellowing while the others were raised in impudent chatter or in more impudent jeers. Uncle Sandy blew his whistle and started to yell a last order, but at the same moment the train came into the lighted platform with jerks, crashes, and hisses, and nobody heard what he said. The cars were still moving slightly when a couple of the more daring boys opened the doors and leaped out with hurrahs. Uncle Sandy galloped after them. The train stopped. Boys came frothing out of one car and girls out of another. A cordon of counselors hurriedly lined up and shunted the rejoicing mob through the gate into a roped-off area of the huge Terminal concourse, where the sign
hung again as it had hung two eternal months ago. Eager-eyed parents crowded against the ropes, and greetings and cries tore the air as the children appeared.
There was one boy who neither rejoiced nor was eager as he was carried along in the tumultuous rush from the train. Herbie scanned the ranks of parents and could find neither of the familiar faces he longed, yet dreaded to see. One event he noticed which startled him. It was Mr. Gauss being embraced directly under the banner by a big blond-haired, black-browed woman of middle age, who wore a silver-fox cape around her shoulders, though the weather was warm, with a purple orchid pinned to the fur. She hugged Mr. Gauss, who was half a head shorter than she, with one hand. With the other she held a tall, pale girl of about thriteen by the elbow. Herbie had heard legends about Mrs. Gauss from Ted. She had stayed at Manitou during the first two summers, and caused mass resignations of the girl counselors during both seasons; and since that time had gone to California each summer to visit her parents, taking her daughter Flora with her. There were legends about Flora, too; legends not unlike those that have sprung up around the shadowy figure of Judas Iscariot. Nevertheless, it was clear to see that both mother and daughter were human beings. It seemed most odd to Herbie that Mr. Gauss should possess such natural ties. The camp owner had a monolithic grandeur in the eyes of the boy. He had become one of the seven wonders of the world, a colossus of evil, and it detracted much from his stature that he had a real wife and child. Nevertheless, there were the females. Herbie never felt the same way about Mr. Gauss after this moment. He was only a man, after all. Looking at the brawny, flamboyant Mrs. Gauss and the pale, nervous daughter, Herbie dimly sensed that it was even possible that Mr. Gauss, like all the boys who hated him, could suffer.
“Herbie! Herbie! Here we are, over here!” It was his mother's voice, cutting through the noise of fourscore other reunions. Herbie turned and spied a lady's dowdy brown hat which he knew at the back of the crowd, and a hand waving in a familiar way above the hat. He plunged toward these symbols of home. Then came a jumble of kissing, hugging, and excited greetings with both his parents, and in the turmoil he hugged and kissed Felicia, too, though he had seen her on the platform a few minutes ago. To repeated inquiries of the mother the children protested that they felt swell and had had a swell time and everything was swell. The family walked out of the Terminal to the automobile, Mrs. Bookbinder plying Herbie with questions at every step about his great last-minute glory at camp. She listened to his account with greedy happiness. As he spoke Herbie often glanced sideways at his father. Jacob Bookbinder looked older and more tired than Herbie remembered him, and after the first greetings he paid little attention to the children, walking beside them in a silent study.
When they reached the car and his father unlocked the door, Herbie could resist no longer. He broke off his narrative to his mother and said, “How's everything at the Place, Pop?”
Mr. Bookbinder paused with his hand on the lock. He looked at the boy, compressed his lips, and smiled wryly over his son's head at the mother. Then he opened the door and climbed into the automobile.
Herbie turned to his mother in wonderment. She patted him on the back and said with a forced grin, “Come, come, get into the car.”
Silently the children and Mrs. Bookbinder entered the automobile, and silently the father started up the motor and began driving through the thick traffic.
“But what about the Place?” said Herbie, in a sudden chill of fear that ran to his fingers and toes.
“Papa has sold the Place,” said Mrs. Bookbinder.
A
fter this shocking announcement, the drive to the Bronx was grim. Mr. and Mrs. Bookbinder did not speak. Felicia, after a flutter of astonishment, looked dreamily out of the window at the traffic, the stony streets, and the high dirty buildings, and bethought her of the manly figure of Yishy Gabelson. Herbie's thoughts were in turmoil; he longed to know more, but dreaded to ask.
“Why is Papa selling the Place, Mama?” the boy inquired after a long silence, trying to sound very young and innocent.
“Well, Herbie, there was a robbery at the Place.”
“Oh,” said Herbie with wide eyes, “and did the robbers steal all the money and that's why we have to sell it?”
Mrs. Bookbinder shook her head gently at her son's childishness. “No, my boy, they didn't take much money. But they took certain very important papers, and without them—well, Papa knows what he's doing. It'll all be for the best.”
Herbie immediately recalled the wrangle of Krieger and Powers, on the night of his expedition, over the box marked “J.B.” containing the blue memorandum.
“When—when did Papa sell the Place?”
“It was decided yesterday. Thursday the men are coming to our house to sign all the contracts.”
Mr. Bookbinder broke his silence to observe with rough sarcasm, “Tell the boy the terms of the settlement, and what my salary will be, and everything else. Why must you talk to the children about it at all?”
“Herbie is our boy. Naturally he's interested,” retorted the mother, with unusual spirit. “I think it's fine that he shows an intelligent interest.”
“Papa,” said Herbie timidly, “what'll happen to the crooks if they catch them?”
“They should be burned or hanged!” shouted his father, honking his horn furiously at a truck that suddenly lurched out of a side street in front of them. “But the least they'll get is ten years in prison, I hope.”
“What if they were kids?”
His father threw a swift keen glance at the boy on the seat behind him, and turned his eyes back to the street, “Kids? Kids rob the Place? What kids?”
“Well, you know about—about the creek gang,” Herbie stammered. “They got pistols an' knives an' I bet burglar tools—an' they hand around near the Place—”
“Grandma stories!” said his father.
“But if it was kids,” Herbie persisted, with a feeling that he was stretching his luck to pursue the topic, “would they go to jail for ten years, too?”
“If they were young kids they'd go to reform school. That's the same as prison. But this robbery wasn't done by kids,” said Jacob Bookbinder curtly.
“You know, Jake, maybe Herbie has hit on something,” said the mother. “That would explain a silly thing like taking the box with the blue paper and leaving most of the cash. Who but kids would—”
“What are you now, a policewoman? The police say definitely it was done by two men. What would kids be doing there three o'clock in the morning? How could kids break into a safe?”
Felicia said, “It could have been young fellows fifteen or sixteen. I know one who could easily stay up all night—and strong enough to break open a safe with his bare hands, almost.”
“I suppose you mean Yishy Gabelson,” said Herbie.
“Never mind who I mean,” Felicia answered, reddening with pleasure at hearing the ineffable name spoken aloud.
“Do me a favor, all of you, and stop talking about the robbery and the Place,” said the father.
Conversation languished. Mrs. Bookbinder tried to start the topic of camp life once more, but both her children gave short, absentminded answers to her questions. She desisted after a while. The family finished the ride in somber quiet.
As soon as they came home, Herbie rushed to the telephone in the kitchen while the rest of the family went to the bedrooms. He spoke in a near-whisper.
“Intervale 6465. … Hello, Cliff? This is Herbie. Hey, I'm sorry I got sore on the train. … Well, O.K., thanks, Cliff. … Listen, how about doing me a favor? Can you meet me over in front of Lennie's house in fifteen minutes? … Yeah. It's important, Cliff.” He lowered his voice so that he just breathed the next words. “It's about the money. … O.K. So long.”
Herbie tiptoed out of the kitchen and softly opened the front door.
“Where do you think you're going?”
The classic challenge of mothers rang out clear. Herbie did not have one foot outside, which would have justified a quick escape on the pretense of not having heard the question. He was fairly halted. His mother stood in the hallway, regarding him mistrustfully.
“I'm just goin' over to Lennie's for a minute.”
“To Lennie's? You're home two minutes and you're ready to run out! Aren't you glad to be home?”
“Sure. It's great to be home. It's swell, Mom. Only Lennie has something of mine I wanna get. I'll be right back.” He risked a dive through the doorway and got away successfully.
Lennie lived on Homer Avenue two blocks further away from the school, in an apartment house of the same size, shape, age, and dinginess as the Bookbinder abode. Herbie ran the two blocks and arrived perspiring and blowing. Cliff was not there. The fat boy paced back and forth before the entrance. Two minutes later Cliff came in sight around the corner, and Herbie scampered to meet him.
“Holy smoke, what took you so long? Listen—” Herbie breathlessly summarized the news about the Place. Cliff was thunderstruck.
“Gosh, Herb, it's all our fault. On accounta us your father's gonna sell the Place!”
“I know,” said Herbie despairingly. “Come on, now!” He pulled his cousin by the hand into the building and skipped up the stairs.
“What do we do here?” Cliff panted as he followed him.
“First let's see who's home.”
They trampled up to the third landing and Herbie rang a bell. In a moment the door was opened by Lennie. The athlete scowled when he saw who his visitors were.
“Whadda you guys want?”
“Aw, we're lonesome for camp,” said Herbie. “We were walkin' by and figured we'd come up an' talk about good old Manitou.”
Lennie's expression became much pleasanter and he made way for the cousins to enter.
“Boy, you're lonesome, too, are you?” he said. “I'm about ready to bust out an' cry. Go on into the parlor.” He followed the others, adding, “When I think I gotta live a whole winter in this dump! Boy, remember them ball fields an' that lake? I wish camp was all year round.”
“Me, too,” said Herbie. He looked around inquisitively at the Krieger home, where he was an infrequent visitor. It much resembled his own in dimensions and furnishings, except that clothing, magazines, and newspapers were scattered about, and dust lay in films on tables and chair arms. (Mrs. Bookbinder never tolerated such details, and never failed to refer to them scornfully when the Krieger establishment was mentioned.)