East Side Stories:Tales of Jewish Life in the Lower East Side of New York in the 1930's (20 page)

Now the mother remembered him. Several times, some time ago, she had given him a few precious cents, but later, in discussion with some of the women who were her neighbors, one of them had said, “That one, that Itzak, he’s a
goniff,
a thief. He lives someplace on the other side of the bridge, near Hester Street, and he comes here, to this side of the bridge, to
schnorr,
to beg. He goes around here, he makes believe he has no money, no job. He don’t look for work like my husband, like your
menner,
your men. A
goniff.
When there’s work, our husbands work, but that
goniff,
he works at being a
schnorrer,
he does that for a living.”

Now, shutting the door as the man was saying something, the mother said, “No, mister. Not today. And don’t come back.”

Her little daughter was staring up at her in bewilderment, suddenly began to cry and she was saying, “But he’s poor, mama, he has no eat. You always say to give something to a poor—”

“Shah, shah,
don’t cry,
mein kind,
my child,” the mother said as she lifted up her daughter and kissed her face. “He don’t need the money.”

“But, why, mama, why?” the little girl mumbled into her mother’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you give him something?”

The mother heaved a great sigh and patted her daughter’s back. “Don’t cry,” she said. “Don’t. Someday you will understand.”

 THE TIME I WOULD BEAT ARNOLD ROTHSTEIN

The school building was near the East River, its outdoor playground across the street from its red brick mass, one side of the playground ending at the wide brick wall of the adjoining ice factory. The handball courts followed each other the full width of the factory, its outer vertical wall was part of the courts. Some distance away were the basketball courts, so that there was a minimum of interference between players of each game.

During lunch hour, after we had eaten, we played there. Sometimes, when we delayed our studying at home, we played there after school. Handball, for the better players, was played with a Spalding rubber ball, when one of the players could afford the fifteen cents to buy the ball at Cheap Heshy’s, the store that sold sports items as well as stationery and toys. The Spalding was a treasured object, it was expensive as well as the best and when it was lost it was a calamity.

The playground was a scene of constant movement, roller skaters with roaring metal wheels skimming around the courts. Shouts, arguments erupted constantly from the courts, You pushed me! No, I didn’t! That was a foul! You’re blind, I was safe! It was a killer! No, it wasn’t, didn’t you see it bounce before it hit the wall! You got in my way! You’re blind! You’re crazy!

A small group of the older boys who attended school stood huddled away from the courts, grouped around twosomes who played Underlegs, a penny gambling game in which one player spun a penny on the ground, stepped on the whirling coin, spun another penny, stamped on that with his other shoe. The other player, hoping to match the heads or tails of the hidden pennies, placed his coins in front of the shoes of his opponent. The first player would then step off his coins and if the second player had matched the pennies, the money was the opponent’s. Otherwise the money was scooped up by the first player. The game went on until one of the players, the loser, would quit, and another take his place. Sometimes as much as fourteen cents was won or lost during those gambling bouts, a lot of money in those days for those older boys, the rough ones. They came to school because they had no jobs, they had no money, there was no other place to idle away the weekdays and so they came to school. I was not interested in their game, I was looking for Arnold Rothstein, for his game.

He had another name, his real name, but we all called him Arnold Rothstein because he was a gambler, not of the Underlegs type, he was not part of that gang, but still he was a gambler. There had been a real Arnold Rothstein, a big-time gambler who had been murdered and had been mentioned numerous times in the newspapers. We had given that name to our schoolmate because of his expertise.

Our Arnold Rothstein’s game was something entirely different from any we had seen before. It too was played with a penny. You held your coin tightly between thumb and forefinger, your thumb spread over its minted date, to hide it while Arnold Rothstein would examine it. He would announce the minted year and if he was correct, the penny was his. In theory, if he lost, he gave you a penny. But he never lost. Never. I had lost a few pennies to him, but today I had my special pennies and I was looking for him.

At the playground, as the lunch hour was ending, I saw Goldie and asked him, “Have you seen Arnold Rothstein?” He shook his head. “Where is he?” I said. “I got to see him.”

“Why?” Goldie asked as he walked alongside me towards the entrance to the school. “What’s so special?”

“I’m going to beat him today,” I said with a laugh. “I got it all figured out.”

“You got it all figured out?” Goldie asked in amazement.

He had stopped, I along with him, and he stared at me while others pushed around us, on their way to the school.

Goldie was someone special. He was one of ours, the students of the school, those who came to learn. Although he was one of ours and although he didn’t gamble with the Underlegs gang, they felt he was one of theirs too. Goldie with his huge hands, Goldie with his athletic ability, Goldie was by far was the best handball player in the school, he was probably the best basketball player too. He was unafraid, at ease in whatever game he played. The Underlegs gang respected him.

And I was saying to Goldie as we walked out of the playground, “You bet I got it figured out. I’ll beat him today.”

“I got to see that,” Goldie said.

“When we find him, you’ll see it,” I said to Goldie.

We entered the school building, went to our classroom, Arnold Rothstein was seated there, two aisles away from me. I leaned over, whispered to him across the student who sat between us, “I got to see you. I want to play.”

“Yeah. Sure. But we can’t now. Later,” he replied.

We were at the algebra class, Mr. Coolidge, the teacher, he was somewhat crazy, sometimes he threw things at his students when they didn’t know the answers.

Anyway, Arnold Rothstein and I couldn’t play in Mr. Coolidge’s class, this was obviously one of those days when he was acting crazy.

The bell rang and the class gave a loud collective sigh of relief. We grabbed our books and papers and ran out of the room. We went on towards the gym class where, still in the corridor, I caught up with Arnold Rothstein.

“Come on,” I said to him. “We’ve got to get going with our game.”

He looked at me with an amused smile. “We’ll have to see what happens in the gym class. I don’t know, you know how Mr. Knight is. If we can’t in the gym class, maybe someplace else. If we can’t in school, I’ll meet you in the playground after school. Okay?”

“Okay,” I replied.

I wanted that game with him. Sooner than later. I had worked out a way to beat Arnold Rothstein and I wanted to do it now. Right away. Although I was a good student, one of the best in my grade, I forgot all about school work. I wanted that win, I wanted Arnold Rothstein’s pennies.

I went to the gym class. There, Mr. Knight, our gym teacher, was standing at one end of the gymnasium. He gave us his faint smile and said, “Okay. It’s Kill Me today. You know the game.” All the basketballs and volley balls had been tossed towards the middle of the floor, the class had been arbitrarily divided in two, half on one side of the dividing line on the floor, the other half of the class on the other side. A whistle at his lips, Mr. Knight blew it into its sharp scream.

He walked out of range while each team scrambled for possession of the balls. When they were all scooped up, each side fell back to either end of the gym, all of us alert, all of us waiting. Those who had snatched up the balls waited for a propitious moment to hurl them at the opposing side.

The object of the game was for the ball to hit an opponent so hard that he would be unable to catch it. If he caught the ball and it bounced away from him, or if the ball hit him and he could not catch it without a bounce, he was out of the game. We had made of the game so much of a science that each team waited to secure possession of all the balls, then would advance to the center line while the defensive team would retreat to its end of the room and there each player dropped quickly to the floor while an orchestrated volley zoomed over them, or hit them, or someone would manage to catch the ball in mid-air.

Goldie, tall for his age and with those huge hands, was always the captain of our team. He could clutch a basketball in his hand like a grapefruit, he could lead us to victory. When his team had possession of all the balls, he assumed command as he advanced towards the center line, his small army trooping behind him, all coming to a halt at the line as Goldie called out to his cannoneers, “Okay! Let’s go! Fire!”

Arnold Rothstein had somehow always managed to be on Goldie’s team. When the game was in play he would stand directly in back of Goldie who became his shield. When the opposing team, in possession of all the balls, heaved a barrage, Arnold Rothstein would drop down to floor behind Goldie who usually remained standing, with those hands ready to catch a rocketing ball directed at him.

There were times when his opponents directed all the balls only at Goldie, he would then drop to the floor. And Arnold Rothstein was always behind him, always one of the last to be hit and go out of the game.

I was not so lucky. Once, only once, did I remain the lone survivor and that was because Goldie and I were on the same team. Goldie, in hurrying back as he watched the opposing team march up to the dividing line, had tripped over Arnold Rothstein’s prone body and been hit by a barrage and had been disqualified. I had gone on to win the game.

Mr. Knight, as the game progressed, watched it with great interest, sometimes unconsciously twirling the ends of his waxed mustache, always the little smile on his face. When at last, one player remained, Mr. Knight blew his whistle and ordered us into the showers.

We undressed in the locker room, went into the communal showers and although we had hot and cold faucets for each shower, Mr. Knight operated the master control. The water came on, warm, just right, we washed ourselves, then suddenly the spray would turn icy cold and we knew that Mr. Knight had manipulated the master control.

We pranced about, yelling to him, although we knew it was useless, It’s cold! It’s cold! and one by one we fled from those frigid streams of water and ran out into the drafty, chilly locker room, shivering, our teeth chattering. Mr. Knight, that smile of amusement still on his face watched us go shivering by.

As I dressed I looked for Arnold Rothstein. He was nearby and as I buttoning my shirt, I approached him and asked, “Well, what about it?”

“Not here, not now. We can’t,” he replied as he laced his shoes. “Knight’s here. You know what’ll happen if he catches us. They’ll send us to the assistant principal, he’ll take away our money, he’ll whack us on our hands with that big ruler of his. Later, later,” he said.

We couldn’t get the game going in school, something always made it impossible, always one thing or another. We had a test, or it was this, or it was that.

Goldie came up to me and asked, “You play with Arnold Rothstein yet?”

“No. We couldn’t do it yet, it didn’t work out.”

“Let me know,” Goldie said. “I’ve got to see that. You sure you’re going to beat him?” I nodded. “How?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I replied. “Goldie, I promise I will.”

Finally, finally, our classes for the day had ended.

I rushed out to the playground looking for Arnold Rothstein, Goldie had run out, following me. My hand in my pants pocket clutched the two shiny pennies. Where was Arnold Rothstein? Now I saw him approach, an air of confidence about him.

We’ll see who’s so confident after the game’s over, I said to him silently in my mind. We’ll see.

Without a word the three of us went to the farthest corner of the playground. Arnold Rothstein was smiling and I smiled back at him, he didn’t know what I knew. I had polished two pennies with Bon Ami, shining them up to such a copper brightness they appeared new. They were new to me, they had to appear new to Arnold Rothstein. They had to.

“Okay,” I said to him. “I’m ready.”

“So am I,” he replied.

I grasped one shiny coin as tightly as I could, my thumb hid the mint date. This time I would beat him, I could feel it. Near me Goldie was watching it all intently, staring at the two of us.

Arnold Rothstein bent forward and studied the coin for a few seconds. “Nineteen-twenty,” he said.

I looked at him in amazement. It was impossible! Hadn’t I polished the coin with Bon Ami? It didn’t scratch. I looked up uncomprehendingly at Goldie, I mumbled to Arnold Rothstein, “Yeah.” I handed him the coin and I reached into my pocket for the other penny and said, “Wait a minute. I got another one.”

We played the game again and once more I lost. How was it possible? How did he do it? I asked myself. Those coins had looked new to me. What did he know? As I handed him the penny I said, “How do you do it?”

He grinned and said, “It’s a secret.”

Goldie tapped me on the shoulder to indicate that he was leaving. I looked up questioningly at him as he shrugged and walked away.

I turned to Arnold Rothstein and said, “But how—?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Look,” I said. “I’ll even give you a dollar if you tell me.” I didn’t have the money, I didn’t know how I would be able to get it, but I didn’t care, this was a secret worth having. I had to have it. With a wry smile Arnold Rothstein was shaking his head and I said, “Two dollars. That’s a whole lot of money.” He shook his head once more as he began to walk away.

I caught up with him and I offered him five dollars, ten, and he shook his head and said to me, “Nah. I won’t do it. Why should I? You think I’m crazy? They don’t call me Arnold Rothstein for nothing.”