MORTY
Morty and Ben were not watching where they walked that bitter cold February noon when they almost bumped into Abe Reles and his men. Both father and son were hunched in their coats, hands crammed in pockets. Morty had a gray wool hat with earmuffs jammed on his head. He was staring down at his feet, walking carefully around the slushy puddles on the sidewalk because he had discovered there was a small hole in the sole of his left shoe, and he was trying to avoid water seeping in and wetting his thin socks.
He wondered what his friends had been doing that morning while he was spending his time in synagogue. When he was little, he had loved going to synagogue with his father, and they would walk home talking about what the rabbi had said in his weekly sermon, or even the Torah portion they had read that morning. Ben would try to explain it in detail to Morty, whose face shone with delight at the grown-up conversation he was having, even though Ben himself was not so learned that he could really understand it all.
But now that he was fourteen, Morty thought he had better things to do with his weekend days off than spend them in synagogue with lots of old men shuckling, bending their bodies back and forth as they prayed. He noticed things now that he had never thought about when he was little—the fusty, sometimes unwashed smells that came off the men crowded together in the tightly packed room, their beaten looks as they prayed out loud, their bent bodies, as if they had forgotten how to stand up straight. And he was bored. He wondered if he would ever be able to tell his father, whom he loved very much, that he was through with going to shul. He glanced at Ben, who was now just an inch or so taller than he was.
Ben was also looking down. He walked, head bowed, hands behind his back, ruminating about something—but what? Morty wondered. He didn’t think his father was very religious. He knew he didn’t strictly keep all the commandments, and although he observed the Sabbath by going to synagogue in the morning, eating a nice Sabbath lunch, and taking a Sabbath rest, he was not very observant otherwise. He turned the electric lights on and off at will and sometimes even listened to the radio on Saturday afternoon. They had just bought their radio in the last year when they seemed to have more money to spend.
Ben and Golda went out to the avenue after their naps and shopped for items they needed in the stores that were owned by gentiles, which were open on Saturdays and closed, like all the stores were, on Sundays. Morty had asked his father why he went to synagogue so regularly on Saturday when he clearly didn’t believe in all the rules of a strict Jewish life. Ben simply said that he went out of respect and gratitude to Rabbi Levy, who had helped him and Morty’s mother in so many ways when they had first come to America. When Morty asked how the rabbi had helped, Ben did not explain further. He just reiterated that Rabbi Levy was a wise, kind, and very helpful man.
So Morty was either staring at his father or looking at the puddles on the street that Saturday, walking home from synagogue. Neither father nor son was paying much attention to the crowds on the street, and they were about to crash into a man walking toward them when Ben grabbed his son’s shoulder to stop him from walking any farther.
Startled, Morty looked up and met the eyes of the man they had almost collided with. He knew immediately who it was. Abe Reles, known as “Kid Twist.” The man was not big. He was short, shorter than Morty, but brawny, and although he was young, in his twenties, his face was already scarred from all the fights he had been in since he was eight years old. He had thick rubbery lips and a mashed-up nose, and his eyes bulged with anger as he stared. He was dressed in a double-breasted striped silk suit, with sharp creases in his trousers. His overcoat was a gray tweed, and his shoes were polished, shimmering up at Morty. He held a lit cigarette in his pudgy fingers. Reles put his cigarette between his lips and dangled it out of the corner of his mouth, and the smoke swirled around his eyes, causing him to partially close them so they were menacing slits, barely visible under the brim of his black fedora. He did not move from the middle of the sidewalk. Two other men, much taller, stood on either side of the short man, blocking the way entirely.
Morty’s father was looking down at his shoes. Morty’s stomach dropped. He stared at his father, not sure what to do. Ben, taller and slimmer than Reles, seemed to shrink into his overcoat. He took off his hat, and Morty saw the black skullcap that he wore beneath it. Morty also had one on beneath his wool hat, but he didn’t like to show it. To religious Jews, it was a symbol of honor and respect for God, but to Morty, it was an embarrassment, a sign of difference from the rest of the world.
Ben bowed his head, then, white-faced, whispered, “Shuldich mir,” falling into Yiddish, as he always did when he was nervous.
“What did you say?” the man asked, putting his face close to Ben’s. There were white bubbles of spittle at the corners of his mouth. Morty’s heart was hammering.
“Excuse me.” Ben’s voice shook.
“Watch where you’re walking . . . sir,” the man said with an emphasis on the sir. And he stepped aside, sweeping his hand before him in an exaggerated way, as if bowing to royalty. He did not take off his hat to Ben. He let them by, but you could tell which of them was the boss. Abe Reles and his friends were laughing.
Ben whispered, “Thank you,” took Morty’s arm, and hurried him along, staring straight ahead, never letting go of Morty’s arm, and saying nothing.
They reached their apartment house, a six-story brick building. Morty took a last deep breath of the clean cold air as his father pushed the door open into the crowded tenement and began to climb the four floors to their flat. It was dark in the stairway. The air was fetid, thick. Each floor landing had four doors opening to tiny apartments, crowded with occupants; some of the doors were open a crack, as if somehow the air in the hallway would be fresher than the air inside the apartment, and Morty could hear loud voices and babies crying, smell cooking odors of cabbage and soup.
On the fourth-floor landing, Ben stopped in the hallway before their apartment, his key in his hand. He said, “Those are bad men, Morty. Stay away from them.”
Morty was irritated. “I know that,” he said. “Do you think I don’t know that? I heard he just got out of jail, and he’s back in business.”
Ben stared at him. “How do you know so much about it? Where did you hear that?”
“People talk. Everyone in the neighborhood knows about Kid Twist.”
“Just stay far away from them. Walk across the street if you see them. Don’t talk to them. They’re trouble.” He slipped his key in the lock and opened the door to their apartment as the warm smell of chicken soup engulfed them.
Morty and Ben took off their wet shoes and hung their coats on the hooks on the back of the door as they stepped into the crowded dining-sitting room. The table against one wall was set for lunch, the gas stove had a pot of soup bubbling on its burner, and Morty’s mother, Golda, sat on the worn sofa beneath the one window in the room, embroidering something on a blouse for one of her rich private customers—proof positive that their family did not really observe the Sabbath. Sewing, like most other activities, was prohibited on the Sabbath for true observers. Seven-year-old Sylvia sat at the table reading a book from the library. Golda stood to greet her husband and Morty and to serve lunch. Ben leaned over Sylvia and kissed her forehead. “It’s good to be home.”
On that, father and son agreed. It was good to be home. If Morty didn’t like going to synagogue on Saturday, he liked the Sabbath meals. They ate chicken soup with some shredded chicken and slivers of carrot left in the stock, lots of potatoes fried in chicken fat, and more boiled carrots with the tiniest bit of honey to enhance their sweetness. There was challah that his mother had baked on Friday, and for dessert, applesauce, honey cake, and tea. Saturday meals were the best meals of the week.
Morty slurped his soup, dipping the crust of the bread into it. When he had drained his bowl, he looked up at his mother and then his father. “We met Kid Twist when we were walking home,” he said.
Golda looked from Ben to Morty and back to her husband again.
Sylvia looked from one to another, her soup spoon poised, as if she did not want to miss a word they were saying. “That’s a funny name, Kid Twist,” she said.
Golda ignored her. “Who? Who did you meet?”
Ben took a deep breath. “The kid, Abe. Abe Reles.”
“The one with the pushed-in face? Who comes to your work?”
Ben nodded.
“What did he say?”
Ben didn’t answer her.
Golda turned to Morty and repeated, “What did he say?”
Morty looked from his mother to his father, trying to remember what he had said. He shrugged. “Nothing,” he answered finally. “He just said we should watch where we were walking. He called Papa ‘sir.’”
“Yes,” Ben said tiredly. “But he didn’t mean it. Stay away from him, Morty. Stay away.”
“Do you think he knew you?” Golda asked her husband.
Ben shrugged. “I don’t know.” There was silence at the table.
Morty watched his parents carefully. He knew that, among other illegal businesses, Abe Reles ran a gang of thugs who collected money from the shopkeepers and businesses in Brownsville. Protection money. If you didn’t give it to them, they had various methods of making you see the error of your ways. Like setting a fire. Or having kids throw rocks through the windows. Morty wondered why Reles would recognize his father, although he thought he knew the answer. He asked anyway. “Why would Kid Twist know you?”
Sylvia sat swinging her legs back and forth. “Who’s Kid Twist?” she asked.
“He’s a mean man. He’ll twist your neck off if you cross him,” Morty said.
“Stop that,” Golda said. “You’ll frighten your sister.” She frowned at him.
“I know why he might recognize you,” Morty said to his father. “You pay him off.”
His father was silent, looking down at his plate. Morty took this for consent.
Sylvia looked at her brother. “Does Kid Twist really twist people’s necks? How does he do that?”
Morty leaned over and gently put his hands around Sylvia’s neck and pretended to twist her throat. “Like this.”
“Ow,” she said. And then she laughed so her parents knew she was joking. Morty patted her head. They ate the rest of their lunch in silence.
After lunch, Golda resumed her embroidering on the sofa—she was not willing to lose any time from her embroidery, which earned her good money from the wealthy women who custom ordered her extraordinary work. Ben took a nap, and Sylvia sat at the table reading. When Morty’s friend Rudy Schmidt came over to play checkers, they tiptoed through his parents’ room into his and Sylvia’s bedroom, a tiny square right behind his parents’ room.
Rudy’s family, German Jews, lived in the same apartment building, and Morty and Rudy had been best friends—inseparable—since first grade.
Sitting cross-legged on Morty’s bed, the two boys played checkers. Morty would have preferred to play chess, but Rudy never could get the hang of it, so they played game after game of checkers, splitting their wins and losses. Morty told Rudy about meeting Abe Reles.
“You mean Kid Twist?” Rudy asked.
“The same. We almost bumped into him.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t slit your throat. He didn’t get his rep for nothing.”
“Ha. We’re small potatoes to him. Why would he bother with us?”
“I heard he’d shoot a guy or cut his throat if they looked crosswise at him. He’s a mean son of a bitch.”
“He was dressed really beautiful,” Morty said. “He must make a lot off the protection racket. I wonder how much he makes?”
“A lot,” Rudy said. “If I could get into his business, I would.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, I would. Where else are we going to make money? Peddling on the street?”
Morty was quiet for a minute. “King me,” he said, pushing his red checker to the end of the board.
Rudy groaned and put one of his checkers on top of Morty’s. “You’re too good. I’m finished.” Then he swung his hand and swept all the checkers off the board. “Next time we play gin rummy. At least with cards I got a chance to win.”
“Not much,” Morty said and laughed. He was a much better card player than Rudy. Morty leaned back and looked at Rudy. He thought about making money. “How much do they make, the guys in the gangs?”
“A lot more than our fathers,” Rudy answered. “You want to be poor all your life?”
Morty shook his head.
“Then you gotta do something else than work for someone or peddle stuff on the street like most of the Jews around here. Kid Twist is some other kind of Jew.”
“Yeah, a murdering kind. Anyway, I won’t end up like our fathers. I’m going to school. I’ll be an engineer.”
“That’s better than what they make, but it’s not gonna be a lot of money. And college costs a fortune. Where are you gonna get the money? You’re nuts if you think those nickels and dimes your folks put in a jar are gonna be enough to pay for college. There’s probably not more than half a year’s worth of the cost. Not to mention how long it takes to go to school for it. Years and years.”
“Maybe, but it’s what I want to do.”
“We’ll see if that’s what you do. Meanwhile, watch what I do.”
“What are you going to do?” Morty wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that question.
“I’m about ready to ditch school,” he said. “There’s a big world out there, and I want a piece of it. I got plans.”
“You can’t get anywhere without school,” Morty said. “We’re lucky. Our high school is a good one. We can get somewhere from there.”
“Yeah? Where? Where are you going to get to?” Rudy swung his legs off the bed and stood up. “I hate school. I’m not good at it. And there’s more than one way not to be poor. All the guys on the corner are rich, and I’m gonna be too. Watch and see.”
Rudy faced Morty and hesitated a minute. They were standing eye to eye, the exact same height, both tall for their age, but the redheaded, freckled Rudy was beefy, with broad, muscular shoulders. Morty was slimmer and was working hard at the Boys’ Club to develop his muscles. He was already one of the best boxers in his weight class because he was so quick on his feet. Privately they called themselves the “Tough Twosome,” because it made them feel unbeatable. That was important in their neighborhood, where weakness was dangerous and sometimes deadly.
“Look, Morty,” Rudy said after a minute. “You and me have it better than some of the other guys. Think of where Paulie lives. Him and his brothers all sharing a bed. And Davy, living on the street half the time because his parents never have enough money to pay the rent. That’s a crappy way to live, and I’m not doing it. Anyway, I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Morty followed Rudy to the door and let him out of the apartment, thinking about their conversation. Morty couldn’t argue with Rudy. He was right about Paulie and Davy and lots of his friends. Everyone he knew was poor. They all lived in the tenements around him, in crowded walk-up apartments warmed by coal in the winter and suffocating with heat in the summer, when they sweltered in windowless rooms with the sweat pouring down their faces, stinging their eyes. Morty and Rudy lived a little better than most of them, but not the way he wanted to live.
Morty knew his ticket out of the slums would be education. He thought about the jar Rudy mentioned. When he was seven, his father began putting coins in a big covered jar for his college fund. Every week his father would pull the jar down and deposit coins in it. It was heavy now with money. Morty had no idea how much was in the jar, but he suspected that Rudy was right—it wouldn’t even be enough for half a year of college.
What else had Rudy said? The guys on the corner were rich. He had plans—big plans. Sometimes Morty was very much afraid of Rudy’s plans. Rudy cut school often and spent his time hanging around Solly’s Corner Candy Store in Brownsville, rubbing elbows with the young hoodlums who worked for Mickey Adler, a local street boss. He said he’d heard how they made money and how easy it was. Rudy kept bothering Morty . . . telling him how they could get a piece of the action. But the truth was Morty was afraid.
His parents were proud of Morty, even to the point of bragging about him every chance they got. Morty was known in his family and at school as one of the smartest of the boys. He was particularly advanced in math, being able to do all the sums and multiplication in his head. Golda said he got that from her father, who, in the old country, had been a bookkeeper for several of the local shopkeepers. Ben wanted him to be an engineer and go to Brooklyn Polytechnic College.
Morty remembered how Golda had laughed at that at first, but then it seemed she began to believe in it too. That was why she put away a share of her embroidery earnings for Morty’s education. It cost a fortune to go to college, but Morty’s math teacher had told him that he might be able to get a scholarship. Morty wondered. It seemed like a pipe dream that he could go to college, but Ben was insistent. “You aren’t going to be a tailor or bookkeeper, or a mechanic like me. You’re going to be an engineer.”
Maybe he would be an engineer, Morty thought. But he would have to save too. It was time for him to get a job after school and start giving money to his parents for his college education. He was fourteen now. Old enough to work.
Morty applied for every job he could think of and took whatever job he could get—stacking groceries, unloading trucks, cleaning stores. At Hansen’s Grocery Store, where he first worked unloading supplies off the trucks and stacking them on the shelves, his boss, Mr. Hansen, took a liking to Morty. Mr. Hansen walked with a pronounced limp, caused by a broken leg in childhood that had been improperly set. Because Morty was hardworking and reliable, as well as good at math, the shopkeeper sometimes trusted him at the cash register. This was a plum job, paying a little better than the money he earned stocking the shelves and sweeping the aisles.
And that was when he saw firsthand how the Adler gang took money off the top of the grocer’s earnings. The collector, a silent hoodlum, stood, hat perched on his head, snowy white shirt blazing against his gray striped suit, waiting. Mr. Hansen counted out some bills and handed them to the man, who pocketed the money, tipped his hat, smiled, said, “See you next time,” and walked out of the store. Morty noticed his crooked teeth when he smiled.
Mr. Hansen turned to Morty. “Don’t say anything. This is how you have to do business around here. Or else there is no business.”
Morty nodded. He wondered if there was anything the store owners could do to fight the mob, but decided not to ask. He remembered his father telling him how he had seen Abe Frankel, his boss, give money to the Italian mob. That’s how you have to do business, he repeated to himself. And didn’t ask any questions.
The next week when the collector came, he called Mr. Hansen over and stepped aside, letting the owner open the cash register again and pay the protection money. Then he quietly resumed his work. And he never mentioned this to anyone—not his father or mother and certainly not Rudy.