Chapter 59

A fighter from the time he was ensconced in his mother’s womb, Lizard burst into the world with fists coiled as tight as rosebuds.

Moise looked at his infant son and exclaimed, “Look at that! I think we have the next Young Barney Aaron on our hands!”

They named him Leo Benjamin Rubenstein.

Lizard grew up to be fearless and stubborn—refusing to walk blocks out of his way in order to avoid the young Polish and Irish Catholic immigrants who harassed Jewish kids as they made their way to and from school each day.

Go back to Jewland, kike!

You ain’t wanted here, you dirty money-grubbing Jew!

Jesus killer!

Steely-eyed, Lizard would cock his kippah to the side and walk brazenly through the melee of insults, silently challenging anyone to touch him. More often than not, he made it home unscathed. But every once in a while someone would force his hand, leaving him no choice but to stand and fight.

On one occasion, Lizard found himself cornered by a gang of bat-wielding bigots. He charged directly into the trouble and, catching hold of the lead instigator’s bat, turned the wooden weapon violently against him, nearly beating the youngster to death.

The boy, one David O’Malley, suffered a broken nose, cracked jaw, and fractured collarbone. For his infraction, the fourteen-year-old Lizard spent sixty days at the Daniel Dodge Reform School for Boys.

It was there that Leo Benjamin Rubenstein discovered who and what he was meant to be.

* * *

Similar to traditional prisons, the Daniel Dodge Reform School had barred windows and towering brick walls. It housed boys in cell blocks according to their racial category and age group.

The boys rose at six o’clock and sat for breakfast at seven. From seven thirty until noon, they attended traditional school courses. After lunch, they were immersed in trade classes that focused on plumbing, masonry, and tailoring. At four o’clock the boys were sent to the yard to engage in an hour of physical activity. After dinner, they were left to their own devices until eight thirty when the guards announced lights-out. Punishments were dealt out in the form of cold-water baths, flogging, and solitary confinement.

Upon Lizard’s arrival, he was immediately absorbed by a group of Jewish delinquents who happily schooled him about life on the inside.

In the yard, Abraham, the skinny but fierce leader of the young Jewish clan, tilted his chin at the throng of black boys perched on a nearby bench, harmonizing over the strum of a battered guitar.

“Those schvartzes,” he spat, “always with the singing. If they worked as hard as they sang, they would be wealthier than us Jews!”

Lizard didn’t know much about black people. Had never had any direct dealings with Negroes. He’d seen them, of course—the maids and chauffeurs, coming and going from the homes of his neighbors.

Lizard’s father had wanted to hire a maid, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it. She didn’t think there was anyone on this earth—black or white—who could cook and clean for her family as well as she could. His parents thought that Negroes were basically good people who made bad decisions.

“A little slow upstairs,” Moise would say, tapping his fountain pen to his temple. “God was not as kind to them as He was to the Jews. They’re one step below human, which is just one step above ape.” Lizard never quite understood the rationale, but he knew better than to challenge his father’s philosophy.

Abraham jumped up, awkwardly swiveling his hips. “And the way they dance? Ha! Like circus dogs. All that’s missing is a pink tutu.”

The boys dissolved with laughter. But Lizard wished Abraham and the others would shut up so he could hear the lyrics of the song.

Abraham aimed a finger at a dark-haired, olive-skinned boy passing the group. “Hey you, calzone, come here!” he screamed.

The boy lowered his head and quickened his pace.

“You don’t hear me? You got mozzarella in your ears?”

The boy threw a nervous glance over his shoulder and then sprinted away.

“Whatever,” Abraham huffed, puffing his chest out like a rooster.

One of the other boys poked Abraham’s shoulder. “Hey, where’s Leo going?”

Abraham turned around to see Lizard sauntering across the yard toward the black boys.

“Leo! Hey, Leo, where ya going?” Abraham cried, flinging his arms in the air.

The boys stopped singing when they saw Lizard approaching. The three who were seated stood. Two of them pounded their fists against their palms.

“Look, white boy, you need to go back to your section of the yard.”

Lizard’s feet shuffled to a stop. He looked stupidly around as if he’d just awakened from a trance.

“Go on now,” another boy added with a flick of his fingers.

Lizard raised his hands. “I just want to ask a question.”

The black boys glared at him.

“That music. What do you call it?”

The boys exchanged amused glances. When they looked at Lizard again, the menace had vanished from their eyes.

“That there is what we black folk call the blues.”

Lizard pondered this. It made perfect sense. “I feel it here,” he said, thumping his chest.

“Do you now?”

Another threw out, “That’s where you supposed to feel it.”

“Well, you should feel it. Negroes got the blues ’cause of crackers like you.”

Lizard backed away. “I just wanted you to know that I like the way it sounds.”

When Lizard returned, Abraham sunk his fingers into his shoulders. “Are you meshuggener? Do you know you could have been killed?”

Lizard wriggled free. “Come on, Abraham. Killed?”

“Listen, we’re in here for petty crimes—shoplifting, joyriding. Maybe our mothers think we yank our wieners a little too much—but them,” Abraham jabbed his index finger in the direction of the black boys, “they’ve killed people.”

Lizard smirked. “If they’re murderers, Abraham, why aren’t they in a real jail?”

Abraham’s cheeks warmed. The bell sounded, saving him from any further humiliation.

* * *

Back in his cell, the song looped in Lizard’s mind, lullabying him to sleep. The next morning, he hummed it over the sink while brushing his teeth.

At dinner, Lizard scoffed down his meal and rushed out to the yard so that he wouldn’t miss a note.

Far away from Abraham and his cohorts, perched alone on a bench in earshot of the music, Lizard marveled about this life they sang of, so very different from his own, and wondered how it could be so foreign yet feel remarkably like home. He closed his eyes. His arms turned to goose flesh.

Abraham walked over and clapped him upside the head. “What’s wrong with you?”

Lizard’s eyes flew open. “Nothing. Why?” He had never felt more right in his life.