The Chosen, Page 2

  “Tell your people to leave the field,” the rabbi said.

  Mr. Galanter stared gloomily out at the field, looking a little deflated. “Everybody off!” he shouted, not very loudly. “They want à five-minute warm-up. Hustle, hustle. Keep those arms going. Keep it hot. Toss some balls around behind home. Let’s go!”

  The players scrambled off the field.

  The black-and-white mass near the wire screen remained intact. The young rabbi turned and faced his team.

  He talked in Yiddish, “We have the field for five minutes,” he said. “Remember why and for whom we play.”

  Then he stepped aside, and the black-and-white mass dissolved into fifteen individual players who came quickly onto the field. One of them, a tall boy with sand-colored hair and long arms and legs that seemed all bones and angles, stood at home plate and commenced hitting balls out to the players. He hit a few easy grounders and pop-ups, and the fielders shouted encouragement to one another in Yiddish. They handled themselves awkwardly, dropping easy grounders, throwing wild, fumbling fly balls. I looked over at the young rabbi. He had sat down on the bench near the wire screen and was reading his book.

  Behind the wire screen was a wide area, and Mr. Galanter kept us busy there throwing balls around.

  “Keep those balls going!” he fist-thumped at us. “No one sits out this fire fight! Never underestimate the enemy!”

  But there was a broad smile on his face. Now that he was actually seeing the other team, he seemed not at all concerned about the outcome of the game. In the interim between throwing a ball and having it thrown back to me, I told myself that I liked Mr. Galanter, and I wondered about his constant use of war expressions and why he wasn’t in the army.

  Davey Cantor came past me, chasing a ball that had gone between his legs.

  “Some murderers,” I grinned at him.

  “You’ll see,” he said as he bent to retrieve the ball.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Especially the one batting. You’ll see.”

  The ball was coming back to me, and I caught it neatly and flipped it back.

  “Who’s the one batting?” I asked.

  “Danny Saunders.”

  “Pardon my ignorance, but who is Danny Saunders?”

  “Reb Saunders’ son,” Davey Cantor said, blinking his eyes.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You’ll see,” Davey Cantor said, and ran off with his ball.

  My father, who had no love at all for Hasidic communities and their rabbinic overlords, had told me about Rabbi Isaac Saunders and the zealousness with which he ruled his people and settled questions of Jewish law.

  I saw Mr. Galanter look at his wristwatch, then stare out at the team on the field. The five minutes were apparently over, but the players were making no move to abandon the field. Danny Saunders was now at first base, and I noticed that his long arms and legs were being used to good advantage, for by stretching and jumping he was able to catch most of the wild throws that came his way.

  Mr. Galanter went over to the young rabbi who was still sitting on the bench and reading.

  “It’s five minutes,” he said.

  The rabbi looked up from his book. “Ah?” he said.

  “The five minutes are up,” Mr. Galanter said.

  The rabbi stared out at the field. “Enough!” he shouted in Yiddish. “It’s time to play!” Then he looked down at the book and resumed his reading.

  The players threw the ball around for another minute or two, and then slowly came off the field. Danny Saunders walked past me, still wearing his first baseman’s glove. He was a good deal taller than I, and in contrast to my somewhat ordinary but decently proportioned features and dark hair, his face seemed to have been cut from stone. His chin, jaw and cheekbones were made up of jutting hard lines, his nose was straight and pointed, his lips full, rising to a steep angle from the center point beneath his nose and then slanting off to form a too-wide mouth. His eyes were deep blue, and the sparse tufts of hair on his chin, jawbones, and upper lip, the close-cropped hair on his head, and the flow of side curls along his ears were the color of sand. He moved in a loose-jointed, disheveled sort of way, all arms and legs, talking in Yiddish to one of his teammates and ignoring me completely as he passed by. I told myself that I did not like his Hasidic-bred sense of superiority and that it would be a great pleasure to defeat him and his team in this afternoon’s game.

  The umpire, a gym instructor from a parochial school two blocks away, called the teams together to determine who would bat first. I saw him throw a bat into the air. It was caught and almost dropped by a member of the other team.

  During the brief hand-over-hand choosing, Davey Cantor came over and stood next to me.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “They’re a snooty bunch,” I told him.

  “What do you think about their playing?”

  “They’re lousy.”

  “They’re murderers.”

  “Oh, come on, Davey.”

  “You’ll see,” Davey Cantor said, looking at me gloomily.

  “I just did see.”

  “You didn’t see anything.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Elijah the prophet comes in to pitch for them in tight spots.”

  “I’m not being funny,” he said, looking hurt.

  “Some murderers,” I told him, and laughed.

  The teams began to disperse. We had lost the choosing, and they had decided to bat first. We scampered onto the field. I took up my position at second base. I saw the young rabbi sitting on the bench near the wire fence and reading. We threw a ball around for a minute. Mr. Galanter stood alongside third base, shouting his words of encouragement at us. It was warm, and I was sweating a little and feeling very good. Then the umpire, who had taken up his position behind the pitcher, called for the ball and someone tossed it to him. He handed it to the pitcher and shouted, “Here we go! Play ball!” We settled into our positions.

  Mr. Galanter shouted, “Goldberg, move in!” and Sidney Goldberg, our shortstop, took two steps forward and moved a little closer to third base. “Okay, fine,” Mr. Galanter said. “Keep that infield solid!”

  A short, thin boy came up to the plate and stood there with his feet together, holding the bat awkwardly over his head. He wore steel-rimmed glasses that gave his face a pinched, old man’s look. He swung wildly at the first pitch, and the force of the swing spun him completely around. His earlocks lifted off the sides of his head and followed him around in an almost horizontal circle. Then he steadied himself and resumed his position near the plate, short, thin, his feet together, holding his bat over his head in an awkward grip.

  The umpire called the strike in a loud, clear voice, and I saw Sidney Goldberg look over at me and grin broadly.

  “If he studies Talmud like that, he’s dead,” Sidney Goldberg said.

  I grinned back at him.

  “Keep that infield solid!” Mr. Galanter shouted from third base. “Malter, a little to your left! Good!”

  The next pitch was too high, and the boy chopped at it, lost his bat and fell forward on his hands. Sidney Goldberg and I looked at each other again. Sidney was in my class. We were similar in build, thin and lithe, with somewhat spindly arms and legs. He was not a very good student, but he was an excellent shortstop. We lived on the same block and were good but not close friends. He was dressed in an undershirt and dungarees and was not wearing the four-cornered garment. I had on a light-blue shirt and dark-blue work pants, and I wore the four-cornered garment under the shirt.

  The short, thin boy was back at the plate, standing with his feet together and holding the bat in his awkward grip. He let the next pitch go by, and the umpire called it a strike. I saw the young rabbi look up a moment from his book, then resume reading.

  “Two more just like that!” I shouted encouragingly to the pitcher. “Two more, Schwartzie!” And I thought to myself, Some murderers.

  I saw Danny Saunders go over t
o the boy who had just struck out and talk to him. The boy looked down and seemed to shrivel with hurt. He hung his head and walked away behind the wire screen. Another short, thin boy took his place at the plate. I looked around for Davey Cantor but could not see him.

  The boy at bat swung wildly at the first two pitches and missed them both. He swung again at the third pitch, and I heard the loud thwack of the bat as it connected with the ball, and saw the ball move in a swift, straight line toward Sidney Goldberg, who caught it, bobbled it for a moment, and finally got it into his glove. He tossed the ball to me, and we threw it around. I saw him take off his glove and shake his left hand.

  “That hurt,” he said, grinning at me.

  “Good catch,” I told him.

  “That hurt like hell,” he said, and put his glove back on his hand.

  The batter who stood now at the plate was broad-shouldered and built like a bear. He swung at the first pitch, missed, then swung again at the second pitch and sent the ball in a straight line over the head of the third baseman into left field. I scrambled to second, stood on the base and shouted for the ball. I saw the left fielder pick it up on the second bounce and relay it to me. It was coming in a little high, and I had my glove raised for it. I felt more than saw the batter charging toward second, and as I was getting my glove on the ball he smashed into me like a truck. The ball went over my head, and I fell forward heavily onto the asphalt floor of the yard, and he passed me, going toward third, his fringes flying out behind him, holding his skullcap to his head with his right hand so it would not fall off. Abe Goodstein, our first baseman, retrieved the ball and whipped it home, and the batter stood at third, a wide grin on his face.

  The yeshiva team exploded into wild cheers and shouted loud words of congratulations in Yiddish to the batter.

  Sidney Goldberg helped me get to my feet.

  “That momzer!” he said. “You weren’t in his way!”

  “Wow!” I said, taking a few deep breaths. I had scraped the palm of my right hand.

  “What a momzer!” Sidney Goldberg said.

  I saw Mr. Galanter come storming onto the field to talk to the umpire. “What kind of play was that?” he asked heatedly. “How are you going to rule that?”

  “Safe at third,” the umpire said. “Your boy was in the way.”

  Mr. Galanter’s mouth fell open. “How’s that again?”

  “Safe at third,” the umpire repeated.

  Mr. Galanter looked ready to argue, thought better of it, then stared over at me. “Are you all right, Malter?”

  “I’m okay,” I said, taking another deep breath. Mr. Galanter walked angrily off the field.

  “Play ball!” the umpire shouted.

  The yeshiva team quieted down. I saw that the young rabbi was now looking up from his book and smiling faintly.

  A tall, thin player came up to the plate, set his feet in correct position, swung his bat a few times, then crouched into a waiting stance. I saw it was Danny Saunders. I opened and closed my right hand, which was still sore from the fall.

  “Move back! Move back!” Mr. Galanter was shouting from alongside third base, and I took two steps back.

  I crouched, waiting.

  The first pitch was wild, and the yeshiva team burst into loud laughter. The young rabbi was sitting on the bench, watching Danny Saunders intently.

  “Take it easy, Schwartzie!” I shouted encouragingly to the pitcher. “There’s only one more to go!”

  The next pitch was about a foot over Danny Saunders’ head, and the yeshiva team howled with laughter. Sidney Goldberg and I looked at each other. I saw Mr. Galanter standing very still alongside third, staring at the pitcher. The rabbi was still watching Danny Saunders.

  The next pitch left Schwartzie’s hand in a long, slow line, and before it was halfway to the plate I knew Danny Saunders would try for it. I knew it from the way his left foot came forward and the bat snapped back and his long, thin body began its swift pivot. I tensed, waiting for the sound of the bat against the ball, and when it came it sounded like a gunshot. For a wild fraction of a second I lost sight of the ball. Then I saw Schwartzie dive to the ground, and there was the ball coming through the air where his head had been, and I tried for it but it was moving too fast, and I barely had my glove raised before it was in center field. It was caught on a bounce and thrown to Sidney Goldberg, but by that time Danny Saunders was standing solidly on my base and the yeshiva team was screaming with joy.

  Mr. Galanter called for time and walked over to talk to Schwartzie. Sidney Goldberg nodded to me, and the two of us went over to them.

  “That ball could’ve killed me!” Schwartzie was saying. He was of medium size, with a long face and a bad case of acne. He wiped sweat from his face. “My God, did you see that ball?”

  “I saw it,” Mr. Galanter said grimly.

  “That was too fast to stop, Mr. Galanter,” I said in Schwartzie’s defense.

  “I heard about that Danny Saunders,” Sidney Goldberg said. “He always hits to the pitcher.”

  “You could’ve told me,” Schwartzie lamented. “I could’ve been ready.”

  “I only heard about it,” Sidney Goldberg said. “You always believe everything you hear?”

  “God, that ball could’ve killed me!” Schwartzie said again.

  “You want to go on pitching?” Mr. Galanter said. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and he looked very grim.

  “Sure, Mr. Galanter,” Schwartzie said. “I’m okay.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “No heroes in this war, now,” Mr. Galanter said. “I want live soldiers, not dead heroes.”

  “I’m no hero,” Schwartzie muttered lamely. “I can still get it over, Mr. Galanter. God, it’s only the first inning.”

  “Okay, soldier,” Mr. Galanter said, not very enthusiastically. “Just keep our side of this war fighting.”

  “I’m trying my best, Mr. Galanter,” Schwartzie said.

  Mr. Galanter nodded, still looking grim, and started off the field. I saw him take a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipe his fore-head. “Jesus Christ!” Schwartzie said, now that Mr. Galanter was gone. “That bastard aimed right for my head!” “Oh, come on, Schwartzie,” I said. “What is he, Babe Ruth?”

  “You heard what Sidney said.”

  “Stop giving it to them on a silver platter and they won’t hit it like that.”

  “Who’s giving it to them on a silver platter?” Schwartzie lamented. “That was a great pitch.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  The umpire came over to us. “You boys planning to chat here all afternoon?” he asked. He was a squat man in his late forties, and he looked impatient.

  “No, sir,” I said very politely, and Sidney and I ran back to our places.

  Danny Saunders was standing on my base. His white shirt was pasted to his arms and back with sweat.

  “That was a nice shot,” I offered.

  He looked at me curiously and said nothing.

  “You always hit it like that to the pitcher?” I asked.

  He smiled faintly. “You’re Reuven Malter,” he said in perfect English. He had a low, nasal voice.

  “That’s right,” I said, wondering where he had heard my name.

  “Your father is David Malter, the one who writes articles on the Talmud?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told my team we’re going to kill you apikorsim this afternoon.” He said it flatly, without a trace of expression in his voice.

  I stared at him and hoped the sudden tight coldness I felt wasn’t showing on my face. “Sure,” I said. “Rub your tzitzit for good luck.”

  I walked away from him and took up my position near the base. I looked toward the wire screen and saw Davey Cantor standing there, staring out at the field, his hands in his pockets. I crouched down quickly, because Schwartzie was going into his pitch.

  The batter swung wildly at the first two pitches
and missed each time. The next one was low, and he let it go by, then hit a grounder to the first baseman, who dropped it, flailed about for it wildly, and recovered it in time to see Danny Saunders cross the plate. The first baseman stood there for a moment, drenched in shame, then tossed the ball to Schwartzie. I saw Mr. Galanter standing near third base, wiping his forehead. The yeshiva team had gone wild again, and they were all trying to get to Danny Saunders and shake his hand. I saw the rabbi smile broadly, then look down at his book and resume reading.

  Sidney Goldberg came over to me. “What did Saunders tell you?” he asked.

  “He said they were going to kill us apikorsim this afternoon.”

  He stared at me. “Those are nice people, those yeshiva people,” he said, and walked slowly back to his position.

  The next batter hit a long fly ball to right field. It was caught on the run.

  “Hooray for us,” Sidney Goldberg said grimly as we headed off the field. “Any longer and they’d be asking us to join them for the Mincha Service.”

  “Not us,” I said. “We’re not holy enough.”

  “Where did they learn to hit like that?”

  “Who knows?” I said.

  We were standing near the wire screen, forming a tight circle around Mr. Galanter.

  “Only two runs,” Mr. Galanter said, smashing his right fist into his left hand. “And they hit us with all they had. Now we give them our heavy artillery. Now we barrage them!” I saw that he looked relieved but that he was still sweating. His skullcap seemed pasted to his head with sweat. “Okay!” he said. “Fire away!”

  The circle broke up, and Sidney Goldberg walked to the plate, carrying a bat. I saw the rabbi was still sitting on the bench, reading. I started to walk around behind him to see what book it was, when Davey Cantor came over, his hands in his pockets, his eyes still gloomy.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Well what?” I said.

  “I told you they could hit.”

  “So you told me. So what?” I was in no mood for his feelings of doom, and I let my voice show it.