Pete Hamill - Snow in August

And as Robinson, Michael was furious again. And then felt very sad. What the hell’s the matter with those bozos? Why don’t they try to get to know me? Maybe they could learn something. Hey, I went to college and they didn’t, so maybe they’d find out a few things. How can they act the way they do without knowing anything at all about me except my batting average and the color of my skin?

Idiots.

Bums.

He spent an hour on homework, dealing quickly with grammar and arithmetic, taking longer to answer questions about a history chapter. This told the story of a heroic Jesuit priest named Isaac Jogues, who had his fingers bitten off by Indians and later had trouble saying the mass, because he couldn’t hold the host. He wondered how he could tell this to Rabbi Hirsch without laughing. The goyim are crazy, he told himself. The goyim are definitely crazy.

For a while he listened to music on the radio. When he heard “Don’t Fence Me In,” he wished he had a telephone, so he could call Rabbi Hirsch and tell him the number of the station. But Rabbi Hirsch didn’t have a telephone either. Almost nobody did. Not Sonny. Not Jimmy. There was a phone in the rectory at Sacred Heart. There was a pay phone in Slowacki’s and another across the street in Casement’s Bar, but there were always people waiting to use them. The cops had telephones too. All the telephones they wanted.

He got up from the kitchen table, brushed his teeth, and went into his room. He read comics for a while, and then heard his mother come in from work. She walked through the rooms and knocked at his door.

“You’re all right, son?” she said.

“Fine,” he said. “Good night, Mom.”

He turned off the light and buried his head in the pillow. He remembered the rabbi’s radiant face when he was listening to Ziggy Elman, and was trying to imagine what it was like to be Rabbi Hirsch when sleep took him.

By morning, everyone in the parish seemed to know that Frankie McCarthy had been charged with felonious assault in the beating of Mister G and was being held awaiting $2,500 bail in the Raymond Street jail. The old ladies whispered about it in the hallways. It was mentioned across the counter in Slowacki’s candy store. Even Kate Devlin knew the story, although not a word had appeared in the newspapers.

“They should put him away for years,” she said. “But, of course, they won’t.”

She explained to Michael how bail worked. The prisoner had to find a bail bondsman and come up with ten percent of the bail in cash. The bondsman would then put up the full $2,500, and Frankie McCarthy would be free until his trial. If Frankie didn’t show up for trial, the bondsman would lose the $2,500.

“That idjit McCarthy,” she said, “wouldn’t have two hundred and fifty dollars, so he’ll have to wait until his friends steal it.”

Almost nobody in the parish seemed surprised that Frankie had been jailed. After all, they knew he had done it. But they also knew that the district attorney would have a hard time proving the case. If Michael, Sonny, and Jimmy Kabinsky said nothing in court, then it would be the word of Frankie McCarthy against the theories of the cops. From what Rabbi Hirsch said, Mister G might never talk again. But the boys knew there were few secrets in the parish. As the only possible witnesses they were the center of the parish’s whispered attention. Michael most of all, because he had seen the worst part of the beating.

“T’ree times in a week, the bulls came up my house,” Sonny Montemarano said that afternoon, as they stood beside the roof door of his building, gazing out at the rain. “Abbott and Costello, in person. They threaten you. They try to make you feel guilty.”

“Me too,” Jimmy said. “They come to see me day before yesterday.”

“They did?” Michael said. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Jimmy said. “I didn’t say nothing, I swear.”

“What about your uncle?” Sonny asked, squinting now, staring into Jimmy’s pale blue eyes. “Did he say something?”

“Nah. Just his usual.”

“Whatta you mean, his usual ?” Sonny said.

“You know, about the Jews and all.”

There it was, Michael thought. The Jews and all. Jimmy’s uncle was the rat. A rat so stupid he didn’t even know he was a rat.

“Exactly what did he say, Jimmy?” Michael asked.

“I don’t remember exactly.”

“Try,” Sonny said.

Jimmy gazed off at the rain sweeping through the backyards. It was as if he too now understood what had happened.

“You know, like, ‘What’s the crime, beating a Jew up? What’s the big deal?’ ” His voice lowered in shame. “Then he says — I couldn’t stop him, I swear — he says, ‘So what, if Frankie McCarthy broke his head?’ ” He paused, but didn’t look at Michael or Sonny. “Stuff like that.”

Sonny moaned. “Jesus, Jimmy—”

“He didn’t say we were there,” Jimmy said.

“Maybe not then ,” Sonny said. “But they could grab him again on the street, when he’s working, anyplace.” He shook his head. “They could beat the shit out of him until he told them what they wanna hear. They could threaten to deport him, send him back to Poland.”

“One thing’s for sure,” Michael said. “The cops probably figure you told your uncle. He didn’t pick Frankie’s name out of the air.”

“They will def’nitely call your uncle as a witness,” Sonny said.

“And you too, Jimmy,” Michael said.

“And us ,” Sonny said, looking at Michael in a trapped way.

Images of courtroom scenes flashed through Michael’s mind. Oaths. Lies. Frankie McCarthy staring at them. The rows filled with Falcons. They knew where Michael lived. They knew where his mother worked. The wind suddenly rose, and rain lashed the roof above them, and backed them away from the open door. They stared out at the glistening black pebbles and the clotheslines and the chimneys.

“Frankie’s boys must figure we ratted,” Sonny said quietly.

“Nah,” Jimmy said. “Why would they think that?”

“Because that’s how they think,” Sonny said. “They don’t know us. They don’t know your goddamned uncle either.”

The rain faded again into a steady drizzle.

“We got to let them know it wasn’t us,” Michael said. “Without ratting on Jimmy’s uncle.”

“How? We write them a letter? We go to the poolroom and say, ‘Excuse me, fellas, but we didn’t rat you out, so don’t do nothing to us, okay?’ ”

There was a silence. Michael felt cold.

“Maybe it wasn’t my uncle,” Jimmy said. “Maybe there was another witness. Maybe somebody was in the back of the store. Maybe a neighbor seen it from a window—”

“Yeah, wit’ X-ray vision, like Superman,” Sonny said.

There was another long silence.

“We’re in deep shit,” Sonny said.

One wet Tuesday after school, Michael entered the synagogue through the Kelly Street entrance. The door was open, awaiting his arrival, and he paused for a moment in the vestibule, feeling safe. As he shook the rain off his mackinaw, he heard a hard, almost braying sound from the far side of the door leading to the rabbi’s rooms. The notes were familiar. Braaah, braawp, brah-brah, bruh, brah-brah, braawp … The first notes of “And the Angels Sing.”

The sound abruptly stopped. Michael opened the door quietly and saw Rabbi Hirsch standing near the bookcase, deep in concentration, trying to blow on a curved instrument made of polished horn. His eyes were closed. He started to keep the beat with one foot, then tried again. Braaah, braawp … Then he paused, opened his eyes, saw Michael, and laughed.