An Orphan's Tale (2 page)

He was confident that Sol would like the idea, but he couldn't take the chance alone. He didn't want to tie up that much cash—and the monthly payments—in a house. It wasn't the kind of investment he believed in. He heard Mr. Mittleman's voice, telling him that property ate three meals a day: principal for breakfast, interest for lunch, and taxes for supper.

He finished his rounds by early afternoon and walked back to his car, which he'd parked behind the school. He drew fresh air in through his nostrils. His pockets were full. He got into his car, and, driving toward the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, he thought of his money, expanding endlessly, and he wondered how much Sol had left.

Mrs. Mittleman had packed a corned beef sandwich for him, and Charlie ate it as he drove, to save time. He smiled, thinking of the loaves of unbaked bread in the bakery at the Home. When he thought of his money he always thought of those loaves—he saw the pale oblongs of dough rising under damp cloths near the ovens. He remembered how much, as a boy, he'd looked forward to being on night shift—had even volunteered for it—just so he could have the chance to lift the corners of the cloths every half-hour and see the difference. His money grew that way.

He smiled, remembering once again the time, almost twenty-five years ago, when he and Irving, working the night shift, had plotted their famous adventure. It had taken them nearly two months just to save enough money from their weekly allowance of twenty cents—they had forgone snacks in the nearby luncheonette—to buy a bottle of cheap wine for the baker. Irving had been the salesman, convincing the old man that they were skilled enough to do the work by themselves and that when it was all done the director himself would praise him for having taken the initiative in designating responsibility.

While the old man had been drinking and sleeping on a stool behind the ovens, Charlie and Irving had twisted and carved the dough into the shapes of penises and vaginas and breasts and they had watched all night long—peeking under the cloths and into the ovens—as their creations swelled to magical proportions. When the breads were done, they had packed them into baskets and had delivered the baskets to the dining room tables, covering them with cloth napkins. Then, too excited to return to the dormitory for their usual two-hour nap before reveille sounded, they had waited on a bench, side by side, saying nothing.

When the three hundred boys tumbled into the dining room for breakfast that morning and discovered the breads, the place had gone wild. Charlie could still see Irving, standing on a table in the middle of the room and biting off huge chunks of bread as the others cheered him on. He saw Jerry and Herman leading a parade of bread-eaters across the tabletops—loaves in hands, like scepters—chanting:
“Some like it hot… Some like it cold… Some like it in their mouths nine days old!”

By the time the director and the counselors arrived, the boys had divided themselves into two camps and, with tables turned on their sides for barricades, they were flinging chunks of bread and pitchers of milk and juice across the room at each other. He and Irving had been banned from all evening activities for three months, he recalled, and their allowances had been docked for six months, but neither of them had ever really minded.

It was a story, Murray announced at the time, that would probably be passed down in the Home from one generation of boys to the next. He'd been right about that, and Charlie already had the item on his list:
tell Murray about KC + 2;
three of the guys he'd telephoned—including one in Kansas City he'd never met—had wanted to talk about it on the phone during the past two nights.

When Sol first heard the story, Charlie recalled, he'd agreed with Murray, but he had refused to intervene and ask the director to lift the punishments. “Character,” he said then—and in his head Charlie saw Sol wink at him—“develops from loyalty to a cause. That's what your Uncle Sol believes.”

*

MONDAY

Today I saw him. I recognized him from his pictures and I was glad he wasn't looking my way when I realized who he was because I must have been gaping. His hair is still black and curly and it crawls down the back of his neck and into his collar. I thought of Samson and how he went blind and I smiled.

This is what I thought: Now that I see him before me I know that everything will be all right and that I'll be able to get out of here.

Once he turned and smiled at me and when he did I stared into a store window and I don't think he was really paying any special attention to me. I think he likes to smile at everybody.

When I first awoke this morning before the others I had the feeling that something would happen today that would change my life. I dressed quietly, checked the lock on my locker and I didn't put my shoes on until I was outside the dormitory. I went to the neighborhood where I lived until I was 7. I always go there when I want things to happen.

But what made him come on the same day?

A question: If I had the same feeling last week and had come then, would I have met him today or would he have been there last week also?

He looks the same as in his pictures, only older. He's 20 years older than when he left. When I came back I looked at his pictures on the walls. There are more pictures of him than of anybody else.

This is what I'll do tomorrow: Leave before breakfast again and try to see him before the stores open. But if it rains I'll stay here and rest and read and memorize things.

What will he do when I tell him where I come from? How will he look at me?

I know he'll be surprised at how much I know about him. When he walks on the street people turn to notice him. I had to hurry just to keep up with him and while he was inside stores and houses and I was outside waiting, this is what I thought about: Can anyone ever really know what goes on inside another person? If you talked to somebody you loved forever and he talked back to you forever, would you ever be able to tell one another everything you thought and felt, or would each new thing you told and heard change what you were up to that point so you could never finish?

I wonder what he would think if I asked him a question like that. He doesn't look like he ever thinks of things like that so it might mean that he does.

Here's Danny Ginsberg's brand new THEORY OF OP-POSITES: I am the opposite inside of what I seem to be outside!

Out of the difference I create the real me!

When he drove away I couldn't stop myself from taking a chance and waving to him, but he didn't see me from his rear view mirror. My heart is pounding now just like it was then.

The other boys are working on their secret room in the basement now but they didn't invite me to come.

Remember to look up: his address and phone number.

TUESDAY

They're having movies in the dining room now so I'm in my bed writing with the lights on instead of by flashlight. When I hear noises I jump so that tells me how frightened I really am, but nobody misses me downstairs or cares.

When he knows, will he care?

I was there before the stores opened but he never came. I waited until 12:30 and followed the same route he took yesterday. I wish I had the courage to ask somebody he spoke to about him and when he might be coming back.

I got back here early but I didn't want to see anybody or go to Dr. Fogel's Hebrew class so I went to sleep. Somebody was touching my combination lock while I was gone and trying to read what I write.

Because I'm an orphan my statement must be a lie. But if it's a lie then all orphans could not be liars. But if all orphans are not liars and I'm an orphan, then All Orphans Are Liars is a true statement. But it cannot be true because I am an orphan.

That's called an antinomy.

A COROLLARY: THE TRUTH IS THAT EVERYTHING I WRITE IN MY DIARY IS A LIE!

WEDNESDAY

Today I stayed here and asked if I could work in the office and Mr. Gitelman let me. They let me do anything I want here because they're grateful to have me in comparison with the others. Mr. Gitelman said he'd be in the maintenance shed working but he winked at me and he knew that I knew that he and Mr. Levine and George and Ernie would be playing cards.

I locked the door and looked him up.

His file is very thick, but even though nobody would ever know the difference I didn't remove anything or copy out anything. I like to read about what he was like when he was a boy before he got to my age. All the reports say he would have been a Leader others looked up to even if he wasn't such an athlete. When he was my age he was only an inch taller than me.

I went through the letters on Mr. Gitelman's desk and found out that the rumor about closing the Home is true. There was a letter from the Federation of Jewish Philanthropies to Mr. Gitelman giving the reason:
There aren't enough Jewish orphans anymore because of the new abortion laws!

I remembered not to feel guilty about spying and this is what I imagined: If I was on an airplane and it was hijacked and if the hijackers asked all the Jews to stand up, I wouldn't do it. If they murdered all the Jews in front of my eyes and if the FBI came and killed the hijackers in a shoot-out and if I walked off the plane by myself I still wouldn't feel guilty!

Today Larry Silverberg came up to me and said I could come visit their clubhouse but that they voted not to give me a key. I told him what I knew about the Home closing and he smiled and squeezed my shoulder muscle, next to my neck, so that it hurt until I almost screamed. He whispered that they were making plans already. He said that if Mr. Gitelman found out they would know who the rat was.

What will Dr. Fogel do if the Home closes? Where will he go? From the photos he's been here since before Charlie or his group. The 1st photo of Dr. Fogel is from 1932 but he might have been here before that. Even though his face was softer then it looks the same as now, with his skin being full of folds like a bulldog's. 1935 is the 1st year with him in the pictures with the football teams.

THURSDAY

I worked in Mr. Gitelman's office again in the morning. I told him he could have the day off and he laughed to hear a sentence like that from a boy like me. I'm a mystery to him.

I typed out names and addresses I need and I tried some letters, giving the reasons I'm being transferred. I liked writing about myself. I made up different life stories for myself and I thought: I could make up my whole life's story before it happens and present it to Charlie and he could see how beautifully our life would turn out together!

At 11 o'clock Larry and Marty came into the office carrying Steve between them and screaming that he was having a heart attack. I telephoned to the shed and told Mr. Gitelman that Steve was having another fit and he came and took care of things.

Mr. Gitelman and I stood in the hallway together after looking at the photos of former orphans which go all the way down the corridor. There are photos from as far back as 1904. There are photos of all the Home's football, baseball and basketball teams. There are photos of members of the Board of Directors and officers of the Maccabee Clubs and Bar Kochba Clubs and the Thespian Society, and there are signed photos of great Jewish athletes sending their best wishes to us. There are 5 locked glass cases with trophies and cups and medals.

Above the exit to the courtyard is a sign which says

Mr. Gitelman saw me staring at photos of former orphans and this is what I said to him then: “They don't make orphans like they used to.”

He laughed so hard he was almost crying, but I didn't smile.

Mr. Gitelman calls us an Army of Defectives.

Mr. Levine calls us retards and retreads.

Even though we don't have enough boys to have teams anymore, on the 1st day of the school year each of us is required to choose a famous Jewish athlete after whom we're supposed to model ourselves. It's something they've been doing here for over 40 years. Mr. Levine the gym teacher calls it a tradition. Dr. Fogel laughs at him!