A Season of Miracles (2 page)

The morning of the Thanksgiving holiday, Mrs. Feigenbaum took Irv, his sister Marsha, and
Sammy into Manhattan to see the Macy's Parade. Sammy, who had been in nearly a continuous state
of astonishment since landing in America, reached a new level.

Besides the marching bands, with pretty girls in little short skirts and guys blowing tubas
and hitting glockenspiels, and floats that looked like locomotives and gingerbread cottages, there
were big balloons of funny people and animals. The balloons were as big as buildings and floated
like feathers, and lots of strong men had to hold them down with ropes. A dog as big as a house, and
it wants to fly away!

On the subway ride home, Sammy said little. His brain had overloaded. All he could think of
was: if this is for Thanksgiving, what will be for Hanukkah/Christmas/Sammy's birthday? The very
last thing in the parade was Santa Claus. Sammy knew what that meant, and he almost burst from
anticipation.

Soon, it was December, and preparations for the holidays began to accelerate. Mr.
Feigenbaum took Sammy and Marsha into the city to look at the decorations in all the store
windows. Lights, glittery stuff, angel hair, every place seemed to have something, even the smallest
candy store. The best was at 34th Street, where Macy's and Gimbel's sat across from one another in
fierce competition.

Macy's had a whole series of windows, all the way around the block. Each one was more
spectacular than the previous one. Tiny figures of elves, and reindeer, and children at play, and
families in tiny houses decorating tiny trees with tiny stockings hanging from tiny mantelpieces.
Finally, the last window featured Santa visiting the houses. Wonderful.

Gimbel's concentrated on Santa's workshop, with elves working on dolls and toy trains and
sleds and footballs, but everything moved! The little figures bent and turned and banged little
hammers and sawed with little saws. Marsha, who had seen stuff like this all her life, was
unimpressed.

Sammy was transported. America was not a place, it was a wizard's creation, a vision, a
hallucination. No place in the world had the subway, and the Dodgers, and Mrs. Stahl's knish shop,
and buildings to the sky, and Halloween. No
real
place.

They walked up Fifth Avenue, exhilarated by the crowds and the noise and the bustle, and
the Santas ringing bells as money got thrown into their pots, and bands in uniforms playing carols,
and all the stores like a fantasy. The air was crisp and cold, and their breath was steam, and people
smiled at each other.

They passed a huge church, with almost as much activity in and out as a department store.
Mr. Feigenbaum told them it was St. Patrick's Cathedral. "I know, daddy," said little Marsha with a
five-year-old's sophistication.

And then they made a sudden left turn in the middle of the block between two buildings, and
Sammy saw the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen in his life. It was a Christmas tree a hundred,
no, a thousand feet tall with a million lights on it. At its base was a statue of some almost naked guy
flying, all gold, and under him was a skating rink, with people of all shapes and sizes gliding on the
ice like swooping seagulls. Sammy's eyes bulged, and his breath came short.

Marsha turned to him and said, "This is Rockefeller Center. And that is the biggest tree in
America." Sammy would have had no trouble believing that it was the biggest tree in the
universe.

This was the capper to the most spectacular day in Sammy's life, bigger than emerging from
the root cellar, bigger than the Boy Scout knife, bigger even than the first sight of the Statue of
Liberty. It wasn't until later that night, just before Sammy dozed off in a state of near-bliss, that
something began to gnaw at him. He pushed it out of his mind, but slept restlessly in and out of
strange dreams.

The next day, he understood. Nowhere, in no place, was there a display for Hanukkah.
Santas and manger scenes, trees and wreaths, reindeer and wise men by the dozen. No menorahs, no
silver paper "Happy Hanukkah" signs, no evidence that such a holiday existed. Christmas carols were
everywhere. Kids sang them on the streets, radio stations played them, people in grocery stores
hummed them.

But where were the heroic songs about Judah Maccabee and his brothers, the jolly songs
about the games and good little children? It was almost as if there were no Jews in the world at all.
Maybe that is what that wise-guy sailor meant on the boat. This is what was waiting for us. We have
become invisible, insignificant, swallowed up.

And more. Sammy had always associated Christmas with a special feeling, complicated, tied
up with a burst of joy in a dark place. With the GIs in the displaced persons camp, it had been the
same, joy lighting up out of despair. The feelings he had felt in his hole in the ground, and in the
camp, had nothing to do with presents or fancy decorations, or huge trees. The most wonderful tree
he had ever seen was a scrawny pine in a barracks, little candles dancing light among the branches.
The light on the faces of the American soldiers, far from home and lonely, singing their carols in the
midst of the human wreckage of war, this light was more than all the lights on Fifth Avenue, and all
the mechanical elves in the world.

In magical America, there was no magic in Christmas. Amidst all the lights, there was no
light in people's faces.

Sammy brooded. Everyone noticed, but no one could make him tell what was on his mind.
An almost-eight-year-old in a moral and philosophical crisis is not the usual thing. But Sammy grew
up in a cave. This was all fresh and new. Irv and Marsha noticed nothing, Sammy realized, because
this was always the way it was for them. Just like the big tree. It was just a big tree for Marsha, not a
vision. And the other kids, who celebrated Christmas, all they talked about was what they were going
to get. They were like thieves planning a heist, and spending their loot before the fact.

Matters reached their climax the next Monday in school. The class was making Christmas
ornaments, singing carols, writing a class letter to the North Pole asking, no,
demanding
gifts from Santa. Sammy was fuming. No menorahs, no candles, no
dreidl
tops for
Hanukkah games, and, to top it off, not even a discussion of what the meaning of Christmas might
be.

Mrs. Catalano was nattering on, and said, "Of course, we will all be off from school to
celebrate the birth of the Savior, which we call Christmas and the little Jewish children call
Hanukkah."

"No." said Sammy, under his breath. He looked around at the other Jewish kids. They sat
impassively. There was no sign of outrage on their faces. Irv just sat there and took it. And Sheldon
Weinberg, and Miriam Glass, and Murray Melzer. They said nothing.

Then, Sammy said "No" in a conversational tone. Then "No" a little louder. The children
sitting near him began to look at him. Mrs. Catalano was lost in her own discourse.

"No," said Sammy. "
No
. NO.
NO.
And
NOOO!"

Startled, Mrs. Catalano, reacted typically. "Samuel Itzkowitz, please stop your yelling. I
don't know what's bothering you, but you are spoiling it for the other children."

Sammy arose. "You are bothering me, Mrs. Catalano. Hanukkah is
not
what we call
Christmas. Hanukkah is a wonderful holiday that happened before there was
ever
a
Christmas. And the worst thing is that none of the other kids says anything. The Jewish kids sit here
like they don't know the difference, and the rest will believe a lie for their whole lives. And
Christmas is not just decorations and presents. Why are you lying to us? Or are you just stupid?"

The class gasped as one. Mrs. Catalano's face became red with rage and embarrassment, for
she truly did not know any better, and was angry at Sammy for exposing her.

The Jewish kids rolled their eyes. They had been taught over the years that invisibility was
the best way to survive, and now their cover was blown.

"Samuel Itzkowitz, your behavior is disgraceful! You will go down to Mr. Sullivan's office
immediately
. But first, you will apologize to me and the class."

"NO! No, Mrs. Catalano. You will apologize to
us
for lying or for being stupid.
You will say you're sorry for telling us things that are not true. Then I will go."

The class was riveted. They had never seen such a display of defiance. Nor had Mrs.
Catalano. She was barely able to get the words out. "All right, then. You stay here.
I
am
going to get Mr. Sullivan."

She left the room. The class stared silently at Sammy. Irv finally managed to speak.
"Sammy, sit down! Don't be a
shtunk
. Say you're sorry and get it over with. You'll be in a lot
of trouble."

"Irving, I'm surprised at you. You never take anything from the kids on the street. How can
you sit here and take this?"

"Sammy, this is different. This is school. You gotta be good. You can't make trouble."

"Irv, you don't understand. Hanukkah is a holiday that is about
not
taking it from
bums and bad guys. We fought then, and we always fight when we have to. I have to do this."

Just then, a red-faced Mrs. Catalano led a redder-faced Mr. Sullivan into the room. Sullivan
attempted an opening.

"Okay, Samuel, what's this all about? You have upset your teacher and insulted her in front
of the class. I think you owe her an apology, and then we can get back to normal."

Sammy's face assumed a firm appearance. He spoke evenly, but there was a quiver in his
voice.

"Mr. Sullivan, I didn't mean to make trouble. But Mrs. Catalano insulted every Jewish kid in
the class, maybe every one in the world. She said that we call Christmas 'Hanukkah,' and that we
celebrate it. It's not true. And she never talks about what Christmas is supposed to mean, only what
presents you can get.
She
owes the
class
an apology."

Mrs. Catalano looked at Mr. Sullivan with a "See what I told you?" look. Mr. Sullivan
cleared his throat and put on his Voice of Authority.

"Samuel, apologize to your teacher and get back to your seat. This has gone far
enough."

"No, Mr. Sullivan, I can't do that. I'm right."

"Now look, either you listen to me, or I'll have your parents in here, and I'll keep you after
school for a month!"

Sammy set his jaw. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke for him. They flamed defiance.
Sullivan turned on his heel and left the room. From somewhere in the room came a muffled, "Holy
cats!"

Mrs. Catalano stood tapping her foot for a while, then tired of that and sat down. She tried to
get an arithmetic lesson started, but she might as well have been trying to teach to someone in a
coma for all the attention she was getting. She went on bravely, but it was no use. All minds and eyes
were fixed on Sammy, standing with his arms folded at the front of the room.

About an hour later, a humiliated Mrs. Itzkowitz, with Mrs. Feigenbaum in tow, entered the
classroom. Sammy sighed and relaxed. He explained to his mother in a mixture of Polish, Yiddish,
and English what his situation was.

She begged him, in the same mixture, to sit down and be a good boy. She said that it was not
good for guests in America to act this way. She was terrified that they would throw the family out of
the country, or worse. She appealed to his emotions.

Mrs. Feigenbaum begged him in Yiddish not to make a scene. She was afraid that the other
kids would take it out on Irving and Marsha.

He held firm. She turned to Mrs. Itzkowitz with a hopeless shrug. Mrs. Itzkowitz turned to
Mrs. Catalano with a helpless shrug. Mrs. Catalano turned to Mr. Sullivan with an angry shrug. The
principal threw out his arms in a frustrated gesture.

Sammy re-crossed his arms, unmoving.

The class was dismissed. Mr. Sullivan and the three women got down to serious
negotiations, including threats, pleadings, promises, and rational arguments in several languages,
Mrs. Catalano having resorted to Italian at a tense moment.

Sammy's position was unchanging: he demanded an apology before him and the rest of the
class. Mr. Sullivan lost his temper and grabbed Sammy's wrist. Sammy squirmed away, and ran
across the room, and the principal advanced toward him. Panicky, Sammy reached into his pocket
and pulled out his Boy Scout knife. He thumbed open a blade and put it up to his own throat.

"Don't move," he yelled, "or I'll kill myself!"

Sullivan stopped in his tracks, and Mrs. Itzkowitz fainted. The principal said, "Well, this is a
police problem, now."

Although school had been dismissed, most of the kids hung around outside the building in
anticipation of something momentous. Despite several instructions from various officials, they did
not disperse.

A few police cars had been added to the scene, and several cops barred the door of the
school. Upstairs, in the one lit schoolroom, Sammy stood with a knife against his throat. Before him
were his parents, the superintendent of schools for Brooklyn, and the police chief of the local
precinct. The chief had just finished listening to Sammy's story, which he had told in a calm and
reasonable way. The chief asked the others to leave, and spoke to Sammy alone.

"Sammy, you are making a lot of people very upset, and you could hurt yourself. You don't
want to hurt yourself?"

"No, sir." The knife bobbed against his neck as he spoke.

"What do you want?"

"You know. I told you. I told everybody for about six hours now. It's easy."

"Look, son, Mrs. Catalano has been home for a long time. She may never be the same again.
She spits every time someone says your name. Your mom and pop are about nuts, and the mayor has
called twice. Can't you go home and we can talk about this tomorrow?"

"No, sir. If I leave now my parents will cry and change my mind tonight, and I will never get
my apology. Mrs. Catalano will hate me and give me bad marks. The kids will think I'm crazy. I will
hate myself."