A Season of Miracles (3 page)

The chief rubbed his face. "Sammy, if you don't leave, I'm going to call in a couple of big
officers and they will take you out of here by force."

"Sir, I will kill myself." Sammy moved the knife slightly, and a trickle of blood ran down his
neck.

The chief's eyes popped. "Okay, okay. Stop that! What can we do to end this mess?"

Sammy thought for a second. "I want to talk to Jackie Robinson."

The chief didn't bat an eye. "I have to go make a phone call."

Sammy was alone for the first time in hours. He wanted to cry. He wanted to throw himself
into his mother's arms. He wanted supper. And, oh! how he wanted to pee. He wiped the blood from
his neck with his handkerchief, and then he cried. It was almost like being back in the hole again,
only this time he was alone.

About forty-five minutes later, there was a commotion in the hall, and the chief came back
into the room. Sammy quickly brought the knife back to his neck. Following the chief was a large
black man, lithe and broad-shouldered. It was Jackie Robinson.

"Here you go, Sammy. I'll leave you two alone."

Sammy's eyes bugged. "Is that really you, Mr. Robinson?"

"Yes, Sammy. I was at a Boy's Club dinner in the Bronx, and they got me here in a squad car
with lights and sirens. This is certainly an unusual situation."

Sammy removed the knife from his neck, folded it, and sat down. Robinson squeezed his
huge frame into a desk next to him. Sammy began to weep.

Robinson took out his handkerchief, and gave it to the boy. After a minute, Sammy said
through his tears, "I saw you steal home against the Cubs. You went three-for-four and stole two
bases."

"Yeah, I remember that game. That was the day one of my own team called me a name. I
went out of my way to prove something."

Robinson cleared his throat, and his face took on a serious look.

"You know, Sammy, you did a very bad thing."

Sammy nodded. "Yes, Mr. Robinson."

"You can call me Jackie, if you want to."

"Thank you, Mr. Robinson."

Robinson suppressed a smile. "Sam, your life is very precious, and to a lot of people. It's
terrible to make that kind of a threat. It disrupted your class, made your teacher cry, scared everyone
else, and your mother, well..."

"Yes, sir, I know. I never meant to hurt myself, honest. But I was...I had..." Sammy waved
his hands, helpless to explain.

"You felt that you had no choice. I've felt that way, myself."

Sammy's face lit up. "I
knew
you would understand. You know how I feel."

"Tell me what's bothering you, Sam. Tell me your story."

Sammy told him everything. The root cellar and the muffled Christmas carols for his
birthday. The day he saw the sun for the first time. The camps, and the GIs, and the little tree, and the
knife, and the tattooed numbers. His trip to America, and his idea that this whole country must be a
wonderful dream, because nothing could be like this for real. And the Dodger games, and Joe
DiMaggio, and Coney Island. The Hanukkah story and the tree in Rockefeller Center, and nothing
for him, or his people, and Mrs. Catalano's final insult. Not her mistake, but her inability to apologize
for it, as though it really didn't matter.

Robinson listened, nodding his head, and sometimes sighing. When Sammy had finished,
Robinson was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke.

"Sammy, when I started to play ball with the Dodgers, my boss told me that I would be
insulted every day, in ways that I could not even imagine. He told me that if I fought back, as almost
any man would, I was not the man for him. I was to do the Christian thing, and turn the other
cheek.

"I have been turning my cheeks so much that my neck is out of joint. I still don't know
whether I am doing the right thing, but I have my little ways of getting even. And sometimes a
team-mate will do something kind and brave, and that helps a lot.

"You must do what you think is right. But you also must consider what this will do to the
folks around you. Not because it might make you change your mind, but because everything on earth
has its price, and you should know what it's going to cost you.

"The problem here is that you can't get any satisfaction from this. There is no way you can
make your point, and the world seems to be against you, even your parents and friends.

"I am not a philosopher, not a minister or a rabbi, but I sure know what you're going
through. And I may be just a ball player, but people listen to me because I can steal bases. Let's see if
we can get their attention."

"Mr. Robinson, can I pee first?"

A little while later, Jackie Robinson and Sammy Itzkowitz emerged from the schoolhouse
door, Robinson's large dark hand engulfing the boy's small white one. There was a mob of kids,
parents, the odd curious ones, and all those who are attracted by the sensational. The two walked out
to the sidewalk, and a bunch of reporters pushed against the cops at the schoolhouse door.

Robinson raised his hand, and began to speak.

"This is my friend, Sammy Itzkowitz. He has been in this country less than a year, and his
last home was a displaced persons camp. Before that, he lived in a hole in the ground, because some
folks were brave enough to hide him there from the Nazis.

"His birthday is Christmas Day, and he has always felt close to Christmas because of that.
When he came to this country, he found out that we celebrate Christmas in a big way. So big, that it
smothers everything in its path. It smothers his holiday, Hanukkah, a story about fighting back
against tyranny, and a miracle of light against darkness. It even smothers our ability to remember
why
we celebrate Christmas.

"Sammy loves Christmas, and he taught me a few words of a Polish carol he heard as a little
kid. But he doesn't want the world to forget the other celebration at this time of year. If the birth of
Jesus gave us freedom from sin and death, the Maccabees gave Mary and Joseph the hope of living
without fear. The two holidays are entwined in ways we have forgotten.

"Just like Mary and Joseph found refuge in a stable, and gave birth to a son that changed the
world, Sammy's parents found refuge in a cellar, and gave birth to a son that changed my way of
looking at Christmas. I think that he should be thanked for giving us a brave and loving gift.

"This world is weary of fighting. Maybe it's time to refresh our spirits, and figure out what's
really important. Sammy is a little miracle, and miracles are what this season is all about."

Robinson picked Sammy up, put him in his mother's arms, whispered something in his ear,
listened to Sammy whisper something back, turned and entered a police car. In a moment, he was
gone.

"What did he say to you, Sammy?" asked the chief.

"He said, 'Light a candle for me, Sammy, and come to see the Dodgers on opening day.
Happy Hanukkah.' I told him that he was my Wise Man, and the same to him."

The next day, Mrs. Catalano apologized to Sammy and the class, and Sammy apologized to
her. They hugged each other, and the kids cheered. That year, the classroom featured a menorah
alongside the manger scene. And Sammy lit the candles.

That year, Sammy insisted on a menorah in a window on every side of his apartment, so the
candles could be seen from all directions, high above the streets of Brooklyn.

The End

Ed Goldberg was born in The Bronx, New York. A college dropout in 1962, he attempted to
do stand-up comedy, unsuccessfully. He moved to Washington, DC, 1973, wrote features and
reviews for various local papers, covering pop culture, punk-rock, jazz and theater.

In 1991 he moved to Portland, Oregon, finished Served Cold, winner of the 1995 Shamus
Award, and Dead Air, set in Portland. His third novel, True Crime, (as "Alan Gold") was published
in February 2005. True Faith was published in January 2007.

He reviews movies and interviews authors on KBOO-FM, writes essays and book reviews
for Black Lamb, and is a classical DJ on Portland's KQAC-FM.

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