A Season of Miracles

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon
2010

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-106-6
ISBN 10: 1-60174-106-5

A Season of Miracles
Copyright Š 2010 by Ed Goldberg

Cover design
Copyright Š 2010 by Judith B. Glad

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in
whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter
invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

Magic.
Every day was magical in this new and magical America. Samuel Itzkowitz,
for seven of his eight years, had lived in a world devoid even of common contentment, but now he
existed in a world of enchantment.

Brooklyn! Even the name was filled with forward motion. Brooklyn! It soared.

Sammy was born in captivity. He was born to Jews hiding in a root cellar in a Polish
farmhouse. The farmers had rented rooms to his father's family for many summers, and when
Warsaw became a branch office of hell, his family fled to the country. The farm couple took them in.
Not gladly, and with more than a little trepidation, but they did it.

Sammy's mother, Rachel, was pregnant. Sammy was born on December 25, 1940. He
learned, as quickly as a new baby has ever learned, to cry softly, or not at all. They lived as moles, or
bats in a cave. But even moles can emerge from their tunnels and bats from their caves. Yossel and
Rachel Itzkowitz, and their baby Samuel, were trapped in their darkness for five years, as the world
sorted itself out.

Every year, on his birthday, Sammy was treated to the muffled sound of merriment and
laughter coming from the house above. And the sound of the farm family singing, joyous and
poignant, the Polish carols. He loved his birthday, because it was the only time of year there was
sweetness in the world.

The farmer's wife, who sneaked down at night and in the early morning, would bring lavish
treats: roast birds, stewed fish, cakes, aromatic puddings. But only on the day of his birth. The rest of
the year, the food was nutritious, but ordinary.

Sammy loved his birthday.

The year after his fourth birthday, the world suddenly changed. The farmer and his wife
threw open the doors of the root cellar, which had been concealed with rugs, and called for Sammy's
family to emerge. Trembling with fear of betrayal, they went up the stairs. It was then that they
learned that they were free, that the devil Hitler was dead, and that the war was over.

Sammy gasped. He had never seen sunshine, or grass, or trees, or heard a bird sing. It was
almost like being reborn.

Like so many other refugee families, the Itzkowitzes were sent to a displaced persons camp.
There they met concentration camp survivors, and blessed their hole in the ground as the stories of
these tragic people unfolded. There Sammy learned that there were other children in the world--all
shapes, sizes, appearances, and personalities. There he learned that he was a Jew, and that others had
been killed for that reason alone.

And there, he had his first Hanukkah.

In that overcrowded, dirty, forlorn, and numbed setting, he was told the story of the Festival
of Lights, of the desecration of the temple, the revolt against the Greek oppressor, and the
purification of the temple in the aftermath of victory. He learned that the sanctified oil, only enough
for one day's burning of the eternal light, lasted eight days until the new oil could be produced.

A miracle. A miracle of resistance to tyranny, a miracle of spirit, a miracle of light.

Sammy's parents had celebrated no holidays in their mole hole. The joyous songs of
Hanukkah had never been heard in their cellar. He was captivated by the lighting of the candles, the
lusty songs celebrating the Maccabee heroes, the eight days of little gifts to the children, as poor as
they were in that sad place.

As the month of December progressed, he noticed that the American GIs were preparing for
their own celebration. Candles began to appear in barracks windows, and sprigs of greenery, and
chains of colored paper.

The night before his birthday, Sammy was awakened by singing. He dressed and sneaked
out of his barn-like dormitory, drawn toward the sound of the music. While not exactly the same, the
songs were much like the singing he had heard faintly through the earthen ceiling of the cellar every
year on his birthday.

He peeked through the window of the barracks, and saw an amazing sight: a small pine tree
in the middle of the room, festooned with candles, and the GIs standing around it singing and
drinking from their mess-tin cups. Their faces, lit from the candle glow, seemed more like the faces
of children than battle-weary veterans.

One of them spotted him at the window, and pointed. Sammy panicked and ran. A GI ran
out, and scooped the boy up in his arms. When he was brought into the barracks, Sammy nearly
expired from terror. But they were not angry. They were happy to have him there. One of them who
spoke some Polish told him that he was their guest. Sammy was given food and an amazing drink
called Coca-Cola.

He told them that the next day was his birthday, and that it was the only celebration he had
ever known. But it always seemed to be celebrated by people who hardly knew him. How did they
know it was his birthday?

The Americans all laughed, and then looked sad. Sammy was confused. But they filled their
tin cups and gave him another Coke, and began singing again. Sammy eventually fell into an
exhausted sleep on someone's bunk.

One of the GIs carried him back to his bed in the dormitory, tucked him in, and put a little
gift for him under the covers. It was not much, really, just the guy's old Boy Scout knife. But it was
all he could think of to give Sammy.

When the boy awoke the next morning, he was filled with the sweetness of a beautiful
dream, one that seemed so real that he could still taste the Coca-Cola in his mouth.

He squirmed in his bed, and his hand touched an unfamiliar object. It was a many-bladed
knife, tied with a red ribbon, with a curious symbol and the letters BSA on the handle. Astonished,
he turned the knife over and over in his hands, inspecting it minutely. He opened and closed the
blades, unsure what some of them were. When his parents awoke, they were as bewildered as
he.

He described his dream of singing and Coca-Cola, and a pine tree with flickering candles,
and realized that it was not a dream, could not be. The GI who spoke Polish came into the dormitory
leading the social worker who looked after the camp, and they straightened the mystery out.

Sammy discovered that day that he had received not only his first birthday present, but his
first Christmas present.

The next couple of years passed slowly, the tedium alleviated by Sammy's closeness with the
GIs, who taught him to play baseball, and to read, write, and speak English--not excluding those
words that soldiers are famous for--and by the annual festival of Hanukkah/Christmas/Sammy's
birthday. Then, in January of 1948, Sammy and his family, and many others from his displaced
persons camp, emigrated to the United States.

The boat ride over was horrible, long and uncomfortable, with many people crammed
together, and many sick from disease or the rolling of the big boat. But the sight of the tall buildings
and the Statue of Liberty excited the passengers, and spontaneous singing and dancing broke out on
deck.

A sour-faced sailor muttered to his buddy, "These Jew greenhorns wouldn't be dancin' if
they knew what was waitin' for 'em."

His friend looked back at him and said, "It wasn't so long ago that our parents came over just
like this. Have a heart."

Sammy overheard, and looked the mean sailor right in the eye. He said, in perfect American,
"Listen, you stinkin' swab-jockey, mind your own business and keep your trap shut!" The sailor was
stunned into silence, but his friend laughed so hard, that Sammy was afraid the man would hurt
himself.

Sammy was no longer a creature who hid in a hole.

The entry at Ellis Island, the hassles with rules and forms and questions and examinations,
the pushing and shoving, the whole experience was forgotten as soon as the Itzkowitzes were free in
America. At Sammy's insistence, and with some browbeating by the social worker assigned to them,
they took an apartment on the top floor of a building. There were six flights to climb, but the
windows looked out unobstructed in four directions, and the Brooklyn sunshine poured in like a
deluge.

Sammy started public school, and took to it. He was curious, smart, aggressive, and he
needed some manners. All agreed, however, that he learned fast and got along well with teachers and
other pupils.

Sammy was constantly amazed. His classmates were a picture of the ferment he saw in the
streets in his working-class neighborhood: gruff, hearty Irish; dark, mercurial Italians; stolid, silent
Slavs; Hasidic Jews with black hats and long sidecurls; colored people with burnished skins in many
shades, who he quickly discovered did not like the names most often called them.

By the end of the school year, Sammy had many friends. He got on well with all of them, his
experience with GIs having been a valuable training exercise. That summer, he was introduced to
major league baseball, and the Brooklyn Dodgers. He shared the thrill of watching Snider and Furillo
and Erskine, and the magnificent Jackie Robinson, whose significance was lost on no one.

He adored Stan Musial, whose people had come from Poland, and he hated the Giants, like
he was supposed to. He would take long subway rides to watch Joe DiMaggio, who seemed to be a
being of a higher species, play in Yankee Stadium.

He went to Coney Island, ate Nathan's hot dogs and rode the rides until he was on the verge
of throwing up. He went to the beach with his parents, and they saw the haunted, pale-skinned
refugees, many of whom tried to hide the numbers tattooed on their arms. Once more, they blessed
the Polish farmers and their hole in the ground.

On the Fourth of July, they
oohed
and
aahed
with everyone at the
fireworks display, and Sammy tried to explain the meaning and importance of the whole thing.
"Momma, Poppa, it's just like the Hanukkah candles, lights for freedom. Only bigger, like everything
here, and in the sky. Hanukkah candles in the sky!"

America, Brooklyn, was a land of make-believe, a paradise. And all the while, secretly in his
heart, Sammy anticipated his first Hanukkah/Christmas/Sammy's birthday in this magical place.

The time rolled by. Labor Day. The new school year. The World Series--even though neither
the Yanks nor the Bums played. Then, Halloween.

"Let me get this straight," Sammy asked his friend, Irv Feigenbaum, "you dress up in some
kind of weird outfit, and you ring doorbells of perfect strangers, and they give you candy or cookies
or money. And if they don't, you do something mean to them?"

"Yeah," said Irv.

"And this is allowed?"

"Yeah,
schmendrick,
it's Halloween."

Sammy shook his head in amazement. "Irving, this is the greatest country on earth."

Then came Thanksgiving, and Sammy learned of the Indians and the Pilgrims. The Pilgrims
came here because they were badly treated at home. They nearly died, and the Indians showed them
how to survive. It was almost like his family were the Pilgrims, and the Polish farmers were the
Indians, and helped them to survive. Then he thought of the Poles in buckskins and feathers, with
painted faces, and he laughed so hard that the teacher, Mrs. Catalano, made him leave the room until
he composed himself.