Matzos and Meatballs: A Love Story?

By Michael McInnis

Set in New York, in 1956, Matsos and Meatballs: A Love Story? tells the story of the Sappertein sisters and traces their path from birth to their eighteenth year, which is when the trouble begins.

Though the girls are twins, their personalities couldn’t be more different. Through the words of the younger twin, Jill, we are introduced to the Sapperstein family, consisting of: father, Sheldon, who insists that one of his daughters was born with a head slightly larger than her sibling; his wife, Thelma, sister Joan and the girls’ Bubbe, who well may have a heart attack after learning that the girls have fallen for a young, handsome, soldier, Michael Calavito, who is decidedly not Jewish.

The girls vie for the affections of the young Italian in a classic case of sibling rivalry, much to the chagrin of both families. 

While the adults lament the fact that the two cultures have unsurmountable differences. In fact, if anything, the two families are more similar that they might think.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael McInnis
• Release date: Jul 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516347117

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

My Head is Proportional, Thank You

I hate nicknames. Especially when they’re unflattering and especially when they’re wielded like a weapon by my dear sister, whenever she wants to raise my blood pressure. Mine was assigned to me through no fault of my own from the very beginning of my introduction to the world at large. Big Head Jill. How’d you like to be saddled with that one?

Before I get into my story, I think it’s important to set the record straight, so here goes: my head is proportional to the rest of me, despite what daddy believes. Is it my fault that my dear father is crazy? Not certifiably crazy, mind you, but he thinks crazy things; like how one of his twin daughters was born with a bigger head than the other..

Mama did her best to convince him otherwise, but to no avail. You’d have to know daddy to truly understand. Once he’s got something in his head, which, by the way, is also proportional to the rest of him, it’s hard to get it out.

Anyway, where are my manners? I should at least properly introduce myself, don’t you think?

My name is Jill Sapperstein and I make up one half of the Sapperstein twins. I live at 34 Church Street which, if you happen to be Jewish, as I am, can lend itself to a lot of not-so-funny jokes like;  Don’t you think a Jewish girl should at least live on Synagogue Street? I’m sure it took a lot of brain power to come up with that one. Sheesh.

The fact is, that there actually is a synagogue on Church Street. It stands right across from  St. Theresa’s, where Father O’Malley tends to business. It’s a very nice church, as churches go, I guess. I mean, for one thing, the outside is pretty to look at, what with the manicured lawn and . the ornate steeple that makes it look like a castle where a beautiful princess might live. At least that’s what I thought when I was a little girl and imagined such things. It’s pretty inside, too. I know because once, when I was younger, out of curiosity, I sort-of ’borrowed’ my grandmother’s babushka and snuck in just to check it out.

My sister, Joan, who knew of my plan, predicted that I would be struck by lightening or something for going into a Catholic church, wearing a stolen babushka and being Jewish.

You’re just a stupid Big Head Jill, she declared. If you go in there, you’ll be sorry.

I’ll admit, that that piece of information gave me pause, but only momentarily, as my curiosity got the better of me. I couldn’t really see the Almighty wasting a whole lightening bolt on an eight year old, just to make a point. Of course, if there was such a thing as a child-sized lightening bolt, I could be in real trouble. Taking a deep breath, I threw caution to the wind and tentatively made my way through the heavy oak doors of the forbidden edifice and crossed my fingers, hoping that He was looking the other way.

I wasn’t completely reckless, though. I made certain that I stuck to the back row, so I wouldn’t have to look any Catholics in the eye, fearing I’d blurt out Yes, I’m Jewish! and have to run for cover. Not that I’m afraid of Catholics, mind you, but you never know, right?

Once inside, I marveled at the ornate decoration, especially the stained-glass windows with their candy-colored pictures of what I assumed, must be members of the Catholic all-star team or something. There were also statues everywhere. Some of them, I wasn’t sure I should be looking at, but I did, anyway. On the off-chance that my sister was right and that I was bound to be punished, I figured I might as well take it all in.

Father O’Malley is a big man and even though I cowered in the very back row, I didn’t have any trouble hearing his booming voice, although most of what he was saying I didn’t understand. Apparently he was speaking in some sort of secret code which only Catholics were privy to. Soon, however, he switched to plain English and that’s when he informed us that we were, according to the good Father, all pretty much damned to the fires of Hell, which was a bitter pill to swallow if you happen to subscribe to that sort of thing.

As I looked around at the gathering of the poor, wretched souls, I was surprised at how everyone took the news with a grain of salt. I mean, come on; someone with an intimate knowledge of the situation tells you there’s no hope and you treat it like you’re getting a parking ticket?  If I  weren’t Jewish and actually believed in Hell, I’d be freaking out, to say the least. How could they be so calm?

Then, my eight-year-old brain figured it out. I saw that some guy had started to go from row to row with a wicker, dish-like-thing mounted on a long pole. At the site of the dish, everyone pulled out wallets and threw money at it. My first thought was, I should get one of those considering that spending money was hard to come by for a girl my age. But then, I put two and two together and came up with the obvious answer to why people were parting with their hard-earned cash just because some guy stuck a wicker dish in their faces. Of course! They’re paying up so Father O’Malley would put in a good word for them so that, at least until next week, they wouldn’t have Hell-fires licking at their heels. 

It seemed like a good system to me, until I realized that if you didn’t have any money to give, you’d probably be out-of-luck and the good Father would have little choice but to put you on the official hit-list and you’d be damned, for sure, Catholic or not. I did have ten cents, which I’d gotten from my Bubbe for doing errands but I defiantly refused to contribute my entire fortune to some Catholic protection racket.

As the dish-man drew closer, I imagined that my refusal might result in one of Father O’Malley’s enforcers escorting me out of the pew and down to some subterranean torture chamber, where they’d rough me up, like they do in one of those gangster movies, until I handed over my hard-earned coins. My solution to the dire situation was to simply sneak out before the dish-of-the-damned made its way to my row. 

I still felt fortunate to have made a clean getaway, with my ten cents intact and hoped that my Rabbi was right and that Hell was nonexistent.

Standing safely entrenched on, what I assumed was non-denominational grass, even though it was Father O’Malley who tended to it, every Friday, I made a solemn promise never to steal babushkas or sneak into churches ever again.

Peering across the street, I could see our beautiful synagogue and could see Rabbi Greenbaum, standing on his own non-denominational grass. Luckily, for me, he didn’t spot me coming out of a Catholic church wearing a stolen babushka and seemingly playing for the other team.

The reason he didn’t see me was that the Rabbi was too busy looking through the viewfinder of the movie camera that his wife bought him for his birthday, which, thankfully, was pointed in the opposite direction.

I marveled at his dedication to learning how to use it, as I quickly made my way to the relative safety of the non-denominational sidewalk.

Hello Rabbi, I offered.

Spinning around and spotting me through the viewfinder of his camera, he responded with a genial Well, hello there yourself.

What’s that? I queried, pointing to the little black box that seemed to protrude from the Rabbi’s face, making him look like a creature from one of the science fiction movies that often played at the Rialto.

This? he sought to confirm, pointing to the box, This is a birthday present from my wife. Do you know what it is?

It looks like a camera, I surmised. A movie camera, I think.

Really? the Rabbi offered, in genuine surprise. It’s not just a picture camera? Well, isn’t that something.

Is it hard to operate? I wondered.

Everything’s a little hard to get used to, at first, he admitted. But you know what happens when you stick with it, don’t you?

You get a headache? I offered.

The Rabbi sighed, as he looked upon his newly-acquired birthday gift. I was going to say that you get better at it, but I like your answer more, he admitted.

You see, the Rabbi really wanted a new set of golf clubs for his birthday, but his wife, in an effort to keep him close by, decided that a movie camera would do just that. The Rabbi didn’t want her to feel bad, so instead of a nice, relaxing round of golf, he practiced using his camera, every day. Sure, he could have taken it to the golf course, but really, who’d want to watch someone hitting a little white ball over and over, even if it played at the Rialto on their gigantic screen?

Of course, what the Rabbi did end up filming was no less boring. He decided that the perfect subject for his first feature film would be none other than Father O’Malley. Tentatively titled Father O’Malley Mows the Lawn, the Rabbi would aim his camera at the good Father as he huff-ed and puffed and sweated and toiled, pushing his hand-mower over the wide expanse of lawn in what appeared to be nothing less than an act of contrition.

Father O’Malley, would attempt to wave off the Rabbi’s attentions and then, with the Rabbi failing to get the message, mumble something close to a swear-word, which, I suspect, almost guaranteed that this particular act of contrition would be deemed null and void by you-know-who. It’s kind of like putting five dollars in the dish and grousing about it, so that not only are you out five bucks, but you end up losing your get-out-of-Hell-free card, to boot.

It’s too bad that the father failed to realize that Rabbi Greenbaum’s camera lacked the one essential element required for movie-making; which was film. You see, the Rabbi hated to read

instructions and just assumed that the camera contained a never-ending supply of celluloid, which would yield a completed epic on demand.

So, Father O’Malley Mows the Lawn never did make it to the Rialto, which, quite frankly is a good thing. I mean who’d want to watch two hours of Father O’Malley sweating bullets? I wouldn’t. Not even if Brando played the role and I love Brando. I don’t think that even he could make watching a big man flirting with a heart attack an enjoyable experience.

Daddy says that Father O’Malley’s size is job-related.

You eat wafers and drink wine seven days a week and look what happens, he observed. He should mow the lawn once a week? No, he should mow Yankee Stadium every day. That’s the only way to stay ahead of wafers and wine.

But maybe he was born that way, I offered, Big, I mean.

Sure, that could happen, my father admitted. Look at what happened with you.

"I know, I was born big," I answered, recalling the information that daddy had shared with me countless times.

Not all of you, daddy corrected, but your head ... now that’s another story.

CHAPTER TWO

Birth Day

That other story that daddy referred to, occurred on the day I was born.

Daddy paced back and forth in the hospital waiting room, looking for all the world like a caged-animal who’d somehow gotten himself caught in a small, white-walled, sanitized trap.

Worse, still, he was not alone. Sitting next to him, looking on, in amusement, was one Steve Jowowski; father of three and crack insurance salesman.

First time, huh? Jowowski noted.

The hospital? No, I’ve been here before. A broken toe, of all things, daddy