The Short (Pun Intended) Redemptive Life of Little Ned

By David Perlstein

Early in the twentieth century, three children of poor Jewish immigrants stagger beneath the grueling promise of the American Dream.

Nate Cohen, the pint-size, angry son of an alcoholic San Francisco prizefighter and Bohemian mother, becomes a parttime criminal. Working at a restaurant, he hurls bacon grease at an anti-Semitic employee and flees the city. As Ned Christianson, he cooks on cattle ranches in Northern California and Wyoming. After sleeping with a rancher’s daughter, Ned joins a Wild West show.

Kayleh Rubenstein, a red-headed tailor’s daughter, becomes the child vaudeville star Clara Robbins. Her Uncle Henry (Zeev) manages her then sells her contract to a vaudeville star who abuses her and, when she finally resists, destroys her career. Clara descends into liquor and morphine.

Jake Orlinsky, a New York orphan, performs as the child-magician Joseph Hartwig in a saloon below a brothel. After losing his job, he picks pockets and entertains on the street. Harry Houdini briefly befriends him. Following a fatal run-in at a New York nightclub, Jake escapes to California.

The three young performers, all hiding their Jewish identities, meet at San Francisco’s 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exposition. Clara and Joseph have a brief affair. All go south to Los Angeles, ultimately seeking careers in silent films.

Through the ex-gunfighter and lawman Wyatt Earp, Ned and Joseph are hired for a western—and get fired. Clara becomes the kept woman of a series of Hollywood executives and is raped at the home of Fatty Arbuckle. A murder prompts Ned and Joseph to leave Los Angeles. A suicide sends Clara north.

They reunite in San Francisco where two violent events lead to tragedy and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781663252197

David Perlstein

DAVID PERLSTEIN has authored eight other novels and a volume of short stories. He also wrote God’s Others: Non-Israelites’ Encounters with God in the Hebrew Bible and Solo Success: 100 Tips for becoming a $100,000-a-Year Freelancer. David lives in San Francisco. davidperlstein.com

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Copyright © 2023 David Perlstein.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

JPS Hebrew-English Tanakh: The Traditional Hebrew Text and the New JPS Translation — Second Edition. The Jewish Publication Society, Philadelphia, 1999/5759

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-5218-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5219-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023906627

iUniverse rev. date: 04/12/2023

CONTENTS

PART ONE

1903

AMERICAN-BORN

FISTICUFFS AND SPOOKED HORSES

THE NIGHTINGALE OF MAXWELL STREET

THE DOUBLE EAGLE

GIVING A NAME TO THE FUTURE

ANY CARD AT ANY NUMBER

1906

NEW BEGINNINGS

AFTERSHOCKS

A TEMPTING OFFER

THE BOWERY

HOUDINI

A TOOL OF SORTS

GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT

1911

ON THE BRINK

A FIRST

GRIEF AND DUTY

A DIFFERENT KIND OF DISAPPEARING TRICK

REFUSAL AND RESISTANCE

THE MATTER OF DECLAN WALSH

1914

EXILE

AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL

EIGHT-TWO-SEVEN

THE END OF THE RAINBOW?

ANOTHER ANNIE OAKLEY

BEFORE THE STORM

AN UNEXPECTED GIFT

PART TWO

1915

THE JEWEL CITY

OPENING DAY, OPENING NIGHT

MAZEL TOV

TABLE FOR TWO

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

THE HEIGHT OF POWER, THE DEPTH OF DESPAIR

EASY COME, EASY GO

AN ENCOUNTER

A PLACE WITH A LITTLE REFINEMENT

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE SLEPT HERE

CASUALTIES ABROAD AND AT HOME

AN INVITATION

T.R.

FIREWORKS OF A DARKER SORT

THE END OF THE TRAIL

AFTER THE BALL IS OVER

ANOTHER DEATH-DEFYING FEAT

A VANISHING ACT

PART THREE

1918

THE SOUTHLAND

PILLOW TALK

COURTESAN

MR. KANE’S PROPOSAL

TWO DISTURBING DREAMS

LITTLE NED

FATTY’S PARTY

1919

DARKNESS

FIREBUG

REFUGEE IN SAN DIEGO

ALICE’S LETTER

THE SHAMROCK SISTERS

WOUNDS SEEN AND UNSEEN

A CRIME CONSIDERED

A PLACE OF AMUSEMENT, A SERIOUS MESSAGE

FIVE-CARD STUD

LIGHTS. CAMERA. ACTION!

A NEW PAIR OF SHOES

THE RIVER

1920

REDEMPTION

A NIGHT ON THE TOWN

THAT GIRL IN THE WINDOW

TWO ENCOUNTERS

REDEMPTION

ENCORE:

1925

A VISITOR

Remembering my grandparents, newcomers to the Goldene Medina, who paved the way:

Sam and Kayleh (Orlinsky) Perlstein

Lyon and Amelia (Horowitz) Finkle

And my parents who helped make their dreams, and mine, come true:

Morris and Blanche Perlstein

43182.png

The

LORD

said to Abraham, Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.

Genesis 12:1

"Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus

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PART ONE

43182.png

1903

AMERICAN-BORN

43182.png

FISTICUFFS AND SPOOKED HORSES

T he two boys circled each other in the May sunshine. The taller, his freckled face red with anger, figured to make quick work of his opponent. In a show of confidence to his classmates, who took the place of ropes around a boxing ring, he tossed his grime-stained flat cap over his shoulder. It fell to the schoolyard’s hard-packed dirt surface and raised a short-lived halo of dust.

The smaller boy, his shoulders surprisingly broad, made no effort to back away. The onlookers wouldn’t let him, but he had another reason to hold his ground. This wasn’t the first time he’d faced such a challenge, and he didn’t doubt his ability to meet it.

The taller boy ran a hand over his close-cropped red hair then hitched up his well-worn knickerbockers, the hem rising just above his knees. With almost comic exaggeration, he shook his fist.

The boys surrounding them roared. They expected to see blood.

Intent on pleasing them, the taller boy launched a right hook.

The shorter boy, the top of whose unruly chestnut hair barely reached his rival’s chest, stepped back.

The taller boy’s sturdy fist flew by.

C’mon, Paul, stop playin’ with the little Jew, someone called out.

Jew’s as bad as a nigger, shouted another spectator.

Jews killed Christ, bellowed a third. Kill the bastard.

Paul glanced at his supporters the way Father Ryan looked at his parishioners to rake in their admiration after delivering a powerful sermon on sin. Like Paul, most of the boys came from working-class Irish families and saw themselves as the right sort of people in predominantly Catholic San Francisco. Their small world, however, was changing and not for the better. The neighborhood south of Market Street had been invaded by Jews from Russia—the poorest, most ignorant of their kind. The boys had been told that rich Jews from Germany—everyone knew that Jews were rich despite these new arrivals—lived in the fancy neighborhoods. Everyone also knew that the Jews’ invisible tentacles slithered over the cobbles and macadam of every street in the City and throughout the sewers beneath.

The smaller Nate Cohen, calling on strategy along with concealed strength, rose on the balls of his feet and lowered his fists.

Paul shook his head in disbelief. You kiddin’ me, goddam Yid pygmy? he hissed. You’re about to get yours.

Nate had heard this at other schools and was hardly surprised when he hadn’t been welcomed here only a week before, the term almost over. The boys surrounding him looked forward to a blissful summer of sports, games and petty thefts about which they’d brag into the new school year. Now, the fun would get off to an early start.

Paul again shook his fist then launched another looping right.

Nate shifted left. The fist grazed his right cheek. A small red mark appeared.

The onlookers cheered.

The Yid can polish my shoes with his tongue, Paul crowed.

Nate straightened. His face remained expressionless, his fists at his side.

Paul could see that the little Jew-bastard lacked the guts to fight and pumped his fists. He pictured himself the defender of all that America stood for. On his first day in class, the runt Jewboy had the nerve to say that Teddy Roosevelt, visiting San Francisco in a week to dedicate a statue of Admiral Dewey, was the greatest president ever. The dumb kike obviously knew nothing about George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, not to mention General U.S. Grant, who won the Civil War. The kid claimed he was born in San Francisco, but only a foreigner would call him a real American.

You stupid or what? Paul asked. Without waiting, he answered his question. No, you’re scared. Everyone knows Jews don’t fight. You’re probably gonna piss all over yourself.

Laughter rose from the crowd followed by shouts of Teach the Jew a lesson! and Finish him off!

Nate stuck his chin out.

Paul’s cheeks flushed darker. The kid had no idea what he had coming. You got any Jew prayers, better say ’em now.

Nate grinned.

Furious, Paul sucked in a deep breath, lunged and swung a third right that carried even more force.

Nate ducked and sent a left into the taller boy’s belly.

Air shot out of Paul’s lungs like the backfire of an automobile. His knees buckled.

Nate connected a right with Paul’s jaw.

As Paul collapsed, a tooth shot into the air. He lay on his back, his chest heaving. Blood spurting from his nose, he sobbed.

Angered by what they’d seen and unconvinced, three boys charged Nate.

He ignored the fists that found his arms, shoulders and chin, and landed blows that drew cries of pain from his attackers.

Miss Maloney appeared, paddle in hand, walked forward and shouted, Desist!

The boys guessed that the word meant stop.

Nate Cohen rose to his feet confident that anyone who wanted to pick on him during the rest of the school year would think twice. His father, he was sure, would be proud of all his son had learned.

Give a look, the wagon don’t have no accident, Sam Cohen ordered Nate the next day inside the loading dock at the Jackson Brewery.

Having accompanied Papa on his route the last three summers, Nate knew his way around horses. More, horses took to him. Alberta and Daisy, two of the brewery’s huge Belgian draft horses, had nuzzled his cheek when he checked them out only moments before. But Papa had become more and more forgetful, and responded to any mention of his loss of memory with red cheeks and balled fists. Seeking to avoid yet another thumping, Nate stepped up on a small crate. Again, he checked everything from the horses’ crowns, blinders, nose bands and bits to their traces, hip straps and cruppers. Then he gave Papa the thumbs up. Alberta and Daisy were ready to pull another load of three-dozen wooden beer kegs.

As to Nate’s being expelled from school for fighting—and whipping—four wholesome Irish boys, Sam had expressed rare pride in his bruised but unbowed son and bought him ice cream. Nate enjoyed the treat without fooling himself that Papa would now show him only affection. Nate’s mother Henriette, a well-read woman who believed education offered the path to a better future, could not find the strength to scold him and whispered only, Won’t Papa be pleased to have you with him?

Nate loved Mama, whose medications left her glassy-eyed and unable to give him all the attention he would have liked. But in her alert moments, she kissed and hugged him, filled him with praise and gave him advice on making his way in the world without using his fists.

Alice and Sarah, both older, looked after Mama and also him. In turn, Nate felt protective towards his sisters and followed Mama’s wishes that he perform the duties of a loving brother. Mama also insisted that he love Papa.

Nate thought loving Papa was more than difficult and wasn’t happy to spend the last days of the school year with him. Despite having to fight one bully after another, he liked school. Besides, Papa always complained about his falling well below the height of boys his age and those several years younger. Small at birth, Nate grew at a snail’s pace. The neighbors clucked that Sam Cohen had taken too many beatings and so conceived a pint-size son. As soon as Nate could walk, Sam insisted that the boy learn to defend himself. He would teach his son to become a David in a world of Goliaths, leave bigger opponents bloodied and disabled. Nate learned his lessons, but Sam more than once remarked, Maybe you should join the circus, live with the other freaks. Always walking on eggshells, Nate feared Papa and often hated him. At the same time, Nate couldn’t help admiring him.

Anchor-Fist Cohen was widely known as a local boxer who could throw a helluva punch if not always take one. Most of his fights ended in a knockout. All were entertaining. He’d built his reputation not only in the ring but on the docks where San Francisco’s stevedores blocked most Jews from working and cursed those who did. He’d never backed away from defending himself, giving as good as he got no matter how outnumbered. Sam Cohen’s biggest regret was that he’d never achieved the fame now enjoyed by Abe Attell, the San Francisco featherweight contender known as The Little Hebrew.

Thirty-nine and well past his prime, Sam brawled in smoke-filled, alcohol-sodden clubs whenever he could talk some promoter or beerhall proprietor into putting him on the card. The few dollars he made added to his wages from the brewery, but even with the additional income, he barely housed, fed and clothed his family.

Sam’s bouts of drinking swallowed much of his meager earnings, but he pointed the finger at Henriette as the cause of the family’s poverty. Following the stillbirth of their fourth child—a second son and normal-sized—she took even more of her nerve-soothing medications, which left her in a fog and unable to take on the small bookkeeping jobs she’d once held. This forced the children to look after themselves. Sam did see a silver lining. Henriette, retreating into her dazes, left him alone. At those times when her head cleared, they argued. He remained proud that he rarely hit her.

Are we going now, Papa? Nate asked. If Papa’s mood didn’t run foul, he might let Nate take the reins.

Not to be outshone by his son, Sam ran his hands over the kegs to make sure they were properly loaded. Satisfied, he tugged on the stiff leather bill of his army-style cap, ran his fingers over the brass buttons on his jacket and smoothed his trousers—the three components of his uniform all the color of dried blood. Then he mounted to the wagon’s narrow seat.

Nate, his legs short but nimble, scrambled up next to his father.

Sam urged the horses out of the loading area, the exit flanked by large metal doors. As they emerged into sunshine, a topless yellow Marr Runabout raced north at a breakneck fifteen miles an hour.

Alberta whinnied, stomped her hooves on the macadam and struggled to shuck off her collar. Daisy followed her lead. The pair refused to go forward.

Gai kaken offen yam! Sam shouted at the long-gone driver—Yiddish for go shit in the ocean! He flicked his long whip, slashing each horse’s back.

Alberta and Daisy, traces and lines jingling, voiced their displeasure.

Sam again laced their backs.

Papa, no! cried Nate. Let me.

Sam transferred the whip to his left hand and smacked the back of his right across Nate’s cheek.

Nate’s teeth rattled, but he kept silent, his hands remaining in his lap. Backing away or crying out would earn another blow. These past weeks, Papa had been angrier than ever.

For three days, Nate had waited for Papa to tell him what was wrong while Mama remained silent.

Papa finally came out with it. Early in April, in Kishinev, a pogrom.

What’s a pogrom? And where’s Kishinev? Over there?

Kishinev, Papa explained, was in a country called Bessarabia, part of the Russian Empire. A pogrom? That’s when the goyim kill Jews.

As many as fifty Jews had been murdered, 700 Jewish homes destroyed.

But how can that be? Nate asked. Life may have been hard for San Francisco Jews like the Cohens, but a pogrom could never happen here.

The horses remained unsettled.

Nate braced for another blow.

Sam lowered the whip.

Nate climbed down, patted Alberta’s flank then stood in front of the two skittish horses. He sang a German lullaby Mama often sang to him and stroked their faces.

Albert and Daisy quieted.

Nate thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled out half a carrot for each.

Alberta and Daisy consumed their treats then nuzzled Nate’s shoulders.

Nate was half-way up to his seat when Sam cracked the whip and snapped the reins.

THE NIGHTINGALE OF MAXWELL STREET

U ncle Zeev’s grip smothered Kayleh’s ten-year-old hand as they stepped down from one of the new electric trolleys replacing Chicago’s cable cars. People bustled around them. Kayleh’s wavy red hair glistened on a sun-filled Saturday afternoon that swept up the entire city in the excitement of Independence Day.

Kayleh felt uncomfortable with Uncle Zeev’s insistence that he hold her hand while Mama and Tate, who preferred the Yiddish word for father, followed behind on their way to the community center off North Ashland in Bucktown. Uncle Zeev had told the family that while Bucktown was only four miles north of home, it was filled with old-timer Germans and newcomer Poles and might just as well have been a world away. Tate agreed, even if the distance was far greater than that to Warsaw from where they had immigrated as children with Zayde and Bubbe. Aside from Kayleh’s grandparents, the four Rubensteins were the last of the family remaining on Maxwell Street. Two aunts and an uncle, all born in Chicago, had emigrated to Indianapolis, Pittsburgh and Boston. Mama, whose family had left Bialystok with the intention of escaping the Tsar’s restrictions on Jews, had been born in Illinois’ state capital of Springfield. Like Kayleh, she was an only child. A brother and a sister had perished in childbirth.

A breeze off Lake Michigan offered meager relief from the increasing warmth and humidity. This year, the Fourth fell on Shabbos, the weekly day of rest most Jews ignored in their struggle to make a living. Uncle Zeev expressed no use for religion and Tate felt the same way but let Mama make Friday nights special. Don’t think me a Godless man, Malka, he told her. You’ll light the candles, I’ll bless the wine and make motzi over the challah. It’ll be good for Kayleh. But remember, we’re Americans.

As far as Tate and Uncle Zeev were concerned, the Fourth embraced as much sacredness as Passover and Yom Kippur—if not more. Tonight’s fireworks over the lake would light up the sky and glow as brightly as Uncle Zeev’s dreams. But Kayleh understood that this day would pass into the next. Summer would soon enough give way to another icy Chicago winter.

They walked on. The adoring bachelor uncle, Zeev—Yiddish for wolf—had entered the red-headed Kayleh in a talent contest sponsored by the Bucktown Civic and Benevolent Association. The BCBA sought recognition as a business organization promoting Chicago’s continuing growth following the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition. The contest would bring together children no older than twelve from anywhere in the city. First prize was a generous $25 gift certificate from Marshall Field’s, an American flag, a blue ribbon and the promise of a photograph in the weekly Chicago Eagle. Second- and third-place finishers also would receive flags and ribbons. Audience members, admitted for only ten cents, could buy tickets to a raffle tempting them with two-dozen valuable prizes donated by Association members.

As instructed, the family approached the side of the community center abutting a narrow alley scarcely lit by the noontime sun. A man in a black suit, a red-white-and-blue Uncle Sam top hat perched on his head, stood sentry. His unbuttoned coat revealed the protruding belly of a man eager to show off his prosperity. He gave them the onceover.

Zeev, a man with the gift of gab and so, in his opinion, more American than his younger brother Chaim, sang out, Kayleh Rubenstein and party. Right here’s the winner, you can bank on that, and she’s only ten.

The man glanced down at a clipboard.

Rubenstein, Uncle Zeev repeated. R-u-b—

The man offered a parrot-like cock of his head. I can read, you know.

No offense, said Uncle Zeev.

The man nodded towards a door down the alley. Someone’ll show the girl where to wait.

As they went forward, Uncle Zeev’s hand tightened its grip on Kayleh’s while his other tightened around the wood handle of a small canvas bag. Inside the door, they entered a hallway lit by bare electric bulbs, the ceiling cross-hatched with exposed wiring.

A coatless man, shirtsleeves rolled above the elbow, stopped them. Suspenders striped red, white and blue, and an Uncle Sam hat testified to his patriotic zeal. Like the first man, he clutched a clipboard. Who’s this? he asked.

Kayleh was about to answer when Uncle Zeev pulled her back.

Kayleh— said Uncle Zeev.

The man took a pencil from behind his ear and made a checkmark. Rubenstein, right? Up fifth this afternoon. Just so you know, we got seventeen entrants.

"Up fifth?" asked Zeev.

Kayleh heard concern in Uncle Zeev’s voice but had no idea how appearing fifth in the contest could affect her performance.

Uncle Zeev made no effort to share his thoughts. A self-styled impresario—a real American word!—he had a plan for guiding her career in what he called the show business, although he made his living cutting patterns for women’s dresses. I am a man with big ideas, he often told Kayleh. Not like your father. Tate, in his own defense, was saving to open a small store with Mama. Chaim and Malka Rubenstein, Tate said. Now, that’s a team to be reckoned with. Every time Zeev heard his brother speak of his modest ambitions, he offered a sarcastic mazel tov. As a storeowner, Chaim might ultimately make a living, but he lacked the spit and gumption to become a retail macher like Abram Rothschild or the goy Marshall Field.

Fifth? Uncle Zeev repeated.

The man frowned. You don’t speak English or what?

Zeev rose up on his toes. I’ll have you know, sir, that I am a real American. All of us. But couldn’t this beautiful little girl—she’ll break the heart of every man in the audience—bring the curtain down on this afternoon’s contest?

Why should she?

The later this little girl appears, the bigger the impact she’ll have on the judges. The first performers, they’ll be easy to forget.

That so?

I know my way around the theater.

Maybe you do and maybe you don’t, but fifth is what it says here.

Not that it’ll matter, said Zeev, seeking to avoid a confrontation he could not win. Might as well hand over first prize now. He rested his hand on Kayleh’s arm. This here is the Nightingale of Maxwell Street.

Kayleh looked away. She knew she had a lovely voice, a natural talent. Many people in the neighborhood called her a Jewish Jenny Lind, although the Swedish Nightingale was dead more than twenty years. But this talent contest took her a long way from Maxwell Street.

The man pointed over his shoulder. Down the hall, there’s the door to the room she can wait in until they take the children upstairs to the stage.

We’ll accompany her, of course said Zeev.

You her father?

No, her uncle.

The man looked at Chaim. You?

Her father? Yes.

This the girl’s mother?

Chaim and Malka nodded in unison.

Rules say, only one person stays with the kid. What we use here as the waiting room’s not all that big, and it’s pretty warm already. They got the windows open, but that probably won’t help much. So who’s it gonna be?

Chaim and Malka backed away.

The man jotted a note on a slip of paper and gave it to Chaim. You and your wife go up the stairs over here, show this. They got seats for the families roped off on one side.

Chaim and Malka started for the stairs.

You got sheet music? the man asked Zeev.

Zeev pointed to the canvas bag.

I’ll give it to someone to take to the accompanist.

No need. This beautiful girl will also be playing the piano.

The man shrugged and gestured down the hallway.

Zeev all but tugged Kayleh into the waiting room where some parents fussed over their children and offered encouragement while others issued warnings. The latter made it plain that they would accept nothing less than their child’s best effort. The first-prize gift certificate was nothing to thumb your nose at, and the same could be said about receiving the cheers and backslaps that came with victory. A few adults who’d exhausted their efforts to push their young performers to new heights sat silent on wooden chairs. Almost all attempted to cool themselves and their children with paper fans sporting a design of stars and stripes.

Zeev found seats. Releasing Kayleh’s hand, he reached into the canvas bag and withdrew a small container and an equally small brush.

What’s that? Kayleh asked.

Your Uncle Zeev knows his way around, right? It’s rouge. You want your cheeks and lips, they should have color.

Mama wouldn’t like that.

Not for everyday use, of course. But on stage, even at a place like this—and wait till we get to the Haymarket Theater and the Academy of Music—without makeup, even a beautiful face like yours can disappear.

Kayleh wrinkled her nose. She’d never worn makeup. Mama didn’t. But how could Uncle Zeev not be right? Mama and Tate knew nothing about the show business. They were too busy, even though she was an only child since Mama couldn’t have more, and who could argue with God about a thing like that? Unless God had nothing to do with it. Unless there was no God, and in spite of Tate not believing in God, wasn’t that a terrible thing to think? Tate worked at a tailor shop six days a week, Shabbos included. Sometimes he went in on Sundays when the shop was closed to keep up with all his work. Mama sewed piecework. They saved every penny for the store. Selling women’s clothing would be easier on the hands and eyes than sewing.

Only Uncle Zeev found the time and money to attend vaudeville and Yiddish plays. He told everyone more than once how he’d seen the colored singer Belle Davis, born right here in Chicago, and her Octoroons. He praised the British actress Lillie Langtry, who played Lady Macbeth, and also a Yiddish version of Uncle Tom’s Cabin performed this past February. Being a man in the know, he convinced Tate and Mama that the contest would be just the thing to give their Kayleh her first leg up in the world of theater and entertainment for which God had blessed her with exceptional talent.

Zeev eyeballed Kayleh and applied one last bit of rouge. "Take it from me, that gorgeous punim, it’s gonna be smiling out from the Chicago Eagle. He placed the rouge and brush back in the bag and pulled out a manilla envelope containing Kayleh’s sheet music. She’d insisted she could play the songs by heart, but a man like Zeev Rubenstein left nothing to chance. Finally, he reached into his jacket pocket and held out a small packet, its silver and brown wrapper displaying a rosy-cheeked girl holding a chocolate bar. Hershey’s, he said. I got a real one in the ice box for later, it shouldn’t melt. There’s an old saying. To the victor belongs the spoils."

But the judges have to decide, Kayleh said.

Zeev patted Kayleh’s thigh then gave it a squeeze.

Half-an-hour later, a woman in a gray dress overlaid with a red-white-and-blue sash—one of three women shepherding the contestants—dismissed Zeev and the other adults to the auditorium. Following their departure, she led the contestants upstairs to wait in the wings. With the no-nonsense authority of an elementary-school teacher, she instructed, Stand stock still and do not make a sound. As each of you finishes, you will be taken back downstairs, and you are to behave with appropriate decorum.

Waiting in the wings and trying not to fidget, Kayleh watched with rapt attention the four performers preceding her. A girl tap-danced as if she were in a minstrel show. A boy fumbled his way through magic tricks, drawing comments from the audience of, Hey, I know how you did that. A sister and brother played flute and violin. They labored to keep time together.

The contestant just before Kayleh was a boy with hair above his upper lip. He appeared to be at least thirteen and perhaps older, and so beyond the contest’s age limit. Uncle Zeev had warned that one or more members of the sponsoring association might want the first prize to stay in the family but reassured her that her talent would overcome their ungentlemanly greed. The boy played the accordion and sang off-key in a strange language. Kayleh was glad she couldn’t understand the lyrics.

When the boy finished, Kayleh concluded that all four acts—Uncle Zeev called them that—fell far short of what he demanded of her and of which she knew she was capable. Still, she rubbed the fingers of her right hand against her palm to settle her nerves.

One of the women chaperones whispered to Kayleh that when the audience ceased applauding, she would hear her name announced by the master of ceremonies—a tall, bespectacled man wearing a long gray coat with black ribbon edging his lapels and cuffs, and striped pants. And, of course, an Uncle Sam hat. The woman would tap