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Overview
Did the Jews really tame the American frontier? You bet your tuchas. Brave, rugged Jews with big dreams and even bigger shmeckles. Shtarkers like Davy Kronsky. The Ringo Kiddish. The mysterious Man with No Yarmulke. Jewish Indian tribes like the Mishagossi and Grossinga who would never scalp on the Sabbath.
These are their stories, told for the first time. So pay attention.
SHE WORE A YELLOW SHMATTA
THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE FARBLONDJET
THE MAGNIFICENT $7 (NOW MARKED DOWN TO $5.98)
TWO MOYELS FOR SISTER SARA.
A FISTFUL OF DREIDELS
CHAI NOON
THE WILD BRUNCH
And a lot more, you should only know.
The critics won't shut up already about this book!
"Funnier than a passle of stuffed dermas!' --Melvin "Six-Gun" Shapiro, foreman, Bar-Mitzvah Ranch
"From snow you can't make a cheesecake." --J. D. Salinsky, author of The Kvetcher in the Rye
Did somebody say, "Go West, Youngman"?
Zane Greyberg, born Leo Kloppman in Brooklyn, New York, has held a variety of jobs, from chicken flicker to pickle-maker, before he turned to writing. His first book, Shangri-Latkes and Other Lost Horizons was published in 1999 and completely befuddled critics. Roderick Pish-Tipple of the Hackensack Jewish Weekly said, "You call this poetry? It doesn't even rhyme. What's with this Greyberg guy--he drinks maybe?"
Mr. Zaneberg lives, he says, "wherever the wind blows and the cream cheese is fresh."
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780806535593 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Kensington |
| Publication date: | 03/01/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 144 |
| File size: | 812 KB |
About the Author
Greyberg lives, he says, “wherever the wind blows and the cream cheese is fresh.”
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Gunshmuck
Marshal Matt Dill stared across the scrub-covered plains that reached to the distant foothills.
"De vest — it is so big," he exclaimed, fingering the large silk garment he'd bought in Franklin, Missouri, just a week before. "Fortunately, dere will be a tailor in Nudge City to take it in a little." He spurred his horse Radish to the north. "After all, a new marshal must not look like a Bar Mitzvah boy, fearful and too small for his tallis."
Nudge City, population 83, sat on a short spur of the Santa Fe Trail, the dusty road that opened in 1821 and rolled west from Franklin to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Nudge City was established by Jewish pioneers two score years later because they wanted to stop schlepping.
"We've spent enough time wandering in deserts," founder Avram Nudge said as he emptied dirt from the communal etrog box.
It wasn't much of a settlement then, and it wasn't much better in 1867. The major export was ox dung, which the Yeshiva boys collected on the trail, gave to the bubbes to boil, and shipped east as fertilizer.
"It is against the nature of a Jew to give anyone drek," Avram was fond of saying. "So we sell it to them."
But where there is drek, can a tuchas be far away? With prosperity came crime in the form of the Fryers' Club. This group of cut-rate cutthroats intercepted wagon trains, fed the oxen a constipating mixture of bananas and matzo, and sold inferior, cheaper chickenshit from their ranch to unwary consumers back East.
That was why aged Avram had telegraphed Washington for help. He was dead by the time help arrived, for Washington was slow to help Jews unless oil was involved. Fortunately, the town survived — if just barely.
Matt Dill was a man with deep peacekeeping experience. Though this was his first federal assignment, the thirty-year-old was a veteran of Sisterhood Bingo Night in Brooklyn and sale days at Gimbels. He was ready for anything,
"Except having to buy dis outfit retail, and without alterations," he complained as he rode into Nudge.
It was Sunday morning and the streets were thick with Jews, just like Borough Park but with the smell of drying dung.
"Which is not as bad as some Hasids," he remarked as he headed toward the center of Omain Street.
The marshal stopped in front of the storefront that said U.S. Marshal. He dismounted, threw his reins around the hitching post, and let Radish drink from the trough. He did not know this was the town mikvah until he heard the rabbi yelling at the horse. Radish immediately stopped drinking for, as an Arabian, he happened to know some Hebrew.
Dill went inside. "Nu?" he said to the man behind the desk.
"Yeah, I'm Acting Deputy Nu," the Chinese gentleman replied.
The marshal introduced himself and the deputy frowned. "That vest is too big," he said.
"Tell me about it."
"My brother runs a cleaning service — I'll take care of it."
"Do I get a discount?" Dill asked.
"Does the Dowager Empress eat lo mein?"
Dill had no idea, but he laughed like he did whenever the rebbe said something that made absolutely no sense such as, "Ale tseyn zoln bay im aroysfaln, not eyner zol im blaybn oyf tsonveytung," which meant, "All his teeth should fall out except one to make him suffer." Still, Dill liked the deputy and was sorry to be losing him. But someone had to keep the peace ... and someone had to deliver takeout for his wife's booming restaurant business.
After showing Marshal Dill around, Nu took the vest and stopped, silhouetted in the doorway.
"This place is lousy," he said over his shoulder.
"I'm here to make it better," Dill replied.
"No," Nu said. "I mean there are lice. Don't go in the prison cell."
The deputy left and the lawman picked up the six-pointed tin star Nu had left on the desk. He pinned it to the lapel of his dark gray bekeshe. The traditional garment was cut off just above the hip so he could reach his gun in a flash. The firearm was a Shalom-maker with a four-inch barrel. It used to be five inches, but he had the tip shortened, so it would weigh less and be easier to draw.
Striding into the brilliant sunlight, the marshal was nearly knocked over as the flame-haired Miss Kitsel, the saloon keeper, rushed past.
"Vere's de fire?" the marshal asked.
"At my saloon, the Dungbranch!" she shouted as she hurried ahead, trailed by the fire brigade.
Dill followed the steam-powered fire engine to an alley where twin plumes of black smoke were churning upward. They looked like the payees of Satan.
"This is the work of Tuck Fryer," grumbled an elderly gentleman who fell in beside the marshal.
"Vat makes you so smart?" Dill asked.
The man pointed to the caduceus design on his keepah. "I've got an education. Plus, I saw the Sabbath goy running away. He is one of them."
This man had to be the renowned Doc Challahday. His cure for chronic greps was known even as far as Fort Hamilton Parkway.
"Vy vould dey set fire to the saloon?" Dill asked.
"That's where the ox apples are processed," Challahday replied. "We make Sabbath wine in one vat, fertilizer in the other."
"Manureoschewitz," Dill commented.
Doc and Dill watched as the firefighters extinguished the blaze.
"I was coming to welcome you to town," Doc said, "and to tell you that something has to be done about these shtark-ers."
"You know de way to dis chicken ranch?"
"Tahkeh, it's right behind the saloon —" Doc began, then stopped. "Oh, you mean the ranch of the bad guys — the Fryers' Club. That's a half-day's ride due south." He chuckled. "I thought you wanted a shtup before heading out."
When the fire was under control, Dill went to where Radish was hitched. "Es tut mir bang. You'll have to wait until Shabbas to rest."
The horse also understood a little Yiddish and whinneyed that there was no need to apologize.
"Marshal Dill!" Miss Kitsel cried, hurrying over.
Dill hadn't seen a Jewish woman move so fast since his mother chased him around the apartment with an enema bag when he was three.
"It's a long ride," she said breathlessly. "You'll need this."
Miss Kitsel handed him a picnic basket. He looked inside. There was a wineskin filled with grape juice she'd taken from the children's table, and a checkered red and white napkin, which he opened gingerly. Three triangular pastries were crushed inside. Traces of prune filling stained the cloth.
"Hamantaschen," he said. "Vell, at least I von't be blocked like de oxen."
"Be careful out there," the young woman said, kissing his forehead. He hadn't been kissed there since he was three either.
Placing the nosh in his saddlebag and slinging the wineskin over the pommel, he handed the basket to Miss Kitsel just as Nu came running over. The former deputy was carrying the vest. Dill thanked him and slipped it on.
"Your brother does good vork," Dill remarked.
"Thanks. He said if you're shot, he'll fix the holes for free."
"At that price, I'll make sure I get ventilated!" the marshal winked as he climbed into the saddle.
Dill loped to the tax office where all the local records were kept. After finding what he wanted, the marshal made for the Santa Fe Trail. He could see the distant dust clouds of wagon trains as they headed west. He saw buzzards circling. He wondered if pioneers were considered traif.
Stopping several times to water the horse, it was sunset before Dill reached the gates of the Fryers' Club. The sky was bright red, and the spread below looked impressive. In fact, it looked like vermilion.
Tying Radish to a cactus, the lawman headed toward the main house. Golden candlelight burned in the window and chickens squawked in the barn. It could have been the old country, except for the wooden crosses on the family plot. And the fact that there was a family plot instead of a ditch.
As the marshal neared, the wind carried the odor of belched pork; Dill reflexively drew his gun.
"Mister, I've got a 40-40 trained on you," a voice cracked from somewhere to his left. "Don't take another step."
"Does dat mean backward, too?" Dill asked, instinctively looking for a loophole.
"Shut up!" the voice said. "Who are you and what do you want?"
Dill decided not to point out the contradiction in those last two statements. "I am de new marshal. If you are Tuck Fryer, I vant you should compete fairly vit de Nudgers and also don't set any fires."
The man laughed. "Forget it, sheriff. You can't beat Jews honestly!"
That made Dill angry. "I'm a marshal, not a sheriff."
"What the hell's the difference?"
"One is federal, the other is county, shmendrick," Dill replied. "Now you've got five seconds to surrender or face such tsuris — "
"Har!" the man snorted. "My carbine's got range over your .45!"
"Dat may be true," Marshal Dill replied. "But I can shoot de candle in your window, burn your house down, and de vay de vind is blowing guess what burns then? Your coop. And who do you think is your insurance underwriter?"
"Huh?"
"It's Stein & Stein out of St. Louis — I had a look. You just try and collect!"
The man swore. "See what I mean? You people don't play fair! It's like tryin' to chew with one tooth!"
Dill snickered.
"What's so funny?" Fryer demanded.
"De rebbe was right!"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You vouldn't understand," the marshal replied. "So? Ve got a deal?"
"What choice do I have?"
Marshall Dill returned to Nudge City with a promise from Fryer not to interfere with the local commerce.
"Such a mitzvah!" Miss Kitsel gushed when the lawman returned to town the following morning. "And you did it without firing a single shot!"
"Avadeh," he shrugged. "If you've got a Yiddisha cop, you don't need a gunshmuck!"
CHAPTER 2She Wore a Yellow Shmatta
Fort Apatsch was a spanking-new outpost on the banks of the San Hedrin River in the southwest Arizona territory. Built during the summer of 1867, it was the home of Gimel Troop, a melting pot of the roughest Hebrews west of Jericho, New York. The only time they weren't fighting among themselves — over Torah, over drinking from the same canteen without washing the mouthpiece, and whether it was right to fire a gun on Shabbas — was when they rallied to deride the goyim with a hardy, "Kish mein tuchas!"
Yet for all the tsimmis, they were destined to be remembered for the naches they gave their new leader, Captain Yankel Rosen.
Rosen went to Fort Apatsch straight out of West Point. He was sent to replace Commander William S. Hartsvaitik, who resigned his commission to open the Mesadika Music Hall, a Yiddish theatre in nearby Jewcson. Rosen was not only green, he was married to Kelly Greene of County Cork.
The men and their Indian guides did not know this as they watched the couple ride across the plains and through the gate, Captain Rosen in his dust-covered blues and the fair-skinned Kelly in a calico dress and big white bonnet tied tightly against the wind.
When a sudden gust carried away the yellow shmatta she wore around her shoulders, she asked her husband to grab "the shawl."
The onlookers muttered in unison, "A shiksa!"
Rosen did as his wife instructed.
"That means he's probably Jewish," observed Sergeant Ace Yorkville.
Rosen brought the buckboard to a stop in the center of the compound. The youthful sergeant ordered a pair of privates to help Mrs. Rosen and see to the luggage. She asked them to be especially careful of a carpetbag that was among her belongings. As that was attended to, the sergeant saluted the new commander.
"Welcome to Fort Apatsch, sir," he said. "I'm Sergeant Yorkville."
"Yorkville? Is your father a cooper in Gary, Indiana?"
"He is, sir," Yorkville replied.
"He made a bathtub for my Tante Jenny," Rosen said.
"May I ask what Jenny's last name was, sir?"
"Certainly," Rosen answered. "It was Finkel. Why?"
"Just — uh, making sure," he replied.
"Of what?" Rosen asked.
"Why, that we had our facts straight," Yorkville funfehed. "So, sir. Was your ride uneventful?"
"Well, we had a run-in with a hunting party of Mishigossi outside of Humboldt, but they were only hunting for bargains," Rosen replied. "They wanted something like my wife's yellow shmatta."
"I can understand why," the sergeant replied. "It's such a lovely shawl."
The men tittered behind them and, after a puzzled glance from the commander, Sergeant Yorkville hurriedly showed him to his quarters. There, Adjutant Lebediker was waiting.
"Sir!" the young aide saluted smartly as Rosen and his wife entered. "How are the captain and his goyisha wife —?"
Rosen shot Lebediker such a look, it straightened his payas.
"I'm so s-sorry, sir," the adjutant sputtered. "With respect, I meant to say haimish wife, for she looks so kindly — "
"Sergeant, have the bugler sound assembly," Rosen bellowed.
"At once, sir. For a minyan?"
"General assembly," Rosen snapped. "I've seen the uneasy glances since we arrived and heard all of the comments. I want it stopped!"
"I'll assemble the men, sir!"
Yorkville left and Rosen motioned for Lebediker to follow him. When they were alone, the captain turned to his wife.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that," he said.
"Hear what?" Kelly replied, as she was still wearing the bonnet.
"Nothing," the captain smiled. They walked to the doorway where he planted a kiss on her pale, freckled cheek. "Why don't you unpack. I'll join you as soon as I can."
Commander Rosen left, unaware that he and his wife were being watched by six sets of covetous eyes. Unhappy with the outlet store in Humboldt, the Mishigossi had stopped at the fort to trade. When Chief Chato's Lantsmen saw Kelly's yellow shmatta, they knew they had to have this woven sunshine for their leader's squaw.
Rosen addressed the men. While he spoke grandly about the evils of prejudice and stereotypes, the Indians left the canteen — slightly drunk and muttering "How" at everyone they passed. They entered the commander's quarters where they offered to buy Kelly's shmatta. When she refused their beads and gold — thinking they had offered her "beans from Golds" — they told her to come to their camp where they would share powerful medicine to make her husband's broken wind go silent.
"Show me this miracle, and you'll have as many shawls as you wish," she declared.
Not wishing to tip her husband off to her plan, Kelly left unobtrusively with the six Mishigossi.
In fact, the unscrupulous Indians had no such remedy. When they reached the settlement, the astonished chief offered to trade Kelly even more "beans from Golds" for the shmatta, and a mink skin to replace it.
"Do I look Jewish?" she said. "I'm keeping my shawl!"
Unfortunately, Chief Chato's wife, Shoulders That Burn, had already seen the garment and desired it. The Lantsmen had no choice but to take Kelly prisoner and seize the shmatta.
Back at Fort Apatsch, Commander Rosen finished his speech with two quotes.
"Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilized by education," he said, citing Charlotte BrontÀ", a quote which failed to register for many reasons; and one from his grandfather Isaac: "Shtup ir!" which resonated somewhat better.
After dismissing the men, Rosen returned to his quarters to find Kelly gone.
"Or is it to not find Kelly here?" he wondered, having spoken nothing but Yiddish until he enlisted to fight in the Civil War. There he was assigned to the all-gentile, tough-as-nails seventh Cavlary.
Learning from Lebediker that a group of drunk Mishigossi had been in the fort, Rosen remembered how they had coveted his wife's shmatta.
"A broch," he muttered.
The Mishigossi were a peaceful tribe, a branch of the Sioux, who took their namesake literally and preferred litigation over combat. They drove the U.S. government crazy, especially their chief attorney Chazzer Horse. Right now, however, the only "suits" Rosen cared about were the blues of Gimel Troop. Grabbing his wife's carpetbag, he headed for the stockade. There, at his command, a detachment was hastily organized.
"Men, I have reason to believe that my wife has been abducted by the Mishigossi," Rosen said. "We are going to rescue her."
There was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm as the troops assembled to the left of bugler Hertzich. One man, Private Laidik, moved so slowly his new wife had a full head of hair by the time he fell in. But Commander Rosen was unperturbed.
"Because our unit is new, we do not yet have regimental colors," the captain went on. With a flourish, he opened his wife's carpetbag and withdrew a piece of cloth which he showed to the men. It was a large white pennant with a blue gimel in the center. "My wife was going to present this to us on our first sortie. Since she is not here, I do so in her stead."
The unit oohed and ahed and mazeled as the captain attached the flag to his saber and handed it to Hertzich. It was the most beautiful embroidered gimel the men had ever seen, much nicer than the army- issued tallis bags.
"Bugler — sound the advance!" Rosen whooped.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "3:10 to BOCA"
by .
Copyright © 2009 Jeff Rovin.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
More Raves for 3:10 to BOCA,
Title Page,
Gunshmuck,
She Wore a Yellow Shmatta,
The Good, the Bad, and the Meshuganeh,
The Ballad of Davy Kronsky,
You Call This a Bonanza?,
Stagekvetch,
Chai Noon,
Nashville Katz: The Jews Singer,
The Magnificent $7 (Marked Down to $5.98),
Dances with Wolf,
Two Moyels for Sister Sara,
Henny Young Moon, Indian Comedian,
The Wild Brunch,
Little Big Mensch,
A Fistful of Dreidels,
3:10 to Boca,
Copyright Page,