The Jewish Wonder of the Vineland Little League

Nine-year-old Jack stood peering through the screen door of the stifling kitchen, redolent with the aroma of gefilte fish simmering on the stove — fish that had been swimming in the bathtub until that day. Sweat trickled down his chest and back as he waited in dread and resignation for his father to return from the chicken coops behind their five-room house. The breeze coming through the screen was cooling, but with it came the fetid smell of chicken feces. Jack wrinkled his freckled nose in disgust. His mother dried her hands on her apron and turned toward the back door. They both knew that at any moment, Moishe would appear to perform the same ritual he performed every Jewish New Year.

He had been gone only a few minutes when he returned, his flat feet thudding across the bare dirt yard, sending out little puffs of brown dust with every step. His body filled the doorway, blocking the bright September sun like a brief eclipse.  Although he was only five foot eight, Moishe Kowenski was powerfully built with a broad chest and bulging bicep muscles that looked and felt like cannon balls. He explained to Jack that he had developed them as a result of chopping down trees in the forests of the tundra. During the war, he and Jack’s mother, Chava had fled Poland and gone to Russia, only to be packed into railway cars and sent to a Siberian slave labor camp. At least they didn’t end up in the ovens, Moishe would...