The late-afternoon sun threw long shadows onto the field as the game entered its final inning, and the Brooklyn crowd watched as their home team’s pitcher eyed the two runners at second and third.  The opposing team’s next batter, a lean, rangy cougar, stepped up to the plate.
        In response to the scattered remarks aimed at him, he gravely raised his gray and blue Louisville Racers cap before taking a few practice swings and settling into position.  The umpire nodded as he half-crouched, eyes intent.
        The Dodgers pitcher refused the first two signals from his catcher, and nodded at the third. The canine wound up and threw his favorite pitch, a fast curve.
        CRACK
        The cougar’s swing sent the ball airborne, straight into center field as he cast the bat aside and started down the first base line.  As he ran the ball kept going and the crowd groaned as the sphere sailed easily over the fence, 407 feet from home.
        Abe Stark would not be giving away a free suit that day.
        ‘Red Lightning’ had struck again.


September, 1934:

        “Mister Schoenstein?”
        The use of his name by the Customs officer caused Joseph Schoenstein to stop his yawn in mid-gape and perk his ears toward the goat.  “Eh?  What’s that?”
        The caprine woman in the dark green uniform smiled at the canine.  “I said, how long will you be staying in Rain Island, sir?”
        “Oh!  About a week, thank you.”
        “Business, or pleasure?”
        The slim Weimaraner gave her a look.  And why for would I come this far west? he asked himself.  If I wanted to see mountains I could have gone to the Catskills for a week, already.  For a brief moment he studied her smile.  Pretty girl, but the smile seemed too practiced.
        Of course.  She was a policefur.
        Pretty, though.
        He smiled back at her.  “Business.”
        The goat nodded and there were two soft thumps as her rubber stamp hit his passport.  She folded the return ticket into the small booklet and gave it to him.  “Enjoy your stay, and welcome to Rain Island.”
        Her English was better than his, and he felt slightly intimidated by it.  Mumbling his thanks he took the passport and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket before gathering up his suitcase.  He sidestepped the next person in line and stepped out of the room.
        Family members and friends were waiting there, anxious to meet those who had disembarked from the steamship Moravia to touch the soil of Seathl.  He paused at the entrance, looking out at the crowd.
        A motion caused him to look up, where the breeze was stirring the red-and-black Rain Island flag, and he shuddered involuntarily.
        Meh.
        Socialists.
        A man, canine like himself but a bit older, waved.  Schoenstein recognized him and, hefting his suitcase, headed for the gate.  “Maxie!”
        “Joey!”  The two shook paws, then embraced and stood looking at each other for a moment.
        Maximilian Grau had the frame of a Weimaraner, slim but athletic-looking; he had a schnauzer’s fur from his shaygeth father, dead in the Great War. 
        The two cousins finished looking each other and Max said, “You look well, Joey.  How was your trip?”  He took the suitcase from the slightly younger canine’s paw and started to thread his way through the crowd.
        “Not bad.  Food wasn’t kosher, but then try finding a good deli west of the Hudson.”
        Max laughed.  “There’s two good delis here in Seathl.  We’ll have nice pastrami, then go home.  Sarah’s dying to see you.”
        “And the kids?”
        Max beamed.  “And why wouldn’t they want to see their favorite uncle?”
        “Only uncle.”
        Grau waved this off.  “Only or one, you’re still their favorite uncle.”  His eyes narrowed.  “So why so glum?  You’d think you were here for a funeral, already.” 
        “Wondering why I’m here,” and here Schoenstein’s eyes narrowed, “and why you paid the train fare for me to come all this way.”
        Max gave him a cryptic smile.  “Later, Joey.  Right now,” he said as they reached a small dark blue Fjord sedan, “let’s get that pastrami.”  He tossed the suitcase into the back seat and motioned Joey to get in.
        “Swanky car,” Schoenstein commented.  “Insurance paying that good out here?”
        Max wagged a paw back and forth.  “Business could be better,” he replied as he started the car.
        “Same everywhere.  That guy Moosevelt’s got a few good ideas, if the others’ll let him be.”
        “I’ve been reading about that.  Over here, we just tightened up, and looking after each other’s almost second nature,” and Max shifted the car into first gear and started moving.

        Seathl wasn’t New York, or even Philadelphia, Schoenstein reflected.  Things looked better planned, and if the buildings weren’t as tall, well, they looked clean. 
        People looked happy.
        Well, content anyway.
        They pulled to a stop in front of a delicatessen that bore the name Epstein’s, on a street lined with food markets advertising everything from fresh fish to vegetables.  There was an unobtrusive letter K on the sign, signifying that the proprietor sold kosher food.
        Max walked in and the fur behind the counter, a huge elk wearing a spotless apron, sang out, “Max!  Wie geht’s?  How’s the family?”
        “If they weren’t doing well, would I be here?” Grau asked, grinning.  “Samuel, this is my cousin Joey, and we’re here for nice pastrami on rye.”
        “You make it yourself?” Joey asked.
        The elk managed to match an offended look with a wide smile.  “And if I didn’t, would I sell it as kosher?  No!” he said, answering his own question.  He drew a long and wicked knife from a rack and bustled past an assistant to a long, glass-fronted case where various cuts of meat sat.  He selected a piece with a crust of crushed peppercorns, sliced a bit off and stuck it under the canine’s nose.  “Here, on the house.”
        The Weimaraner sniffed at it, then took it from Epstein’s paw and tasted it.
        Tender, almost meltingly so, juicy and with just a bit of heat from the spices that went into its making.
        Every bit as good as pastrami he’d had in New York.
        Epstein laughed at the look on Schoenstein’s face and said, “I think he likes it, nu?”
        “I think he does,” Max said.  “Two pastrami, mine with onions, Samuel.  Come on, Joey, and we’ll find a table, okay?”
        “Sure, sure,” and after they were seated at a small table next to the shop’s front window he asked his cousin, “He makes his own?”
        Max nodded.  “Sam’s great-grandfather was the first rabbi to come to Seathl, may he rest in peace.  Butcher, too.  The shop’s been here since then, and why not?”
        Joey nodded, and they sat in silence until the assistant, a rail-thin weasel, approached with two plates bearing their sandwiches.  Each sandwich was made of toasted soft rye bread and at least a half-pound of pastrami each, with a smear of brown mustard.  Each plate also held a pickle, taken from a large porcelain crock in front of the display counter.
        “Would you two like a beer to go with that?” the weasel asked.
        “Two Mendenhall,” Max said before his cousin could open his mouth.  The assistant walked off, and shortly two foaming mugs were put down.
        Schoenstein sampled the sandwich, smiled and started eating with gusto.  The beer was a good lager, crisp and clean, that matched well with the sandwich. 
        “So, you like it?” Max asked.
        “And what’s not to like?”


        Later that afternoon the Fjord pulled up to the curb in front of a small frame house in a residential neighborhood just outside the city.  The house was painted white, and shaded by two oak trees.  “Nice place,” Joey commented as he got out of the car.
        “It’s not so bad,” Max said with a wave of his paw.  “Still another few years on the mortgage.”
        The front door banged open and three smaller copies of his cousin, all boys, came running from the house.  “Uncle Joey!” they chorused, colliding with Schoenstein and nearly knocking him off his feet.  He staggered, but didn’t fall, and found himself grinning at their excitement.
        “Now, now, into the house,” their father chided, “you’ll have plenty of time to talk to your Uncle Joe.  Let him get in the house before you start pestering him.”  Their mother, an attractive woman wearing a print dress, clapped her paws peremptorily.  The boys stopped trying to pull Joey along and instead took his suitcase from his paws and carried it, with some pushing and shoving, into the house.
        “Welcome,” Sarah Grau said, and chastely kissed her husband’s relation on both cheeks as she hugged him.  “Max has told me a lot about you, Joe.  Come in, come in – dinner will be ready after we get back from Temple.”
        Temple?  Schoenstein glanced at the sky, then at his watch and stifled a long compound curse in Yiddish.  He’d forgotten the time difference, and it was nearly sundown.  Recalling his manners he said, “Thank you for inviting me in, Sarah.”
        She chuckled.  “And should I have let my mate’s cousin bed down in a hotel?  Think again.  And if you don’t do justice to the chicken tonight, I’ll be very offended.”  Her wide smile belied her stern tone, and he found himself grinning back at her.
        “Sarah, we should give Joe time to rest and clean up,” Max reminded her, pointing at his watch. 
        “Yes!  Joe, sundown’s in about three hours, and Rebbe Weiss always wants to start on time.  So, let me show you to your room and you can get a rest.  Will you have tea?  Or has my Max stuffed you full of pastrami and beer already?”
        Schoenstein laughed.  “Give me a chance to lie down and clean up, Sarah, and I swear that after service I’ll have a good appetite.”
       

        The service had been excellent.
        The venue – well, he could take or leave that.
        Being a Conservative family, the Graus drove to the Shabbas service at Temple Beth-El.  Schoenstein was interested to see that the building was actually cut into three areas, the Temple (properly consecrated and even a beautifully carved cedar Ark for the Torah scrolls), a Christian church (Methodist), and a common room between them that was used for social activities after services.
        What made him uncomfortable was learning that the building and the property was owned by the town’s shaman.
        Strange place, Rain Island.
        The service, though, was excellent.  Rabbi Weiss was a spotted skunk with cream-colored fur rather than the usual black, and he started the ceremony exactly on time.  The prayers and readings were properly delivered, and the cantor – a visitor from Roedeer Shalom in Philadelphia named Stanley Harold – had a wonderfully strong and pleasant baritone voice.
        The dinner afterward was just as good, with the whole family gathered around the table as candles were lit and Kiddush cup passed around. 
        When he went to bed that night, Schoenstein almost felt like he was at home.


        Sunday morning over breakfast, the Weimaraner asked his cousin, “So, this is all very nice, but tell me, Max – why did you have me come all the way out here?”
        Max grinned over his coffee cup.
        “I want you to see a baseball game with me, Joey.”


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