Free Princess of Passyunk by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

places that had Indian names like Passyunk or Manayunk might be capable of generating magic. This latter category seemed quite promising to Ganady for, after all, they were native places and must therefore possess some sort of native magic. The question, of course, was whether it would work for immigrants.
    Nick was of the opinion that it had apparently not worked terribly well for the Indians, so there was no reason to believe it would work for anyone else.
    They had, in fact, reached Passyunk Square when Ganady Puzdrovsky shoved his hands deep into his pockets and had a revelation, or at least an epiphany.
    â€œBaseball,” he said.
    The other two boys looked at each other, resembling a pair of startled carp. Yevgeny grinned.
    Nick shaded his eyes and gazed west across the park toward the row houses and shops whose weathered brown faces blushed in the waning sun.
    â€œSo, if it happened in America, old King what’s-his-name would have given his little princes bats and magic baseballs and sent them out to score princesses instead of home runs?”
    Ganady liked the idea well enough. “Sure, why not?”
    In the upstairs window above one of the shops, a curtain fluttered and Nick took his hand down from his eyes.
    â€œDumb,” he said, then: “It’s late. We better scram.”
    Scram they did, but at a leisurely pace that might have been mistaken for the same meandering that had brought them there.

Seven: Princess Annie
    Baseball / season had started, a sure harbinger of the coming summer. Sometimes Ganady’s Da took the boys to Phillies games and, on occasion, Yevgeny’s father came with. The two men would sit and talk business past each other while the game proceeded now lazily, now urgently, below. Sometimes the boys were on their own.
    The Toschevs owned The Samoravam, a restaurant on Wharton Street that was doing “land-office business”—whatever that meant. On Friday nights, the place was especially packed, and every adult in the family—parents, grandparents and older siblings—were pressed into service.
    Ganady wondered if perhaps they were unaware that Yevgeny disappeared every Friday night to go to shul. He wondered, too, if someday soon that might change.
    Yevgeny thought not.
    â€œThey don’t want me in the restaurant,” he said. “Dad wants I should go to college. The restaurant goes to Alik and Zofia.”
    â€œKind of like in the Prodigal Son, huh?” Ganady grinned. “You going to go out and see the world?”
    Standing on the top step of section E in the Lower Deck of Connie Mack Stadium, Yevgeny looked down into his popcorn.
    â€œI don’t want to see the world. I want to work in the restaurant with Mom and Dad. But they want me to ‘make something of myself.’ They want me to be a teacher. They’ve talked to Father Ivanov about what college I should go to and everything. You know what’s really dumb? Alik doesn’t want to be in the restaurant, he wants to be a teacher.”
    â€œWhy don’t you tell your parents that?”
    â€œI don’t think they want to hear it.”
    â€œYeah, but shouldn’t you and Alik tell them anyway? It’s your life, right?”
    Yevgeny shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s what they want .”
    This came to Ganady’s mind again when, next sabes , Yevgeny was unable to attend synagogue. His aunt and uncle had come to visit and he must go to see a movie with his younger cousins.
    â€œA movie?” Baba had repeated. “In Americanish ? Then you must come and tell me all about it. But in Yiddish,” she’d added, eyes twinkling.
    That evening Ganady had shared with Baba Yevgeny’s secret sorrow.
    Baba had listened and said, “Ah,” and nodded.
    â€œI don’t understand,” Ganady said. “Why don’t they ask him and Alik what they want?”
    â€œBecause they expect them to