by Vanda
“Oh, dear,” Virginia said.
I ran my fist through the air. “Socko! Of course, he also found out that she was running around with Big Eddie while he was in prison. That made him plenty sore. Through the whole movie he was always shooting everybody, but then when he found out Big Eddie had shot his mother in the back—”
“How terrible,” Virginia said.
“Sure was! Except she was crazy. But James Cagney went crazy, and the G Men had to chase him. Everyone was shooting everybody else.” I shaped my hand into a gun. “Pow! Take that copper! Pow!”
Virginia grabbed my fist, “Dear, perhaps, you shouldn’t shoot people in Schrafft’s.”
“Oh.” I looked around to see a few women, open-mouthed, staring at me. I smiled at them. “Sorry. But, Virginia, you really should see that picture.”
“Heavens, no. Terrifying.”
“Virginia,” I leaned toward her. “You’re dating someone who does those things in real life.”
“Oh, stop. Did Max tell you that?”
“No, but that’s what mobsters do. Don’t they?”
“I haven’t a clue. You should give Moose a chance, and stop listening to Mr. Know-It-All. He could learn a few things about how to treat a lady from my Moose. Could we stop talking about Mr. Harlington? I’m getting dyspepsia at the sound of his name. Can you believe they arrested that couple for selling secrets to the communists? Some people are talking about the electric chair. A woman! What a frightening world we live in.”
Chapter 42
MARTY AND I walked past the pushcart vendors and the colored men playing dominoes on the sidewalk.
“Their place is up there,” Marty said.
Laundry hung from fire escapes, and colored women fanned themselves with newspapers on their front stoops while their children played hopscotch and stickball in the street.
“Hey, I saw you on my TV last week,” I said. “You were good.”
“Ya liked me? Only a few lines.”
“You made a scary Russian spy. As scary as the ones they just caught.”
“You think they’re scary? They look like ordinary people to me.”
“That’s what so scary. It’s hard to imagine ordinary American citizens doing a thing like that.”
“But they aren’t ordinary American citizens,” Marty said. “They’re Jewish American citizens. Some people are saying that’s why they could do it—betray the country to the Soviets. They say Jews aren’t real Americans. I hope they find out they’re innocent. Otherwise, it could go bad for the rest of us Jews.”
For a few minutes, we walked in silence. What could I say? I didn’t even understand what he meant. I’d always been an outsider. I didn’t belong anywhere, but that was because of me, not because I belonged to some group.
“You know,” he finally said, “I really like working on TV. You have to be one hundred percent on top of your game. An actor can drop a line, and you’ve gotta jump in and help, or else the show’s gonna fail in front of all those people.”
“Sounds like theater.”
“It is! Only on TV, thousands see you drop that line. They’re saying TV cables are gonna go clear across the country by ’51. You know how many people will see you drop that line, then? The old guys are sticking to nightclubs and Broadway. That means TV is an open field for us young guys. The pay’s horrible, but from what I’m hearing, TV’s the future, and I wanna be part of it. In the fall, I’m hanging around ad agencies on Madison Avenue. That’s who’s casting TV, not theater producers.
We passed a row of pickle salesmen. The El rattled in the distance as Marty led the way into the building and up the three flights of stairs to the Steinmans’ apartment. It was dark in the stairway, no windows. Marty had been trying for weeks to get me to go to Moshe’s for dinner. He wanted me to see the side of his friend that wasn’t damaged by war.
Marty stopped mid-climb. “Now, don’t be nervous.” He wore a fedora, which he never wore, and his tie was neatly tied. He was the one who seemed nervous.
“Am I dressed modest enough?” I asked. I wore a dress with a pattern of aqua roses. The hem fell a little below my calves. My light-blue hat was round with a small brim.
“Very nice,” Marty assured me. “They’re nice people. Not as Orthodox as Moshe was trying to be, merely respectful of tradition.” He fiddled with the big bow that hung from the front of my dress. “Moshe’s so much better. He’s been seeing,” he looked around, then leaned close and whispered, “an analyst. His mother’s idea. I think it’s working.” I pulled the bow away from Marty’s annoying fingers. “He wants to be nice to you to. Personally, I think he had a crush on you, and that’s why he acted so strange.”
“I don’t think I’m the one he had the crush on.”
We walked up the rest of the stairs where Mrs. Steinman waited. “Come in.” Mrs. Steinman was an attractive woman in her mid-forties. Her blonde hair, that looked dyed, was swept up into a pompadour. “Oh, look at me,” she laughed, whisking off her apron. “You must be Alice. Aaron has told us so much about you.”
“He has?” I looked at Marty as he took off his hat to reveal a yarmulke underneath.
“We brought you a little something.” Marty handed her the bottle of wine we picked up at the corner store.
“You shouldn’t have. And you, a poor student. But thank you.” She kissed Marty on the cheek. “Oy gevalt, Aaron! You even wore a tie! For us?”
“Anything for my second Mom.”
“Welcome to our home, Alice. And Mazel Tov.”
She smiled at Marty as he wandered over to the bowl of grapes in the center of the table, popping a few into his mouth. “Though, as you can see, he needs a good woman to teach him manners. I hope you’re up to the job.” She slapped Marty’s hand playfully “Get away from those grapes. Spoil your dinner. Wash your hands.”
In the center of their small dining room, a round table was set with two lit candles, plates, glasses, and bread covered with a cloth.
“I want you to meet my husband, Benjamin Steinman.”
Mr. Steinman, a tall, square-shouldered man in a gray suit and yarmulke, entered the room, thumbing through his mail.
“Not now, dear,” Mrs. Steinman whispered to her husband, taking the mail from him. “It’s Shabbos. Come meet Aaron’s fiancée.”
I shot a quick look at Marty; he studied his shoes.
Mr. Steinman took off his glasses and squinted at me saying to Marty, “So this is the one, huh?”
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Steinman said. “I have to check on the chicken.” She ran over to the stove.
“Uh, yes,” Marty told Mr. Steinman. “I bet that chicken comes straight from your shop. Mr. Steinman owns the finest butcher shop in the neighborhood.”
Mr. Steinman said, “Where else would we get our chicken?” He looked at me. “Have you set the date?”
“Date?”
“Not yet, but soon,” Marty stepped in. “Right, Alice?”
“Uh … sure.”
“You’re getting a good one, you know. We’ve known Aaron since he played stickball with our Moshe. His mother would bring him over before she went to work. Do you think a shiksa like yourself—”
“Benjamin!” Mrs. Steinman called.
“I’m only joking. No offense, I hope.”
“Never you mind, Alice,” Mrs. Steinman said. “Mr. Steinman has had a long day. That explains his poor jokes. Why don’t you wash up for dinner? Down that hallway.”
“Thank you.”
Before I’d gotten far, Mrs. Steinman whispered, “Benjamin, how could you? And on Shabbos.”
“She’s not Jewish, is she? Aaron?”
“Well, maybe sorta …”
“Benjamin, stop it. Alice is our guest, and you are to treat her as such.”
“I don’t want Aaron making a mistake. Marriage is a serious step. There are the children to think about.”
“Children?” I whispered in the hallway.
“… And they
must be raised Jewish. None of this half-this, half-that. Not in these times. The children must know who they are. After what our people went through, we need to protect—”
“She’s converting,” Marty said.
I am?
“We don’t need them converting,” Mr. Steinman said. “We don’t need them at all. How will a shiksa mother know how to bring up Jewish children?”
“You stop it,” Mrs. Steinman said. “Alice will be back soon. She is here to have a pleasant meal and learn a little something about the Jewish people. That’s all.”
I hurried my hand-washing and charged back into the kitchen. When I turned around, Moshe stood leaning against the molding. His suit fit. No hands dangling miles from his cuffs. His mother, no doubt.
“Come, dear,” Mrs. Steinman said, taking Moshe’s arm and leading him into the room, like one might do with a blind man. “Say hello to your friends.”
“Hey, Mosh!” Marty said with forced joy. “How ya doing, buddy?”
“Good,” he said trying to push some life into his voice, but failing.
“You remember Alice,” Marty continued.
“Hi, Moshe,” I said, afraid he’d call me the Whore of Babylon in front of his parents. He only smiled vacantly.
“Hi, Alice. I’m glad you came.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s begin,” Mrs. Steinman put a lacy white cloth on her head. She and her husband said prayers in Hebrew over the candles, the wine, and the bread.
“Alice, you study at City College like Aaron?” Mrs. Steinman asked once we were seated, eating our borsht soup.
“Yes.”
“And you’re not worried what too much education will do to your femininity?” Mr. Steinman asked.
“Uh …”
“Young women have so many new opportunities these days, Benjamin,” Mrs. Steinman said pleasantly. “Not at all like when we were young. I think it’s exciting.”
Mr Steinman shook his head, unconvinced.
“And what degree are you studying for?” Mrs. Steinman asked.
“Education. Primary school.”
“How nice. You’re going to teach the little ones. Such an important job. Of course, until you get married.”
“Yes.” I looked over at Marty. He looked down at his plate of food.
“And now you live with your parents?” Mrs. Steinman continued.
“Uh…” I looked over at ‘Aaron.’ “No.”
“She lives in her own apartment,” Moshe said. “She’s a very independent woman.” His voice sounded simply factual, not mean.
“Is she?” Mrs. Steinman said.
Mr. Steinman mumbled, “Independent woman” into his plate of roast chicken.
“Aaron, you’ve finished another semester. What are your plans for summer?”
“I got hired by a stock company in Maine. I leave on Wednesday.”
“A real start on your career,” Mrs. Steinman said.
“My Great-Uncle was almost a star in the Yiddish Theater,” Mr. Steinman said.
“You’ll be gone all summer?” Moshe asked, barely looking up from his untouched food.
“Till mid-August.”
“All summer?” Moshe dropped his fork in his plate. “All summer?” he repeated.
“Well, you have yourself a good time,” Mr. Steinman said, cutting his meat.
“ALL SUMMER!” Moshe shouted.
“Moshe!” Mrs. Steinman admonished. “Today is Shabbos. Show some respect. Aaron has already told you—”
“All summer!” Moshe lowered his voice, but hit the edge of the table with the palms of his hands. “All summer! All summer,” he banged the table again and again.
Mr. Steinman stood. “Stop that. Now!”
Moshe shoved the table harder, and the wine bottle flew at Marty, spewing wine all over his pants. Everyone jumped up. “Moshe!” Mrs. Steinman cried out. “I’m sorry, Aaron, let me get—”
“I love you,” Moshe said.
“What?” Mr. Steinman asked.
“Yes, of course, we all love Aaron,” Mrs. Steinman said.
“No! I love him! I really love him.” He looked at Marty, “I love you. Kiss me. Hold me again, the way you once did.”
“What is this?” Mr. Steinman exclaimed.
“Nothing,” Marty said. “It’s, uh … nothing.”
“It was never nothing,” Moshe cried out. “You held me and kissed me. We touched, damn you! I can’t stand my life without you. Marty, please.” Moshe fell to his knees at Marty’s feet.
“Moshe, stop this.” Marty smiled awkwardly over at Mr. Steinman. “We never … Mrs. Steinman, we never …”
Moshe wrapped his arms around Marty’s legs, almost knocking him over. “Don’t go.”
“Stop it!” Marty said, bending to pull Moshe’s arms off his legs. “You and I never …!”
“We did. We loved each other, and it was beautiful. Your penis in me, and—”
“What?” Mr. Steinman exclaimed. “Ruth, go in the other room. You shouldn’t hear—”
“Our love wasn’t dirty!” Moshe shot at his father. “It was holy!”
“Ruth! Call an ambulance!”
“Mr. Steinman,” Marty pleaded, “we never—”
“I can’t use the phone. It’s Shabbos,” Mrs. Steinman said, distressed.
“Do it, Ruth!”
“Alice?” Mrs. Steinman looked at me, helpless. “Would you call an ambulance? The telephone is down the hall.”
“Uh—uh …” My eyes whisked over the torn faces about to explode into who-knew-what. “What’s the number?”
“On the cover of the telephone book. I wrote it there. St. Sebastian. Next to the telephone.”
I ran from the room and made the call. When I got back, Moshe was climbing up Marty’s body. “How can you walk away from me? Away from what we did?”
He kissed Marty’s face; Marty pushed his head away from him, but not forcefully. Looking at a frozen Mr. Steinman, Marty choked out, “We never did anything like that.”
“Please, please,” Moshe begged, wrapping his arms around Marty’s shoulders, running kisses over the side of his face. Marty grabbed a hank of Moshe’s hair. “Moshe, stop! We never …!” And then looking into Moshe’s eyes—“Ah, buddy”—pain carved into his face—he pulled Moshe’s head onto his shoulder, and held him in his arms.
“I love you,” Moshe whimpered.
“I know, buddy. I know.”
“What is this?” Mr. Steinman asked. “Abomination! What did you do to my son? Sodomite!” Mr. Steinman spat the deadly word at Marty. “Hob es in drerd! Sodomite! Sodomite!”
“No, Benjamin,” Mrs. Steinman said, “it never happened.”
Marty cradled Moshe in his arms. “It’s gonna be okay, buddy.” He patted his head.
Mr. Steinman paced. “I have no son. My son is dead. My son is dead.”
“No, Benjamin, please,” Mrs. Steinman pulled on his sleeve, weeping and pleading, “you musn’t say that. He is my only. They never … Aaron told you, they never—”
“I have no son, I have no son.”
A handkerchief twisted in her fingers, Mrs. Steinman limped toward Marty. “You didn’t. You said you didn’t.”
“No, Mrs. Steinman, we never—”
She slapped him hard across the face.
The ambulance screamed outside the window, and then the rattle of men rushing up the stairs. Mrs. Steinman ran to the landing and threw open the door. A woman’s voice asked, “Ruth, has someone been hurt?”
Mrs. Steinman waved her arms aimlessly, and the ambulance men slid a gurney into the apartment. Before she closed the door, I saw a tightly-packed group of neighbors on the landing, all talking at the same time, trying to get in.
She pointed at Moshe, and the men grabbed him out of Marty’s arms. “Come on, kid. Lay down here and—”
When Moshe saw the gurney, he pulled away and backed against the wall. “No!”
“Now, baby,” Mrs. S
teinman said. “It’s only for a little while. Till you’re well.”
“No, Mom, please don’t do this.” He ran over to the sink. “I’m not sick.”
Mr. Steinman stood by the bookcase with a shawl over his shoulders, mumbling what I thought were probably Jewish prayers. Sometimes he would hit his chest with one of his fists.
“Ma’am,” one of the ambulance men said. “Let us get him. We won’t hurt him.”
Crying into a handkerchief, she nodded her yes.
I began to shake. It was horrible. All of it. Horrible to see this thing; horrible to be this thing that I was with Moshe. Anger, fear, hate crashed around the room. And the pain. I had to get out of there. But how? The damn gurney blocked the door.
The two ambulance men backed Moshe into a corner near the stove. He tried to slip out between them, but they grabbed his arms and pushed him to the floor; his yarmulke flew off his head.
“No! Don’t hurt him,” Marty yelled, tears streaming down his face.
Moshe lifted himself up like he was doing a push-up, but they forced him face-down against the floor again and held him there. His arms and legs flailed, his fists punched at nothing.
Mr. Steinman stopped his praying and took a few tentative steps toward the scene. His prayer shawl slipped from his shoulders.
Mrs. Steinman stood over the scene, crying. “Darling, do what the men say. They want to help you.”
The men tried to bend Moshe’s arms toward the straight jacket, but he fought against them, kicking.
I remembered my mother on our kitchen floor pleading with me when the men came to take her away.
“No, please,” Marty begged. “Leave him alone.”
“Mommy, don’t let them do this,” Moshe cried out. “Mommy!”
Shaking, Mrs. Steinman asked, “Can I go in the ambulance with him?”
Still struggling to get the straight jacket on him, one of the men answered, “Sorry. No.”
“Mommy, Mommy!” Moshe struggled against their attempt to bind his arms.
My mother screams, her arms tied around her body, “You filthy child won’t help your mother.” Sounds and pictures roll by me, but I’m not part of it. I’m not here.