“All right. Just show your pass at the gate. And don’t tell anybody.”
“I won’t. It’s a month late, but a good Yom Tov to you.”
“Good Yom Tov, Grossbart,” I said.
“You’re a good Jew, Sergeant. You like to think you have a hard heart, but underneath you’re a fine, decent man. I mean that.”
Those last three words touched me more than any words from Grossbart’s mouth had the right to. “All right, Grossbart,” I said. “Now call me ‘sir,’ and get the hell out of here.”
He ran out the door and was gone. I felt very pleased with myself; it was a great relief to stop fighting Grossbart, and it had cost me nothing. Barrett would never find out, and if he did, I could manage to invent some excuse. For a while, I sat at my desk, comfortable in my decision. Then the screen door flew back and Grossbart burst in again. “Sergeant!” he said. Behind him I saw Fishbein and Halpern, both in starched khakis, both carrying ditty bags like Grossbart’s.
“Sergeant, I caught Mickey and Larry coming out of the movies. I almost missed them.”
“Grossbart—did I say tell no one?” I said.
“But my aunt said I could bring friends. That I should, in fact.”
“I’m the Sergeant, Grossbart—not your aunt!”
Grossbart looked at me in disbelief. He pulled Halpern up by his sleeve. “Mickey, tell the Sergeant what this would mean to you.”
Halpern looked at me and, shrugging, said, “A lot.”
Fishbein stepped forward without prompting. “This would mean a great deal to me and my parents, Sergeant Marx.”
“No!” I shouted.
Grossbart was shaking his head. “Sergeant, I could see you denying me, but how you can deny Mickey, a Yeshiva boy—that’s beyond me.”
“I’m not denying Mickey anything,” I said. “You just pushed a little too hard, Grossbart. You denied him.”
“I’ll give him my pass, then,” Grossbart said. “I’ll give him my aunt’s address and a little note. At least let him go.”
In a second, he had crammed the pass into Halpern’s pants pocket. Halpern looked at me, and so did Fishbein. Grossbart was at the door, pushing it open. “Mickey, bring me a piece of gefilte fish, at least,” he said, and then he was outside again.
The three of us looked at one another, and then I said, “Halpern, hand that pass over.”
He took it from his pocket and gave it to me. Fishbein had now moved to the doorway, where he lingered. He stood there for a moment with his mouth slightly open, and then he pointed to himself. “And me?” he asked.
His utter ridiculousness exhausted me. I slumped down in my seat and felt pulses knocking at the back of my eyes. “Fishbein,” I said, “you understand I’m not trying to deny you anything, don’t you? If it was my Army, I’d serve gefilte fish in the mess hall. I’d sell kugel in the PX, honest to God.”
Halpern smiled.
“You understand, don’t you, Halpern?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“And you, Fishbein? I don’t want enemies. I’m just like you—I want to serve my time and go home. I miss the same things you miss.”
“Then, Sergeant,” Fishbein said, “why don’t you come, too?”
“Where?”
“To St. Louis. To Shelly’s aunt. We’ll have a regular Seder. Play hide-the-matzo.” He gave me a broad, black-toothed smile.
I saw Grossbart again, on the other side of the screen.
“Pst!” He waved a piece of paper. “Mickey, here’s the address. Tell her I couldn’t get away.”
Halpern did not move. He looked at me, and I saw the shrug moving up his arms into his shoulders again. I took the cover off my typewriter and made out passes for him and Fishbein. “Go,” I said. “The three of you.”
I thought Halpern was going to kiss my hand.
· · ·
That afternoon, in a bar in Joplin, I drank beer and listened with half an ear to the Cardinal game. I tried to look squarely at what I’d become involved in, and began to wonder if perhaps the struggle with Grossbart wasn’t as much my fault as his. What was I that I had to muster generous feelings? Who was I to have been feeling so grudging, so tight-hearted? After all, I wasn’t being asked to move the world. Had I a right, then, or a reason, to clamp down on Grossbart, when that meant clamping down on Halpern, too? And Fishbein—that ugly, agreeable soul? Out of the many recollections of my childhood that had tumbled over me these past few days, I heard my grandmother’s voice: “What are you making a tsimmes?” It was what she would ask my mother when, say, I had cut myself while doing something I shouldn’t have done, and her daughter was busy bawling me out. I needed a hug and a kiss, and my mother would moralize. But my grandmother knew—mercy overrides justice. I should have known it, too. Who was Nathan Marx to be such a penny pincher with kindness? Surely, I thought, the Messiah himself—if He should ever come—won’t niggle over nickels and dimes. God willing, he’ll hug and kiss.
The next day, while I was playing softball over on the parade ground, I decided to ask Bob Wright, who was noncom in charge of Classification and Assignment, where he thought our trainees would be sent when their cycle ended, in two weeks. I asked casually, between innings, and he said, “They’re pushing them all into the Pacific. Shulman cut the orders on your boys the other day.”
The news shocked me, as though I were the father of Halpern, Fishbein, and Grossbart.
That night, I was just sliding into sleep when someone tapped on my door. “Who is it?” I asked.
“Sheldon.”
He opened the door and came in. For a moment, I felt his presence without being able to see him. “How was it?” I asked.
He popped into sight in the near-darkness before me. “Great, Sergeant.” Then he was sitting on the edge of the bed. I sat up.
“How about you?” he asked. “Have a nice weekend?”
“Yes.”
“The others went to sleep.” He took a deep, paternal breath. We sat silent for a while, and a homey feeling invaded my ugly little cubicle; the door was locked, the cat was out, the children were safely in bed.
“Sergeant, can I tell you something? Personal?”
I did not answer, and he seemed to know why. “Not about me. About Mickey. Sergeant, I never felt for anybody like I feel for him. Last night I heard Mickey in the bed next to me. He was crying so, it could have broken your heart. Real sobs.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I had to talk to him to stop him. He held my hand, Sergeant—he wouldn’t let it go. He was almost hysterical. He kept saying if he only knew where we were going. Even if he knew it was the Pacific, that would be better than nothing. Just to know.”
Long ago, someone had taught Grossbart the sad rule that only lies can get the truth. Not that I couldn’t believe in the fact of Halpern’s crying; his eyes always seemed red-rimmed. But, fact or not, it became a lie when Grossbart uttered it. He was entirely strategic. But then—it came with the force of indictment—so was I! There are strategies of aggression, but there are strategies of retreat as well. And so, recognizing that I myself had not been without craft and guile, I told him what I knew. “It is the Pacific.”
He let out a small gasp, which was not a lie. “I’ll tell him. I wish it was otherwise.”
“So do I.”
He jumped on my words. “You mean you think you could do something? A change, maybe?”
“No, I couldn’t do a thing.”
“Don’t you know anybody over at C. and A.?”
“Grossbart, there’s nothing I can do,” I said. “If your orders are for the Pacific, then it’s the Pacific.”
“But Mickey—”
“Mickey, you, me—everybody, Grossbart. There’s nothing to be done. Maybe the war’ll end before you go. Pray for a miracle.”
“But—”
“Good night, Grossbart.” I settled back, and was relieved to feel the springs unbend as Grossbart rose to leave. I could
see him clearly now; his jaw had dropped, and he looked like a dazed prizefighter. I noticed for the first time a little paper bag in his hand.
“Grossbart.” I smiled. “My gift?”
“Oh, yes, Sergeant. Here—from all of us.” He handed me the bag. “It’s egg roll.”
“Egg roll?” I accepted the bag and felt a damp grease spot on the bottom. I opened it, sure that Grossbart was joking.
“We thought you’d probably like it. You know—Chinese egg roll. We thought you’d probably have a taste for—”
“Your aunt served egg roll?”
“She wasn’t home.”
“Grossbart, she invited you. You told me she invited you and your friends.”
“I know,” he said. “I just reread the letter. Next week.”
I got out of bed and walked to the window. “Grossbart,” I said. But I was not calling to him.
“What?”
“What are you, Grossbart? Honest to God, what are you?”
I think it was the first time I’d asked him a question for which he didn’t have an immediate answer.
“How can you do this to people?” I went on.
“Sergeant, the day away did us all a world of good. Fishbein, you should see him, he loves Chinese food.”
“But the Seder,” I said.
“We took second best, Sergeant.”
Rage came charging at me. I didn’t sidestep. “Grossbart, you’re a liar!” I said. “You’re a schemer and a crook. You’ve got no respect for anything. Nothing at all. Not for me, for the truth—not even for poor Halpern! You use us all—”
“Sergeant, Sergeant, I feel for Mickey. Honest to God, I do. I love Mickey. I try—”
“You try! You feel!” I lurched toward him and grabbed his shirt front. I shook him furiously. “Grossbart, get out! Get out and stay the hell away from me. Because if I see you, I’ll make your life miserable. You understand that?”
“Yes.”
I let him free, and when he walked from the room, I wanted to spit on the floor where he had stood. I couldn’t stop the fury. It engulfed me, owned me, till it seemed I could only rid myself of it with tears or an act of violence. I snatched from the bed the bag Grossbart had given me and, with all my strength, threw it out the window. And the next morning, as the men policed the area around the barracks, I heard a great cry go up from one of the trainees, who had been anticipating only his morning handful of cigarette butts and candy wrappers. “Egg roll!” he shouted. “Holy Christ, Chinese goddam egg roll!”
· · ·
A week later, when I read the orders that had come down from C. and A., I couldn’t believe my eyes. Every single trainee was to be shipped to Camp Stoneman, California, and from there to the Pacific—every trainee but one. Private Sheldon Grossbart. He was to be sent to Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. I read the mimeographed sheet several times. Dee, Farrell, Fishbein, Fuselli, Fylypowycz, Glinicki, Gromke, Gucwa, Halpern, Hardy, Helebrandt, right down to Anton Zygadlo—all were to be headed West before the month was out. All except Grossbart. He had pulled a string, and I wasn’t it.
I lifted the phone and called C. and A.
The voice on the other end said smartly, “Corporal Shulman, sir.”
“Let me speak to Sergeant Wright.”
“Who is this calling, sir?”
“Sergeant Marx.”
And, to my surprise, the voice said, “Oh!” Then, “Just a minute, Sergeant.”
Shulman’s “Oh!” stayed with me while I waited for Wright to come to the phone. Why “Oh!”? Who was Shulman? And then, so simply, I knew I’d discovered the string that Grossbart had pulled. In fact, I could hear Grossbart the day he’d discovered Shulman in the PX, or in the bowling alley, or maybe even at services. “Glad to meet you. Where you from? Bronx? Me, too. Do you know So-and-So? And So-and-So? Me, too! You work at C. and A.? Really? Hey, how’s chances of getting East? Could you do something? Change something? Swindle, cheat, lie? We gotta help each other, you know. If the Jews in Germany…”
Bob Wright answered the phone. “How are you, Nate? How’s the pitching arm?”
“Good. Bob, I wonder if you could do me a favor.” I heard clearly my own words, and they so reminded me of Grossbart that I dropped more easily than I could have imagined into what I had planned. “This may sound crazy, Bob, but I got a kid here on orders to Monmouth who wants them changed. He had a brother killed in Europe, and he’s hot to go to the Pacific. Says he’d feel like a coward if he wound up Stateside. I don’t know, Bob—can anything be done? Put somebody else in the Monmouth slot?”
“Who?” he asked cagily.
“Anybody. First guy in the alphabet. I don’t care. The kid just asked if something could be done.”
“What’s his name?”
“Grossbart, Sheldon.”
Wright didn’t answer.
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s a Jewish kid, so he thought I could help him out. You know.”
“I guess I can do something,” he finally said. “The Major hasn’t been around here for weeks. Temporary duty to the golf course. I’ll try, Nate, that’s all I can say.”
“I’d appreciate it, Bob. See you Sunday.” And I hung up, perspiring.
The following day, the corrected orders appeared: Fishbein, Fuselli, Fylypowycz, Glinicki, Gromke, Grossbart, Gucwa, Halpern, Hardy…Lucky Private Harley Alton was to go to Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, where, for some reason or other, they wanted an enlisted man with infantry training.
After chow that night, I stopped back at the orderly room to straighten out the guard-duty roster. Grossbart was waiting for me. He spoke first.
“You son of a bitch!”
I sat down at my desk, and while he glared at me, I began to make the necessary alterations in the duty roster.
“What do you have against me?” he cried. “Against my family? Would it kill you for me to be near my father, God knows how many months he has left to him?”
“Why so?”
“His heart,” Grossbart said. “He hasn’t had enough troubles in a lifetime, you’ve got to add to them. I curse the day I ever met you, Marx! Shulman told me what happened over there. There’s no limit to your anti-Semitism, is there? The damage you’ve done here isn’t enough. You have to make a special phone call! You really want me dead!”
I made the last few notations in the duty roster and got up to leave. “Good night, Grossbart.”
“You owe me an explanation!” He stood in my path.
“Sheldon, you’re the one who owes explanations.”
He scowled. “To you?”
“To me, I think so—yes. Mostly to Fishbein and Halpern.”
“That’s right, twist things around. I owe nobody nothing, I’ve done all I could do for them. Now I think I’ve got the right to watch out for myself.”
“For each other we have to learn to watch out, Sheldon. You told me yourself.”
“You call this watching out for me—what you did?”
“No. For all of us.”
I pushed him aside and started for the door. I heard his furious breathing behind me, and it sounded like steam rushing from an engine of terrible strength.
“You’ll be all right,” I said from the door. And, I thought, so would Fishbein and Halpern be all right, even in the Pacific, if only Grossbart continued to see—in the obsequiousness of the one, the soft spirituality of the other—some profit for himself.
I stood outside the orderly room, and I heard Grossbart weeping behind me. Over in the barracks, in the lighted windows, I could see the boys in their T shirts sitting on their bunks talking about their orders, as they’d been doing for the past two days. With a kind of quiet nervousness, they polished shoes, shined belt buckles, squared away underwear, trying as best they could to accept their fate. Behind me, Grossbart swallowed hard, accepting his. And then, resisting with all my will an impulse to turn and seek pardon for my vindictiveness, I accepted my own.
March 14, 1959
A magazine entering its tenth decade is a ship of Theseus: Every plank having been replaced over time, the galley, never drydocked, is both completely changed and somehow the same. (The barnacles, we like to think, add to its character.) Many oars were in the water to propel this expedition. We’re grateful to Rachel Ake, Roger Angell, Madeleine Baverstam, John Bennet, Fabio Bertoni, Andrew Boynton, Chris Curry, Sameen Gauhar, Ann Goldstein, Adam Gopnik, Emily Greenhouse, Mary Hawthorne, Jillian Kosminoff, Risa Leibowitz, Pam McCarthy, Caitlin McKenna, Lev Mendes, Wyatt Mitchell, Erin Overbey, Beth Pearson, Eric Simonoff, and Simon M. Sullivan. Special thanks are due Joshua Rothman, who manned the trawl nets heroically; Alexandra Schwartz, always generous with her editorial skills, who helped reduce bycatch; Noah Eaker, in the crow’s nest of Random House, who guided us away from sandbars; and, of course, our marvelous contributors.
W. H. AUDEN (1907–1973) was born in York, England, was educated at Oxford University, and achieved fame as a poet in the 1930s. In 1939 he immigrated to the United States and published his first poem in The New Yorker. He won a Pulitzer Prize in 1948 for The Age of Anxiety and a National Book Award in 1956 for The Shield of Achilles.
JOHN BAINBRIDGE (1913–1992) joined the editorial staff of The New Yorker in 1938 and started writing for the magazine the next year. His Profile “Toots’s World,” excerpted in this collection, was the basis of his book The Wonderful World of Toots Shor (1951).
WHITNEY BALLIETT (1926–2007) began writing for The New Yorker in 1952 and was the magazine’s jazz critic from 1957 to 2001. He is the author of Such Sweet Thunder (1966), Improvising (1977), American Musicians (1986), and Collected Works: A Journal of Jazz 1954–2000 (2000), among other books.
S. N. BEHRMAN (1893–1973), a playwright, screenwriter, and biographer, first appeared in The New Yorker in 1929 and continued to contribute to the magazine for nearly half a century.
HARRIET BEN EZRA worked as a researcher at Time before joining The New Yorker as a Talk of the Town reporter in 1958.
WALTER BERNSTEIN contributed articles to The New Yorker from 1939 to 1957, and has written the screenplays of many films, including Fail Safe, The Front, and The House on Carroll Street. He is the author of Inside Out: A Memoir of the Blacklist (1996).
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