Hello, America

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  When I inquire about what Tree Certificates are, Miss Sokol launches with gusto into a long discourse on the subject.

  “Donations come in for planting trees in all parts of Israel,” she explains with pathos. “People plant trees to commemorate various occasions—to honor friends and relatives during their lifetime and memorialize them after they have passed on. There are graduations, engagements, weddings, births, and demises.” On demises Miss Sokol’s voice rises with glee, and I shudder, wondering if demises are good business. But Miss Sokol continues her performance with bravado. “For every tree donated we issue a certificate. Here. This is how the certificates look.” Miss Sokol dramatically pulls open her desk drawer and triumphantly shoves a glossy page in my face. “See?” All at once I notice that Miss Sokol’s performance generates great amusement for the two young women at their desks. Sally mimics her gestures behind her back, and Evelyn’s face is bright red from efforts to keep a snigger under control. “It’s your responsibility to type the name of the donor and honoree on the Tree Certificate, preceded by the words In Honor Of when the donation is made in celebration of a life-cycle event, and by the words In Memory Of when the donation is made in commemoration of a demise,” Miss Sokol concludes, once again intoning the last word with a gleeful flourish.

  Sally and Evelyn become my close friends. The three of us form a solid front against imperious Miss Sokol. Sharing conspiratorial glances with each other behind her back helps us tolerate Miss Sokol’s self-importance.

  During the noon break the two girls introduce me to an American institution—the soda fountain. The soda fountain is at a counter in a drugstore nearby where Evelyn and Sally regularly eat their lunch: tuna sandwiches and milk shakes.

  “What’s tuna?” I ask, intrigued by the pleasant, unfamiliar fragrance.

  “You’ve never eaten tuna? How can that be?” When I explain to them that I have arrived in America a little more than three weeks ago, the girls are aghast. They knew I was from Europe but assumed I have lived here for years. Both admit that I am the first “greenhorn” they have ever met.

  “So what’s tuna? It smells very nice.”

  Evelyn offers a bite of her sandwich, but I decline.

  “Why not? It’s delicious,” she says. “Try it. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

  “I eat only kosher,” I explain, somewhat diffidently.

  “But tuna is a fish. You can eat it.”

  “A fish? But it smells a little like liverwurst. Is it a kosher fish? Some species of fish aren’t kosher, you know.”

  “Tuna is,” Sally interjects. “I keep kosher too.”

  “Me too,” Evelyn confesses in a low voice. “Why don’t you try a tiny bit?”

  Finally convinced, I take a small bite of Evelyn’s tuna sandwich, and it’s love at first bite. It’s a dramatic moment—the onset of my lifelong infatuation with tuna.

  And I notice that my new friends are drinking a foaming, cream-colored liquid in tall glasses with colorful straws. It looks intriguing.

  “What’s that?” I ask the girls.

  “A milk shake.”

  “What’s a milk shake?” I ask, and we all burst out laughing.

  Once again the girls persuade me to take a sip of their milk shakes, and once again I fall head over heels in love.

  For years tuna sandwiches and milk shakes constitute my dream lunch. However, for the time being I cannot afford the cost. Instead I happily munch on a hard-boiled egg and an apple I bring from home.

  I am grateful to Sally and Evelyn for not embarrassing me by offering to treat me to lunch even after they find out how much I like tuna sandwiches and milk shakes. I know that the day is not far off when I also will be able to splurge on these delicacies.

  This is what I love about America! The knowledge of possibilities and the freedom to achieve, if only I work hard. And I know I can work hard. I’ll work hard to make money so Mommy should not have to worry about all the expenses. I’ll study hard to get my high school and then my college diploma, so Papa would be proud of me… .

  I love the marvelous personal sense of liberty generated by so many things people here seem to take for granted. Americans don’t seem to realize all the glorious freedoms they enjoy, unheard of in other parts of the world.

  Alex, who has traveled in different parts, likes to point out to me all the good things in American life in comparison to other places in the world.

  “Do you know that here you don’t have to carry identification papers, ever? There are no ID cards in America!”

  “How can that be?” I marvel. “Everywhere I lived, without exception, you had to have identity papers on you at all times.”

  “Not in America!”

  “But how do they check your identity?” I ask.

  “Why would anyone want to check your identity? Unless you’ve committed a crime.”

  “And how do you prove who you are?”

  “Why would you need to prove who you are? Whoever asks who you are, give your name, your address, whatever… . Isn’t that enough? If you drive, you have a driver’s license. If you travel abroad, you have a passport. If you go to court, you bring along your birth certificate. That covers it. Why be bothered with ID cards? We are not a police state.”

  Alex’s answers astonish me and make me think. Indeed, what’s the purpose of a personal ID other than to make you feel suspect? Controlled. Here you give your name and address—that’s it. You are an individual, trustworthy, proud. No need to prove. No ID cards. This is true freedom.

  “Here you can open a business without a license,” Alex adds. “All you need is money to rent a locality, buy merchandise, and you are in business!”

  I can’t believe it. No business license? In my birthplace first you have to do an apprenticeship, pass a certification exam as an apprentice, and only then, with proof of your qualifications to run the particular shop, are you free to apply for a business license. And then wait months for approval. It may take a long time and a lot of money until your permit is issued. And only then can you open a shop. My father, besides having to renew his business license every year, had to have it regularly inspected together with our business premises, incurring additional expenses. The police would routinely find a violation of some kind and suspend my father’s license. And the process of having it reinstated would take time and money and more money.

  I can’t believe that in America you don’t need a license. How amazingly simple! How wonderful. You pay the rent, you pay for the merchandise; that’s all it takes.

  When Mother and I are told by our social worker at HIAS that we must have the translation of our birth certificates notarized, I ask Alex about a lawyer qualified to do notarization.

  “A lawyer? What for?” he asks. “You don’t need a lawyer. You just walk into a drugstore, and for a quarter you can have any document notarized, right on the spot.”

  “You can’t be serious! For a quarter! Is the druggist qualified?”

  “Yes, most druggists are notaries public. Take your birth certificates and the translation to the pharmacy near you—there’s one on the corner of Kings Highway and Ocean Avenue—and the man behind the counter will affix his stamp and signature.”

  That’s all? No questions asked?

  “Later on, when you have a bank account in the local bank, you will be able to get your documents notarized there for free.”

  “Anytime? No quarter? Free?”

  Free, what a beautiful word.

  The sense of freedom permeates every sphere of life. Even in social contact: Instead of the intimidating Mr. So-and-So or Mrs. So-and-So, acquaintances are addressed by their first names. Even children call adults, among them parents of their friends, Judy or Bill. In Hungary, when addressing an adult, even Mr. and Mrs. are not considered sufficiently polite; children must add the word Uncle or Aunt to the family name, and even in casual conversation neighbors employ honorifics like eminent madam and eminent sir.

  “Here it is
customary even for repairmen, bank clerks, bus drivers, housemaids, to use first names in their relationships with their customers and employers. Here employees address the boss as Jim or Jack or Tom,” Alex elaborates.

  “Really? I just can’t fathom such a thing. I can’t even imagine calling superiors by their first name. Thank you, Alex, for pointing these things out. I have much to learn.”

  “And I’m happy to be your tutor, any time!” Alex replies with a wink.

  Later in the day a humorous episode results from my pitiful ignorance. I’m alone in the house when the doorbell rings. An Electrolux salesman stands in the doorway.

  “Thank you,” I tell him before he starts his sales pitch. “We are not interested in a vacuum cleaner.” I am about to close the door but something in the man’s ingratiating smile, a touch of defenselessness, compels me to explain apologetically, “You see, we have no carpet.”

  “But this machine is different. You don’t need a carpet. You can use it for many other things.” His eagerness is compelling, and I still keep the door ajar. “If you give me just ten minutes, I’ll show you. You’ve never seen anything like the special features of this vacuum cleaner.”

  I open the door wider and the vacuum-cleaner salesman lugs his machine and a carton of accessories across the foyer into the living room.

  “Thank you, ma’am, for letting me come in,” he says. “It’s been a long day. Do you mind if I sit while I explain the various accessory parts?”

  “Not at all,” I say, dragging one of the dining room chairs into the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. Do you want a drink? You must be parched, talking all day.”

  “Oh, thank you, ma’am. A glass of water would be appreciated.”

  When I bring in a tall tumbler of cold water and hand it to him, the salesman’s appreciation is heartwarming. “God bless you for your kind heart,” he says with genuine gratitude.

  After explaining the various attachments, the salesman prepares to demonstrate their uses. Pausing in front of the bookcase in the anteroom, he exclaims: “Books! Great! Let me show how this machine cleans books, virtually sucks dust out of them.” And with that he deftly adjusts a small attachment to the hose and reaches to the top of a row of books on one of the shelves.

  “What letters are those?” he asks, pointing to the gold-embossed characters on a volume of the Pentateuch. “Are they Greek? Is this the original New Testament?”

  “No. They are Hebrew letters,” I answer. “This is the Hebrew Bible.”

  “Hebrew?” The salesman is surprised. “Are you Jewish? How … how very nice!” he cries, searching to add something to prove his familiarity with Jewishness. “You know, I love bagels and lox,” the Electrolux man insinuates, as if making a confidential revelation.

  Bagels and Lox? I’ve never heard those two names before. I believe they must be Jewish candidates running for some municipal office. I feel sympathy for the salesman, who in his attempt to make a sale feels compelled to declare his support for these Jewish politicians I don’t even know. I hasten to reassure him.

  “Bagels and Lox? Who are they? I’ve never even heard of them.”

  Now the salesman virtually explodes with laughter, slapping his knees. “God, are you funny! Bagels and Lox, who are they! What a funny girl! Miss, you’re funnier than Lucille Ball… . Boy, this is the funniest thing I ever heard!”

  I am puzzled by his laughter. When the salesman’s demonstration is finally over, I ask for his business card and promise to give him a call if and when Mother and I would be ready to invest $125 in a vacuum cleaner.

  I must speak to Alex about this. I must ask him about Bagels and Lox and find out what’s so funny about them.

  Chapter Eleven

  PICNIC IN THE LIVING ROOM

  I manage to reach Alex in his office with my puzzling question.

  “Alex, can you tell me who are Bagels and Lox?”

  “Bagels and Lox?” Alex’s tone rises in amused puzzlement. “Angel, the question is what, not who!” Alex laughs. “A bagel is a hard bun, a stiff bread roll, and lox is fish. Salted smoked salmon!”

  “A bread roll and fish? Oh, God, now I know why the salesman was hysterical!” I tell Alex the story about the Electrolux agent. “But I still don’t understand why did he try to impress me with the fact that he loved bagels and lox after he saw the Hebrew books on the shelves and discovered I was Jewish?”

  “Bagels and lox are considered Jewish ethnic food,” Alex explains, laughing even harder. “Actually bagels are from Russia, and lox from Norway, but it was Russian Jewish immigrants who introduced them in America.”

  “I have never seen a bagel or lox. How do they taste?”

  “It’s an acquired taste. The bagel is much too hard and chewy, and lox tastes a bit raw, salty.”

  “Also, Alex, one more question. Who is Lucille Ball?”

  “She is a comedienne, who has a nightly show on television. Why do you ask?”

  “The salesman said I was funnier than Lucille Ball.”

  “That’s high praise,” Alex chuckles.

  “The bad news is I didn’t try to be funny… .”

  Now Alex is laughing almost as hard as the salesman did.

  For days now New York has been engulfed by oppressive heat and humidity; torrid air pockets stubbornly lurk in all the nooks and crannies of Ocean Avenue.

  “Why don’t we go to the beach on Sunday?” Alex suggests.

  “The beach! Alex, what an excellent idea!” I exclaim. “I love the ocean. And I love to swim.”

  “It’s too early to swim in the ocean. The water is cold despite the heat, but I thought of a picnic in the park alongside the seashore,” Alex goes on. “I’m thinking of the whole family… . Your mother, your brother, Aunt Celia and Uncle Martin—a family outing on Brighton Beach. It could be great fun.”

  Poor Alex. He loves my family. He has no idea about the battles I’m waging to save our relationship. As a matter of fact, they love him, too. They just don’t want me to love him!

  “A picnic in the park! Why not? Why not?” Aunt Celia echoes Uncle Martin’s enthusiasm.

  “What a shame Bubi cannot join us,” Mother laments.

  Bubi can’t spare the time. He is studying for ordination. I am so proud of my brother. Last June he received his B. A. degree, graduating summa cum laude, and this June he is to receive his rabbinical degree from Yeshiva University, no doubt with top honors.

  On Sunday, noon, when Alex arrives and we load picnic baskets, tablecloths, jugs of lemonade, blankets, and even bottles of mosquito repellent in his spacious car, our sense of fun reaches a high pitch. We are about to leave when Mother excuses herself.

  “You know, children, I’d prefer to stay home and have a rest,” she says quietly. “I’m a bit tired today. Must be the heat.”

  We look at one another, at a loss for what to do. But Mother insists we do not change our plans. “You must go ahead with the picnic,” she urges. “I’ll feel much better knowing you’re out there having some fun.”

  Alex calls me aside.

  “Your mother looks extremely pale. Would she agree to be examined by me?”

  It takes some coaxing, but finally Mother yields to family pressure and consents that instead of the beach Alex drive us all to his medical office. Nonetheless she keeps fretting all along the way to Borough Park. “I hate to break up the beach party. You’ve all been looking forward to it… .”

  “And now we are looking forward to seeing you get well,” Celia interjects.

  Alex ushers us into the living room of his compact, well-designed home, which functions as his office. Celia and Martin admire Alex’s paintings that hang on the walls; Uncle Martin is especially fascinated by a huge mural depicting the Fall of Satan, with Satan’s countenance radiating regret and delight in equal measures.

  “Whose work is this? I can’t make out the signature.”

  “All the paintings seem to be done by the same artist,” Aunt Celia ob
serves.

  “Alex. He paints. He’s done them all. Isn’t he good?” I declare proudly.

  “I’m impressed. The man has talent. You told me he composed music. You never mentioned his painting!”

  Mother emerges from the examination room with a smile. During the examination Alex must have entertained her with anecdotes, a heady mix of humor and nostalgia in Hochdeutsch, the German dialect with which Mother is familiar.

  Alex calls me into the examination room. Carefully closing the door behind him, he confides in a tone of urgency, “The physical revealed a large abdominal tumor. Your mother needs immediate surgery. The tumor must be removed as soon as possible. If you wish I’ll make arrangements for the operation, or if you wish, for a second opinion. Please discuss it with your brother. And, of course, with Mrs. Friedman. She might be afraid of surgery. I’ll be happy to talk to her, to explain the nature of the problem. The nature of the operation. I will reassure her.”

  “Thank you, Alex.” The tremor in my voice reverberates through my body.

  “Don’t worry, angel.” Alex puts an arm about me. “Please don’t worry. I’ll be with you all the way. I’ll do everything in my power to make it less difficult for you. Your mother will be in good hands. I’ll see to that. In the meantime I’ve told her I felt something in her abdomen and we’ll need to do some tests. I believe it’s best not to tell her too much at once.”

  Alex’s reassuring attitude puts Mother, Celia, and Martin in an upbeat mood, and Celia issues an impromptu invitation to Alex for a picnic in her living room.

  “What else do you propose to do with all this food?” Aunt Celia queries. Alex accepts the invitation and drives us home, where Uncle quickly spreads blankets and tablecloths, and Aunt Celia arranges napkins and cups.

  I lock myself in the bathroom to overcome the violent churning in my stomach. My God, what kind of growth is in Mommy’s abdomen? Will she survive the operation? Will she be okay? Please help us, help us.

  By the time I emerge from the bathroom, the four of them squat on the blanket, busily munching on the sandwiches and toasting each other with lemonade.