Hello, America

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  “All we need is music,” Alex remarks. “‘The Blue Danube.’ Do you have a record player? I have some Strauss records in the car.”

  “Sorry.” No record player. No radio. Soon. Soon I’ll earn enough money from my job to buy all these luxuries.

  Two days later Alex arrives with a present for Mother: a radio.

  “It’s not a simple radio. It’s also an alarm clock. And one more thing.” Alex’s face radiates with the excitement of the surprise he is about to unveil. “A coffee machine!”

  “A coffee machine?”

  With a flourish Alex plugs in the radio, and from his doctor’s bag produces a can of Maxwell House coffee. “Look, Frau Friedman. All you have to do is set the alarm clock to the time you want to wake up. Fill the machine with water, add the coffee, and as the alarm clock turns on, it turns a switch to start the coffee percolating. By the time you are ready with your morning toilette, your coffee is ready!”

  We all applaud the clever gadget and, moved by Alex’s thoughtfulness, Mother makes a solemn declaration. “Whenever and wherever you can arrange the operation, Herr Doctor,” she says in German, with European formality. “I have complete confidence in your medical judgment.”

  “I am grateful for your vote of confidence, Frau Friedman,” Alex responds in kind.

  “Will you have coffee with us, Herr Doctor?”

  “Of course, of course. Thank you kindly,” Alex welcomes the invitation. Aunt Celia produces a tin of freshly baked apple strudel, and the whole family joins in to celebrate the new coffee machine.

  On Monday Alex phones with good news: He has pulled myriad strings and succeeded in getting Mother’s operation, a radical hysterectomy, scheduled for next Friday at the Beth Israel Hospital in Lower Manhattan.

  “Your mom must be at the hospital on Thursday morning for admission and preparatory tests,” Alex reminds me.

  So it has come. In three days Mother will be hospitalized. God help us!

  “Thank you, Alex. For all your kind efforts!” I breathe into the receiver.

  “Don’t worry, Angel. Your mom will be all right. You’ll see.”

  “Oh, Alex!”

  I phone Bubi at his dormitory room. He knows I cannot take time off from my new job, and Aunt Celia has used up her sick leave squiring us around after our arrival, so he offers to take a break from his studies to accompany Mother to the hospital.

  Bubi arrives home Wednesday night, and I feel as if a heavy burden begins to lift from my soul.

  Chapter Twelve

  MOTHER’S OPERATION

  Thursday I count the hours till the end of the day. Following Sally and Evelyn’s directions, I reach Beth Israel Hospital in less than an hour. I find Mommy in a crowded ward, looking pale and frightened. Her face lights up as she sees me approach, carefully tiptoeing among the beds.

  While I sit at the edge of her bed and we talk, a bit of color sneaks into her cheeks. We reminisce about other “hospital adventures”—her hernia operation in Bratislava years before the war, and my appendectomy in Komarom during the Hungarian occupation, and then long stretches of hospitalization in Munich after the war when Mommy virtually “lived” at my bedside. Then I tell Mommy about my coworkers, about some amusing happenings at the office, and I can see her spirits rise.

  All at once we realize that the late afternoon has turned into night, and Mother urges me to go home.

  “Mommy, let me stay a little longer.”

  “It’s late, Leanyka. Please go now. The ride on the subway to Brooklyn may be dangerous at night.”

  How can I leave her? She looks so frail, so defenseless. When will I see her next? I must be at work tomorrow; I can’t be here during the operation.

  With a heavy heart I leave Mommy behind in the hospital ward packed with twenty-two other patients to whom she cannot speak, in the care of doctors and nurses who cannot understand her.

  I toss and turn all night. Will Mom survive the operation? Will she recover? Will she undergo much pain?

  Friday morning drags on and on. My stomach contracts into a tiny ball, and the nagging sensation interferes with my work. I can’t wait for the telephone to ring. It’s almost noon. Bubi promised to call from the hospital as soon as the operation is over. What keeps him from phoning?

  The ringing of the telephone startles me like a gunshot. I fly out of my seat and grab the telephone with shaking hands. It’s Bubi. Thank God the surgery is over, and Mother is back on the ward. She is still groggy from the anesthesia, but the doctor says the operation went well and she will be fine. With baited breath I wait to hear the answer to a question I’m afraid to ask. Then I hear Bubi say the words: “Dr. Hirschfeld—Alex—was here during the operation. The surgeon told Alex the tumor was benign. He wanted me to be the one to tell you.”

  I give a little shriek, and the girls in the office look up in alarm. “Oh! Thank God!” I make a supreme effort to compose myself and say to Bubi, sobbing, “I’m coming as soon as I can get away. I’ve already told them here I must leave early.”

  “I’ll wait here until you arrive,” Bubi promises.

  Miss Sokol has a heart, and lets me leave at two o’clock. It’s almost three o’clock when I emerge from the subway station at Union Square. From here I run at a gallop to the hospital. Bubi rises from his perch at the edge of the high hospital bed when I enter the long, narrow ward. Mother is lying perfectly still, her face like an alabaster mask, her beautiful features frozen into a lifeless repose. The only sign of life is a soft, intermittent moan.

  “Don’t worry, Elli. Mommy is still under the effect of anesthesia. Gradually she’ll come out of it.” Seeing my terrified face, Bubi adds, “Do you want me to stay?”

  Bubi must leave now in order to reach the yeshiva in Washington Heights before Sabbath begins.

  “Oh, no. You must hurry. How will you get to school on time … before Shabbat?”

  “And how about you? How will you get home on time?”

  “Aunt Celia gave me the address of a Mrs. Wellkowsky—or Wellkowitz. I have the name and address jotted down somewhere. She is a distant relation of Uncle Martin who lives somewhere in the neighborhood. I can sleep there. It doesn’t look as if Mommy will come out of it soon. I guess I’ll stay as long as I can, and then just walk to this lady’s place for the night.”

  Shortly after Bubi leaves, Mother’s moaning grows louder and she begins to vomit. I hold the bedpan under her chin. Poor Mommy: Her whole body heaves with every attack of nausea, and when the vomiting is over, her head falls back on her pillow, her eyes closed. I keep mopping her forehead with a wet washcloth, and the moaning softens.

  All at once I notice a bright red stain appear on Mother’s cover sheet above her lower abdomen. As I watch, the stain spreads rapidly, and to my horror the blood, like a small geyser, starts spurting through the white cloth.

  What should I do? There’s no one in sight. I spot a nurse at the far end of the ward heading for the exit. I race after her. “Please, quick! My mother is bleeding. Come, please …”

  “I’ll be right there,” she answers and continues on her way out. I grab her arm. “You can’t leave. You must come and help me. My mother’s bleeding!”

  The nurse gives me an icy stare. “Calm yourself, miss. Your mother had surgery this morning. Some bleeding is routine.”

  “This is not ’some bleeding.’ Blood is spurting through the sheets!” Reluctantly the nurse changes course and follows me. When we reach Mother’s bedside, the entire lower quadrant of her body is covered in blood.

  “Just don’t panic!” the nurse snaps in her stress. She runs for help. Within seconds a young intern appears with the nurse in tow and asks me to leave the room.

  Two orderlies appear with a stretcher, and Mommy is wheeled away. “Where are you taking her?” I yell after them.

  “To the operating room. For a minor procedure to stop the bleeding. She’ll be right back. Wait here in the ward.”

  The procedure takes almost an
hour, and when Mother is back in her bed, her face is ashen, even more masklike than before. Oh, please, God. Save her. Save her.

  Hours pass before the intermittent vomiting and moaning stops, and Mommy opens her eyes. “You are still here,” she says weekly. “Isn’t it Shabbat yet? How will you get home?”

  I put my hand on hers. “Oh, Mommy. Thank God you’re awake. How do you feel?”

  “Nauseous. It hurts …” She moves her hand feebly to her lower abdomen. “But I think I’m better.” There is a large jug of grapefruit juice on her bed stand. I pour a glassful and bring it to her lips.

  “Mommy, the nurses say you must drink a lot. Can you take a sip?”

  I lift her head, and Mommy takes a few sips. Then closes her eyes again.

  An orderly appears. “Miss, it’s ten o’clock. You must leave the ward.”

  “How can I leave? My mother is very sick. I must take care of her. Sir, please let me stay.”

  “You can’t stay. I’ll be back in ten minutes. You must be gone by then.”

  Just then I notice that the bottle of the intravenous fluid is empty. My frantic search for a nurse takes me out of the ward to the nurses’ station, until some twenty minutes later a new bottle is installed. Just then the orderly reappears and demands that I leave.

  “I can’t! Look, I just had the intravenous bottle changed. If I weren’t here, my mother would be dead. I can’t leave if there’s nobody here to watch over her!”

  “Look, miss, this is America. Here people can’t just do what they want. There are rules here. You’ve got to leave this instant.”

  “I have nowhere to go. Do you want me to sleep on the street? Let me stay here. I will sleep on the floor next to my mother’s bed so that if she needs me, I’ll be right here.”

  “I’m calling the hospital security. If you don’t leave willingly, you’ll be thrown out by the police.”

  How fortunate that Mommy is asleep and is unaware of all this! She is moaning again, and beads of sweat appear on her forehead. She must be in pain. I run to the bathroom to wet the washcloth, and as I mop her face her moaning softens, and then stops. The cool washcloth must have soothed her pain.

  The orderly appears with two policemen. “Miss, it’s past midnight. What are you doing here in the hospital?”

  “I have nowhere to go. I live in Brooklyn. There are no trains after midnight. Let me stay here with my mother. Please. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse. I’m not bothering anybody.”

  “It’s against the rules. We must escort you out of the hospital. Don’t make us use force. Come along quietly.”

  “Don’t you care that I’ll have to sleep on the street?”

  “We have our orders. Don’t make us use force, miss.”

  I bend over Mommy’s deathly still, deathly white face and kiss her forehead lightly. “Good night, Mommy. Shabbat Shalom.”

  “At seven in the morning you can be back here,” one of the policemen reassures me.

  “Thanks!” I hiss the word at him and hope that it conveys all I feel at the moment—anger, disappointment, contempt, and paralyzing fear. Oh, God, please let me see my mother alive tomorrow morning!

  It is a warm, dark night. Even the air stands still. I am clutching the piece of paper with the unfamiliar address. Which way should I turn to find it? There is not a single soul I could ask. No passersby, no policemen.

  At 2:00 A.M. I am still wandering helplessly on the deserted streets. Finally I reach a partially lit thoroughfare and almost trip over a body on the sidewalk. Oh, my God … there are several other bodies alongside the wall. Are they dead? Are they asleep? A stale smell of alcohol permeates the air. What’s the name of this godforsaken street? In the dim light I manage to decipher the sign, THE BOWERY.

  Where do I go from here? I turn the corner, peering at posters for guidance and … what kind of writing is this? Can these be Hebrew letters? I rise on my tiptoes and strain my eyes to make out the lettering in the semidarkness. There is no mistake about it: They are Hebrew letters on a marquee. The letters spell out something in Yiddish … the title of a Yiddish play. This is the Yiddish theater! This must be Second Avenue, and this is the famous Second Avenue Yiddish Theater! A hint of home in the middle of the night here in a no-man’s-land, reeking of booze and strewn with sleeping drunkards!

  As if the Hebrew letters were my lucky charm, a mysterious omen, two policemen emerge from nowhere. They are no less surprised to see me, and when I show them my piece of paper with my contact’s address, they helpfully direct me toward Avenue C.

  Avenue C is plunged in total darkness. Without even a hint of illumination I cannot make out numbers on any house. Most of the houses appear to be walk-ups with bell handles in the middle of the doors. Ringing the bell is prohibited on the Sabbath. And besides, how could I ring Mrs. Wellkowitz’s, or anyone’s, bell at three o’clock in the morning?

  I sit down on a stoop and wait. Time is passing in slow, reassuring spurts. I have always been a night owl. I love the mellow, reassuring stillness of absence—absence of light, of sound, of movement.

  All at once I spot a star directly above. Was it only three weeks ago when, sitting on a stoop just like this one on the upper deck of SS General Stuart, I raised my eyes in search of a random star in the dark expanse of the sky just like this one. Suddenly I was startled by Captain McGregor’s voice right behind me. “Never search for a star, Miss Friedman,” he said. “Let it search for you!”

  Has Captain McGregor’s playful warning truly happened? Has Captain McGregor really happened? Has Dr. Alex Hirschfield? The weekend in Williamsburg … And Sally and Evelyn? And, for that matter, Mrs. Ryder … and Miss Sokol? Buros Bags and Polonski? Have they all happened? Or are these faces, these events, nothing but random molecules of the still, dark night?

  Light is filtering through the clouds. Dawn makes a timid, tentative appearance. Let me wait a little longer. Let me wait here for the morning.

  When the dim light of dawn brightens to a robust yellow, I rise from my stoop and begin to make my way back in the direction of Second Avenue. It is not yet six o’clock, still too early to ring Mrs. Wellkowitz’s bell. It is time for me to find my way back to the hospital.

  A body is stirring in the front garden. I had not noticed him in the dark. The sound of hoarse coughing shatters the silence, and a whiff of alcohol drifts in the air.

  “Hey, miss.” The body is erect now, and I shudder as he is walking toward me. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “Sorry,” I answer, and begin to walk briskly.

  “May I walk with you, miss? I don’t know my way around here.”

  “Neither do I,” I say, hoping to sound dismissive, but the drunk gives a hearty chuckle and matches my pace.

  “Then we might as well walk together. A young miss like you needs an escort at this time of the night. Or is it day?”

  As we walk, my genial “escort” relates his poignant story of unemployment in Pennsylvania, his futile hunt for a job in New York, his lack of funds. By the time we reach the hospital, my heart is heavy with his pain, his hopelessness. I wish I could help him. And as I bid him goodbye and good luck, I know that he knows, and he thanks me with an embarrassed chuckle.

  Quietly, unobtrusively, I make my way to the hospital room. Even before I walk through the open door of the ward I can see Mother is fully awake. Thank God! As I approach her bed, her face lights up with a brilliant smile. Thank God the worst is over.

  Mother spends ten days at Beth Israel Hospital, as her recovery is hampered by a recurring infection. She is back home, however, before Bubi’s ordination at Yeshiva University, and fully recovered to attend the impressive ceremony.

  It is a red-letter day … for so many reasons.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I AM THE DOCTOR’S ASSISTANT

  On Sunday Alex is taking me to a performance of The King and I—my first Broadway show! For the occasion Mother sews a white blouse with ruffles and a long black skirt from pieces of
fabric Aunt Celia has given her as a present.

  “Stunning!” Alex exclaims when I open the door, and he virtually snatches me off my feet. “You look simply stunning! My compliments to you, Frau Friedman,” Alex says to Mother. “You deserve double credit—for the beautiful outfit and for the beautiful daughter.”

  Mother acknowledges Alex’s compliments with a wan smile. Poor Mommy. I sympathize with her predicament. Ever since her operation she is in a quandary about Alex, walking a tightrope between her true appreciation for Alex’s help and her concern about my relationship with Alex—in short, “complications.” I know Mother, being candid by nature, would love to show her gratitude effusively but worries about Alex misinterpreting it as an endorsement of our romance.

  “Thank you, Herr Doctor, for both compliments,” she says formally. “May I reciprocate by offering you a slice of fresh kuchen before you leave?”

  “I apologize, Frau Friedman.” Alex returns Mother’s formality with a courteous bow. “But I must decline. We are a bit behind schedule.”

  “Then accept this instead.” Mother draws from the shelf a large box of Barton’s chocolates and hands it to Alex. I had told Mom that Barton’s were Alex’s favorite chocolates, so as soon as she returned from the hospital she purchased a box of bonbons and has been waiting for the right moment to present it to him.

  Alex’s face lights up with childlike delight.

  “Thank you Frau Friedman!” he exclaims, and happily clutching the chocolates under his arm ushers me out the door.

  Before turning on the ignition Alex rummages in the car’s glove compartment. “Where are they? Darn it … I must have left them at home. I bought you opera glasses for tonight. Let’s make a quick detour to my house. I want you to have them tonight. Opera glasses are great fun.”

  In less than fifteen minutes we are approaching the square brick house on the corner of Fiftieth Street and Thirteenth Avenue. “What’s going on there?” Alex cries in surprise when he notices a small crowd at the entrance of his house. He deftly parks the car and approaches them at a run.