Hello, America

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  “What’s happened?”

  “Oh, Doctor, Frankie fell off the swing and is bleeding from his head.” The mother moves closer with the sobbing little boy, his head wrapped in a towel. “Thank the Lord you’re here!”

  “We came here first,” the father explains excitedly. “Before taking him to the emergency room at the hospital, just on the off chance that we might find you in.”

  Alex casts an apologetic glance in my direction, and unlocking the front door he swiftly shepherds the family into the waiting room, then beckons me to follow him and the sobbing child into his office. After closing the door behind us, Alex flashes me a hurried glance. “Elli, I’ll need assistance. There’s an extra white coat on the rack. Put it on. Then we must scrub fast.”

  After examining the sobbing little boy, Alex swiftly sets out the instruments and explains the name and function of each to me while keeping the little patient distracted with stories.

  “Frankie, we have new goldfish in the tank. Can you see them? There are tiny baby ones and big ones with funny tails. Can you see the ones with the funny tails? Do you like goldfish, Frankie? Miss Friedman, are you ready? Please hand me each instrument as I ask for it. Okay?”

  Frankie’s sobs turn into chuckles as Dr. Hirschfield makes funny fish noises and carries on a dialogue between the mother fish and its baby. I assist Alex in holding the child down gently but firmly, shaving a patch around the wound, handing him the instruments for suturing the nasty cut, and bandaging the wound. When it is over, Alex pulls a red lollipop out of a drawer and hands it to the child. “This is for you, Frankie, for being so brave. Miss Friedman, would you like one too? You too deserve a lollipop!”

  The Conegliaros are relieved to see their son emerge from the doctor’s office with his head patched up, sucking on a lollipop.

  “Doc, you are the greatest,” the father shakes Alex’s hand vigorously.

  “Gracie. Gracie mucho” the mother whispers, and draping a protective arm about Frankie’s shoulders, leads her family home in a glow of gratitude.

  Alex and I look at our watches simultaneously. It’s too late for the theater.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Never mind, Alex—we’ll go another time. And besides, it was fun assisting you.”

  “You were great! A nurse couldn’t have done a better job.”

  I am in heaven. “Really?”

  “Would you be interested in doing this every Sunday? I was about to hire a nurse for Sunday mornings, from ten to twelve. You’d be paid as a trained nurse, fifteen dollars per session.”

  I am thrilled with Alex’s offer, with the opportunity to assist him, to learn nursing skills, and to earn extra money. And above all I’m flattered that he considers me old enough—capable enough—for the job.

  Sunday mornings become the happiest times of my life. It is a joy to work with Alex. My head is reeling with excitement from observing his great skill, his expert movements, his cool competence. My heart is full of admiration for his warm, easy manner with patients, for his wonderful sense of humor.

  But the true adventure begins after work, when we repair to the living room. Alex shows me his latest painting, plays some of his musical compositions, and then encourages me to read selections from my poems. He lavishes undue praise on my talent, and I feel like Cinderella enclosed together with her Prince Charming in a bubble of bliss.

  “Don’t you think I should go to night school, to improve my English?” I ask Alex. “Don’t you think it would improve my ability to express myself better?”

  “I know of good courses given to new immigrants at Erasmus Hall High School. I believe you can still enroll for the summer. I will contact the school tomorrow, and call you when you get home from work,” Alex promises.

  Alex is good on his promise, and I’m thrilled to learn that enrollment is still open. Erasmus Hall High is on Flatbush and Church Avenues, not far from where we live. The next day I get off the subway on Flatbush Avenue on my way home, and make my way to the formidable building to register for the evening class.

  My classes start at six thirty in the evening, and they end at ten. The bus ride home is only about twenty minutes, but there is a snag. With experience I learn that the Ocean Avenue bus reaches the corner of Church Avenue at ten fifteen, and if no one is waiting at the corner the driver does not even slow down but speeds past the bus stop. If I miss this bus there is a wait, sometimes as long as half an hour. To make sure I reach the corner before the bus approaches, I routinely run at a gallop nonstop from my classroom to the bus stop.

  Tonight, a rather humid night, I find running a bit difficult yet reach the corner of Ocean and Church Avenue with a minute to spare. The minute passes and the bus is nowhere to be found, and on the dark, deserted the corner there are no other passengers waiting. Ten minutes pass, and the bus is not evident in the distance. What if I missed the last bus tonight? How will I get home? There are no taxis cruising down the avenue tonight … even if I had money for a taxi.

  Suddenly a white Ford sedan pulls over to the curb. The driver rolls down the window. “Do you want a lift, miss?” he calls.

  “Oh, thank you,” I cry gratefully, and slide onto the passenger’s seat. “How kind of you. I have been waiting for the bus for twenty minutes… . Do you drive down Ocean Avenue?”

  “Yes, I do. Where do you live?”

  “I live on Ocean, between O and P. Do you go that far?”

  “Much beyond, all the way to Brighton Beach.”

  “Do you mind letting me off near Avenue O?”

  “Will be happy to. No problem. Are you new in this country?”

  “What makes you think so? My foreign accent?”

  I notice that before answering my question the driver makes a right turn on Newkirk Avenue, then a left into a dark alley.

  “Where are you going? This is not Ocean Avenue!”

  “No, it is not.”

  “But you said you were driving down Ocean Avenue. I live on Ocean Avenue, and if you’re not going there, I’d rather get out here.”

  The car comes to a stop. The driver reaches over to the passenger’s door and locks it.

  “No, you’re not getting out here, miss. The door is locked.”

  Panic pounds on my temples.

  “But … why?”

  “Look here, miss. Because you are young and a newcomer in this country, I want to explain something to you. Never get into a stranger’s car, especially late at night on a dark deserted street. New York is a dangerous city… . It’s a very dangerous thing to do. I pulled into this side street deliberately to scare you. A man who picks up a young girl on a dark street corner has other intentions than to drop her off in front of her house a few blocks down. Do you understand?”

  “I … I didn’t know. Where I come from … Czechoslovakia … in Czechoslovakia we hitch rides on the highway all the time. There’s no danger in it. It’s done all the time… .”

  “I figured. But here you must not do it. Never. Any girl who gets into a stranger’s car the way you got into my car tonight is risking her life. That’s why I wanted to teach you a lesson.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice still strangled by panic. “But please will you get back to Ocean Avenue now?

  “Of course. The lesson is over. I hope you’ll remember it always.”

  “I will. I am very grateful… .”

  The car speeds on Ocean Avenue now and I let out an audible sigh of relief.

  “Sorry, miss. Sorry to have frightened you. But it had to be done. What you did back there was wrong.” The stranger’s voice is suddenly heavy with fatigue. “A bit reckless.”

  The car comes to a standstill before our building. I open the passenger’s door swiftly, calling one more thank you from the sidewalk, and the white Ford speeds off.

  As I make my way to the entrance of the house and climb the front stairs, an involuntary shiver runs through my body.

  Chapte
r Fourteen

  END OF A FAIRY TALE?

  “Elli, I think I found a solution for you—for your ambition of teaching!” Bubi says one day, and his face is alight with his discovery. “There are Jewish day schools where Hebrew is taught in the morning, and the regular curriculum in the afternoon, just like in a public school,” Bubi explains. “In the public school curriculum a teacher is expected to have a college degree, but maybe a Jewish Day School would accept your diploma from the Beth Jacob Seminary in Bratislava, to teach Hebrew.”

  “Really? Where? Who should I contact? How can I find out if I am qualified?”

  “You can easily find out. There’s a Jewish teachers’ association called the Jewish Education Committee. Why don’t you call them? They’ll tell you about available positions. As a matter of fact, without the committee’s sponsorship I don’t believe you can get a teaching job. Phone them as soon as you can.”

  Bubi teaches me how to use the telephone book, and I manage to locate the number of the Jewish Education Committee. On Monday I can barely wait for my lunch hour, when I plan to make the phone call and take my first step toward my teaching career!

  My hands tremble slightly as I hold the telephone receiver and listen to a voice at the other end asking, “Are you a member? You must apply for membership in person in order to receive services from the Committee.”

  Luckily there is an opening for an application interview during my lunch hour the next day. Before the interview I am given application forms to fill out, and on the basis of these the education officer informs me that I am not qualified for membership without a diploma from an accredited teachers’ college or a B.A. degree with a major in education.

  My arguments are in vain.

  “Sorry, miss,” the interviewer declares. “Your diploma from an eight-month crash course somewhere in Czechoslovakia is not acceptable here.”

  My explanations about lost educational opportunities because of the war, because of years spent in concentration and DP camps, and then in flight, make no impression. Neither do my letters of recommendation from the Beth Jacob schools in Bratislava and Vienna, from the public school in Camp Feldafing, the Hebrew Gymnasium, and the ORT School in Munich, and scores of letters from pupils and their parents attesting to my teaching skills. My application for membership in the Jewish Education Committee is rejected.

  I decide to swallow my pride and appeal on humanitarian grounds. I plead hardship as a new immigrant for whom the Jewish Education Committee membership card would be tantamount to a lifeline.

  The gentleman claims to be sympathetic to my dilemma but remains unmoved by my pleas. “Please bring us a valid teacher’s diploma and we will be happy to issue you a membership card.”

  At the door I turn back sharply. “Okay,” I shout in a flare of temper at the gray-haired official. “Deny me membership. It is your privilege. But I promise you, the day will come when you’ll regret your decision! The day will come when you will offer me membership and I will refuse it!”

  I walk out the door with measured footsteps, my legs trembling but my head held high.

  Bubi is astonished at the J.E.C.’s decision. I think better of telling him about my outburst. Impetuous as ever, he would say. Are you sure you’re mature enough to become a teacher? he would ask.

  “Why don’t you look in the Business section of the telephone book? Under the letter Y for Yeshiva you’ll find the listing of the Hebrew day schools. They are open on Sundays. You can call them and see if they have any openings,” Bubi advises, adding, “You have nothing to lose by trying.”

  After first telephoning every yeshiva listed in the Brooklyn, then in the Manhattan and Queens telephone books, I discover that no one will hire a teacher without a Hebrew teacher’s diploma from an American institute or a membership card from the J.E.C. No yeshiva is willing to grant me an interview without one or the other.

  Except one. At a school listed as Yeshiva of Central Queens the secretary refers me to a Mr. Gordon, who asks me to come and see him this afternoon. I am thrilled—I can’t believe my luck. It is a brilliant Sunday afternoon, and I feel as if I sprouted wings—the hour-and-a-half subway ride from Brooklyn via Manhattan to Queens seems like I’m flying in a dream.

  Mr. Gordon, a very tall gentleman with a gray mustache, introduces himself as the president of the school board and asks me to take a seat.

  “As a rule, the principal does the hiring of teachers,” Mr. Gordon begins. “But he is in Israel, and will be away all summer. I happened to be here today when you called. And I happen to know the school is looking for a first-grade Hebrew teacher. That’s why I invited you to come down here this afternoon. I hope you don’t mind,” he adds with an apologetic smile. “Do you have experience teaching first grade?”

  I respond by summarizing the history of my teaching career, and Mr. Gordon listens with fascination. “I am not an educator, nor a school administrator,” Mr. Gordon apologizes once again. “I don’t know Hebrew, and I don’t know anything about teaching. I’m a businessman. I can only judge by personality. I believe you have the personality that a teacher should have. As a businessman I believe that with you we are getting a good deal. I am taking the liberty of offering you the position.” Rising to his feet, Mr. Gordon extends his hand. “Miss Friedman, I hope you’ll consider my offer. Will you let me know as soon as you can?”

  I also rise, and put my hand into Mr. Gordon’s large palm.

  “Is now soon enough, Mr. Gordon?”

  A wide smile brightens the agreeable face. “Soon enough, Miss Friedman. Welcome to the school. I hope you’ll be happy here. I know the children will be lucky to have you,” Mr. Gordon says warmly. “You’ll receive written confirmation of the appointment by mail. As to the pay scale, it’s standard. The contract will be drawn up with the principal when he returns.”

  I don’t ask what standard means. All I know is: I have the job! The thrill vibrates through me as I skip along Jamaica Avenue toward the elevated train. I am a teacher again!

  Isn’t life magnificent? To be a teacher in America … a dream come true … without a teacher’s diploma … without the precious J.E.C. membership card! And without even a high school diploma! But that’s a deep, dark secret known only to a select few!

  A week later when I receive the written confirmation, I give notice to Mr. Epstein. Sally and Evelyn, and even Miss Sokol, are sad to see me go. Leaving is more painful than I thought it would be.

  Bubi, Mommy, Uncle Martin, and Aunt Celia share my happiness, and they are proud of my having landed a teaching job in America. But Uncle Martin has reservations about the school’s location.

  “Couldn’t you have secured a job in Brooklyn?” he asks with concern. “It’s madness to travel all that distance every day.”

  The distance does not worry me at all. I am drunk with happiness, and can’t wait to share it with Alex. Next Sunday I wait until after the hour of magic when Alex and I share our creative endeavors. As Alex sits down to his grand piano and begins to play, the room fills with the heavenly sounds and my heart brims with a cavalcade of emotions. I must control the tremor that reverberates across my whole being, brings tears to my eyes. Alex must not see … must not notice. I would not be able to explain such an intense reaction to his music on my part. I myself don’t understand it. Why do I feel piercing pain at my happiest moments? This commingling of pleasure and pain … why?

  Thank God Alex does not look up or turn around when he completes a piece but goes on to the next, giving me ample time to compose myself. When he is through he rises and takes a playful bow toward me, his entire audience.

  “Wie gefellt es Ihnen gnadige Fraulein?” (How do you like it, gracious young lady?) he asks with mock formality in German, and the lighthearted, comical gesture dispels my turbulent mood like magic.

  “Wunderbar!” I exclaim, and we both laugh.

  “Your poetry is next!” Alex sings out, and we sit next to each other on the couch, and I timidly hold two shee
ts of paper.

  “I brought two poems,” I say softly. “The others I wrote this week… . I don’t know about them. I don’t know if they’re good enough… .”

  “Let’s hear these two now. Next week I hope you’ll bring the others too.”

  I read my poems, one by one, first “The Beggar in Munich” and then “A Pile of Shoes,” and Alex listens, his eyebrows drawn together with concentration, his eyes two shimmering indigo pools.

  “Angel, what talent…” Alex murmurs. “These poems break the heart. Their deep sadness breaks my heart. You’re but a child, so young … so full of effervescence, and yet … this heartbreaking sadness …” Alex reaches out and his large, warm hand encloses mine. “Angel, I want to make it up to you. I want to make this sadness disappear.”

  “Thank you, Alex. You already have.”

  “I want to make you happy, Elli. If you’ll only let me.”

  Alex now takes both my hands into his and faces me with an intent look in his eyes, a secretive smile playing on his lips.

  “This was to be a surprise, but I can’t keep it a secret any longer,” he says, and gives a happy sigh. “You know I have had plans for you … wonderful plans. You know, angel, I believe you’d make a superb laboratory technician. You have a scientific mind and deft hands—the makings of a first-class lab technician. Lab technicians are paid quite well. You can go far. And now, the surprise!”

  My heart is pounding. I want to avert my face but can’t: Alex’s eyes are dancing with excitement—powerful magnets.

  “I have enrolled you for a six-month course at the Mandel School for Medical Training!”

  There is a momentary silence that seems to last forever. Alex is searching my eyes, my face, for my reaction, and I’m lost for words. Finally I burst out, deeply moved and desperate. “Oh, Alex … what can I say? Thank you for your generosity, for your concern. For your thoughtfulness. But … I want to be a teacher. That’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  Alex does not seem to hear.

  “As a lab technician you’d share my field,” he continues, and his eyes reflect unclouded enthusiasm. “Later you’d specialize in hematology, and we will work together.”