Hello, America

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  The blood rushes to my face. I’m shaking. I lose my cool. “This number was put on my arm in Auschwitz by people like you!” I scream. My voice must have shattered the interminable din because at once a dead hush descends on the subway car and all eyes turn in our direction.

  The woman’s face is livid. “I’m not German. Only my husband is a German,” she shouts. “My parents came over from Germany many years ago and I was born here. I’m an American!”

  “You don’t have to be German to be anti-Semitic,” I shout back. “I don’t care whether you’re German or not, but you’re an anti-Semite. People like you put six million Jews to death!”

  At this point the train pulls into the station, the doors open, and the husky blond woman runs out of the car. The subway audience bursts into applause, and I burst out crying.

  I cry with embarrassment, with the mortification for having made a spectacle of myself, for having lost control—for exposing my vulnerabilities.

  And yet the applause in the subway car is my vindication. It has answered a question I was afraid to ask. Their hearty applause told me that all these subway riders disagreed with the blond Amazon’s senseless prejudice … that they were not on the side of the killers. It provided me with the answer. Most Americans were not anti-Semitic.

  I pray for this to be true. For me to be happy in my new world I must believe it to be true.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A HOLIDAY IN THE CATSKILLS

  My subway episode comes as a shock to the family. Especially Uncle Martin, the idealist, is incredulous. “I wouldn’t have believed such views are possible in America,” he says and his voice betrays deep disappointment.

  The ringing of the telephone interrupts the discussion, and when he hangs up the phone, Uncle Martin’s eyes sparkle with excitement. The anti-Semitic encounter seems to be forgotten.

  “You have just been invited for a holiday in the Catskills,” he announces. “For the entire Sukkoth holiday: eight days.”

  “In the Catskills?” I ask, astonished. “In the Catskill Mountains? Who has invited us? And why?”

  “It’s a ’welcome to America’ gesture. They heard about your arrival.”

  “Who’s ’they’?”

  “You know my cousins, the Wallersteins? Well, the family owns resort hotels in the Catskill Mountains. One is the Mountain View Hotel and the other, the Pine Forest. We are invited to the Pine Forest. It’s run by my cousin Nina, her son, and daughter-in-law. It was Nina’s daughter-in-law, Emily, who has just called.”

  The Catskill Mountains have occupied a special place in my imagination ever since I read about their magic spell in an English reader I found while foraging for food in the rubble of an American army base. The book became my Bible for learning English. I memorized every word of every story even before I knew the meaning of the words or how to pronounce them. The first story was the legend of Rip Van Winkle, the Dutch colonist who went hunting in the Catskill Mountains of New York, only to meet a group of strange little men. Dazed from their liquor, Rip Van Winkle lay down to take a nap but fell asleep for twenty years. When he awoke and returned to his village, he was astonished to find everything changed, as if by magic.

  This strange tale became one with the Catskill Mountains in my mind. I have often wondered what it would be like to sleep high in the mountains and to drop out of life for twenty years. How would that feel? How would I cope with it?

  Three years ago Mother and I spent a happy summer in the scenic Carpathian mountain range in a camp for orphaned children where I worked as assistant counselor. In my free time the two of us went hiking in the hills and boating on the mountain lake, and I remembered the tale of the Catskill Mountains. Since then mountain hiking has remained an impossible dream. Until now.

  “Mommy … Bubi, isn’t it great? We’ll be in the mountains for Sukkoth!”

  “I’m so sorry, Elli. But the invitation does not include your mother. And I’m sorry to say, not your brother either. Only you,” Uncle Martin says.

  “Why not them? I can’t leave them behind. How can I leave the two of them behind while I’m cavorting in the Catskills? Uncle, I’m afraid I cannot … I’ll have to decline the invitation.”

  “Don’t be a fool. Such invitations don’t come a dime a dozen. Who knows when you will have another chance to spend a holiday at such a luxurious resort? And the two of them, your mother and your brother, they’ll be happy spending the holiday together. And they’ll be happy for you. Just don’t be rash. Think before you decline.”

  The vote is unanimous. Both Mother and Bubi insist that I go with my aunt and uncle to the Pine Forest Hotel for the Sukkoth holiday.

  “What will you wear?” Mother, as always, instantaneously confronts practicalities. “Other than the pale blue outfit and red coolie coat Lilly and Abish bought you, you have no dressy clothes. You need at least one more outfit to wear in an elegant place like that. You can’t show up looking like a poor refugee.”

  Uncle Martin brings home a bolt of cloth, a remnant, from the factory, a deep forest green fabric. “How do you like it?” he asks Mother. “An ideal color for Elli. I believe blondes should always wear green. Especially blondes with green eyes.”

  “It’s perfect!” Mother exclaims, measuring the cloth. “Enough for a skirt and a bolero. I’ll get a lighter green remnant, perhaps silk, for a matching blouse.”

  I watch helplessly as Mother works like a fiend in her free time, cuts and measures and sews, the old, battered Singer machine we borrowed whirring late into the night to have the outfit ready in time for my vacation in the Catskills. I have to stand still while Mother tries the blouse on me, then the skirt, while she pins up the hem and adjusts the sleeves, and marks the spots for the buttons. I hate to stand still. I don’t need a new dress, I don’t need all this fuss—all I want is to roam the forest where Rip Van Winkle met Henry Hudson’s funny little men and then slept for twenty years.

  The day of our trip arrives, and my new outfit, a flared skirt and a bolero—a sleeveless short jacket, the “latest fashion rage”—and a matching green silk blouse with large white polka dots and puffed sleeves, is ready. One of my colleagues at Yeshiva of Central Queens lends me a pair of shorts and a matching top, and my gear for an adventure in the mountains is complete.

  At Pennsylvania Station, Celia, Martin, and I board a Greyhound bus bound for South Fallsburg in New York State, the nearest town to the hotel. From there the Pine Forest Hotel is a short taxi ride.

  The bus travels north, then northwest through New York State in the lap of astonishing luxury of nature—deep green forests dotted with lakes and cascading waterfalls, the road rising higher and higher into the bewitching world of the Catskill Mountains.

  From the moment of our arrival I’m intoxicated with the resort’s grounds—the Olympic-size pool, the tennis courts, the elegant lobby, the lavish reception with glamorous women and men sporting deep tans! I feel as if I have been transported into paradise.

  “Tennis?” He is a tall man with dark complexion and dark glasses.

  “Me?” I take a deep breath. “I don’t play. Sorry.”

  “Why not?” He cocks his head and his shiny brown curls fall to one side.

  “I … I don’t know how.”

  “Really? I can teach you.”

  “But I can’t… .I … I don’t have an outfit for tennis.”

  “What you have on is fine.”

  “For tennis? You must wear white … a white top and skirt, a tennis skirt …”

  “Only on a proper tennis court. Here in the country you can wear whatever you want. Your shorts and top are fine. You want to play? You want to learn?” Now his head is cocked even farther to one side, and a coaxing smile plays on his face.

  “Well, I must warn you, I really don’t know how to play. I’m very clumsy. You’ll be frustrated and bored before you’ll succeed in teaching me.”

  “Thank you for the warning. I’ll take note. The rest is up to me.”r />
  After the first half hour of uselessly hopping around missing the ball but not the net, I learn to anticipate the ball and return it more or less accurately. The next two hours are pure magic. I take great delight in striking the ball and watching it fly over the net, in meeting the oncoming shots, and striking again and again.

  “Brava!” The handsome stranger yells. “Bravissima! You are good! How about a cool drink? I’m parched.”

  “Parched means thirsty?”

  “Very thirsty. Are you new to English? By the way, my name is Roberto. Roberto Radames. And yours?”

  “Elli. Elli Friedman.”

  “Are you a newcomer in the country?”

  “What’s today? September twenty-eighth? I’ve been here twenty-two weeks.”

  “That’s all? And your English is not bad.”

  “I learned English before I came.”

  “And tennis two hours ago. You learn fast.”

  We sip orange juice from tall glasses through thin plastic straws, just like Sally and Evelyn did with the milk shake.

  “Why sip through a straw?” I wonder. “It doesn’t seem like an efficient method, too slow when you’re thirsty.”

  Roberto gives a hearty chuckle. “You’re right. But it’s too late. We’ve finished our drinks.”

  At dinner I introduce Roberto to Aunt Celia and Uncle Martin, and the two exchange glances. Later when we are alone, both Celia and Martin bombard me with questions about the “tall, dark, handsome Latin type.” Where is he from? What does he do? How old is he?

  I find out that Roberto also is not American-born. He came from Portugal with his parents and older brother twelve years ago, when he was fourteen. He works as a dental technician, and lives with his parents on Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

  Roberto and I strike a deal—Hebrew for tennis. As Roberto admittedly does not have an extensive Jewish education and does not know any Hebrew but is eager to learn, on our walks I agree to teach him the basics of Hebrew and Judaism.

  On the last day Nina’s son, Miki, asks me to give “a short talk” about the Sukkoth holiday during the farewell dinner.

  “Gladly,” I reply. “It’ll give me the opportunity to thank your parents for this fantastic vacation.”

  It is a beautiful event in the lavishly decorated sukkah. As I look about me at the opulent company seated around the richly laden tables, my self-confidence plummets like a dead bird. Miki is the master of ceremonies, and when it is my turn to speak, his extravagant introduction makes me wish the earth swallowed me. But when I rise to talk, the wholehearted applause of the guests inspires a bit of courage and I deliver my talk in English without a major mishap! At the conclusion of my little lecture I’m deeply moved by the generous reception from the management and the guests, especially when I see my uncle and aunt’s faces beaming with pride.

  After dinner I am swamped by the guests’ questions and flattering comments, and “my cup runneth over.” Isn’t America wonderful? Such bighearted acceptance of my very first lecture in America … delivered in English!

  I am eager to hear Roberto’s comments, and I make a beeline in his direction. But Roberto does not comment. He seems distant. When it’s time to leave he gives me a rather cool farewell, without a single reference to all the plans he proposed only yesterday for our dating in the city.

  Why? What has gone wrong?

  I turn to Miki for an explanation.

  “Your lecture tonight did it,” Miki replies. “American men are afraid of eggheads… . An egghead for a girlfriend?” He shudders. “Especially if she’s a blonde. A blond bombshell turned egghead—what a fiasco! I pity the guy.”

  What’s a bombshell? What’s an egghead? What is Miki talking about?

  Miki, my new tutor, explains the meaning of both. I still don’t understand.

  “Why can’t a blonde be both a bombshell and an egghead?”

  “It just doesn’t happen. Doesn’t work.”

  If you want boys—men—to like you, to be comfortable with you, you keep your mouth shut. Don’t let them find out you are smart. Is this how it works in America?

  Two days after our return to New York, Roberto telephones and asks to see me. We set a date for Sunday afternoon, and Roberto arrives with a bouquet of flowers. When at first he is tense, awkwardly searching for words, I try to ease his discomfort by dismissing the issue. I appreciate his courage. It takes guts to confront an unpleasant issue and to apologize, and I tell him so.

  Although our date ends on a happy note, something has changed. Roberto’s conduct confirms Miki’s observations about bombshells and eggheads. I understand Roberto mistook me for an empty-headed blonde… . And now I no longer want to be his steady date.

  Perhaps one day I will meet a guy for whom I will be neither a bombshell nor an egghead—but just me.

  I think of Alex. Alex loved me not for my blond looks but for my capacity to learn, to absorb. For my talent. But Alex wanted to remake me in his image.

  I must call Sally and Evelyn. Ever since I left the Jewish National Fund almost two months ago, we have kept up contact via telephone. I must speak to them about Roberto, to sound them out, to get their help in figuring out all the confusion in my head.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A BLIND DATE

  Tonight Sally’s phone call comes as a fluky surprise.

  “How did you know I needed to talk to you?” I cry into the mouthpiece. “For days now I intended calling you! Is Evelyn with you?”

  “I’m here, Elli!” Evelyn pipes up on the other line. “Hi!”

  When I tell them the Roberto saga, both girls advise me not to go steady.

  “Not until you meet Mr. Right,” Sally adds.

  “I’m not going steady. But should I go out with him at all? After what happened?”

  “What happened is not so horrendous,” Evelyn says. “Give him a second chance.”

  “Just because he panicked after he heard your lecture … well, I wouldn’t say that’s earth-shattering. Get to know him a little better before you dump him,” Sally advises.

  “But do not agree to go out with him Saturday night if he phones after Thursday,” Evelyn adds. “Even Thursday is a bit late. But definitely not Thursday evening, or Friday.”

  “Suppose he was busy during the week and couldn’t call.”

  “Tough luck,” the two of them shout in unison into the telephone receiver.

  “You say you’re busy on Saturday night,” Sally continues. “A girl should never be available for a date if the guy calls on Thursday evening, and forget about it if he calls on Friday.”

  Luckily Roberto calls early in the week, and we set a date for Saturday night. I enjoy his company, but the spark kindled on the tennis court is gone. He seems ordinary. And I am embarrassed to admit it, but I am troubled by some of his idiosyncrasies, his habit of using the phrase frankly speaking in every third or fourth sentence and the word great to describe almost anything he likes. “Get to know him before you dump him,” Sally advised. I decide to follow Sally’s advice.

  On Sunday morning Roberto unexpectedly telephones, his voice halting, hesitant.

  “Are you free this afternoon… . Can we meet?”

  I am baffled. I must do preparations for my class at the yeshiva. Yet there is something urgent in Roberto’s tone, so I accept the invitation.

  “I can be free in the afternoon, Roberto, if you wish to meet.”

  The sky is overcast and rain hangs in the air when Roberto arrives. He asks that we go on a long drive, “somewhere … anywhere.”

  “Sunday afternoons I have the Monday-morning blues,” he confesses. “I just had to see you.”

  We drive around the beachfront, then head for Prospect Park and drive around the lake in the center of the park. “Sunday afternoons it is hard to face the week… .” he says in a thin voice. “By Monday afternoon it is easier. If only Mondays never happened … if we never had to face life,” Roberto says in a whisper.

  R
oberto drives aimlessly, and I search my mind for amusing things to entertain him, to drive away the “Monday-morning blues”—whatever they are.

  “Thank you for this great outing,” Roberto says two hours later as he pulls alongside the curb near the entrance of our apartment building. “Frankly speaking, this is a first. I’ve never had such a lovely way to beat the blues.”

  “I am happy it worked,” I say awkwardly, not knowing what to do next, what Roberto is going to do next.

  Roberto sits still in the driver’s seat, looking ahead, his eyes fixed on the windshield, on the raindrops as they dance mercilessly on the glass. Then he turns to me, and his face, his eyes, are brimming with sadness. “Elli, you’re a great girl. Thank you again for the greatest Sunday afternoon of my life.”

  What’s going on? Is he going to park? Is he going to walk me to my door? Or is this goodbye, right here in the car? We both wait in the no-man’s-land of silence. I open the car door.

  “I am happy you feel better, Roberto. I hope you feel able to face the week.”

  Roberto nods. I wave to him from the sidewalk, and he revs the engine.

  Days and then weeks go by and Roberto doesn’t call.

  Why? What happened?

  Neither Sally nor Evelyn can figure it out.

  Why am I tormented so by Roberto’s behavior, by his not calling? I am not in love, was dating him only to “give it a chance,” whatever “it” was. Then what troubles me so—the unknown? The unexplained? Being rejected? Was I actually rejected? Even that I don’t know.

  “You need a new date,” Sally prescribes a cure. “You must meet someone nice, not a lunatic like that Roberto.”

  “Lillian’s giving a party, it’s going to be a chicken market. You may meet someone there.”

  “A chicken market? What’s that?”

  “A singles’ party. Guys looking for girls. No pretenses. Everyone there is looking. Come with us; you’ll meet someone.”

  “But I don’t know Lillian. How can I show up at her party without an invitation?”

  “You don’t need an invitation to a chicken market. People hear about it through the grapevine. Besides, you know us. We are inviting you.”