I tell my brother about the chicken market. He knows all about chicken markets but has never been to one. “I don’t think it’s for you,” he muses. “It’s too American.” The he remembers: “Mr. Rosenfeld phoned while you were out. He wants to introduce you to his nephew. Asked that you call him back.”
“Who is Mr. Rosenfeld?”
“He’s Uncle Abish’s friend, the banker. He met you at their house. He wants you to call him up, and he’ll set up the meeting with the nephew. Just call him. What can you lose?”
Bubi hands me the notepaper with Mr. Rosenfeld’s phone number, and I dial. Mr. Rosenfeld is not in his office, and I leave a message with his secretary. When Mr. Rosenfeld returns my call, he gets straight to the point. His nephew is a decent fellow, makes a good living, is looking for a wife, and Mr. Rosenfeld believes I am the right match.
“You two should meet on a blind date and take it from there,” he says cheerfully, matter-of-factly.
“What’s a blind date?”
“When a boy and girl go out on a date without having met before. American girls don’t like to go on blind dates; it’s below them. But you are a new immigrant. You shouldn’t hesitate.”
“Still, I’d like to know something about your nephew before I go out with him.”
“What do you have to know? I told you everything there is to know. He’s a decent fellow with a good income. His name is Neal. I’ll give him your phone number, and he’ll call you.”
“Is he … what’s his educational background?”
“You mean, is he a high school graduate? He is.”
“How about college?”
“No college. He’s a decent fellow—what more do you want?”
“Did he go to a yeshiva?”
“Even yeshiva you want? You know, girls like you shouldn’t be so picky. You should be happy to get a decent fellow.”
“Girls like me … what do you mean by that, Mr. Rosenfeld?”
“I saw the number on your arm. We all know what happened over there, in the camps. We heard how young girls like you survived by entertaining the German soldiers. Those who refused were killed. Only those who were willing to survive at any price made it. Girls like that should be grateful if a decent fellow in America is willing to marry them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rosenfeld,” I say with a steady voice, and place the telephone receiver in its cradle. A minute later it rings again. It’s Mr. Rosenfeld.
“What happened? You hung up? But I wasn’t finished.”
“Yes, you were, Mr. Rosenfeld,” I say steadily like a robot, and like a robot once again place the receiver in its cradle.
“What’s going on?” My brother asks, and when I tell him slowly, quietly, my voice hoarse with emotion, my brother’s eyes fill with a flame I cannot identify. Is it pain? Sadness? Is it helpless rage?
On Saturday night I go to Lillian’s chicken market.
The narrow corridor is lined, one side girls, the opposite side boys, engaged in noisy conversation punctuated with shrieks, laughter, and horseplay. It is incredibly crowded and I can see neither Sally nor Evelyn. I must get out. I am ready to flee but a long leg in gray trousers blocks my path.
“Are you leaving already? We haven’t even met.”
“Sorry. It’s too noisy for me here. Too crowded. If you don’t mind …” I point at the leg. “I’d like to pass.”
He draws his leg out of my path, and I make my way, painstakingly, to the exit. The owner of the gray trouser leg follows me to the door. “May I walk with you? It’s too noisy for me, too.”
As I reach for the doorknob, his gaze falls on the number on my arm. I can see shock register in the brown eyes.
“I … I would prefer to walk alone. Forgive me. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Chapter Nineteen
ALEX IS BACK
Tonight I am unable to elude my nightmares, to employ my skill so finely honed throughout the years, to let them float away like a kite and slip beneath them into sleep. Tonight my nightmares have the upper hand. I flee desperately but the rabbi waves a number in the air… . I know that number well. It’s not my phone number. Mr. Rosenfeld’s nephew keeps dialing the number, and I’m haunted by the sound of incessant ringing as the bloodhounds pounce on the telephone and I shriek, “It’s not my telephone number… .Can you hear?” But they pounce on me and maul my arm. The numbers bleed as the telephone rings on and on… .
I reach for the receiver. “Hello … hello.”
Mother is awakened by my voice. “Who are you talking to? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Wrong number. Let’s go back to sleep.”
I toss and turn for the rest of the endless, interminable night.
I need someone to help me cope with the turmoil in my soul, with this hurt that gnaws at my insides. To whom can I turn? Not Mother. How can I burden her? And Bubi, I saw the pain in his eyes when I told him of Mr. Rosenfeld’s insinuation. Aunt Celia or Uncle Martin … how can I inflict fresh agony on them? And besides, their reaction would only intensify mine. Sally and Evelyn, and even Judy and her friends, belong to another world … another planet.
Alex! He would understand. He would sense my pain. Oh, how I miss him! How I miss his caring, his fatherly concern, his wide, masculine shoulders … his strength!
I go about my Sunday-morning chores with the restlessness of a caged lion, helping Aunt Celia and Mother with housecleaning, laundry, ironing. When I dismiss Mother’s repeated questions about what’s bothering me, she chalks it up to “that time of the month” and begins to fuss.
“Why don’t you have a glass of warm milk and crawl into bed? You’ll feel better after a short nap. Leave the ironing to us. Here,” Mommy hands me a glass, and pours milk into it from the pot on the stove. “Drink it, Elli.”
Balancing the glass of milk on a small tray, I go to the bedroom and carefully close the door behind me. With trembling fingers I dial Alex’s telephone number. What will he say? How will he say it? His tone—will it be icy or hoarse with resentment? Will he call me to task? Or just hang up as soon as he hears my voice?
“Hello?” My heart beats so loud I can barely hear my own voice. “Hello?”
“Hello? Who’s this? Elli? Is it really you?” The familiar voice, the same caressing, warm tone. My heart leaps to my throat.
“Yes, it’s me, Alex… . How are you?”
“I can’t believe you actually called me! How are you?” Time stands still. Nothing has changed. Oh, it’s just like before. “Elli, are you there?”
“Yes, Alex, I’m here. I was just wondering … can we meet some time? Any time you are free.”
“I am free … now. Do you want to meet today? This afternoon? I can come right over.”
“Right now? Yes, I’m free right now. Alex … I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
A tremor passes through my body as I place the telephone receiver in its cradle. Whatever possessed me to do this, to invite Alex to come over? All I wanted was to hear his voice, to talk to him on the telephone. What changed my resolve? Was it his voice, the caring in his voice? And now what have I started?
“Where are you going?” Mother wants to know.
“Oh, just out. I won’t be long.”
“For a walk? It’s much too cool outside. You haven’t been feeling well all morning. Is it wise to go for a walk? At least take your warm overcoat.”
I cannot lie to Mother. I would rather risk her annoyance at my behavior than lie. Mother, Bubi, Celia, and Martin leapt for joy when Alex and I broke up. They were concerned that I wouldn’t be able to stand up to the challenge of Alex’s barrage of phone calls. But when the phone calls died out and weeks passed without Alex and I seeing each other, everyone brightened as if a cloud passed from their horizon.
“I’m not walking. I’m going for a ride.”
“A ride? With whom?”
“With Alex.”
“Alex?” Mother’s eyes are wide blue sauce
rs.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t be long.”
As she sees me to the door, Mother’s face is white alabaster and her lips are a tight line drawn with a thin pencil.
“Please, Mom, don’t worry. I’ll be back within the hour.”
I skip down the stairs, two at a time. In front of the building Alex flings open the car door. His joy is open like the cloudless sky, and I bask in its glow.
“Angel, I missed you.”
“I missed you, too, Alex.”
“Let’s go to our favorite place, okay?”
I nod silently, and Alex drives south on Ocean Avenue toward the beach, until he reaches the bay where fishing boats bob on the waves. At night the moon used to sway here among them. But it’s still too early for the moon, the sky is overcast, and a dark mist rises among the boats.
“Are you in the mood for a milk shake?” Alex asks, laughing. Alex remembers my love of milk shakes.
“A wonderful idea.” I play along. “A milk shake would be just perfect!”
The cafe on Seagirt Avenue is empty, and we take a seat in the corner that affords an unimpeded view of the wharf. The sweet, creamy liquid has an instant effect on my spirits.
“Now, angel, tell me, did you call because you missed me? Or was there something troubling you … something that you wanted to talk about? Please understand, I’m happy as long as you called and we are together again. I admit, though, I’d love to hear that you missed me.”
“Both,” I confess, although I no longer need to talk about the things that turned my night into a string of nightmares. Just being here with Alex—his company, his creating the ideal setting—and the nightmares dissolve like the bubbles of foam in my tall glass. The horror of the tattooed number on my arm as my phone number, the terrible insinuation, the shock in the brown eyes at last night’s party—all are faint echoes now … no longer chafing at my soul.
But Alex must have answers. He pursues the subject in the face of my reluctance. “Don’t hesitate to pour your heart out, angel. I know something was troubling you when you called; I could tell. You remember, I’ve told you: My heart’s a radar where you’re concerned. It picks up your vibrations. Am I right?”
I cannot avoid Alex’s insistent gaze, and begin to talk. I tell him everything that has happened since I saw him last. Alex listens intently, and his eyes turn moist. I put my hand over his lightly.
“Thank you, Alex. For understanding.”
“Thank you. For trusting me.” Alex takes my hand, raises it to his lips, then rising, helps me to my feet. “Let’s go for a stroll on the wharf. The air is magnificent, even under an overcast sky.”
“I promised Mother that I would be back within an hour. I’m afraid it’s past the deadline. I must get home.”
“Will I see you again?”
“I do want to see you,” I admit.
I do want to see him, be with him, tell him of my joys and agonies … share his triumphs. But can we be together without complications … without commitments … without arousing my family’s objections. Can it be?
“Next Sunday? If that’s okay with you.”
“Next Sunday … But Alex … please, no commitments.”
The sudden, hearty chuckle, and I know Alex is back in his element. “No commitments; only friendship. Is friendship okay? In your vocabulary, what’s the definition of friendship—commitment or no commitment?”
“Friendship is free and open, without constraints … without obligations. It’s a relationship of give and take, freely offered, freely accepted,” I recite as if reading from a dictionary.
“And freely rejected!” Another loud chuckle, and I’m keenly aware of Alex’s implication.
“That too.”
Alex executes another perfect U-turn in front of our building, pulls alongside the curb, and brings the large car to a standstill. Now he is no longer laughing, and his blue eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses gaze at me earnestly.
“I accept your terms, Elli, in hopes that in time they will change. I believe they will.”
“Alex, you must promise. No pressure.”
“It’s a deal. No commitments, no pressure. Will I see you next Sunday?”
“Alex, I hope so. But please don’t come upstairs now. You see, Mommy has to be prepared … I must explain to her … I must speak to her alone.”
“And you must speak to your brother, and they together must speak to your aunt and uncle. Oh, how I love the Friedman gang! I did miss them. I hope next Sunday I can see them all!”
Chapter Twenty
OUR NEW HOME
“The Friedman Gang,” as Alex calls my family, is busding with excitement when I get home, and not one of them asks a single question about my “date.” What’s going on? While I was out Uncle Martin returned from the synagogue with exciting news: Mr. Kramer confided to him that a three-room apartment was about to become available in the building, and he promised Uncle to reserve it for Mother and me! My aunt and uncle’s building is rent-controlled. The apartments in these buildings are extremely hard to come by, and prospective tenants vie in offering “key money,” large sums under the table to managers or superintendents, to have their names placed on waiting lists.
Uncle Martin and dour Mr. Kramer, the landlord, attend the same synagogue, a small, intimate house of worship about a block and a half from our house. The two men regularly meet in the doorway of our building and talk politics along the way. They have developed a friendly regard for each other as they have strolled to and from the evening prayers. Misanthropic Mr. Kramer seems to have grown quite fond of Uncle Martin, to the point where he has actually smiled and returned my greeting when I passed him in the hallway in Uncle’s company. It is public knowledge that the elder of Mr. Kramer’s two sons, who manages our building, is animated solely by the dynamics of greed, so you can imagine Uncle’s surprise this evening when Mr. Kramer drew him aside and hinted that we could have the apartment without money under the table.
“It’s nothing short of a miracle!” Aunt Celia exclaims. “How is it possible? I can’t believe Kramer Junior will let his father just give the apartment away!”
“I asked him the same question,” Uncle Martin reports. “‘Don’t worry about my son,’ he answered. ’I’ll take care of it on my end. At your end, you take care that your sister-in-law be ready to move on short notice, perhaps in a day or two. And make sure not to breathe a word to anyone in the meantime,’ he warned.”
For me the news of the apartment is a double miracle. For the next couple of weeks it occupies center stage and diverts my family’s attention from my long telephone conversations and dates with Alex.
My family’s preoccupation with Mr. Kramer’s news is complicated by not knowing whether the apartment would be available for our occupancy by the beginning of next month or only the following month. It all seems so mysterious, and as time passes, nerve-racking.
One Friday evening as he returns from the synagogue, Uncle Martin’s sheepish smile reminds me of my little charges in the orphanage in Bratislava, especially seven-year-old Hesky’s mischievous looks whenever he was hiding something. That gives me a clue that Uncle has something up his sleeve. I keep a close watch on Uncle’s face all through his chanting the kiddush, the sanctification of the wine, his recital of the blessing over the loaves of challah, the white bread, his breaking the bread and handing a portion to each family member. No one else seems to pay attention to the impish, secretive “Hesky look” that does not leave his lips, his features. And only when he has swallowed his portion of the bread and is free to talk do I burst out, “Uncle has good news for us! Let’s hear it, Uncle Martin!”
“Whatever gives you that idea?” Uncle pretends annoyance, his face beaming.
“It’s the apartment!” I shriek. “I bet it’s the apartment.”
All eyes focus on Uncle Martin and watch excitement light up his face.
“This devil of a girl has jumped the gun on me again! I wanted to pop
the news during dinner. The apartment is vacant, and Kramer wants you to move in by Sunday… . Actually he wants you to move Saturday night, during the night so no one in the building would notice.”
“Hooray!” I shriek, and jump up to hug Uncle with such vehemence he almost topples over.
“Mazel tov!” Mother shouts. “Mazel tov. You did it!”
As soon as I release Uncle from my bear hug, Bubi circles the dining room table to approach him and shake his hand. “Congratulations, Uncle Martin. But what’s the intrigue? Why move like thieves in the night?”
“It seems Kramer Junior promised the apartment to other tenants, a young married couple, and they are expected to move in on Monday. But the old man wants us to preempt … to present his son with an accomplished fact. Once your mother will have occupied the apartment, young Kramer will have no choice but to accept the inevitable.”
“What if finding us occupying the apartment against his wishes, Kramer Junior throws us out?” Mother asks.
“The old man has reassured me that won’t happen.”
“What about the young couple—where will they go?” I interject.
“It seems the young couple gave Kramer Junior key money weeks ago but didn’t move. For some reason they changed their minds. When Kramer Junior refused to return their key money, they resigned themselves to move in. Your preemptive move will, in effect, solve the young couple’s problem. Kramer Junior will have no choice but return the key money to the young couple!”
“Sounds like a chess game, Martin, if you ask me,” Aunt Celia observes. “I hope your moves will win the game for Laura and Elli.”
“Laura is in the fortunate position of having nothing to lose. We’ll all pitch in and move over your things, Laurika. We’ll carry over the Castro convertible for the two of you to sleep on, a small table, a few chairs, until you buy your own furniture.”
“That may take some time,” Mother muses.
“We don’t need these pieces. Feel free to make use of them as long as it takes.”
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