Hello, America

by Livia Bitton-Jackson

  How long will it take for Mother and me to earn enough money for the furnishings of three rooms and a kitchen? Beds and bed linen, night tables, chests, a dining room table and chairs, a kitchen table and chairs, a couch and a coffee table for the living room, dishes, pots, and pans … Who knows when that will happen? It may take a year or more.

  “Enough talk,” Aunt Celia declares. “Let’s eat. We can continue after dinner. After dinner we can discuss the strategy of the move, all the details involved.”

  During dinner Bubi rises to his feet to make a surprise announcement. His eyes brilliant with repressed excitement, he reveals the existence of a special bank account he opened years ago just for this occasion. He has been saving all these years, working as a waiter in the Catskills during the summers, anticipating the day when Mommy and I would arrive and he would have the funds to furnish our home.

  “And now, thank God, that day has arrived,” he concludes with a contented smile. “The funds are there for all the furnishings, from A to Z.”

  I cannot believe my ears. Mother, Aunt, Uncle, and I are stunned into momentary silence, then Mother says, “Bubi, this is truly a surprise. It is very touching. But we must not take the money you saved all these years. It wouldn’t be fair. Elli and I, we are working… .”

  “But this is what I saved it for. The apartment will be also my home—”

  “Still. You’re a young man. You’ll need your savings—”

  “Look, Mommy, if it makes you feel better, let’s call it a loan. Okay?”

  “So it’s settled.” Uncle Martin raises his glass of Tokay wine. “Here is to the move! And to loyal sons like Bubi! And to a happy new home for all of you, all of us!”

  “Amen,” Mother says, raising her glass, her voice thick with emotion. “To a new life in America!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE MOVE!

  I have never realized moving could be so thrilling. The cloak-and-dagger operation under the cover of the night of course adds to the excitement.

  As Bubi has to return to the yeshiva tonight and cannot help out, I advise that we include the superintendent, Mr. Jackson, in the conspiracy, so he can help us carry the larger pieces—a table, the couch, and even an armchair Aunt Celia insisted we take from her living room. A black man with an impish conspiratorial wink, Mr. Jackson declares that he is “happy to help out, especially to lend a hand to my friend Miss Friedman.” A special bond of friendship has developed between Mr. Jackson and me during debates about his proud insistence that the ancient Hebrews were black, a claim that has prompted me to call him my Hebrew Brother.

  There is no elevator, and every item taken from my aunt and uncle’s apartment has to be maneuvered first one flight down the stairs, then carried noiselessly across the large lobby to the front staircase, and there hauled one flight up the stairs to our new apartment.

  Aunt Celia is the lookout. Before each haul she surveys the stairwell and the lobby and signals a warning the very moment she hears someone enter the building. Only after all is quiet do we resume our clandestine moves as swiftly and unobtrusively as possible.

  Our footsteps and voices echo in the large, empty rooms. The bedroom is bereft of furniture, while the Castro convertible in one corner of the spacious living and dining room complex and the solitary armchair in the other look a bit forlorn. The kitchen holds a pleasant surprise: The stove, refrigerator, and kitchen cabinets on the walls are integral parts of the apartment! We can immediately put the plates, cutlery, pots, and pans Aunt Celia has given us into the kitchen cupboard. There is even a built-in broom closet in the kitchen! And wonderful walk-in closets in the foyer and the bedroom. We can immediately hang our clothes and place the bed linen and towels Aunt Celia has lent us on the wide, ample shelves.

  It’s almost 2:00 A.M. when I close the door behind Celia, Martin, and Mr. Jackson, and they tiptoe silently down the corridor, back to their apartments. In our new home all our things are in place.

  “Thank God the move has been accomplished, and besides us no one in the building is the wiser.” I sigh with relief. “Except, of course, Mr. Kramer Senior.”

  “And Mr. Kramer Junior will be tomorrow,” Mother adds the ominous thought. “And then? All hell will break loose.”

  “Let’s wait and see,” I say to calm Mother’s frayed nerves. Mother would have been happier if the move was aboveboard. She does not care for underhanded maneuvers. “All this is too devious for my taste,” she kept muttering all night in the heat and haste of the move. “Too deceitful.”

  “Kramer Junior may not find it out until Monday. Monday you and I are at work. Early Monday morning we are out of the house. We might not even be present when all hell breaks loose. We’ll be spared all the excitement, you and I.”

  “That reminds me. We must not forget to buy a broom on our way home on Monday, and a dustpan.”

  Of all the non sequiturs, this takes the cake. After all these years I am still amazed at Mother’s remarkable capacity to rebound from distress to mundane practicality. I look about me in the bare apartment with its overwhelming emptiness.

  “Oh, of course! All we need here is a broom. And a dustpan!”

  “Well, take a look. There is litter everywhere. Tomorrow we’ll borrow cleaning utensils from Cilike and start scrubbing this place.”

  “Okay, Mommy.” I yawn. “We’ll do that tomorrow. But tonight let’s go to bed.”

  Sunday morning Mother’s cheerful voice wakes me. True to her word, she has collected all my aunt’s sundry cleaning utensils, and the room is cluttered with dust mops and dust rags, huge sponges and pails of water. The dismal scene presents a sharp contrast to Mother’s cheerful tone.

  “A beautiful winter morning!” Mother cries. “Come to the window. Look!”

  With great reluctance I crawl out of my warm nest on the convertible sofa and approach the window. Ocean Avenue has been converted into a winter wonderland! A white blanket of snow covers everything in sight! The bare tree branches that only yesterday were like gray fingers threateningly pointing to the sky are now enormous bouquets of white magnolias, rows and rows of white bouquets lining the street as far as the eye can see.

  “How do you like it? The first snowfall in America.”

  “Beautiful!”

  “Doesn’t it inspire you to plunge into work, to want to scrub everything as white as snow?”

  “That it certainly doesn’t. If anything, it inspires me to write a poem.”

  “I was afraid of that. A poem will not get this house clean. Can you spare some inspiration for cleaning the house, and when it is done use the rest for writing your poem?”

  “As if I had a choice!” I laugh at Mother. “The poem will have to play second fiddle… .”

  Mother and I have a quick breakfast of coffee and toast, and then plunge into work.

  I kick off my shoes, hitch my skirt high above my knees with clothespins, and begin mopping operations. The living room done, I begin scrubbing the kitchen floor, when the doorbell rings.

  “It must be Celia. She promised to bring some more rags.”

  I pad through sudsy puddles and open the door to reveal Alex standing in the doorway with a mass of red roses. “Oh, my God! Alex! How did you find us here?”

  “Your aunt told me the good news. Congratulations,” Alex says, beaming, and hands me a bunch of roses. A second bunch remains cradled in his arm as his glance sweeps from my hair pinned into a bun to my hitched-up skirt and bare feet. “I see you are ready for the concert!”

  “The concert … Oh, my God, I forgot all about it!”

  The noon rehearsal at Carnegie Hall … in all the feverish activity it slipped my mind. And Alex is here according to plan at eleven, to take me. Now it’s too late. I can’t drop everything and leave it to Mother to finish the cleaning all by herself. How can I go to a concert while Mother stays behind to scrub floors? And besides, I will not be able to get ready on time.

  “Who’s there?” Mother calls
from the bathroom.

  “Alex is here, Mom.”

  Mother adjusts the kerchief on her hair and hurries out, smiling. “Hello, Herr Doctor. How did you find us?”

  Alex hands Mother the roses. “Congratulations, Frau Friedman. Much luck in your new home.”

  Mother is pleased. “Thank you. How very gallant of you, Herr Doctor. My favorite flowers—red roses.”

  Luckily the living room floor is fairly dry, and Mother and I usher Alex to the sofa.

  “You’re so elegant, Herr Doctor. A special occasion?”

  “Alex has come to take me to a concert. Forgive me, Alex, but in all the frenzy of the unexpected move I forgot about our date… .And I forgot to let you know. So sorry that we have to miss it.”

  “When is the concert?” Mother inquires. “Where?”

  “At noon. Carnegie Hall, in Manhattan,” I answer.

  “How long does it take to get there?”

  “At this hour on Sunday?” Alex says. “Normally half an hour. Today because of the snow, it may take a bit longer.”

  “So what’s the problem, Elli? Why can’t you go? Now it’s barely eleven o’clock. How long does it take you to get ready?”

  “Frau Friedman, I understand. I don’t expect your daughter—under the circumstances—to leave all this and rush off to a concert. Although …” Alex turns to me with an amused smile. “I can see Cinderella is dressed for the occasion.”

  All at once I become fully aware of my hitched-up skirt, bare feet, messy hair.

  “Oh, my God! What a sight … forgive me …” I cry, laughing and hurry to the bathroom. The bathroom mirror reveals my shocking appearance. I quickly wash my face, remove the pins and run a comb through my hair, unclip my skirt, dry my feet, put on a pair of shoes, and rejoin Mother and Alex in the living room.

  “Cinderella turned into a princess!” Alex pronounces.

  “Alex, forgive me. There’s really no time to get ready to go out.”

  “Come, Elli, don’t be so difficult. Get dressed quick, and go to the concert. I’ll manage to mop up the rest.”

  I cast a pleading glance at Alex, and he takes up my cause. “Frau Friedman, there’s no need. We’ll take a rain check on the concert.”

  “Let’s have some coffee,” I suggest. “The kitchen floor has dried in the meantime.”

  In one of the cartons I find the percolator we received from Alex, plug it in the outlet, and soon the aroma of coffee perking fills the air. While I set out the coffee cups Mother finds an empty jar and, arranging the roses, places them at the center of the kitchen table.

  “I must thank you for this coffee break, Alex,” I say. “Mom and I sure needed it.”

  “I still wish you’d go,” Mother pleads. “Herr Doctor, can you make her change her mind?”

  Alex laughs. “Don’t you know your daughter? If you can’t change her mind, nobody can. But I must confess, I’m happier to drink coffee in your new kitchen than listen to a rehearsal at Carnegie Hall.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE POCONOS

  Today I must cut my lunch short at the yeshiva: I’m in a hurry to get to a meeting of my English Conversation Club at Erasmus Hall High. Without waiting for my subway companions, I am flying past the principal’s office when I hear the rabbi call after me.

  “Miss Friedman, just a moment! Would you step in for a moment?” Oh, no, not today! What can be the matter? Since our last chat when he cautioned me against speaking about the camps, I have been wearing long sleeves to cover the tattooed number on my arm, to avoid answering questions, to avoid any reference to the camps. What can be the matter now?

  “Miss Friedman, would you like to work in a summer camp for children and earn some extra money?”

  The word camp sends a shiver down my spine. “Camp?” I ask, astonished.

  Seeing my shock, he hastens to explain, “You see, here during the months of July and August there are recreational programs in the mountains for school children. They call them summer camps. Trained educators work as counselors and teaching staff. You as a teacher are qualified, so I recommended you for the job of counselor in one of the most prestigious summer camps. But, of course, only if you’re interested …”

  Of course I’m interested. To spend the summer in the mountains, and be paid for it! I am very interested. And the rabbi has actually recommended me! I am deeply moved.

  “Thank you, Rabbi, for your recommendation. But I’d like to know more about this job. Where’s the camp? What does a counselor do? What is the salary?”

  “Camp Massad is in Pennsylvania, in the Pocono Mountains. It’s a Hebrew-speaking camp; the parents send their children to this camp to learn Hebrew. As a counselor you would be taking care of a group of children, supervise activities, lessons… . I don’t know the details. If you are interested in the job, I’ll set up an appointment for you with the director, Mr. Shlomo Schulsinger. He will give you the exact job description. The salary is not high—I think it’s close to a hundred dollars for the summer—but you get tips from parents and they make up the bulk of the pay. If you want, I can call him right now. They are hiring now… . As a matter of fact, I hope it’s not too late.”

  “Thank you very much. Yes, I believe … please call him now … if you don’t mind.”

  I glance at my watch. My meeting! The rabbi picks up the telephone receiver, and I walk out into the outer office and there I wait anxiously while the murmur of the conversation drones on.

  “Miss Friedman.” The rabbi beams when I reenter his office. “We are lucky. We secured the very last position as counselor. He wants to see you today. You can go there straight from here. The offices of the Histadrut that runs the camp are in downtown Manhattan; it’s on your way home to Brooklyn… .”

  “I’m sorry, today I can’t. I must hurry to a meeting. Can the appointment be changed for Wednesday?”

  Rabbi Charney calls again and, still holding the receiver, nods in my direction. “Wednesday’s fine. At three o’clock?”

  “Three o’clock is fine, thank you.” I nod back.

  Mr. Schulsinger is a man of few words. On Wednesday at 3:00 P.M. sharp I enter his office, and at 3:15 sharp I exit his office, hired as a counselor in Camp Massad Aleph in Pennsylvania, starting in little more than a month.

  Preparations for camp are exciting, overwhelming, and expensive. I am given a list of things to buy and an exact number in each category—two pairs of long trousers, two pairs of shorts; six undershirts; six Tshirts; six bath, six facial, and six hand towels; four pillow cases; four fitted and four flat sheets; eight pairs of heavy socks; one pair of boots; two pairs of tennis shoes; three sweaters; four sweatshirts; two duffel bags… . What are sweatshirts? What’s a duffel bag? I am instructed to have name tags printed with my name and sewn into every item of clothing and bedding!

  Summer heat grips the city with a fiery fist. Sweat pours down my face as I am stitching name tags into woolen blankets, into warm trousers, sweaters, heavy sweatshirts… .This is insane, all these winter clothes. Are we preparing to spend the summer in Alaska? But Bubi knows better. The Poconos are high mountains, he says; it gets quite cold there in the evening. I still can’t believe it. I still think someone in the camp management must have gone mad and made an outrageous mistake, but I keep stitching and mopping my brow. The duffel bags have to be ready for pickup on June 20, five days before departure for camp.

  On the last day of school my little first-graders have a surprise for me. Two representatives of the class, a girl and a boy, with glowing faces, present me with a large box wrapped in shiny pink paper.

  “Open it! Open it!” The class chants, and I unwrap the box, carefully saving the shiny wrapping paper. The class holds its breath as I open the box and remove layers of tissue paper, exposing a colorful ceramic fruit bowl. When I lift the bowl out of the box, the class cheers and applauds.

  “It’s beautiful!” I exclaim, and pass among the rows, hugging each girl and boy. “Thank you,
thank you, thank you… .”

  I write the address of Camp Massad on the blackboard, and all the children promise to write me letters during the summer, and I promise to respond to each.

  “Children, don’t forget to write your own address on the back of the envelope. So I can write back to you.”

  Promises, goodbyes, and hugs, and the school day is over, the school year is over. My first school year in America. The first year of my American teaching career.

  I love these children and don’t want to part with them. Will I see them again? I have been hired to teach here next September, a new first grade. These children will be here, attending second grade. Of course I will see them. And yet it will not be the same… . They will not be my children then; they will belong to another classroom, another teacher, and I will have another group of first-graders to love.

  “Shalom, children. Don’t forget to write!”

  Tomorrow I leave for camp. This is the first time ever that Mother and I will be separated for two months. A searing emptiness gnaws at my insides.

  “Two months is a long time,” I say heavily when we are ready for bed.

  “Stop fretting. We’ll write to each other,” Mother admonishes. “I’ll tell you all about my days in detail. Maybe Celia and I will take a short vacation and come to visit you.”

  “Will you?” I hug her neck. “Will you really?”

  “Yes, we’ve already discussed it. Wanted to surprise you … but since you seem so downcast, I decided to tell you now.”

  “Thank you, Mom. That’s simply wonderful! When will you come?”

  “On visiting day. That’s in about four weeks. We’ll find out the bus schedule. We’ll come with an early bus, and spend the day with you in camp.”

  It takes a long time to fall asleep as I anticipate the summer, the camp with other young people, with children, the mountains, and to top it all, my mother and my aunt’s visit.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  CAMP MASSAD