“For me it is interesting because I’m interested in early Christianity, and in the Essenes. The Manual sheds light on their lifestyle.”
“Did you know that Jesus was an Essene?” Leslie asks excitedly.
From the corner of my eye I notice a tall, dark man making his way in our direction from the other end of the crowded subway car. I become fully aware of him only when, like the Tower of Pisa, he leans above us at a slant, eavesdropping on our conversation.
Suddenly he bends down so low, his face is almost touching mine. “Forgive me, but am I right in believing that you are conversing in Hebrew?” he asks in English, a somewhat embarrassed smile matching his meticulous formality.
I am startled. My answer is halting, deliberately hesitant.
“Yes … it is Hebrew.”
“I hoped it would be. That’s why I came all the way over here. Just to hear Hebrew spoken. I hope you don’t mind.”
Leslie charitably reassures him that we do not mind, and to my annoyance the young man with charcoal eyes remains hanging above our heads and continues to listen to our conversation.
Prospect Park is Leslie’s destination, and as Leslie prepares to exit the train, the stranger turns to me and asks in impeccable Hebrew, “May I take your companion’s vacated seat next to you?”
Who is this fellow with his mysterious dark looks, extravagant politeness, and unmatched, almost biblical, eloquence?
I nod, and the stranger slides his large frame into the narrow space with surprising agility.
Once seated, to my astonishment he picks up the thread of discussion interrupted by Leslie’s departure, displaying a remarkable knowledge of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
I am no longer interested in the Dead Sea Scrolls. With a skillful maneuver I manage to shift our conversation to his person and discover that the intriguing stranger is from Morocco, North Africa.
“Morocco?” I am beguiled. “I have never met anyone from Morocco or North Africa. Which city?”
“Casablanca.”
“Oh, Casablanca, the city of intrigue, of romance and of the Casbah!” I mimic a deep sigh, and put my hand over my heart.
“How do you know?” He seems genuinely surprised.
“From the movie Casablanca with Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart!”
“Ah yes.”
The train is pulling into Kings Highway Station, and I rise.
“This is where I get off.” I extend my hand. “Shalom. It was nice meeting you.”
A bright smile lights up the oval face as he springs to his feet.
“What a coincidence! Kings Highway is also my stop! We are getting off together,” he says in biblical Hebrew. “May I?”
He extends his hand to take my briefcase and, carrying it like a trophy, follows me out of the subway car, down the stairs, and out of the station into a brisk October wind.
I must rush, and reach for my briefcase with a sense of urgency.
“Thank you. It was truly nice meeting you.”
The tall Moroccan seems reluctant to part with my briefcase, and when I snatch it from his hand he seems somewhat abashed. “Are you in a hurry?”
“Yes, very.”
“May I walk with you? We can continue our talk on the way to your house.”
“I’m sorry, but I must run. It’s Friday afternoon… . It’s quite late. I must help my mother with preparations for the Sabbath. You see, I am religiously observant… .”
“How extraordinary!” he exclaims. “So am I. Another coincidence! But I must confess I would have never thought that you were. You don’t look … I would’ve never thought you were Jewish even. You’re so white—I mean blond.”
I wave my briefcase in the air, laughing. “I really must run.”
“Wait! I don’t even know your name.”
He reaches into an inside pocket for a pen, and is ready to write on the margin of a rolled-up newspaper under his arm.
“May I have your phone number?”
The pen is out of ink, and no matter how hard he presses down he manages to produce nothing but a number of illegible scrapings.
“Shabbat Shalom!” I shout, and waving farewell with my briefcase, take off at a run. Suddenly I remember: I forgot to ask his name! As I stop in my tracks and turn back, I can see him still fumbling with his useless pen, his newspaper now propped against the wall of Dubrow’s Café.
“What’s your name?” I shout into the raging wind.
The head with the crown of dark waves turns, bits of sound travel in the wind, shreds of sound, unintelligible fragments reach me. I cannot make them out, but I cannot tarry. I must run. It’s near sundown.
What is the name of this tall, dark, captivating stranger? I may never know.
Will he succeed in deciphering my name and telephone number on the margin of his newspaper? Will he try?
If he doesn’t, I may never see him again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
MY AMERICAN HIGH SCHOOL DIPLOMA
“It’s for you.” Mother hands me the telephone receiver, and her face is an open question mark. “Some fellow … David something.”
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Miss Friedman? I hope you remember me. We met on the subway train … on Friday afternoon. Remember?”
It is the tall, dark stranger! So he did manage to decipher my name and my phone number on the margin of his newspaper … wasted no time to make contact … I’m impressed.
“Hello? I am sorry if I am disturbing you, but are you the young lady I met on the subway? Do I have the right number?”
“Oh yes, you do. This is the right number. I’m the girl you met on the Brighton Line. But I didn’t catch your name.”
“My name is David Bitton.”
“Pleased to meet you. Please call me Leah. That’s my Hebrew name.”
“Thank you. Leah … I wish to remind you: We have not finished our discussion. Can we meet and continue where we left off? Are you free tonight?”
“Tonight?” I remember Sally’s warning: Never agree to a date on the same day as asked. I also remember that Alex phoned from Rochester saying he would be back home today and might drop in for a visit. I have not seen him for several weeks. He has been working on a research project in hematology at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, New York. On the phone he sounded happy and excited, eager to tell me all about it.
“I’m sorry, I’m not free tonight. But let me see… .”
“How about tomorrow evening?”
Tomorrow evening I have a class at Erasmus Hall. “I’m truly sorry, I’m not free tomorrow evening either… .”
“What about Tuesday, then?”
“I have an idea. I have two tickets for the Adlai Stevenson rally at the Madison Square Garden on Tuesday evening. Do you want to come? Are you interested in the presidential campaign?”
“I don’t know much about it. But I would love to come to the rally.”
I got the tickets from my brother, who has been working as a campaign volunteer. It could be fun to attend a rally for a presidential candidate.
David Bitton and I have designated as our meeting place a corner on Fifth Avenue near Rockefeller Center. When I emerge from the subway station I am stunned by the swarming multitude on the avenue. How will I find him in this throng? How will I spot his face in this sea of faces? How will I recognize him?
I rise on tiptoes and crane my neck to scan the surface of the human deep. All at once above the crowd I catch sight of a gray fedora and an arm waving a folded newspaper in the air. Can it be him? The features below the hat do not resemble those of the dark stranger I met in the subway. Yet the tall man in the gray fedora keeps waving the folded newspaper, and now is making his way in my direction. Ah, I can see the paper in his hand is the Hebrew weekly HaDoar. As he approaches he raises his hat and flashes a smile, and I recognize the crown of dark wavy hair, the somewhat shy yet provocative smile.
“Hello, David!” I shout. “I’m glad you’ve made it.”
“And I’m glad we found each other,” he shouts back. “Do you know which way to Madison Square Garden?”
“This way. Follow me.” Mustering every ounce of determination, I begin to forge a path in the crowd, and David makes a valiant effort to follow. But we seem to make no progress battling the crowd. Our endeavors in the face of overwhelming throngs of Stevenson followers seem hopeless. Ultimately our exertions to reach the building where the rally is taking place are doomed to failure, my prize tickets are not utilized, and I do not meet my brother’s idol in person as I had hoped. We cannot even hear his speech broadcast over the loudspeakers: It is drowned out by the incessant ovation of the crowd.
All evening long David and I are swept back and forth by the burgeoning multitude. Drifting with jubilant Stevenson fans on the streets of midtown Manhattan becomes the history of our first date.
But all is not lost. The homebound Brighton train eventually becomes an enclave for a quiet reunion. In the privacy of our subway niche we continue our encounter begun last Friday, slowly, cautiously prying personal tidbits from each other, about each other. With mounting excitement we get to know each other, and embark on the tentative birth of a relationship.
I am fascinated to learn that David Bitton’s mother tongue is Arabic and his second language is French. That his parents live in Marrakech, Morocco’s royal city, his two younger sisters in the capital Rabbat, while a halfbrother in Meknez in the Atlas Mountains. I learn that he himself came from Morocco three years ago, and is a student and a teacher just like me.
By the time the train pulls into our station on Kings Highway, it is too late to go anywhere but home. This time David Bitton walks me to Ocean Avenue, and takes his leave at the entrance of our building. I do not invite him in: It is not done on the first date.
We have been dating for a month now, and David has asked me to be his steady date. Say yes, say yes, say yes—becomes the tenor of our every rendezvous.
Every day I find an envelope in our mailbox, and the envelope contains a Hebrew poem, a different poem each day, a different declaration of love, a passionate plea to make him the happiest man on earth and say yes… . A prayer to end his agony and become his steady date—to become only his!
As I open each envelope my hands tremble a little and my heart skips a beat with anticipation.
Should I say yes? Is David Bitton, in the words of Sally and Evelyn, Mr. Right?
The “Friedman gang” likes him but is concerned about his “mysterious” background.
“Try to find out more about his family, about the place he comes from,” Mother cautions.
“His background is so different from ours,” Uncle Martin complains. “Why can’t you date someone who belongs to our milieu?”
“He’s very handsome and very charming,” Aunt Celia warns, as if handsome and charming were a disease.
“Get to know him better,” my brother advises. “Take your time, Leanyka. Don’t be impetuous. It takes time to get to know a guy.”
The barrage of poems has a cumulative effect, and I believe … I believe I’m going to say yes soon. Oh, God, help me, what should I do?
Bubi barges into the house and disrupts my quiet deliberations.
“You know what? My new roommate was admitted to Yeshiva University with a High School Equivalency Diploma,” he announces. “This diploma, issued by the University of the State of New York, qualifies students for college entrance who for some reason had not finished high school.”
“But this is precisely my case!” I cry with great agitation. “Don’t you think?”
“Of course. That’s the reason I’m telling you about it,” Bubi says with a knowing smile. “That’s the reason I found out all about it.”
“What did you find out?”
“That there are preparatory courses for the exam, free of charge, and both the courses and the exams are administered at Washington Irving High School in Lower Manhattan. You too can take these courses, and then take the exam for the diploma. If you pass, and I am sure you will, you can enter college.”
“Oh, Bubi, that’s great! You’re simply wonderful! Thanks. But how do I go about it?”
“Why don’t you call Washington Irving High School tomorrow during your lunch hour and find out when the courses begin? Then take it from there.”
Instead of telephoning I cut my lunch short and take the subway downtown to Washington Irving High School to inquire in person. The preoccupied secretary at the front desk is much too busy to answer my questions about course schedules; she focuses her attention on directing applicants to the auditorium for the High School Equivalency Examination that is to start in ten minutes.
What? The examination I have come to inquire about is to start just now? What should I do?
“When is the next exam?” I ask the harried secretary.
“Some time next year.”
“Can anyone take the exam today?” I ask again, my voice turning thin with anxiety.
“Anyone who has five dollars for the examination fee can take the test,” comes the startling reply.
Five dollars? Frantically rummaging in my purse, I find enough change to make up the five dollars!
“Here, miss, five dollars in change. Is that acceptable? I want to take the exam now.”
“You have to pay the fee at the bursar’s counter. Come back with the receipt and I’ll put you on the list.”
I am the only customer at the bursar’s counter. I pay the fee, and within minutes my name is entered on the list of applicants. Then, without allowing myself to think twice, I walk directly into the examination hall, buzzing with nervous tension.
The examination is to take five hours, the monitor announces, during which time there is no talking, no smoking, no eating. We can leave the room only with permission. Suddenly reality strikes. What am I doing? Am I in my right mind to undertake a series of tests without preparation, without an idea of what to expect?
I look around me. The students in my proximity talk to each other. They know each other; they have just completed a preparatory course for these examinations together. But me, I am to face an array of subjects I know nothing about.
Instruction sheets are distributed, and then question sheets, pages and pages of questions. There are many words that are foreign to me, questions I don’t understand. For the next five hours I wage a battle of concentration, reading and rereading questions, focusing on memory, on things learned long ago, formulating answers in English, carefully crafting English sentences.
When the exam is over I am drained of my last ounce of energy. And I am faint with hunger.
“Tomorrow morning all of you be here at nine sharp,” the exam monitor announces.
“What?” To my horror I discover that today’s examination was only the first part. The second part—math, geometry, history, and economics—is scheduled for 9:00 to 12:00 tomorrow. How can I take a day off without explanation? And there is no time to explain, to phone for permission. What am I to do?
Bubi once again comes to my rescue. He agrees to telephone the principal at the yeshiva tomorrow morning and explain everything, offering to substitute for me in class. I have great confidence in Bubi’s intercession, and go off to take the second part of the examination with a lighter heart.
Two weeks later, in the mailbox under the familiar pale blue folder containing David’s latest love poem, I find a manila envelope. In it is my high school diploma, straight from Albany, the capital of New York State. What a beautiful document! Above the bright gold seal of the University of the State of New York Education Department and the signature of the Acting Associate Commissioner of Education Frederick G. Moffito, in fancy calligraphy it states that having satisfactorily completed the comprehensive examination requirements prescribed by the Commissioner of Education, Elvira L. Friedman is thereby entitled to this High School Equivalency Diploma.
Isn’t it simply wonderful? I can barely believe it. I have a high school diploma, the first
bona fide qualification for my higher education. My passport to college! My first academic achievement in America!
I must share my ecstatic joy with someone or I’ll burst!
Mommy, Aunt Celia, and Uncle Martin are at work. Bubi has classes at this hour, and I can’t reach him either. Whom can I tell? Sally and Evelyn? But they too are at work for at least another hour. Should I call Alex? Or perhaps David Bitton? But neither Alex nor David approves of my fervent ambition to study. They would not understand what this diploma truly means to me.
Snatching my bright red coolie coat from the closet I run down the stairs, out into the street. Ocean Avenue is basking in the golden rays of the late afternoon sun, and I feel like embracing its radiance, clutching it to my bosom together with my diploma. At a run I head for the little park on the corner of Kings Highway and Bedford Avenue, and there, under a cluster of maple trees, I slump onto a bench.
“I’ve done it! I’ve done it!” I shout to the trees, to the brisk breeze, to the gossamer clouds sailing across a pale blue sky.
I’ve done it, Papa! The first stage of a fervent dream has come true! Papa, I know it is also your dream. I know you want me to get a higher education. I want to do it for you, Papa!
A steady stream of cars and trucks are rolling past me on Kings Highway, but all I hear is the sound of departing horses’ hooves and the fading clatter of carriage wheels. All I see is the silhouette of your tall, slim torso vanishing into the distance.
Papa, for me you’re not gone. You’re near me, within me forever.
Tears are trickling down my cheeks from under closed eyelids.
I want you to be proud of me, Papa!
Hello, America Page 17