Pictures of the Past

by Deby Eisenberg

  Taylor was taking some time now to comprehend what was being asked of him, digesting the weight of responsibility, but relishing the tremendous faith in his abilities that his father was implying. For the past six months, his father had been arranging a multinational conference that was to be held during the summer Paris Exposition. Owners of some of the largest manufacturing enterprises in England, France, and Germany would be meeting at the World’s Fair in hopes of planning future joint ventures. His father was proud to be an industry leader and a visionary in the role of international cooperation as a means to climb from the Depression.

  Addison studied Taylor, who appeared interested, though somewhat overwhelmed, but gave him no opportunity to speak. “Your principal contact will be Emanuel Berger, a Jewish man, who lives with his family in Berlin.”

  “Yes, I remember you speaking about him—and with high praise, always,” Taylor said.

  Addison nodded. “As you know, there is a great deal of anti-Semitism in the world. But make no mistake; that is dangerous and misguided. Many of the Jews I’ve dealt with aren’t merely bright, but brilliant. They are clever, honest, and resourceful, and as a people posses a rare humanitarianism. You know, of course, of your grandfather’s close friend who died some years ago, Julius Rosenwald, who built Sears, Roebuck & Company into a retail giant. He was a German Jewish immigrant—and eventually a great philanthropist—the Museum of Science and Industry is his endowment.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And I am proud to call Emanuel a good friend. He and I have had many illuminating conversations on a wide range of topics, cultural and historical. I’ve asked him just how concerned he was with the rise of Adolph Hitler in Germany. He told me the Jews have suffered and overcome great trials throughout their long history; they’ve looked tyrants in the face before, and this one has the profile of a most virulent beast.

  “Once I tried to talk to my group at the club about this, and, God love the ‘old boys.’ they cracked their stereotypical jokes…I will not repeat them for you…so I just shut down my inquiry. I’m afraid anti-Semitism isn’t limited to Germany.”

  A post-college European trip was a common “coming of age” gift for his set, but Taylor was not at all excited at the prospect. He had finally captured Emily Kendall’s full attention—and won her heart. He would soon give Emily his grandmother’s diamond ring that was resting in his bureau drawer.

  As they approached engagement, she had granted him (yes, the word “granted” was perfect, as sometimes he felt like a subject in her royal presence) more intimate liberties. How would he live without the taste of her silken lips, without the feel of her soft shoulders and perfect breasts? He had worked so hard to capture her, fighting off the dozens of other suitors and luring her from her home town in Newport for the summer, convincing her that sailing on Lake Michigan was more exciting than ocean sailing, that Chicago society rivaled Newport’s. It would be hard to concentrate on business deals abroad when all he wanted was to think about the changing colors of her hazel eyes. He would miss everything about her, even her temperamental, demanding side.

  His father saw his reluctance, but he remained firm. “You must go now—Europe is in turmoil—and although it is safe for the time being, I fear it won’t be for long. Our business needs to be completed.”

  Rachel Gold

  Chicago

  June 1968

  It was the magical summer of 1968, the summer of flower children, antiwar protests, of drugs and free love. Rachel Gold had just returned home from her freshman year at the University of Illinois in downstate Champaign. She had always been a quiet and intellectual girl. Her parents were hard-working, sweet people, her dad an accountant at the Lyon and Healy Music Company in Chicago. They were proud that their daughter was at the premier state school and not a city college. Though the dorm costs were a stretch for them, they were able to meet that obligation. And Rachel had earned a full tuition teacher’s scholarship. Clothing and extras—this was the summer she was determined to get contact lenses—were paid for by earnings from part-time and summer jobs. Rachel didn’t mind; her work ethic was inherited, and like everything else, she approached challenges as opportunities.

  For this summer, she’d landed a job at Last Chance Café, one of the new casual eateries that defined the decade, where peanuts covered the floor and local rock bands played (almost for peanuts) in the evenings. It was just off the Chicago area’s legendary Sheridan Road, right before it takes the turn from the city into the suburbs.

  Sheridan Road was unfamiliar to her now. It traversed an area where village names defined residents, but as a city girl, Rachel, until this summer of discovery, had rarely ventured on it north of Chicago. Later she would be able to recite by heart the suburbs that followed its serpentine route once it exited the city…Evanston, Wilmette, Kenilworth, Winnetka, Glencoe, Highland Park, Lake Forest…

  At Last Chance, she learned to smile and to flirt and teasingly toss her long black hair and wear make-up to distraction. As a late bloomer in many respects except for intellect, she transformed during that summer from an awkward girl into a beautiful young woman. She walked and slimmed down by accident, not by design. It happened that she was just interested in saving some extra money, so she didn’t take the bus to work. She missed reading while riding, but the stopping every block and re-shifting of sweaty bodies on the busy route was too distracting anyway. So she began to walk to work. And as she became more intent on applying makeup at home in the morning, not heavily, but perfectly, she found time would get away from her and then she would need to get to work almost in a run. Within the first month, her body, which had not been fat, but somewhat round, soon took on a delicious new form. By July, she was literally turning heads, boys’ heads, as she moved from table to table at work. The attention made her feel more powerful than her class rank ever had. This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m not some shallow high school cheerleader. But she didn’t let the attention go to her head, and maintained her beautiful, enigmatic quality.

  She first noticed Courtland (Court) Woodmere because he seemed so solitary among his group, not as full of himself as the others. They were, obviously, the Northwestern boys. His dark auburn hair was in such contrast to the wheat-colored shags of the others at his table. And there was something about his eyes… Finally, the third time he came in with his fraternity brothers, he touched her hand when she brought him his Coke. Then he gently grabbed her arm when she returned with fries. By the time she was serving the pizza, he had his hand around her waist, escorting her to the dance floor.

  “Just for a moment,” she insisted, whispering. “I’ll get in trouble if I’m not working.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second. You’re the reason they’re packing them in, not the bands. You should be on display more; it would be better for business,” he said, twirling her around and ending in an old-fashioned dip.

  After the dance, he suggested they get to know each other somewhere besides Last Chance. He offered to drive her home that night, but she quickly declined. She didn’t want to tell him right out that dates with Gentiles were forbidden in her household, but she did say that her dad insisted on picking her up himself each evening. But during the drive that very night, she began thinking of a way to spend time with Court. It’s the summer of love and excitement, she thought, and I want something to remember it by. Despite her intelligence and pragmatism at work, she and her friends were mostly naïve and unsophisticated girls, giggling in corners and swooning with crushes.

  And as it evolved, three days later, on Saturday afternoon, Court pulled up for her outside the movie theater, as she waved good-bye to her sworn-to-secrecy and frozen-in-astonishment friends, and was off in a red Mustang convertible.

  Sitting beside him, she was giddy. My God, he was cute, she thought. Then she corrected herself. Cute did not begin to do him justice. He was magnificent! She tried not to stare at him as they drove, but she needed to reassure herself that he
was real, not just another post-adolescent fantasy she had conjured. She kept readjusting her position in the passenger seat, hoping he would not pick up on her self-conscious maneuvers. Luckily, the car had bucket seats and a center console, so she did not have to agonize over how close she should sit to him, as she had on past first dates, trying to calculate the perfect distance between date and door, so as to appear neither too easy, nor too frigid.

  Soon she was in a whirlwind of clandestine encounters, and whenever they were together she was magnetized by his charm—his elegant, polished manners. He always escorted her into the car first, closing the door gently, making sure her sweater or purse was neatly arranged on her lap, not dangling where it might be caught. And then he would skip around to the driver’s seat and take his place. He would look at her as if she were his precious prize. It was his routine to hold her left hand in his right, and steer with his left hand. He called her princess, and treated her like royalty. And then when they reached their destination—he was equally courtly. She had to remind herself to wait for him to come around and open the door—to conform to what was expected of a well-mannered girl. Hippie dress, music, love, sex, and drugs may be the rule of the day, but good manners never went out of fashion.

  For the first time in her life, she felt reckless. And she loved it. She loved the wild feeling of the convertible ride, though she always kept her hair restrained by a peasant scarf so the wind could blow across her face without allowing errant strands to whip in her eyes. From their first afternoon together, she knew that he would want to kiss her, that he was winding his way north on Sheridan Road to Gilson Park in Wilmette, a place she had heard about that was famous for “parking.”

  First, they watched the players on the tennis courts and the children and families at the playground. Then they sat on the beach and were lulled by the rhythmic swells of the waves. The moon climbed from the east and the sun set behind their backs. They ended up back in the car, top up now in the dark parking lot, and there they kissed. This ritual was repeated three times that first week they were dating; each time he lured her to become increasingly intimate. He was gentle, never forcing himself on her, but he was helping her to discover the needs of her own body as well as his. She didn’t want to appear “easy,” but his kisses were better than chocolate to her. As his hands worked their charms to tease her with caresses of her body, she felt an intense physical desire for his touch. After two weeks of being together, she was no longer a virgin, and she felt glorious and proud of her new womanly being.

  She was surprised to discover that he didn’t know she was Jewish. Certainly, she’d known immediately that he was not. But perhaps in his world, where you are not a minority, where you are not continually looking to define yourself among strangers, there was an awareness of only the most elemental stereotypes of Jews. It was on their second Saturday afternoon outing—lunch at the Pancake House—when he ordered for both of them.

  “Oh, I don’t eat bacon,” she said.

  “You don’t eat bacon?” he asked.

  “I don’t eat any pork.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “What are you Jewish or something?”

  Looking back, perhaps she should have followed her instincts. There was something unattractive about the way he said it.

  “Well, yes, actually, I am—of course—I assumed you knew that.”

  “Well, no offense.”

  “Well, of course, no offense,” she responded. Living in Rogers Park with its proud Jewish heritage, she didn’t know why anyone would be offended. Even at college her first year, certainly where the greater student populace was not Jewish, she had found her comfortable niche in the world of the “Jewish dorms,” and the Jewish fraternity and sorority social scene. She had never personally encountered anti-Semitism.

  And then, as the summer drew to a close, only a week before it would be Labor Day and the return to school, she told him she was pregnant. She had not even completely sorted out her own feelings on the predicament. But she felt so close to him, so in love with him, that she knew it was something they would face together—she never thought she would need to handle the problem alone.

  He said nothing for the longest time and when he finally spoke, he did not look at her, but surveyed first the cloudy sky and then the small patch of grassless dirt on which he was standing. “I explained to you,” he said firmly. “My family—it’s different from yours—we have a long history. My God, we’ve got three generations living in my house. Kenilworth is different from Rogers Park— I never even heard of Rogers Park until I met you.” He continued in an almost incoherent rambling pattern. “It’s just that I’m really attached to my parents—and my mother—she freaks at anything Jewish—sorry, something about the wartime, something from when my dad went to Europe right before WWII. It just won’t work you and me—you being Jewish—you know.”

  Of course, she hadn’t expected him to be thrilled. But she had never dreamt he would be so cold and dismissive.

  “I can’t believe those words are coming from you,” she finally said when she could breathe. “You can’t be the same boy I met two months ago, the one who romanced me in the coffeehouse, and made love to me by the beach. I don’t even know you.”

  She struggled to regain her composure, to give him time, as well, to digest what she had said and reconsider his response. She waited for a quick apology, for arms to embrace her, for his hand to brush through her hair and wipe away her tears. But there was no such contrition; he stood very separate from her. Now she wasn’t just hurt, she was angry. “Wasn’t I Jewish the first night when you came on to me? And how about sitting on the floor of the Folk Lounge on Sheridan Road, and wasn’t I Jewish that night at Evanston Beach on the sand and in the car at Gilson Park? Wasn’t I your dark-haired beauty then?”

  He was smart enough to say nothing.

  And then his eyes took on a narrowed look of loathing. And in that instant, her dream became a nightmare. The glorious, passionate heat that had consumed her body day and night froze. And on this dreary evening, her body became one more cloud. She was a rainstorm of tears, a thunderstorm of anger and hurt, a cyclone of torment. She wanted to forget her “summer to always remember.” But that was not possible—she had a baby growing inside her.

  They met only once after she broke the news to him. Though her college term had started, she came back to Chicago to work for a few more weekends. The money was great enough that it would pay for books and some necessities for the term. But she was still keeping her situation private. Contrary to her usual pattern, she was not attacking the problem head on. She was like any young girl in trouble—confused, in denial, postponing decisions.

  It was a week before he contacted her again, appearing at Last Chance at the beginning of her shift, before any of the young crowd gathered. Leaving his car parked in the loading zone at the front of the restaurant, he walked in slowly, without his usual self-assured jaunt, a literal embodiment of the image of “dragging one’s feet.” He scanned the room with the sparsely filled booths and tables of the early hour, expecting to see her standing and writing an order.

  “Rachel,” he called, but his voice, too, was without his usual force. And though he was sure that it was her by the kitchen pass-through, donning a black apron with her back toward the tables, sharing a joke with a white-capped cook, she made no move to respond.

  “Rachel,” he repeated, this time with a volume and urgency in his voice.

  Finally, she turned, and he was drawn to the beautiful rose bloom of her cheeks. Excusing herself from the counter area, she began to slowly approach him. As she walked closer, he saw again the innocence of her huge brown eyes, how she unconsciously fluttered her lashes disbelievingly. It almost made him lose his nerve and determination. He stretched his arm in her direction, holding it out as if he could take her hand, although a good thirty feet separated the pair.

  Only in the few moments that it took her to walk to him did she believe he had returned regre
tful and loving. She was too easily recaptured by the familiarity of his thick auburn hair, not close enough yet to see that his smile was partial and insincere. But when her hand was almost touching his, eager to be cradled in his strength, he pulled his hand abruptly away.

  “Um, a, Rachel,” he stammered. He was turning away from her and so she had to follow him out the door, like an errant child who a parent had just located in a public place and was preparing to reprimand privately outside. “I need you to come with me for a second.” It was not a request, but a command.

  He turned back to her only briefly, still barely making eye contact, as he motioned her to the passenger side of his parked car. “We need to take a little ride. Just around the block.” He was speaking quickly, not wanting her to tell the staff that she was leaving. He wanted her confused and unsettled and vulnerable in his own comfortable element. He didn’t want there to be a scene. But if there was one, he wanted it to be on his own turf—in his red Mustang.

  Too quickly, he made a sharp turn at the first corner and he drove halfway down the block, taking the vacant space in front of a fire plug. He put the car into park and reached above the flipped-up sun visor to extract something. It was then that she saw an envelope in his hand, and when he finally faced her completely, the sour, curt look on his face.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the envelope. “There’s a doctor’s name, someone my mother knew of…and money. This should take care of it.” And while she tried to digest just what he was saying to her, he was remembering the scene at home the previous day when he had gone to his mother for money for an abortion. He had said only that there had been trouble with a Jewish girl. He was more than familiar with his mother’s attitude toward Jews, remembering several occasions when she made snide, anti-Semitic remarks, and he would catch his father glaring at her. And so his instinct was to approach only his mother with his situation. He was relieved to have found her alone in her upstairs sitting room, and although he addressed her quietly, her staccato quick retort, her repetition of his own words “trouble with a Jewish girl,” was uncharacteristically loud. And while she was finishing, he thought he heard his father’s heavy footsteps approach and then stop just beyond the doorframe. Confirming his suspicions when he furtively looked in that direction, he could see his father’s reflection in the hall mirror, but his father’s head, like his, was lowered. He seemed to still be processing the words he had heard. Court expected momentarily for him to enter the room with a “What goes on here?” While his mother rattled on and then went to a dresser drawer to retrieve something, he prepared for his father to take yet another opportunity to express disappointment in his only son, initiating yet one more time when Court wished that he had a sibling to help shoulder the tremendous weight of the prestigious Woodmere legacy. But this time Court was spared the lecture. He sensed the quiet retreat of his father back down the hall. Incredulous to have escaped the familiar tirade, his relief was palpable.