“I want to stay in touch with you boys if that’s okay,” he said.
“That would be wonderful, sir,” said Kalvin.
“I would like that very much, sir,” I said.
“Here now, write down your mailing address so I have your information,” he said.
I thought for sure he was just being polite. I never expected he would write. But he did. More than once.
A year later, Alben William Barkley became the thirty-fifth vice president of the United States.
Spring in Brooklyn. Baseball season finally rolled around, and I couldn’t wait to see my first game. Tickets in the nosebleed seats were a quarter, and I made my first trip to Ebbets Field by myself. The crowd, the cheering, the spectacle—I was hooked. The players spit, spun, swung. I had no idea which team won or lost. But being in the stadium, shoulder to shoulder with all the citizens, made me feel like a true American. I felt like I belonged.
After English class, I told my teacher about my first baseball game. I loved the experience, I told her, but was more confused about the rules of the game than before I went. “If I buy your ticket to the game, will you go with me and explain the rules?” I asked shyly. She agreed, and off we went.
Ebbets Field proved to be the ultimate American classroom. My teacher turned the baseball diamond into a chalkboard. She made me pronounce every position, every rule. She taught me about runs, innings, and strikes. She made me read the signs and billboards. She quizzed me to make sure I understood the rules. When I’d get an answer wrong, she’d giggle and gently correct me.
Around the eighth inning, I looked out across the lush green field and up into the clear blue sky. A soft breeze blew against my face. I was struck by the improbability of the moment. My life was a miracle. The crack of a baseball bat had replaced the smack and sting of a flogging stick. I had friends and family. I had a green card. I had a job and a chance. I had Jackie Robinson. A rush of gratitude overcame me—a feeling that my life had a meaning and purpose that I couldn’t fathom, that by some astonishing act of divine benevolence I’d been one of the fortunate few who were spared the flames.
Back then, people called New York the Wonder City. It was. But that was only half right. America, my beloved new home, was the Wonder Country. I couldn’t get enough. Within a couple of months, my teacher had given me the gift of English. Language was a currency I would not squander.
Money was tight. I decided to free up my food budget by taking a second job at night pressing clothes. It paid no money, but I was remunerated with a daily meal, and the invaluable knowledge I gained more than compensated for the lack of financial reward. Working as a presser brought me closer to clothes and was my introduction to fabrics. The quality of a suit—how it stands up against the needle, how it drapes, how it moves, how it withstands stains and the elements—begins with the fabric.
My eyes and fingers learned to distinguish quality fabrics from cheaper textiles. Without looking at the brand label, I’d examine a jacket’s fabric—thumb the weave, inspect the buttonholes (buttonholes on quality suits are sewn by hand, not machine), and run my fingers down and across the lining. I’d guess whether the jacket in my hands was made by a well-known designer or was a cheap knockoff before opening the suit and reading the tag. By the end of two weeks, I never guessed wrong.
Yet as valuable as my short stint as a presser was, no one was more important in my education than the owner of GGG, Mr. William P. Goldman. One of five brothers and the mainstay of the business since he founded it at the age of thirty, Mr. Goldman taught me everything I know about the hand-tailored menswear business.
Mr. Goldman took an instant liking to me. To increase my efficiency, I’d had a carpenter build a large box in which I organized all my spools and materials at my station. Mr. Goldman and Adolph Rosenberg had been surveying stations, when my box caught Mr. Goldman’s eye. “What is that?” he asked.
“Open it and show him,” said Rosenberg.
Inside, all my spools, needles, tailor’s tape, and other supplies were organized and at the ready. “I did it this way to avoid wasting time going back and forth to get materials,” I explained.
“Brilliant,” said Mr. Goldman. “Absolutely perfect.” He loved anything that increased efficiency and reduced costs or waste. From that moment on, I was a standout in his mind. He always called me “Martino.” One day I asked him why. He said, “Many of the best tailors are Italian. So I call you Martino because I think one day you’re going to outshine even the Italians.” When he was alive, I never called Mr. Goldman by his first name. I still don’t. I respect him too much.
A tall, distinguished, grandfatherly looking man with a soft face, thin lips, and piercing eyes, Mr. Goldman always wore a GGG suit when circulating on the factory floor. After his rounds, he’d throw on his tailor’s apron and head straight to the cutting room. He loved cutting because his father, who was also a tailor, had taught him the art. On Thursdays Mr. Goldman worked out of the company office on Fourteenth Street in Manhattan.
Mr. Goldman was from the old school. He treated his workers with respect, and his handshake meant something. At lunchtime he would handpick a half-dozen workers to eat with him. There was only one rule for these luncheons: you couldn’t talk about work, only your family, hobbies, interests, or life. Mr. Goldman wanted to understand people, listen to them, validate their issues, and address their concerns. When a worker needed something, he tried to help him out. When an employee had a request, he instructed his managers to do their best to accommodate it.
After working at GGG a while, I’d saved up a few hundred bucks and decided to buy a jalopy and fix it up myself. One of the first things I’d noticed about Americans was their love affair with the automobile, and it had become my goal to own my own car. I couldn’t afford a new car, or even a used one. I could, however, afford a broken-down 1937 Pontiac with a busted engine. So I bought it—$225 for the car and another $25 to tow it off the lot. Given my experience as an auto mechanic, I knew that, with time, I could rebuild the car’s engine. The trouble was I had nowhere to park the thing. When Adolph Rosenberg heard about my dilemma, he said I could park the car behind the factory for free. Better still, he gave me permission to work on the car after hours. After several months, I successfully rebuilt the engine. I was among the first refugees to own a car.
The second “G” in GGG was Morris Goldman, the head of sales. It was a great job for him because he liked to take risks and go for the big payoff. That desire to beat the odds and score big fueled his passion for horse racing. In fact, Morris took me to my first horse race. He taught me how to bet and how to pick the best horses.
Mannie Goldman was the third “G.” Someone once said that Mannie was the kind of man who wakes up in the morning wondering what he can do for someone. An elegant man with powerful connections to presidents, celebrities, and business barons, he traveled frequently and was in charge of fashion trends. When he wasn’t globetrotting to gather new swatches and styles, Mannie came by the factory every afternoon around four o’clock to make sure operations ran smoothly.
The younger Goldman brother, Abe, came to work at GGG later. The most eccentric boss I ever had, Abe was mysophobic. His fear of germs was so severe that during GGG parties he stood near the bar to drink Scotch so he could be near alcohol to cleanse his hands. When we sewed the buttonholes on his suits, Abe made us douse the silk in alcohol so that the thread where his hands would touch when buttoning his jacket wouldn’t be tainted. Ironically, Abe died from infection.
The Goldman brothers were a philanthropic clan, establishing the William P. Goldman & Brothers Foundation, which exists to this day. Mr. Goldman’s generosity came in many different forms. After six months at GGG, I’d already worked my way up from floor boy to fitter to blind stitcher. One day Mr. Goldman walked over to my station to inspect my stitching. He held up a piece of my work and ran his fingers along my stitch line. “Quality work, Martino. Quality work,” he said.
“T
hank you, sir,” I replied.
“Do you enjoy working here?”
“Yes, sir. Very much.”
“So you want to be a tailor for life?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” I answered. “When I was growing up I always thought I wanted to be a doctor. But I heard here in America it takes a long time and a lot of money to be a doctor.”
“Do you know how long that will take? You’ll be sixty years old before you become a doctor. I can give you the same money and promote you to an assistant supervisor. You’d then be an executive. I’ll even put you on the profit-sharing plan and waive the five-year rule. Martino, I will make you a suit doctor!”
“A suit doctor!” I chuckled. “Wow, thank you, sir. That’s very generous of you. I accept!”
“Happy to do it,” he said. Mr. Goldman put his hand on my shoulder and stared intently at me. “Martino, have I ever told you the secret to success in this business?” he asked.
“No, sir,” I said.
“Would you like me to?”
“Very much.”
“Success in this business is about producing quality with intrinsic value.” I nodded but didn’t know what “intrinsic” meant. “What that means, Martino, is that a man will pay more for a GGG suit because he knows we use superior materials and production than our cheaper competitors,” he explained.
“I see,” I said.
“So even though we cost much more, they pay it, because they know our suits are the best in the industry and therefore last much, much longer,” he said.
Produce quality with intrinsic value.
Mr. Goldman’s words became my motto. Quality is the greatest bargain.
When Kalvin and I weren’t working, we were fumbling our way through courtship and romance. Our GGG suits made us the best-dressed refugees in all of Brooklyn. But we had yet to master the art of approaching a young woman properly, face-to-face, wooing her with charm and wit.
Young women lived in our two-story rental house: two plump sisters who shared a bedroom and a striking model who hogged the community bathroom in the mornings, leaving Kalvin and me to vie for the shower to get ready for work. To avoid waiting in line during her hour-long beauty ritual, we were forced to wake up thirty minutes early.
One morning while getting ready for work, I walked to our window and looked out. My eyes slowly scanned the street before floating to the windows of the building directly across from ours. There, framed in an open window, stood a girl with silky blond hair and a sweet smile. I stood and watched as she talked to someone inside her house. The girl laughed and gestured frequently with her hands. Her vibrant energy captivated me. All of a sudden she turned toward the window and locked her eyes on mine, jolting me out of my stare. I quickly raised my hands and pretended to be closing the window. Yet even as I lowered the glass pane, I gazed at her. She didn’t look away. In fact, she waved. I smiled wide and waved back.
For a week I made it a point to look for her on the street outside our house when walking to and from my jobs. Finally, I saw her entering her home.
“Hi there. I’m Martin,” I said, extending my hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Helen. Helen Vitalis. How long have you lived here?” she asked. I didn’t know if she meant the rental house or America.
“Oh, well, I’ve been roommates with my friend Kalvin for the last several months,” I said. “We work together at GGG. We’re tailors.”
“Wow,” she said, “that’s great.”
A dating relationship soon started.
Helen’s father, who liked me from the beginning, was an announcer on the Greek radio station. Her mother was an attractive Ukrainian. On weekends Mr. Vitalis drove Helen and me in his big Ford to the beach, to dinner, or anywhere else we wanted to go.
Helen’s older sister, Maria, was in her twenties and a semiprofessional singer. One night Helen invited me to go with her to Manhattan to hear Maria perform on the radio program Your Hit Parade. “I think you’ll enjoy it,” said Helen. “They hand out free packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes.” I smoked Chesterfields but didn’t have the heart to burst her bubble. Besides, free cigarettes were free cigarettes.
We arrived at the venue and, sure enough, attendants handed out free packs of Lucky Strikes. I grabbed several packs and stuffed them in my jacket pockets. As I’d learned train hopping in my black-market trading days, a committed smoker would trade items of value for a pack of his favorite smokes.
“This is so exciting to get to see your sister sing,” I said. Maria walked on stage and took her place alongside the other two backup singers. She sang with confidence and poise. After the performance, Helen and I waited for Maria to come out and greet us. We congratulated her on her performance.
“Some of the singers and I are going to a restaurant a block away to blow off some steam. Would you like to join us?” she asked.
I didn’t drink alcohol but was happy to go anyway. “That would be lovely,” I said.
“Wait right here. I’ll get the others so we can walk together,” said Maria. She returned with the crooner and two backup singers. “Martin and Helen, please meet our leader, Frank Sinatra,” said Maria.
“Thanks for coming,” said Sinatra. “Hope you enjoyed the performances tonight.”
“It was beautiful,” I said. “You were spectacular. I loved it.”
“Great,” said Sinatra. “Let’s go.”
We walked down the street as a group to the restaurant to grab a bite. Sinatra wanted a drink.
I had heard Sinatra’s name before but knew almost nothing about him. He had released only two albums to that point, The Voice of Frank Sinatra in 1946 and Songs by Sinatra. His voice was pure magic. But as a poor Holocaust survivor on a razor-thin budget, I was just as interested in the free packs of smokes as in meeting Sinatra for the first time.
I enjoyed spending time with Helen, but I wasn’t sure she was the girl for me. Eager to get Mr. Goldman’s assessment, I brought her to GGG for a New Year’s dinner and introduced them. Later, I asked him what he thought. “Well, Martino, she’s a beautiful woman,” he told me. “But if you’re asking me if she’s the girl you should marry, I have to say no.”
“Why? What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Well, I just think you should get a nice Jewish girl, that’s all,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE
During the summer of 1948, I realized Mr. Goldman was right: Helen wasn’t the girl for me. It wasn’t anything she did, but what I had yet to do: live, roam, explore. America is big—huge, in fact. There were encounters to be had, lessons to be learned. Put simply, I realized I was not ready for marriage. It was unfair to lead Helen on or waste her time. Still, I didn’t know how to break it off. I didn’t want to hurt her. She and her family had been nothing but kind. What’s more, having lost everyone I ever loved, I was terrible with good-byes.
The solution to my cowardly breakup dilemma arrived in the form of a letter I received from my uncle in Mexico. Uncle Antonio Berger had no children. He lived most of his life in France but moved to Mexico when he was unable to gain entry into the United States. Like my other maternal aunts and uncles, Uncle Antonio never met my mother, having left Pavlovo before her birth. Uncle Antonio and I had maintained regular correspondence from the time Uncle Irving included his mailing address in those early letters sent to Gabersee. In his latest letter, Uncle Antonio informed me he would be sending me an airplane ticket to Mexico to visit him. He said the ocean was clear, the girls were gorgeous, and the weather was perfect—a paradise for a much-needed getaway.
I had never ridden on an airplane. The idea of flying to a vacation destination was foreign to me. In my mind, civilian aviation was for rich, famous people, not common people. And certainly not broke refugees. The timing was perfect, though. The factory closed every summer for the union holiday.
That summer, when the sun baked Brooklyn like a brick, Uncle Antonio told me to keep an eye on the
mail for his paid airline ticket and to prepare for a week of pure bliss in Mexico. Uncle Antonio had done well for himself in the real estate and jewelry businesses. His generosity moved me, but it was getting to spend time together and strengthen the family ties that excited me most.
Kalvin understood this and was happy for me. He was also glad that at least one of us would be able to say he had flown on an airplane. “Big shot! Maybe you’ll meet movie stars or singers. You never know,” he said, giving me a brotherly chuck on the shoulder.
My Mexico adventure gave me a way to let Helen down easy and go our separate ways. Instead of telling her I was going on a one-week vacation to Mexico, I told her I was moving to Mexico. Permanently. Since we lived next door to one another, my ruse forced Kalvin and me to move. Relocating was easy. Everything we owned fit into a couple of suitcases and boxes. Besides, we had wanted a larger place, and now we had an excuse—bad as it was—to find one.
I spent some money on a nice necklace, and when I put it around Helen’s neck, I told her she could always look at it and think of the fun and memories we shared. “I’ll always care for you,” I said, meaning every word, “but you and I need our freedom to live and love. You’re a wonderful, beautiful woman. Happiness will always find you.”
Kalvin and I then decamped to the Hotel Brickman, a popular Jewish vacation spot in the Catskills. The resort offered a special summer rate for single young men and women, just thirty-five dollars for an entire week’s lodging with swimming, tennis, ping-pong, and other activities. I figured I would stay several days and return in time to receive Uncle Antonio’s airplane ticket.
Scores of young women and men came for the singles’ special. The only objective was having fun. My life to that point had been one of constant work, so the notion of traveling for pleasure was entirely foreign to me. Our simple lives in the Carpathian Mountains never included luxury resort accommodations. I could get used to this, I thought. After three days of soaking up the sun and enjoying the company of the girls, I received word that Uncle Antonio had purchased a ticket on American Airlines and that my flight departed the next day. Kalvin, Aunt Elka, and her family came to the airport to see me off.
Measure of a Man Page 10