Measure of a Man

by Martin Greenfield

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Are you having nightmares?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Honey, you’re not fine. Sometimes you wake me up speaking Hungarian or Yiddish. I don’t know what you’re saying. Your face contorts, your fists clench.”

  “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

  “I asked the doctor about it.”

  “You did what? Why would you do something like that?”

  “I’m worried. He said to leave you alone and not to wake you, because then you’d just resume whatever nightmare you were having.”

  “See. I told you. I’m fine.”

  “Talk to me, please. I love you. I’m your wife. I want to help you.”

  I sat in silence and tried to muster the courage to purge the truth. “I love you,” I said. “That’s why I don’t tell you about my dreams. It’s too dark, too ugly.”

  “But I want to know. Please. Tell me so I can understand.”

  “You can’t understand. No one who wasn’t there can understand. I hope no one ever has to understand.”

  “But I see and hear you struggling at night. It’s awful. I want to reach inside your dreams and make it stop, but I don’t know how. What do you see at night?”

  It was time she knew. I took a deep breath. “I’m in the woods. Running through the woods. You and the baby are with me. The Nazis are hunting us. They’ve got their guns and they’re running through the trees, over the rocks, everything. You and the baby are crying. I’m trying to keep you both quiet so they don’t kill us. I then do what my father did to me: I split us up. That way the Nazis will chase and kill me but not you and the baby.”

  I looked up at Arlene. Her face was soaked in tears. She stroked my hair gently with her hand. “Darling, I love you more than you will ever know. I’m so sorry. So sorry. You make me so proud. You are the most wonderful man and husband. You’re going to be an incredible father.”

  “I will always protect you and our family. Always,” I said, crying into her chest.

  “I know you will, honey. I know.”

  Jay arrived February 5, 1958. Our second son, Tod, was born on April 23, 1960. I cried the first time I held each of them in my arms. To have my very own sons, to hold them close against my heart, to watch them sleep—it was the fulfillment of my greatest dream for a family all my own, one to cherish and protect.

  Building a family was one thing, building a career in men’s fashion another. The longer I worked at GGG, the more I realized the importance of cultivating a celebrity clientele. In those days, the entertainment industry’s biggest stars wore GGG. Agents and industry executives typically sent celebrities to the main GGG office, not the factory, to be measured, so I had little interaction with them. I wasn’t a front man or star salesman like Morris. My hidden role as a tailor afforded me few if any opportunities to build relationships with our A-list clients. One star, however, came directly to the factory for fittings, and it was he who opened the door for me to the Hollywood elite.

  Edward Israel Iskowitz, better known by his stage name, Eddie Cantor, was one of America’s most beloved entertainers. After scoring early success in Vaudeville, Eddie parlayed his singing and comedic talents into a major career in radio, television, and movies. Eddie knew everyone. He had appeared on Broadway in the fabled Ziegfeld Follies, performed with the legends Will Rogers, Jimmy Durante, and W. C. Fields, coined the name for “The March of Dimes,” and served as the second president of the Screen Actors Guild. By his mid-thirties, Eddie Cantor was already a millionaire.

  Despite his meteoric rise to stardom, Eddie’s childhood was tragic. His parents were Russian Jewish immigrants. Eddie’s mother died during childbirth when he was one year old. The very next year, his father died of pneumonia. As he put it in one of his bestselling books, My Life Is in Your Hands, “I have always felt like a part of other people and that other people were a part of me. The dim, brief images of my father and mother have formed an unforgettable picture in my mind, although I never really had the opportunity to know them or even to speak to them, for as my lips were forming into words they were gone.”

  Eddie’s grandmother Esther Kantrowitz raised him in New York City. A school form accidently listed Eddie’s last name as his grandmother’s, which an administrator altered to Kanter. Hence, the Hollywood creation of Eddie Cantor.

  In their youth, Eddie and Mannie Goldman were among the first to attend Surprise Lake Camp, a nonprofit camp for Jewish boys. Poor boys like Eddie were admitted for free. Rich boys like Mannie paid full freight. Both men said the camp made a tremendous influence on their lives and taught them enduring life lessons. In the 1920s, Eddie asked Mannie to serve as treasurer of the Eddie Cantor Camp Committee to help support Surprise Lake Camp and other youth programs. As Eddie explained in his book, “Mannie, who, with his brothers, runs the GGG Clothing Company, is the best possible choice for treasurer because any time we’re stuck for funds he digs into his own pocket to refill the treasury.” He added, “He’s been so busy doing, he’s never gotten around to marrying and having a family of his own. He’s part of my family.”

  Eddie wasn’t joking. In 1938, Mannie and Eddie traveled together to Europe on a fund-raising trip to raise money to help extract refugee children out of Germany. Mannie called in a few fashion-industry chits and set up a meeting between Eddie and Sir Montague Burton, who ran the largest clothing manufacturing business in the world. The connection proved lucrative and made the charity a mint in donations.

  On another occasion, Eddie and Mannie met a seventeen-year-old pianist named Hilda Somers, whose fingertips had been severely scorched when the Nazis marched into Austria and forced her to wash the streets with lye. Hilda was brought to live with family in the Bronx. Mannie and Eddie devised a way to get the girl a Steinway piano and a world-class teacher. After one week of lessons, the teacher called Eddie and said she was good enough to play Carnegie Hall with the New York Philharmonic. “I called Mannie and I told him what Carnegie Hall would cost,” wrote Cantor. “‘So what?’ he said. So eventually we presented Hilda at Carnegie Hall with the New York Philharmonic and from there she went on to a series of concerts across the country, ending in a blaze of glory at the Hollywood Bowl. And she’s still playing and she’s happily married. A cheerful ending to the story that started so sadly in Austria. This is the sort of thing you do when you’re palling around with Mannie Goldman.”

  The parallels between Eddie’s and my orphaned childhoods were unmistakable. He had a huge heart and genuinely loved to help people and brighten lives. At the GGG factory, an Eddie Cantor visit was an event. The Goldman brothers would let all 565 employees take a break from work and gather around the big cutting table. Eddie would then hop up on top of the table and do a few minutes of his song and dance routine, which never failed to receive a rousing response.

  Despite his fame and fortune, Eddie lacked pretense. He was comfortable in his skin. When his bug eyes earned him the nickname “Banjo Eyes,” Eddie owned it and made it one of his comedic trademarks.

  I felt a deep and instant connection the first time Mr. Goldman and Mr. Rosenberg introduced me to Eddie. He was firmly committed to the cause of Israel—it was literally his middle name. He took a special interest in survivors, asking questions and listening with a sympathetic and focused ear.

  Eddie also loved to test limits. Songs like “Makin’ Whoopee” and “The Dumber They Come, the Better I Like ’Em,” caused a stir. So, too, did Eddie’s embrace of black entertainers of the era. While hosting The Colgate Comedy Hour on television in the 1950s, Eddie hugged a young Sammy Davis Jr. and wiped the singer’s sweaty brow with his pocket square. The friendly gestures sparked talk of NBC’s canceling the show. Cantor didn’t care. In fact, he booked Sammy for two more weeks after the incident.

  Years later, I measured and dressed Sammy myself when GGG handled the private label for Cy Martin’s, a high-end New York haberdashery on Broadway between Fifty-First and Fifty-Second Streets.
Perpetually in motion, Sammy filled the room with his charisma. The only problem was that the man wouldn’t stand still long enough for me to run a measuring tape around his slender frame. “If you don’t stop dancing around, I’m going to have to hold you down to measure you,” I warned him.

  Sammy said he and I shared the same faith. He explained that our mutual friend, Eddie Cantor, had introduced him to Judaism and had given him a mezuzah, a small scroll bearing a Hebrew verse in a case that is ordinarily attached to a doorpost. Sammy, however, wore his mezuzah on a necklace as a good-luck charm. The one time he failed to wear it, he was in a serious car crash that cracked his cranium and destroyed his left eye. He quickly converted to Judaism. Sammy liked to joke that he was the world’s first “black, Puerto Rican, one-eyed Jewish entertainer.”

  Eddie helped Sammy find God, and he helped Hollywood find me. In early 1960, Sam Rosenberg informed me that he and I would be flying to Los Angeles for a week to attend a men’s fashion industry convention. I was honored to be tapped to go on the trip and excited to see a city I had heard so much about.

  Several weeks before my West Coast trip, Eddie Cantor dropped by the GGG factory for a fitting and to visit with Mannie Goldman. Eddie and the Goldmans made a quick walk around the factory. “Eddie, I believe you’ve met Martin Greenfield, GGG’s head quality man,” said Mannie.

  “Great to see you, Martin,” said Eddie, shaking my hand.

  “Next month Martin here is going to Hollywood to visit all your star pals!” Mannie teased.

  “Is that right?” said Eddie. “Who are you meeting?”

  “Oh, he’s teasing, sir. A few of us are just going to an industry conference in Los Angeles,” I explained.

  “I see. Well, you know, I’d be happy to set up some dinner meetings for you with Hollywood industry folks if you like,” said Eddie. I looked at a grinning Mannie. He always loved to see underdogs get a bigger slice of the pie than they deserved.

  “Really? Wow, that would be wonderful,” I said.

  “Tell you what, I’ll have my manager set the whole thing up,” said Eddie. “You just tell him the dozen or so actors or entertainers you want to meet and the times you’re not tied up with your conference and we’ll handle the rest. I’m a member at the Hillcrest Country Club. You can meet them there. We’ll take care of it. Okay?”

  “Uh . . . okay,” I muttered in dazed disbelief. Eddie flashed his famous smile. “Mr. Cantor, I can’t thank you enough, sir. I really appreciate you offering. . . .”

  “Don’t mention it. My pleasure. Any friend of the Goldmans is a friend of mine,” said Eddie.

  That night I went home and told Arlene what happened. She couldn’t believe it. “Eddie Cantor?” she asked.

  “Yes! Eddie Cantor!” I said.

  “The same Eddie Cantor that’s on the television Eddie Cantor?”

  “Yes, that one! The famous Eddie Cantor! He said I could invite whoever I wanted and his manager will arrange the whole thing in Hollywood.” We sat in stunned silence in our tiny little Brooklyn apartment.

  Eddie’s manager called and immediately went to work building a detailed itinerary. “Eddie has several other meetings he would like to set up for you as well, so I’m handling those,” said the manager. “You and I will speak every morning to go over the daily schedule. Eddie would also like to speak to you briefly each day to make sure everything is handled to your liking,” the manager said. Eddie Cantor knew how to make a nobody feel like a somebody.

  “Twelve of the thirteen stars you said you would like to meet with have confirmed they will be joining you at the Hillcrest Country Club for brunch,” he said. “The only one who said he can’t make it is Eddie Fisher.” I didn’t like Eddie Fisher anyhow, not after he ditched Debbie Reynolds the previous year for Elizabeth Taylor.

  Sam and I put on our sharpest GGG suits. Eddie’s manager sent a limousine to take us to our star-studded brunch at the legendary Hillcrest Country Club, Los Angeles’s premier Jewish country club and a popular hangout for Jewish celebrities. The limo pulled up to the club and let us out. My palms were slick with sweat. Feeling out of my depth, I dashed into the Hillcrest men’s room and stared at myself in the mirror. I didn’t belong and I knew it. I was a Holocaust survivor, not a Hollywood star. Nevertheless, I looked the part. My GGG suit matched or outgunned any the stars would wear that day. My attire would have to make up for what I lacked.

  I pushed open the men’s room door, strode straight into the star-packed dining room, and enjoyed one of the most memorable days of my life. Actors I had seen on the silver screen were now shaking my hand and engaging me in friendly conversation.

  Edward G. Robinson, who rose to stardom with his classic gangster roles in Little Caesar and Key Largo, was there. In more than a hundred films over a fifty-year career, Robinson, a Jew, shared the screen with legends of Hollywood’s Golden Age, including Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, and James Cagney. The American Film Institute included him in its list of American cinema’s twenty-five greatest male actors.

  Glenn Ford showed up as well. I had tremendous respect for Ford, who disrupted his acting career to volunteer for the U.S. Marine Corps during World War II. He remained in the Naval Reserve until the 1970s. He played opposite Rita Hayworth in his breakout role in Gilda and costarred with Bette Davis in A Stolen Life. Ford won a Golden Globe for Best Actor in Frank Capra’s Pocketful of Miracles. Later, Ford made waves when he campaigned for Ronald Reagan in 1980 and 1984.

  I looked around the room and listened to the Hollywood stars holding conversations with one another, punctuated only by the clatter and clink of fine china and silverware. How America had made it possible for me to be in that room, I could not understand. I did my best to pretend I’d been in this situation before.

  “Who’s up for golf?” one of the stars shouted. “Let’s get a group together. How many do we have?”

  Robinson nudged me. “You play?” he asked.

  “Me? Oh, no. Not golf,” I said bashfully.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “You can ride in the golf cart and watch if you like.” The rest of the day, I rode around in a Hillcrest Country Club golf cart while our group of Hollywood actors hit the links.

  The next morning, right on time, Eddie Cantor’s manager called with the daily itinerary, followed by a personal call from Eddie himself. “How was brunch yesterday at the club?” Eddie asked.

  “It was the day of a lifetime,” I said. “Thank you so much for making this happen.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it. Listen, you let me know if you need or want anything else, okay?”

  “Yes, sir. I will. Thank you again.”

  “Have fun out there! I think you’re going to like what we have planned for you today.”

  Eddie’s hospitality and generosity were all the more amazing because he had lost one of his five daughters, Marjorie, to cancer the year before. Eddie himself had struggled for years with heart problems. In fact, Eddie called me that day from the hospital.

  The driver took Sam and me to the movie set of Bob Hope and Lana Turner’s film, Bachelor in Paradise. Eddie’s manager told us he would escort us to the studio to watch the production. What he did not tell us was that Bob Hope would stop the entire film production and invite us to walk on set and be introduced to the cast and crew. Eddie had spoken directly to Hope and asked him to give us the extra touch. Hope was the consummate gentleman. He didn’t appear annoyed or burdened by Eddie’s personal request. Instead, he seemed to get a kick out of making us feel important and special.

  When he introduced us to the stunning and gracious Lana Turner, I was starstruck. But it was more than that. I was deeply moved by the way accomplished and successful people took time to help someone who could not help them. This uniquely American sensibility of selflessness endeared my adopted homeland to me. I had traveled all over Europe. I’d seen and met all kinds of people. Americans were different. I had never encountered a people so intent on lifting up individuals. The
y cared. Best of all, they didn’t think it was such a big deal. As Mr. Goldman once told me, “Giving back is fun. The feeling I get back is bigger than the thing I gave.”

  After almost sixty-five years in the hand-tailored menswear business, I’ve dressed hundreds of Hollywood actors, scores of celebrities, pro athletes, and business titans, as well as four U.S. presidents and countless politicians—an incredible journey that began with the Hollywood brunch that Eddie Cantor set up at the Hillcrest Country Club.

  Irony of ironies, since 2010, Martin Greenfield Clothiers has dressed the Eddie Cantor character played by Stephen DeRosa on HBO’s award-winning Boardwalk Empire. Martin Scorsese, the series’ executive producer, sent his people to my factory to interview me about what it was like to make suits for the real Eddie Cantor. Tod, Jay, and I gave Scorsese’s crew a tour and showed them the area where Eddie used to hop up on the cutting-room table and dance and sing for us. I then showed them the kinds of cloth, cuts, and designs we used for Eddie.

  Scorsese’s people explained that the show was going to be a period crime drama set in the Prohibition era and would include mobsters. “Do you recall ever making any suits for wise guys or mobsters while you were at GGG?” a crew member asked.

  “Are you kidding? Of course. Mob guys always made the best customers—they paid in cash,” I said.

  “Any particular individuals come to mind?” he asked.

  “Meyer Lansky,” I said.

  “The real Meyer Lansky? As in, the mobster after whom the ‘Hyman Roth’ character in The Godfather II was patterned?”

  “Yes. He wore a 40 short. He was so cautious about security that I never met him face to face. I just made up the suits the way he liked them, and we shipped them to the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach, Florida.”

  Scorsese’s team liked what they saw and heard so much that we have dressed the Boardwalk Empire cast for all five seasons—over six hundred made-to-measure custom jobs, crafted by hand just the way I used to make them for the real Eddie Cantor.