Grand Central: Original Stories of Postwar Love and Reunion

by Karen White

  —

  Nearly every night for three years, Gregori played countless mazurkas and tarantellas to diners enjoying their bowls of borscht and plates of stuffed cabbage. In some way, he enjoyed the warmth of the restaurant. The customers and their families reminded him of his Shabbat performances back in the shtetl. But it was hardly the type of playing Gregori had dreamed of when he was younger. As a new immigrant to a country that seemed so wealthy and full of prospects compared to Europe, Gregori wanted to find a way to harvest every opportunity. He didn’t just want to serenade men and women over his uncle’s pierogies and cabbage his entire life. He still carried the dream of playing on a stage alongside an orchestra, something that he had not yet had the chance to do.

  So when he noticed an advertisement in one of the trade papers that a customer had left behind one night, indicating that the New Amsterdam Theater was holding auditions for musicians interested in their pit orchestra, Gregori took it as a sign. An opportunity waiting to be seized. He mustered up enough courage to go to the theater. There weren’t as many men there as he had expected, as such a great number of them were off serving in the war, a fate he had escaped because of the severe scarring on his legs. Still, there were so many talented musicians who came out to audition that when Gregori was offered a place as one of the second violins, it felt like a dream come true.

  Even with his new job, Gregori still had his mornings and most early afternoons free. He chose to rehearse in the one place in New York he discovered he loved the most. Right in front of the entrance to Vanderbilt Hall, across from Murray’s pastry cart and Jack’s shoeshine booth. Grand Central Terminal, his own favorite stage.

  —

  The extra money he received from busking was nice, of course. Some days it barely covered the cost of his subway fare and lunch, but Gregori loved playing in Grand Central for many more reasons than the few dollars it added to his daily income: the acoustics, the vaulted ceiling with its turquoise plaster and gilded constellations, and the kinetic energy of the commuters. He found it thrilling that he was surrounded by so much motion, that he was in the epicenter of a thousand merging worlds. He could sense the rumble of the subway beneath his feet, and the wind from the train tunnels that blew in and out from the brass doors. Here, waitresses mingled with soldiers returning from the war, and bankers in chalk-striped suits sprinted next to the men who worked the elevators in their skyscraper offices lining Fifth Avenue.

  There were also those few minutes each morning, when he leaned down to sprinkle the first few coins into the velvet of his case to encourage others to do the same, that he could hear the pattern of the foot traffic. It was a symphony to his ears. He could hear the gallop of a child’s patent leather shoes against the marble, the soft shuffle of a banker’s oxfords, or the drag of a wounded soldier’s crutch as it thumped against the floor. But one day he heard a patter of footsteps so unlike all the others he had heard over the years pounding against the marble that he felt a small twinge in his heart. The steps were light, almost airy, as if the heel of the shoe were barely touching the ground. Without even looking up, he could hear the spry, leaping sounds of a dancer.

  —

  He lifted his gaze and noticed a beautiful woman walking in his direction. She had just come up from the subway, her green silk dress fluttering like the ruffled edge of tulip leaves. Her face appeared to him in a flash: the pale skin, the dark hair, and foxlike eyes that looked almost like they belonged to another place. Not a typical American, in the way he thought of Americans, though he knew every person here could claim ancestry from abroad. But in Gregori’s mind, the American face belonged to those of English or Irish descent, with their small-carved features and peaches-and-cream skin. This girl instead had the high cheekbones and coloring that reminded him of the girls back in his village. But really she could have been from any country in Central or Eastern Europe, he thought. Hungarian or Lithuanian. Polish or Russian, maybe. Or even Czech.

  Her footsteps had slowed, and now she stood only a few feet from him. She had stopped in front of the pastry cart that sold glazed doughnuts for a nickel and apple strudel for a dime. Around her pooled a dozen other commuters eager for something sweet before their morning’s work consumed them.

  Her long legs and shapely back were evident through the silk of her dress. She wore her black hair in soft curls around her face, just like the starlets in the movies. But her movements were somehow old-fashioned and slightly tentative, the way a person who wasn’t born in America might search for the right coins in her purse, or how someone new to Manhattan might pull slightly away when someone’s sleeve brushed against their own. He noticed a difference in the way she moved when there was no one around, compared to the way she moved when she was thrust into a group. The ease was replaced with caution. As if beneath the carefree veneer there was something more complex, something she kept hidden behind a radiant facade. This did not deter Gregori. On the contrary, it increased his fascination. The contrast was like music itself. On the surface, an untrained ear would hear only beauty when he played something like Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor. Only a few would also hear the sadness that floated from the strings. Two contradictory emotions, braided like rope, the true essence of a human soul.

  —

  Gregori quickly pondered the best way to gain her attention. He had yet to begin his playing that morning, and as he stood holding his violin in his hands, his mind now raced as to what music to select. He desperately wanted to find a way to reach her, to make her stop—if only for a moment—and take notice of the music intended just for her.

  It quickly occurred to him that if he could find something that reminded her of her homeland, it might be enough to make her pause and linger just a bit.

  But time was ticking away as he watched her pay for what looked like a small piece of strudel now safely tucked inside a wax paper bag.

  His heart was racing. He knew that Mozart had never failed him with the crowds, so he began playing Eine kleine Nachtmusik. It was popular enough that even if she weren’t from Austria, she still might recognize the melody and walk over to him. Then, once he had finished, he could ask her where she was from and their conversation would come naturally, just like a dance.

  He played with half-closed eyelids, not wanting to remove his gaze from her for even a moment. As his bow moved across the strings, his body bouncing to the music, he saw her dip her fingers into the wax paper bag and pull out her pastry. But even though the melody got livelier, she barely seemed to take notice of him.

  Gregori watched, crestfallen, as she headed toward the Lexington Avenue exit, her hips moving beneath her dress as she pushed through the heavy, brass-edged doors.

  —

  As Liesel crossed over Lexington, past the Bowery Savings Bank branch and the newspaper stand, she kept her stride brisk and glided by any older pedestrians who would have slowed her down. One thing she prided herself on was her punctuality. She didn’t like to keep Mr. Stein waiting. If he requested she arrive by one thirty P.M., she’d be at his building a few minutes before. Just enough time to fluff out her hair and smooth down her dress.

  Nor did she want to arrive at his office with bits of apple strudel on her lips. So she quickly finished her pastry and, on the corner of 46th Street and Lexington Avenue, took out a napkin and blotted her lips to make sure there were no crumbs. She took a compact out of her purse and swept a dusting of powder over her face. Then, as she had watched the other dancers do a thousand times, she reapplied her lipstick before taking one final look in the compact mirror and snapping it shut.

  Liesel was happy that Leo Stein’s office was on Lexington Avenue, not on Broadway like most of the other theatrical agents. This meant that she had to take the 42nd Street shuttle from her sewing job near the theater district to get to him. But it was a route she loved because it enabled her to pass the only pastry kiosk in all of New York that had apple strudel exactly
like her mother used to make. If she had an extra few minutes, she’d walk toward the central concourse and enjoy the pastry under the gilded images of the zodiac, those finely painted constellations resplendent in a sea of blue.

  Liesel loved the very vastness of the rotunda, with its cathedral-like opulence, and the way the light streamed through the east entrance’s arched windows and illuminated the commuters in a sepia-soft glow. It was a place where she could feel both alone and safe amongst the crowd. And even more poignantly, it was where she could imagine a chance meeting or a potential reunion with the family she still refused to accept as lost.

  —

  It was hard to believe it had been over five years since she had seen her family and that there had been no contact with them since the last letter arrived.

  “The time will go quickly,” her mother had promised her as she packed for America.

  What her mother had told her was true. Time had gone by quicker than she’d imagined, but it wasn’t without a lot of work on her part. Liesel had done everything she could to keep herself as busy as possible. She didn’t want to have time to think, because during those pauses, it was hard not to imagine what terror had befallen her family.

  What she also loved about Grand Central Terminal was that everyone there was off to another place and they all had a sense of urgency to their journey. This was compounded by the fact that there were clocks everywhere: brass-rimmed clocks fastened onto the marble walls, the famed one in the center of the concourse, and downstairs by the tracks, there were clocks suspended from the ceiling. Some had art nouveau embellishments, and others looked like larger versions of watch faces. But no matter the style, the clocks all gave a sense that one had to keep moving, and Liesel liked this. It enabled her to focus on her responsibilities. When she wasn’t dancing, she was sewing. And when she wasn’t sewing, she was dancing, either at her ballet studies or performing at the supper clubs that helped pay her bills.

  She had never imagined that she’d be able to make enough money dancing to support herself, but Leo Stein had changed all that for her. She would always be grateful he had taken her on as one of his girls. His agency was on the third floor of a slim grey brownstone that had been converted into small offices. Upon arriving, she buzzed the doorbell and climbed up the narrow stairs. She could smell his cigar smoke from the first landing.

  Leo Stein, Talent Agent was carved on the dark wooden door. She entered without knocking.

  “Hello, my sheyna meydel,” he called out to her. “What a sight for sore eyes.”

  She sat down across from his desk, folding her hands in the green silk folds of the dress that she had made herself the week before.

  “So, today through Friday afternoon it’s rehearsal on this side of town, at Rosenthal’s studio. Not over on Broadway for a change . . .”

  She nodded. She appreciated how he treated her with kindness, never overtaxed her, but would instead take her other obligations into account when assigning her work. So he arranged for her to work in the supper clubs on Friday through Sunday, meaning that aside from the rehearsals to learn that weekend’s choreography, she was still free to do everything else: the sewing for her boss, Gerta, and the ballet training she refused to give up, even though it provided her with no income yet. It just meant she was busy all the time, which was exactly what Liesel wanted.

  Leo handed her a rehearsal schedule. “Check back with me later this week on your way to Rosenthal’s. I think I might have something at the Crown Club for next week, but it’s not confirmed yet.”

  She smiled. “Well, you know I’ll be ready when you need me, Mr. Stein.”

  Leo reached into the desk drawer. “You never stop, do you? One of the hardest-working girls I know. To think, if you wanted to do this full-time, how much of a commission I could make off of you!”

  “I don’t want to break my promise to Gerta.” She smiled and fluttered her eyelids, not to be coy, but because she enjoyed being especially sweet to him. “And I can’t disappoint my teacher, Psota, either.”

  Leo nodded. He knew very well that her teacher, Ivan Psota, was the one who had gotten her out of Czechoslovakia in time.

  “Yes, yes. I know how much you owe him. That’s why I don’t push you like I do the other girls.”

  “I’m very grateful, Mr. Stein.”

  “Just be thankful that you look like my daughter.” He shook his head, placed his cigar on the ashtray, and reached for his desk drawer.

  “I’ve taken out my commission, but the rest is for you, sweetheart.”

  She glanced quickly at the hand-drawn numbers and Leo’s rolling signature on the bottom. Twenty-five dollars. Enough to pay her room and board, as well as some to put away in case the Red Cross was ever able to locate her family and she could bring them over.

  Leo glanced at his watch. “So, Rosenthal’s studio. It’s on 38th and Lex. Better get going. You need to be there by two.”

  Liesel had twenty minutes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Stein.” She said the words carefully and respectfully, ensuring, once again, that he could hear the gratitude in her voice.

  —

  Liesel knew she had many things in her life to be grateful for. And one of the main ones was her dance teacher, Ivan Psota.

  When she started grade school, her mother’s clients began commenting with increasing frequency that Liesel was born with the physique of a dancer. It wasn’t just that she was slim, for that was the case for most young girls her age. It was the length and proportion of her limbs that gave her a natural gracefulness that set her apart from her peers.

  Her mother had sewn costumes for the prestigious dance academy in the city for over a decade, and Liesel had spent most of her childhood seeing her fit the girls for their corsets and tutus. Her mother used a special closet in the back of the apartment to store her baskets of beads and yards of tulle. And although Liesel’s mother began to teach her to sew from the time she could hold a needle and thread, she imagined her daughter receiving the applause, perhaps even traveling with the troupe, rather than behind the scenes making the costumes for the stage.

  Her mother brought her in to audition for the conservatory the minute she was old enough to try out. The sight of the school’s famous ballet master, Ivan Psota, was hard to forget. He had the dark hair and broad smile that befitted Hollywood. And his well-tailored suits were anchored by two perfectly arched feet, which were encased in black slippers and moved with great elegance across the wooden floor.

  The other girls, who were a few years older than Liesel, all flushed in his company. They knew that this man was already regarded as one of the best dancers in their country, and had also recently begun to hone his skills as a choreographer. Yet he saw something unique in young Liesel, thus ensuring she was accepted to the dance conservatory for the following year.

  Liesel’s mother, concerned that the rigorous program at the dance school would deplete her daughter’s energy, always made sure she had a kitchen full of Liesel’s favorite food. Each day, before she left for the conservatory, Liesel would find a freshly baked apple strudel and a glass of milk waiting on the table for her.

  “Make sure you eat before you dance,” her mother would remind her.

  But Liesel never needed reminding. From the moment she saw her mother’s baking, she found herself sitting down with napkin in hand.

  —

  For the next five years, Liesel would study dance under Master Psota. He had brought an element of glamour and prestige to the conservatory when he began there ten years earlier, at the age of twenty. Liesel was indebted to him not only because he trained her as a dancer, but for something far more important, and for which she knew she could never repay him.

  Psota had helped save her.

  —

  From the very beginning of her training, Psota had taken a special interest in Liesel. He noticed her p
erfectly arched feet, the natural lightness to her step, and, even more unusual for her young age, her sharp mind, which remembered his choreography. He believed that if she continued to work hard, someday she might make it to the ballet corps.

  But in the spring of 1939, when Liesel was seventeen years old and at the height of her training, Hitler marched into Czechoslovakia.

  “I can no longer keep you at the conservatory,” Psota told Liesel after calling her into his office. “You know I’d do anything to keep you here . . .” He stumbled to catch his breath, and his normally bright and lively eyes looked as grey and lifeless as plaster. “But it’s the law now.” He fingered a memo on his desk. “I’ve been ordered to dismiss all my Jewish students.”

  Liesel sat in Psota’s office, a photograph of him surrounded by one of his dancing troupes resting on his desk. The girls were in black leotards, their bodies strong, athletic, invincible. She dug a nail into her palm, thinking the jab of pain would prevent her from crying in front of him.

  “Liesel, I wish I had the power to change this . . . but I don’t.”

  “I know, Master Psota . . .” she could barely whisper.

  “But I’m not going to let Hitler win. You’re still going to dance, Liesel. I mean that.” He straightened in his chair. “I’ve asked someone I met in Monte Carlo last summer to help you, a man with a lot of wealth and power. He has many contacts in the United States government, and I’ve written to him to see about getting you a visa.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would he help me or my family?”