“Now, what was that?” Beth asked.
“A lukewarm frank I scrounged from the kitchen.”
“And kept in your pocket?”
“Old pants,” he answered, starting the car.
“You old softie!”
“Well, I didn’t want a scene. A howling hound laying it on thick.”
“Me, neither. Still, you know, I’ll really miss him—sweet dog—I’ll never be able to eat rhubarb again without thinking of him.”
“How often do you eat rhubarb?”
“Almost never,” she admitted.
“When you do, just think how nice it is to still be in bed at six a.m. on a cold rainy day, instead of outside walking your dog, because for sure I won’t—”
“Okay, I get the picture.”
It was part of the bargain, the give and take of the relationship. So was her shivering in a patch of sunlight so early this Saturday morning, while Vinny, feet up on the coffee table, was consuming hot black coffee surrounded by newspapers, which were, in order of importance, the Daily Worker, The New York Times, The Compass, and the New York Post, this last mostly because Beth liked it. These represented in his eyes about the entire spectrum of respectable reporting. The other popular New York dailies were of use only when you ran out of toilet paper. This comfortable warming of feet and mind were quite all right with Beth, since he would be doing the cooking tonight. Beth had warned him before they moved in together that she didn’t cook and couldn’t cook; that her mother was the worst cook she knew so she had no model, blah, blah, blah.
“You can open a box of cornflakes, right? Make a sandwich? Coffee? I’ll teach you to make coffee. I’ll do the rest,” he said without rancor. And to his credit, he didn’t complain, probably in the service of self-preservation. They also tended to share a lot of meals with other people potluck, a term Beth had never heard before. Tonight was not a potluck, however. Vinny was going to prepare a special meal, celebrated traditional dishes learned from his mother, and Beth would do the shopping from his very specific list. Two long, skinny crusty loaves from Vito’s, then over to Pete’s for other specialties: a wedge of aged Parmesan, fresh flat-leaf parsley, extra virgin olive oil. What made it virgin, let alone extra, she wondered, but she said nothing. She knew Vinny treasured these rare moments of quiet in his noisy, hectic life. He looked up from his paper, as if reading her mind. “Ask for Savvy, not that new young clerk. He’ll know just what I need and answer your questions.”
As she entered the small Italian grocery, she sniffed the pungent air appreciatively. It was amazing how the smells of Bathgate Avenue that used to so offend her were transformed into quaint old world aromas on Minetta Street. Okay, so it wasn’t Paris or Florence, and it might be true, as Vinny said, that most of Greenwich Village was a slum, to say nothing of the adjacent Little Italy and Chinatown, but it was a picturesque, exciting slum, full of vitality. Besides, some of the houses surrounding Washington Square and lower Fifth Avenue still retained their nineteenth-century elegance, and it was fun to imagine being lucky enough to live in one. She felt that she was absorbing knowledge and sophistication like a sponge and was once again exhilarated by that sense of possibility she’d experienced in high school. Walking hand in hand with Vinny on a Sunday morning to spend a few hours in Washington Square Park, she watched men her father’s age playing chess on park benches, while squirrels, dogs, and children ran around them. She eavesdropped on political and philosophical arguments. Without envy she enjoyed looking at young women and grandmas chatting, keeping an eye on offspring or carefully doling out coins for Popsicles and Dixie Cups, while NYU students tried in vain to study. Minetta Street was in the heart of the Village, within walking distance of all its sights and offerings. She explored a crazy quilt of crooked streets and alleys, storefront galleries, bakeries, small foreign restaurants and groceries. She saw people in little coffee shops immersed in newspapers and magazines, or sipping thick black coffee in little glasses with a strip of lemon peel on the rims. Evidently they could sit there for hours.
All this panorama of Village life she enjoyed as if watching a Movietone travelogue, but it was the indoor life she really savored. To her it was privileged. For this life you needed a house key or a boyfriend such as hers. The true creative, exciting life was indoors, within the walls of studios, basements, and flats where people wrote, discussed, sang, painted, and shared inexpensive rice dishes or spaghetti and red table wine. “Dago red,” Vinny called it, which was okay because he himself was Italian.
Last week she’d had a surprise. Vinny had taken her to a Sunday afternoon party at a really fine place—a remodeled Federalist house, people said, with a garden and huge windows and more space than even a large family could possibly need. It was owned and occupied by just one middle-aged couple who that day were having a fundraiser for some local candidates; councilmen, she recalled. She hadn’t paid much attention to which candidates, for she was preoccupied with her limited wardrobe.
“We won’t have to stay long,” Vinny informed her. “Just long enough for us to grab a drink and for me to introduce the honorable candidates and shake some hands. And stop worrying,” he added. “People don’t look like swells at these things. Besides, you’ll be a knockout whatever you wear.”
“Spoken like a man,” she muttered, interpreting his compliment as a dismissal. Beth had some time ago decided that she would never look dowdy, taking Frima and, even more so, Hannah Eisner as her model.
“A clever woman makes the most of herself, and the world appreciates this, even when they don’t know quite what they’re appreciating. And you don’t have to be rich to do this. Taste is everything in dress,” Hannah had proclaimed loftily. In this case, however, Beth shouldn’t have worried. Everyone seemed quite determined to look ordinary. Still, she was shy and a little overwhelmed by her surroundings, and spent most of her time examining the paintings on the walls and drinking enough wine to make her a little unsure if all the art was original. Hopper, Bellows—Ash Can School—and a few of those Mexican lefties she’d heard so much about and that she kind of liked. Maybe all a little too obvious in the message department for her private taste, but all the same, she had to be impressed.
It was only a short while before she saw Vinny edging his way out of the crowd, mopping his brow. “Let’s get out of this crush,” he whispered.
“So, it seems you don’t have to be poor to be a lefty,” she commented on the way home. “Not a proletarian among that crowd, I’d say.” She was feeling a little miffed that she had been pretty much ignored by the other guests.
“Except me,” he answered good-humoredly. “Somebody has to support us working stiffs.”
A working stiff, that’s what Harry Bridges called himself, she remembered. “Now what would old Harry say to that?”
“Nothing much. He didn’t need much to live on. Neither do I, but anyone willing to support labor—no strings attached—would be fine with him. However, at these digs, they tend to be a little too heavy on the fundraising and light on the refreshments. Not bad wine, but those canapés—do people really eat those things? I’m starving. Let’s head over to Thompson Street for a real meal.”
The thought of food recalled her to the present. She’d better get back so Vinny could start his preparations, with her as kitchen maid. Vinny was cooking veal tonight, accompanied by pasta, a new word, indeed a new concept to Beth, who had before now had only eaten spaghetti or macaroni and cheese at the Automat or her mother’s gummy noodles. She didn’t remember what kind of pasta it was—there were so many shapes, sizes, names. The veal was a recipe from his mother, who still lived in San Francisco with her daughter’s family. They were all practicing Catholics and disapproved of the life Vinny led. Beth pictured some black-frocked, white-haired old crone who considered Beth a disgrace, who would cross herself and hurl curses at her for living out of wedlock with her son. She allowed herself a guilty smile. Pure stereotype this image was. Something to keep in that private cabi
net in her mind. It was not really such an unpleasant image to her, and far easier to contemplate than the real reaction of her own mother when Beth moved out of the house. Mama had wept. She’d wept often and silently, though she knew nothing of Beth’s plans, didn’t even know there was a boyfriend in the picture. She kept touching Beth, gently putting her hands on her; “My Bessie,” she would murmur, and Beth didn’t dream of correcting her. Only her Mama could use her old birth name. Beth was so stricken by Mama’s sorrow she could hardly bear it. Who would have thought Mama would care that much? She vowed to herself that she would send her a few dollars from her salary every pay day and would call her frequently. She figured she could hang up if Papa answered. The Adding Machine, of course, didn’t give a damn.
“We’re not good enough for you? You’re too high class from working in the mountains to go to the store? Fine! One less mouth to feed,” was Papa’s comment.
She was almost grateful for his niggardliness. It made it easier for her to leave. Happily her move didn’t take long. She had so little to take with her, and Frima and Jack had helped. She never expected this aid from her brother, who remained inscrutable about her move and just busied himself with hauling her stuff in the Eisner’s station wagon, which Hannah had lent them. Beth knew that Jack had huge respect for Hannah Eisner, who was essentially offering him a path to his own success and who had tremendous influence over him. And, of course, he was in love with Hannah’s daughter. Wisely, Beth did not comment to him about either of these happy circumstances, but to Frima, in private, she spoke almost daily. There was so much diplomacy in that elegant little blonde head, and she was at heart a peacemaker. Still, Frima could be tough, too, when she felt she was right. Whenever Beth wavered about keeping her life with Vinny to herself, Frima was right there to keep her firmly on the path of discretion.
“No matter how much you’d like to throw this in your father’s face, not a word to any of your family about Vinny. Time enough to tell them when it really happens.”
“You know that sounds as if you’re thinking maybe we won’t go through with this. That Vinny and I are not serious about being together.”
“Nonsense. Now, you know I’m right. No blurting of anything. You’re living with Muriel, a very nice Jewish girl you met during the summer—an advantageous move, and simple economy.”
“Yeah, but it’s duplicitous.”
“Duplicitous? Will you listen to her?” Frima rolled her eyes, exasperated. “This from the girl who wasn’t even going to tell her brother she was moving away from home—who wanted me not to tell him!”
“Well, they’ll all have to know some time.”
“And so they will, when the time is right.”
Beth, comforted once again by the wisdom of Frima’s approach, immediately switched gears. “My advisor, my confidante—I’m going to miss you so much! I wish you and Jack were doing what I’m doing. We could be neighbors again.”
“She needs to have her head examined,” Frima commented to an invisible audience. “Now, Bethie, you know that won’t happen. But we’ll still see each other, talk to each other all the time. Then there is the D train. The Village is just a subway ride away.”
Beth was convinced the right time for her big announcement was now. Tonight, to be exact, at dinner. They had invited Beth and Jack and Muriel and her fiancé, Jerry, to a little summer reunion dinner at Vinny’s place. She would make her big announcement then, though of course it would really be news only to Jack. This was fine with Vinny, whose only caution was to wait until after they’d had coffee. In truth he didn’t much care whether her family or his approved of their actions. He would behave well, friendly and hospitable as usual, but it wasn’t a real concern to him. What he refused to do was ruin the pleasure of good food and drink through useless combat. Her silent response was a little dry: he knows what’s important, that boy does! Nevertheless, Beth knew he would protect her if things got rough, and that was the essential thing. She was safe with Vinny.
The table, moved from the foyer and opened to its full extent in Vinny’s living room, provided just enough room to fit six people seated around it. It forced intimacy when it was open and surrounded by chairs, for there was really no other place to sit. Beth set the table with candles and thick white crockery. They didn’t have stemmed wine glasses, which was too bad, but Vinny assured her that Italians often used these plain short glasses for less formal occasions. Happily, it was a cold night for October, and they could light a fire in the small corner fireplace. The flames reflected in the old-fashioned, half-shuttered windows gave the room just the right warm atmosphere. None of the guests were used to drinking dry red wine, but after the first tentative glass they seemed to enjoy it, and things were going well. Everyone was friendly and animated, telling war stories about their summer jobs by the time Vinny brought in the antipasto.
“Vhat’s dis?” Beth peered at the platter. “Wrinkled holives. How many times I got to say this. I already told duh other vaiter—no wrinkled holives at this table!”
“Sorry, ma’am, the kitchen was extra busy this evening. No time to iron them. It won’t happen again.”
“Just see that it doesn’t and dhat’s all. For this kind of service we’re paying? For wrinkled holives?”
Jerry chimed in as if on cue, “And next time you should please remember, the tea bag is on the side of the cup, not in it. How many times I have to tell you?”
“But see?” Vinny replied deadpan. “There’s no water in the cup, sir. We always bring a pot of hot water separately.”
“So who’s the customer here, you or me? You never heard the customer is always right?”
Lots of yucks after this. Frima almost choked on her wine. “I guess we’re lucky, Jack. The only complaint that we ever had was that an egg wasn’t cooked right.”
“Seems so,” he said, laughing along with the rest.
When the stories, the routines continued, however, Beth could see that her brother was growing solemn.
“Something wrong, Jack?” she asked, knowing as she said it she probably should have kept her mouth shut.
“Not really. Only thing is I wonder why it’s necessary to use that exaggerated Yiddish accent.”
“It’s not exaggerated,” Beth retorted. “It’s perfectly accurate. That’s the way they talked—the older ones, anyway.” She was proud of her gift of mimicry. “Besides you’ve used that accent yourself many times, when you tell Jewish jokes.”
“But those were jokes, and these are real people you’re making fun of. And I would tell those jokes only to members of our tribe. We’re not all Jews here, you know.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Frima looked embarrassed, and Beth noticed her take Jack’s hand to remind him not to get into an argument.
“You’ve got a point, Jack,” Vinny said quietly. “I meant no offense, but my apologies anyway.”
He shot a look at Beth, which told her quite plainly to drop it. Then he went into the kitchen to bring in the main course.
The food was delicious. The spaghetti in a light sauce of olive oil, garlic, and parsley, the simple romaine salad, the veal scallops sautéed with Marsala wine—all were a novelty, and provided sufficient chatter to again lighten the atmosphere. Vinny’s generous pouring of wine also helped. “Kind of fun being a bartender again,” he said affably. “Nobody’s driving, right?”
It wasn’t until they were having coffee that Jerry, with a heartiness and lack of judgment brought on by wine, opened Pandora’s box.
“Italian, Jew, what’s the difference? They both love good food, right? And you know that gag, don’t you? Stiff, buttoned-up Protestants go to Jewish psychiatrists to learn to live like Italians.”
No one did more than smile at this, and Muriel gave him a quick squelching look.
“There are differences,” said Jack quietly. “According to Hitler they are very different, and Mussolini is one of Hitler’s best friends.”
“Whoa, jus
t hang on a minute,” Vinny said. “I hope you’re not implying what I think you are. There are plenty of people in Italy and Italian Americans right here who hate that bastard. He’s killed and tortured plenty of his fellow Italians. Also, it may be news to you, but it’s nevertheless true, that there were some Jewish fascists in Italy who helped him come to power. Not as helpful as the Holy Roman Catholic Church, perhaps, but still useful to him.”
“I never heard that,” said Jack.
“Well, you’re hearing it now. Fascists are fascists, no matter what religion, and they come in all shapes and sizes. You’re right that Mussolini does whatever Hitler says, including hunting down Jews, but before you get all hot under the collar again, remember that if anything, I have more reason to hate that pig than you do. Unless you have relatives in Italy that have become his victims.”
“I don’t, thank God, but I do have or had relatives in Poland.”
“Do you know any of them personally?” Frima asked. “I mean we hear these terrible stories, but how do you know who is gone?”
“Honey, the letters stopped coming. My folks used to hear from their cousins, uncles, and aunts in Poland every couple of months at least. Nothing now; no explanation.”
“I’m afraid Jack’s right. That’s certainly what I would assume.” Vinny sighed.
“I’m so thankful all our relatives are here,” Frima said, “but the others!”
“My God,” Beth looked chastened. “I never really thought about it, I’m ashamed to say, or . . . you know, felt what’s happening—not in any personal way. You see movie newsreels about Storm Troopers, all those monstrous crowds giving Nazi salutes, but the human tragedy is hidden from you; you don’t really have to look.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t have had to look if your great red hero, Stalin, hadn’t made that miserable anti-aggression pact with Hitler, carving up Poland and the rest of Eastern Europe.” Jack’s tone, though quiet, was ominous. He was supposedly responding to Beth, but he looked directly at Vinny and Jerry.
Bess and Frima Page 13