What a completely unnatural position Americans were in. Their country was at war on two fronts in a conflict that had killed or permanently maimed unimaginable numbers of people; an urgent and completely justifiable conflict against fascist enemies of humanity. Frima believed this wholeheartedly. The threat was real. Yet both war fronts were thousands of miles—oceans away—from American civilians. How could the war be real to civilians here in North America? There were no burnt ruins or bloody body parts or stench of war on your own streets or in your own fields. Frima was not uninformed. She read newspapers, listened to the radio, saw newsreels at the movies; but she also realized that she was getting no more than a tiny glimpse of the whole story. News and images were carefully censored. Jack knew something of the reality, perhaps. Working in a military hospital, he had to see some of the damage and breakage, but he wouldn’t talk of it at home. Besides, those who made it to American hospitals couldn’t be the worst casualties; obviously none of the overseas dead were there. The hospital wounded were a distressing sight, but more like the burn and trauma units in ordinary civilian hospitals that she’d seen in her Red Cross classes. Most of the mass horror was hidden. Even soldiers and sailors returning from overseas didn’t seem to talk to their families about the real war.
Well, did she want to see the real war? Of course not, who would? Still, she was uncomfortably aware that innocence is only cute in a child. For the rest of us, it’s seriously dangerous.
—
The Battle of the Bulge, with its enormous American and Allied losses came and went, and finally the Nazis seemed to really be losing ground. Now Frima found it hard not to feel that, fair or not, she and her charmed circle of family were going to escape unharmed. And for the most part, they did. Except that in the early spring of 1945, Jack was suddenly, unaccountably, shipped overseas. To Germany! It seemed completely crazy to Frima. The Germans were losing, weren’t they? Did the Americans need so many medics in Europe? Why not send him to the Pacific, God forbid? Jack didn’t know; she didn’t know. If you weren’t overseas, most of the war was still a great unknown.
Again they were lucky. He was gone barely two months. Two very anxious, lonely months, to be sure, but they could be pushed aside once he returned sound in mind and body. If Frima thought he would enlighten her about his experiences or say anything of why he had been shipped back so soon, she was disappointed. “Nobody understands why the army does anything,” he said. Frima didn’t pressure him. So many returning men seemed to feel that the ugliness of war was not for mixed company. They wanted just to rush back to civilized life: good food, baseball, making babies. Jack was no different. Lena was a renewed miracle to him. He couldn’t believe how beautiful and charming she was. Nor could he keep his eyes or hands off Frima, and she only wanted to wrap him in passionate, romantic love and anything else that would give him (and her) pleasure.
“A couple of kosher franks, dripping sauerkraut and mustard, real sour pickles, then bed with you. What could be better?”
“Pastrami,” she answered straight-faced.
By the time the war in Europe ended, she was pregnant, and this time there was no doubt or conflict about it—a planned baby, completely wanted.
The last person she mourned personally was Franklin Roosevelt. Was he also a casualty of war? Who could say? There were plenty of people at home and abroad who would be happy to see him gone, but not in these parts, Frima thought. His death was a complete shock—to ordinary people, at least. None of them had the faintest idea of how sick he must have been, just as they had not known of his daily struggle with his paralyzed legs. For Frima’s generation, he was really the only president: the courageous, proud standard-bearer of American values. She, herself, could barely remember Hoover. FDR had brought them through the Depression and the war and had rekindled hope. Of course, except for newsreels, ordinary Americans seldom saw the living, moving image of him, but his face was as familiar to people as a kindly father or uncle. And that voice! So powerful, persuasive, reassuring—whatever was needed—familiar to every American who listened to the radio. It seemed that everyone she knew was crying at his death. Frima did, as did her mother and Sarah; grown men and women on the street wiped tears from their eyes. Jack was still overseas, but she had seen news photos of GIs weeping. Even Arthur Godfrey, the undisputed king of morning radio, broke into sobs as he reported on the funeral procession.
Major radio networks repeatedly broadcast a folk cantata, “The Lonesome Train,” commemorating the death of Lincoln and fostering the idealistic connection of the two leaders. Frima was usually only politely interested in this type of music, but it turned out that its creators, Millard Lampell and Earl Robinson, were men Beth knew from the old days with Vinny, and at her urging, Frima got to know the cantata quite well. She found she was impressed with it.
Some in the North and some in the West and some by President’s side,
They cursed him every day that he lived and cheered on the day he died.
“Lonesome Train” was, after all, a pretty fitting and affecting tribute, Frima felt. Newsreels and newspapers showed people lining the tracks of the funeral train for Roosevelt. They evoked Lincoln’s death. For surely Lincoln and Roosevelt were, each of them, the most revered and the most detested presidents in history.
And now? Now there was Truman. Would anyone have intense feelings about him? Just let him finally end this war altogether and not undo any of the good things Roosevelt had wrought.
—
Frima and Jack were up in the country for the Labor Day weekend, basking in the afternoon sun. Just last month, the US had dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, devastating Japan. Like most Americans, their personal reaction to this was a deep relief—the war was over. Jack, dozing off in the chair next to her, dropped her hand, and the newspaper with coverage of the official VJ observance slipped off his lap. Frima smiled and gently picked up the paper. She wouldn’t disturb him. His sleep had been restless at night. She didn’t worry too much about that—she had heard from other women that their returning GI husbands also slept fitfully, and she believed time was the remedy. Still, she wanted Jack to get all the rest he could. By springtime it would be baby time again. “Sleep all you can now, Papa,” she murmured. Also, Jack would be starting school again in a week, earning a degree with the help of the new GI Bill that would prepare him to teach chemistry. A good, happy career path for him. Babies and study robbed you of sleep, but for such good, hopeful reasons. She glanced at the news photos again, thinking that the war years were beginning to seem like a newsreel to her, one that quickly passed. Mamas still admonished children to “think of the poor, starving children in Europe,” when they refused to finish their breakfast oatmeal. Kids on the Bronx sidewalks played games—“Step on a crack, you love Hitler”—but these were turning into leftovers, slogans and images that were losing their history.
Except for those liberation photos of the concentration camps. Good God! Human beings in the country of Bach, Beethoven, and Schiller had willfully planned and created this hell. Had any humans in known history ever acted as cruelly, sunk so low? Probably. But they didn’t have the modern German efficiency and technology. And they didn’t have Margaret Burke White’s camera or Edward R. Murrow’s broadcasts from Buchenwald forcing this reality on anyone who looked or listened. She stirred uncomfortably. Jack wouldn’t look at those pictures or listen to the descriptions. He didn’t need to, he said, and he would talk no further about them. Perhaps he was right. She had been horrified, for sure, but also resentful that she should have to see such nightmares. Well, the civilized world would punish the perpetrators. They would expose those monsters, and hang them. It would all be in the past soon. It couldn’t affect their future. Now, Frima, happy thoughts. Just close your eyes to the Brahms lullaby. “Lay thee down, safely rest.”
CHAPTER 22
On a sunny morning in late October, Frima entered her kitchen with an energy frequently missing so early in the day duri
ng these first months of pregnancy. She had taken her wet laundry up to the roof to dry on the clotheslines there before the other housewives were even up and about. This was a chore she actually enjoyed. She savored the smell of sun-dried sheets, and she loved the panorama of buildings and water towers from that height on a clear day like this. Up here in solitude, she always recalled the daydreams she and Beth used to have about converting those towers into studios, full of light and magical artistic energy. No time for daydreams today, though. She had bundled Lena off with Sarah, who would take her to the playground. Her mother-in-law was something of a pleasant surprise these days. Having a grandchild to care for and another on the way had given her a new lease on life. If Sarah could somehow dispose of her miserable husband, who knew what possibilities awaited her? Now why should she, Frima, be so surprised? Jack and Beth were Sarah’s offspring, and they were exceptional: charming, bright, beautiful. She must have done something right. Their stubbornness came from Sam, that was for sure, but Sarah was at a loss when confronted with it, so Frima had to counteract it with her own strategies.
Beth was coming up to see her mother today, and she would have dinner with Jack and Frima and her young niece this evening. It was a Thursday. If they were a normal—that is, warm, generous—Jewish family, it would make far more sense for Beth to come on Friday, the end of the work week. That way she could share a Shabbos meal with the whole family, all three generations, especially now that Vinny was gone. But this wasn’t a normal family. Sam refused to be in the same room with his daughter, and she in turn loathed him. Jack was still testy about Beth’s living situation, convinced that the influence of Vinny lingered on in an alienating way. Since returning from overseas, Jack was more eager to keep to Jewish traditions, more sensitive about his Jewishness than he had been, and Beth unwittingly brought out the worst of his touchiness.
Frima recalled uneasily the great bacon fat controversy of a couple of weeks ago, when Jack, Frima, and Lena were downtown and had made a rare brief visit to Beth’s apartment. Like a good patriotic American, Beth had some rendered meat fat chilling on the window sill. It was still collected as part of the war effort (used for munitions or something), and Lena had trotted over and tasted it. It was bacon fat, unfortunately, and Jack had a fit over it being there. The argument was sotto voce in deference to the child, who, happily, was more interested in exploring the apartment than listening to the adults.
“How can someone who calls herself Jewish keep that garbage in the house?”
“Why not? Plenty of Jews eat bacon. You eat it yourself—I’ve seen you.”
“Never in my home! And never lately. It’s Kraut food.”
“So is cabbage. You’re being ridiculous,” Beth hissed back at him.
Frima entirely agreed with her, but not being a fool said only, “Stop this nonsense, right now, both of you!”
Despite all of this, Jack would have heartily approved of Beth joining them for a Friday night meal with the ritual lighting of the candles. He would think it a good influence on her. But knowing full well that this would be impossible at his parents’ table, he left the Friday night decisions to Frima. Besides, she was pregnant, and allowances had to be made. In truth, what Frima would have liked was for her mother and stepfather to do the whole Friday night deal. They could flatten Sam if he made trouble, and of course Mama would do all the cooking and baking. This was impossible, she knew. Even if they had wanted to do this, Mama and Leon couldn’t drive to the city every week. Rubber tires were precious and irreplaceable, their wear and tear a serious consideration, and gas was still rationed. So Frima had come up with this furtive, somewhat convoluted plan; good for this week, at least.
She surveyed the refrigerator. She was going to make her mother’s famous stuffed cabbage, a great big pot of it, enough for tonight and Friday. She had hoarded her meat rations for this. She had some sweet butter also, so she’d make Mama’s unadorned but delicious butter cake, maybe accompanied by stewed fruit. She had all the recipes. Butter and meat at the same meal? Absolutely. Jack knew she would never agree to a kosher home. Kosher style food sometimes, but that was all. It was a good plan. Jack adored Mama’s stuffed cabbage, and Beth would also. There would also be plenty of food for tomorrow. She had ample time to prepare this ambitious meal. Beth would take her mother and Lena out to lunch and stay with them until about five, then bring Lena back here before Sam came home. Enemy ships that passed in the night. The whole day would be just fine with Lena, since she and Aunt Bethie were buddies.
Usually Beth bought her some delightful children’s book as a present, and they would read it together, probably several times over. Lena loved books, and Frima was sure her child would be reading before she reached first grade. Beth was so good with Lena. Too bad she had no desire to have a child of her own. Or maybe not too bad. She would certainly be better off waiting for marriage to the right guy. She hummed to herself as she pulled off the outside leaves of the cabbage. She’d get the cabbage rolls in and out of the oven before she baked the cake. Then just a half hour before dinner she’d reheat them. They’d taste even better that way. With good planning she could even get to practice some Shubert for an hour before the others got here.
Jack was home earlier than expected. He came over to the piano and kissed the top of Frima’s head.
“Don’t get up, honey. Last class was canceled today. Something smells wonderful, by the way.”
“Stuffed cabbage.”
“On a Thursday?”
“Your sister is coming, remember? Besides I made enough for tomorrow night also, with your folks.”
“Well I hope it will influence her in the right direction—remind her that her roots aren’t in pizza. Do you need help? Want me to set the table or something?”
“Uh-uh. Everything’s ready. Take a load off.”
“Okay, I’ll be on the couch reading the paper. Probably full of stuff about Nuremberg—the trials will be starting soon.” A big sigh followed this. “Right there in the city where it all began.”
You would be much better off closing your eyes and listening to a little Schubert, Frima thought, but she held her peace. It was inevitable that they would talk of the trials this evening, but why should she be uneasy about fireworks between brother and sister? On this issue at least they were all on the same side, weren’t they? Still, she was glad that Lena would be sitting at the table to dampen any desire to argue.
“Aunt Bethie, tell Daddy about the boy with the pot on his head. It was so funny! Grandma Sarah laughed and laughed and her eyes got wet. But she said she wasn’t sad.”
“What is this kid talking about?” Jack asked.
“It was just something I saw on the way here.” Beth answered. “The weather was so nice I walked from the subway, and I saw this woman and a kid get off the bus at Montifiore. Probably going to the emergency room. This poor kid had a pot—you know, a saucepan with a handle—on his head. And his mother, loud enough for the world to hear, is badgering him: ‘You had to be General Eisenhower, yet! I don’t have tsuris enough? No, you have to be General Eisenhower—” Beth broke off with a little snort of laughter.
They all had to laugh. “Poor kid,” said Frima. “He must have been so mortified. How would they get it off?” she asked Jack.
“Soap or some lubricant, like you would if you had a ring stuck on your finger, I guess. The kid’s mother probably could have done it herself, if she’d been thinking.”
“But she had tsuris enough,” Beth and Frima said in one voice, and that set the two women off again.
“Very funny,” Jack said quietly. “But you know, don’t you, that you’re using that exaggerated Yiddish accent again? Considering the times, it’s not in the best of taste.”
“That’s the way she talked, Jack. Like a Bronx Jewish immigrant. We all do, at times, so what’s the big deal?” Beth answered evenly.
“Lena, lovie, say goodnight to Daddy and Aunt Bethie.” Frima interrupted them smoothly. She could
see that Lena was beginning to nod off. And just in time, she thought.
It took her about fifteen minutes to read Lena a story and get her settled. She could hear subdued but rapid conversation from the kitchen table, but had no idea how much the antagonism had escalated until she returned to the room.
“Six million of our people exterminated like rats. Extermination—the word makes me want to puke. The Nazis would have been kinder to rats—just a little arsenic—they wouldn’t work them to death, humiliate and torture them, deliberately starve them! Those Kraut bastards aren’t even human—hanging is too good for them.”
“What they did is unbelievable, unspeakable. But the Nazis are human—that’s what is so horrifying. And we have to remember they also killed political prisoners, gypsies, homosexuals.”
Frima stood frozen for a moment. Oh, shut up! Beth was perfectly right, but didn’t she realize that her preachy, proselytizing tone was infuriating to Jack? For a discerning woman, she could be such a blunderer.
“Oh, spare me that all-men-are-brothers crap! It’s just a way to undercut the fact that Jews were the main target—the main victims. Who do you think a Nazi would kill first, a Jew or a Gypsy? If you weren’t such an anti-Semitic Jew—which is unforgivable—you would realize that.”
Beth’s voice was low, but it shook as she spoke. “How dare you? Do you think I don’t know that I would have been incinerated if I’d lived in Europe? I’m an anti-Semite because my view is broader than yours? I’m Jewish and proud of it—I’m just not your kind of Jew. And we most certainly are talking about crimes against humanity, brother of mine, whether you like it or not.”
“Who are you calling brother, comrade!”
“Jack! Stop this at once! He doesn’t know what he’s saying, Beth—he’s just upset by the horrors. We all are.”
Beth was silent for a moment, stricken. She spoke slowly, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “No, Frima, no peacemaking. Not now. I know when I’m being personally attacked.” She whirled on Jack. “You’d better explain just what you mean by that comment, brother.”
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