“Oh, yeah,” he grinned. “You an alligator?”
“What?”
“You cut the rug? Jitterbug?”
Becky’s mind went blank. “I listen to the swing on the radio.”
He stopped dancing. “Just listening to it on the radio ain’t no good, Becky. You have to experience swing. You like to dance?”
“I never went,” she admitted. In front of this handsome man it seemed a shameful confession.
“You want to go with me?”
This is flirting, Becky numbly realized. He’s asking me—me!—out on a date. She stared into his eyes, locking his gaze, because his tawny eyes were lovely and because she didn’t want him glancing down to notice that she was wearing brown shoes with a blue dress.
“I’m a stand-up guy, Becky,” he said quickly, evidently mistaking her confused hesitation for reluctance. “You see them trucks?” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “They’re mine. And I got plenty more like ’em.”
“Is that how you know my father?” Becky cut in. “Because your trucks have made deliveries to the market?”
“Yeah, sorta like that.”
“I don’t know why I’ve never seen you then,” Becky mused. “I mean, you look familiar, but I’m sure I’ve never seen you in the store.”
“Like I said, you’ve never been there when I stopped by. Anyway, what brought you to Malden’s in the first place? Why’d you ever think you’d get hired as a shipping clerk?”
The date! Becky silently pleaded to him. Ask me out again on the date! Oh, why had she hesitated in the first place?
“I originally came to get a part-time sales job, but there were too many applying, and they wanted experienced help.” She shrugged.
“So you thought you could jive your way into the shipping department.” He shook his head in admiration. “Listen, the guy who was doing the interviewing, was he bald and fat?”
“Yes, and smoking a cigar.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded. “That’s Wilkie.” He winked at Becky. “Mr. Wilkerson to you. He’s just a flunky. We’ll go through him the way a hot knife cuts through butter. I’ll telephone Pinckameyer—”
“Who’s that?” Becky asked. The date—the date, she willed him. She’d already picked her dress for the big night.
“Pinkie’s a big shot at Malden’s,” he explained. “He’ll see to it that you’re hired.”
“What?” Becky wondered if she’d heard right. “Me? Hired?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “You come back here tomorrow to see Wilkie—Wilkerson, right? The guy with the cigar. You just tell me what schedule you want to work. It’ll go smooth as glass, I promise.”
“But they want experienced help.”
“Hey, you work in your pop’s store, right? That’s experience. That’s how I learned everything, working for my pop.”
“They’ll listen to you? I don’t mean to doubt you, mister—” She realized that she didn’t know his name.
“Benny Talkin. Call me Benny. Don’t you worry. Jews help Jews. They’ll listen to me. I do a lot of transport business for these people. They don’t make me happy, my trucks don’t roll, and that means empty shelves for Malden’s. Get it?”
“Got it.” Becky grinned.
“Come on.” Benny began walking her toward the steel doors that led out to the basement sales floor. “You gotta get going. I’ve still got some things to discuss with Max.”
“It’ll be all right? The job, I mean—”
“Piece of cake.”
“You’ll call—whoever it was you said you’d call—?”
“You come see Wilkerson tomorrow afternoon. Tell him when you want to start; it’s as simple as that.” He held open the door for her.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Anything for Abie Herodetzky’s daughter.”
Becky chuckled ruefully. “Now I just have to get my father to let me work here.”
“You mean he doesn’t know?”
“Uh-uh.”
“You’ll have to finagle that on your lonesome. Now beat it.”
Becky felt a pat on her haunch and then she was through the doorway alone, managing only a quick final glimpse of tweed stretched across Benny’s broad shoulders before the dented steel doors swung shut.
She floated home on a cloud, feeling as if a handsome archangel had swooped down on indomitable wings to lay miracles at her feet.
The job! Tomorrow she would have the job!
Tomorrow night she would have to break the news to her father, but for now she was entitled to savor her exultation. And so she would. There’d be no clouds in her sky at all if only Benny Talkin had thought to ask her out that crucial second time.
* * *
The next afternoon she put on the same dress and shoes and returned to Malden’s personnel department. As soon as she’d identified herself to Mr. Wilkerson he handed her some papers to fill in and asked her when she wanted to start. Any time and any schedule was fine with him.
Becky chose Monday, Wednesday and Thursday afternoons from three till closing and all day Saturday. When she thanked Wilkerson he scowled suspiciously; Benny Talkin’s intercession had offended the personnel manager. Once again she thanked him, doing her best to show her gratitude for the chance he was giving her. When Wilkerson saw that she meant it he took the cigar from his mouth long enough to smile and say she was welcome.
On her way home Becky decided she’d stumbled upon a cardinal rule for a woman who meant to make her way up the ladder of success. To lose graciously was admirable, but to win graciously was crucial.
Now, if only she could apply the rule to tonight’s confrontation with her father.
She broke the news to him after supper. She was careful to present her tale the way she had rehearsed it, as a fait accompli. Not once did she ask his permission or opinion of her decision, nor did she imply that her mind could be changed. Her father said nothing as she calmly explained the hours she’d be working at Malden’s. Danny listened silently, his wide eyes restlessly shifting between his stony-faced, sullen father and his wondrous sister.
When Becky was done Abe asked, “You’ll work in the store until you go to the nickel-and-dime?”
“I said I would.” She caught the strident note in her voice. Calm down, she told herself. I think you won.
She watched her father gaze at Danny. How cold and aloof his eyes were. Danny began to fidget, and Becky felt for him, remembering all the times she’d suffered their father’s dispassionate evaluation.
“Right from Hebrew school you’ll have to come to help me,” Abe warned. “No more running with the other boys.”
“I know.”
“When you’ll have time to study I don’t know,” Abe sighed. “Ask your sister. Maybe she knows. She’s got all the answers.”
“Pa, I don’t study anyway—”
“You hear?” Abe grumbled to Becky. “And who’ll make the supper?”
“When I come home I’ll make the supper,” Becky said patiently.
Abe shook his head, rapping his knuckles on the table. “You don’t ask my permission so I don’t give it. Do what you want.”
After her initial enthusiasm wore off, Becky found working at Malden’s disappointingly dull. Wilkerson seized upon her experience to make her a cashier. Becky hardly talked to the customers and never got a chance to try and sell them anything. All she did was punch in the numbers on her register. She found her days at the Cherry Street Market to be more fun. There she knew who she was selling to and got to move around at least.
It was Thursday night three weeks after she began her job. Becky was leaving with the other girls via the employees’ entrance. She heard a car horn beep, and saw Benny Talkin grinning at her from the driver’s seat of a maroon convertible that glistened like a garnet beneath the streetlamps.
“Who’s that?” one of the girls cooed enviously. “He’s waiting for you?”
“I guess,” Becky said
, feeling nervous as she crossed the street.
“I thought I’d come by to see how you were doing,” Benny greeted her.
“I’m okay.” Becky said shyly. Since the first and last time she met him she’d compiled imaginary lists of clever things to say in case she got this chance. Now her mind was blank. She should have written those lists down. Looking at scraps of notes was only half as foolish as standing like a tongue-tied idiot.
“I know who you look like,” she blurted. “It’s been bothering me—I mean, you looked familiar, but I knew we’d never met. You look just like John Garfield in Four Daughters.”
“An actor!” Benny laughed, not displeased.
“Did you see it?” Becky demanded. “I saw it twice—”
“Get in.” Benny didn’t get out of the car, but leaned across the gleaming leather front seat to open the passenger door. When he sat upright he saw that Becky had not moved. “Come on, it’s cold out there. I ain’t going to bite you.”
“Okay.” She came around and got into the car, shut the door and leaned against it. The interior of the car smelled of leather and Benny’s cologne. His suit was grey flannel. His arm and shoulder muscles strained the fabric as he ran his hands over the steering wheel. His hands were large, strong and capable-looking. The gold pinky ring with its large, glittering stone looked out of place on such fingers.
“You like it?” Benny asked.
“What?” Becky asked, startled. “The car? Sure, it’s great.”
“It’s a ’39 Cadillac. I get a new one every year. Do you know how much it cost me?” When Becky shook her head, he laughed. “I didn’t think so.”
The conversation lagged for a moment. “You want a smoke?” he asked, taking a packet of Chesterfields from the top of the dash.
Becky accepted a cigarette and Benny lit it. She was very conscious of her fingers touching his as she steadied the flame. He watched her exhale.
“You don’t look old enough to smoke.”
“I’m old enough to vote,” Becky sighed. “But I know what you mean.”
“I like how you look,” Benny murmured. “A pretty girl don’t need much to set her off, and you’re real pretty, Becky.” He was sliding closer to her across the leather.
During the silence that ensued, Becky set her cigarette into the ashtray and leaned back. This-is-it-I’m-going-to-be-kissed—
Benny Talkin froze with his arm halfway around her shoulder as a long, gurgling growl reverberated from the depths of Becky’s stomach. He began to hoot with laughter as Becky blinked back mortified tears.
“When did you eat last?” he managed to demand.
“This morning. I don’t have time to eat lunch.”
Benny waved her quiet. “You’re gonna waste away to nothing’ He made a point of giving her buxom figure a lascivious once-over to make her laugh. “A girl like you oughtn’t to be skin and bones.” He winked.
“Not much chance of that,” Becky demurred.
“I guess the first stop is this little steakhouse I know.” He pulled away from the curb.
Becky felt a brief twinge of guilt. Her father and her brother were waiting for her at home, waiting for their supper. They’re not crippled, she told herself. Let them make their own supper for once. She would telephone from the restaurant and tell them that she and some of the other girls had gone out for a bite.
And if her father complained, he would just have to get used to the change. She’d been his dutiful daughter long enough.
“You’ll like it better in the spring,” Benny said, cutting through her thoughts. “Pardon?”
“The convertible,” he said cheerfully as he put the powerful Cadillac through its paces. “When the weather turns warm and we put the top down, that’s when you’ll really enjoy it.”
At a stop light Benny finally did kiss her. He patted the seat next to him, and Becky sidled close as if she’d been doing it forever.
Chapter 31
Jerusalem
The British police held Herschel for two months and subjected him to daily interrogations. Sometimes he was beaten. Often the promise of imprisonment instead of execution was held out to him. Throughout the ordeal Herschel thought of Frieda and told his captors nothing.
He was tried before a military tribunal. A British major served as prosecutor and three other officers were his judges. No spectators were allowed, not even Rosie.
The trial lasted less than twenty minutes. The rug vendor identified Herschel as “the man who pretended to be English, the man who threw the bombs.” Another Arab seemed to know Herschel by name and also placed him at the scene of the explosion. Herschel’s attorney waived the right to cross-examination. The best they could hope for was to keep him from the gallows, so the attorney had no desire to antagonize the court.
After the witnesses were heard the judges whispered among themselves for a few minutes. Herschel was ordered to stand. He would not hang; it was not the administration’s goal to create martyrs. Herschel was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. The gavel came down, he was led away, and that was that.
At Jerusalem’s Central Prison they shaved his head and issued him brown sandals, baggy trousers, a collarless pullover shirt and a cloth cap. He was assigned to a communal cell in which there were already four Jews and two Arabs. The first week Herschel was cautious, keeping quiet until he knew what was what. Then one of the Arabs took sick and the Jews joined with the other Arab in donating a portion of their meager food to the invalid until he was well. The clash between the two peoples could wait. The inmates’ common enemy was the British prison.
The days took on a numbing sameness as Herschel’s world shrank down to dark, narrow vaulted halls, iron grates and grey stone. There were no books allowed, no writing materials. At sunrise there was morning exercise, a brief walk in the yard under guard. Next came a work period until the first meal, at midmorning. There was another brief walk, more work until late afternoon, a final meal and sleep until roll call at sunrise the next day.
Anyone on good behavior was allowed a visitor once a month. Herschel’s visitor was invariably his mother. She was only in her fifties, but a long hard life had prematurely aged her and his sentencing had sapped the last reserves of her youth and strength. During one of her visits she broke down.
“I remember when we first moved to Jerusalem,” she wept. Herschel stared at the multitude of fine lines etching her translucent skin. “I remember how we would sit on the bare wooden floor of my studio with a plate of fruit and cheese between us. You would tell me about the university. How you made me laugh. How silly we got, like drunkards. You remember, don’t you? It’s not just an old woman remaking her memories, is it? We were friends, yes?”
“It happened, Mama,” Herschel quietly agreed. “We’re still friends.”
“No!” Her fingers were like claws rattling the mesh. “Mother and son, perhaps, and we still may love one another, but we are no longer friends.” She smiled, wiping her tears, and suddenly despite her wrinkles and grey hair the ghost of her youth seemed to appear in her red-rimmed sable eyes.
“I’m a painter, yes? Not a great one, perhaps, but nevertheless an artist. You, my son, were my greatest work. When your father was killed you became my creation, one that I would never finish. I thought I could never lose you. Then along came that girl—”
“Mama—”
“She stole you away, she did. And now this prison has you for twenty-five years. Never again will we embrace. Herschel, there is no point to my existence if yours is to be spent in a cage.”
Months passed. His mother’s visits continued. Herschel became increasingly concerned over Frieda’s well-being. Rumors had circulated the prison that new ordinances allowed the British to fire on ships carrying illegal Jewish immigrants to Palestine. Many discounted the rumors. Even the most virulently anti-British Zionists had a hard time believing that defenseless refugees would be shot. Still, Herschel worried. As best he knew, his beloved was still smuggling i
n Jews. His mother knew nothing about Frieda, of course, and Herschel understood that even if Frieda had returned to Jerusalem, she could not visit him without drawing suspicion to herself.
In the fall the prison’s grapevine buzzed with the news that a refugee ship, the Tiger Hill, had been attacked by the Palestine Coast Guard. Two people were killed. A scrap of newspaper was smuggled in and passed along through most of the inmate population before it was confiscated by a guard. The scrap quoted the British colonial secretary, Malcolm MacDonald, as saying that the responsibility for these and future deaths rested with those who were organizing illegal immigration.
One month Herschel was surprised to find that his visitor was none other than Yol Popovich. The old man had come all the way from Degania.
“How fine you look,” Herschel laughed as Yol smiled at him from the other side of the wire mesh. “Like a patriarch, like Moses himself, with your walking stick and that grand grey bushy beard.”
“Patriarch, eh?” Yol grimaced. “It’s baldness. Makes the skull look bigger.”
“How is Degania?”
“It thrives, boy. You see how old I look, and now I’ll confess how old I feel—I cannot wait to get back to that quiet little corner of the world.” His dark eyes narrowed as he peered through the mesh. “Herschel, you are so gaunt.”
“The food is poor, and there’s not enough of it.”
“But you’re holding up? You can survive?”
“We’re strong, so strong that on Yom Kippur we fasted.”
Yol was truly appalled. “Good socialists like you fasted?”
Herschel laughed. “You should have seen the looks on the faces of the guards when we all refused our meals—us! With our ribs sticking out, yes? Of whom not one had ever fasted when we were free. The guards were curious, so we explained to them that it was the Day of Atonement. The guards nodded. They thought we were atoning for our crimes, but it was really for getting caught.”
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