One American Dream

by Bernard Beck

  Aaron stopped and considered me for a long moment. “She’s not dead,” he said with finality.

  But I had already committed myself, and so I asked, “Then you’re divorced?” I hated my tone and regretted having asked.

  Aaron answered matter-of-factly, “No, not quite.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “It’s a long story.”

  I was now completely intrigued and also concerned that I had gone too far. “If you would like to tell it to me, I have plenty of time to listen,” I said. “If not, that’s OK too.”

  “I told you, it’s a long story,” Aaron said without feeling. “But, if you’re really interested, I’ll try to keep it as short as possible.”

  I looked encouragingly over the top of my glasses at him. I had expected that this would be an especially sensitive topic and that Aaron needed to tell it to someone, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  “OK,” Aaron said. “I come from a little town about fifty miles west of Chicago. I was born there, and I went to school there. There was even a little shul there where I had my bar mitzvah.

  “I wasn’t your typical smart Jewish kid. I was bigger than all the other kids, and I went out for sports. I was a pretty good athlete, and I got three letters in high school for basketball, football, and baseball. As you can imagine, with all those sports, I didn’t have much time for studies, but it didn’t matter. The teachers all gave me passing grades so that I could play, and I got a football scholarship to a good college.

  “It turns out that I wasn’t good enough to make the varsity team in college. I started some games, and I was on the team for three years, but they said that I didn’t live up to my potential. The coach threatened to terminate my scholarship at the end of my first year, but I began doing some research with one of the professors in the physics lab, and he stood up for me. He even helped me get my first job.

  “But I’m getting away from my story, and that’s not what I wanted to tell you. My high school had a reunion every year for the class that had graduated five years earlier. That was the only reunion they had. The idea was that the graduates would have been established by then, but would not have moved too far out of town yet. Anyway, it was a big deal in our town. They decorated the high school gym and hired a dance band. Plus, we were allowed to drink, which we couldn’t do in high school.

  “I was a kind of hero, you know, what with all the sports. Plus, I had gone to a good college, and I had a good job and was making real money. There was a girl at the reunion who had been kind of my girlfriend in high school. We hit it off really big at the reunion, and we ended up in bed in her apartment. She got pregnant.

  “The story might have ended there; we might have gotten married and raised a family. I certainly was willing, but she wasn’t. It turns out that she was actually engaged to a nice guy in another town, and they had planned a very happy life together. She really didn’t love me, and this fling was just that, a fling—too much nostalgia and too much booze. She wanted to have an abortion, but I didn’t want her to. I figured that this was a life worth saving. Plus, she would have had to go to this woman we had heard about in Chicago, and she could die.

  “So I made her a deal. I would arrange for her to be hired by my company and be sent on a business trip somewhere where her fiancée couldn’t go. She would have the baby. I would pay for everything. And then she would go back to her fiancée and marry him, and I would take full responsibility for the kid.

  “And that’s the way it worked out. She was away on this business trip for about six months, and she and this guy got married about three months after she came back. And, from what I heard, they are very happy. No one other than she and I, and now you, knows about what happened. Not my parents, not my classmates, not my friends, no one. Just me and her. And now you. I usually tell anyone who asks that his mother died in childbirth.”

  “What are you going to tell your son?” I asked quietly.

  “I don’t know yet,” he replied.

  Chapter 26

  I had developed an easy relationship with Aaron. I enjoyed his sense of humor, and I always felt secure with him. Our friendship was a mature one of mutual respect with just a touch of teasing and flirting. I am, after all, human, and so I had idly thought about what it would be like to sleep with him as compared with Harry. Aaron was muscular and physical; Harry had been soft and sensitive. Although my father had told me about Aaron’s son’s mother and the strange agreement they had made, Aaron had never asked about Bentzy, and I had never offered even a clue.

  “I have a favor to ask,” Aaron said one Friday afternoon. “You know, I was raised in a town that had a very small Jewish population. Even though we had a synagogue, there wasn’t much of a Jewish feeling. Although we weren’t religious, this lack of a Jewish environment bothered my father a lot. He had grown up in a shtetle in Poland where there were mostly Jews and where preparation for the Sabbath was a big thing. So we, in our home, pretended we were still in the shtetle. The way we did that was to go up on a hill behind our house every Friday night and watch the sunset. When the last trace of the sun was gone, my father kissed each of us and wished us a gutten Shabbos.

  “My parents are gone now, my brother is on the West Coast, and all I have is me and my son. I try to mark the start of Shabbos, but somehow, it doesn’t feel the same as it used to. So here’s my favor: will you and Bentzy sit with me and my son and watch the Sabbath sunset?”

  And so, that Friday night, we began a ritual of welcoming the Sabbath together by watching the sun set over the Hudson River. The night was clear and dusk had fallen. We were sitting on some packing crates looking out at the river. Our children were playing nearby.

  “In case you’re wondering,” I said quietly, “I never was married. I was in love—very much so—but he died before we could get married.”

  “I’m sorry. What did he die of?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Aaron sat quietly, waiting for more, but there was no more. We had both traveled a lifetime of long, winding roads to get to this moment of pure Sabbath peace. The last remnants of sunlight glittered on the Hudson River, and then suddenly they were gone.

  “A gutten Shabbos,” Aaron said softly, wishing me a peaceful Sabbath.

  “Yes,” I said, “it is.”

  Instinctively, I took Aaron’s hand. It had been meant as a gesture of friendship or consolation, maybe reassurance, but something else had happened, and it meant something more. We both knew it.

  __________

  The “self help” supply chain that Aaron and I had developed was working smoothly. We had equipped complete kitchens in a number of central locations in the Hooverville, which the residents now referred to as “villages.” Once these kitchens were in operation, a bunch of other charities began delivering food supplies to them on a regular basis, and the only task remaining for Aaron and me was to keep the stoves burning.

  These stoves were coal-fired, and they required two grades of coal and enough kindling to start the fire each morning. Our responsibility now was to keep them supplied with coal and to remove the ashes. Through one of my connections, we were able to save a substantial amount of money by buying the coal nuggets directly from a coal mining company in Pennsylvania and avoiding the middleman.

  Once a week, the Hooverville’s driver would pick up a truckload of coal from the mine and deliver it to the various kitchens in the Hooverville. The problem was that we didn’t need all the coal that we brought up to the Hooverville, and it was too expensive for us to buy less than a full truck load. Although it was still cheaper than buying the coal from a middleman, we had to find a way to dispose of the excess coal.

  At first, we resold the remaining coal at a loss to a local distributor, but this was awkward and way too expensive. Then we looked into renting a storage facility, but this was too costly. We were faced with the real
possibility that, because of the excess coal, we would not be able to afford to continue the coal delivery service.

  “This is crazy,” Aaron said as we were paying our bills. “This process is costing us too much money. You’re a generous guy, but you can’t keep on funding it at this rate. I know that you’re pretty well off, but I won’t let you endanger your family’s future.”

  I was both relieved and offended. It was true that this coal situation was rapidly depleting our savings, but I loved being part of this process, and I didn’t want to give it up. And I didn’t want to ask anyone else to participate. This was a very personal project between Aaron and me, and I didn’t want to lose that.

  “It’ll be OK,” I said. “The economy’s turning around and pretty soon we’ll be able to stop.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Aaron responded. “Even with all that Roosevelt has done, it still hasn’t made a dent. For every person who gets a job, two others lose theirs.”

  We were sitting in the cab of the truck—me behind the wheel, Aaron in the passenger seat. The driver had gone to lunch, and we were just making sure that the coal was safe. “The problem is the leftover coal,” I mused. “If we could only find a way to sell it at a profit, or even at cost, then we’d be OK.”

  “Holy shit!” Aaron exclaimed. “You hit the nail right on the head. The solution was staring us right in the face, but we didn’t see it. All we’ve got to do is find some homes or businesses that will buy their coal from us. Then we might be able to break even.”

  “You’re right!” I nearly shouted. “Coal is coal. The important thing about coal deliveries is reliability. During the winter people don’t want to risk being without a reliable delivery of coal. They don’t really care who they buy their coal from as long as they are certain that it will be there when they need it.”

  Enthusiasm is infectious and Aaron was nearly jumping out of his seat. “We’ve got more reliable drivers than you can shake a stick at. All we’ve got to do is convince some of your neighbors that we will always be there on time with their delivery. I bet you know plenty of people in your neighborhood who would give us their business—especially if we tell them that all the profits will be going to charity.”

  “That’s it!” I said. “That’s the key: charity! I can tell the people in my synagogue that buying coal from us is a doing a good deed—a mitzvah. They get coal to heat their house and a mitzvah too!”

  And just like that, “Share the Heat Fuel Company” was formed, and Aaron and I were equal partners. It was, as they say, a marriage made in heaven. Aaron—outgoing, friendly, and larger than life—was the outside man, and I was the inside man.

  We were careful not to take on more customers than we could comfortably service, and every month, when we sent out our bills, we indicated on the bills the amount of money that we had donated to charity that month and the cumulative total for the year. Since neither Aaron nor I was being paid a salary, and we had no real overhead other than the truck rentals and the Hooverville drivers, our charitable donations were substantial.

  Within a few months, word of our new charitable company reached the newspapers and both The New York Times and The New York Sun did feature stories on our new venture. The business grew rapidly and “Share the Heat” trucks began showing up in residential neighborhoods throughout New York. As our business grew, we were able to hire more and more men from the Hooverville and give more and more to charity.

  __________

  The rest of the story is family lore, and we tell it freely and happily to anyone who will listen.

  On the first anniversary of their new business, Ruthie invited Rose, Jack, and my father, Aaron, to her apartment to celebrate. She had ordered a huge platter of assorted meats from Gold’s Delicatessen, mountains of coleslaw and potato salad, and a whole loaf of sliced rye bread.

  As we all sat at the table, my grandfather tapped his knife on his glass and rose to speak. He slowly and meaningfully looked around the table, making sure to make eye contact with everyone there, and waiting for quiet.

  “I have something I want to say. This is very important to me, and I beg your indulgence to hear me all the way through.

  “All of my life in this wonderful country I have wanted to be an American: a real, authentic American. I was never quite sure exactly what that was, but I was sure that once I got there, I would know it. But every time I thought I had reached my goal, I realized that I was not really there.

  “One year ago, Aaron and I were sitting in the cab of a coal truck. We were filthy and tired and depressed. We had been working intensely for months, and we were running out of money. And then, Aaron had a brilliant idea, and we changed our point of view from charity to self-help. At that moment, when we were sitting in the cab of that truck, I became a real American—even though I didn’t know it at the time. I discovered that being an American isn’t about what you wear, or how you speak, or where you live. Anyone can do that. It’s what’s in your head and in your heart that makes you an American.

  “We Americans argue about everything, but in the end, we always do the right thing. We may like our president or hate him. We may like our neighbor or hate him. That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we Americans understand that we are all part of the struggle, and that we all want to move in the same direction—toward a better world.

  “In Europe, and in the rest of the world, there is history and privilege. But in America, everything was new and equal right from the start. And it was a struggle. And it is still a struggle. And it is our responsibility as Americans—real Americans—to help each other in the struggle. And the funny thing is that no one has to tell us what to do. Real Americans see a need, and we do whatever is necessary to make it whole.

  “American history is different from the rest of the world. In Europe, the countries are old and they only want to regain their former grandeur. But we are a new country, and we live for the future. And because we live in the present, and not the past, we believe that the future will be better—always better. And we will do whatever is in our power to make it better.

  “I’m not talking about charity; everyone can give charity. In church on Sunday morning they pass the plate and people put a few dollars in. That’s too easy. I’m talking about involvement. That’s what real Americans do: we get involved. Tikun Olam—making the world a better place.

  “When Aaron and I started the business, we were only thinking about how we could help more people, and hire more people, and somehow figure out how to make life better for people, even if it was only one person at a time.”

  My grandfather looked down at my grandmother who was sitting next to him. He put his hand on her shoulder, and she reached up and held it.

  “When I went to high school,” he went on, “there was a man—a judge—who helped me; helped me make it through, helped me survive. When I finished high school, I asked the judge how I could repay him. And this judge, who had helped me so much, told me that the only payment he wanted from me was that I should make a difference. That’s what he said, ‘Make a difference.’ I didn’t understand what he was talking about back then because I was only concerned about myself and my immediate future, but now I understand, and now making a difference is the most important value in my life.

  “‘Make a difference’ might sound like empty words, or some sort of motto, but I want you to remember them. And when the opportunity comes, and I’m sure it will, I want you to remember what I am telling you today: make a difference.”

  “I almost forgot,” Ruthie said as she rushed into the kitchen. She returned with a bottle of champagne and handed it to her father, who, in turn, smiled and handed it to my father.

  He proudly and carefully worked the cork out of the bottle until it popped and champagne spilled out over the top. He poured champagne for everyone including us children, and raised his glass.

  But before he could s
ay anything, Ruthie stood up. “I know that this is an important event for the two of you,” she said with a smile, “but I have something to celebrate too. My book was accepted for publication, and I got an advance of five hundred dollars!”

  Without thinking, my father turned to her and kissed her right on the mouth. She recoiled slightly, and then she put her arms around him and kissed him back.

  My grandfather said, “Well, it’s about time.” While my brother and I screamed with embarrassment and laughter.

  Ruthie put a record on the phonograph, and we all sang and danced.

  __________

  They were married, my father and Ruthie, about a year later at the Brooklyn Jewish Center on Eastern Parkway, less than a mile from where my grandfather, Jack, had bought his first houses. The wedding was an enormous affair with all of the members of Jack and Rose’s synagogue and busloads of our friends from the Hooverville in attendance.

  And now, here we are, sitting at this table with you, telling a bit of our family history. Thank you for listening.

  In keeping with the family tradition of concluding with a lesson, I would like to leave you with a bit of musar—an ethical message. It comes from the great Negro Leagues pitcher, Satchel Paige: “Don’t pray when it rains if you don’t pray when the sun shines.”

  About the Author

  Every author draws from within himself: Who am I? And what do I stand for? Well, in his case, Bernard Beck is an American. And he stands for what he perceives as American values, but is also a self-described restless soul. A native of the New York/New Jersey area, Bernie attended Jewish religious school (yeshiva) from kindergarten through the twelfth grade. He then attended City College in the fifties, where he also worked part-time and summers for an advertising agency in Brooklyn. Following graduation in 1959, he spent two years in the army, stationed in Fort Bragg, North Carolina with his wife Judy.