The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel

by Dorothy Uhnak

  “All over, kid. C’mon. Let it alone.”

  Matthew nodded. He knew. He gently laid the small, suffocated body down on a folded edge of dropcloth, wiped his forehead with his wet sleeve, and looked squarely at the child for the first time. Two years old, maybe, light brown skin, open mouth showing pearly white little teeth, eyes unfocused but bright, glowing.

  A patrolman who had been assisting with traffic control, who didn’t smell of steaming wet rubber, hot smoke, or anything else, came over for a look. With the tip of his shiny black shoe, he carefully poked at the cheek of the dead child, turning the face so he could get a closer look.

  “Jeez, pretty enough little kid,” he said. “For a nigger, that is.”

  Matthew rose with a roar. It took two uniformed cops and three of his own buddies to pry him off the cop, and a few more of his mates to hustle him back to the engine. There was no question in anyone’s mind that Matthew had fully intended to kill the cop. Who would never understand why.

  And it wasn’t that Matthew spoke or thought or felt any differently about the coloreds than anyone else. It was something that none of them articulated but all of them understood. It had to do with a one-on-one battle against death, with an inexplicable covenant with life. Your breath into the suffocated, sharing your life-force, defeating the searing, indiscriminate destroyer: Fire. It had nothing to do with race or color or sex or age. It had everything to do with the most primitive, powerful assertion of life.

  Like most of the young men in his class, veterans in good physical shape, competitively bright, Charley loved the training course. He felt strong and capable and ready.

  His first fire-related injury came toward the end of his first full year as a fireman. He hadn’t personally saved anyone, though his crew, as a team, had saved lives, had rescued kids and old folks. It had been a kitchen fire on the top floor of a five-story building on Creston Avenue in the Bronx. A decent, middle-class building of neatly kept apartments. Panic had led a family of four to all the wrong moves: flinging open doors, creating a chimney for the fire to sweep through the flat. The crew came through the windows from the ladders, brought families from the now-burning building to safety, brought in the big hoses, had it all under control.

  Charley helped to evacuate the building; everyone seemed accounted for, no one screamed, My baby, my baby. But instinct told him to sweep the third floor one more time. Hell, the kids might have had a pal over before supper and forgotten him in the excitement. In the smoky hallway, Charley heard what at first sounded like a cough, then became a snuffle. Low to the floor, gasping at the remaining oxygen, he crept in the blackness toward the sound within the apartment, reached under a bed, and pulled out a large, bony, shaking young dog, who collapsed in Charley’s arms. Automatically he breathed into the animal’s nose and mouth, his brain pounding: Live. Live. Live. He was so intent on what he was doing that he miscalculated the time he had left to get out safely. A wall caved in and Charley, still holding and cradling the dog, still sharing whatever air he could find, folded instinctively into the fetal position, clutching the dog to his body. He was conscious as he was lifted to the stretcher and watched as the family grabbed at the revived mutt, hugged and cried and yelled with relief.

  He woke up in Fordham Hospital to be told his injury was a lucky one. Yeah, he would have a burn scar on the outside of his right arm, from elbow to wrist, but what the hell? Every fireman, sooner or later, experiences some kind of injury.

  His crew visited him and regaled him with one horror story after another of seared lungs, melted faces, broken backs. What no one had prepared him for was the unspeakable pain, which he never forgot, not ever. Which he carried into every fire he ever attended, and which reinforced his normally strong determination to save any life facing that exquisite pain. An injury, he thought, made a good fireman a better fireman.

  His picture was on the front page of the Bronx Home News, the Mirror, the Daily News, and the Journal-American.

  There was his picture, grinning weakly in the hospital bed, and there was a picture of the rescued dog, being hugged by the family. And there his nickname was born: Snuffy O’Brien.

  His life in the fire department reinforced his childhood impressions of the firemen and the cops and their “war stories.” He’d had the sense that most cops didn’t really love their jobs, were putting in their twenty, counting off how many years they had until retirement, while the guys who were with the fire department considered their jobs the truest part of their lives.

  He never met a fireman, at any age or in any condition, disabled or lung-damaged, who wouldn’t respond to that bell in a minute if he could.

  There seemed to be an almost amorphous connection in Charley’s mind between his commitment to fighting fires and his memory of the burnt remains of the thousands of corpses he had seen during his time at Auschwitz. He shared his powerful life-force with those he could save, in some way easing his pain for those no one had saved.

  Charley O’Brien and Deborah Herskel were married at the Tremont Temple, Reformed, in the Bronx. For the first time since he had gone to Israel, Ben Herskel, at thirty-two serving as an assistant to a cabinet minister of the Israeli parliament, came home to the Bronx to attend the wedding and to introduce his wife to his family.

  The two young men studied each other. Charley’s smile was not as quick and easy as Ben’s. There was a seriousness about him that Ben understood. They shared a memory that would forever define them. Ben seemed older than his years. He felt overwhelmed at the abundance of everything material in the Bronx—food and cars and clothing, toys for children, disposable items; in Israel everything was carefully garnered. The wartime U.S. admonition, “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without,” applied even in peace in his adopted country, with no change in the foreseeable future.

  Ben’s body had thickened, his hairline had receded. He hoisted his trouser leg to show Charley a not-bad prosthesis.

  “We’ve got more doctors per square inch in Israel than you’ve got trees on the Grand Concourse. Life may be hard, but it’s certainly exciting. There’s a different kind of Jew being born and raised in Israel, a biblical warrior Jew. Maybe one day, now that you’re one of us, you’ll come and see for yourself.”

  Everyone was in awe of Ben’s wife. A tall, well-built, beautiful, strong girl who disdained makeup, wore her honeyed hair pulled back off her face, she regarded the Bronx with mild interest and apparent distaste. Within days of her visit, she just about convinced the older Herskels that life in Israel would be just the thing for them. To be near their grandchildren. Well, only one grandchild right now, a boy too young to travel such a great distance, but there would be more children. In Israel, children were the most treasured people of all. And for older people there was no boring retirement, but an active, fruitful life.

  At the wedding reception, the Herskel and O’Brien families mixed easily. After all, the bride and groom had grown up together, even if, as kids, they had ignored each other. The two mothers had had their secret Friday nights. There was good-natured joking and good food and good liquor.

  Ben could not believe that Megan Magee was now Dr. Megan Magee Kelly. The little tomboy, with a hint of the impish kid she had been, was a married professional with a tall, beaming husband who wrote and illustrated children’s books. Hey, they would be useful in Israel, too. Come and visit us.

  He pulled up his trouser leg, compared her new lightweight brace with his own handsome artificial leg.

  “God, they did a good job, Ben. You’re really lucky. You don’t even limp.”

  Ben grinned. “Come to Israel—we’ll fix you up with a sexy leg to match your other one.” He leered playfully, then pinched her arm, one of the guys.

  Ben’s wife liked Megan; women should get out in the world and accomplish whatever their intelligence allowed. And they should marry men with enough good sense to appreciate them.

  Eva glanced at her husband with manifest pride. “He is a hero in I
srael, you know. Imagine, a military tactician coming from such a peaceful place as this. Ben wasn’t able physically to lead the troops, but during the War of Independence, his planning—”

  Her husband placed his hand over her mouth. “In Israel, we are all military geniuses. And politicians.” He turned at the touch on his back, then embraced Dante D’Angelo.

  As the two men spoke earnestly, catching up on their mutual political careers, Eva spoke quietly with Megan.

  “He doesn’t look as young as the rest of you. Ben has much responsibility. He will be an important man in our government.” She watched Ben and Dante talking, gesturing, laughing. “As I think this Dante will be an important man in your country.” Eva narrowed her eyes, making a decision. Then, she confided to Megan, “Ben has had heavy responsibility, from his days at the Nuremberg trials. He has carried inside of him much information that has been instrumental in bringing to justice—of one kind or another—many of the criminals who were ‘liberated’ by your government.” Then, softly, she said, “I tell you this because Ben has told me about his childhood, about you and the wonderful girl you were. I am glad you shared his childhood. Especially since you went on with your own life, on your own terms. That cannot have been easy, in a world always dominated by men.”

  Megan shrugged. “What about you? Ben told me you were a captain in the army. And a pilot. You’ve no idea what that means to me. A childhood ambition … to fly a plane.”

  Eva laughed. “It is not all that dramatic. Women are used as ferry pilots. It is like anything else in life, one does what one has to do. And that beautiful black-haired woman over there by Ben and Dante—Dante’s wife?”

  Lucia-Bianca was aglow with her third pregnancy, tall and carrying, small as she always had. For a second, Megan felt a wave of something—some unresolved feeling—gone as quickly as it had come.

  “Yeah, that’s Lucia-Bianca. Not only beautiful, but absolutely brilliant.”

  “And what does she do with her brilliance?” Eva asked pointedly.

  Megan grinned and took her arm. “She keeps Dante happy!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AMONG THE MANY LESSONS WILLIE PAYCEK learned in Hollywood was how easily illusion could substitute for reality.

  When he finished cutting his first legitimate movie, a very low-budget “small picture,” he changed his name to Willie Peace. His company was Peace Productions, and his first theme was the transition of one small town from wartime to peace. There were many high-cost productions dealing with the same subject, with major stars agonizing through the process of return. Willie Peace’s movie took the point of view of one small man, the town postmaster, wounded and held in a Japanese prison camp for three years. He returned changed in every way imaginable, and his agony increases as the townspeople, his family, the friends he went to school with, recognize no change beyond an evident physical weariness.

  The hero marries his childhood sweetheart, takes out a GI loan, buys the old Johnson house they have always dreamed of, and gets on with his life. The postwar dream, the good American life, the hard-earned rewards, all seem to fall into place. The film ends on an apparently happy note, but with an extreme closeup of the returning soldier’s face, and the camera seems to look right through his eyes into his deadened soul. This is a man serving time until his death.

  Not too many people saw the movie. Only a few reviewers caught it, but one or two took note. This was an interesting film, not what it seemed at first glance. This was a film that worked on many levels. Remember the name: Willie Peace.

  As his films grew and his financing increased, attention began to focus on Willie Peace. His movies were never what they seemed. The man had an uncanny way of seeing, through the eye of the camera, into the heart of a man or a woman. One of his most successful films was about a woman who lived a perfectly normal, ordinary life. A good daughter, a good wife, a good mother, a good neighbor. A decent woman. But in her fantasy life, she was all things: a whore, a heroine, an adventurer, a murderer, a saint, a savior, a mother of heroes, a leader of armies. Through the unwinding of the film, the woman’s interior life began to spill over into her reality until the two parts of her life became indistinguishable. It was a puzzle. Was her role of good woman—daughter, wife, mother—part of her dream, just another figment of her imagination? What was reality, what was fantasy? The film did not answer the question, and some reviewers, as well as the average weekly moviegoers, were angry and felt cheated and confused. Tell a story, for God’s sake, and stop playing games.

  But a movie by Willie Peace—written, produced, and directed—became something special. It attracted attention, passion, anger, and admiration. Who the hell was this guy, anyway?

  Willie Peace was a handsome young man in his early thirties, who, with the first real money available to him, had made significant changes in his life.

  He sent his wife, Maryanne the whore, off to Mexico for a divorce. He provided her with enough money to stay away for a year, during which she obtained the divorce, married a Mexican shopkeeper, and bore a dark-skinned child with light gray eyes.

  Her oldest son, Daniel William Paycek, was a handsome, bewildered child, bright and quick, who learned to speak Spanish in order to survive. His stepfather drank heavily, and the children—there were several more through the years—had to be fast on their feet. Their home was filled with chaos, violence, drunken orgies. The brighter ones somehow managed to survive. Danny was smartest of all; he kept his eyes open, storing away all that he saw and heard. He was more than just a mere survivor.

  Danny Paycek was nearly twelve when his newly widowed mother took him and her four other kids back to East Los Angeles. When she tried to find Willie Paycek, it was as though he had disappeared off the face of the earth.

  She knew no one named Willie Peace. She did not go to the movies, would not have made any connection if she did, and would not have recognized him if they met. He had changed many things about his life and himself.

  Her former husband, however, knew every move she made, and he watched and waited. Not out of any interest in Maryanne, but out of curiosity; he wanted to see what would become of her oldest son.

  Though not a particularly bright woman, Maryanne was a shrewd survivor. She made a meager living at first, charging for what she had given away free as a girl. She realized that Hollywood men wanted youth and slenderness, as well as a semblance of innocence, in their nightly encounters. They were in Hollywood; even the whores should be beautiful, magical. Maryanne didn’t have too much trouble recruiting among the young, hungry, desperate would-be movie stars. She was kind and motherly and provided them with a safe haven: room, board, and spending money. Most important, she gave them a base, an address, a phone number where they could be reached when the magical call came from “the studio.” She had rented a large old frame house in East Los Angeles, and she screened her clientele, as much for her own safety as for the safety of the girls. She wanted to maintain a low profile, to avoid trouble. This was a moderately priced, clean whorehouse that doubled as a boardinghouse for young actresses, for girls hoping to break into the business. A few actually did get studio employment from time to time. Those who did gave hope to all the others. In the meantime, Maryanne ran a clean, safe place.

  Sometimes Danny Paycek, a tall, well-built boy of fourteen, pimped. He also screened clients; he was available, very visible, in case of difficulties. He was bright and handsome and helped his mother keep her books and made sure the profit margin made it all worthwhile. He had a good head. He was too smart, worldly, and sophisticated for high school, and because no one checked on him, while his younger brothers and sisters attended grade school, Danny dropped out of high school. He had other interests.

  Maryanne had a shrewd eye and a peasant’s sophistication. Occasionally she gave massages at fancy country clubs for women and, if asked, would work at their homes. She sensed in the thin, tense, artificially beautiful women a hunger born of neglect. For weeks at a time they were
deserted by their successful husbands on location, at the studio, in emergency meetings, on trips to New York. They were left in their magnificent homes, furnished down to the last inch of space with whatever some decorator said was “the latest thing.” They could shop, play cards and tennis, have lunch, gossip, get massages. Take lovers.

  She didn’t identify Danny as her son, but as a wonderful, strong, beautiful, kind young friend of hers. Eighteen or nineteen, she wasn’t certain, but his wisdom and maturity had nothing to do with age.

  She pimped for her son, giving Danny, at fifteen, entre into many of the most beautiful estates in Beverly Hills. Women adored him, showered him with presents—jewelry, clothing, tennis lessons—anything he wanted or they imagined he wanted, in addition to the money they slipped into his trousers pocket.

  When he tired of a woman, or sensed she had tired of him, they worked their scam, Danny and his mother. They called it “the big kiss-off.”

  At a prearranged time, Maryanne would enter the house through the unlocked door, following her son’s directions, and head directly for the bedroom. There she would find, to her horror, her fifteen-year-old son being seduced by a middle-aged woman.

  The claim that she had arranged the original liaison was a complete misunderstanding: she thought her child had been hired to clean the pool, to tidy the tennis court, to scrub the marble floor, polish the plate-glass windows.

  There was not only a special place in hell for the corrupter of childhood, but there was, Maryanne explained, a place in the penal code of the County of Los Angeles. Maybe Madame wouldn’t be sent to prison, if this was her first offense, but just think of the publicity. Think of her reputation, her husband’s ruined career. She’d have to go back to some small town in Tennessee, if they’d have her. My God, to think she had delivered her innocent young boy into such corrupt hands.