The Amorous Busboy of Decatur Avenue

by Robert Klein

  “Rhoda, have a heart, for Chrissakes!”

  “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  I suddenly flashed on Elizabeth’s beautiful eyes and how tightly she would embrace me and I her. She was so grateful to be hugged and held, she needed it so. Bone-crushing hugs that were reassuring and carnal at the same time, followed by deep kisses, a feast in themselves. I had forgotten how profound and exciting kissing could be. All this followed by copulation for sometimes record-breaking lengths of time. Jesus, I was twenty-two . . .

  Rhoda continued: “It could be very uncomfortable, especially for Daddy. Mother will be ostentatiously kind and call her ‘dahling,’ and Daddy will pretend the whole thing is not happening.”

  Our father, as was the case with many of his generation, was still transfixed by the war and, more specifically, the slaughter of the Jews in Europe. The newsreel image of millions of Germans seig-heiling at Hitler with adoration etched on their faces did not fade easily and, for him, was proof that the German people were “one hundred percent behind Hitler” and the atrocities he carried out. He saw no nuances, here, of new, innocent generations and recent allies. While stopped at red lights, he still cursed quietly at the drivers of Mercedeses and Volkswagens, and continued his enmity toward any and all who had opposed America’s entry into the war. Though they had met many survivors of the holocaust, and had friends who fought in its battles, it is safe to say that Ben and Frieda Klein had never exchanged a word with a postwar German and might feel awkward doing so. They were nonreligious—one could say secular—Jews, who probably envisioned having a Jewish daughter-in-law someday but had never made a big deal about the religion of anyone I dated. So how about a nice, homey tête-à-tête with the totally Teutonic blond, blue-eyed daughter of Captain Schmidt? I reckoned there was a first time for everything.

  It occurred to me that I might be forcing this whole issue in a kind of “yank my parents’ chain, tell it like it is” truthfulness campaign. Needling my father, who could needle with the best of them, had a kind of appeal; but I had in mind to show him, up close and personal, that the sins of the fathers should not be visited upon the sons or daughters. That Elizabeth, despite her forebears, was an ethical, even wonderful, human being. On the other hand, who was I to moralize, lecture, and correct him? Sweet Papa, who had lived those trying, horrific days of war, which were full of uncertainty: What if America had lost the war; would we have been slaughtered like the European Jews? He did his turn as an air-raid warden in the Bronx, since he was thirty-four, with a child, at the war’s commencement and therefore too old to be drafted.

  I decided to bring up the subject of the dinner guest during one of my weekly phone calls to my parents. “You wanna bring a girl home for dinner?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “This Joiman girl?” He pronounced German as “Joiman” in the manner of New Yorkers like Groucho Marx and people from Georgia like Oliver Hardy.

  “You wanna bring a Joiman girl home? Here? For dinner?”

  “Yes, she’s a friend of mine, and I think you and Mother would enjoy meeting her. Besides, she’s a long way from home and her family, and I really think she’d like to meet you.”

  “Is she a Jewish girl?”

  “Hardly,” I replied.

  “What’s the matter with you, Benny?” my mother chimed in with that exasperated tone she had perfected during thirty-two years of marriage. “Robert told us about this young lady, she’s a German girl from Germany, right, darling?”

  “That’s right, Ma,” I said, resisting the urge to point out that a German girl might well be expected to come from Germany.

  “Very nice,” my father said in a slow, disgusted, sarcastic way that I knew well. “Very nice.”

  “Oh, Benny stop. She’s just a friend, right, darling?”

  “Right, Ma.”

  “Maybe I’ll make sauerbraten,” my mother said thoughtfully, without a trace of humor.

  “Ma, that’ll make her feel right at home, I’m sure.”

  “You want me to make her feel right at home?” my father said. “I’ll make her feel right at home. I’ll show her pictures of Auschwitz, then she’ll feel right at home.”

  “Oh, Benny, ma elleg vote,” she said in Hungarian (enough already).

  “Would she like a goulash or maybe a nice knockwurst?”

  “I’ll get on that with her right away, Ma.”

  * * *

  On the appointed evening, Elizabeth and I transited the Henry Hudson Parkway north to the Bronx in my Ford Galaxie. I was uncharacteristically quiet, trying to be nonchalant, hiding my apprehension, having purposefully underplayed my anxiety about the meeting so as not to upset Elizabeth. I had, to be sure, made some weak jokes in the previous few days about Elizabeth meeting my parents, but I dared not let on as to my true feelings in the matter. But the reality never left my mind for a second that I was bringing home Captain Schmidt’s daughter to my parents’ apartment in the Bronx for dinner. Elizabeth was, don’t you know, genuinely looking forward to the parental encounter. Was she a totally mature, worldly woman, unfazed by such events? Or was she obtuse and not thinking this through?

  She cradled a bouquet of flowers in her arms for my mother and a set of mini screwdrivers, purchased from an African street vendor, for my father. I smiled: The screwdrivers seemed to me a stereotypic German gift, and my father enjoyed such gadgets yet had not the slightest idea how to use them.

  I got a beautiful parking space right in front of my parents’ building, which I took to be a good omen: Perfect parking spots always are.

  We were about to be buzzed in when Nanette Newman from Apartment 2F came into the outer lobby and let us in with her key. We entered the art deco inner lobby with its silver stripes on steel doors and elegant black lines and circles made of marble on the floor. “So, Robert, long time no see, where you been hiding?” Nanette had been my den mother when I was a Cub Scout, and I had known her all my life, but I would have preferred to enter the building anonymously. I felt like I had something to hide—like sneaking a Nazi officer’s daughter into 3525 Decatur Avenue.

  “Hi, Nanette, I’ve been busy working in television for the summer.”

  “Television, what channel are you on? We’ll tune in,” she said, sneaking more than casual glances at Elizabeth.

  “I’m not on camera, it’s more of a production job,” I said. Her eyes met Elizabeth’s, and they smiled, making an introduction unavoidable. “Nanette Newman, this is Elizabeth Schmidt,” I said, covering my mouth on her last name.

  “Smith?” Mrs. Newman said.

  “Oh, did I say Smith? No, it’s Schmidt,” I said, almost inaudibly.

  “How do you do, young lady,” she said. They did not shake hands, as Elizabeth’s were full, but Fräulein Schmidt bowed slightly and said; “My pleasure.” I suddenly had one of those Teutonic flashes. That was exactly the way the gestapo officers had behaved in Rick’s club in the movie Casablanca, except they clicked their heels as they bowed.

  We watched the lighted progress of the original-equipment, groaning elevator. It had passed us and gone to the basement. Of all the times to have a yearlong elevator wait. Finally, the elevator doors parted to reveal an assortment of women with their laundry baskets, all of whom were high on my list of people I’d least like to deal with at the moment, much less in a slow, crowded elevator. We joined Selma Abramowitz from 6H, Lil Weinberg from 4C, and Barbara Goldstein from the fifth floor. “Robbie boy, what are you doin’ slummin’ on Decatur Avenue,” said Barbara Goldstein, whose ample breasts and curvaceous hips had been the object of my strongest childhood sexual fantasies. “You never visit, your mother and father won’t recognize you.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek. She was still beautiful but much the worse for wear and weight.

  “Elizabeth, these are some of my neighbors, Barbara and Lilian and Selma.”

  “Oh, a friend from college?” asked Selma.

  “No, vee deed nut go to college togezzah, vee
are friends from aftah college,” Elizabeth volunteered cheerfully.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” said Nanette. The doors opened on the second floor, the den mother got off, and the doors closed again.

  “I bet you’re from Israel. Huh? Am I right?” Selma said.

  “Nah, she’s not from Israel,” said Lil, “you’re from Sweden, right?”

  “No, I am from Germany. Munich, in fact.”

  “That’s nice,” said Lil. The enthusiastic geography quiz ended abruptly, and except for a few stolen glances at Elizabeth, the women’s heads were down for the rest of the ride. Selma had never in her life been quiet for that length of time.

  The door to Apartment 6F opened, and there was Benny, sporting a slight smile, which I read as strained and apprehensive. “Come in, come in,” he said in a forced tone. So far, so good. He could have been flashing photos of Himmler at Bergen-Belsen. Frieda ambled in from the kitchen drying a dish, untroubled, and looking more beautiful than usual. She had clearly spent extra time on hair and makeup.

  “Hello, Ma, Dad, this is Elizabeth,” I said. There was a good deal more mirth and energy in my voice than was called for, but let’s face it, this visit was taking its toll on me, too.

  “How do you do?” my father said with all the detached grace of a prince of Hapsburg, while my mother simultaneously said, “Hello, dear,” and shook her hand.

  Elizabeth charged right into the spirit of the evening. “Oh, I am very heppy to meet you, Meesta and Meeses Klein.” I made a quick check of Benny’s face to see if the German accent had freaked him, but I could not tell. He had the countenance of a boxer about to encounter an adversary he believes he can handle. “These are for you,” Elizabeth said, handing the flowers to Frieda and the gaily wrapped screwdrivers to my father.

  “No, no, why did you do that? I can’t accept this,” my father complained. He had always been incapable of receiving gifts or the largesse of others graciously, perhaps because he imagined he would be in their debt. Though this was a gift from a stranger, he would have reacted the same way had the giver been his sister. It reflected insensitivity on his part, it never having occurred to him that the giver of the gift is deriving pleasure from the act as he himself did on occasion.

  “Oh, thank you, dear, these are beautiful,” my mother said, quite unaccustomed to receiving flowers. She smelled them, obviously pleased.

  Elizabeth hesitated in the foyer, and Benny grabbed her arm and led her past the formally set dinner table and into the living room, past my ottoman-room combo to the couch located next to Frieda’s baby grand.

  “Oh, a piano. Do you play, Mr. Klein?”

  “No, he plays the violin. I play the piano,” my mother said as, in one sweeping motion, she handed me the bouquet, sat down at the baby grand, and played an arpeggio with a flourish of her hands. One could never tell what tune Frieda would choose, but the leading candidates were usually “Small Hotel,” “Falling in Love with Love,” or “Every Little Breeze Seems to Whisper Louise.” She broke into “Liebestraum,” a piece she had never before played, thus displaying a by-ear virtuosity and a musical Freudian slip at the same time. I was grateful that at least “Ach, Du Lieber Augustine” had not occurred to her, and I hoped that sauerkraut was not on the evening’s menu, as much as I loved sauerkraut.

  Elizabeth, who was enthralled by Frieda’s piano playing, wouldn’t have cared in the least. She seemed to be quite moved by my warm, gregarious, talented mother, which might have triggered thoughts of the less than ideal relationship she had with hers.

  Benny could not take his eyes off Elizabeth. I could sense him noting her Aryan blondeness, but couldn’t he see the tears in her eyes as Frieda, feeling like Vladimir Horowitz at Carnegie Hall, gave it her smashing, shmaltzy best? Benny’s concentration permitted me strategic peeks at his reactions. He still looked like someone who had decidedly not melted, who was planning his debating strategy.

  Frieda ended her piece with a dramatic two-hand, two-foot-high flourish that elicited a handsome ovation from the two of us. My father ignored Frieda’s triumph, and when the applause ended, he said to Elizabeth, “So, let me ask you something, honey. Do you think all those people in the street cheering him, you think someone was twisting their arms?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Klein?”

  “All those people I saw in the streets, with their hands up cheering him, were they forced to do it?”

  “All what people cheering whom?” Elizabeth smiled, not having a clue.

  “Hitler,” my father said.

  “Hitler?” Elizabeth said.

  “I’m not talking about Frank Sinatra,” Benny said.

  “Dad, please, this is not the time for that stuff. Come on.”

  “What’s wrong? I’m just asking a question. She doesn’t mind, do you?”

  “Well I—No, I don’t mind, Mr. Klein.”

  “But I do,” I said.

  “Bela . . . meckholuk . . . bulonvudge,” my mother said in Hungarian, which, roughly translated, means: Benny . . . I’m going to drop dead . . . you’re crazy.

  “She says she doesn’t mind. I just want her opinion on a few things, that’s all. What are you making such a big megillah about?” my father said with an innocent-mischievous look.

  “What is a megillah?” Elizabeth asked.

  “It’s nothing. It’s a big deal about nothing. Ma, play another song,” I said, visions of patricide dancing in my head.

  Frieda instantly launched into her opening arpeggio and a spirited version of “Falling in Love with Love.” To my relief, Elizabeth appeared entirely unfazed by the exchange and once again fascinated by Frieda and her music, smiling and swaying with the waltz.

  “Look, I’m not meaning to insult you, miss, you don’t have to talk about the Nazis or the holocaust,” my father said to Elizabeth. Frieda was playing the piano, but hardly pianissimo, and Elizabeth could not understand what Benny was saying. He replied slightly more fortissimo, and I immediately broke into “Falling in Love with Love” quite loudly, in my best phony operatic baritone. As I’d hoped, Elizabeth loved it, and Frieda was always thrilled to have her baby boy sing along. Most importantly, Benny gave up, at least temporarily, on his inquisition.

  In certain ways, his behavior at this dinner was typical. Both my mother and father were talented extroverts who needed an audience while entertaining company at home. This was usually manifested in her piano playing and his clowning with violin. There was at times a palpable competition between them for attention, particularly on his part.

  Frieda wrapped up with yet another grand gesture and immediately shouted, “Let’s eat!” She led the way back the fifteen feet to the foyer—this was a small apartment. We always ate in the foyer when there was company, as opposed to the tiny kitchen, which was so intimate that from any one of the four seats one could reach stove, sink, or refrigerator. Indeed, my father often enjoyed sticking his hand up my mother’s dress and goosing her as she mashed potatoes at the stove. She would laugh and admonish at the same time. But now, at the foyer table, she was angry and asked him to come to the kitchen to help with the soup.

  “Please let me help you,” Elizabeth said to my mother.

  “No dear, you just relax, we don’t need any help, everything’s under control. Benny,” she said, with a withering look. When the kitchen door had closed behind them, a mere eight feet away, I could hear their angry voices. They attempted to suppress the volume of the argument, like they had as long as I could remember, considering the two children and the limited space and the fact that they had at least one argument every day of their lives. I do not recommend this as a modus operandi for couples, but there was great passion between them, and despite the fights, they engaged each other like the gears of a well-oiled machine; they seldom bored each other. These are not small attributes in a marriage.

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. My father is so pigheaded and insensitive sometimes,” I said.

  “Not at al
l, my darling. He is a little nervous; he is even cute. And this question about Hitler”—she began to laugh and covered her mouth—“this question was a little early in the evening, no? I know him for three minutes, and he wants me to answer questions about Hitler.” I laughed with her because it really was funny, and out of relief for the fact that my sweetheart was wise and temperate and still speaking to me.

  Ben and Frieda returned with four bowls of matzo-ball soup, good and hot. Elizabeth had already nibbled on some of the delicious rye bread, and her eyes lit up at the soup. Dear Frieda. I had told her Elizabeth’s story about being sick in her mother’s house with no nurturing or chicken soup. “How divine is this soup,” Elizabeth said.

  “Enjoy it, dahling,” said Frieda.

  “Essen gut, du bist ein kluges matjen,” said Benny in reasonable German.

  “Ah, spreckinze deutch, Herr Klein?”

  “Ein bissel,” he replied in an accent that sounded suspiciously Yiddish. Between hearty slurps, he told her of his childhood in the Yorkville section of Manhattan, about the Germans and the Irish and the Jews and of swimming on hot days off a pier in the East River. My mother told her of how she and Benny had met in that neighborhood when he was eleven and she was ten, through their sisters, who were friends. “Mein Gott, such a long time you know each other and still married!” Elizabeth said and regretted it immediately. “Oh, Mrs. Klein . . . I did not mean it exactly that way, it’s just so rare that I have met people like you, together so long. You must know each other well.”