The Takeaway Men

by Meryl Ain

  “This is how Mama and Papa sound,” Bronka told her sister. They had just gotten back from the bakery, where JoJo had complained Aron’s voice echoed too loudly. “They’re like Mrs. Mariani,” Bronka said, referring to their neighbor’s accent.

  “Mrs. Mariani is a grandmother,” JoJo replied. “She was already an old woman when she came here. Anyway, her Italian accent sounds more musical.”

  Along with her overall emphasis on appearances, JoJo was much more fashion conscious than Bronka. While Bronka tacitly accepted Faye’s homemade dresses, her twin had lobbied for more and more outfits from Mays, so she could dress like her peers. Most of the girls in their circle already had poodle skirts. JoJo was particularly envious of Mindy’s poodle skirt, which was a gray felt swing skirt featuring an appliqué of a pink fluffy poodle. She had begged for one for months, and both girls finally received the skirts as Hanukkah presents. Judy could not find a gray one like Mindy’s but bought two matching pink felt skirts with black-and-white poodles, which the twins thought were even prettier.

  While JoJo noticed that their mother now dressed like their friends’ mothers—in simple, shirtwaist dresses—their father took no notice of his appearance. Sometimes, he forgot to shave and comb his hair. But what was even worse, he refused to buy new clothes for years. When he finally bought something new, it was the cheapest thing he could find. And then to compound matters, he would mismatch his clothes, putting checks with stripes and brown with black.

  In fact, although Aron was no longer poor, he was very, very tight with his money. Judy had suggested to him on numerous occasions that they move out of Faye and Izzy’s house and find a place of their own. She knew they could afford it. Aron had been socking away money for years, and Izzy had been more than generous. He had not only made Aron a partner, but he requested only a token amount for the family’s room and board. It was a great deal.

  “Why would we want to move?” he replied to Judy’s appeals.

  “It’s not right; I feel like we’re taking advantage of them,” she would say.

  Judy would have liked more privacy as well. Sometimes she didn’t feel like talking to Faye and just wanted to be by herself. But the minute she suggested they were taking advantage, she knew it wasn’t true. Faye and Izzy probably enjoyed having the young family there, even more than they wanted to be there. Judy did not challenge Faye; she was a dutiful assistant and good company.

  That’s why, when Faye received a postcard from Israel with a cryptic message just before Hanukkah, she started to worry. In a scrawling, barely legible handwriting, it read:

  “Chag sameach. There is trouble here. I may have to leave. Love, Rebecca.”

  Faye had been content ever since Aron and his family had come to live with them. She loved them and she adored the new rhythm of her life.

  Faye tended not to worry about her daughter because she was living on a kibbutz that provided for all of her needs. But after reading the letter, Faye started to wonder. After all, Rebecca was past thirty-five and had not mentioned a single marriage prospect since her father’s death ten years earlier. After he died, she broke up with a longtime boyfriend, a doctor. Faye had thought the doctor would have been a very suitable husband for her daughter. But Rebecca said she didn’t trust him; she had heard he was cheating on her.

  Then, three years later—out of the blue—Rebecca informed her that she was going to Israel to live on a kibbutz that grew oranges. Faye didn’t try to stop her, not that you could ever stop Rebecca when she got an idea in her head.

  She showed the postcard to Izzy, and he winced. She quickly stashed it away in the drawer of her night table. She would not mention this to anyone else. With Rebecca, you never knew. Had there been an incident in Israel? Was there danger of an attack on the kibbutz? Did something happen to the orange crop there? Had Rebecca had another breakup? Faye told herself that it was entirely possible that by the time she had received Rebecca’s postcard, it all could have been resolved.

  The twins hadn’t been in the same class since kindergarten. Still, they maintained a solid, loving relationship; they depended on one another and watched each other’s backs. What they discussed stayed strictly between them.

  Outside of their secret bedroom talks, however, things were different. By the fourth grade, Bronka was about two inches taller and fourteen pounds heavier than her sister. JoJo was tiny and skinny with small feet and small hands, while Bronka’s feet were almost as large as their mother’s. JoJo still had blond curls, which matched her porcelain skin and azure blue eyes. She had a little turned-up nose, much like her mother’s. Bronka was a pretty girl too, with a round face, intense and shining dark eyes, and wavy curls the color of chocolate. Even though she was attractive in her own right, she always felt big and gawky standing next to JoJo.

  Although the girls on the block were their mutual friends, in their separate classes they began to make their own. JoJo was attracted to the popular girls—the prettiest, the most talented, and the best dressed. Bronka’s friends were quieter, less popular, and more serious. She instinctively gravitated to those who were different, like the new Chinese girl or the girl who had braces on her legs from polio.

  Every day after lunch, the students put on a talent show in the cafeteria. JoJo was always the first to perform. When Bronka was game, they would sing the popular song, “Sisters” together. But when Bronka didn’t want to sing, JoJo would sing by herself or with one of her classmates. JoJo was the star of the lunchroom.

  When JoJo heard a rumor in school that Walt Disney was coming to Queens to recruit new Mouseketeers for the Mickey Mouse Club show, she convinced her sister and the Rosen girls to watch out for his car.

  “I think it will be a black Lincoln or Cadillac,” she told them.

  Then she enlisted them to perform on the front stoop with her—just in case Walt happened to drive by. She yearned to be like the talented Annette Funicello, who was five years older than the twins.

  Meanwhile at school, the fourth grade began to study immigration. The introspective and intense Bronka was an excellent student, and when her teacher, Mrs. Feingold, asked each student to find an immigrant to interview, Bronka instantly thought of her father. There was an advantage to having a father who spoke with an accent and had a different background than her classmates’ parents.

  She was aware that her friends had many things that she did not have—grandparents, cousins, not to mention a host of material possessions. But the one thing she had that most didn’t have was a father who was an immigrant. The rest of her classmates—with the exception of her Chinese friend—would have to hunt for relatives and neighbors and friends to find one. But she had one living in her house—right in the next bedroom.

  She approached her father as soon as he returned from work, hoping that she would be able to interview him right after dinner. Bronka was shocked and crushed by her father’s response, which was a loud and angry one. He delivered it with a red face, glaring eyes, and eyebrows knitted together.

  “The noive—who does your teacher think she is?” he fumed. “Vat does she need to know my business? It’s too poi-so-nal; I thought Americans were entitled to privacy.”

  “Papa, no, Mrs. Feingold isn’t being nervy,” Bronka replied. “She’s a good teacher. She explained to us that we are a nation of immigrants. Every immigrant has a story. You don’t have to say anything that’s too personal. Please, please, Papa. I know it will be the best interview in the class. It’s an assignment. Everyone has to do it. I don’t want to get a zero.”

  “Feh! You can tell that buttinsky that this is America, and I have a right to my privacy. No yenta teacher has the right to pry into my life.”

  Bronka ran from the room crying and threw herself on her bed. She had thought this was the best assignment, and now she could see it was the worst. She hardly ever asked Papa for anything. Quite the opposite, she tried to please him, just like Mama did. And for this simple request, he said no. He must hate me, she thou
ght. Why can’t he be like Jim Anderson in Father Knows Best, who cares about his children? My father doesn’t even care if I get in trouble with the teacher. And then he’ll be disappointed when I don’t get a perfect report card. I should never have asked him.

  Minutes later, Izzy stood at her bedroom door. He had overheard the yelling.

  “May I come in?” he asked. “I don’t like to see my girl so sad.”

  Bronka’s face was red, her eyes swollen, and she could not stop herself from sobbing long enough to answer. Izzy stepped into the room.

  “Look, if you need someone to interview, you can ask me the questions. You know I’m an immigrant too. And you know I love to talk about myself. We can do it after dinner.”

  His kindly smile lit up his entire face.

  Bronka’s essay about Izzy garnered her an A-plus. But it wasn’t enough to compensate for the rejection she’d experienced from her father. She was beginning to think he did not love her at all. No wonder, on Bronka’s report cards, her teachers noted that she lacked self-confidence.

  Bronka found comfort and reassurance in prayer. Both Aron and Judy encouraged their daughters to pray. By the time the girls were nine years old, they knew a number of Hebrew prayers and were encouraged to add their own words in English. Faye, with Judy’s assistance, made a Shabbos dinner every Friday night. They often attended synagogue services on the Sabbath and on Jewish holidays.

  Aron recognized that his wife had learned much from him and was a dutiful spouse and a good mother. He knew that she did her best to teach the girls about Judaism, but her knowledge and experience were limited.

  JoJo was determined to become a genuine American girl. To her, that meant dressing like everyone else, watching the same movies and TV shows as her peers, eating what everyone else did, and pursuing her dreams of fame.

  As she got older, JoJo grew more and more frustrated by the restrictions of keeping kosher. Most of the girls’ Jewish friends came from families that were less observant and more assimilated than the Lubinskis.

  On a cold February day, dressed in matching pink sweaters and gray skirts, the twins put on their hats and coats, and were about to leave for Mindy’s birthday party across the street. Judy stood at the kitchen sink, washing her coffee cup. She planned to change and then head across the street to help Jennie and Lenore with the festivities. When she finished, she turned around to her daughters to give them a last-minute warning about the food at the party, one she believed Aron would want her to deliver.

  “All the food isn’t kosher. They’re serving hamburgers and hot dogs; the hamburgers are treyfe, but the hot dogs are Hebrew National. So just eat the hot dogs. And the birthday cake they got from our bakery is pareve, so you can eat that. But if they serve ice cream with the birthday cake, don’t eat it. You can eat the potato chips with the franks, but don’t eat any candy, since it might be dairy. I don’t want to embarrass you by telling you what to eat in front of your friends, so I’m telling you now.”

  JoJo wrinkled her nose and scowled.

  “Why can’t we just go to the party like everyone else and have fun and eat what we want? Why do we have to be different? Even Faye and Izzy only keep kosher at home, not when they go out.”

  “Because that’s not what we do.”

  “And why do we have to be kosher anyway? I want to eat what everyone else eats.”

  At that moment, Aron walked into the kitchen, and stood behind Judy. He heard her say, “It’s for sanitary reasons; it’s healthier to keep kosher.”

  “No, it’s not—you’re wrong,” he interrupted in a loud, angry voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Judy bit her lip to hold back the tears, but she couldn’t stop them. She was speechless as she turned around to face him. She had tried so hard to learn everything about Judaism and to do everything right. She was just repeating what Faye had said: “In the old days it was healthier to keep kosher, but not necessary here in America, where everything is so sanitary.”

  And now she was just trying her best to keep the girls on the track Aron had mandated. She was trying hard, despite the influences of their Catholic friends and their Christian-friendly school and their assimilated American Jewish friends. He was snapping at her again. And all she was doing was trying to be a good Jew. She felt undermined and unappreciated. She slumped down onto a kitchen chair, put her face in her hands, and wept.

  Bronka and Johanna didn’t like this scene one bit, and they had seen it many times before. They glared at their father. Why was he always so quick to anger—not only with their mother, but with them too? They ran to Judy and threw their arms around her.

  Gottenyu, he thought. She’s giving them wrong information. And now I’m the villain again. I know a lot of people think that it’s about health, but it’s not. It’s about discipline. Every time I eat, I am reminded that I am part of a holy people. The dietary laws have kept the Jews together for thousands of years. It’s about faith, not health.

  Aron decided he’d explain it to them another time. He understood that he would need more than his wife’s teaching to ensure that his daughters would be the Jewish mothers he intended them to be. However sincere and spiritual his wife was, she did not have the background to teach the girls everything he wanted them to know. Judaism didn’t come by osmosis in America; it required attention. He remembered the day the girls were born at Warteplatz DP Camp. They were his answer to Hitler; that is what everybody said. And he now believed it. His entire family had perished, and he alone survived. Surely, his daughters had been born to repair the link the Nazis had tried so hard to break.

  In 1956 in Bellerose, there were not many options—especially for girls—to get a Jewish education. Rabbi Herbert sent his four children—two girls and two boys—to the Queens Yeshiva Academy, which involved a long bus ride and substantial tuition. Aron was not about to pay for his daughters to attend a private school; he was much too frugal. In addition, Faye was very vocal in insisting that the girls should be Americanized, and public school was the way to do it. Judy agreed.

  He sought advice from Cantor Yudenfreund, who worked as an insurance salesman during the week, and whose own daughter, Shira, was the same age as the twins. After the minyan, when everyone else had left the chapel, Aron approached the cantor to ask if he planned to send Shira to yeshiva like the rabbi’s children.

  “Would I like her out of that public school, where they’re singing Christmas carols?” Cantor Yudenfreund asked. “Part of me would. But, on the other hand, going to yeshiva is too isolating and too extreme. The rabbi is Orthodox and has no choice but to send his children. On the other hand, my brother, who is not that strict, sends his son there too. My nephew Stevie is like a little cop. He’s checking everything his parents do against what the school tells him. I’m not sure you want that.”

  “No, certainly not,” said Aron. “Anyway, it’s too expensive to pay for both girls at once, especially when the public schools here are good and the twins are doing so well. But I really want them to get some sort of formal Jewish education.”

  “Well, there’s the Sunday School for girls, but that’s not intensive,” the cantor replied. “It’s totally focused on imparting the skills a Jewish homemaker needs. I want Shira to be more knowledgeable.”

  “So do I,” said Aron.

  “There’s the afternoon Hebrew School here,” the cantor said with a sigh. “But I have to be honest with you. Most people think it’s the boys who need the formal education, and not the girls. They figure the girls will learn from their mothers how to light candles and make a Jewish home. I don’t see it that way. The women are the ones who are raising the children; they need to be able to impart their knowledge too.”

  “Exactly,” Aron said.

  “So here’s the thing with the afternoon Hebrew School,” the cantor continued. “It’s four days a week, Monday to Thursday. It’s a lot after a full day of school.”

  “My girls can handle it. They’re b
oth good students.”

  “I’m sure they can. Shira is a good student too. Look, I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve visited those Hebrew School classes and they mostly consist of boys—restless boys who don’t want to be there.”

  “But do they learn anything?”

  “Well, sure. They’re able to perform by the time they reach bar mitzvah.”

  “Do they learn about kashrus?”

  “Of course, they learn the dietary laws.”

  “Are there no girls there?”

  “Almost none. Once in a while, there’s a girl or two. They’re allowed to go; they just don’t. Most parents opt for the Sunday School for their daughters. And of those few girls who go to the regular Hebrew School, most of them drop out after a year or two. For girls, it’s like the Wild West.

  “In a way it’s a shame,” continued Cantor Yudenfreund. “I’ve heard that in other synagogues, not so much in Queens, but in Nassau County, girls go in larger numbers and they even have a ceremony called bas mitzvah on a Friday night. But Rabbi Herbert is very traditional. Although his own daughters are getting their yeshiva education, they’re not going to have a bas mitzvah ceremony. And so far, there haven’t been any here. I don’t know if he would allow one in his shul. I doubt there’s been anyone here who cares enough about it to make an issue. No one really wants to challenge the rabbi. He’s such a fine person and a beloved rabbi.”

  “Bas mitzvah, I never hoid of such a thing.”

  “Look, I’m going to send Shira to Hebrew School, and I already spoke to Jakob Zilberman—from the minyan. You know he and his wife, Eva, are also from Poland. They came here about a year before you did. Their daughter, Esther, is the same age as our girls. They’re going to enroll her too. So if you send the twins, there will be four girls in the class.”