The Takeaway Men

by Meryl Ain

  On a piece of paper, Bronka kept writing December 31, 1957; she knew this would be her last opportunity to write this date in real time. The girls were so happy to be part of this adult party. It was way past their bedtime, and chips and soda and candy were doled out only on special occasions.

  As much as Faye had tried to create a memorable party experience, there were two party poopers in the crowd.

  “This debauchery is disgusting,” said Aron in Yiddish. “Look at these people drinking and making fools of themselves.”

  “They’re just unwinding, having a little fun,” said Izzy.

  “I bet it’s a pretty penny to go and celebrate with Guy Lombardo at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel,” said Aron.

  “Sure, it’s probably a small fortune,” said Izzy.

  “I’m glad we decided not to go to the Rosens’ New Year’s Eve party,” said Aron. “There wouldn’t have been anything for us to eat.”

  “It might have been fun,” said Judy wistfully. “I’m sure we could have found something to eat. But you never want to go anywhere.”

  “Who sends out an invitation and asks for ten dollars a couple?” Faye piped in. “I never heard of such a thing.”

  “I guess that was to cover the cost of the liquor,” Izzy said. “I’m sure Mrs. Mariani made all the food, but liquor is expensive.”

  “But we don’t drink, so why pay for everyone else’s drinking?” Aron asked. “Anyway, I believe the Jewish way of ushering in the New Year is the proper way—with prayer and reflection.”

  “Oh, Papa,” said JoJo, “you just don’t know how to have fun. This is the United States. Everyone celebrates New Year’s Eve. The Rosens are having their own party. And Mindy’s mother went to a party too.”

  “Oh, Papa would never spend money on such frivolity,” Judy said.

  “Aron doesn’t like to spend money on anything,” Faye said with a chuckle, but everyone knew she wasn’t joking.

  As Guy Lombardo led the Royal Canadians in “Auld Lang Syne,” the ball dropped with 1958 emblazoned in shining lights. Everyone kissed and shouted, “Happy New Year.”

  Suddenly, there was a blast of icy cold air that caught everyone by surprise. It didn’t take long to realize that it had come from the dinette, where Becky was sitting all alone with her elbows on the table, her head cradled in her hands.

  “What’s going on, Becky?” Izzy shouted. “It’s freezing outside; why did you open the window?”

  As she sat there motionless and expressionless, Faye’s happy party face turned into a scowl.

  “Girls, time to go to bed; let’s get upstairs now.”

  “First, I have to wish Aunt Becky a Happy New Year,” said Bronka.

  Bronka put her arms around Becky’s back, snuggling her face into the softness of the inert woman’s flannel nightgown. She gave her a long hug, but Becky remained unmoving.

  “Come on Bronka, upstairs now,” said Aron.

  Her eyes filled with tears; it was hard to let go. But she was an obedient child, so she followed her parents and sister upstairs.

  Faye’s New Year’s resolution had been to decide what to do about Becky. Bronka also contemplated what she could do to make Aunt Becky feel better. JoJo decided that she would ask her mother if they could move to a different house. She couldn’t continue to bring her friends home with Becky’s bizarre and unpredictable behavior.

  Back in Hebrew School after the winter break, Morah Cohen made an announcement:

  “Does anyone know why 1958 is a special year?”

  “Because it’s when we get our bar mitzvah dates,” called out Michael Abramowitz.

  “Well, that is correct, Mikhayel,” said the teacher in her high-pitched Hungarian accent. “You boys will get your dates two years before your bar mitzvah. But that’s not the answer I was looking for. Can anyone tell me what else is going to happen this year?”

  Not a hand was raised.

  “Okay, I’m going to give you a clue. Look at the map on the wall. You are all going to turn eleven this year, and what country is going to celebrate its tenth birthday?”

  “Israel,” Shira Yudenfreund called out.

  “Good, Shira. The State of Israel was founded the year after you were born. Didn’t anyone else know that?”

  Again, silence.

  “So look at the map, yeladim. You can see what a tiny, narrow country Israel is, and it is surrounded by hostile neighbors. Egypt, Jordan, and Syria all want to drive Israel into the sea.

  “You know after the war when I left Europe, I lived in Israel for a few years, and I served in the army. Israelis have a hard life, but they are very proud and strong. Do you know that both girls and boys join the army when they graduate from high school? They serve willingly because they are determined to make sure that Israel survives.

  “It has survived for ten years, and so on May 14, we are going to have a big celebration in honor of Israel’s birthday. In the meantime, I’m going to give you each a blue box to take home—a pushka. Put coins in it—whenever you want—but especially before your mothers light candles on Friday night. It is a mitzvah to give tzedakah. Then, we will collect all of the coins and with our money, trees will be planted in Eretz Yisrael in honor of our class.”

  Bronka pictured a row of trees with a sign on each one saying The Bet Class of Northeast Queens Jewish Center. She noticed that there was a Star of David and the same skinny map of Israel on the blue tin boxes. It said: JNF and below that, Keren Kayemet L’Yisrael, in Hebrew and in English.

  “JNF and Keren Kayemet stand for Jewish National Fund,” said Mrs. Cohen. “Any questions?”

  “Why do girls serve in the army but can’t have a bar mitzvah?” asked Shira.

  “First of all, we say ‘bas,’ not ‘bar.’ The country is Orthodox, and only boys have a ceremony on their thirteenth birthday. Girls don’t have it in our synagogue either. But that’s an issue for the rabbis, not one we should be discussing here.”

  Eager to move on, the teacher asked, “Any other questions about the State of Israel and its tenth birthday?”

  “Why did you go to Israel after the war?” David Gladstein asked.

  “That was one of the places Hitler’s refugees were being sent. Not many Jews stayed in Europe, and I wanted to help build the Jewish State.”

  “Why didn’t you stay there?” another boy asked.

  “I met an American who had come to Israel to serve in the War of Independence. He wanted to get married and go back home. So I left. It’s not like I had any family in Israel. They were all dead. He had family here. Okay, enough of the personal questions, anything else?”

  Bronka was too shy to raise her hand, but she knew that if you asked Mrs. Cohen a question, she would answer truthfully. She loved that about her.

  She whispered to JoJo, “Ask her about Hitler; she mentioned him.”

  JoJo’s hand shot up.

  “Hannah Yosefa, do you have a question?”

  “Yes,” said JoJo. “Who was Hitler?”

  “Hitler was an evil dictator who was head of Germany and wanted to take over the world. He did conquer much of Europe before he was finally defeated. He believed Jews were inferior, and he tried to get rid of all of us, first by making laws that discriminated against us, and later by starving, torturing, and killing. This was called The Final Solution.”

  The students began to shout out questions, while a number of the boys hooted out epithets and made crude gestures with their fingers.

  “Yeladim, yeladim, sheket b’vakasha.”

  Just then, Mr. Levinson, the Hebrew School principal walked into the room.

  “What is going on in here? Let’s pipe down.”

  With the appearance of the principal, the children stopped yelling.

  “Mrs. Cohen, please see me when class is over.”

  When Hebrew School ended an hour later, as the children left the classroom, Bronka and JoJo made a beeline for Esther Zilberman. They walked up the stairs together from the baseme
nt classroom and when they were out of the building, JoJo said, “We need to have a private conversation with you, Esther.”

  “Okay,” said Esther. The girls huddled under a tree.

  “Do you know what Mrs. Cohen was talking about?”

  “A little,” she said. “I’ve heard my father talking about it, and it’s true that Hitler wanted to kill the Jews. It was called The Final Solution. He put them in concentration camps.”

  “What’s a concentration camp?”

  “It was a terrible place where they starved people and worked them to death and killed them by putting them in gas chambers. My mother has nightmares and cries out at night,” said Esther.

  “So does Papa,” said Bronka, the right side of her forehead pounding with a throbbing pain, as she remembered her father’s screams.

  “I feel nauseous,” said Bronka, as her mouth filled with saliva and she felt a strong urge to vomit. She remembered the expression on Papa’s face when Mindy talked about the takeaway men. She thought about his screams in the middle of the night and how he had shooed her away, because only Mama understood and could comfort him.

  “Okay, let’s go,” said JoJo. “Just one more thing—were your parents in a concentration camp?”

  “Yes,” said Esther. “They have tattoos on their arms to prove it. And I don’t have any grandparents because the Nazis killed them there.”

  “I really need to go home,” said Bronka. “I don’t feel well.” She began to cough.

  “I think we better go, Esther,” said JoJo. “How do we find out more about Hitler?”

  “I’m reading The Diary of Anne Frank. I’ll lend it to you when I’m finished.”

  “Thanks, Esther. See you tomorrow.”

  As the twins started walking in the direction of home, Bronka stopped at one of the large maple trees that lined the sidewalk. She could feel it coming; she was going to throw up. She started gagging and then vomited. She put her hands on the tree trunk and tears came to her eyes. She didn’t know if they were for Papa and the concentration camps and gas chambers, or for the embarrassment and humiliation of throwing up right on Union Turnpike.

  Mrs. Cohen stuck her head into Mr. Levinson’s office once all of the students were gone.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, come back tomorrow at 2:45 before class starts. We have to discuss your classroom management skills.”

  By the time of their meeting the next afternoon, Mr. Levinson had a bigger issue than discipline to discuss with Mrs. Cohen. He had been fielding phone calls and visits from parents for much of the day.

  “Have a seat, Mrs. Cohen,” said Mr. Levinson as he pointed to a chair opposite his desk. He looked stern and displeased.

  “I wasn’t aware, Mrs. Cohen,” he said in a sarcastic tone, “that Hitler and his virulent anti-Semitism, which resulted in starvation, torture, and the killing of six million of our people, was in our curriculum for our Bet class. The children are ten-year-olds. In fact, to my knowledge, it’s not even taught to our bar mitzvah students.”

  “Don’t you think it should be? There would have been no State of Israel without the Nazi horror.”

  “That is your opinion, Mrs. Cohen. But in any case, it was not your place to tell these impressionable children about it. They are much too young. They don’t even teach it in the high schools. I’m not even sure about college. Why, some of the parents of our students are victims themselves. Don’t you think it’s the decision of the parents to tell their child at a time and place of their choosing? And if they choose not to, if they want to try to pick up their lives and never mention it, isn’t that their right.”

  “I am a survivor myself,” said the teacher. “You can’t live your life fully and honestly by never dealing with it.”

  “Well, I am truly sorry that you suffered. But the fact that you want to talk about it does not make you judge and jury on this issue. You will find it nowhere in our curriculum. It is a very sensitive topic. Our enrollment has been increasing, and we don’t want parents to take their children out of Hebrew School en masse because we are usurping their prerogative. They don’t like your remarks, and they also don’t like the utter lack of discipline and decorum in your classroom. And neither do I. I could not believe what I saw and heard—cursing and obscene gestures. Is that par for the course?”

  Mrs. Cohen knew that every teacher in the Hebrew School had a discipline problem. The children were tired after sitting a whole day in public school—and many were bored. At least, she tried to make it interesting for them. She actually wanted to say, if anyone deserved to be cursed at, it was the Nazi dictator. But she decided not to go there.

  “No sir, they became agitated when I mentioned Hitler and The Final Solution.”

  “As indeed most people still do. It’s not even been fifteen years. It was a traumatic event for our people, and everyone reacts differently, so it’s best not to bring it up.”

  Although she had a feisty personality and was stubborn and tough, Deborah Cohen began to cry. She had survived the Shoah, immigrated to Israel, and then learned yet another language and adapted to life in the States. She was not going to let this wretched man push her around. What did he know? When had he ever put his life on the line? What had he done to help? He seemed too old to even have been a World War II veteran.

  She had what he wanted, and she knew it. It was not easy to find a fluent Hebrew speaker in Northeast Queens, let alone one who was conversant with Jewish history and tradition. She would not let him get away with this tongue-lashing, which was assaulting her soul and dredging up her worst memories.

  “I lost my whole family, and you are lecturing me about the proper way to handle such a massive and immeasurable loss?”

  “I’m truly sorry, but you can’t inflict your losses on your students and their families.”

  “I look at it that I am teaching them history—the history of the Jewish people—both the good and the bad. I am a living part of that history. Unlike the six million, I was fortunate enough to survive. The students are a link in that history, and they should know it.”

  “Mrs. Cohen, you are being insubordinate. If you want to work here, you have to follow the curriculum and the rules. I am going to put you on probation, and it’s highly likely that I may not ask you to return next fall.”

  She had known when she started this interaction with Mr. Levinson that she might have to make the ultimate move. She was now prepared to do it and suffer the consequences. It never ceased to amaze her that once you were paid for a job, you were open to the worst criticism. And most people just endured it, but she would not. She was a survivor, and the principal had hit below the belt.

  “Mr. Levinson, with all due respect, you are assuming that I still want to work here. Why would I want to continue to teach in a place that hides the truth and then punishes someone for telling it?”

  “So, you are going to leave at the end of the school year?”

  “No, I am going to leave right now.”

  And that’s how the fifth graders got a new Hebrew School teacher in the middle of the year. But the departure of Mrs. Cohen did not solve Mr. Levinson’s problem. She had let the cat out of the bag. Mrs. Cohen had spoken the truth. And it was left to the principal, teachers, and parents to pick up the pieces.

  When the twins returned from Hebrew School, both Judy and Faye were alarmed at Bronka’s appearance. She was crying, her face was white, and remnants of orange-and-white vomit clung to her blue dress. Judy gagged as the girls walked in the door.

  “Bronka said she didn’t feel well, and then she got sick when we were about a block away from Hebrew School,” JoJo reported. “She grabbed onto a tree and threw up.”

  “Are you sick, sweetheart?”

  “I don’t know. I suddenly felt very nauseous and then I just couldn’t help it and threw up on the way home from Hebrew School.

  “None of the other kids saw it,” added Bronka, relaying her main concern.

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nbsp; “Well, let’s get that dress off you,” said Faye. “Give it to me and I’ll wash it.”

  “And I’m going to take your temperature,” said Judy.

  Once she ascertained that Bronka’s temperature was normal, Judy drew a bath for her. She never ceased to marvel at how very different her two daughters were. It was good they had each other.

  The twins had agreed to keep the classroom discussion and the follow up with Esther just between them—for the time being. Neither of them had enough nerve to broach the subject with their parents.

  Bronka had sensed from the time she was three and a half years old that there was some tragic mystery surrounding her father. As she grew older, the feeling became more pronounced. She felt it when she looked into his gloomy and faraway eyes, when he yelled at her or JoJo erratically, and when she heard him screaming in the middle of the night. She had first noticed the look the day Mindy told them about the takeaway men, and it never went away.

  She began to feel unworthy and unloved because he rarely smiled or expressed affection, as she saw other fathers do. She sensed his smoldering anger when Faye said something that displeased him. And he often yelled at her mother for trivial matters. She was not eager to cause another explosion, just to satisfy her curiosity. She wanted affection from him, and he just didn’t know how to give it. She wanted him to take her in his arms and tell her he loved her. It didn’t seem to her ten-year-old mind that asking him about a forbidden topic was going to win that affection.

  JoJo didn’t want to rile her father either. She was well aware that her mother tiptoed around him, catering to his every need. Often she felt that it was at the expense of her and Bronka. She especially bristled when he snapped at her mother for what appeared to her to be no reason at all. And now, with Aunt Becky’s increasingly bizarre behavior, the adults trod lightly around her too. It was becoming a stifling atmosphere, one where she did not feel free to express herself. She spent more and more time at her friends’ homes, not wanting to expose them to either Becky or her father.