A Ritchie Boy Page 7

  Much as she physically resembled her mother, Lila yearned to possess her same plucky nature. She sat rigidly, a stream of random worries filling her head. What would it be like in Columbus, a town to which they had no connection? Who were these people, the Goldsteins, that HIAS said would take them into their home until they were able to get on their feet? Lila always found herself dwelling on the uncertainties that fed her anxiety before she considered more pleasant scenarios.

  She had seen some pictures of Columbus. Sketches, really, by a cartoonist named James Thurber in back issues of The New Yorker. She learned that he was born there and attended Ohio State, so she bought a used copy of his autobiography, My Life and Hard Times, at a nearby bookshop. She adored his recollections of the chaos and frustrations of family and boyhood growing up, and the authentic human nature conveyed in its pages.

  With Bart and Eli cleaning up dinner, she walked to Eli’s closet-like room and stood amid his souvenirs. The Yankees cap. The cherished pennant from last week’s World Series win over the Chicago Cubs at Yankee Stadium. The program from Benny Goodman’s January Carnegie Hall jazz concert that Eli found in a pile of leftovers on Fifty-Seventh Street. Several new Count Basie albums. A photo of Joe Louis after his June win over Nazi favorite Max Schmeling for the world heavyweight boxing championship. Lila couldn’t help but smile at Eli’s American enthusiasms. She knew he would be fine wherever they settled.

  Suddenly a longing for the country she once knew washed over her. Mutti and Vati. Aunt Miriam and the Rothsteins. Bella and her students. Quiet Sundays in Stadtpark. Her eyes filled. The undertow of the past wouldn’t let go of its pull on her.

  Tomorrow she’d haul out their two suitcases and pack everything she’d brought from Vienna. Eli had recently bought a small bag to carry all his new memorabilia. Bart approached their move philosophically—what will be will be, he said. She couldn’t argue with that. Whatever came, it would be a new chapter.

  WHEN THE LIGHTS DIMMED

  1938–1939

  HERSHEL WOULD NEVER FORGET the November day the Stoffs came to live with his family. They had an old-world look, like pictures he saw in his history books. Mr. and Mrs. Stoff dressed like Hershel’s own Russian grandparents, each carrying a single suitcase—worn tweed with stripes and wooden handles. The mother had an accent, and the father didn’t even speak English yet. The boy—Eli—looked to be Hershel’s age, fifteen, with coffee-dark eyes that twinkled when he smiled. And Eli smiled a lot. Hershel instantly liked him.

  For weeks, Hershel’s parents had been briefing him and his brother about their temporary guests. How they’d had to leave their home in Vienna; how as Jews they had been taunted and threatened. Hershel couldn’t imagine things bad enough to force his family to leave their house on the east side of Columbus. Sure, some months back he’d heard Jimmy Bragard call Max Sherman a “kike.” But Mrs. Grason had grabbed Jimmy by the ear and set him down on a stool next to her desk for the rest of the period, then had him write an apology to Max and his family. Stuff like that just wasn’t tolerated at Central High. Still, some things were accepted. Like the housing restrictions keeping Jews from moving to any neighborhood. It explained why Hershel’s family lived in their Jewish enclave. But they were comfortable there. Hershel always felt safe.

  So, nothing had braced him for the panic that erupted all through his neighborhood the same day the Stoffs arrived, as news spread about the looting and destruction of Jewish homes, hospitals, schools, shops, and synagogues in Germany and Austria. They’d called it Kristallnacht—“Night of Broken Glass”—because of the shards that littered the streets from all the smashed windows. The emerging pictures of Jews being beaten, furniture and goods being flung out of houses and stores, frightened them. It immediately bonded his family and the Stoffs, the seven of them huddling around the radio listening to the drama unfolding. Hershel’s father said it reminded him of the pogroms in Imperial Russia in the late 1880s. Mrs. Stoff got especially hysterical when she heard that all of Vienna’s twenty-one synagogues were attacked, the fires and bombs mostly destroying them. Through her sobs, she shared that several were located near their home district and fretted about her mother, who was still living there. Mr. Stoff kept repeating “Mein Gott,” his arm wrapped tightly around his wife as they all sat in shock. It was one of the few times Eli wasn’t smiling, his expression somber as he stood behind his parents, his hands on their shoulders.

  Emma and Simon Goldstein were first-generation Americans, so Hershel never heard anything but English at home, except for the occasional Yiddish expression—oy vey, chutzpah, klutz, kvell—thrown in for embellishment. They’d met in Cleveland, where all of his grandparents had settled at the turn of the century. His mother’s family came from Latvia, Papa’s from Russia. After his parents married in 1922, they moved to Columbus so his father could join Uncle Jacob in his kosher meat business in the Jewish section of town, the east end. Hershel was born the next year, Meyer five years later. Soon, more immigrants arrived needing work, the Depression hit, and times became hard for everyone. Hershel was too young to be aware of any of that, but he clearly remembered when his mother opened a shop just a block from their house, on 571 Rich Street. It became a hub for the neighborhood, where the refugee women’s baking and sewing skills could earn them a small income. He knew because he practically grew up there.

  Living in such close quarters, Hershel saw how hard those early weeks were for the Stoffs, and mostly for Eli’s mother. Because of her command of English—she’d been an English teacher in Vienna—she was the one reaching out to landlords to find them a place of their own. She kept telling Hershel’s mother she didn’t want to be a burden. The discrimination toward foreigners and especially Jewish immigrants like Lila—doors literally slammed in her face—alongside the horrors in Europe, wore on her. They wore on the household. But after their tumultuous arrival, the Stoffs began to feel part of the community. Mrs. Stoff joined the cadre of bakers at 571 and got to know many of the women in the neighborhood. Mr. Stoff got a job as a stockman at a uniform company where his broken English almost fit in. On Sundays, Hershel’s parents played canasta with Eli’s. And he and Eli, sometimes with Meyer in tow, spent much of their free time together.

  THE BOYS WALKED THE four blocks to Broad Street the morning winter break ended, Eli’s first day at an American school. It had been snowing for an hour, the first snowfall since the Stoffs arrived with their suitcases two months earlier. They were the kind of large individual flakes that drifted slowly to the ground and stuck, producing a film of white wherever they landed. Hershel’s winter field jacket and Eli’s wool overcoat, along with the book bags slung over their shoulders, took on a glistening sheen. With the road fully blanketed, several Monday-morning drivers honked their impatience.

  Eli took advantage of the slowed traffic and crossed the street, Hershel right behind him. “I see a bus coming up now!” Eli blurted out.

  Once inside, Hershel dropped two coins for them in the box and walked down the aisle, losing his balance as the bus lurched forward. He motioned to Eli, and they slid into the first two open seats.

  “I’m not ready to get back to school.” Hershel slouched in the vinyl seat. “And to make it worse, they put you in the senior class. Are you nervous? I mean, all this will be new for you.”

  Even though he wouldn’t turn sixteen for two months, Eli had tested into the upper grade. “More excited than nervous. But I’m not happy about being a senior. We could’ve been in all the same classes.”

  It was what Hershel liked about Eli. Sharing his disappointment and not gloating that he seemed to have a pretty big brain in that head of his.

  They got off the bus and walked across South Washington Boulevard to Central High’s entrance. “Pretty nice, eh? How does it compare to your school in Vienna?”

  Eli scanned the building and grounds before he answered. “It reminds me of the Musikverein—our most famous concert hall. It’s in the Innere Stadt. That’s Vienna’
s Old Town.”

  Hershel nodded, somewhat surprised a friend of his would know about concert halls. “Did you go to performances there?”

  “We did. The famous classical composers were born or lived in Vienna. Music was part of the air we breathed.” Eli pointed toward the south wing of the U-shaped building. “Central High extends toward your Scioto River. The Musikverein was quite near the Wien. Both buildings are neoclassical. So they’re similar—in design and location.”

  “Well, maybe at school you want to talk more about Ohio State football than concert halls and classical music.” Hershel punched Eli playfully. “If you want to make any friends, you know?”

  “I GOT A PART-TIME job at the junkyard where they keep all those old cars and car parts,” Eli announced.

  “What’re they paying you?” Hershel worked over at The Main Street Theatre for fifteen cents an hour. A good deal, he thought, since he loved movies and could watch the same film a dozen times in a week if he liked it.

  “Twenty cents an hour.”

  The boys were sitting in the Goldsteins’ kitchen on a cold day in February watching Eli’s mother pound veal into a paper-thin sheet. Wiener Schnitzel was fast becoming Hershel’s favorite dish, and his attention was drawn to Lila’s skilled preparation.

  Eli scribbled numbers on a piece of paper he’d pulled from his pocket. “I can make ten dollars a week next summer when I work full-time! That pays for a year’s tuition at Ohio State.”

  “No way! What will you do?”

  Mrs. Stoff looked up and smiled at Hershel. “Exactly what I’d like to know.”

  “I get to fix the engine blocks of Chevrolets. I used to tinker with car parts back in Vienna.” Eli picked at the apple strudel cooling on the counter before he turned and walked out.

  Hershel followed him. “Then when you gonna have time for the movies?”

  IT BECAME A SUNDAY-AFTERNOON ritual that spring. Hershel and Eli would go over to the 571 Shop, and one of their mothers would cut them each a slice of Sachertorte, which they’d savor with a glass of milk in the kitchen. Hershel watched Eli separate the two layers of chocolate sponge, scraping his fork over the apricot jam and eating it first. “Don’t you find that too sweet?” Hershel asked him. Eli just smiled, licking his lips, gulping down half the milk. “It’s no different than the glob of whipped cream you just piled on top.”

  From the bakery they’d head to The Main Street Theatre for the featured film. Eli used the movies to perfect his English and learn more about American customs and mannerisms. It was clear he wanted to assimilate. Hershel liked being Eli’s trusted advisor.

  One afternoon they saw The Crowd Roars. They figured they’d enjoy it because it was about boxing. Afterward, both boys agreed that Robert Taylor and Maureen O’Sullivan were good actors. They liked when the audience stood up out of their seats applauding Tommy McCoy’s knockout punch to his opponent in the eighth round, having endured a merciless pounding to throw the fight when he thought it would save his girlfriend.

  Hershel sensed some discomfort from Eli, who seemed lost in thought as they left the cinema. He nudged his friend with an elbow. “What’d you think?”

  “That side of life—I’ve never seen it before.” Eli scrunched his face in concentration. “What would you call it, the seedy side? Kinda caught me off guard, I guess. The gambling, the drinking. Other stuff too.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’m more used to it ’cause of all the movies I’ve seen here. A bunch of old gangster films—Scarface, City Streets. There was that one—Angels with Dirty Faces—that just came out with James Cagney—”

  “Who’s he?”

  “This great tough-guy actor. Plays gangsters a lot. Has a thick New York accent. Pretty intense.”

  “Would I like it?”

  Hershel replayed the plot in his head. “It takes place in a real bad New York neighborhood—Hell’s Kitchen. It’s about two friends on different paths. One becomes a priest.” He paused for a few seconds, watching something inscrutable flicker across Eli’s face. “It’s a good story.”

  THE NEXT WEEK THEY headed to the theater for a double feature: Boys Town, with Spencer Tracy and Mickey Rooney, two of Hershel’s favorite actors, and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Hershel gave Eli the Mark Twain book to read in advance. “It’ll help your English too,” he’d told him. Afterward, Eli said he learned much more than language: here was a typical American boy during the mid-nineteenth century. The small-town setting was also an eye-opener.

  The boys bounded for the front and grabbed seats in the first row. Eli opened a box of Jujubes.

  Hershel leaned over and whispered, “You have a real sweet tooth!”

  “My Viennese upbringing.” Eli grinned as he popped the gummy candy in his mouth. Hershel held out his hand while Eli shook a few pieces free.

  Throughout the theater, lighters flickered on and off like fireflies in summer fields. Then the screen lit up with The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. The boys stretched their necks back, gazing at the faces of the actors, their outsized mouths talking back and forth.

  Once the film was over, Eli spouted off many reactions. “I don’t get why they had to change the way Injun Joe dies.”

  “The movies just try to make things real … real dramatic, you know?” Hershel had seen so many that he felt like an expert. “It’s way more exciting for Tom to kick Injun Joe so he falls to his death than for Injun Joe to get lost in the cave and just die of starvation.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Eli furrowed his brows, then started mumbling. “M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Miss-is-sip-pi. I love to spell it, I love to say it, I love how the word sounds. And I loved Tom and Huck’s wild ride down the river.”

  Hershel thought Eli’s reactions were funny. It was almost like the weird things his brother, Meyer, came up with when he was little. But it was different hearing it from someone his own age. He was impressed with Eli’s ability to read and speak as well as he could in a foreign language, though.

  “How many years did you study English in Austria?”

  “It was part of the curriculum since Realgymnasium. That’s the school you start when you’re ten, maybe eleven. I never thought it’d become my main language.”

  Hershel was about to compliment Eli’s diction when the lights dimmed for the second feature and the opening credits started scrolling. Spencer Tracy played Father Edward Flanagan, a priest who in real life started a group home called Boys Town for underprivileged and delinquent boys in Omaha, Nebraska. Rooney played one of the boys Flanagan took in, Whitey Marsh, a tough-talking hoodlum. Hershel wondered if Eli would pick up all the slang and awaited his usual torrent of questions.

  The lights hadn’t even been turned up when Eli asked, “So what does sucker mean? Whitey’s campaign slogan was ‘Don’t be a sucker.’”

  “It’s just … I don’t know. A way people talk.” Hershel got up from his seat, as did Eli, and the two walked up the aisle, squinting as the lights went on. “Someone who believes whatever they hear, that’s a sucker.”

  “And do American people actually use ain’t? It’s not a proper word, right?”

  “I wouldn’t use it at Central High, if that’s what you’re asking.” Hershel gave Eli one of his friendly punches as the two entered the lobby with the movie crowd, emptying with it onto the sidewalk and into the night.

  They walked quietly, absorbed in their own thoughts. They passed a closed pharmacy and butcher shop, their eyes straying toward the hardware store, also dark inside, before they crossed Main Street. Eli finally broke the silence. “You know, I really liked Boys Town.”

  “I did too. What’d you like best?”

  “The good will of the priest. That he cared about saving the lives of those boys.”

  “Yeah. And it’s a true story. I mean, this guy really exists.”

  “You know, I wouldn’t be in America if it wasn’t for a man like that, who cared about saving people’s lives. He vouched for my family and never even met us.” Eli
went quiet again for a minute. “I want to meet him someday. And thank him. If not for him, I’d never have met you, Hershel.”

  BY LATE MAY, ELI’S mother found a Jewish landlord who would rent the Stoffs an apartment. It was a couple blocks from the Goldsteins, near their synagogue on Bryden Road. The red brick building was divided into four apartments, two upstairs and two down. The Stoffs moved into one on the bottom floor the week after Eli’s Central High graduation. Like many of the houses in the neighborhood, it had a front porch that entered into the living room. Past that were two bedrooms off a short hallway, with the kitchen in the rear. Mr. and Mrs. Stoff set up a card table in the living room so the Goldsteins could come over for their weekly canasta night. The boys started using it, too, for bridge and pinochle.

  One Sunday, Hershel, Eli, and Max Sherman had trouble finding a fourth for bridge and recruited ten-year-old Meyer for the dummy hand. Meyer squirmed in the chair, red-faced and clearly aggravated at being called “dummy.”

  “It’s just a player designation. Don’t take it personally, Meyer.” Hershel dealt thirteen cards facedown to each player. He reminded Meyer how to count his points based on the high cards and suits, and he tried to subtly learn what cards his brother was holding in the process. Meyer’s baby fat and inability to pay attention belied the fact that he was a math whiz. While everyone was still arranging their cards, Hershel announced an opening bid of “three no trump.”