“I had a quick shower and shave and headed up to the room he told me to visit. When I got there, I heard men talking, but the sound died out after I knocked. I’m not going to lie to you. I was nervous. When I tried to make conversation with Sammy in the cab, he ignored me. And I knew your Uncle Moe had some questionable friends. Sammy finally let me in.”
The waitress drops off our diet sodas. They come in huge, plastic, blue-pebbled glasses.
“It was a big room, a fancy hotel suite,” my father says after taking a sip. “A man with movie star looks, a little older than Sammy, leaned against the desk at the front of the room, talking to a couple of guys my age. Dark hair, dark eyes. I figured him for an Italian, maybe Mafia. Sammy introduced him as Yehuda, though, and I realized he was a Jew. He didn’t crack a smile the whole time I was there. And I could tell he was in charge from the way no one interrupted when he spoke. He talked to the two guys in Hebrew. But different from what I’d heard in shul.
“Yehuda asked me a couple of questions about my work. Being polite, I thought. Then he got down to business. Asked if I’d I heard of the Haganah, the Israeli underground. I told him no. Remember this is 1947, nobody knew from the Israeli army back then. He explained it was a secret defense force set up by the Jews to fight the British and Arabs. My job, he said, was crucial to the future of Israel. I had to work on the docks and keep my eyes open. When I asked what I was looking for, he wouldn’t say. Just told me to make sure the Italians and Irish dockworkers did what they were told. And to report to Sammy if they didn’t.”
“I still don’t see what this has to do with Lansky,” I break in when he stops to blow his nose.
“You want to let me tell the story or not.”
I nod.
“I spent a miserable winter loading cargo from piers along the Hudson River, mostly from the Jersey side. None of the dockworkers talked to me, probably thought I was a spy, which I was. They had to be stupid not to figure something’s up. Here’s this Jew, new to the union, working with the Italians and Irish.
“I kept my eyes open but nothing suspicious happened. I worked like a dog, loading whatever the bosses told me to load and freezing my ass off in the process. Everyone did their jobs, kept their mouths shut and I had no idea why Sammy and Yehuda decided to plant me there.”
He scoots back in his seat and leans in toward me.
“Then one particularly lousy morning, about a month after I started at the docks, all hell broke loose. A blizzard a couple of days earlier had turned New York into a frozen hellhole and it took two hours to get to work. I was in a lousy mood. We were working on the pier, loading wooden crates—heavy sons of bitches labeled fertilizer—and had a hard time wrapping the cables to lift them.
“We finally finished and stepped away to let the crane operator load the crate onto the ship. Everything went fine at first. But as the crate crossed the ship’s rail, a slat fell off and crashed to the dock. Another slat fell and then another. I was getting nervous, thinking maybe we hadn’t secured the cables tight enough and I’d be in trouble, when a box slipped out from between the broken slats and tumbled to the pier. It broke open and a half dozen machine guns rattled to the ground.”
“I thought you said the crates held fertilizer?”
“That’s how they were labeled. The foreman took a look at the cargo and yelled for everyone to clear out of the area. Next thing I knew, Sammy raced up, grabbed my arm, and forced me to run at top speed from the shipyard. I didn’t know where he came from, but he was the boss so I obeyed.
“His car was parked outside the terminal and we jumped in and took off. I was full of questions but Sammy, Mr. Silent, had nothing to say until we were clear of Jersey City. When he opened his mouth and told me, I was ready to slug him. I’d been loading weapons all morning. An illegal shipment headed for Israel.”
“You had no idea?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “None.”
“Didn’t you wonder why they needed a spy on the docks?”
“Sure. I asked but no one would tell me. And I couldn’t afford to make waves. Most crates were labeled heavy machinery or fertilizer. Turns out I’d spent the month loading weapons headed for Palestine. This Yehuda had arranged for me and Sammy to keep an eye out to make sure none of the longshoremen learned about it.”
My father stops speaking while the waitress serves our sandwiches. I take a bite and spit it out. The meat’s stringy and the bread’s stale.
“Is that what Sammy told you?” I ask once my father peels his eyes from the waitress’s retreating derriere.
“I learned most of it later. I don’t think many people knew then but the U.S. sold a lot of its surplus World War II equipment to the Arabs. The Jews, who were fighting for statehood, got bubkes. At first they had no money. By the time they got some, the U.S wouldn’t ship military hardware to the Mideast. Makes you wonder where their sympathy lay. We heard rumors the British were banking on the Arabs if war broke out after they left. Which, in fact, it did.”
He stops talking and shakes his head. “You didn’t learn this in religious school?”
“I don’t remember it.”
He takes a bite out of his sandwich and chews slowly.
“Maybe I wasn’t paying attention,” I add.
He laughs. “Maybe. The way I heard it, Ben-Gurion—before he became prime minister—convinced a group of rich American Jews to help the Israelis purchase surplus ammunition and weapons-making equipment. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. But the only way Israel could get the stuff was to smuggle it in.”
“And that’s where Lansky came in?”
“Smart girl.” He reaches across the table and taps my forehead. “At the time this was going on, the Mafia controlled the shipyards in New York and New Jersey. And Lansky had friends in the Mafia. So Ben-Gurion’s wealthy friends introduced Yehuda—a gunrunner from way back—to Lansky. And Lansky convinced the Italians to tell Yehuda when weapons were headed to Arab countries. Maybe stop them from reaching their destination.”
“So Lansky helped Israel?”
“Sure he helped. He was a Jew. He lined things up with his Italian buddies, who told the longshoremen what to do. The thing is, a lot of these dockworkers were Italian. They could’ve been fans of Mussolini. Who knows what they’d have done if they knew the cargo was headed to Israel.”
“You didn’t know this while you were working the docks?”
“I knew something fishy was going on. But it wasn’t my place to ask.”
“What happened after the weapons were found?”
“As far as I was concerned, nothing. I hung around New York a few more days. Sammy thought I might be needed. It was all over the papers. Something like thirty crates of machine guns were intercepted on their way to Palestine. I’m not saying I’m glad I worked at the docks that winter. I was miserable. But you got to admit those gangsters were one hundred percent behind Israel.”
I’m not going to debate him on that subject. “So where did your meeting with Lansky fit into all this?”
“Keep your pants on. I’m getting there. The night before I left town, Sammy told me Mr. Lansky would like to meet me. He was going to the theater that night to hear Fleishman and wanted I should come. I took a cab with Sammy and sat at a table with a dozen tough-looking guys. Some, I guess, were Mr. Lansky’s friends but some looked like protection. Sammy introduced me and Mr. Lansky was very nice, asked if I had a wife, kids. I told him yes and he thanked me for my help. Can you believe that? Meyer Lansky thanking me?”
That doesn’t need an answer so I don’t offer one.
“When Fleishman came on stage, everyone was silent, especially the guys at Mr. Lansky’s table. Everyone knew he was a huge fan of the singer. Sure enough, Fleishman wrapped up his act with ‘Yiddishe Mama.’ I was trying to be a tough guy, but I was near tears. And I couldn’t help myself, I looke
d around. Lansky sat there with a white hankie, dabbing his eyes. That big, tough gangster was crying.” My father shakes his head. “Just goes to show. Once a Jew, always a Jew.”
I don’t know that crying over “Yiddishe Mama” qualifies anyone as a Jew. But I keep my mouth shut and push my plate away. I gave up on my corned beef sandwich after the first bite.
“The next day, Sammy and I took the Havana Special back to Miami. I got to tell you it was great getting back to your mother and Esther. Your sister was a little doll.”
A shadow crosses his face and I realize how much he misses Esther.
“I learn later that Sammy was trying to get in good with the Miami Jews. That’s what brought him up to New York to help Lansky.” Tootsie laughs. “Turned out he lived in Miami Beach and had a daughter of marriageable age. Problem was the Jewish mothers wouldn’t let their sons date a gangster’s daughter. But working for Israel, that’s another story. His plan must have paid off. His daughter married a Jewish accountant, a fellow named Irving Tannenbaum. Years later, Irv told me Sammy wouldn’t let him into the business. Sammy said that working as a wise guy was fine for Sammy’s generation. But not for an American-born Jew.”
“Sounds like you went straight too.”
“You bet. After the trip to New York, I was ready for a legitimate job. Uncle Moe had connections in the restaurant business so we decided to open a restaurant supply company. You know the man I talked to in the theater, the old guy sitting in front of us?”
“What about him?”
“He ran one of South Florida’s largest bookie operations before opening a cafeteria. One of our best customers.”
I picture the wizened old man in the plaid golf hat. “You’re kidding.”
My father shakes his head and goes back to his sandwich.
I wonder how many of the old guys at the Stage Door Theater have similarly illicit pedigrees. I’m not entirely comfortable with my father’s story about Meyer Lansky. It’s as if he’s trying to convince me that being a member of the mob was a good thing, something you did out of loyalty to other Jews. I’m not buying it. Not after what his buddies did to my house. Jewish or not, Lansky and his kind were mobsters and murderers. Which, I have to admit, made Tootsie a thug. What upsets me the most is that he’s proud of it.
I’m not letting my father off the hook for the break-in. He says I’m a nag when I ask if he’s contacted his so-called friends. His condescending attitude and refusal to recognize how badly this frightens me drive me crazy.
My father chews deliberately, his chin resting on his upturned palm as his jaws labor at the corned beef sandwich. I’m about to tell him what I think of Lansky and his gangster pals when Tootsie stops chewing. His eyebrows form a vee of concentration. I expect an insight from him, maybe an admission these hoodlums weren’t the wonderful characters he paints them to be.
But no. It doesn’t happen. Instead, he spits a hunk of fatty meat into his paper napkin.
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21
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Tootsie
Becks is unusually quiet on the drive home tonight and, when we turn off the I-95 ramp for downtown Miami, I ask if I’ve said something to upset her.
She shakes her head. “I’m down. I saw Daniel this morning at Zach Birnbaum’s bar mitzvah.”
“And?”
“And we had a fight.”
“About what?”
“Everything. Nothing. Moving back in together.”
She looks at me from the corner of her eye, daring me to comment. I’d like to press her, to find out if there’s anything I can do to help. But I keep my mouth shut. I don’t need her telling me again that it’s none of my business.
When I get upstairs to my apartment, I go to the sliding glass doors and stare into the Schmuel Bernstein’s garden. It’s dark and the palm trees are scarcely visible. Across the lawn, lights flicker on in one of the upstairs windows of the nursing home. The grounds are deserted except for a raccoon trying to upend a garbage can.
I’m down tonight too, sad and disappointed. The actors put on a terrific show and it brought back great memories. Afterward, at dinner, I enjoyed sharing them with Becks. But as I spoke, I realized I was trying to convince her that the gangsters I knew weren’t the monsters she paints them to be. Lansky and his cronies did a lot of good, helping the Israeli underground fighters acquire weapons. Becks seemed unimpressed.
She didn’t say anything tonight, but she’s made no secret of her contempt for these men. I can understand it. They were criminals. I suppose I was too and regret some of the things I did. But whether she likes it or not, a lot of those men are friends I grew up with, people I admired as a kid. It seemed natural to follow in their footsteps. Although I knew what they did wasn’t kosher, it was the best option for a kid from our neighborhood who wanted to make it in the world. It didn’t occur to me until I was married with a child that I had another choice.
And now Schatzi is dead. Moe too. They had good lives. Truth be told, most of us did pretty well for ourselves. Even if our jobs weren’t entirely straight, we married and had kids who went on to legitimate careers. Some of my friends even went to college. I thought about going before the war. But that was craziness. My father didn’t have the money to send me. And by the time the GI bill came along, I’d lost interest.
Back then, the neighborhood men Ma called nogoodniks were the ones who made real money. Drove big cars like Schatzi’s, went out with good-looking dames, and dressed sharp. The guys who left the Lower East Side for Brooklyn and points north helped those left behind when they could. If Schatzi hadn’t put Moe in touch with Landauer, neither of us would’ve come out of the army with a job.
You had to be tough to survive back then. I needed it on the streets of New York, where I had to fight Irish and Italian kids almost every day. And I needed it to get through the stinking war. When I left the army and moved to Miami, the only assets I had were my size and my fists. Moe had the same skills and made a nice living working for Landauer. There was no reason I shouldn’t do so the same. And I never hurt anyone. If people wanted to spend their dough betting on numbers, who was I to judge? It was business. How could I know things would turn out so miserably?
I go to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. Nothing worth eating so I shut it again. When I turn around, I spot Bernice and the girls’ photos. Their eyes, dark and accusing, follow me as I return to the living room. I don’t know how much more of this secrecy I can bear. Hiding my past has become torture. My world would be so much less complicated if everything was out in the open. But then I’d be alone, shunned by my daughters and grandchildren. And life wouldn’t be worth living.
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22
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I’m dozing on the family room couch with the television on after dropping off Tootsie when the phone rings. It takes a few seconds to identify the sound and I’m half awake when I pick up the receiver and mumble “Hello.”
“Becks?” It’s my sister, Esther. She sounds surprised. As though she expects me to be out on a date. Or, more likely, asleep.
I glance at the clock on the cable box. It’s almost midnight. “What’s going on?” We’re both problem sleepers so I figure she’s called to chat.
“Listen, I . . . ” She hesitates. “I’m sorry to call so late, but Bruce is out of town and . . . I need to talk to you. I got some scary news yesterday.”
I’m completely awake now and flip off the television. “What happened? Are the girls okay?” Her two daughters are away at college.
“They’re fine. But I went for my mammogram yesterday. Then afterward the radiologist suggested I get an ultrasound. He didn’t want me to wait. He did it right away. And something’s wrong. My doctor wants me to have a biopsy.”
“My God.” My heart skips a beat. “Did he say what it is?” I don’t want to use the word cancer, but what el
se could it be?
“Not yet. Just that he saw something, maybe just calcifications, and needs to probe further.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He says the biopsy will tell us more. I have it scheduled for Tuesday after school.”
“I’ll come up. I can get a flight tomorrow. Or drive.” My sister lives in Greensboro, North Carolina so it’s a short flight away. She teaches third grade and I want to be there when she gets out of class so I can accompany her to her appointment.
“Are you sure? You already have enough going on. I told Bruce and he’s flying home now. He’s supposed to start a trial in Atlanta on Tuesday.”
She doesn’t need to spell it out: there’s nothing like having a sister near when you’re in trouble.
“I’ll leave in the morning,” I say.
“Would you? I’m so scared.” Her voice quavers. “How am I going to tell the girls? They’re coming home from college for Thanksgiving.”
Esther’s daughter Michelle is a senior at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, and Ariel is a junior there. We joke that Ariel still needs to let go of the umbilical cord, she’s so attached to Esther. She’ll be panic-stricken if her mother has cancer. I don’t know that my own boys would be any less upset if I became ill.
“I don’t think I can handle this.”
The fear in her voice frightens me and I search my mind for comforting phrases. “You’ll be fine. You’ll get through it.” Then, without thinking, I say, “Daniel will help.”
I’m surprised at my words. I’ve done everything possible to avoid my husband.
Esther knows this. In fact, she’s the only one who supported me in my decision to spend time away from Daniel. Aviva and Noah think we should go for marriage counseling and Mindy, like my father, thinks I should forgive Daniel and take him back. But Esther and I suffered together through our parents’ arguments and she’s as familiar as I am with the toll infidelity takes.
The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) Page 14
