Brooklyn Secrets

by Triss Stein

  At that moment, I didn’t care. She could be giving herself multiple piercings or painting her bedroom black, as long as she was safe at home.

  In fact she was coming downstairs, looking for dinner. Then she saw my face and I had to tell her, as briefly as I could, while we ate.

  She was horrified of course, and wanted to know everything I knew, which was next to nothing.

  Her final words on the subject were, “Did they say they talked to her job? But that’s just like grownups. They should talk to her friends! If there’s something going on in her life, her friends would the ones to know.”

  It wasn’t until later, when I watched the story again on late news, hoping for a positive update, that I realized what else was nagging me about the broadcast. I knew Zora Lafayette, Savanna’s mother.

  It was a long time ago. She was older now and her hair was different, neatly trimmed instead of braided into brightly dyed rows. She wore an ordinary grownup pantsuit not gangsta-style fashion. But I knew I had met her. Was it in a class? The first time I was in college, or the second?

  Chapter Five

  It came back to me slowly. I live in so many different worlds, I could see a face on the street and not always know if it was someone from my childhood, a class, Chris’ life, or just a frequently seen face on the street.

  But Savanna’s mother? A large class on what? Sociology and family, something like that? She stood up and fearlessly challenged a guest speaker on his research about what working mothers need. Was that it? And said she was one herself, a student with a baby, and he should be asking people like her.

  Leaving the classroom, I passed her and said, “Good for you. I know. I have a baby at home, too.”

  She wasn’t impressed by my admiration but said something like, “These men! These expert men? Sometimes they just don’t get it. Know what I’m saying?” And as she walked away, I saw on her pack a huge button with a photo on it. It was a smiling toddler, her hair tied in puffs with red ribbon.

  I was pretty sure that was it, the memory I was trying to retrieve. Or something like it. Damn. That must have been Savanna.

  What now? I didn’t really know her, the mother, didn’t think my contacting her would be anything but an intrusion. But I also didn’t think I could forget any of this. It wasn’t just another case of violence in a violent neighborhood. Not anymore. Not to me.

  There was one thing I could do. Maybe helpful, maybe not, but better than doing nothing. I could call the number flashed on the screen, the one that said, “if you have information…” and tell them about my encounter with those boys who had also been bothering Savanna. I didn’t know if it would be helpful but it was something.

  The number was gone from the TV screen, of course. I couldn’t scroll back. My ancient TV does not have all the bells and whistles, as Chris has pointed out regularly. The words “stone age” come up on those occasions. It only took me minutes to find it online.

  Call now? Or call tomorrow? Get it over with. What did I want to say? I wrote it down to keep focused. I called.

  In just a minute, I was connected to a detective, Sergeant Asher. I told her about the incident, stumbling over my words.

  “You say it was around three o’clock? At Dumont, just off Mother Gaston?”

  “Yes, right around the corner from the library.”

  “But you did not see them with Miss Lafayette?”

  “No, but I heard them talk about her.”

  “Any of their names that you heard?”

  “No, but the guard at the library—Mr. Wilson, I think—saw them and he knew them. Like I said.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m double-checking to get the facts right. Did you see any identifying marks on any of them?”

  “No, not really. Wait! Wait. The one who grabbed my arm? He had a tattoo.” I closed my eyes. Visualize, I told myself. See it again. Ugh. “It was a snake, I think. Or something crawly. Crawling up his forearm.”

  “Ahh.” That was a satisfied sound if I ever heard one.

  “Is that helpful?”

  “Remains to be seen.” Those were the words, but the tone of voice was lighter. “Last question: could you identify them if you saw them again?”

  I had to think about it. Could I see them now, in my mind? “Maybe two of them.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Donato. We appreciate your good citizenship.”

  “Was it even helpful?”

  I thought I heard a smile in her voice. “Could be.”

  It turned out that making the call did not get it off my mind. Just the opposite. I had dreams all night, or so it seemed, about scary young men who turned into snakes. Or something like that. Mixed up with a little girl in red ribbons. The details evaporated by the time I was getting out of bed, but the ugly feelings remained.

  And there was something else on my mind. Half awake, I went to a bookcase in the hall. Top shelves, overstuffed with old texts and notebooks from college and grad school, never looked at but I couldn’t quite throw them away. The college stack. Sociology texts, family life. We did team projects. A folder with a syllabus and a class list. By the time I found it and pulled it out, I was covered with dust and papers were all over the floor, but at least no books had fallen on my head.

  I keyed in the e-mail for a woman whose name was Zora Lafayette. It didn’t make sense any more than it had earlier, but I couldn’t not do it.

  We were classmates in sociology of the family at Brooklyn College. I saw you on TV last night. I met Savanna at the library that day and liked her. Can I help in any way at all? I have a teen daughter myself.

  How to end it? Too emotional felt like intruding. We were barely acquaintances. Too matter-of-fact felt like ignoring her reality. Finally, I just told the truth:

  Sending best wishes.

  ***

  In the morning, I told Chris not to talk to me until I had coffee. She took one look at my face and said, “Uh, fine. I’ll get breakfast on the way to school.” I knew that probably meant a doughnut and I didn’t even care, that morning.

  What was on my calendar for today? Not a day at my job. I knew that much. I hoped it would be a nice, quiet day of hiding in a library, doing my research, reading very old books in silence and taking notes. With many coffee breaks.

  That’s how it turned out and I was able not to speak to any human being except the librarian for three hours. My brain knew what to select from the research, my hands know how to type it into the laptop, and I didn’t have to think very hard.

  By the end of the day I would have all I needed to write this chapter and move on. That was my plan.

  It was almost lunchtime, and I must have been feeling better, because a new name caught my eye. It not only caught my eye, it registered.

  Frank Kravitz. I skimmed through my notes from the visit to the home on the Hudson. Was that Lil’s brother, the one who disappeared? Though her story was interesting, I hadn’t taken the request very seriously. I could not make it my project; I just had too much else to do. And what were the chances I would find it by accident?

  Apparently pretty good. That was my first surprise.

  I read the page again. He was only mentioned in passing, but not as a Brownsville hero. He’s one of a list of “sometime associates of organized crime figures”. That was my second surprise.

  I flipped to the index. Was he mentioned anywhere else? No. I keyed his name into my computer screen? No. Dummy, I thought to myself. There I was sitting in the Brooklyn collection of the Brooklyn Public library system. And I did know the old Brooklyn Eagle newspaper was online. So, duh, as Chris would have said to me.

  There it was, just a face in the crowd in a handful of photos with captions. One was a meat cutters union meeting where he spoke; another, Frank in the background, behind some very questionable characters. And just one final photo, with the boxer Bernie Rosenblatt, ce
lebrating.

  Who the heck was Frank Kravitz? Clearly he was not an important public figure. But was he the hero Lillian remembered? Certainly didn’t look like it now. Where could I look further?

  Courthouse archives? Maybe, if he was in fact hanging around with some of these notorious names. And then I had to think about where I’d have to go, and who I’d have to apply to, to get a look at them. I could not accept that he had entirely vanished. I could plow through a dozen other books, looking for traces.

  Or I could take a little ride up to the other end of New York and speak with Lillian Kravitz again. My early morning, bad-dreams-induced lethargy was gone. I was ready for action.

  I made copies of the photos I had found. They were not very good. Better, I bookmarked the Brooklyn Eagle site. I would show her those on my laptop.

  I kept the radio on for the whole drive, wondering if I might hear anything more about Savanna, but no. I listened so hard I missed my exit and had to navigate through some back streets to find my way.

  A desk attendant called her and she said she’d come down soon. It wasn’t soon. When she finally got there, holding tight to her walker, she looked different. Makeup could not conceal the pallor of her skin, and the deeper shadows around her eyes. Today her track suit was canary yellow.

  “I didn’t expect you, my dear.” A shadow seemed to cross those blue eyes. “Did we have a date?”

  “Oh, no. I am sorry. I found some things, and had time…it was an impulse…” I felt like an idiot. “I should have called.”

  “No matter.” She patted my hand. “I am a little unwell, fatigued, today and had no plans. Come. We will have lunch. I can order an extra plate for you.”

  So that is how I found myself choosing between vegetarian lasagna and tomato soup plus grilled cheese sandwich, in a room full of people old enough to be my grandparents. Even my great-grandparents.

  She hesitated, looking around, until a worker came to say, “Would you like a private table? Is this one of your grandchildren?”

  “Oh, no, she’s…she’s a friend. Yes, a private table. We want to talk. I guess.

  “We have dairy at lunch, and meat at dinner,” she explained to me. “Not that I care. I left all those kosher rules behind in my wild days.” She sighed. “And we never have shrimp here. Or lobster. I miss it.”

  Her thoughts seemed elsewhere, perhaps on seafood, until I took out my pictures.

  “Is this your brother?”

  “That is very blurry. I have my magnifying glass in my bag.” She handed it to me. “Here, you look for it.”

  When found, she stared for a while, as I pulled up the photos on the laptop. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Yes, it’s Frank. My darling brother.”

  I showed her the Eagle photo. “Oh, yes, that’s him. But who is he with? I can’t read this.”

  I enlarged it and she read the caption out loud. “Alleged gangsters? Is that what it says? Then it can’t be him. He never associated with that type of person.” She stared at me. “Never heard of them in my life.”

  Lunch came just then, giving me a break to think about what I was going to do. She did certainly seem very tired, or ill. She certainly wasn’t the outspoken firecracker of my earlier visit.

  She concentrated on her food, occasionally stopping to say, “Now this is very good,” and “I hope you are enjoying your meal. There might be ice cream for dessert, you know.”

  Lunch seemed to perk her up. She turned to me and said clearly, “Now what can I do for you, my dear? Let’s move to the lounge where we can talk.”

  We moved, very slowly, and finally were settled on a sofa. “You asked me to keep my eyes open for any information about your brother?”

  “Yes, of course I did. And did you find anything?”

  I had showed her my findings not half an hour ago. I showed them again. “I don’t know if you see the problem here.” And I didn’t know quite how to say it, either. I could not bring myself to say, Based on what is here, nothing you told me is true. “Do you recognize any of these names now?”

  She looked at them again. A light seemed to go on. “Yes, that’s my dear brother. Of course it is. And these men?” She stopped, thought. “They are crooks, aren’t they? Gangsters?” She shook her head. “Impossible. This is impossible. They were not his kind of friend at all. I told you. He was a hero. Dig harder and you’ll find out. I know you will.”

  I started to say something, but she held her hand up and went right on.

  “He was a wonderful brother. He helped me with my homework and brought me little treats and even, sometimes, played tag in the street with me and my friends. He took me to the park. Whatever parenting I got, whatever affection, came from him. So don’t tell me…don’t tell me…. just find out what happened to him. That’s all.”

  “What if I find things you don’t want to know?” It was a hard question to ask when she looked so sad, yet hopeful, like a small child. “Should I just keep quiet about them?”

  She turned to me with a fierce expression, much more like the Lillian I had first met. “What a shocking thing for a scholar to ask! We academics look the facts in the eye. I can take it.” She smiled. “Besides, I know he was a hero and you will, too. So there!”

  So there, indeed. That sounded a lot like marching orders to me.

  A soft-voiced woman in a uniform came up to us. “Why, Ms. Kravitz, what are you doing here? It’s time for your meds. Would you like ice cream to get them down?”

  “Ah, my keeper is here.” To her, Lil said, “Is there vanilla-fudge?”

  “You know there is.”

  “Yes, if there’s vanilla-fudge I will come.” She winked at me. “Told you there might be ice cream. Come again if you can. I like having company.”

  Behind her back, the nurse whispered to me, “It’s good for her. She hasn’t been at all well.”

  Later that night, there was a phone call. A frail, sad voice with no name. She said, “I was just a little girl. What did I know about his life outside the house? Maybe I turned him into a hero myself.”

  Chapter Six

  Two days later, there was still no additional news about Savanna. I was sure about that, because I was listening to the radio or TV all the time. I wanted to know those nasty young men were locked up, to hear that young Savanna was on the mend, to see her mother at another news conference talking about how relieved she was. None of that happened.

  I already knew I would have to go back to Brownsville. My photos were only barely acceptable so I had borrowed a good camera. My ladies at the nursing home had given me some more locations I wanted to see and perhaps photograph. They were many years younger than Maurice Cohen and their hangouts were different. He wrote about meeting girls in the park in the thirties. They told me where they were when the war ended.

  I had organized my cameras, notebooks, keys. I did not expect my dad to show up at my door.

  Dad and I have a difficult relationship. It’s getting better, partly due to Chris’ desire to have him in our lives, but it’s still touchy. I don’t know what irritates me most, his desire to protect me and take care of me, long after I needed anything like that, or my lingering distrust, stemming from the woman who took over his life after Mom died. She dragged him off to Arizona when I really did need him, and then dumped him.

  I didn’t talk to him for a time, but Chris did. And then he came back home, to the little house in East Flatbush where I grew up. And then he tried to work his way back into my life. Sometimes I even let him.

  There he was, ringing my doorbell.

  “Dad? What’s up? I was just on my way out.”

  “Off to school?”

  “Ah, no. Um, off to another part of Brooklyn. It’s, um, job research.”

  “How’d you like a driver? I’ve got no special chores today. Come on, I’ll take you out to
breakfast. Which way are you heading? I know how to find pancakes in any neighborhood.”

  He did, too. He’d worked as a cab driver until his retirement. He knew how to find anything, anywhere in the city. Sometimes it was eerie. And that healthy yogurt I’d eaten at seven a.m. seemed very long ago.

  “Okay. But there’s a deal.”

  “Oh?”

  “If I tell you where I am going, no comments. None. Promise?”

  “What exactly are you up to?”

  I shook my head. “Promise.”

  “Deal. I’ll drive. Just point me in the right direction.”

  “Out Eastern Parkway.”

  “Where are we going?”

  When I told him, his expression changed.

  “You promised, Dad. Not one word.”

  “What? What did I say? Nothing. But we’ll stop for breakfast before we get there.”

  And so we did, at a diner he knew about. He always knows about a diner.

  Over bacon and eggs I told him about my project, the chapter on crime for my dissertation, the photos, my visit to the nursing home. I left out my scary encounter. Not by accident either.

  When he started to ask me why I had not asked him to go with me, I gave him a look, the one Chris gives me. “Because I am a grown woman? I don’t need my dad to hold my hand?”

  He didn’t seem convinced, but he was smart enough not to say so. In the car, fully caffeinated and fed and then some, I gave him some specific locations courtesy of Ruby and Lillian. “This is how we’ll do it. You stop and I’ll hop out, take a few photos, and jump back in. Got it?”

  He nodded without a word. After a few blocks on almost deserted streets, he stopped suddenly.

  “I know this street.”

  I was flipping through my notebook, checking addresses, not listening. “Sure you do. You know every street, everywhere in Brooklyn.”

  “No, I mean I really know this street. I remember it.”

  The change in his voice finally caught my attention.