It was September 29th and I remembered that Rosh Hashanah began at sundown; I was sitting outdoors in the “sundown.” And I remembered my excitement as a kid getting ready for the Jewish New Year. Mama had a whole bag of beautiful apples. Some would be sliced and arranged around the plate with a bowl of honey. “May the new year be a sweet one for you,” Mama would say, handing us each an apple slice dipped in golden honey which she bought at Zabar’s. Sally and I would help her slice, dice, and chop up more apples and dates and pomegranates for some sumptuous dessert Mama was making…red wine honey cake with plums. Or one year, I remember, Papa’s favorite: an apple bourbon Bundt cake. David would joke that Jews eat so many apples for Rosh Hashanah in order to keep the doctors away for a year. Funny, since he became one. Ruthie would be all excited because there would be a gift for each of us after dinner, to top off the apple cakes and braised brisket with plums and port wine which Mama let soak overnight.
It was a joyful holiday, but maybe not as much as the secular New Year’s on January 1st which we also celebrated, of course. Joshua, the most religious of the Feinstein kids, reminded us that Rosh Hashanah begins ten days of making amends for the sins and mistakes of the past year, and ends with our high holy day, Yom Kippur. He would be the one to go to synagogue after dinner because he wanted to hear the shofar announcing the New Year. I think he always wanted to be the one to blow the shofar, but it never happened. He had heard the sound of another horn after he graduated high school, and the mournful sound of taps replaced the sound of the shofar for him. May he rest in peace.
That evening after Compline, I was still in my Rosh Hashanah mind, praying for Mama and David and Sally. It’s a new year beginning in the Jewish world, but I was thinking about the one we were living in right now. The year 2000. It had been an interesting year. It would be four years come the Advent of 2000, that Ruthie died. Crack cocaine and probably a mixture of other so-called “recreational drugs” mixed with recreational alcohol was the cause of death.
Ruthie always wanted to be a star. Since we were kids we studied tap and ballet; Ruthie persevered through both and moved on to modern dance. Sally and I had a year or two and left the dance floor bereft of our un-fancy footwork. Ballet was not for me, but I loved tap dancing, however, it was Ruthie who pursued a career on the stage. I don’t think I ever shared the brunt or brutality of it all. She was a romantic to her bones, and always talked the talk as so many theater people do. Her visits became less frequent over the years, and stopped entirely when she was actually in a show.
Gwendolyn Putterforth, my godmother and faithful friend, would keep me up to date on Ruthie’s escapades. Gwendolyn owned and ran Tea on Thames on the Upper West Side, near Columbia and Barnard College. After I entered the monastery, Gwendolyn and Ruthie became friends, and Gwen even hired Ruthie to work at the tea shop. The customers loved her because she would “perform.”
“I say, Gov’nor, you’ve just come from Ascot I see and thought you’d stop in for a spot of tea. What will it be tonight? The high tea triple tray is on sale if you and your bloke here want to spill a few pounds.” The gentleman and his friend would laugh, but they could not be sure if it was for real or put on. Nor did they know the triple tray would be on sale by five cents. But Ruthie was good for business, and did well in tips. They believed her to be right out of Mayfair, till Sidney and Arlene Bergman coming from a little off-Broadway theater on the Upper West Side appeared at the table next to the “Gov’nor” .
“Oy, such a night this should be? The Bergmans are uptown on the West Side. Hiding from the spotlight no doubt and craving Lady Gwendolyn’s apple strudel with extra honey for the New Year. Shanah Tovah, darlings, what will it be?”
Sometimes Ruthie would break into a song. She would have liked to sing and dance, but the tables were too close to each other; she could only do a short soft shoe down the open space to end her rendition of “Tea for Two.”
Customer population grew, according to Gwendolyn, and if she would be absent for a show, Gwendolyn would put a poster in the window to advertise the show. Gwendolyn would hint to me about Ruthie’s “drinking” and, less so, about drugs; but I never stopped praying for her.
It was around 1995 or ’96 that Gwendolyn bought a vacant loft on Barrow Street in the West Village, renovated it, and opened the first Tea-Shop-Theater in New York: Penguin Pub. It was in October of 1996, that it opened to great reviews. And the Mistress of Ceremonies was none other than Ruth Steinway (that was Ruthie’s stage name). She appeared in a Queen Elizabeth the First costume for the opening monologue. Apparently “stand-up comic” was one of Ruthie’s specialties, and the audience loved it.
The infirmary Sisters and I were the prayer-backers behind the entire production. They all knew Gwendolyn and Ruthie, of course. Sr. Gertrude, whose enthusiasm exceeded my own, was Ruthie’s biggest fan. Gwendolyn came by for a parlor visit about three weeks before opening night, and I invited Sr. Gertrude, Sr. Gerard, Sr. Amata, and Sr. Benedict to join me in the parlor.
“I am so honored to meet you all in person,” began Gwendolyn. She knew all the infirmary nuns by name, but hadn’t actually met all of them.
“We’re the Ruth Steinway Fan Club; I’m Sr. Gertrude of the Sacred Heart, the fan club’s president,” chimed in Sr. Gertrude, acting as the self-proclaimed president of the fan club.
“You’ve got a fan club and a president and all?” Gwendolyn was genuinely surprised.
“Oh, yeth,” sputtered Sr. Amata who had forgotten to put in her dentures. “Thither Gertrude ith prethident by default. She’s an old thow-girl herselth, you know.”
“Thank you, Sister, I think Ms. Putterforth is familiar with my credentials.” Sr. Gertrude was nonetheless beaming. “We’ve been praying for you, too, dear, that you’d get everything tip top for the opening of Penguins at the Pub.” The sisters all nodded in agreement.
“Penguin Pub,” corrected Gwendolyn. “Just Penguin Pub. The top penguin is Sr. Mary Baruch’s father…”
“Ruben!” they shouted in unison. (I had them well informed.)
“That’s right! Ruben still stands at the entrance on a table surrounded with fresh flowers. He’s got a bow tie now and little glass spectacles.”
“Ith he loothing hith eye thight?” inquired Sr. Amata, whose own eyes were magnified by thick lenses, like the bottom of coke bottles. She was most sympathetic to anyone with eye troubles.
Gwendolyn was quite on the rebound. “Oh no, Sister, his eyesight is perfect, the glasses are plain glass, but give him an older, distinguished look. His little glass eyes have not blinked in years.” And we all laughed. “Ruben is a real taxidermy penguin, in his natural tuxedo, or as Sr. Mary Baruch calls it, his habit and cappa.”
Sr. Amata wasn’t sure why he was determined to take a taxi, and maybe needed glasses to hail one unoccupied. We let her regress into her little conundrum.
“We are in the middle of rehearsals and some last minute renovations. The theater is like a dinner theater with little round tables on three levels surrounding the stage on three sides.” Gwendolyn went on; the Sisters were all ears. “Ruth Steinway is hidden by a curtain in the rear middle of the stage; the lights go down; and our little combo plays a fanfare, and the introduction to God Save the Queen. The curtain is pulled aside and Ruth is sitting on a throne, dressed like Queen Elizabeth the First, with a huge shell-like collar rising from a cartwheel Ruff. Her little scepter is actually a microphone, and she steps down and welcomes all her royal subjects.”
“And thingth?” Sister Amata was back on board.
“Yes, she sings the opening number from the Fantasticks, Try to Remember.”
“Oh, now let me think,” Sr. Benedict loved a challenge. “Was it There’s No business Like Show Business?”
“Sister,” interrupted the president of the club with a slightly annoyed voice of frustration, “Try to Remember is the name of the song. No Business Like Show Business is from Annie Get Your Gun starring…” And she hesitated
enough for the three of us to shout: “Ethel Merman.”
“Well, yes, although it starred Mary Martin first, but good ole Ethel made it a hit.”
And we all had a good laugh, before Sr. Gertrude could break into the chorus with her Ethel Merman imitation. I think it helped to relax poor Gwendolyn who was looking rather bedraggled by it all. She wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, as Mama used to say about, well, about anyone older than herself. Gwendolyn was in her sixties when Penguin Pub opened, but she tried looking younger with her ash blonde hair in a sweep, an array of floppy blouses and plenty of costume jewelry, always with a pin or earrings or charm bracelet of penguins.
“I’ve brought you a box of almond raisin scones fresh out of the Penguin Pub oven this morning.” Gwen put a bakery size box on the turn. The infirmary Ruth Steinway Fan Club hummed with delight and anticipation. They thanked Gwendolyn for coming and promised to pray a novena when they found out the opening date.
“And tell Thither’s thither we’re praying for her and her pet penguin,” Sister Amata added.
“And break a leg,” said Sr. Gertrude from her newly acquired wheelchair. “Like I did!” And they all laughed, collected the box from the turn and exited stage right, leaving me and Gwendolyn alone, as they knew we’d want some private time. Sr. Gertrude had not broken anything; she was just getting used to being pushed around in a wheelchair. On her good days, she could still do a little soft shoe across the infirmary common room.
Gwendolyn assured me that Ruthie was doing fine. Having a job to keep her occupied was the best therapy going, along with her “program” of course. Ruthie had been through a month’s rehab at Smithers, a drying out place for alcoholics. It was like a celebrity holiday for Ruthie. She was able to be in the last group in the East 93rd Street mansion, before they moved to Roosevelt Hospital. Joan Kennedy, Truman Capote, and Ruth Steinway were among its “graduates.”
Gwendolyn’s assurance was a good try, but I knew beneath it, more was going on than she wanted me to know. But I didn’t push it. I was grateful Gwendolyn was keeping her eye on Ruthie. I took it all to prayer, which is what we do. We’re the pray-ers behind the “scenes” asking God to bless them all. To let their talent, their music, their song and dance lift up people’s hearts and touch their souls. We pray for all those who don’t have the time or the desire to pray or who “fall down” when off stage!
I pray every day for my family and remember them in thought at every Mass - sometimes consciously putting one of them into the chalice by name. Ruthie was put into the chalice many times. I worried about her crazy life style, which I didn’t know much about, but my imagination could spin out of control if I didn’t learn how to keep it in check. I know they had what they called “recreational drugs” especially in the clubs in Manhattan. Ruthie was a smart kid, but I knew she was also daring, and would try anything at least once. Like the time we saw pickled rattlesnake in a goyim deli across from Port Authority. She got a quarter of a pound, and ate the whole thing. I couldn’t stomach the thought of it! She said it was delicious, and chewy, but maybe too much pickle.
The year 1996 was a tragic year with an almost miraculous ending. Ruthie died from the drugs and other substances in her body, including bourbon. My dear old mother, who had never once set foot in this monastery in twenty-five years, came in person to tell me of Ruthie’s death. Gwendolyn had come with her, but Mama was in the parlor alone when I went in on my side of the grille. Such a reunion we had; I cannot describe it.
Mother Agnes Mary was so compassionate and kind to my mother. I was able to go home with her for Ruthie’s funeral and to sit Shiva that evening. My sister Sally came from Chicago and that was another emotional reunion. The Kabbala says that God counts the tears of women. Well, He had a flood’s worth to count those three days.
The year ended with Ruthie no longer in my life, but Mama back in it. Hannah of a Thousand Silver Hairs. Mama was in her mid-seventies then, and she still looked very attractive for her age. Of course, she had been a disciple of Helena Rubenstein and knew how to put her best face forward. As she would say: “Such a face I should have that a little makeup can’t help.”
After that Mama became a bi-monthly visitor here. It would be unusual for us to have “family visits” so frequently, but again, Mother Agnes Mary had a heart bigger than all out-doors; she was happy my mother wanted to come every other Sunday to see me. In the beginning Gwen would bring her, as we didn’t want Mama travelling on the subway alone, but after a couple months, she began coming on her own by cab.
“I should worry about spending a little money on car-fare to see my daughter, the nun?” (I had become her “daughter, the nun.”) “But tell me, where have all the nice Italian cabbies gone? I have to repeat three times to the man in the turban that I’m going to Brooklyn Heights, to Queen of Hope Monastery where my daughter is a nun.”
Mama would always bring a “nosh” for us. “A little something I picked up at Zabar’s.” Bagels and fresh chicken liver were a frequent “little nosh” but also something a little sweet so the monastery coffee would have something to wash down.
Mama got used to talking to me through the grille. She would like to sit close and whisper like she was visiting someone in prison. It was a few months into the New Year 1997 that I brought up the subject of David, my brother.
“You know, Mama, Ruthie’s death, may she rest in peace, Ruthie’s death has brought us together again. I am so grateful for that. I’m sure Ruthie and Papa are rejoicing in heaven too. And seeing Sally again was a time of…healing.” I didn’t know what word to call it. I wanted to say reconciliation, but it wouldn’t have the same impact for Mama as it does for us. Probably “atonement” would have done. “But, you know, the only person I haven’t seen in all these years is David.”
“I know, Becky, dahling, such a schlemiel, that brother of yours. But, you know, Sally has talked to him, and he’s coming around. For one, he doesn’t like that I come all the way to Brooklyn Heights to see you. ‘She should come to you; she’s younger; and she did it when Ruthie died.’ For being such a brilliant doctor, he’s such a dim-wit. I tell him that that night was the exception, now they keep you locked up, and they let me visit, so who am I to complain?”
“Is that all he says?” I’ve heard that tune of his before. Ruthie would tell me when she’d seen David or he’d been over for dinner that he’s never understood ‘this enclosure thing.’ Ruthie was getting the vocabulary down. Early on, she used to call the grille, the “cage.” The guimpe, the “bib”, and the turn, the “lazy Susan.” She once quipped: “If they made a soap-opera about your life, they could call it: As the Turn Whirls.” And she’d laugh all by herself. I guess it was a play on words with an actual soap-opera.
Mama: “Well, he asks me how you look and are you chubby, and do I think you’ll stay?” Mama and I both laugh at that.
“And what do you say?”
“I tell him you look as young as you did when you were in college and of course you’re going to stay—it’s a life-time sentence…and that, no, you are not chubby, but just right, from what I can tell, under all those robes.”
“Do you think he’ll ever come see me, Mama? I would love to see him; does he look like Papa now?”
“No, he’s taller than Ruben ever was – and heavier, really. He’s got that little ‘beer-belly look’ some men get, you know. He’s still got his hair, though, and it’s nearly all gray now. He looked very distinguished when it was salt and pepper. And his hairline is receded a few inches. Such a good looking man, our David, he should eat better, I tell him, and lay off the beer.”
I laugh. I can just hear Mama telling her son, the doctor, to lay off the beer.
“He’s very thoughtful, our David, I’ll give him that. He lives, you know, in this fancy-shmancy duplex on Third Avenue and 65th Street.”
“I know, that’s right up the street from St. Vincent’s. Ruthie used to say: ‘Thank goodness people have complexes, it’s given Da
vid a duplex.’”
“I know, I know, that Ruthie could rib him about a lot of things, especially all his girlfriends. But David has made it possible for me to keep my apartment, even helps me when I used to go to Boca till Ester up and died on me. And he comes over for dinner once a week, often for Shabbos, so I can light the candles for him, he says.” I could hear Mama’s voice crack a little. “He never went to shul, not even on Yom Kippur, but he wants me to light the candles for Shabbos, and he holds his hand on top of his head. Go figure.”
“Poor Mama,” I said, “he’s never married and given you grandchildren, and none of your girls are going to anymore either.”
Mama sat silent. Her head down, looking at her feet, I suppose. Then she moved a little closer to the grille and looked up through the grate into my face. “I think it’s time to let you in on a little family secret.” A slight smile began to break across Mama’s face. Helena Rubenstein wasn’t able to hide the crows’ feet that fanned out from around her eyes, especially when she’d smile.
“David is married?” I kind of whispered back through the grille.
“No, he’s not married. He’s never been married…but I have a grandson.” She sat breathless for a moment waiting for my reaction. Mama kind of chewed off her lipstick on the corner of her bottom lip. She was anxious about what I might say.
I sat speechless for the moment, letting this news sink in. Mama daintily took a bite of her raspberry rugelach, and washed it down with monastery coffee. I waited.
“Such a bitter coffee you should have to drink, I’m not complaining, but next time I’ll bring you some nice French roast from Zabar’s.” She took another sip. I hadn’t said anything yet; Mama smiled and looked through the grille again.
The Middle Ages of Sister Mary Baruch (Sister Mary Baruch, O.P. Book 2) Page 3
