Polonski ignores my squeamishness. “Now you do it.” He points to a thick stack of brown sheets on the counter. “That’s fifty.”
I reach for the batch of paper. I cannot pick it up but I cannot let Polonski see that the batch is too heavy for me. I brace my body against the counter and with determined effort manage to heave it on my arm and carry it to the cutting surface. Then, focusing with utmost care, I mark the size, place the batch under the blade, and thankfully the blade descends like a guillotine slashing the large ream to size.
“You start fold now, Friedmanova. Call me when you finished,” Polonski declares, and disappears into the shadowy interior of the depot.
I fold and refold until a dull ache creeps into my lower back, and I have not yet managed to get the proper shape Polonski showed me. Just about an hour passes before I master the art of brown-paper-bag folding.
With a sudden start I become aware of Polonski’s presence right behind me.
“Not finished? Why?” he asks dryly.
“It’s … it was hard to do it the right way … at first. Now I know. I will work faster now.”
Polonski places a hand on my shoulder. “Okay” he says, his tone at once amiable, his fingers lingering on my shoulder. Then Polonski removes his hand and returns to his counter in the back.
I work faster now. The dull ache in my back becomes more acute. And a new sensation, a feeling of unease, lodges in my stomach. What has brought it on? Was it Polonski’s touch on my shoulder? His manner? All at once I realize that I am totally alone with Polonski in this isolated factory under the Manhattan Bridge.
My feeling of discomfort grows and beads of sweat gather on the back of my neck. Even before I finish folding the stack of fifty, I hear Polonski’s footsteps, and a shiver passes down my spine.
“Not finished? I help you!” With a paternal gesture Polonski’s arm now encircles both my shoulders. I can feel the warmth of his massive chest against my back. I can smell his moist, garlicky breath as it brushes my ear.
“No!” I scream in panic. “No. No help.”
In a flash I push Polonski away from me, grab my purse, and dash toward the exit.
Once outdoors, I race up the slope, without turning, without looking back. I am out of breath when I reach the top, the safety of the busy street, and only then do I dare turn around. Thank God Polonski is not following. Yet I keep running until I reach the entrance of the subway station. I hastily slip the nickel into the slot of the turnstile, and skip down the stairs, two at a time, a scared rabbit. Even in the shelter of the subway’s dank interior I keep listening for Polonski’s footsteps, waiting for his massive bulk to emerge from the shadows. But the platform remains deserted until the train arrives, and within seconds I am safe behind the car’s doors sliding shut.
It is only noon, and I am on my way home. My first day of work is over. Did I overreact? Was my panic justified? Polonski might have meant well. He might have had no ulterior motive in putting his arm about me. Perhaps he truly wanted to help. Have I misread his motives? Have I misjudged his intentions? Oh, my God, am I paranoid?
What will Mrs. Ryder say? What will everybody say?
Mother is surprised to see me return home so early. At first I hesitate to tell her the story. I begin by explaining the nature of the work at Buros Bags, the sheer physical exertion it required. The physical stamina I don’t seem to have.
“Mommy, it was backbreaking work. I was supposed to cut and fold five hundred huge sheets. I barely managed fifty when I developed an acute pain in my lower back. I’ll have to explain to Mrs. Ryder that I am not capable of doing such hard physical labor. I hope she’ll understand, and find more suitable employment for me.”
Finally I confess the true reason, and Mommy’s eyes fill with alarm,
“You did the right thing, Elli. Without a doubt. There’s no way of knowing what he was going to do next. Even if we give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he had no immoral intentions today, how long would it take for him to take advantage of the situation—all alone, all day, every day with a young girl in that godforsaken place? It’s good you had your wits about you and left that place immediately … in good time.”
“What about Mrs. Ryder? How will I explain it to her? By now Polonski must have reported that I ran away. Will my word count against his? What if we lose the allowance?”
“It doesn’t make any difference. If she doesn’t understand and cuts the HIAS allowance, we’ll manage on our own.”
“Mommy, I’m sorry to be a failure. On my first day.”
“Don’t worry, Leanyka, you’re not a failure. And we’ll manage somehow.” Today, more than ever, I need her affection. Her support. Her validation. “You are not a failure. You did the right thing, no matter what anybody says.”
In the evening there is a call from Alex. How did he know I needed to hear his voice?
“I have an appointment for you with a specialist, a gastroenterologist, for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I don’t know… .”
“Is there a problem?”
“Well, yes. There’s a little problem. I must go see the social worker at HIAS tomorrow.” I break down under Alex’s barrage of questions and tell him the story of my first day at Buros Bags. I also confess that I worry about Mrs. Ryder’s reaction.
“I must speak to her tomorrow first thing, give her my side of the story.”
“My poor angel. No problem—the doctor’s appointment is in the afternoon. I’m free after two o’clock. I can pick you up after your meeting, and we’ll talk about this. In the meantime I want you to know … I’m very proud of you,” Alex says, and the compassion in his voice feels like a balm on my bruises.
“Thank you, Alex. Thank you for everything.”
“Never mind, mein engel. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter Nine
AM I IN LOVE?
Instead of scolding me, Mrs. Ryder is surprisingly sympathetic when I tell her what happened yesterday at Buros Bags. She immediately contacts the next employer on her list of job opportunities.
“Let me see. I think I’ve found something suitable. The Jewish National Fund, an organization engaged in land development and forestation in Israel,” Mrs. Ryder explains. “They’re looking for an office worker. The head office is in mid-Manhattan, twenty-one East Forty-First Street. I’ll phone them and describe your qualifications. I hope you get the job. It shouldn’t take you longer than twenty minutes to get there,” she adds as she reaches for the telephone.
“Mrs. Ryder, I must keep a medical appointment today. Dr. Hirschfield is sending me to a stomach specialist. But if all goes well, I can start work tomorrow morning.”
Mrs. Ryder makes the call, and the Jewish National Fund people agree to see me tomorrow.
To my surprise, Alex is waiting for me in the small lobby of the building.
“Dr. Hirschfield … Alex!”
“I thought I might as well pick you up from here. Dr. Fischler, the gastroenterologist, is actually nearer from here. And I thought in case you needed a support system I would talk to that social worker of yours. How did it go? Is everything okay?”
I nod, smiling. “Better than I expected. She was quite understanding.”
Alex takes my arm and happily leads me out of the building to his car.
The gastroenterologist sends me for a GI series and Alex holds my hand throughout the battery of painful tests. And when the results show that I have a bleeding duodenal ulcer, he undertakes my treatment with such loving care I feel like a fairy princess in glass slippers.
Alex’s nurturing, his ardor, is a warm glow for me to bask in, the promise of paradise. Seeing my happiness, in time my family’s teasing changes to cautious, gradual acceptance of our relationship.
Am I in love? When did it happen? Did it happen when he fed me spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream to soothe the burning sensation in my stomach? Is it true love or am I moved by the tender touch of a father I have so sorely missed?
>
Or am I really just in love with my Cinderella role, with the heady notion that Dr. Alex Hirschfield chose me—an ungainly teenager with straight hair and buckteeth—as the object of his passion, his ardent courtship? Am I hopelessly in love with romance, with the fairy tale-like quality of our relationship—an affair between the humble young refugee who didn’t even attend high school, the timid Holocaust survivor, and the mature, accomplished man of the world?
Alex is eighteen years older than I. During our long walks on the seashore I learn about his happy childhood in Düsseldorf, about his dreams of becoming a doctor in order to help ease human suffering. With a self-conscious chuckle Alex divulges that he was about to enter medical school the year I was born. But despite his being an outstanding student, his application was rejected because he was a Jew. Jewish students were not admitted to universities in his native Germany, and Alex’s parents, both practicing physicians, sent their only child to study medicine in Italy.
And so it came about that Alex spent the war years in Rome, while his parents were detained in the Dachau concentration camp and from there deported to Auschwitz. When the war was over and he returned to Germany he found neither his parents nor his home: His parents were gone without a trace, and his home was taken over by strangers. In vain did he wait for their return, for news about them… . Until one day, a year later, his investigations yielded an answer: He found out that both his parents perished in the gas chambers in Auschwitz.
“You are my phoenix,” Alex says, and tears glisten in his deep blue eyes. “My phoenix that rose from the ashes of Auschwitz—my parents’ ashes. God sent you to me. From now on I will love God.”
Alex becomes like a member of our family. Friday evenings Alex joins us for dinner so he can learn about Sabbath observance. He watches Mother and Aunt Celia light Sabbath candles; Uncle Martin or Bubi recite the kiddush, the sanctification of the Sabbath with a blessing over wine, participates in the ritual of washing the hands before breaking the bread, and he is invariably moved to tears.
“I want to learn our faith,” he reveals to me when we are alone. “I want to share your life.”
Alex’s desire to become a “good Jew” because of me deepens my attachment to him. It adds a spiritual dimension to our friendship.
“Don’t let him get too deeply involved with you,” Mommy warns when we are alone. “I don’t mind him joining us for family dinners—he’s a likable fellow, bright, intelligent, truly pleasant company—but you … I don’t want you to get involved.”
“What do you mean ’get involved’? He is a friend, that’s all. What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of complications. He’s a much older man, and I can see you’re impressed. I understand he’s impressive but mainly because he’s so much older, he’s so much more accomplished than a boy closer to your age would be. I’d like you to go out with boys closer to your age—a year or two older—not like Alex Hirschfield.”
“Mom, I’m happy with him. Is that what you are worried about? You don’t want me to be happy? Is that the problem?”
Mother’s eyes widen with shock. “What’s the matter with you, Elli? How can you say a thing like that? All I want is your happiness. That’s why I’m worried … as I watch this go on, you getting more and more involved with someone who is not right for you!” Mother’s voice rises, becomes shrill. “And … Alex Hirschfield is not right for you, Elli. Do you understand? Do you? Elli, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Hurt? What hurt? He is a good friend, the best friend I ever had. That’s all! Leave it up to me, Mom, to decide what’s good for me. I’m old enough to know—”
“If you were old enough to know I wouldn’t worry. All I’m asking, Elli, remember what I said. Bubi’s also worried about you heading for … for complications. He’s the one who’d asked me to speak to you.”
Mommy doesn’t say the words falling in love. In our family we don’t use words like that; we use words like complications. But that’s what she is afraid of. She’s afraid that I’m falling in love with Alex, an older man who is “not right” for me. Why isn’t he right for me when I’m so happy in his company?
Even Bubi doesn’t understand? Even he doesn’t care whether I’m happy?
Yesterday a postcard came from Stanko Vranich, my Yugoslav co-interpreter on the ship. It’s a lovely, scenic view of Denver, Colorado. Stanko writes that he was sent there by NYANA, his sponsoring organization, to work as a bookkeeper in a technical college. He plans to come to New York for a visit during Christmas vacation, he writes, and hopes to see me.
I’ve hidden the postcard among my underwear. I don’t want my family to read it, and start giving me lectures about boys my age. Ha, they would point out. Here’s a fellow who’s right for you … the right age. Why don’t you write back, they would say, and invite him over during his vacation? Spend time with someone your own age.
My dear, loving family—mother, brother, uncle, aunt—can’t I just be left in peace for once … to be happy? Without too much worry, too many discussions? Why can’t you be like Papa’s grandfather Moshe Weinstein, the kindly grain merchant of Bardejov? Why can’t you appreciate our feelings for each other regardless of the differences between us?
Papa, what would you advise me? Would you understand what I feel for Dr. Hirschfield? Would you approve of him?
Chapter Ten
TUNA FISH, MILK SHAKE, AND BAGELS AND LOX
The shop windows I pass on Fifth Avenue are the most beautiful, the most exciting I have ever seen! I remember some of the elegant stores I saw in Budapest, or in Vienna and Munich, but none of them rival New York’s Fifth Avenue. What a shame I have no time to linger and admire the fascinating displays of fashion, glassware, jewelry, and china. I must hurry so as not to be late for my new job interview.
Twenty-one East Forty-First Street is a very tall building. I am craning my neck to look up and count how many floors it has, but I can’t see the top. When I enter, I am overwhelmed by the enormous lobby and the rapid flow of men and women crisscrossing the wide-open space, men in well-cut business suits and wide-brimmed hats, women in high heels, tight skirts, and frilly blouses, all dashing into elevators and vanishing behind sliding doors.
Clutching the slip of paper with the block letters MR. EPSTEIN, JEWISH NATIONAL FUND, 21 E. 41ST STREET, 28TH FLOOR, I step into the dizzying current of human traffic and allow myself to be swept into an elevator. Seeing my companions press buttons on a panel, I follow suit and press the button for the twenty-eighth floor, and watch it light up.
My stomach heaves as the elevator lurches upward and hoists us into the heights without stopping. As we rise rapidly toward the heavens, all faces in the compartment focus on an invisible point directly above the door.
All at once the elevator comes to a halt with a jolt and the doors open. It’s the twentieth floor. Most passengers exit from the elevator. Will the elevator stop on the twenty-eighth? Or will it rush upward again for twenty more flights? Perhaps I should get out here and climb the stairs to the twenty-eighth floor? I wonder: Are there stairs in this building? Before I have a chance to decide, the doors close and we are rising rapidly again. Before I know it the elevator stops again and the doors open. It’s the twenty-eighth floor.
Mr. Epstein, a tall, gangly man rises from his seat behind a massive desk and greets me with a friendly, boyish smile. He has freckles and flaming red hair. Good omen. I’m lucky with redheads. I have a secret premonition I’ll get this job.
“Sit. Sit. So you’re with HIAS?”
“Well, yes. HIAS is my sponsor. I’m new—I mean, a new immigrant. Came twenty-five days ago.”
“Oh, wow! That is new. Can you type?”
“A little.”
“How is your English spelling?”
“Mostly okay. There are words I have to look up in the dictionary.”
“Don’t we all! We have dictionaries here. Can you do bookkeeping?”
“I can learn.”
“Mrs. Kline!” Mr. Epstein calls on the intercom. “Come in please.”
When Mrs. Kline appears in the doorway, Mr. Epstein unfolds his tall frame from his seat and, standing erect, ushers me toward her with a fatherly gesture.
“Take this young lady to Miss Sokol in bookkeeping. She’ll be working with us.” Mr. Epstein extends his hand. “Much luck, Miss … ?”
“Friedman.”
“Much luck, Miss Friedman.”
“Thank you, Mr. Epstein.”
Just like that, I’ve been hired. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it! In a matter of minutes I have a new job … in a new, beautiful place … in a beautiful new world. My hunch—the omen—proved right.
Two days ago all seemed lost. I was alone in a dark, dreary depot deep under the Manhattan Bridge, harassed by a baleful figure among stacks of brown paper. Today I am on the twenty-eighth floor of a splendid building … on top of the world. Instead of folding interminable paper bags in a Brooklyn basement, I will do clerical work in the pulsating heart of Manhattan. Thank you, God, for raising me up from the sinister to the sublime.
Mrs. Kline leads the way along the polished corridor to the offices of the bookkeeping department and conveys me into the formidable presence of Miss Sokol, the head bookkeeper. Miss Sokol’s huge frame seems to form a harmonious unit with her large desk, and the two together dominate the room, dwarfing three smaller desks that are lined up alongside the wall.
Before rattling off my responsibilities Miss Sokol briefly introduces the occupants of the small desks, my future coworkers—Sally, a tall, statuesque brunette, and Evelyn, a rather slim, petite blonde. Sally and Evelyn watch with curious, friendly glances as Miss Sokol explains the system: how to enter into the appropriate columns sums of money that reach the Jewish National Fund from various sources; how to type headings on letters and addresses on envelopes.
“Your job also entails doing Tree Certificates,” Miss Sokol intones with an obvious sense of self-importance.
Hello, America Page 7
