Measure of a Man

by Martin Greenfield

  I pulled myself up to take a look over the railing. We had now entered a stretch of tall dark-blue waves that looked like deep craters. The ship’s heavy bow dove down to the trough, shooting back up like a cork, only to dive again when it hit the crest. Down and up, down and up. “These waves are massive,” I yelled. “Hold on.” I crawled to a nearby coil of rope and tied one end to something heavy. I knelt beside the girl, looped the rope around both our waists and tied it off. “Just in case,” I yelled.

  She smiled, partly because it was funny and partly because she knew I was flirting. “Very creative,” she said with a raised eyebrow. We were green-faced and wet, but we enjoyed each other’s company. “Where are you going in America?” she asked.

  “The Baltimore, Maryland,” I said. “I also may visit the Bronx, New York.” She looked confused but was too sick and tired to untangle my meaning. “My Uncle Irving lives in the Baltimore. He’s the one who invited me to the United States of America. He wrote and said he is going to pick me up when we get there. I’m going to live with him to start. He’s going to find me a job. I also wrote my friend, Kalvin Mermelstein, and told him to meet me at the dock. He came to America three months ago,” I said. She nodded and smiled softly as I rambled. “What do you know about America?” I asked her over the loud and whipping winds.

  “Big,” she said stretching her arms and hands wide. “Very, very big.”

  We leaned against each other and closed our eyes to steal back a few minutes of repose from our lonely, restless nights. Sleeping against her felt peaceful. I awoke to the girl tapping me gently. “I need to go,” she said. “Can you please untie me?” I loosened the rope knot from our waists.

  “Maybe I will see you later,” she said. “Hope you get well.”

  “Hope you feel better, too,” I said.

  Despite five consecutive days and nights of seasickness, nothing could dampen my excitement to reach America. I didn’t know what to expect. My only real impressions of the United States had been formed through my interactions with American soldiers—all of which were positive. Eisenhower and his men saved and liberated me, Taub guided and counseled me, my uncle found me and invited me to live with him (in sharp contrast to my father’s cousin in Budapest), my cousin generously provided for my passage. The Americans I had encountered displayed a generous and sacrificial spirit that made a lasting impression on me. I was headed to a place quite different from the European lands I knew.

  The seas would not relent. The ride remained rough, but by the sixth day my body was getting used to the pounding. I could walk without feeling lightheaded. Most important, I could hold down food. That evening I made my way back to the poker tables with seven dollars in my pocket. I felt lucky. I was confident I could make much more. I stood and watched the players for a while before working my way into a table. After several hands, we had a big pot going. I had a full house: three kings and two aces. This is your shot, I thought. No one can beat you. You have to go for it. I went all in. I laid down my hand and began reaching for the mound of money in the pot. That’s when one of the players threw down four of a kind—fives. I watched him rake away his winnings.

  I’d heard people say that America was a “land of opportunity.” I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but no matter how great the country, I knew I needed money to survive. I panicked. After everyone finished playing cards I pulled the man who had beaten me to the side and swallowed my pride. “You beat me fair,” I said. “But I have to ask you to loan me ten dollars. I don’t have any money left. I promise I will repay you when we get to America.”

  “How?” he said with a thin smile on his face. “How would you even find me to repay me?”

  “I will find you. I always keep my word,” I said. “I just can’t get off this boat without any money. I’m not asking you to give me the money. Just a loan. That’s all. Please. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.” The man paused and thought for a moment. “I will repay you with interest,” I pleaded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of dollars.

  “Interest is not necessary. Just pay me the ten dollars,” he said. He riffled off ten dollars and handed it to me.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness. I won’t forget,” I said.

  I returned to my cabin, but my excitement that night made sleep difficult. My imagination raced with scenes of what America might look like. I felt a sense of pride that I was coming to the nation that freed me. I thought of the American soldiers I’d seen on liberation day at Buchenwald. Many were young, only a few years older than I was now. They had left their mothers and fathers, girlfriends and wives, to travel around the world to fight and die for me and others they did not know. Thinking about them brought tears of gratitude to my eyes. Any nation that could produce such men must be great, I figured.

  Saturday, September 18, 1947. Smiles were everywhere. By late afternoon, I found a comfortable spot on the deck with a clear view of the ocean. I sat and looked for land over the water’s edge and saw nothing. Night fell and the rain came. I moved under cover but stayed outside. I didn’t want to miss seeing my new homeland. I peered through the sheets of rain and tried to focus my eyes. An hour into my watch, voices startled me.

  “Look!” they said. “There!” A glint of light twinkled on the dark horizon. Then another, and another. A row of lights that sparkled like an impossibly long string of perfect diamonds strung across the dark sea.

  News of the sighting spread quickly. Passengers bustled out onto the deck and lined the metal railings. The lights stretched higher, the luminous New York skyline growing bigger and brighter by the minute. I smiled and cried.

  The boat slowed as we entered New York Harbor. An enormous, glowing statue beamed beautiful against the wet black sky. I had no idea what she meant, how she got there, or why.

  I gazed at the shining cityscape. The buildings ran up and down in jagged peaks that stretched for miles. My eyes bounced from lighted block to lighted block—finally falling off into inky darkness at its outermost edges.

  I was struck by the arresting feeling that my life was born anew, that a land capable of building something so splendid was capable of helping someone so small.

  The Ernie Pyle docked. I couldn’t wait to disembark. Since I had to go through immigration processing, I spent an impatient night on board. I had no desire to go inside my cabin. Instead, I would stay up all night watching over my new nation like a proud father watching his newborn sleeping. But I told myself I should try to get some rest so I’d be fresh to meet my family on my first big day in America.

  The next morning, when I stepped off the ship, an immigration official and a Yiddish–English interpreter helped issue me a green card. “You are an American, but not a citizen,” the official said.

  “You are wrong. I am Czech,” I said.

  “No, no more. Now you’re an American,” he said.

  “No, see, I was born in Pavlovo, Czechoslovakia,” I said.

  “I understand. But now you are an American. You aren’t a citizen. Yet. From now on you have every right that I have except you have to report every year. If you obey the laws, you will be treated just like me,” he said. “If in five years you decide you want to become a U.S. citizen and you take the required tests, you can officially become an American citizen. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I couldn’t believe it. How could he say that to me? I’m an American? I just got here. I felt so grateful, so lucky, so undeserving. To me those were the biggest words I had ever heard. I took advantage of those words. What a country, I thought. This really is the place to be.

  The official handed me my green card. I looked at it proudly. “I’m really an American?” I asked the interpreter.

  “Yes,” he said with a warm smile.

  “Okay then,” I said. “I’m an American!”

  I didn’t know what to do next. Uncle Irving had sent me a picture, but I didn’t see anyone who looked like the man in the photograph.
I looked all around for my friend Kalvin as well, but I didn’t see him either. Just as I started to feel a little uneasy, an old woman walked up to me. “Maximilian?” she asked in Yiddish.

  “Yes, I’m Maximilian Grünfeld,” I said. She flung her arms wildly around me, pelting me with kisses on my cheeks. I had no idea who she was.

  “I’m your Aunt Elka, your mother’s oldest sister!” she said. “Here, look.” She held up an old picture of me taken well before we were rounded up and arrested. “Your Uncle Irving, my brother, sent me this picture of you and asked me to pick you up. You’ll stay with me in the Bronx for a week before he comes to take you to Baltimore,” she said.

  “Oh, I see,” I said, having no idea what she really meant. “So nice to . . . You see . . . The lights in the harbor on the. . . .”

  Aunt Elka stood and looked at me with big, brown eyes. I was her nephew, and even though she’d never seen me before, she loved me as part of her family.

  “Thank you,” I managed finally. “I’m so grateful you came.”

  “You look too skinny,” she said, giving me a playful poke in the ribs. “We’re going to fatten you up. I want you to meet my son-in-law, Joe.” We shook hands and hugged. A few minutes later, I heard a familiar voice calling my name. It was Kalvin. He’d come just as he promised. I hugged him and introduced him to Aunt Elka and Joe Wernick. They offered Kalvin a ride with us.

  The three of us walked in the rain to Joe’s car, an impressive black, shiny Nash. I nudged Kalvin. “Reminds me of my big black Mercedes!” I said laughing.

  “I remember that story,” he said with a sly smile.

  We drove through the streets of New York, the colors and shapes of the city a kaleidoscopic blur through the raindrops on the passenger window. Cars honked, lights flashed, and people tromped down slick sidewalks. The sight of stores everywhere made me happy. “So many stores,” I said. “Does everyone have a job here?”

  “Everyone who wants a job does,” replied Aunt Elka.

  We headed to Aunt Elka’s small brownstone in the Bronx. We were greeted at the door by her Hungarian husband, Uncle Louie. We hugged, laughed, spoke Yiddish, and ate. “Well, what do you think of America so far?” Joe asked me.

  “I love it!” I said. “I’m an American living in the Bronx of the New York!”

  The family—my family—burst out in laughter.

  “It’s just ‘the Bronx,’” said Joe. “We just say, ‘the Bronx.’”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m an American living in the Bronx!”

  “Perfect,” he said. “Just right.”

  That evening, the city’s thousand sounds lulled me into the deepest sleep I’d experienced in years.

  The next morning, Joe and Aunt Elka took me on a driving tour of the city. We had driven less than half a mile from their home when I saw a disturbing sight. An endless line of tired, miserable-looking people snaked around a massive, wide building. “I had no idea,” I said in a concerned tone. “Things must be terrible here. These people are hungry? I’ve never seen so many people waiting in a breadline!”

  “Sweetheart, that’s not a breadline,” said Aunt Elka. “That’s Yankee Stadium!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GGG

  New York 1947. The city that year was magical.

  The streets hummed with people and possibility. I arrived eleven days before the start of the legendary 1947 all–New York World Series. The Yankees’ Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, and Phil Rizzuto were set to take on Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, and Duke Snider of the Brooklyn Dodgers. It was Yankee Stadium in the Bronx versus Ebbets Field in Brooklyn. I knew nothing of baseball. What was unmistakable, however, was that the city was in full celebration.

  I was, too. My aspirations were at an all-time high. I was young, strong, and eager. I had already fallen in love with New York during those first few days staying with Aunt Elka. Even though I was headed to Baltimore, something in me told me I’d find my way home to New York.

  My cousin Mark Fendrich showed me the town and did his best to explain America to me. Mark was successful and handsome, with a face that reminded me of my mother’s. He told me I had another maternal aunt, named Gussie, who also lived in Baltimore. Mark said the plans that had me moving to Baltimore to live with Uncle Irving had changed.

  “You’ll still be in Baltimore, but you’ll be living with your first cousin, Frances Berman, and her husband, Moe,” Mark explained. “Great people, very successful. Moe made his money in real estate and bail bonds. Frances is a milliner—makes the most gorgeous hats you’ve ever seen. They have a big, beautiful three-story home with plenty of extra room for you. They have three daughters, Barbara, Natalie, and Rikki. You’ll love them. They can’t wait to meet you. Cousin Frances is going to pick you up and drive you to her and Moe’s home in Baltimore.”

  I hated to burden family, but I was grateful to have people that cared so much for me.

  The Bermans’ home on Callaway Avenue was just as promised. It was a huge white house with green shutters and six bedrooms. When Frances and I pulled up, the whole family came out to hug and greet me. Moe spoke Yiddish. The others spoke English. I walked into their immaculate home, and within minutes Frances and the three girls were sliding plates of delicious home-cooked treats in front of me.

  The Bermans treated me like a king. It was like living in a luxury hotel, complete with maids and fine furniture. Every meal was a formal dining experience. The Bermans took me all around Baltimore and made several introductions to people with whom I had no way of communicating. It was sweet. And awkward. The youngest child, Rikki, was about ten years younger than I, and I became the brother she had always wanted. I did my best not to disappoint her. We’d play little games while I tried to entertain her through silly facial expressions and hand gestures. Unless Moe was around to translate, though, we had no clear way to communicate.

  After my first few nights in the house, Frances said the family wanted to buy me a nice suit for job interviews. She took me to the store and bought my first GGG suit. Named after the three Goldman brothers—William P., Mannie, and Morris—GGG was the premier manufacturer of hand-tailored men’s suits in New York. I had already heard of GGG because my friend Kalvin worked there in the factory. Frances said a GGG suit was the best money could buy. I felt bad the family spent so much money on me. Until, that is, I put the suit on. It draped my body beautifully. I looked smart and sharp. If I couldn’t speak English, at least the suit would speak for me.

  “You look like an American,” Frances said. “You’ve got a great American suit. Now all you need is a great American job. I think I know just the man and place.”

  Frances said Moe had spoken to a Mr. Ben Miller about hiring me to work for his furniture upholstery business. Best of all, Mr. Miller spoke Yiddish. Two days later, Mr. Miller pulled up to the Bermans’ home in a big fancy Cadillac. He stepped out of the car wearing a dapper suit and walked slowly to the door with the help of a cane. That a rich and important man who had to walk with a cane took the time to drive himself to meet a nineteen-year-old refugee told me all I needed to know about Mr. Miller’s character. When he offered me a job nailing upholstery, I took it.

  That night I called Kalvin and shared the good news. He congratulated me on my new position but lobbied me to leave Baltimore and move to New York to work with him at GGG. He said we could be roommates and split the rent. I told him I would think about it but I wanted first to try my hand at the upholstery business. Mr. Miller had been so generous and kind. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful or rude.

  For the next three weeks, I worked in Mr. Miller’s big upholstery factory wrapping and nailing fabric. I worked hard and did well. Mr. Miller liked my attention to detail. He said I worked harder than any employee he had ever hired. His compliments strengthened my confidence.

  After work and dinner, Frances, Moe, and I would sit around the dining table and chat. I started to notice the delicate but unmistakable manner in which people who
knew I was a survivor tried to steer the conversation toward the Shoah to see if I was willing to discuss my experiences. I understood their curiosity, but I found it hard to talk about what we went through. It wasn’t just the emotional pain of dredging up all the death and darkness that made me reticent. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. If I had grown up in America and someone told me the story, I’m not sure I would have believed it myself. Something that bleak, that grim seems impossible to survive. For it to have happened in a “civilized” society was inconceivable to most Americans.

  Perhaps for that reason, I contemplated changing my name from Maximilian Grünfeld to something more American. One evening after dinner I asked Moe what he thought about the idea. “Yes, Maximilian Grünfeld might be tricky for some people to spell. It also sounds very ethnic,” he said. “But Max Grünfeld isn’t all that bad.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t sound American. I want a good, strong American name,” I said.

  Frances walked in from tidying up the kitchen and joined us at the dining table. She asked Moe to interpret and explain what we were discussing. “I love your name, Maxi. Why would you want to change it?” she asked.

  “I’m an American now,” I said. “I want a name that shows it.”

  I couldn’t even speak English fluently and yet somehow I was convinced an all-American name change was in order. I had no way of knowing that our conversation would determine the branding of my future fashion business.

  “Well,” said Frances, “what kind of name are you thinking about?”

  “Something similar to my real name, but different,” I said.

  “Similar but different,” she said, her eyes wandering up to the ceiling. “Hmmm. . . .”

  “I want a name people will respect,” I said.