Measure of a Man

by Martin Greenfield

  On my first flight from New York to Dallas, I felt like an aristocrat. I sat in a window seat. The plane buzzed down the runway and took flight, hovering over New York City. The aerial view of the massive metropolis was mesmerizing and sent my mind flashing back to my arrival in America less than a year before, when I stood on the deck of the Ernie Pyle staring at the Statue of Liberty. So much had changed. I now knew what she was and meant.

  The plane lifted through the clouds and drifted dreamlike above them. I wondered what Mexico and my uncle would be like. Uncle Antonio’s letters were warm and welcoming. Earlier that year, I’d mentioned in a letter I was still contemplating becoming a doctor. Uncle Antonio told me he would be happy to help me through college. I appreciated the gesture, but that wasn’t my style. Whatever I received, I had to earn. Yet the generous offer to a nephew he had never met confirmed the goodness of his heart.

  The plane made its descent into Dallas. The next leg of the trip required me to go through immigration to enter Mexico. The line was long and my flight full. When I got to the front, I showed the official my ticket and green card. His eyes hopped back and forth between my face, ticket, and green card. “Sir, I’m sorry, but we cannot let you into Mexico,” he said quietly.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “It says here you were born in Czechoslovakia. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. Pavlovo, Czechoslovakia.”

  “Yes, well, sir.” He cleared his throat. “That is a Communist country. We cannot allow you to board the flight to Mexico.”

  “I know it’s a Communist country. That’s why I left Czechoslovakia and came to America! I’m very aware it’s a Communist country.”

  “We can’t allow you to fly, sir.”

  “You don’t understand. My Uncle Antonio Berger lives in Mexico. He was the one who bought me the plane ticket. I have a green card. In a few more years I will be an American citizen. I just need to get to Mexico to see my uncle. He’s waiting for me.”

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside so I can help the next customer. Maybe my supervisor can help you,” he said dismissively.

  I waited. The supervisor couldn’t help me. They handed me off to the American immigration officials, who said they would send a limo to pick me up and take me to a nearby hotel until the situation was resolved.

  “Driver, what hotel are we going to?” I asked.

  “One of the nicest hotels in all of Dallas, sir,” he said. “The Hotel Adolphus.”

  We pulled up to the massive brick hotel and the driver let me out. I stepped into splendor. Ornate moldings, sparkling crystal chandeliers, mahogany-paneled walls, a grand staircase—the Hotel Adolphus, which is still operating, was magnificent. I could really get used to this, I thought.

  The hotel’s Century Room featured entertainers and musical acts. At the check-in desk, I asked who would be performing that week. “Doris Day,” said the front-desk attendant. Her tone suggested that Miss Day was someone of importance. I had no idea who she was but decided I would see her perform before leaving.

  From my room, I called Uncle Antonio to explain the situation. He said he had several high-powered contacts and connections in Mexico. Whether those individuals extended to the consulate he wasn’t sure, but he would do all he could to resolve the situation.

  In the meantime, I figured if I had to be stuck in Dallas and have a room at the Adolphus on American Airlines’ dime, I might as well make the best of it and experience the city. I flipped through the Yellow Pages and found a Jewish social club before calling for the driver. Checking my white suit in the mirror one last time, I went down to the car and hopped in like I owned it.

  The driver drove me to the address I gave him. The sign out front said, “The Columbian Club.” I opened the car door and began to step out.

  “Sir,” the driver said, “I’m pretty sure you have to be a member to get in.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said, before shutting the door.

  The GGG suit I was wearing was top of the line. Better still, it was white. Most people my age owned only a navy-blue or charcoal-gray suit, if any. Wearing a white suit tailored to the nines was a symbol of wealth and distinction. It said, “This kid has money, or belongs to someone who does.” If I projected a confident demeanor, I knew I could slip in.

  Sure enough, the doorman gave me the once-over and welcomed me with a smile. “I’m a guest,” I said while walking. “I’m meeting my party shortly.” A hand-tailored suit and a steady demeanor. That’s all it took to make things happen.

  I went to the main dining room, ordered a meal, and signed the charges to American Airlines before striking up conversations with a few waitresses. They wanted to know who I was. I told them I was headed to Mexico on business. When they asked what line of work I was in, I simply told them “fashion.” They were impressed.

  I noticed a pretty young woman sitting by herself near a window. When I caught her eye, she smiled. I walked over to her. After about an hour of friendly conversation, I asked if she would join me for dinner. I had no money to take her out, but I did have my room and food covered at the Hotel Adolphus. “Tonight I’d like to take you somewhere special. Have you ever eaten at the Hotel Adolphus?” I asked her.

  “No, never,” she said.

  “Well, tonight we’ll fix that,” I said in my most debonair tone.

  “That would be lovely,” she said excitedly.

  In my mind I was a regular Casanova. I laid it on extra thick. “Do you like music?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course,” she said.

  “Would you like to see Doris Day in concert with me tonight?” I asked with a sly smile.

  “Doris Day! I love her! That would be wonderful!” she gushed.

  That night we ate fine food at the Adolphus and were treated to the incredible Doris Day. I had seen enough American movies to know this was the kind of sweep-you-off-your-feet romance and spontaneity American women apparently loved. If nothing else, I figured this must be how it feels to be a business tycoon or Hollywood mogul—the kind of gent who could afford the Hotel Adolphus’s pricey hotel rooms.

  After a night like that, I was in no rush for the government officials and American Airlines to resolve my immigration situation. The next four days, I went to the Columbian, wooed girls, secured dinner dates, had “my” driver take me back to the hotel, showed off my “home away from home” at the Adolphus, and enjoyed fine dinners followed by another performance of the incomparable Doris Day.

  After nearly a week in Dallas, American Airlines offered to fly me back to New York gratis. They had flown me to Dallas without informing me that my Czechoslovakian ancestry and non-U.S. citizen status would prevent me from entering Mexico and apologized for the inconvenience. That wasn’t good enough. “I’m not going to fly with your airline. I want back the money my uncle paid you. Now!” I demanded. Tired of dealing with me, they coughed up the cash. I went to the railway station and asked how much it would cost to ride the train from Dallas to New York. The trip would take at least a day and a half and cost thirty-five dollars. I bought a ticket for the next train to New York.

  The train was filled with U.S. soldiers. The parade of uniforms reminded me of mine. I envied those men on the train. I wanted to join the American Army when I got here. When I registered for the draft, they made me a 4-F because of my hand injuries. I begged the recruitment officer, insisting, falsely, that I was fine. (I later had to undergo extensive reconstructive hand surgery.) But it was to no avail.

  Our train stopped in St. Louis, Missouri, for a layover. With a couple of hours to burn, I scanned the bustling waiting area for an open seat and sat down. A few minutes later, a towering white civilian walked up, grabbed me by the tie, and yanked me up and on my feet. I punched him. Two policemen raced over to untangle us. “He almost choked me, officer!” I said.

  “You hit him! We saw you do it!” barked one of the policemen.

  “He choked me! What would you have do
ne? I don’t even know this man! Why in the hell did he rush me and try to choke me with my necktie?!” I said.

  “Sir,” said the officer, “you were sitting in the colored section.”

  “I was what?” I asked.

  “The colored section. You’re white. These people are black,” he said.

  I looked around. He was right. To a person, the people in my section were black.

  “You’re not supposed to sit here,” the officer explained. “See those drinking fountains? Look at the signs.”

  This was the first time in America I had been confronted with segregation. I didn’t understand. Before I was liberated from Buchenwald, I had never seen a black person. Then, in another country somewhere, I saw a black soldier without a gun. I was told he wasn’t allowed to carry a weapon, because of his skin color. Segregation struck me as ignorant and hateful. But that took place in a different country. I wasn’t aware how deep the color line ran in America.

  The year I arrived in America was the year Jackie Robinson desegregated baseball. It was also the first time a racially integrated team played in a World Series. But I’d never seen segregation in a public setting, not until I came to St. Louis. Indeed, many years later I learned that the famous entertainer Josephine Baker, a native of St. Louis, refused to perform in her hometown until 1952, when its segregation laws were eased.

  I looked around the train station and saw no open seats. I sat back down in the black section. A few minutes later, the train was ready to go. So was I.

  I got on the train and put my suitcase in the seat beside me. A flirty blond girl asked if I was saving the seat for someone. “No,” I said, waving her into the seat. “Where are you headed?”

  “The Poconos,” she replied.

  I didn’t know what that meant, but she was pretty.

  “Wonderful,” I said. “I’m going to Brooklyn, New York.”

  We hit it off. Within a couple hours I had my arm around her and we kissed.

  “You should come with me to the mountains!” she said. She was energetic, girlish, cute.

  “Oh, I . . . I’m not sure. I need to be getting on to. . . .”

  “Please? Come on. It will be fun! I promise.”

  “Well . . . you see . . . the truth is I don’t have enough money with me. I got stuck in Dallas for days and. . . .”

  “Don’t worry about that. I have money. My family is rich. You’re coming with me,” she said, kissing my cheek.

  At the next train stop I called Kalvin and asked him to wire me some money. He refused and asked why I wasn’t in Mexico. When I told him I didn’t have time to explain, he got annoyed and hung up. I hopped back on the train.

  “I can’t let you pay for me,” I told the girl. “I tried to get my roommate to wire me money but he wouldn’t.”

  “Why are you still talking about money? You’re coming with me, remember? I already decided that.”

  I went to the Poconos.

  We spent two fun-filled, romantic days at an enchanting resort in the Poconos. The carefree life of the upper class appealed to me. I never imagined people lived so spontaneously. I wanted to earn that kind of personal freedom for myself. I wanted to be somebody.

  With exactly enough money to take the train to Grand Central and the subway to Brooklyn, I returned home and told Kalvin all about my new “girlfriend.” She and I exchanged a few letters, but I never saw her again.

  As for Helen, I only saw her once more. Kalvin and I went to a movie. I looked down in the front rows and there she was. I couldn’t stand the thought of facing her, so I got up and left.

  Traveling through America helped me discover who I was and what I wanted. It taught me not to settle for second best, either personally or professionally. I wasn’t going to marry just anyone. I would wait for my dream girl. Same thing for my career. I was in it for the long run. I didn’t want to work for a suit company; I wanted to own a suit company. I aspired to do things my way, earn the funds and freedom to travel on airplanes, enjoy luxurious vacations.

  Those first two years in America confirmed that I had arrived in a nation of infinite possibilities. They gave me cause to dream. A life of mediocrity held no interest for me. I wanted to run and work with the best.

  Five years to the day I arrived in America, I became a U.S. citizen. The patriotic pride I felt that day has never ebbed. It has intensified. There isn’t a person who loves America more than I do. The United States is the best damn country the world has ever known. Anyone who questions that hasn’t been where I’ve been, hasn’t seen what I’ve seen.

  I maximized every opportunity GGG gave me. By 1956, I had worked my way up from supervisor to head quality man in charge of inspecting garments at all stages of production to ensure proper quality. The job paid $110 a week, enough to support the one thing I wanted most: a family of my own.

  In April, a coworker’s wife set me up on a blind date with a “gorgeous girl” a few months younger than I. She had graduated from Lincoln High School in Coney Island and worked as an executive secretary at Fuller Fabrics. “That’s all I know. Here’s her name and number,” my coworker said, handing me a piece of paper. “Give her a call or don’t.” I read her name: “Arlene Bergen.” Sounded like a good Jewish name. What the heck? I thought. Give her a call. He did use the word “gorgeous,” after all.

  I called Arlene. I could tell my strong accent threw her off. She seemed nice enough but said the soonest she could get together was in two weeks—on a Wednesday, no less. I didn’t know if that was her polite way of blowing me off. I took my chances and set the date.

  The day of our blind date, I washed and waxed my beige and black Mercury and pressed my GGG suit before making my way to her family’s home in Sea Gate. Her parents greeted me at the door and ushered me into their living room to wait until Arlene emerged. A stunning, petite brunette with alluring blue eyes and a sweet smile walked into the living room and stopped time.

  You know those moments in your life that you know—absolutely know to the core of your being—that something life altering, something momentous just happened? This was one of those moments.

  What I did not know at the time was that three other young men—all of whose names began with “M”—were courting her as well. She had instructed her mother not to use my first name for fear she might slip up and accidently refer to me as Morty, Milton, or Morris.

  Had I known how gorgeous she was—and how much competition I was up against—I might have planned a more romantic date. Instead, I took Arlene to a Brooklyn nightclub called Ben Maksik’s Town and Country at Flatbush Avenue and Avenue V. The club was considered one of the area’s hot spots, with people coming in from Manhattan to see and be seen. We danced all night.

  A couple of dates later I asked Arlene to go steady with me. She refused. “I don’t believe in ‘going steady,’” she said confidently. “You either know what you want and are serious enough to marry me, or you don’t.”

  What an answer, I thought. What a woman. From then on, I knew Arlene was the girl for me.

  A few months later, I went shopping in the city for an engagement ring. After visits to several jewelry stores, my shopping came to an abrupt end when I walked into the next shop and discovered that the proprietor, incredibly enough, was the man I had borrowed ten dollars from on the Ernie Pyle. “Remember me?!” I said smiling.

  “I’m . . . I’m afraid I. . . .”

  “The boat! The Ernie Pyle. The poker game!” I said.

  “Oh . . . yes, yes, yes. I remember now. Yes,” he said smiling.

  “You loaned me the ten dollars. I promised I would repay you. I’m here to repay you by buying my girl’s engagement ring from you!” I said.

  We looked at ring after ring and shared all that had happened since arriving in America. He tried to extend an extra discount. I refused. A fair price was all I wanted; I was happy to see him make a profit. “Consider it an interest payment on the loan,” I said with a chuckle.

  Arlen
e and I were married December 23, 1956, when the GGG factory shut down for the Christmas holiday. Mr. Goldman prayed over the challah (bread) and cut it.

  Shortly after the wedding, we rented a small apartment in Brooklyn on Ocean Parkway near Brighton Beach. The first week of marriage, Arlene and I brought home paychecks. Hers was $115. Mine was $110. The next day I took both checks to GGG and found Mr. Goldman. “Here’s my wife’s check. And here is mine,” I said holding them side by side in front of his face. “Either they are paying her too much, or you are paying me too little,” I said.

  GGG doubled my salary overnight.

  Arlene and I wasted no time starting a family. In the spring of 1957, she got pregnant with our son Jay. She quit her job four months into her pregnancy and stayed home to prepare for the baby. Preparing for a newborn brought back a flood of memories of the siblings and family I had lost. I reflected on how my parents must have felt knowing that their own children might not survive. I didn’t know how to handle all the feelings that fatherhood provoked in me. I seldom talked to Arlene—or anyone else for that matter—about what happened to me in Auschwitz and Buchenwald. A part of me died in those camps. I wanted to keep the demons buried. Still, waves of emotion kept crashing over me.

  That year during the High Holy Days, I sat Arlene down. “It’s important to me that you know how happy you’ve made me,” I told her, putting my hand on her pregnant stomach. “It’s the first time in all the years since I was separated from my parents and siblings that I’m with my own family on the holidays. I cannot express how happy that makes me and how much I love you.” We held each other and cried.

  Even in the midst of my newfound happiness, however, I hadn’t completely escaped the Holocaust. “Honey, I need to ask you something,” Arlene said before the baby arrived. “It’s about your sleep.”