by Sharon Potts
Communist principles, Annette thought.
“It was how I was raised,” Mariasha said. “When I was a girl, I went to a Workmen’s Circle school in the afternoons to study Yiddish. Der Arbeter Ring Schule, it was called. What a wonderful organization Der Arbeter Ring was! They even had a summer camp in the Catskill Mountains for children from poor families. I went one summer for a week.” She had that faraway look again. “One of the sweetest weeks of my life.”
“Did your brother Saul go, too?” Julian asked.
She shook her head. “Not to camp. Only to the schule. Our father had wanted us to read and write in Yiddish, as well as English, but it was just as important to Papa that we study the ideas of social democracy at Der Arbeter Ring.”
“Is that where you learned about communism?” Julian asked.
Annette was surprised that Julian brought up communism after appearing defensive about it the day before.
“We learned about Marx and Lenin,” Mariasha said. “They were heroes to many in the 1920s, especially the Jews who’d run away from Russia. But worthy ideals change over time, distorted by those who try to exploit them for their own agenda.”
What an interesting perspective, Annette thought. Would Mariasha have been sympathetic to Isaac Goldstein or have seen him as someone with an exploitative agenda?
“In those days there were many wrongs to right,” Mariasha said. “Like the injustice of the Sacco and Vanzetti trial. They were foreigners, like most of our parents, and they were executed because of their political beliefs, not for any crime they committed. Because they were said to be anarchists. That made us young people very angry because we were developing our own opinions about how our country should be run.”
Annette leaned closer to her. Was this how her grandfather had felt, too?
“We talked about these injustices with great passion,” Mariasha said. “But we were still children. And as deeply as we may have felt, I don’t think any of us believed such things could ever happen to us.”
“So you were practically steeped in communism growing up,” Annette said.
“It was the world we lived in,” Mariasha said. “The air we breathed. We didn’t consider it any more alien than people today find the environmental movement.” She smiled at Annette. “I’m sorry, dear. You’re being very polite and looking very interested, but this isn’t what you came here to ask me about.”
“No, please continue,” Annette said. “I’m getting a real sense of how these experiences must have influenced your work.”
“Not so much experiences. It’s people who shape us. People who inspire us or give us courage to do the unthinkable.” Mariasha turned her head toward the windows. Annette couldn’t tell if she was looking at her sculptures or remembering someone.
“Who inspired you?” Annette asked.
“What’s that? Who inspired me?” Mariasha shook her head, as though to clear away whatever she’d been thinking about. “My parents, of course.” She took a sip of soda. “I was very blessed, you know. My mother insisted I go to college even though it would have been better for her if I’d gotten a job. Tuition was practically nothing at Brooklyn College. Maybe a couple of dollars a year.” She put the soda and sandwich plate down on the table. She seemed lost in thought, again.
“What was college like back then?” Annette asked.
“What’s that?” Mariasha said. “College? Oh, we students were all very passionate. We went to Paul Robeson concerts and sang his songs of justice. We attended meetings. We knew the government would make terrible mistakes if we left things in their hands. So we marched. We always seemed to be marching in protest of some wrongdoing.” She jangled her silver and gold necklaces with one swollen finger. “It was a heady time. We genuinely believed we could do things that would make a difference.”
“But you did,” Annette said. “Your generation changed the world for the better.”
Mariasha looked at Annette with an intensity that hadn’t been there before. “Did we?”
Annette debated asking her what she meant, but Mariasha had continued her story.
“My best friend Flossie and I started at Brooklyn College together in 1935, when we were seventeen. We became fast friends. Believe it or not, I was the adventurous one, always dragging poor Flossie off on a fresh mission.”
Mariasha’s gaze drifted to the window. “Change. That was our goal. We didn’t realize how much we would change ourselves in the process.”
CHAPTER 14
November 1935
The train rattled through the tunnel. Mari had to shout to be heard. “There’s supposed to be a big turnout at the rally.”
“I’d rather be at the movies.” Flossie rolled her eyes and pouted, making her look like Betty Boop and Greta Garbo rolled into one, if that was possible. But Mari’s best friend was many things. Vivacious and mysterious. Tiny but voluptuous. Self-doubting, but occasionally daring. Like today, Flossie had the nerve to wear a dress just barely covering her knees.
“It will be good for you,” Mari said. “An eye-opening experience.”
“Or the malt shop,” Flossie said. “We could have gone to the malt shop. You know I’m not politically inclined.” Flossie crossed her legs, showing off her silk stockings and new high heels. Not rayon stockings and old pumps like Mari wore. A few men on the other side of the subway car seemed to be watching Flossie over their newspapers.
But that was always the case with Flossie. Men couldn’t take their eyes off her, while they barely registered Mari’s existence. Not that Mari could blame them. She was skinny with stick-straight black hair, which she hated, and had taken to wearing in a bun in the hope of looking older than seventeen. Why would anyone be interested in Olive Oyl when they could look at Mata Hari?
“And to make matters worse,” Flossie said, “you’re dragging me to the other end of the world for god-knows-what purpose.”
“It’s uptown Manhattan. Only an hour from Brooklyn. And I told you, the anti-war demonstration will make a wonderful article for the Spotlight.”
“I suppose.” Flossie rolled her finger around one of the chestnut pin curls that framed her round face, then let out a long, unhappy sigh.
“I don’t understand you, Flossie. This is an opportunity for us to put up a united front with our brothers at City College. A chance to do something important.”
“Oh Mari. Don’t scowl and ruin your pretty face. ” Flossie reached over and gave her a hug. “You know I’m kidding you. Where you go, I go.” She gave her a big smile, revealing overlapping front teeth, which on Flossie looked adorable.
At the 145th Street station, Mari and Flossie got off the train with several other young people, probably students like themselves going to the demonstration. The autumn air was crisp and the girls left their winter coats unbuttoned. Several unemployed men were on the street corner hawking apples from carts to the people getting out of the subway. Others held signs offering to work at odd jobs. No one was singing Happy Days Are Here Again, like they did when Roosevelt was first elected. Maybe they were tired of waiting for the New Deal. And just maybe there was something Mari and the others of her generation could do about it.
The trees along the wide avenue were almost bare. Leaves crunched beneath Mari’s feet and she felt her excitement build. In the near distance, she could see spires rising into the blue sky. As they approached the big gate to City College, the crowds thickened. Mari gasped at the beauty of the Neo-Gothic buildings with their turrets, arched windows, and jutting gargoyles. She was only just learning about such things in her Art Appreciation class, and here it was, more than pictures in a book.
Hundreds of students pushed through the gate, chanting slogans, many carrying signs and banners. Scholarships Not Battleships, one banner read. Take the Oxford Pledge, said another.
“Oh my goodness,” Flossie said, stopping to look around her. “I’ve never seen so many young men. It’s too bad City College doesn’t let women attend.”
&nb
sp; “Come on, you silly girl. We’re here to pursue loftier ideals than finding a husband.”
“Maybe you are,” Flossie mumbled.
Mari grabbed her arm and pulled her through the crowd until they reached a large grassy commons where people were gathered as far as Mari could see. For an instant, she was back in Coney Island, clutching her father’s hand, afraid of being swallowed up by the horde. And then, she remembered her father lifting her up high on his shoulders, above the crowd where she felt safe and exhilarated.
“Come on,” Mari said. “Let’s get closer to the speakers.”
They pressed through the throng of mostly young men, who didn’t seem to mind a couple of girls getting in front of them. “Excuse us,” Flossie said with her most charming smile. “Pardon us.”
Mari could see a stage with red, white and blue bunting that had been set up in the center of the quad. Several chairs flanked a podium, but none of the speakers had arrived yet.
About twenty feet from the stage, she decided that the crowd in front of them was too dense to penetrate. “This should be close enough,” she said.
“Thank god,” Flossie said. “Now all we have to worry about is how to get out of here without getting trampled to death. I hope the article is worth this.” She took out a steno pad and pencil from her handbag and checked her lipstick in her compact mirror.
Mari sensed a commotion around her, people gesturing at the stage. Someone had vaulted up from the audience onto the platform. She tried to see between the shifting and bobbing heads.
A tall, broad-shouldered young man with too-long blond hair and a poorly fitting suit ran to the podium. He grabbed the microphone and looked out toward the crowd.
Mari’s heart lurched. It couldn’t be him.
The young man grinned, looking utterly delighted at being in front of so many people.
Was it possible? After three years, she couldn’t be sure. The smile was the same, but the face was different from the teenage boy she remembered. Sculpted and shadowed now, with a hint of a beard.
“My goodness,” Flossie said, her head next to Mari’s. “He’s cute as a bug’s ear.”
The young man surveyed the crowd, smiling and waving, probably at friends or classmates. His eyes locked on hers. Held her gaze as she held her breath.
His mouth fell open, recognition in his eyes.
Dear god, it was he.
Two policemen were climbing up on the stage. The young man tore his eyes away from her.
Mari grabbed Flossie’s arm for support. It wasn’t possible.
“What’s wrong?” Flossie asked. “You look like you’re going to faint.”
“Comrades,” the young man shouted into the microphone. His voice was mechanical sounding, not at all familiar. “We are gathered here today for peace, but let us not forget our brothers who have been unfairly condemned by an imperialistic society, which—”
The two policemen briskly approached him.
“Oh my goodness,” Flossie said. “I think they’re going to arrest him. Do you think he’s a communist?”
The young man gave the policemen a quick salute, then jumped off the stage. He was swallowed up by the pack of students.
No. Don’t disappear again.
The two officers went to the edge of the stage and scowled into the crowd.
Please come back. Mari searched the faces in front of her.
A minute later, the policemen shook their heads and took up posts on either side of the platform to make sure no other troublemakers tried to pull a stunt.
“Mind if I stow away here?” said a soft, low voice near Mari’s ear.
She jumped at the unexpected closeness of the young man crouched down beside her.
“Goodness gracious,” Flossie said.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He straightened up to his full height, a few inches taller than Mari, even in her heels, then looked down into her eyes.
Her heart pounded as they stared at each other. Three years. Why didn’t he say something? Unless he hated her for standing him up at the Yankee Stadium. Then why had he sought her out after jumping off the stage?
“Better duck down,” Flossie said. “The police will see you.”
He took a tweed cap out of his jacket pocket and put it on, pulling the brim down to shade his eyes. “How’s this?” he asked. “Now I’m incognito. Like a spy.”
Flossie was patting her bosom. “Goodness. This is wonderful. A real scoop.” She held up her steno pad. “I’m a reporter. We’re from Brooklyn College.”
Mari felt a stab of annoyance at her friend’s sudden enthusiasm for being here.
“Hmmm. Brooklyn College girls,” he said, with a wink at Flossie. “I hear you’re quite the radicals down there.”
Mari stood taller. “Only if you define radicals as people who have the courage to protest wrongdoings.”
He touched his cap and grinned at her. “Touché.”
“Would you mind if I interview you for our college paper?” Flossie asked.
“My pleasure, Miss Nellie Bly.”
Flossie gave a cute little pout and tapped her lip with the back of her pencil. “I think of myself as more of an amateur investigator like Nora Charles. My name’s Flossie, by the by.” She smiled. “And this is Mari.”
“Flossie and Mari,” he said. “Isn’t Mari short for Mariasha?”
Why was he acting like he didn’t know her?
“Like maror,” he said, “the bitters we eat on Pesach to remind us of the bitterness of slavery in Egypt. So we’ll never forget what it’s like to be a slave.”
It was what he’d said the first time they’d met.
“And may I ask your name?” Flossie said.
“Call me Yitzy.” He gave a little bow. “Ace student at City College, engineering major, human rights advocate, ardent Yankee fan.” He glanced at Mari. “In fact, I was once slugged over the head by a giant baseball bat at Yankee Stadium. But that was a long time ago.”
Mari felt her face grow warm. So he was still angry with her. That’s what his odd aloofness was all about. “I’m sorry,” she said. “My brother…”
A harsh, fake-sounding voice boomed over the microphone welcoming everyone to the ‘Mobilization for Peace’ demonstration. Hushing rippled through the crowd.
Now was not the time to explain why she hadn’t gone to meet him that day.
The man at the podium introduced City College President Robinson, who was greeted by boos and jeering until, frustrated or angry, he took his seat. The other speakers were more sympathetic to the cause for peace and solidarity, but Mari was only vaguely aware of the proceedings up on the stage, more interested in watching Yitzy out of the corner of her eye. She could feel the waves of intensity that came off him, but they seemed to be directed at the podium, not at her. Yitzy’s lips worked as though he was repeating to himself those sentiments that he wanted to memorize.
When Student President Robert Brown got up to speak, the crowd cheered, Yitzy most loudly. Brown talked about the importance of American neutrality and urged the crowd to take the Oxford Pledge, an oath that was being taken by students around the country. He held up a piece of paper and read, “We will refuse to support the government of the United States in any war it may undertake.”
The crowd went wild, their cheers deafening. Yitzy’s face was red as he pumped the air. “No war! No war!”
The cheering went on and on. The crowd pressed against Mari from all sides, pulsing like a giant monster, moving forward, toward the stage. “No war! No war!” Mari joined the chant, feeling flush with power and energy. Yitzy was at her side, his arm brushing against hers. “No war! No war!”
The shouting grew louder, carrying her away. She couldn’t breathe.
Yitzy’s hand squeezed hers. “Are you all right?”
* * *
“Are you all right, Nana?”
Mariasha looked up at the blue eyes, confused. Julian. Her grandson. She was h
ome, not at a long-ago peace rally. But her hand was throbbing, or maybe she was merely imagining Yitzy’s touch.
Julian’s pretty friend had gotten up. “I’ll get you some water,” the girl said. Annette. Her name was Annette, Mariasha remembered now.
“I’ll be okay.” She could hear the breathlessness in her own voice. “I got caught up in my memories.”
The girl went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water.
Mariasha took a sip. “Thank you.”
“So you had met Yitzy before?” Julian asked.
“At camp,” she said. “When we were fourteen.”
“The Arbeter Ring camp?” he asked.
She nodded.
“What happened at Yankee Stadium?” Julian asked.
“We were supposed to meet at the giant bat, but my brother got sick.” Mariasha closed her eyes. She wasn’t quite ready to leave her memories of Yitzy at the rally.
“I think we’d better go,” Julian said.
“Oui,” Annette said.
Mariasha opened her heavy eyelids. “You’ll come back tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Of course, Nana.”
She leaned back in her chair as they cleared the dishes away and then said their goodbyes. She could feel the charge they left in the air. Two young people just discovering each other. Perhaps the beginning of something. She hoped whatever it was turned out better for them than for her and Yitzy.
Yitzy, Yitzy.
Her story left her feeling exposed, scattering old dried leaves that had covered what she tried to bury. But the memories also made her long for what had been.
The days of tasting the forbidden fruit.
* * *
Yitzy held Mari’s and Flossie’s hands the entire walk away from City College, up Amsterdam Avenue. Flossie laughed and spoke in a high-pitched, excited voice, but Mari remained quiet. She wished her friend would disappear, but of course, that wasn’t possible. Maybe if Yitzy had at least acknowledged that he and Mari had once known each other, she would have felt less unsettled, but for some reason, Yitzy wanted to keep their past a secret from Flossie.
