Time once again took over Chavala. Never mind whether she wanted to go back, she simply had to. She had her own obligations that pulled her back to a very new and different place. Moishe was waiting for her. Chia. Was she to allow Raizel and the boys to live on the charity of strangers? If indeed even that were available?
“But what about your life?” Dvora insisted. Dvora had, of course, prayed that by some miracle Chavala would feel that Eretz Yisroel was where she belonged. But Chavala could not honestly say that was so. Oh yes, she’d felt something special with Dovid and her children looking out over the land, but there was another need, and the pull … Still, one day … “Dvora, with all the dislike I came to Eretz Yisroel with, somehow in the last few days I’ve had the thought that if Dovid and I had a house in the hills of Haifa, and the whole family was free of financial difficulties, well … Palestine could look far different to me than it did looking out of the windows of that hovel we lived in when we first arrived. People change, countries change, and I’ve seen the changes here … yes, Dvora, if that day came it could make all the difference.”
Dvora could only say, “I can only hope your dream will, come to life. You and Dovid deserve it… God knows, you do …”
On her way back to America, Chavala tried to hold to those last words of Dvora … repeated them over and over, as if the repetition itself might make them come true. But as she neared the shores of Manhattan, more pressing reality crowded in … Moishe, Chia, the store … other lives had their claims on her too…
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
AND OTHER LIVES WERE being lived, and changing, in America, new challenges for Chavala Rabinsky….
On this particular crisp Friday evening in October, after closing the store, Moishe conducted a momentous debate with himself about whether to go home and fix dinner for himself or to eat downtown. A grown man’s kind of decision? The truth was that this short time away from Chavala made him realize that his life had become wrapped up in a neat, small package of routines … days spent behind a cage in the pawnshop, nights roaming about the streets, a movie now and then, an occasional release with a professional woman. The restlessness had been building for some time now. He was thirty-one and suddenly he wanted a home of his own, children. The ex-warrior had damn well better begin now … or forget it, he thought grimly.
He called Chia and asked if she wanted to join him for dinner, but she said she had a date with one Lenny Moscowitz. Mazel tov … He ate alone. As he sat in the restaurant, poking at his food, it occurred to him that everybody’s life in America had changed except his. Take Chia, for example…
Shortly into her first semester at Hunter she met an outgoing girl named Joannie Joseph, born and raised in Lawrence, Long Island, daughter of a successful attorney who specialized in entertainment law. Joannie Joseph became a signal influence in Chia’s life. Knowing something of the “show-biz” realities, so-called, of life, clothes and hair—nice short bob, silk stockings, red lipstick, she also changed Chia’s name to Cherie. At first Chia felt uncomfortable with that, but she had from the first been the most susceptible to assimilation, and after repeating it over and over and over to herself she found the name almost familiar. To complete matters, the “sky” was dropped from Rabinsky and “Cherie Rabin” emerged. Like any normal young American woman, she found life had become more than academic, her noble dreams of becoming America’s great educator were not unnaturally put aside in favor of weekend parties on Long Island. The condition of grim was an acquired, not an inherited, characteristic. Chia’s … or Cherie’s … environment allowed her to shed that burden …
At a soiree at the Josephs’ Tudor-style home she met, and was almost instantly captivated by Lenny Moscowitz, who, after graduation from Columbia Law School, had become a junior member of the firm of Joseph, Joseph, Abrams &Joseph. A friend of the family—but also a talented and decent young man. And about ten thousand cultural years from the men Chia had known before…
Thinking on the events—and the speed of them—that had taken place in Chia-Cherie’s life, Moishe decided he was barely alive and living on Riverside Drive. Quickly, he got up, paid the check and left, wondering what in the world he was going to do this night. He ended up at home and alone.
On Saturday he went to Central Park to ice skate—a skill he’d learned about by accident, or rather osmosis, having spent hours watching the skaters before he ever came to try it himself. Strangely, he seemed to have strong ankles—and a weak head, he thought ironically. By the time he’d gone around the rink a few times he found himself bored rather than exhilarated, as he once had. Maybe he should find a girl. It helped the tensions … helped him to forget. He left the rink, walked down Fifth Avenue, looked in the store windows, seeing little except for the reflection of his own less than devastating image. He looked again … where was he going? He turned and continued on, up one street, down another, passing the Stage Delicatessen, reversing himself and going in. Pastrami might not be a woman but it was damn close to God’s food. As he sat eating a pastrami sandwich, he noted and then fixed on a young woman sitting at the table next to him. He didn’t notice the color of her hair or her eyes. He wanted only to reach out and touch her. But that, of course, was damned foolish. Lately he’d begun to want to do that to every girl he saw. Quickly he got up, paid for his meal and left.
Nine o’clock on a Saturday night. Moishe let himself into the apartment. He looked about and asked himself what his life was … he had only a room in his sister’s house. He was a boarder.
The next morning, as Moishe waited at the elevator, New York City’s unique capacity for first isolating and then abruptly, as if with a mind of its own, putting apartment dwellers into unexpected relationships, took over his life, as well as a co-apartment house dweller’s named Julie Kahn.
Moishe noted the young woman standing alongside him. Noted … my God … was smitten by … which, of course, in the impersonality—alleged—of New York was supposed to happen only in stories and be relegated to myth. Yes, never mind the implausible, he was indeed smitten by this lovely young woman with her tawny hair and mischievous but warm eyes. Slim, actually trim more than slim, nearly the same height as he, she carried her purse in one hand and a book in the other… and wore no wedding ring.
He tried to spot the title of the book. “Are you liking it?” he asked. “I mean the book, of course …” Lord, that was clumsy, probably that would be the end of him with her, if indeed there had ever been a beginning.
Julie Kahn scrutinized him frankly. Attractive, a weathered skin, could be any age from thirty to forty. A man, which in this city, and in this building and area wasn’t all that common. Married? Who knew? … but there was an air about him that seemed to promise honesty. Go by her instincts … “Yes and no,” she said. “It’s about how the Jews are fighting for a homeland and having a tough time of it, but at least they’re fighting. Sometimes I feel sort of guilty the way I’ve been brought up …” And then she stopped, realizing that she’d already confided too much to a perfect stranger. Except that strangely—the pun in her thought amused her—she didn’t feel like he was a stranger…
Moishe, of course, couldn’t believe his good fortune. My God, this woman and he had more in common than he could have dared hope. Too good to be true. Well, up to now, his romantic life in the land of opportunity had been almost too bad to be believed, or tolerated. Maybe the old balance wheel was coming around.
Small talk quickly established what was self-evident—as small talk usually did—that she lived in the building, that her name was Julie Kahn and his Moishe Rabinsky, and so forth. But no follow-up, no promise about future meetings or even where she was going, or he, when they exited the apartment building and went their separate ways.
Except for Moishe, at any rate, there was no separation. All day as he went about his routine in the pawnshop he thought about nothing and nobody but Julie Kahn. That night when he came home, he found Chia studying.
“Well,” he sa
id, more casually than he felt, “how are things with you and the irresistible Lenny?”
She frowned, then, “I think he’s going to ask me to marry him—”
“What do you mean, you think? Doesn’t he know if he wants to get married to a gorgeous thing like you?”
“Moishe, be serious. He’s just starting his law practice and feels maybe we should wait—”
“He’s crazy … if you love someone you get married.” He was surprised by his own certainty, vehemence.
“What about you?”
“All I can say, when I find someone I’ll ask her. Now, what do you want to do about dinner … Cherie?”
“Maybe we’ll order Chinese, Maurice.”
They both laughed. At first Chia’s name adjustment had annoyed him, but he’d gotten accustomed to it, realizing that it was more a matter of being Americanized than abandoning her faith. At least that’s what he told himself … “Well, just be sure it’s Jewish Chinese. Some things, after all, are still sacred.” He felt like hugging her, he felt so good, but held off.
After dinner, when he took the empty cartons to the garbage chute, impossibly but truly, there she was. A coincidence. A fortuitous circumstance. Even if it was at the garbage chute. An omen? Stop worrying about it, he instructed himself, and start reacting…
“Well… hello.” A terrific opening gambit, he thought to himself sarcastically. How about some straightforward talk? “I take it we’re neighbors.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I live just down the hall.”
“How is it I haven’t seen you before?”
“Just moved in last week … well, it’s been good seeing you again.” And it had been, she thought as she turned and walked down the hall.
Moishe didn’t sleep that night. Among other things, it took some chutzpah to think this lovely young woman would be interested in him. She no doubt already had someone, but even if she didn’t, who was he? A pawnbroker. Hardly a romantic occupation. Face it, he’d be reluctant to tell her. But he was going to see her, whether she knew it or not Because he had to …
The next night at seven o’clock he knocked on her door. No answer. He looked her up in the phone book. Not listed. Called information, no such listing. Well, she’d just moved in … He continued to try her door during the next few days without any results. And then—the romantic muse of New York at work again?—they met one evening coming home. He’d lived with the fantasy of her for what to him seemed so long that somehow he felt as though she’d been avoiding him. He forced a smile as they got into the elevator. “Hello. Do you know what I’ve been doing this last week?” For God’s sake, can’t you be more subtle…?
She smiled back. “That’s all I’ve wondered about …” which, in fact, was true “… what?”
“Standing at the damned garbage chute, hoping lightning or something would strike twice.”
She laughed, an open, warm sound. “Did you ever think of knocking on my door?”
“I tried, no luck.”
“Of … of course … I’ve been visiting my mother, she hasn’t been too well.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“She’s better…”
“Good … Julie, are you free Saturday night?”
“Saturday night? I’ll have to check.” Have to check indeed, she thought as they walked down the hall to her apartment. She unlocked the door, stuck her foot out to hold it open, and said, “I’ll let you know… about Saturday, I mean.”
Moishe had had enough suspense. “Why don’t you look now?”
She looked at him. Thank God he persisted. “I’ll let you know later, okay?”
“Okay … I’ll be around. Just knock three times.” She was driving him crazy.
“I will, I promise …”
Which was enough for Moishe to feel happier, more hopeful, than he had since he’d come to America.
“You seem a changed man,” Chia said as they sat down to dinner.
“Maybe so.”
“I think you’ve met someone. A girl?”
“It shows, huh?”
“It does … who is she?”
“A lady who lives down the hall.”
“Down the hall? Really? That’s very convenient. How come you haven’t said anything about her?”
“There was nothing to say … until tonight.”
“Have you been out with her?”
“Not yet. But I plan to Saturday night.”
“That’s great… what’s her name?”
“Julie Kahn … and I think I’m in love with her.”
“How long did you say you knew her?”
“About a week. That is, I met her once before … at the garbage chute … that’s where you really get to find out about people.”
“You’re crazy. What did you find out about her at the garbage chute?”
“That she likes Chinese food, she was throwing out her cartons too.”
Chia laughed. “I’m glad, Moishe, I’m really glad you’ve met someone.”
“Me too, I assure you. And we’ve more in common than Chinese food. She cares about what’s happening to the Jews in Palestine. She’s no”—and he broke off, not wanting to offend Chia—but he was about to say that she was no goyishe Jew. Finally he recovered with an assurance that she was no superficial, spoiled American girl…
After dinner Moishe walked down the hall and stood in front of Julie’s door, then rapped firmly. It seemed a few years before the door opened. She had a towel around her head and wore a bathrobe. She seemed surprised. “Well, you are insistent.” And to herself, Thank God. “As you can guess, I just washed my hair.”
“Yes … about Saturday night? And while you’re thinking it over, do you suppose I could wait inside? I’m getting sort of tired of this hall.”
She opened the door wide, motioned him to a chair as she disappeared into the bathroom.
Yes, she liked this man. He was direct, he flattered her by his persistence and her early good instincts about him had deepened. A man …
When she came back, dressed in a housecoat and with her hair framing her lovely face, Moishe had trouble restraining himself from just going to her and kissing her. Besides, he’d done it a few hundred times in his daydreams.
She sat across from him, and she marveled how natural she felt with this man who was still a stranger. No need to play the boring dating game, no need to pretend, which she was thoroughly sick of. He had that effect on her.
“Would you like a cup of coffee, tea?”
“Coffee.”
She went into the kitchenette, measured out the coffee, then the water. When she brought the coffee she said she was sorry she didn’t have anything to go with it. “Truth is, I still haven’t gotten settled in.”
“The coffee’s just fine… now, tell me about yourself.”
He’d just stolen her line. All right, she’d go first, and hope he wouldn’t be bored … “Grew up in Philadelphia. The place they have the joke about … I went to Philadelphia and it was closed … well, never mind … anyway, I came to Manhattan. Graduated from N.Y.U. Art history, what else? I manage a small dress shop now on Madison Avenue. Also, what else? When my father died two years ago my mother moved here too. That’s it, dull, duller, dullest.”
“I don’t quite accept that. What about… friends?”
“You mean men?”
“I guess that’s what I mean.”
“Well, I practically grew up with a guy everyone thought I … should marry … my parents, of course, included. I was in the minority. Result: at twenty-three I’m a premature old maid … I’ve lost track of how many well-intentioned people lift their eyebrows and declare, ‘You’re not married?’ As though that was the only thing in a woman’s life.”
“But it could be rewarding to share your life—”
“With the right person, I suppose. I just haven’t met—”
“I have, and it’s great.”
Very American, Julie suddenly took leave of
her sense of humor … here he was asking her out when he had a special girl … “Well, how is it you’re not taking her out on Saturday night?” She sounded more irritated than she intended.
“I am. Julie Kahn, the first time I met you I knew I liked you very much, to put it mildly. That’s not so strange, is it? A man you’d known all your life didn’t attract you. I’m thirty-one and you’re the first girl … it’s true … I have ever felt this way about. I think I love you.”
Julie sat there, mouth literally open. Finally, all she could say was, “As they say in bad novels, Sir, this is so sudden.”
“They also say that truth is stranger than fiction.” With that he got up and stopped resisting himself. He took her in his arms. “Yes, Julie Kahn, as I said, I think I love you.”
When he kissed her, she wasn’t at all sure she didn’t feel precisely the same. He was right… a lifetime of familiarity could breed nothing, even contempt. She ought to know. An instant could make a lifetime … take advantage of it, Julie. Let it happen …
That night Moishe got back to his apartment very late. Both he and Julie were astonished by the quickness, and the naturalness, of the intimacy that had happened between them. It was as though, he thought later, they had somehow telescoped time … minutes, hours had literally developed the force of months and years. Their lovemaking had had the excitement of newness, of course, but also the most mystical depth of familiarity. Both knew, without a lecture, that this was indeed something special. And both were determined to take hold of it, nurture it and be grateful for it.
They saw each other every night after that first, except when Julie had to visit her mother, who lived on East End Avenue, across town. A few times Moishe went to dinner at her mother’s, and Julie cooked, which was not her greatest talent—she still majored in Chinese, ordered in—but, as she said and Moishe more than agreed, nobody was perfect. He’d take her and be damned glad for what she was. And she felt precisely the same about him. Moishe was a new phenomenon to her—not only as a man, and she’d been so right about that early feeling about him, but in terms of his remarkable background. Here was a man who had fought for the Jews, fought and been wounded and almost killed to help make a homeland. They didn’t grow them like Moishe Rabinsky in Philadelphia, or at N.Y.U. either, for that matter. And God knew, the men who occasionally accompanied the ladies who came into her shop were on another planet from the likes of Moishe. She loved this man, face it, she told herself. And what was miraculous, he felt the same about her. Chemistry was working overtime in their case, and they were both deeply grateful for it….
No Time for Tears Page 36
