by Karen Wolff
“When I got home,” Sam went on, “I told my wife ‘I’ve had enough of this. I want to go west.’ And so we did.”
WHEN I SAW Carol Ann on Sundays, I was full of tales about Sam, and she wanted to meet him. One Saturday afternoon she came downtown to the store, and Sam took us upstairs for tea and cookies from the bakery.
“Carol Ann,” he said when I introduced her. “Such a beautiful name. Just like a melody.” She flushed at his flattery and looked at me uncertainly. “Sit, sit,” he said as he pulled out a chair for her at his table. “Would you like to know my name?”
I laughed and said, “I think we know your name, Sam.”
“You think wrong, Harry. I will tell you. My real name is Schmuel Rubinsky.” Over tea he explained how difficult it was for people to pronounce his name when he came to New York. “They called me ‘Russky’ or ‘Polesky.’ So what do we do? Simple. We shortened our names to make it easier for them. I became Sam and my brother became Ike. Then just for good measure, we shortened our last name too.”
“Didn’t you miss using your real name?” Carol Ann asked.
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But it was easier for the Americans.” He told us how some of their friends went so far as to change their names completely to hide their Jewishness. “We didn’t do that. Jews we were, and Jews we’d stay.”
His story finished, he beamed at us. “Such nice company. Harry, can you bring us the teakettle and find some more cookies in the kitchen?”
I heated more water and rummaged around for cookies. When I returned, Carol Ann was telling him about her studies at the Normal School.
“We’re learning how to teach little kids to read.”
“Reading,” he nodded. “So important in this world.”
The two of them chatted like they’d known each other for years, both clearly charmed. That pleased me. When we finished, Carol Ann tidied up his kitchenette, and he never took his eyes off her.
“A nice girl you have, Harry. You better hang on to her.”
She was still wide-eyed when we got outside. “What an experience,” she said as we walked down the street. “He’s so warm, easy to talk to. I didn’t know Jews were like that. Remember that awful preacher at home who told us Jews were trying to steal our country?”
I remembered all right. How could I ever forget Reverend Halsey Brooks whose words set our town on fire. “He was wrong, a hateful, evil man.”
She nodded in agreement. “I noticed the woman’s picture on the bookshelf. Was that his wife?”
“Yeah, I think so. She was named Sarah, but she got hit by a car just a month after they got here, and she died right there on the street. They didn’t have any kids.”
“Oh, that’s so sad. He must be very lonely.”
“Maybe. I think he’s glad he has me to talk to. His wife’s buried at Rose Hill Cemetery. He goes out there sometimes. Asked me to go with him, but I haven’t done it yet.”
“You should, Harry. I think it would mean a lot to him.”
I CAME TO love the old man. I found I was able to tell him things about my life, about my father. About the hurt and loneliness when Dad came home from the war. I even told him the ugly things about the Klan and the attack on the store. He seemed to understand my anger.
“So young you were for such hard times, Harry. So unfair it was. You got mad, eh?” I nodded vigorously. “They’ll eat away at you, those bad times, if you let them.” He asked me once what my father did in France during the war, and I realized I didn’t know.
“He never talked about it. Only how much he hated the Germans and even the French.” I thought for a minute. “I do remember one thing, though. He went out onto the field after a battle and helped load bodies on a wagon.”
“Ah,” Sam said nodding as though that were a significant piece of information. Later, when the store was quiet for a few minutes, he said, “Harry, have you ever seen a dead body?”
I looked at him puzzled. “Well no, I guess not. Why?”
“Once I saw the body of a man. Thugs beat him up because they thought he stole some bread. Just for bread, they broke his bones, kicked in his face. A terrible sight there in the road with his wife and children crying over him. I felt sick in the stomach, and I never forgot how it was.”
Slowly I realized what he was trying to tell me. “You think that’s what’s wrong with my dad? He saw too many bodies?”
“Think about it, Harry. Every day to pick up the dead soldiers, their bodies bloody and broken. Some maybe your friends. It must do something to a man’s soul, that kind of work.”
I could see that it would be repulsive to do what my dad had to do, but why would he lose interest in his kids? Go on hateful tirades? I didn’t remember things bothering him so much before the war.
“I just know how he used to make us all laugh,” I said. “He played games with us. He taught me how to whistle, he was gonna show me how to hunt and fish when I was older, but he never did. When he came home, it was all different.”
“I know, but what he saw must have eaten on him. Tormented him.” He paused. “I think your father must have had a big soul, Harry, a big soul, and he couldn’t help how he acted. Men like that are special, and we need to make allowances.”
I started to heat up. I didn’t want to think about my dad’s torment, and I was a little miffed that Sam seemed to take Dad’s side against me. I’d come here to get away from all that, not to wallow in it every day. I just wanted to forget about it. But the next thing I knew Sam was suggesting that I visit the war memorial built to honor the veterans. “Maybe see what your father faced,” he said.
Resentment stirred in me. Why? Why should I make myself miserable trying to figure out what was wrong with my dad? I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I’d done plenty of that over the years, and I wanted to leave it alone. But Sam wouldn’t let it rest. “It’d be good for you to go, Harry,” he’d say. He pushed me and pushed me ever so gently, but he didn’t give up, and I knew I’d have to do it.
THE NEWSPAPERS WERE full of plans for the Lincoln Memorial built on the wide hill near Union Station. President Coolidge and other famous people were to attend the dedication on Armistice Day in November. Even from downtown I could see the tall shaft that rose over two hundred and fifty feet above the city. At night, lights shone in a steam coming from the top and made it appear to be capped by a flame.
One hot Sunday in August, Carol Ann’s family went to the Armour and Company picnic. They’d invited me to go too, but I decided instead to visit the Lincoln Memorial and make Sam happy.
I walked up the vast, sloping pavilion where landscapers had not yet finished laying the sod or planting the hawthorn trees that would border the roadway. The sweat was dripping from my face and trickling down my back by the time I reached the tower. I was stunned at its size, far larger than I had imagined, and I stared up at the angels carved on it and read the inscription:
Gigantic marble Sphinxes, one called “Memory” and one called “Future,” lay on either side of the tower, and, oddly, both had their eyes covered. They were monstrous creatures, each about the length of three cars and twice as high. The newspaper said the hindquarter stones weighed 17,000 pounds each. They hid their eyes supposedly to forget the war and to show uncertainty about the future. I grimaced because I wanted to forget the war too, but I’d keep my eyes wide open when it came to the future.
Sam would expect me to go to the top of the tower, so I got in line even though it cost twenty-five cents. The ticket seller was a veteran, wearing his old army uniform. I noticed the ugly scars on the backs of both his hands and heard him tell the man in front of me how he got them.
“I dropped my darn gloves on the ground, but I didn’t know they’d used mustard gas on that spot. When I put them on again, my hands got burned.”
“How terrible,” someone murmured.
“The gas got in my eyes too, and to this day, I have to wear colored glasses in bright sunshine.”
Along with a few others, I boarded the elevator, holding my breath as it rose to the top of the shaft, its pulleys and cables grinding noisily. From there we climbed a couple of staircases to the observation deck where another veteran, in his uniform, greeted us. I stepped out, terrified to look at anything but my feet, my stomach flip-flopping for a moment. Then the prairie breeze lifted my hair and cooled my skin, and I raised my eyes.
All of Kansas City was spread below: downtown, the Blue River and the Missouri, the rolling hills. It was the most wondrous sight I could ever imagine. No one said a word, as we stood, solemn and awed by the quiet beauty of the view. My lungs filled with the clean air, and I felt a calmness flow through my body. If I weren’t so sore at him, I’d have wished my father, three hundred miles away, could be here to see what had been built to honor him and all the others. Maybe it would have brought him the peace I felt.
When we’d had our fill of the sight, we rode back down on the elevator, my head filled with the majesty of what I’d seen. One of the men, an older, sad-faced fellow said, “D’you know why that old vet is up there?”
“No,” I said.
“He’s there to prevent jumping. You know. Suicide.”
“Really?” I was unbelieving.
“Yeah, some of the guys were mixed up pretty bad when they got home from the war. I know at least one fellow who tried to shoot himself.”
I shuddered.
I SPENT THE rest of the afternoon exploring the two other buildings that were part of the Memorial. Massive carved bronze doors to the Memory Hall and to the Museum were each flanked by giant urns made of black marble, signaling the grandeur I would see when I went inside.
Flags and banners of all the Allies, the War Mothers and the Gold Star League were mounted in the Museum. Medallions and inscriptions adorned the walls. Cabinets on either side displayed War posters, some familiar to me, and I felt the nobility of this place with all its color and brilliance. I was proud of our country and its great victory. When I studied the glass cases holding relics from the war, I wondered if my dad had handled grenades and rifles like these. Uniforms, sad letters to families, and even a large torpedo from a sub were part of the display.
Eventually I moved on to Memory Hall. A man, taller than any of the others, caught my attention, and I saw he was missing his right arm just like Dad. He wore a shirt that might have fit him once, but now hung loosely on his thin, wasted body. With him was a round, little woman, perhaps his wife or sister. They were strolling, looking at the large, colorful maps of battle sites that covered the walls. Suddenly he stopped and said, “Cora! Cora!” His whole body shook as he thumped his finger against one of the maps. “Look, Cora. This is it. This is the place.” He turned to her, begging her with his eyes to see what he saw. “It’s the very place, Cora. That place where it…it happened.” He ducked his head, but not before I saw tears begin to roll down his cheeks. The woman turned to him with a look of such piercing love and sympathy I was almost overcome. Wrapping her soft arms around him, she said. “Oh, my dear. My dear. Oh, my dear.” She kept repeating those words as she held him. Finally she dug in her pocketbook for a handkerchief. I turned away, embarrassed to have eavesdropped.
BACK IN THE city that evening, I climbed the steps to my shabby boarding house room and flopped onto the bed, my arms on the pillow behind my head. I was uplifted by my visit to the memorial, but haunted by the scene with the soldier and Cora. Dad didn’t have anyone like Cora to comfort him when he came home from the War. Never once since that sad day when he stepped off the train in Beaverton years ago had I heard anyone thank him or say, “We’re proud of you for what you did, Cal.”
No. No flags flew for Calvin Spencer. When he came home, everybody expected he would just get on with his life, get a job, and take care of his children. When he didn’t, they were irritated and annoyed. They moved him from Uncle Lyle’s house to Sally McVay’s house like a piece of tired, unwanted furniture. Everyone was sorry he’d lost an arm, but no one saw that a bigger hole had been blasted into him, and that he was not a complete person.
None of this jibed with the idea of the heroic, noble soldiers and veterans that I’d learned about that afternoon. Surely Dad deserved honor as much as any of them. He just never got it. It sickened me to think things might have been different if we’d found a way to comfort him, to understand him better. Why had it never occurred to us to take him to an Armistice Day parade or celebration? Some place where he could have put on his old uniform and met up with other veterans. Let people show their appreciation. Such a thing never entered our minds.
I lay sad and ashamed. Later, as the sun went down, and the sky darkened, I rose and opened the window. A great wash of cool air flowed over me. I watched the silvery moon rise and felt something begin to loosen inside me. It was like a huge boulder being shoved aside, allowing me to see what was behind it. Slowly and clumsily, I began to understand.
I WANTED TO tell Carol Ann about my visit to the memorial, and we met after work at a diner near her school. As we sipped our coffee, I described the tall soldier and Cora. “It made me think about Dad,” I said. “How he didn’t have anybody like that when he came home.”
As she listened, a little pucker of concern formed between her eyes. “Well, he had all of you.”
“It’s not the same. We all wanted something from him, and we didn’t get it. I wanted him to be like my old dad was before the war, and when he couldn’t be the person I wanted, I turned my back on him and ignored him.”
“You were just a kid. It was natural.” Crumbs from the pastry she’d just eaten clung to her lips, and I brushed them away with my hand, just wanting to touch her.
“I suppose. I realize now that he never told us a thing about the war, what he did over there, anything about the fighting. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“It is, now that I think about it.”
“Instead, he just got ornery. Dad did things he would never have done before. When I think about Granddad and Buster, my blood still boils.”
“Do you think that if he’d talked about it, it might have helped him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. He probably figured nobody cared. I just wish he could see the memorial. To see what people have done to honor the soldiers, to show their respect. It would let him know he was appreciated.”
She leaned back with a gentle smile. “Harry, you say you hate your dad, but underneath it all, I think you must really care about him.”
I looked at her surprised, and then I shrugged my shoulders. “It doesn’t really matter, Carol Ann. I doubt if I’ll ever see him again.”
“That’s too bad, Harry. I’m going to hope that things get better between you two.”
SAM AND I had heard about the expanding development called Brookside in the Country Club area of town. The men financing the project were creating a neighborhood of nice homes with shops nearby so people wouldn’t have to travel far for things they needed. That gave me an idea.
“Sam,” I said, “what would you think about starting a branch store in Brookside? All those new homes going in. Folks’ll need the things we sell.”
He looked up, his eyes open wide, surprised at my boldness. Then he smiled. “Ah, Harry. You’re young. Young men want to do everything. I’m too old to start over again.”
“You wouldn’t be starting over. You’d just be expanding.”
“I don’t know, Harry. Business is good here. What more do I need?”
I persisted, and one Sunday afternoon that fall he and I rode the black and cream trolley to Brookside Station. We walked a couple of blocks east to Morningside Drive where I couldn’t help but stare goggle-eyed at the mansions, each more extravagant than anything I could have imagined. The lower floors were most often made of brick with upper parts of large timbers and stucco. Tall, narrow windows with small panes blinked in the sunshine. T
he roofs were steeply pitched and featured oversize chimneys, sometimes more than one, with decorative brickwork. We walked by one house, the most magnificent of all, with huge rose trees blooming red and white in the yard, obviously the home of a wealthy man. We recognized the unlikely name—Fletcher Cowherd—etched on a brass plate next to the front door. He was well known in our city.
Just a block in back of the mansions, was a housing development with hundreds of modest bungalows. A large sign crowed:
Built by the Fletcher Cowherd Company
Buy a Cowherd House for One Price
The Right Price
“Nu, Harry. Mr. Cowherd’s made himself rich building these houses,” Sam said as we walked through the neighborhood.
The bungalows had peaked gables like the mansions, though on a much smaller scale. Second-story windows peeked at the front yards from under the gables. Sidewalks lined the streets with inviting walks to the covered porches. Paved tracks between the houses led to garages in back, styled to match the houses. Owners had planted flowers and trees making it as pleasant a place as anyone could want. I imagined myself living there some day with Carol Ann.
“See, Sam. Look at all the customers we would have.” I was fired up at the thought of a brand new store with all the latest Ozarka radios and Tiffany lamps to sell to these homeowners.
“Something to think about, Harry.”
We returned to Brookside Boulevard and the commercial area. Although most of the shops were closed because it was Sunday, we stared into the windows. The grand array included a flower shop, a meat market, dry cleaners, a filling station, and several others. We laughed at the pictures of women with exotic hair-dos in Fern’s Beauty Shop and at their hats in Milady’s Millinery.
