One American Dream

by Bernard Beck

  “But it’s the Sabbath,” I said, “and I’ve got to go to synagogue tomorrow morning.”

  “This is more important,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulders. “You’ll see.”

  I called Rose and told her what had happened and what Ruthie and I had planned for the next day, and then I took Ruthie’s advice one hundred percent—took a bath and went to sleep.

  In the morning, after a cold breakfast and some playtime with Bentzy, Ruthie, Bentzy, and I set off for the Hooverville, about a mile walk north. It was a beautiful morning, and I enjoyed pushing Bentzy’s stroller and walking with Ruthie up Riverside Drive along the side of the construction of the new Henry Hudson Parkway.

  __________

  Jack was surprised to see, what appeared to him, to be a thriving, animated village. Children were playing baseball in a nearby field, women were hanging out wash, and men were working on the construction of new shelters.

  Jack, Ruthie, and her son stood on the edge of the Hooverville looking around, and then walked hesitantly across the field toward us.

  “Excuse me,” Jack called out to me from a distance, “do you have a few minutes? I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Unfortunately,” I replied with a smile, “I’ve got all the time in the world. What’s on your mind?”

  “I was here last evening to distribute some food, but there weren’t many people here to give it to.”

  “Yeah, I heard about it,” I said, turning back to my work.

  Jack stood uncomfortably. He didn’t seem to have expected such a cold shoulder. He walked around me so that he was now facing me again.

  “There’s no need to be rude,” he said, taking a step forward.

  I tried to look like I was concentrating on what I was doing, but what I was doing didn’t need that much concentration. Jack, who did not seem accustomed to being slighted, cleared his throat loudly, rounded his shoulders, and aggressively took another step forward.

  Ruthie looked surprised. He suddenly looked like a local hooligan, and she seemed afraid that her father would physically attack me, so she reached out and put her hand on his arm.

  Jack brushed it away. “You got some kinda problem?” he asked me. Ruthie looked like she had never heard him speak that way. “I’m tryin’ ta help yez.”

  I stopped what I was doing and put my face just inches from Jack’s. “What do you want, some kind of star or a medal or something? Listen, just because you’ve got a job and we don’t, doesn’t give you the right to patronize us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said, still standing his ground. But then, with a more reasonable tone, said, “I didn’t mean to be patronizing.”

  “Well then, what the hell do you want?” I snarled, seizing my advantage. “You came here in the middle of the night with leftovers from some fancy restaurant—stuff that they can’t give away—and you think that we want it? I can’t stand all you goody goodies.”

  Ruthie now stepped between us. “My father,” she said to me, “is just trying to help, and I think you owe him an apology for your tone.” And then, turning to Jack, she said, “What were you thinking? These are people, not pets, you can’t give them leftovers and expect them to be grateful.”

  “The point is,” she said, turning back to me, “that my father wants to help. He is accustomed to being in charge and making all the decisions. But he’s out of his area of experience now. So please tell us what we should do to help feed all these people.”

  The tension had been palpable, but then, after Ruthie spoke so reasonably, it broke.

  “Is this your son?” I asked, turning to Bentzy.

  “Yes, he is,” Ruthie said defensively.

  “I’ve got a boy just about the same age. Listen,” I said, turning back to Jack, “you’re Jewish, right?”

  Jack barely nodded.

  “Vus macht a yid?” I said in Yiddish with a grin.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack replied stiffly. “I don’t speak Yiddish.”

  I now turned to Ruthie. “Is he kidding? Everyone in New York speaks Yiddish. Even the goyim speak Yiddish.”

  “Yes,” Ruthie said with a smile, “most Jews in New York speak Yiddish, but my father doesn’t. What exactly would you like us to do? We have good intentions, and my father has a little money. We will do whatever we can, within limits.”

  “Limits?” I challenged.

  “I misspoke. We will do whatever we can. What do you suggest?”

  I turned to Jack, and in a more conversational tone, asked, “Are you familiar with a Jewish philosopher named Maimonides?”

  Surprised, Jack barely nodded.

  “Well, this guy Maimonides, back in the fourteenth century, said that there are different levels of charity. The lowest form is giving money to a beggar, the highest is giving a person the equipment to satisfy his own needs.

  “So here’s what I’m telling you. If you want to help, get us a decent stove that we can cook on and an ice box, and get us the ingredients so that we can make our own soup and bread, and coffee. We don’t want leftovers, or some charitable institution’s stale bread and watery soup, we just need a little leg up.”

  Jack stared incredulously at me. There I was, well over six feet, broad shouldered, with an open shirt and rolled up sleeves. And there he was, in a suit and vest, if you can believe. We stood, still in combative mode, staring at each other.

  “You are Jewish,” I finally said, “aren’t you?”

  Ruthie smiled to herself as she listened. No one had ever questioned her father’s Jewish identity.

  But Jack didn’t reply as his hostility slowly faded to compassion. “I think we can do that,” he said finally. “At least we can try.”

  And then, Jack the hooligan disappeared completely, and Jack the elegant gentleman returned. He took a step back, squared his shoulders, and put out his hand.

  “Jack Rubin,” he said, shaking my hand. “Thank you for not being too offended at my bumbling efforts. I just didn’t think it all the way through.”

  “Your suggestions,” Jack said studiously, “make sense, and I will see what I can do.”

  Jack turned to go, but Ruthie lingered. “How can we get in touch with you?” she asked.

  “That’s my house right over there,” I said. “Me and my kid.”

  “And what’s your name?” Ruthie continued.

  “Aaron.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Aaron,” Ruthie said, shaking my hand. “My name is Ruth, and my son is Ben-Zion.”

  __________

  It was if Aaron had injected me with a gallon of adrenaline. I paced like a caged lion all through Sunday, and when Monday morning finally arrived, I was at my roll-top desk at dawn, with renewed vigor. I was about to reinvent myself. Again.

  I had no idea where to get a commercial stove and an ice box. My first effort was to contact the contractors who had worked on my buildings in Brooklyn. Most of them were now out of the construction business, and the few that remained were unfamiliar with the sort of commercial restaurant equipment that I was looking for. I was both relentless and tenacious, and I worked the phone tirelessly. Every rejection that I received led to a recommendation of someone else to contact, and slowly I began making headway. I didn’t want to invest in a new stove, and it was hard to find a used stove that was in reliably good condition. Eventually I was able to find both a commercial-size, coal-burning stove and an enormous ice box. I borrowed a truck from one of the contractors who periodically worked on my buildings and drove it myself to pick up the stove and the ice box. Driving the large truck was much more difficult than I had anticipated, and, with some difficulty, I parked the truck in my driveway in Brooklyn. That was a pretty strange sight: a huge commercial truck in the middle of our very quiet, residential community.

  The next morning, with the stove and the ice box sitting on the tr
uck in the driveway, I started to look for reliable suppliers of coal and ice. One of the members of the synagogue had contacts in a fuel company, and I was able to arrange for them to deliver coal directly to the Hooverville. Ice was a more difficult problem because the ice had to be stored in a properly designed area and had to be replenished and drained on a daily basis; someone at the Hooverville would have to take responsibility for its maintenance. The ice company was not willing to sign a contract until all the pieces were in place, and I was reluctant to sign a contract as well. I struggled with myself about the risks, but refrigeration was the key to the success of my self-feeding venture. I finally managed to delay the contract signing for a week while I worked on making arrangements at the Hooverville.

  In the early afternoon, I carefully backed the truck out of my driveway and set off to the Hooverville. (I am very proud of having been able to do this without destroying Rose’s hedges.) This time, I planned to take Ruthie with me to act as a “moderator.”

  Driving the large truck in Manhattan was a lot more challenging than I had anticipated, and I was tense and sweaty by the time I arrived at Ruthie’s apartment. I was in a rush to go, but Ruthie insisted that we have a glass of tea and a snack before we proceeded to the Hooverville.

  When Ruthie, Bentzy, and I arrived at the Hooverville, we immediately went to Aaron’s hut. There was no door on the structure, just a bedspread that was pulled to one side. When I went to knock on the doorpost, I was surprised to see that there was a hand-carved mezuzah mounted on it, and I stopped for a moment to admire it. Before I had a chance to knock, Aaron, who was even larger than I had remembered, emerged from the hut with his son. He greeted us warmly and introduced us to his son who promptly and very properly, shook my hand, after which he and Bentzy ran off to play.

  “I was able to find a pretty good commercial, coal-burning cooking stove,” I said, continuing our conversation from the last time we met. “We can see how well it works out, and then I can try to get another.”

  I gave Aaron the name of the company that would be supplying the coal and asked him to make sure to have someone on hand to receive the delivery of coal that was coming the following morning.

  “The ice box,” I said, “is a much bigger problem. I was able to find a commercial grade one with a pretty good storage capacity, but it will need constant supervision to replenish the ice and drain the water. Plus, it’s a safety hazard with all these kids here. So I’m going to leave that up to you. Everything’s on the truck which is parked right over there. The ice box and the stove are both pretty heavy, so you’ll need some strong men to unload it.

  “I brought Ruthie with me,” I said, “because she is a writer, and I thought that she could write about what we’re doing here so that other Hoovervilles can do the same thing.”

  “Hey,” Aaron laughed, “take a breath. Let’s talk about this a minute. First let’s say hello,” he said with a broad smile. And then, focusing all his attention on Ruthie, as if I wasn’t even there, “So, you’re a writer. I knew you would be somehow connected with the arts. What do you write?”

  “Short stories mostly,” Ruthie said. “But my real job is as an editor.”

  “Like for magazines?’

  “No. Actually, I work for a book publisher,” Ruthie said with a smile. “I work with the authors to help them make their books better. My stories, though, are in magazines, so you were not far off.”

  I was getting impatient, and I took a step forward. “I hate to break this up,” I said, “but I’ve got a truck waiting. Where should we put the stove and what about the ice box?”

  “I think we should keep them close to each other and central to the community,” Aaron replied. “I can get some guys to unload the truck and to dig a pit that we can line with burlap to keep the ice cold. It should last at least a week, that way.”

  “OK. So the next question is, once we get the stove and ice box off the truck, what sort of food do you want me to get?”

  “I’m not big on cooking,” Aaron replied, with a glance at Ruthie, “but beggars can’t be choosers. So we’ll take whatever you can get, but it should be as fresh as possible. We both looked expectantly at Ruthie, who shook her head vigorously.

  “Don’t think I know how to cook just because I wear a skirt!” she laughed. “I’m a writer, not a cook.”

  “Every Jewish girl knows how to cook,” Aaron said with a twinkle, “it comes with the territory. What about your mother? Didn’t she teach you how to cook?”

  “My mother?” Ruthie laughed, rolling her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding. Trust me. I don’t cook. But I do write, and here’s what I can do: I can be here nearly every day to write about you and the rest of the people who live here. We, the people on the outside, only hear stories about how bad it is and how people are suffering. It would be good to show that some people have figured out a way to make things better.”

  I smiled as I thought about Rose in the kitchen. To tell the truth, I was so focused on the task at hand that I didn’t notice the chemistry that was developing between Aaron and Ruthie.

  “I’m not sure I can back that truck up,” I said, trying to get Aaron to focus on the task at hand. “Maybe you have someone here who can do it.”

  __________

  Even though we were a generation apart in age, Aaron and I developed a close working relationship. We seemed to be able to communicate with each other without discussion. I returned to the Hooverville several times to deliver food and more equipment, and to report on my progress, and especially to get Aaron’s feedback.

  It turned out that most of the commercial food companies who supplied the local restaurants loaded their trucks in the morning with enough food to satisfy their customers’ needs. Their trucks then followed a standard route, going from restaurant to restaurant in the city. When they arrived at a restaurant, the chef would come out to the truck and select the food that he would need for the day. The truck would then go on to the next restaurant. Each of these food companies specialized in one particular food category: vegetables, meat, fish, dairy products, or fruit, and their trucks followed nearly the same route to all of the restaurants in the area. The trucks always carried more food than they needed because they wanted to be able to fully supply their customers. As a result, there was always food left over on the trucks after they had made their last stop. This food was usually disposed of at a dump at the end of the day.

  I contacted all of the restaurant food suppliers in my area and arranged to take their leftovers. I set up a central collection point where I had a truck waiting every afternoon to take whatever was left on the trucks after they had made their rounds. Pretty soon, I had a team of drivers and truck workers, all of whom came from the Hooverville, who unloaded the suppliers’ trucks and loaded mine. It made me smile when I remembered that my first real job, so many years—lifetimes—ago, had been on the back of a truck delivering newspapers.

  The food distributors liked this arrangement because they didn’t have to worry about getting rid of the leftover food, and their trucks could now return to the terminal empty and ready to be washed and prepared for the next day’s load.

  We usually finished the transfers by noon and my truck would arrive at the Hooverville every day at around four in the afternoon where Aaron would have a crew ready to unload it.

  Although I probably should have gotten personal pleasure out of being philanthropic, I never quite thought of myself that way. I saw myself more as Aaron’s partner than as his benefactor, and I was glad to be doing such meaningful work. While I was working on getting the food and equipment, Aaron was organizing a series of cooking stations throughout the Hooverville. He posted cooking schedules so that individual families would have access to the equipment on their own, as well as in groups. We supplied coal stoves and ice boxes, which were placed in accessible locations in the Hooverville, and we created a central distribution faci
lity where my food deliveries could be distributed on a daily basis.

  Throughout my business career, I had always worked alone, but now, thanks in great part to Aaron, I discovered within myself hidden interpersonal skills. Although I was naturally reticent, when it came to the Hooverville cause, I was aggressively outgoing and usually convincing. I tirelessly promoted Aaron’s cooking stations with the restaurant supply houses, and I also sent my drivers out to local truck farms for fresh produce. We now had two trucks on the road with two full-time drivers.

  Aaron and I were ubiquitous. Aaron and his son went from station to station making sure that there was a sufficient supply of coal and that the equipment was being kept in good repair. I now spent most of my days on the road or on the phone, finding and cajoling new suppliers.

  Eventually, we branched out into other products as we sought to satisfy as many of the needs of the Hooverville as possible. We supplied clothing, books, and even bedding. It was always Aaron, the gentle giant with his sleeves rolled up and his son next to him, and me, the short, bespectacled, round-barrel of a man with a never changing frown.

  Ruthie, who had begun writing a novel based on the history of the people that she had met in the Hooverville and the services that Aaron and I were providing, was often part of our team. Aaron and I, although we were neither business partners nor friends, had developed the kind of shorthand that long-married couples have—anticipating each other’s needs, concerns, and even comments. Although we enjoyed working together, we never pried into the other’s private affairs.

  But then, just before Yom Kippur, without intending to pry, I asked a very personal question: I asked Aaron for the Hebrew name of his wife.

  “Why do you want to know?” Aaron answered brusquely.

  Taken slightly aback, I explained that in our synagogue, during the Yom Kippur memorial prayer, the Rabbi gave the worshipers in the synagogue an opportunity to mention, out loud in Hebrew, the names of the departed souls that he was praying for. I told him that I would like to mention his late wife by name.