“Charity,” she quietly pronounced as though coining the phrase for the first time, “begins at home.” It was a saying she quoted enthusiastically, along with “Many hands make light the work!” Her favorite to me, however, was “To thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day …” That seemed a good fit for nearly every occasion. She never asked me for the precise details of my departure, or how I had managed to return home from Cold Spring. Normally, I would have felt relieved at the absence of an interrogation; now, however, it was further evidence that her sense of reality was slipping.
My father’s response was different. He had moved into an apartment on East 56th near Sutton Place, and when he learned I had suddenly quit my job, I received a summons to meet him at his apartment at 7:30 a.m. sharp on Monday, before he left for work. I arrived at the appointed time and rang the doorbell. To my surprise, it was not my father, but his brother Malcolm, who opened the door.
Malcolm, an ear, nose, and throat specialist, answered the door with an unfiltered Pall Mall dangling from his mouth and offered me his freshly-shaven cheek. He wore a gray tweed sports jacket with leather elbow patches, a checked button-down shirt, pink tie, and a pair of gray Hush Puppies. As he turned his head to receive my kiss, Coke and chipped ice sloshed over the side of his highball glass.
“Hello, Henry, come in.”
Grandma often described her younger son as a genius, and indeed Malcolm was likely to go off on lengthy uninterrupted diatribes about nearly anything. In particular, he loved to opine on contemporary race relations—how “the Ethnics had taken over the city.” He had an extremely lucrative otolaryngology practice on Park Avenue, along with an appointment at Columbia University’s Presbyterian Hospital. I had no way of knowing that one day Malcolm would lose his practice for inappropriately prescribing and dispensing controlled substances—and practicing medicine while impaired.
“Your father’s in the bathroom,” Malcolm said as I walked in. “You know how long he takes in there primping; he’ll be out in a minute.”
“This is some building,” I said, searching for something to say, looking around in vain for something which would remind me of our apartment on 86th. “The doorman practically frisked me before he would let me up. It was like the Spanish Inquisition.”
“I guess it depends on how you’re dressed,” boomed my father unexpectedly from the bathroom. “That’s what they get paid for—to keep out the riff-raff.” The toilet detonated on cue like an exclamation point.
“Come in, sit down, he’ll be right out,” Malcolm repeated. He twitched, and the long ash from his Pall Mall dropped onto a Persian rug unnoticed.
“What are you doing here, Uncle Malcolm? Aren’t you working today?”
“Of course,” he replied, “but your father asked me to come over here while he talked with you.”
I knew when I was asked to come over early, that I was in trouble. On a positive note, Uncle Malcolm’s presence might be read as being to my advantage, since he lacked my father’s violent temper. On the other hand, the fact that Dad found it necessary to send for his brother at all was a troubling sign that this meeting was more significant than I had anticipated.
“He’ll be right in. Any moment now.” Malcolm’s nervous agitation was another bad omen.
Yet another hint that this encounter wasn’t going to be pleasant was when I casually asked how things were going and he pulled out a revolver.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell’s that!”
“A .38-caliber,” Malcolm said between laying one lit cigarette on the side of the ashtray and lighting another. “It’s so I can park at Columbia Presbyterian without being robbed by the Schwartzas. I didn’t even repair my car after the last break-in; as soon as they see you’ve got plates with an M.D., you’ve had it. Drugs. At least I improve my chances a little by driving a Buick that looks like shit.”
Malcolm stood up and shouted in the direction of the bathroom, “Norman! Jesus Christ, aren’t you done in there yet?”
Grandpa and Grandma Schvey and their sons, Norman (left) and Malcom.
Norman Schvey, as a young boy with his pet squirrel.
Henry's grandmother, Birdie Rosen Schvey, in 1921.
Norman Schvey, Henry's father, circa 1947. A rare photograph taken at the Lerner’s apartment at 101 Central Park West.
Rita Lerner Schvey, Henry's mother, circa 1946.
Henry's parents, Norman and Rita, at their wedding in 1947.
Henry’s father, Norman Schvey, at 4 years old
Henry Schvey at 2 years old
Henry with his Lerner Grandparents outside their home at 101 Central Park West Easter Sunday, April 5, 1953.
Grandma and Grandpa Schvey outside their apartment building (The Eldorado) at 300 Central Park West.
Jay Nathan Lerner (Gramps) and Henry's mother in Central Park, c. 1950.
The Cantor chanting the blessings at Henry’s bar mitzvah, 1961.
Norman Schvey, Henry's father, at the height of his power at Merrill Lynch in the 1980s.
Henry directing a play during the time he lived and worked in the Netherlands (early 1980s).
First page of three-page article on Norman Schvey in Insight magazine.
Written by Christopher Elias, publication date June 22, 1987.
Adar's pencil sketch of Henry at age 17
Patty and Henry at the University of Wisconsin, 1967
Then he turned back to me. “I’d forgotten how long he stays in there. I guess that’s the nature of life on Wall Street. All about competition and appearance. In the hospital, as long as I don’t go on rounds with my underpants on my head, nobody says boo. And at Columbia—well, you know professors dress like slobs. Where was I?”
“Something about a Buick.”
“Oh, yeah, if I drive a crappy car, the Schwartzas are much less likely to break in and look for drugs. I didn’t even replace my radio after the last break-in. Why bother? With a radio in your car, you might as well hang out a sign that says, ‘Mug Me!’ But when the race war begins, I’ll be prepared. That’s why I don’t use banks, even though your father thinks I’m crazy not to invest in the market. That’s what we were talking about before you got here.”
“You were talking about the stock market?” I asked hopefully.
“No, race war! It’s inevitable, in my opinion.”
“What does Dad think?”
“He thinks I’m full of shit. But I’m trying to convince him to invest a few thousand with me just the same.”
“But you just said you didn’t invest in the stock market.
Malcolm smiled at my simplicity. “No. Not the market. These.” He took out a blue velvet case from his jacket pocket and twitched again. Inside was something that looked like a gold doubloon from a pirate’s treasure chest. Or maybe Hannukah geld.
“What’s that?”
“The only safe currency in the world: the South African Kruegerrand. Pure gold. Here, don’t be afraid—touch it.” I did. I lifted the coin out of its snug blue velvet case; the metal felt heavy and cold.
“You mean this is safer than banks or the stock market?” I asked.
“Of course. When the race riots start, banks are always the first things to go. Gold holds its value, and Johannesburg is the only place left that’s safe.”
“Don’t they practice apartheid there?”
“Bingo!” Malcolm said with a smile. There was a flake of tobacco on his front tooth. Another swig of Coke washed it away. Finally, he replaced the gun in its holster.
“That isn’t loaded, is it, Uncle Malcolm?”
“Not loaded?” he said with a cackle, pulling it out again. “Of course it’s loaded! What the hell’s the point of carrying a .38 if it’s not loaded? No, if you carry one of these, you’d better be ready to use it.”
There was another loud flush, and my father appeared, dressed in a dark pinstripe suit and pale blue shirt with a white spread collar. There was a mauve silk handkerchief flowi
ng from his breast pocket. He smelled like Pinaud, and while his cheeks seemed unusually rosy, it could have been red from the sting of the aftershave. It didn’t necessarily mean he was in a rage.
“Late as always,” Malcolm said, smiling, as my father came into the room.
“All right—what the fuck is going on?” Dad shouted on entering.
His entrance was meant to throw me off guard, and it succeeded.
But I was still full of Adar’s bravery and confidence. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I like your apartment? I haven’t seen it before,” I said, brazenly. “It’s a very nice apartment, Dad. Congratulations. I think that’s how we ought to begin.”
“Don’t be a smartass, Henry.”
“I’m not.”
“You know exactly why you’re here!” he snapped.
“How could I?”
“You do, and don’t think you’re too big for me to take your pants down right here in the living room and strap you right in front of your uncle.”
“Perhaps you’d like to try?” I asked defiantly.
Dad unbuckled his belt and made a strange humming sound. It was a sound that I hadn’t heard for a while, but remembered only too well. When I heard that hum, the sound of leather whishing through belt loops inevitably followed.
Malcolm interposed. “For Chrissake, Norman, this is why you called me to come over at 7:00 in the morning—to watch you take a strap to a sixteen year old?”
“All right,” my father said, buckling his belt again. “Now I want to know what’s happened, and I want the truth. Don’t lie to me.” As an aside to Malcolm, Dad said, “By the way, Malcolm, the boy’s a congenital liar.” Then he turned his attention back to me. “How did you get fired after less than two weeks at camp? Two weeks! I want to know what happened up there, and I want to know exactly what happened on the way back.”
I had walked into a trap. In an instant, all my bravado vanished, and my body went limp. Why hadn’t I anticipated where this conversation was going to go? I should have known. But now, it was too late.
“There’s really not much to tell. I was at camp, I left, and now I’m back. That’s basically it.”
“That’s not basically it, you goddamn son of a bitch. How the hell could you get fired? Your first job, too. Jesus Christ!”
“I didn’t get fired, not exactly … I … we resigned. We were accused of leaving camp grounds, but it wasn’t really true. We never left. So the honorable thing to do was—”
“Honorable? In a pig’s eye! You hear that, Malcolm? Honorable! Now tell me why you got fired!”
“I just told you.”
“And I say you’re lying. I happen to know the truth—Meyer called me. He said he suspected you and another boy were involved in doing something strange together. Something morally wrong. He said you and this other boy who was older and responsible for a whole cabin of kids, went off together one night. He got fired for neglecting the kids under his charge, and you went off with him. Is that true so far?”
“Yes and no,” I said, hesitating. Then, after a short pause, I added, “No, it isn’t.”
My father scoffed. “You see, Malcolm? You see the shit I get from him? ‘Yes and no’; ‘no and yes’. Well ‘yes and no’ ain’t going to hack it, goddammit. I want the truth!”
Malcolm stepped in again. “Henry, your father deserves an answer. He won’t tell you this, but he was really worried when the police called saying they found you in the middle of a field near New Rochelle.”
“The police?” It never occurred to me the police would contact my father. I felt trapped. I felt like I was going to pass out.
“Okay, so this is what happened. Me and this guy I became friends with spent a few hours talking late one night. He was supposed to be in his bunk inside watching the kids, it’s true, but they were asleep. Anyway, we walked for a bit and talked. Then we stayed outside, only a few hundred yards from his cabin where his campers were sleeping. He was accused of ‘dereliction of duty’, and I felt the right, the proper thing to do was to stick by him and leave, too. That’s it; that’s what happened.”
Talking about what actually happened with some fluency restored a bit of my self-confidence. I was explaining things as best as I could, finding words that conveyed something like the truth.
“Then what?” Dad asked.
“What do you mean, ‘Then what?’ I just told you what happened.”
“What happened after you and this friend left the camp together. That’s what I want to know. Meyer told me he offered the two of you a ride to the train station and you refused it! Started off on your own. On foot! That’s what he told me, and I know it’s true. So, how the hell did you get back to New York? The camp’s in Cold Spring, goddammit—it must be fifty miles away! And how did the police happen to get involved? I already know everything, so don’t try and lie your way out of it.”
“If you know everything, why do you need to ask me? And by the way, it’s actually sixty miles away, not fifty.”
“Look, you little snot-nose, answer me back one more time like that and I don’t care if Malcolm’s here or not …”
“Look,” I said, “is there anything else you want from me? ’Cause if not, I have to get going.”
My father turned to his brother and said, “He wants to know if we’re through with him? Ha!” Then he turned back to me and said smilingly, “Oh, we’re just getting started. We still don’t know how you got back and how the police got involved. You didn’t know they contacted me after you were stopped in the middle of nowhere, did you?”
“Look, Dad,” I said, trying to remain calm, “I sincerely apologize if I caused you any concern. The reason we didn’t accept the camp’s offer to take us to the station was because of the way things happened—they didn’t even ask his side of the story, so we didn’t want their charity. Once we got to the station, we thought it would be fun to walk the rest of the way.”
“Fun? Look, I hope you know that that was an insane, abnormal thing to do, walking home all that way. You do realize that?”
“Yes, Dad, I do. And I’m sorry.”
“Good,” he said, “okay.” And he lit a cigarette. Lighting one of his Kents was always a signal things were calming down. Even at his worst, when he came after me with his belt and I had to lock myself in my parents’ bathroom for an hour or more, the click of his lighter and the smell of a Kent meant the coast was clear. I felt a lot better now that he was smoking.
“Next, I want you to tell me about your relationship with this boy,” Dad added, almost as an afterthought. He took a deep drag of his cigarette.
“What’s his name, for starters?” Malcolm joined in.
“His name’s Adar.”
“What?” Dad was deaf in one ear from childhood complications of mumps and measles, but I didn’t think his hearing was a factor right now.
“His name’s Adar—it means ‘Noble One’ in Hebrew.”
“Yeah, right. His full name,” Dad asked.
“Adar Bornstein.”
“And where does he come from?”
“Brooklyn.”
“What section of Brooklyn?” my father asked, still on the attack.
“What difference does that make?” I said, knowing the name of the town would not play well with either my father or my uncle. But how could I not tell them the truth? I backed down almost immediately. “I think it’s called Canarsie.”
“Evidently from a fine family,” my father said, sarcasm dripping.
Malcolm wrinkled his nose and sniffed. It was a habit he’d always had, but now I understood what it meant; he was about to professionally diagnose my problem. “How old is the boy? I understand he’s older than you. What does he do? Is he in college?”
“He’s nineteen, I believe.”
“You believe? Or you know?” Dad interjected, leveling his cigarette at me.
“He’s nineteen years old, sir!” I saluted in mock-military style. I thought it would make them smile.
It didn’t.
“Is he in college?”
“He’s studying art at Hunter.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I wondered where we were getting, and fretted about where all these questions were leading, but didn’t ask.
“Now, your uncle wants to ask you something. Go ahead, Malcolm … ask him.”
“Well,” he sniffed, “the reason your father told me to come over this morning was to ask you—”
“What?” I felt a wave of heat like lava rise in my chest.
“If you and this nineteen-year-old boy, whom you were with for several nights alone and unsupervised, were … if you and he were … Did he touch you in any way?” Malcolm sniffed and glanced over at his elder brother for reassurance. Then he drained a last swallow of his Coke. He betrayed some nervousness as to just where this line of questioning was leading him. “So, what I’m asking you, y’understand, is this: did the two of you engage in activities which in any way might be construed as illegal?”
“Illegal? What! What are you talking about?”
“He’s asking if he’s queer!” Dad exploded. “In case you need a fucking road map, he wants to know if he’s a fucking faggot! Or if you are!” Unable to control himself, Dad jumped up from his chair, moustache twitching.
“Thank you for that nuanced clarification, Norman,” Malcolm said. “Look—if you want to deal with this issue in your own way, why did you ask me to come and talk to the boy?”
“You’re here as a physician only, Malcolm. Remember that,” Dad snarled. “I only want to get your medical opinion as to what is going on here underneath all his lies.”
The Poison Tree Page 14
