East Side Stories:Tales of Jewish Life in the Lower East Side of New York in the 1930's (26 page)

Earl began to pick up his books. “Got to go,” he said. “See you.”

As Earl began to walk away Marty said to him, “See you in Spanish class.”

Without slowing his pace Earl replied, “Yeah.”

Marty saw Earl disappear into Townsend Harris Hall. There was still a little time before the next class and he glanced at his Spanish book and began to read hearing in his mind Professor Garcia’s accented voice saying, I cannod be responsible for the lazy teachers.

Later, in the Spanish class, before Marty or anybody else could mention something about smoking, Professor Garcia began the recitation by calling on one of the students to begin reading the assignment. It was evident that there would be no discussion on no zmoking today. The Spanish lesson was on in earnest, it could not be derailed. The first student finished with his reading and translation, the professor called on another student, then another. The fourth student to be called on was Earl.

Earl, tense, nervous, began reading slowly and deliberately. As hard as he tried he could not remove his Southern drawl, it seeped into the Spanish words he uttered.

Suddenly furious Professor Garcia shouted out, “No, no, no! It is enough!
Por dios,
what is wrong with you, eh? You cannod pronounce the words like they should!” Earl stopped, frozen, his face rigid, his eyes almost closed, the jaw muscles of his face knotting and moving. And Professor Garcia, anger spread on his face, his clenched fist banging on his desk, that anger now in his speech making his English even more accented, said, “I cannod onnerstan’ how you have this terrible accend in Es-panish. What is wrong with you, eh?”

Marty couldn’t bear to look at Earl’s face any longer, it was too much. Filled with anger he turned away, stared hard at Professor Garcia, hating him now, hearing those damned mispronounced English words beating on Earl.

 GYPSY

It was a mistake, she knew it. She shouldn’t have said it, she knew too well that it would begin the argument, the words would become louder and louder, the exchanges more hurting. It had been just a few words but it would end in a war.

I don’t like that name, she had said looking away from her father as he sat across the kitchen table. He, as he always had, had called her by her Hebrew name, Itteh.

What do you mean? he had said suddenly looking up from his supper plate, his voice rising in anger, his face setting in steely fury, his eyes narrowing. Itteh, Itteh, that’s, your name. That’s what it is. Itteh in Hebrew, Yetta in English. And Zuckerman after that, the last name. Tzuckermann he had said, pronouncing it the Old Country way. She had not been able to stop it, the words had erupted from her mouth and she had thought bitterly, I hate that name, do you understand? And now, wishing she hadn’t said that simple phrase, the argument had become joined, her father’s face had become even more rigid. It had taken on its cast of retribution, those eyes of his now becoming larger and larger. Her mother at the stove holding a plate of boiled chicken that was to be her own serving, had now become a statue there except for her eyes rolling then momentarily staring up at the ceiling of the room.

She turned her glance away from her mother and said, “I don’t like the name, Yetta Zuckerman,” the words were uncontrollable, surging up within her in a tide that her mouth couldn’t stop. “It’s from the old Country, it’s—”

“Shut up!” her father shouted slamming his fist down on the porcelain top of the kitchen table. “You must be crazy! Yes!” He turned to his wife near him now at the table, she mechanically placed her half-filled plate on the table as she glanced hurriedly at her husband then her daughter. “You hear that, hah?” Yetta’s father was saying. “You hear that from a daughter? She’s ashamed. Of her name, Itteh, that was her great grandmother’s name, she’s ashamed of our name, Zuckerman. Our name, you hear that?”

Yetta’s mother stared at her daughter as she said, “You should be ashamed. To say a thing like that.”

“It’s nineteen thirty-five. The twentieth century. It’s not like the Old Country, a hundred years ago. Here it’s different. You don’t need the old names, the old customs.”

“You need the new, hah?” her father said to her in a barely controlled tone of voice. “You’re going to be the new person. Free. Yeah?” He turned towards his wife and said to her, “You hear that? Free. Hah?” He turned once more to his daughter and said, “Free to do what? Free to live how? Tell me. You know so much, tell me.”

His face jutted across the table, she could hear his heavy breathing, could see the muscles of his jaw tensed and knotted.

Yetta shut her eyes and said wearily, “You don’t understand.”

Why had she started all of this? It was all useless, the words, the anger, going round and round in tighter and tighter coils, nothing resolved, it never was. What came out of it all was her anguish which she couldn’t stand, this living on the Lower East Side in this tenement which she couldn’t bear, always being forced to be, to do what she didn’t want.

I don’t want it! her mind silently shouted out to her. I can’t stand it! I won’t have it! I can’t, I can’t!

And her father clean-shaven except for his small Van Dyke beard, a man who should know better, he had run from Russia to escape the hated life there, the pogroms, the forced conscription into the army, the Russian Pale, the anti-Semitism. He had run from Russia to America, had gone to night school, had totally mastered the English language, had found work as a writer for the Jewish newspaper, the “Forward,” who spoke English well except for that lingering foreign accent, a man who seemed liberated to everybody around them but as far as she was concerned was still shackled to the old ways and would forever remain chained to the ghetto mentality.

And her mother... With that thought Yetta had shrugged to herself. Her mother, a housekeeper, that was her life. That and to bear children although she had had only Yetta. There was more to life than that, than washing clothes, preparing meals, being a drudge.

Her father said mimicking her words, “I don’t understand, hah?” He gave a humorless laugh. “You, you don’t understand. Nothing, you hear? Not one single thing.” He shook his head in disbelief, turned to his silent wife who still stood motionless at the table and said to her, “Eighteen years old and she knows everything. I don’t know, her mother doesn’t know. I don’t understand, her mother doesn’t understand. Only she knows.” He turned to his daughter and said bitterly, “You know nothing. You’re an idiot.” And audibly, to himself, “To have a daughter like that.”

This time Yetta remained silent, there was no sense in arguing, it led nowhere. She would have to get out, get her own place, make her own world, be her own person, not a puppet worked by the whims of her parents.

She shut her eyes momentarily and said fiercely to herself, I can’t stay. It’s hell. I must leave.

Previously, over two years ago, Edie Romany had moved from her other apartment in Greenwich Village to a new place on Bank Street which she shared with two other women. The new apartment was small, it had two bedrooms, but it was all they could afford, they managed, one of them sleeping on the day bed in the living room. They were friends, they seemed to understand one another and they understood that when one of them wanted the sole use of the apartment for a night, the others would find a place to sleep somewhere else, at a friend’s. And there were times when the three of them went out together to somewhere in the Village, just to sit and talk, have something to eat and drink.

They spoke of literature, one of them wanted to be a writer; they spoke of art, the other woman wanted to be an artist. They spoke of current news topics, one of the women was radical, speaking mainly of the class struggle, of the bourgeoisie, of capitalist imperialism. But in spite of that woman’s radical speeches, she seemed to be a nice person and she fit in well with Edie and the third woman who was less radical although she was caught up in social issues, the problems of the poor, of the Negro, in the necessity of having a union for all workers.

That was all well and good. But while she, Edie, was interested in social issues too, she was a Gypsy. With her dark skin, her black hair, her dark eyes like two large olives, wearing her two large hoop earrings which danced down upon her cheeks when she moved, her skirt with its many colors, a vividly-hued blouse, black espadrilles laced above her ankles, she knew that she was different from the other two. They never called her Gypsy to her face, only Edie. But when others spoke of her, she was called the Gypsy.

She had moved many times and had shared many apartments in the Village. often it was the incompatibility of those she had lived with, other times because the places had been too small and too cramped. once she had lived alone in a single small room but it had been a sort of a prison for her, a place to run from.

Before the war she had worked in several factories, one of them at a machine sewing men’s ties, another in a small place that manufactured cosmetics. She had gone from that to being a waitress in the Village Barn on Eighth Street, the money was better, it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either, you lived on tips, the hours were terrible, you started in the evening and worked till the place stopped serving late at night. Edie wanted the night hours for herself, to be able to date, to go out somewhere with a man and enjoy herself. She didn’t want to be tied to that night job, to have to work weekends, it was not for her. She had waitressed in one place after another during the war, but still not satisfied, she had looked around and finally found a job she now held in the Village, selling costume jewelry at Frankie Tomaselli’s shop.

Frankie was a wild one, working bare-chested at his bench, an acetylene torch in his hand, welding his designs together, the flare of the torch lighting up his skin. Visible to all who entered his shop, he would glance up momentarily when someone entered and if it was a pretty woman he would stop his work, and torch still held in his hand would survey the woman closely. If the visitor met his expectations he would give her a great smile, nod his head in appreciation and slowly return to his work.

He was an easy boss, he allowed Edie to wear his jewelry on loan, whenever she felt she wanted to wear new earrings or a pin or a ring. He loved to joke, telling stories as he worked, making Edie laugh.

He went out with many women during those first few months when Edie was working at the shop. But one day he asked her to go out with him the coming Saturday night to Cafe Society Downtown, a nightclub, to hear Josh White sing his songs while that guitar, Josh’s guitar, would thrum out those unbelievable chords that was Josh’s trademark.

At the nightclub, Josh, an unlit cigarette tucked at an angle over one ear, sang one folksong after another, his high warm voice fused with the guitar chords which sang to her. After the show, at their table, Edie and Frankie watched as Josh moved onto the floor of the nightclub, expertly weaving between the small tables crowded near one another, making his stops here and there, bending slightly to speak to someone, laughing, his laughter loud and deep.

“He sure is something” Frankie said to Edie. “You can’t help noticing him, can you?” Frankie turned his face away from Josh and stared at Edie as he said, “You know, I like being with you. You enjoy everything so much, you really do.

She smiled at him and said, “You do too, Frank.” She had never called him Frankie although that was his name in her mind.

“It’s Frankie, Frankie,” he said.

“You too, Frankie,” she said with a bright laugh. “You know,” she said, “it’s different being here with you than it is when were both in the store together, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Lots.” He puffed on his cigarette, exhaled, and said, the white smoke coming from his mouth, “We got to change that somewhat, okay?”

Josh stopped at their table. He knew Frankie who insisted that Josh sit down at their table and have a drink with them. Frankie introduced Edie to Josh, caught the waiter who was passing by and ordered drinks for all of them.

“A Gypsy?” Josh said staring at her. “You mean, a real one?”

Sure,” Frankie replied. “I pick the good ones, don’t I? The different ones. She’s a Gypsy princess too. No run-of-the-mill ones for me.”

“A Gypsy princess,” Josh said.

Edie said, “And no run-of-the-mill ones for me either.” Turning to Josh she said, “I know what they call him, Wild Frankie. They don’t call him that for nothing. He sure isn’t your average guy, is he?”

“It’s a tough world,” Frankie said. “You got to be wild to bear all those troubles that hit you. Right, Josh?”

“Right,” Josh replied. He lifted his glass, nodded to them in a silent toast and downed the drink. “Got to go,” Josh said with a laugh. “I got some friends out there I got to say hello to. You know how it is.” And to Edie, “Glad to meet you.” Tilting his head he said, “A real Gypsy. What do you know. A princess too.” He arose from his chair, moved on to another table nearby, bent to talk to someone there, laughed loud and long.

At their table Edie and Frankie watched as Josh moved on, snaking between tables, making his stops, laughing, touring the room.

Frankie and Edie had a good time the remainder of the evening. Talking, smoking, having something to eat, watching the show. To Edie it was a wonderful first date.

Before her second date with Frankie a few weeks later, she attempted to compartmentalize her role with Frankie and her feelings towards him. While she was in the store, she worked for Frankie. He was her boss. Period. And when he had taken her out to Cafe Society, that had been something else. To her he was another

Frankie, a date unencumbered by who he was at the store. On a date he’s someone else, no boss.

He asked her for another date. They went to the Village Vanguard, they pushed their way through the crowd at the door. Frankie approached the head waiter and said to him as he shook his hand, “I love you, pal. Get a nice table for me.”

“Hey,” the head waiter replied with a laugh. “Who don’t love me? They all love me on Saturday night, they want that good table. And they all love Frankie. Right?”

They were given a table near the small stage. Soon the Iron Duke appeared singing his Calypso songs, taking topics shouted out by the crowd, instantly forming and rhyming the lyrics. Edie found herself caught up in the atmosphere, she loved the Iron Duke, she loved his singing, she loved the nightclub, she loved being there with Frankie.

They danced after the show, Frankie became wilder and wilder, snapping his fingers loudly to the beat of the music, spinning and moving quickly so that slowly at first, some of the other couples on the floor stood on the side of the dance floor and watched Frankie and Edie glide and gyrate. When the music was over, there was wild applause from the onlookers. Frankie bowed several times to the grinning audience.

“I liked that,” he said when they were at their table once more. “Didn’t you?”

Edie said with a laugh, “It’s crazy. You’re crazy. And I love it.”

“’Yeah,” he replied. “I love it too. And I am crazy. And you’re a little crazy too. We make a good pair, don’t we?”

“How do you mean?” she replied.

“We ought to be together, living together. Right?” He stared into her face and said, “Why not?”

“Well . . .” she said. Well ... she thought, why not? Why not enjoy life while I can? And I will with Frankie. What am I waiting for?