Goodbye, Columbus (21 page)

“You have rights, Mickey,” Grossbart said. “They can’t push us around.”

“It’s O.K.,” said Halpern. “It bothers my mother, not me.”

Grossbart looked at me. “Yesterday he threw up. From the hash. It was all ham and God knows what else.”

“I have a cold—that was why,” Halpern said. He pushed his yarmulke back into a cap.

“What about you, Fishbein?” I asked. “You kosher, too?”

He flushed. “A little. But I’ll let it ride. I have a very strong stomach, and I don’t eat a lot anyway.” I continued to look at him, and he held up his wrist to reinforce what he’d just said; his watch strap was tightened to the last hole, and he pointed that out to me.

“But services are important to you?” I asked him.

He looked at Grossbart. “Sure, sir.”

“‘Sergeant.’”

“Not so much at home,” said Grossbart, stepping between us, “but away from home it gives one a sense of his Jewishness.”

“We have to stick together,” Fishbein said.

I started to walk toward the door; Halpern stepped back to make way for me.

“That’s what happened in Germany,” Grossbart was saying, loud enough for me to hear. “They didn’t stick together. They let themselves get pushed around.”

I turned. “Look, Grossbart. This is the Army, not summer camp.”

He smiled. “So?”

Halpern tried to sneak off, but Grossbart held his arm.

“Grossbart, how old are you?” I asked.

“Nineteen.”

“And you?” I said to Fishbein.

“The same. The same month, even.”

“And what about him?” I pointed to Halpern, who had by now made it safely to the door.

“Eighteen,” Grossbart whispered. “But like he can’t tie his shoes or brush his teeth himself. I feel sorry for him.”

“I feel sorry for all of us, Grossbart,” I said, “but just act like a man. Just don’t overdo it.”

“Overdo what, sir?”

“The ‘sir’ business, for one thing. Don’t overdo that,” I said.

I left him standing there. I passed by Halpern, but he did not look at me. Then I was outside, but, behind, I heard Grossbart call, “Hey, Mickey, my
leben,
come on back. Refreshments!”

“
Leben!
” My grandmother’s word for me!

One morning a week later, while I was working at my desk, Captain Barrett shouted for me to come into his office. When I entered, he had his helmet liner squashed down so far on his head that I couldn’t even see his eyes. He was on the phone, and when he spoke to me, he cupped one hand over the mouthpiece. “Who the hell is Grossbart?”

“Third platoon, Captain,” I said. “A trainee.”

“What’s all this stink about food? His mother called a goddam congressman about the food.” He uncovered the mouthpiece and slid his helmet up until I could see his bottom eyelashes. “Yes, sir,” he said into the phone. “Yes, sir. I’m still here, sir. I’m asking Marx, here, right now—”

He covered the mouthpiece again and turned his head back toward me. “Lightfoot Harry’s on the phone,” he said, between his teeth. “This congressman calls General Lyman, who calls Colonel Sousa, who calls the Major, who calls me. They’re just dying to stick this thing on me. Whatsa matter?” He shook the phone at me. “I don’t feed the troops? What is this?”

“Sir, Grossbart is strange—” Barrett greeted that with a mockingly indulgent smile. I altered my approach. “Captain, he’s a very orthodox Jew, and so he’s only allowed to eat certain foods.”

“He throws up, the congressman said. Every time he eats something, his mother says, he throws up!”

“He’s accustomed to observing the dietary laws, Captain.”

“So why’s his old lady have to call the White House?”

“Jewish parents, sir—they’re apt to be more protective than you expect. I mean, Jews have a very close family life. A boy goes away from home, sometimes the mother is liable to get very upset. Probably the boy mentioned something in a letter, and his mother misinterpreted.”

“I’d like to punch him one right in the mouth,” the Captain said. “There’s a war on, and he wants a silver platter!”

“I don’t think the boy’s to blame, sir. I’m sure we can straighten it out by just asking him. Jewish parents worry—”

“
All
parents worry, for Christ’s sake. But they don’t get on their high horse and start pulling strings—”

I interrupted, my voice higher, tighter than before. “The home life, Captain, is very important—but you’re right, it may sometimes get out of hand. It’s a very wonderful thing, Captain, but because it’s so close, this kind of thing…”

He didn’t listen any longer to my attempt to present both myself and Lightfoot Harry with an explanation for the letter. He turned back to the phone. “Sir?” he said. “Sir—Marx, here, tells me Jews have a tendency to be pushy. He says he thinks we can settle it right here in the company…. Yes, sir…. I
will
call back, sir, soon as I can.” He hung up. “Where are the men, Sergeant?”

“On the range.”

With a whack on the top of his helmet, he crushed it down over his eyes again, and charged out of his chair. “We’re going for a ride,” he said.

The Captain drove, and I sat beside him. It was a hot spring day, and under my newly starched fatigues I felt as though my armpits were melting down onto my sides and chest. The roads were dry, and by the time we reached the firing range, my teeth felt gritty with dust, though my mouth had been shut the whole trip. The Captain slammed the brakes on and told me to get the hell out and find Grossbart.

I found him on his belly, firing wildly at the five-hundred-feet target. Waiting their turns behind him were Halpern and Fishbein. Fishbein, wearing a pair of steel-rimmed G.I. glasses I hadn’t seen on him before, had the appearance of an old peddler who would gladly have sold you his rifle and the cartridges that were slung all over him. I stood back by the ammo boxes, waiting for Grossbart to finish spraying the distant targets. Fishbein straggled back to stand near me.

“Hello, Sergeant Marx,” he said.

“How are you?” I mumbled.

“Fine, thank you. Sheldon’s really a good shot.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“I’m not so good, but I think I’m getting the hang of it now. Sergeant, I don’t mean to, you know, ask what I shouldn’t—” The boy stopped. He was trying to speak intimately, but the noise of the shooting forced him to shout at me.

“What is it?” I asked. Down the range, I saw Captain Barrett standing up in the jeep, scanning the line for me and Grossbart.

“My parents keep asking and asking where we’re going,” Fishbein said. “Everybody says the Pacific. I don’t care, but my parents—If I could relieve their minds, I think I could concentrate more on my shooting.”

“I don’t know where, Fishbein. Try to concentrate anyway.”

“Sheldon says you might be able to find out.”

“I don’t know a thing, Fishbein. You just take it easy, and don’t let Sheldon—”

“
I’m
taking it easy, Sergeant. It’s at home—”

Grossbart had finished on the line, and was dusting his fatigues with one hand. I called to him. “Grossbart, the Captain wants to see you.”

He came toward us. His eyes blazed and twinkled. “Hi!”

“Don’t point that rifle!” I said.

“I wouldn’t shoot you, Sarge.” He gave me a smile as wide as a pumpkin, and turned the barrel aside.

“Damn you, Grossbart, this is no joke! Follow me.”

I walked ahead of him, and had the awful suspicion that, behind me, Grossbart was
marching,
his rifle on his shoulder, as though he were a one-man detachment. At the jeep, he gave the Captain a rifle salute. “Private Sheldon Grossbart, sir.”

“At ease, Grossman.” The Captain sat down, slid over into the empty seat, and, crooking a finger, invited Grossbart closer.

“Bart, sir. Sheldon Gross
bart
. It’s a common error.” Grossbart nodded at me; I understood, he indicated. I looked away just as the mess truck pulled up to the range, disgorging a half-dozen KP.s with rolled-up sleeves. The mess sergeant screamed at them while they set up the chowline equipment.

“Grossbart, your mama wrote some congressman that we don’t feed you right. Do you know that?” the Captain said.

“It was my father, sir. He wrote to Representative Franconi that my religion forbids me to eat certain foods.”

“What religion is that, Grossbart?”

“Jewish.”

“‘Jewish,
sir;
” I said to Grossbart.

“Excuse me, sir. Jewish, sir.”

“What have you been living on?” the Captain asked. “You’ve been in the Army a month already. You don’t look to me like you’re falling to pieces.”

“I eat because I have to, sir. But Sergeant Marx will testify to the fact that I don’t eat one mouthful more than I need to in order to survive.”

“Is that so, Marx?” Barrett asked.

“I’ve never seen Grossbart eat, sir,” I said.

“But you heard the rabbi,” Grossbart said. “He told us what to do, and I listened.”

The Captain looked at me. “Well, Marx?”

“I still don’t know what he eats and doesn’t eat, sir.”

Grossbart raised his arms to plead with me, and it looked for a moment as though he were going to hand me his weapon to hold. “But, Sergeant—”

“Look, Grossbart, just answer the Captain’s questions,” I said sharply.

Barrett smiled at me, and I resented it. “All right, Grossbart,” he said. “What is it you want? The little piece of paper? You want out?”

“No, sir. Only to be allowed to live as a Jew. And for the others, too.”

“What others?”

“Fishbein, sir, and Halpern.”

“They don’t like the way we serve, either?”

“Halpern throws up, sir. I’ve seen it.”

“I thought
you
throw up.”

“Just once, sir. I didn’t know the sausage was sausage.”

“We’ll give menus, Grossbart. We’ll show training films about the food, so you can identify when we’re trying to poison you.”

Grossbart did not answer. The men had been organized into two long chow lines. At the tail end of one, I spotted Fishbein—or, rather, his glasses spotted me. They winked sunlight back at me. Halpern stood next to him, patting the inside of his collar with a khaki handkerchief. They moved with the line as it began to edge up toward the food. The mess sergeant was still screaming at the K.P.s. For a moment, I was actually terrified by the thought that somehow the mess sergeant was going to become involved in Grossbart’s problem.

“Marx,” the Captain said, “you’re a Jewish fella—am I right?”

I played straight man. “Yes, sir.”

“How long you been in the Army? Tell this boy.”

“Three years and two months.”

“A year in combat, Grossbart. Twelve goddam months in combat all through Europe. I admire this man.” The Captain snapped a wrist against my chest. “Do you hear him peeping about the food? Do you? I want an answer, Grossbart. Yes or no.”

“No, sir.”

“And why not? He’s a Jewish fella.”

“Some things are more important to some Jews than other things to other Jews.”

Barrett blew up. “Look, Grossbart. Marx, here, is a good man—a goddam hero. When you were in high school, Sergeant Marx was killing Germans. Who does more for the jews—you, by throwing up over a lousy piece of sausage, a piece of first-cut meat, or Marx, by killing those Nazi bastards? If I was a Jew, Grossbart, I’d kiss this man’s feet. He’s a goddam hero, and
he
eats what we give him. Why do you have to cause trouble is what I want to know! What is it you’re buckin’ for—a discharge?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m talking to a wall! Sergeant, get him out of my way.” Barrett swung himself back into the driver’s seat. “I’m going to see the chaplain.” The engine roared, the jeep spun around in a whirl of dust, and the Captain was headed back to camp.

For a moment, Grossbart and I stood side by side, watching the jeep. Then he looked at me and said, “I don’t want to start trouble. That’s the first thing they toss up to us.”

When he spoke, I saw that his teeth were white and straight, and the sight of them suddenly made me understand that Grossbart actually did have parents—that once upon a time someone had taken little Sheldon to the dentist. He was their son. Despite all the talk about his parents, it was hard to believe in Grossbart as a child, an heir—as related by blood to anyone, mother, father, or, above all, to me. This realization led me to another.

“What does your father do, Grossbart?” I asked as we started to walk back toward the chow line.

“He’s a tailor.”

“An American?”

“Now, yes. A son in the Army,” he said, jokingly.

“And your mother?” I asked.

He winked. “A
ballabusta.
She practically sleeps with a dustcloth in her hand.”

“She’s also an immigrant?”

“All she talks is Yiddish, still.”

“And your father, too?”

“A little English. ‘Clean,’ ‘Press,’ ‘Take the pants in.’ That’s the extent of it. But they’re good to me.”