Measure of a Man (17 page)

“No, never,” she said.

“Well, tonight we’ll fix that,” I said in my most debonair tone.

“That would be lovely,” she said excitedly.

In my mind I was a regular Casanova. I laid it on extra thick. “Do you like music?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” she said.

“Would you like to see Doris Day in concert with me tonight?” I asked with a sly smile.

“Doris Day! I love her! That would be wonderful!” she gushed.

That night we ate fine food at the Adolphus and were treated to the incredible Doris Day. I had seen enough American movies to know this was the kind of sweep-you-off-your-feet romance and spontaneity American women apparently loved. If nothing else, I figured this must be how it feels to be a business tycoon or Hollywood mogul—the kind of gent who could afford the Hotel Adolphus’s pricey hotel rooms.

After a night like that, I was in no rush for the government officials and American Airlines to resolve my immigration situation. The next four days, I went to the Columbian, wooed girls, secured dinner dates, had “my” driver take me back to the hotel, showed off my “home away from home” at the Adolphus, and enjoyed fine dinners followed by another performance of the incomparable Doris Day.

After nearly a week in Dallas, American Airlines offered to fly me back to New York
gratis
. They had flown me to Dallas without informing me that my Czechoslovakian ancestry and non-U.S. citizen status would prevent me from entering Mexico and
apologized for the inconvenience. That wasn’t good enough. “I’m not going to fly with your airline. I want back the money my uncle paid you. Now!” I demanded. Tired of dealing with me, they coughed up the cash. I went to the railway station and asked how much it would cost to ride the train from Dallas to New York. The trip would take at least a day and a half and cost thirty-five dollars. I bought a ticket for the next train to New York.

The train was filled with U.S. soldiers. The parade of uniforms reminded me of mine. I envied those men on the train. I wanted to join the American Army when I got here. When I registered for the draft, they made me a 4-F because of my hand injuries. I begged the recruitment officer, insisting, falsely, that I was fine. (I later had to undergo extensive reconstructive hand surgery.) But it was to no avail.

Our train stopped in St. Louis, Missouri, for a layover. With a couple of hours to burn, I scanned the bustling waiting area for an open seat and sat down. A few minutes later, a towering white civilian walked up, grabbed me by the tie, and yanked me up and on my feet. I punched him. Two policemen raced over to untangle us. “He almost choked me, officer!” I said.

“You hit him! We saw you do it!” barked one of the policemen.

“He choked me! What would you have done? I don’t even know this man! Why in the hell did he rush me and try to choke me with my necktie?!” I said.

“Sir,” said the officer, “you were sitting in the colored section.”

“I was
what?
” I asked.

“The colored section. You’re white. These people are black,” he said.

I looked around. He was right. To a person, the people in my section were black.

“You’re not supposed to sit here,” the officer explained. “See those drinking fountains? Look at the signs.”

This was the first time in America I had been confronted with segregation. I didn’t understand. Before I was liberated from Buchenwald, I had never seen a black person. Then, in another country somewhere, I saw a black soldier without a gun. I was told he wasn’t allowed to carry a weapon, because of his skin color. Segregation struck me as ignorant and hateful. But that took place in a different country. I wasn’t aware how deep the color line ran in America.

The year I arrived in America was the year Jackie Robinson desegregated baseball. It was also the first time a racially integrated team played in a World Series. But I’d never seen segregation in a public setting, not until I came to St. Louis. Indeed, many years later I learned that the famous entertainer Josephine Baker, a native of St. Louis, refused to perform in her hometown until 1952, when its segregation laws were eased.

I looked around the train station and saw no open seats. I sat back down in the black section. A few minutes later, the train was ready to go. So was I.

I got on the train and put my suitcase in the seat beside me. A flirty blond girl asked if I was saving the seat for someone. “No,” I said, waving her into the seat. “Where are you headed?”

“The Poconos,” she replied.

I didn’t know what that meant, but she was pretty.

“Wonderful,” I said. “I’m going to Brooklyn, New York.”

We hit it off. Within a couple hours I had my arm around her and we kissed.

“You should come with me to the mountains!” she said. She was energetic, girlish, cute.

“Oh, I . . . I’m not sure. I need to be getting on to. . . .”

“
Please?
Come on. It will be fun! I promise.”

“Well . . . you see . . . the truth is I don’t have enough money with me. I got stuck in Dallas for days and. . . .”

“Don’t worry about that. I have money. My family is rich. You’re coming with me,” she said, kissing my cheek.

At the next train stop I called Kalvin and asked him to wire me some money. He refused and asked why I wasn’t in Mexico. When I told him I didn’t have time to explain, he got annoyed and hung up. I hopped back on the train.

“I can’t let you pay for me,” I told the girl. “I tried to get my roommate to wire me money but he wouldn’t.”

“Why are you still talking about money? You’re coming with me, remember? I already decided that.”

I went to the Poconos.

We spent two fun-filled, romantic days at an enchanting resort in the Poconos. The carefree life of the upper class appealed to me. I never imagined people lived so spontaneously. I wanted to earn that kind of personal freedom for myself. I wanted to be somebody.

With exactly enough money to take the train to Grand Central and the subway to Brooklyn, I returned home and told Kalvin all about my new “girlfriend.” She and I exchanged a few letters, but I never saw her again.

As for Helen, I only saw her once more. Kalvin and I went to a movie. I looked down in the front rows and there she was. I couldn’t stand the thought of facing her, so I got up and left.

Traveling through America helped me discover who I was and what I wanted. It taught me not to settle for second best, either personally or professionally. I wasn’t going to marry just anyone. I would wait for my dream girl. Same thing for my career. I was in it for the long run. I didn’t want to work for a suit company; I wanted to
own
a suit company. I aspired to do things my way, earn the funds and freedom to travel on airplanes, enjoy luxurious vacations.

Those first two years in America confirmed that I had arrived in a nation of infinite possibilities. They gave me cause to dream. A life of mediocrity held no interest for me. I wanted to run and work with the best.

Five years to the day I arrived in America, I became a U.S. citizen. The patriotic pride I felt that day has never ebbed. It has intensified. There isn’t a person who loves America more than I do. The United States is the best damn country the world has ever known. Anyone who questions that hasn’t been where I’ve been, hasn’t seen what I’ve seen.

I maximized every opportunity GGG gave me. By 1956, I had worked my way up from supervisor to head quality man in charge of inspecting garments at all stages of production to ensure proper quality. The job paid $110 a week, enough to support the one thing I wanted most: a family of my own.

In April, a coworker’s wife set me up on a blind date with a “gorgeous girl” a few months younger than I. She had graduated from Lincoln High School in Coney Island and worked as an executive secretary at Fuller Fabrics. “That’s all I know. Here’s her
name and number,” my coworker said, handing me a piece of paper. “Give her a call or don’t.” I read her name: “Arlene Bergen.” Sounded like a good Jewish name.
What the heck?
I thought.
Give her a call. He did use the word “gorgeous,” after all
.

I called Arlene. I could tell my strong accent threw her off. She seemed nice enough but said the soonest she could get together was in two weeks—on a Wednesday, no less. I didn’t know if that was her polite way of blowing me off. I took my chances and set the date.

The day of our blind date, I washed and waxed my beige and black Mercury and pressed my GGG suit before making my way to her family’s home in Sea Gate. Her parents greeted me at the door and ushered me into their living room to wait until Arlene emerged. A stunning, petite brunette with alluring blue eyes and a sweet smile walked into the living room and stopped time.

You know those moments in your life that you know—absolutely know to the core of your being—that something life altering, something momentous just happened? This was one of those moments
.

What I did not know at the time was that three other young men—all of whose names began with “M”—were courting her as well. She had instructed her mother not to use my first name for fear she might slip up and accidently refer to me as Morty, Milton, or Morris.

Had I known how gorgeous she was—and how much competition I was up against—I might have planned a more romantic date. Instead, I took Arlene to a Brooklyn nightclub called Ben Maksik’s Town and Country at Flatbush Avenue and Avenue V. The club was
considered one of the area’s hot spots, with people coming in from Manhattan to see and be seen. We danced all night.

A couple of dates later I asked Arlene to go steady with me. She refused. “I don’t believe in ‘going steady,’” she said confidently. “You either know what you want and are serious enough to marry me, or you don’t.”

What an answer
, I thought.
What a woman
. From then on, I knew Arlene was the girl for me.

A few months later, I went shopping in the city for an engagement ring. After visits to several jewelry stores, my shopping came to an abrupt end when I walked into the next shop and discovered that the proprietor, incredibly enough, was the man I had borrowed ten dollars from on the
Ernie Pyle
. “Remember me?!” I said smiling.

“I’m . . . I’m afraid I. . . .”

“The boat! The
Ernie Pyle
. The poker game!” I said.

“Oh . . . yes, yes, yes. I remember now. Yes,” he said smiling.

“You loaned me the ten dollars. I promised I would repay you. I’m here to repay you by buying my girl’s engagement ring from you!” I said.

We looked at ring after ring and shared all that had happened since arriving in America. He tried to extend an extra discount. I refused. A fair price was all I wanted; I was happy to see him make a profit. “Consider it an interest payment on the loan,” I said with a chuckle.

Arlene and I were married December 23, 1956, when the GGG factory shut down for the Christmas holiday. Mr. Goldman prayed over the
challah
(bread) and cut it.

Shortly after the wedding, we rented a small apartment in Brooklyn on Ocean Parkway near Brighton Beach. The first week of marriage, Arlene and I brought home paychecks. Hers was $115. Mine was $110. The next day I took both checks to GGG and found Mr. Goldman. “Here’s my wife’s check. And here is mine,” I said holding them side by side in front of his face. “Either they are paying her too much, or you are paying me too little,” I said.

GGG doubled my salary overnight.