Up From Orchard Street (31 page)

However, Willy and I were experts on the “out of town” technicalities. Some of our neighbors, a year or two older than we, didn’t show up at school because they were hauled off to “out of town” juvenile facilities.

“Clayton was too embarrassed to tell us,” I reasoned. We turned at Essex Street, past Seward Park High School, on our way to Delancey, throwing our leaflets into doorways. It didn’t occur to us that tenement dwellers didn’t know or care that Manya delivers.

At Delancey Street Willy left me and hopped, skipped and panted for home. I did one side of Clinton Street, then the other, returned to Delancey, crossed under the El, went past the Bowery into Little Italy. I was hot, exhausted and thirsty. Willy still wouldn’t leave Jewish territory, but I had no fear because my father visited Rocco, his bookie, on almost a daily basis and Rocco was the law in his domain. Nothing could harm me because of Rocco.

Sure enough, as soon as his ever watchful eye caught sight of me, he gave two shrill whistles. “Hey, Jack’s kid—over here.”

Rocco conducted his business on the sidewalk. There may have been hours that he spent with his wife, his children, his aunts and uncles, his mistresses, but whenever I glimpsed Rocco he had his feet planted on the sidewalk outside his shoeshine stand, close to his mother’s restaurant. He always wore a freshly laundered shirt and his silk jackets, made to order for him, ranged in color from steel gray to navy blue to black. You knew whether Rocco had gone to a funeral service because of his sleek black shiny outfit. Except for the mole close to his left nostril, he was handsome, with chiseled Roman features, massive hair and sensuous lips.

It was difficult to tell where Rocco began and his cronies and political friends left off. Men in hats and undershirts sat close by on folding chairs. Kibitzers and informants in garish bright yellow, green or black satin shirts hovered near, while his “runners” who took bets on horses or numbers swarmed through the streets. Sheets of the
Daily News
lay underfoot—it was the paper of choice in Little Italy—as well as butcher paper from sandwiches, Popsicle sticks, fluted paper cups soggy from gelato or ices, debris hurled from windows, soda and beer bottles that rolled into the gutters. Rocco, whose connections were varied and extensive, had a water truck with massive brushes come by every morning to clean his personal street, and leave the junk on the next block. By late afternoon, though, the sidewalk was as cluttered as the day before.

Division Street lay within spitting distance of both Chinatown and Little Italy, yet not a single merchant on the street feared robberies, gang invasions, or random violence. By an unwritten law, the Jewish ghetto had its own bureaucracy, its own corruption, its own petty thieves, bookies, numbers runners, con men. They protected or abused their own and ruled their territory like city-states, without hostilities against the Italians or Chinese.

More than one Jewish bookie had approached Jack for his patronage but he resolutely refused to leave Rocco—they had attended junior high together, in a building located on the cusp of Little Italy. The crossover could not be severed.

“What you doing here?” Rocco asked me.

“Passing these out.” I handed him a yellow sheet. He read with his lips, moving them quietly to pronounce every word.

“What’s this ‘Manya Delivers’? Business lousy?”

I had had nothing to eat or drink since rising. My blouse from the day before clung to my back, my shorts had black newsprint over them, my sneakers were stained with grime.

“You want a lemon ice?”

I had been taught to say “No thanks” though I was dying for one. “A glass of water would be good.”

Rocco’s cousins, named Salvatore and Dominic, were referred to as Sal and Dom. Rocco put two fingers to his lips and emitted a shrill whistle. His cousin Dom lifted his head from the ices stand. “Double lemon ice and a big glass water,” Rocco instructed.

My hands shook as I reached for the water. I drank it down without pausing for breath. I would have gladly rubbed the lemon ice over my face instead of licking it.

“How long you been walking?”

“An hour or two.”

Rocco studied me with bemusement. “You’re a gutsy kid.”

I was afraid to lift my eyes to his.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked. “No offense.”

“No offense.” You had to hand this to Rocco—his tactfulness.

“See this street?” he asked. “Pizza parlor on every corner and one in the middle of the block.” He waited for this information to sink in to indicate that he shared something earthshaking.

“You know what I say about the Jews? Brains and good food.”

The yellow leaflet slipped from his fingers to the sidewalk. “In your neighborhood every street has a restaurant, a delicatessen, an ice cream parlor, a soda fountain. You get it? You got it?”

I thought hard. Tears welled in my eyes when I realized Rocco’s meaning.

“No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings.”

“Hey, you want my mother should make you a meatball sandwich for the way home?”

I shook my head. Carefully. It wouldn’t do for Rocco to catch me crying.

“Here’s my advice,” he said. “Don’t say nothing to your Bubby. You gave it your best shot.” He rumpled my damp sticky hair. I put out my hand stained with lemon ice to shake his. “Thank you for the ices, and what you said.”

“Wait,” he whistled again. “Where’s Abe?”

“Around the corner,” one of his flunkies said and set off at a trot. Abe Abramovitz pulled up in a brand-new black-and-white taxicab.

“Take the kid home.”

“What’s she doing here?”

“She’ll tell you if she wants.”

I started for the front seat but Abe insisted that I slide into the back. The seats were luxurious and I was afraid to stain them with my dirty hands. Abe sported a new cap decorated with black and gold braid. He had a fresh haircut, clean hands and a white shirt set off by a black leather tie.

I leaned forward. “Abe, what are you doing in Little Italy and who owns this fancy cab?”

“To make it short, I work there part-time. They own the car. I drive it.”

My head whirled. Lil’s early morning call, my walk with the leaflets, my conversation with Rocco and now this, Abe Abramovitz no longer in a dented filthy car but in a shiny extra large taxi.

“Abe, are you working for one of the gangs?”

“Get outta here.”

“Who then?”

“They have a businessman come down to do business, I’m there to take him uptown to a hotel or La Guardia, with a new meter and a phone. You want me, you call my number. Me, little Abie who left school in 4B, a car with a phone. Real class. And here’s my card. Any one of you, even Clayton, you want to drive somewhere, you call me, I’m right there.”

“Is it the Cherry Street Gang? Will you be in trouble, rubbed out?”

“You seen too many movies. You think my father made me with a finger? It’s strictly legit.”

“Then why didn’t they hire someone from their street?”

“What are you, some kind of dummy? They wanted a plain nice Jewish face, not a mug. Get it? Got it?”

Back at 12 Orchard Street, Clayton came around the corner with a bag of peaches. He handed one to Abe. “Ess a peachie,” he said. “I bought these for Manya. A present. What did you do, Abe, snitch this car?”

“Here’s my card. I’ll drive you to Harlem anytime. I heard you were out of town. Manya, she’s plenty glad you’re back.”

The yellow sheets already littered the streets. I dumped the rest into the garbage can. I was too tired to care. Tomorrow was the first day of school. I had my too-short skirt from last spring, and a clean unironed middy blouse. “Clayton, I need a new tie for school.”

He handed me the peaches and tapped the pocket of his chef’s jacket. He was the only one in the family with cash. He bought me a new middy blouse at Brody’s and Orloff gave him the red silk for my tie. I didn’t dare ask him for fifty cents for the worthless yellow “Manya Delivers” ads.

Not entirely worthless. The one response came from an unexpected source. The board of directors of the Educational Alliance was going to hold its semiannual meeting and they wondered whether Manya could cater and deliver lunch at twelve.

Lil, who answered the phone, said that it would be Manya’s pleasure and when asked about the cost replied as Jack had instructed her, “Please let me get back to you.” Jack suggested a dollar per person and Mrs. Hammond, the woman in charge of the lunch, didn’t bargain. Jack wondered whether we bid too low.

On the afternoon of the luncheon, Abe drove Clayton to the Edgies on East Broadway and in one of the dingy offices Clayton placed a damask cloth on the empty table, set out a salad topped with hard-boiled egg slices and marinated beets, and unwrapped an entire steamed salmon, slices of roast chicken and Manya’s famous pastries. He had brought an odd mixture of plates and silverware with him and no one complained. In fact Mrs. Hammond and the other members displayed their appreciation by tipping Clayton a whole dime. He smiled at them in his chef’s coat, accepted the dime as if it were a dollar, cleared the table and didn’t bother to call Abe when the luncheon was over—he carried home the carton with the soiled dishes and tablecloth.

We had a good laugh about the dime tip. Then Bubby scrounged around the top drawer of the buffet and found the pawn tickets. That’s how Clayton retrieved the sewing machine, with the money from the catered lunch.

Mrs. Hammond proved to be a steady customer. Her husband had a law office on Wall Street and at least once a month Manya catered a lunch in his office. She kept the price steady at a dollar per person but requested two dollars for the waiter.

Bubby enjoyed the work. Word of her European-style catering drew a number of steady clients. With the catering money, Bubby’s earrings and pearls finally were recovered from the hockshop and we paid off the Morris Plan.

Jack’s foray into the business world was another matter—he turned into a nervous wreck. For one thing he wasn’t certain that he wanted to become Farber’s partner. He treasured his freedom, kibitzing on the sidewalk, spending an hour on the racing form, gossiping with Rocco, not to mention his Fridays with my mother uptown. The prospect of being responsible for a business—especially with a cheapskate like Farber—did not intrigue him.

Smoking one cigarette after another as he aired his grievances to Uncle Goodman, Jack finally came up with his trump card—he had enjoyed his summer off and his unemployment insurance.

“Who says you have to forget your unemployment insurance?” Goodman asked. “The partnership is in my name. You’ll collect your salary like always. You’ll have time off in the summer like always. Before Labor Day you’ll decide if you want the partnership or not.”

Jack couldn’t resist the logic of the arrangement. “What’s it costing you, Goodman? Tell me the truth?”

“Ah gansa gornisht. Not a penny to Farber. I’m paying for all the renovations, which is a tax deduction for me. I’m diversifying. You should think up a snappy name for the new sign. Since I’m redoing the whole building, Farber owns a fourth. You and I own three-fourths. You’ll soon be a regular businessman, a big shot.”

As if Jack were a reluctant music student whom Goodman dragged step by step to his lessons, Goodman had to convince Jack that he now was fulfilling his destiny. “But why now? What’s the rush?” Jack demanded.

Goodman rose on his tiny feet and expanded his round chest. “Jack, you’re not Manya’s little boy anymore. She can’t work much longer. The doctors know it and you know it. You have to take care of your mother. I’m doing this for her, for Manya. It’s coming to her.”

Jack swallowed hard. Slowly, he nodded. A defining moment.

18

Topsy-Turvy

THE FIRST STAGE of the renovation, namely throwing out years of junk, pained Farber. With his characteristic mania about not losing as much as a twisted nail, he scurried along the sidewalk salvaging what he could from the rubble. Jack and Goodman decided to gift him with the old limp coats and their stained linings. Farber seized upon these rags with sultanlike greed.

During the first week, the exterminators bore down with their vast tents and cylinders of gas. No one on the street had seen its likes before. John, Goodman’s handyman, ripped out the ghastly smelling toilet fixtures and moldy wood boards before the store and backyard were tented and pumped full of deadly pesticide. Dressed in his black and red mackinaw and blue-striped railroad cap, John held his nose as he headed in his truck off to some remote dump to dispose of the vile garbage.

Uncle Goodman proceeded uptown to deal with lawyers and the absentee landlord’s representatives, who finally agreed to pay for half the costs of a new roof. Farber maintained his post across the street the entire day, keeping an eye on the billowing tent lest some Bowery bum crawled inside for a deadly last sleep.

At 2:00 P.M. on the first Monday of the renovation, Jack, dressed in his usual natty attire, sought out his manicurist in Chinatown—a doll of a beautician with whom he flirted outrageously. The moment we dumped off our school books, Willy, Lil, Clayton and I left for Division Street carrying a pot roast sandwich on rye for Farber that must have weighed two pounds. We walked very fast, and though Lil’s breath came in small gasps, it was worth it. The white tent could have been a circus for the excitement it brought us.

“Nu,” said little Farber, gargling with delight. “By tomorrow morning there won’t be one rat, one roach, one fly, one nothing left on the premises.” He had learned the phrase “on the premises” from Jack and repeated it lavishly. Farber didn’t open his sandwich until his wife, Ruthie, showed up—she had splurged on a bus ride to observe the tent.

Ruthie Farber was short, round as a matzo ball, with curly black hair parted in the middle and a childlike cherubic face. No sooner had we greeted her than Jack suggested that we snack on “chinks,” in nearby Chinatown. Years later, I marveled how eagerly we consumed the slimy chicken chow mein, which consisted mostly of onions, celery and bean sprouts. But we wolfed it down with white and fried rice— Clayton ate in the restaurant kitchen—and shared fortune cookies. Lil’s read, “Romance is on the way.” She blushed.

The next morning, when the foreman of the exterminators put on a mask and goggles and peered inside the tent, he shook his head and told Uncle Goodman, “Sorry, there’s still too many things crawling around. You need one more day.” Uncle Goodman nodded his assent. Then he stopped off at our house to leave a booklet that featured bathroom equipment. “The children and Lil can’t be there tomorrow when they open the tent. It’s not for their eyes, and bad for their lungs. Pick out any toilet and sink from page five. I didn’t buy class A of anything. The wood for the paneling, the carpet, the roofing will last a good five, ten years. The cheapest grade three is good enough, strong, clean and the few defects won’t show.”

I studied the white toilets and bathroom sinks and almost wept. The least expensive appeared glorious compared to our hallway toilet with its stained water container below the ceiling, its pull chain mended with rope.

Noting my sadness, Bubby tried to make light of it. “You’ll walk over to your father’s store and pee on the whole world.”

I didn’t laugh and she didn’t attempt to appease me again.

My mother had little to say about most aspects of the renovation. She had her heart set on expensive flowered carpeting for the window, together with pink spotlights, just like Palace Fashions. Uncle Goodman brought us an entire book of carpet samples and he and Jack decided on blue-gray industrial carpet for the floor. Lil selected plush red and pink cabbage roses for the strip in the window. The pattern would not have been Jack’s choice, but neither did it offend him. He liked the idea of pink spotlights for the window.

Within a few weeks the store acquired a new roof, new carpeting, inexpensive paneled walls, new electrical fixtures, a new bathroom and a sign in black and gold that read Elite Fashions and in smaller print, “Where the Elite Meet.”

The Thursday before we opened we hosted what Aunt Bertha called an “open house” from 5 to 7:30 P.M. Aunt Bea, Cousin Alice and Lenny, and Uncle Geoff were among the first to admire the pseudo-fancy interior. Every one of Bubby’s purveyors came, as well as local merchants, my mother’s brothers, Ada and her children, Jack’s Chinese manicurist, his Chinese laundry man, Clayton in a rented white Palm Beach suit, and Abe Abramovitz, our cab man. Aunt Bertha stole the show in an ankle-length skirt and a tunic jacket, topped by a black picture hat with gold hat pins as large as eggs. Our doctors, Koronovsky and Wolfson, couldn’t attend.

No party would be complete without Rocco, dazzling in a gray silk suit with tuxedo lapels. He had sent a basket of flowers that sat in the window under a pink spotlight. One hooded glance at me in my too-short polka-dotted party dress from Dr. Koronovsky’s wedding and he whispered to one of his lieutenants. Within minutes he thrust a package into my hands and steered me to the bathroom. “Every girl needs a red velvet dress,” Rocco declared.

The collar was white lace, the lines princess style with twin ribbons of white satin cascading along the front. Although the dress hung down to my ankles, Rocco was right. Every young girl needed a red velvet dress, though I felt both self-conscious and embarrassed to walk out in such finery. Bubby, seated in a baronial chair lent by Mr. L.— every merchant on the street dropped in—studied me in wonder. “Ah, Czarina,” she whispered.

Farber and Ruthie stayed to clean up afterward. During the party they kept to one corner, miniature statues. Other than their wedding, it may have been the most thrilling evening of their humdrum existence.

We fell into bed the moment we reached home, and Willy and I did not attempt school the next day. No holiday in the city had been as festive as the party at Elite Fashions.

In early October, the phone rang at 7:30 A.M. and Aunt Bertha asked to speak to Lil. Saks Fifth Avenue phoned her Yonkers number; they wanted Lil to show up for orientation. Bertha explained that Lil had to spend a few hours there learning the procedures and to please call to confirm her appointment.

Both of my parents slept late and the news about Saks had them stumbling around, uncertain whether to call Saks, to ignore their request or to return to bed. Clayton made himself scarce by sloshing the steps with soapy water, sweeping the sidewalk and pouring water over the dented garbage cans.

The merchants on Canal Street envied us because of Clayton, but only Mr. Jacob obtained Clayton’s services. Clayton straightened the boxes, emptied the wastebaskets, tidied the sidewalk. In addition to the petty cash, Jacob gifted Clayton with unsalable merchandise, gray with dust but appealing to Clayton’s vanity: a fake leather jacket and black trousers, both cut so skimpy that the jacket wouldn’t close and Clayton patiently let out the darts in the pants in order to shimmy into them.

On the day of orientation Jack walked Lil briskly to the subway; he insisted on accompanying her to the employees’ entrance of Saks.

Lil found herself in a room with half a dozen women, two of whom wore cheap rayon dresses in floral prints. One of them, Fanny, overweight, sallow and smelling slightly of underarm perspiration, sat at a desk next to Lil, a whiz at numbers and technical details.

The instructor, Mrs. Baum, who was short and short of sleep, distributed printed tax sheets, sales books and bunches of sales tags held together with twine. Wiping her face with a limp handkerchief, she mumbled directions in a hoarse whisper.

Lil was the only one with no department store experience. Each of the others, including Fanny, recently from Lerner’s—Lerner’s!— whizzed through her sales tags and their taxes, transcribing the information to her sales book within minutes. Fanny took pity on Lil and slid over to her seat.

“See, here’s a tag for $16.95. Find the number on the card, put your finger to the end of the line where it says ‘Tax,’ write it down, move to ‘Total.’ You don’t add anything. Just follow the card. If the salesgirls had to add, Sophie Gimbel would be out of business.”

Lil tried her best, then frustrated she let Fanny write the information in her sales book.

Mrs. Baum, still mopping her face with her handkerchief, announced, “Everyone up front to practice with charge cards.” The others inserted their mock Saks charge cards into their sales books with their carbon paper exactly in the right place as they slammed down the handle of the machine. Trying hard to work just as fast, Lil set her card wrong side up and on the second attempt had the name upside down. Fortunately Mrs. Baum barely scanned the finished sheets.

Mrs. Baum continued. “Ladies, if a gentleman returns a garment that has been worn, it’s the store’s policy that you can’t embarrass a man. Give a full refund no matter what shape the garment is in and mark the ticket MAN.”

In her haste to reach the store Lil had failed to drink coffee or even a glass of water. Her head swam from hunger and thirst and the array of instructions. At Palace Fashions all she had to do was bring the purchased garment to the front desk and a young girl did the paperwork and the boxing.

“Twenty minutes for lunch and then we’ll discuss full-length bags, short bags, boxes, gift wrap.” The other women cried, “What did you bring for lunch? Cheese? Baloney?” and raced to the tiny lunchroom.

Slowly, Lil reached the elevator, pressed the down button and strode out to the street. She hurried to the subway on the verge of tears, and entered our apartment at the height of lunch hour. Clayton was packaging the takeouts, a new twist in our business, which included small cardboard boxes with the name
Manya
in script. Bubby was ladling out entrées for the seated customers.

The instant Lil came into view, Weinstock, who was gobbling every item in sight in the kitchen, asked, “Anything wrong, Lil? How come you’re home so early?”

She braced her shoulders, smiled on cue and replied, “Orientation, only a few hours.” She marched past the diners into her bedroom. Finishing my lunch, two bites of a lamb chop, before heading back to school, I skipped after my mother. She sat on the bed, hands to her face, weeping.

“Mother, what happened? What’s wrong?”

“The worst one was me with the taxes, the totals, the charge card upside down. I couldn’t bear it and I left during the lunch break.”

“Why are you crying? You don’t need the job there. Palace Fashions is easy for you and it’s close to Daddy. Forget about Saks.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because everyone in Connecticut thinks I work there and I have to.”

Despite her poor showing during orientation, Lil received a call to come for the Columbus Day sale. Columbus Day unfurled not only Italian flags but banners advertising sales across the city. Schools were closed. Little Italy had a major festival with music, statues of the Virgin Mary held aloft on floats and everyone out on the streets munching on meatball sandwiches, pizza, stromboli and sticky pastries with fake whipped cream.

A few blocks away on Division Street, women with broad behinds and chunky legs or slim chippies from uptown stormed the length of the street. At Saks Fifth Avenue, a 20 percent off sale advertised in the
Times
brought out the hordes. Lil didn’t have to worry about her sales book. She glowed with immediate success.

At Saks, the women selected the clothes themselves and asked for help in the form of larger or smaller sizes or different colors. A matron glanced contemptuously at Lil when she forgot herself once and uttered the phrase, “You look stunning,” considered vulgar at Saks.

Quickly, Lil shifted to Jack’s lines: “The color is excellent for your complexion,” or, “That’s elegant.” Within two hours customers were asking for Miss Lilyan, and complimenting her taste and service to the floor managers. As she completed each sale, she handed her sales book, cash or charge card to the manager and sailed on to the next client. She didn’t take time out for lunch, a pee, a sip of water. She danced around in her high-heeled pumps, dressed in a navy blue suit and a satiny blouse with stripes of sky blue and yellow.

Abe Abramovitz stuck his head out of the service elevator at 5:58 and called, “Miss Lilyan’s cab is waiting.” The other salesgirls stared and the manager, a Miss Elizabeth, holding Lil’s bulging sales book in hand, nodded her approval: “Well done.”

“I bet you were number one today, the most sales,” Abe confided as she fell into the backseat of his glistening cab.

“What makes you think so?”

“I saw you running around like a, what you call it, a marathon runner. I heard those snooty bitches saying, ‘Thank you, Miss Lilyan, thank you.’ I watched from the elevator a few minutes before calling your name. You were the classiest broad on the floor.”