MORTY
Morty’s graduation from high school was a grand event for the family. Morty had graduated with honors and was going to college in the fall. He was surprised at how excited he felt.
Golda had pressed his slacks that morning, and he wore a freshly laundered white shirt with a tie under his black graduation gown. Golda and Sylvia had new dresses that Golda had sewn herself, and his father was dressed in his best suit. The day, Wednesday, June 16, 1932, was, up until then, the happiest day of Morty’s life.
Golda gave him a party at their apartment, the first time Morty could ever remember having one. Cousin Surah and her husband and daughter, Ruchel, were there. Golda had invited their neighbors, and Frieda also came. Ben had invited Abe, his old boss, and his wife. Morty had invited his friends Rudy and Paulie and Davy and Len, but Davy and Len, who both had graduated with Morty, had their own celebrations with their families. Rudy and Paulie, who had dropped out of school the year before, came but didn’t stay too long. Rudy said he had business and left with Paulie after eating a plateful of Golda’s delectable food. Everyone brought a small gift for the graduate.
Golda had cooked and baked for two days for the party. Golda had saved for weeks from her household money to buy the food. She had a spread of cheeses and breads and herring in cream sauce. There were pickles and a fluffy noodle kugel and crisp potato pancakes with applesauce. She baked a chocolate cake with icing that spelled out “Congratulations, Morton!” Morty wished it said “Congratulations, Morty!” but didn’t say anything. Ben had bought a bottle of schnapps for toasts, and Golda had made lemonade and tea and coffee. Morty felt rewarded with respect from both his parents, and he was very happy.
Because of the Depression, and because he knew his father’s repair shop was not doing as well as it had before, Morty had decided he needed to keep his job at the grocery store and enroll in his college classes at night. This would mean that he would not graduate from Polytech in four years, but, he thought, even if it took six or seven years, at the end he would be an engineer. His heart swelled with pride at the thought.
Morty worked hard. He swept the store, stacked the shelves, bagged groceries for patrons, and sometimes made deliveries to the homes of favored customers. Meanwhile, Rudy and Paulie hung around at the corner where Mickey Adler’s gang owned the street. They seemed to be accumulating more and more money. Sometimes Morty wondered what they did for the gang that they got paid so much. Was it all collecting protection money? Or did they have to do more? In a way, he didn’t entirely blame Rudy. Good jobs were very hard to get; Rudy was obviously picking up money and not working hard for it. Morty didn’t ask too many questions.
One day in the fall after Morty graduated, he was walking home from his job when a smooth-looking automobile pulled up beside him, the driver tooting the horn. Morty peered into the car, a dark blue Plymouth sedan, and saw Rudy leaning nonchalantly on the wheel. He was dressed in a blue suit that matched the Plymouth, and he wore a brown fedora tilted back on his head. He looked sharp.
Morty whistled. “Wow. Where’d you get it?”
“Oh, I need a car for business. Want to come for a ride?”
Morty jumped into the passenger seat, stroking the dashboard with admiration. “It’s a beauty. How much did it cost?”
“About three hundred dollars. Adler fronted the money.”
“You’re lucky,” he said. “I didn’t know you could drive.”
“It’s easy. I’ll teach you if you want.”
Morty was thrilled. “I want,” he said, knowing that being able to drive would be a benefit to him for his whole life.
He picked it up easily. Rudy took him to the big parking lot at Coney Island, where he taught him to shift the car and put it in reverse. Soon he was able to drive down the side streets near the beach, and Rudy declared he was good enough to pass the test for his license. Morty didn’t think he was—parking was a little problem for him, and he was nervous when he had to make a left turn against traffic—but Rudy insisted he was ready. “You’re fine,” Rudy said. “Everybody really learns how to drive after they get their license.”
Morty shrugged. He figured if he failed the test, he could take it again.
They made the appointment for the road test, and Rudy drove him. When they pulled up for the test, Rudy told Morty to wait in the car while he spoke to the examiner. He slicked back his hair and swaggered over to a tall, skinny man who was facing him. Morty only saw Rudy’s back, and although he couldn’t hear the conversation, he could watch the examiner’s face as he responded to whatever Rudy was saying. The examiner was shaking his head, talking with his hands. Morty watched him finally hold his hands up, a surrender.
The next thing Morty knew, the examiner came up to the car window and said, “Congratulations, you passed.” With a sour look on his face, he handed Morty an official-looking piece of paper. “Turn that into the Driver’s License Bureau,” he said and walked away.
Morty gave Rudy, who slipped into the car beside him, a befuddled look. “But I didn’t even take the test.”
“Ah, you didn’t need to. I vouched for you.”
Morty stared at Rudy, who was grinning at him. “What? Did you bribe him?” Morty asked.
“Nah. I just told him who I was. He didn’t want to mess with me.”
Morty wondered what Rudy had said to the man if he hadn’t bribed him. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fist and opening it again. He took a deep breath, swallowed, and tried to relieve the itchy feeling in his throat. It just proved the power of the mob, he thought.
Rudy stared at him. “What? No thank-you?” he asked. Morty was silent. Rudy looked irritated. “You’re a schmuck, Morty. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” He waited a minute and then said, “Are you going to give me a hard time about this?”
He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and blew the smoke in Morty’s face.
“Cut it out, Rudy. That’s not funny.”
Rudy laughed. “Aw, come on. I’ll buy you an egg cream at Solly’s.” He threw his arm around Morty and patted his back. “We still friends?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Morty said. “I’m only sorry I didn’t get to pass the test myself.”
“Well, you might not have. You know you don’t park so good.”
Morty nodded in agreement, and Rudy put the car into gear and drove away.
When Morty went to the bureau and handed in the piece of paper, the clerk stamped it and made out an official-looking document, handing it to Morty. “Go get your picture taken. This is a temporary license. They’ll mail you the real license in a couple of weeks.”
Two weeks later the license came in the mail. If Morty still felt guilty about not having really passed the test, he pushed the feelings away. He figured he’d get better at driving with practice, so it would be all right.
Morty worked full time the following summer and all through the next year, feeling lucky to have a job. Rudy and his friends didn’t seem to be hurting. They weren’t working, but they always had money. They were often at Solly’s hanging around inside, doing the bidding of the big shots in the gang or playing cards at a back booth. On nice days they stood outside, watching the people come and go in and out of the candy store. And once in a while when he had free time, Morty would hang out there with Rudy. It seemed strange to be hanging out at a candy store when he had so many other things to do, but sometimes he went just to see his old friends.
If Morty had any thought that crime didn’t pay, watching the way Rudy was living convinced him otherwise. Rudy had enough money to move his parents and brother into a large two-bedroom apartment on Ocean Parkway, a nice neighborhood of Flatbush. He also moved himself, but to Brooklyn Heights into an apartment overlooking the East River and Manhattan. He drove a snazzy new car and wore expensive suits and shoes. When they were together, he regaled Morty with stories about the dinners at fancy supper clubs like the Stork Club in Manhattan, where he sometimes saw movie stars and often brought beautiful showgirls he was dating. To Morty, Rudy seemed to be living in a dream world or a Hollywood film.
Once in a while Rudy invited Morty to go with him to clubs or restaurants. “Hey, Morty, I’m going to the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center.” Morty had read about the Rainbow Room, which had just opened in September 1934. “Wanna come?” Morty couldn’t imagine having enough money to go to a nightclub. And he didn’t have the kind of dinner clothes you needed to go to clubs, so he always declined. But Rudy, on his twenty-first birthday, treated Morty to dinner at The Palm, a restaurant that was one of the finest steakhouses in New York. Morty ordered a porterhouse steak, mashed potatoes, and creamed spinach. Rudy ordered a bottle of smooth red wine. Morty told him it was the best meal he had ever eaten.
Rudy often threw parties in his new apartment, with the neighborhood gang and lots of pretty girls who fawned all over him. They seemed to go for Morty too, who was handsome in an innocent, boyish way, and the girls loved sitting on his lap and ruffling his honey-brown curls. “You have such beautiful blue eyes,” they would say as they planted big lipstick kisses on his mouth.
Rudy loved to gamble and play cards, and he thought he was a pretty good card player. He had big card games at his apartment, opening his dining room table and hiring a showgirl in skimpy clothing to serve liquor and sandwiches. The room was foggy with cigarette and cigar smoke, and the betting got wild. He invited Morty many times, knowing how much Morty loved playing cards and how good he was, but Morty didn’t have the money for the kind of wild betting that went on at Rudy’s table. He came once or twice but only watched from the sidelines. He could pick up the “tells” of the better card players and see how the poorer ones lost and then borrowed money from Rudy or the other winners at exorbitant interest rates. It made Morty’s head swim.
When Rudy had a small game, Morty played. He was a good enough card player that he would often win, and the boys started calling him Shark, with some admiration, and that became his nickname. One day, Paulie, Rudy’s second-oldest friend, lost a bundle on a bet and was determined to recoup his loss.
“Lend me, Rudy,” he said. “You know I’m good for it.”
“You’ll only lose it,” Rudy said, dealing the cards around the table but cutting Paulie out of the game.
“I won’t,” Paulie said. “And if I do, it’s on me.”
Rudy gauged Paulie, who was chewing his lip and staring hard. “The interest rate’s twenty.”
Paulie hesitated. “Yeah, okay.”
Morty felt his heart pounding. He wanted to say, Don’t do it. You’ll lose, and then you’ll owe forever, but Morty knew he couldn’t say anything. He had been winning and had a pile of chips in front of him. He wanted to drop out, but winners didn’t drop in these games . . . even the small ones. Observing Rudy taking such advantage of Paulie’s shortcomings made Morty wonder what had happened to his old friend.
Rudy continued dealing. “Okay, you’ll be in the next round. Meanwhile, get me a drink.” Rudy picked up his cards, fanned them out, and waited while Paulie trotted over to the bar, mixed a highball, and brought it back to Rudy. Morty felt sick to his stomach.
Rudy would often disappear for weeks at a time, and Morty had no idea where he had gone. When he returned, Morty would ask him, “Where were you?”
“A business trip,” he’d say. “Just taking care of business.”
Morty wanted to ask him what kind of business it was, but somehow, he didn’t think Rudy would tell him. Once he dropped that he had been in Chicago, and another time he said he was in a little Podunk town in Ohio. Morty knew it wasn’t smuggling alcohol the way it had been in the first years of the Depression. Prohibition had been over for two years, and selling liquor was legal.
But most of the time, Morty caught up with Rudy at Solly’s. One afternoon, Rudy told him a new face had appeared at Solly’s, a pretty girl on the arm of Frenchy LaPointe. She wasn’t from the neighborhood, and Frenchy was clearly smitten with her, almost puffing his chest out as he walked her inside Solly’s to the back booths, where the gang sat. At least that was what Morty had heard from Rudy.
Morty saw her the next Saturday afternoon when he was hanging out on the sidewalk at Solly’s with his friends. Morty leaned against the building, his left knee bent with the foot flat against the wall, and he was smoking, casually blowing smoke rings into the air.
It was a windy day, and the girl’s long black hair blew in the wind as she walked down the street.
Rudy, standing nearby, poked Morty. “That’s her,” he whispered. “The one who was with Frenchy last week. Her name’s Anna.”
This time she was alone, and Morty caught her eye as she approached. He was jolted with surprise. Her eyes were a violet blue—he had never seen a color like that—and they lingered on him as she passed. She looked to Morty like she was about his age, maybe a year younger or older. She was slim and wore a blue dress with a white cardigan sweater draped over her shoulders and a small blue-and-white scarf knotted around her neck. He could barely breathe looking at her.
His eyes followed her, bored into her back, willing her to turn around, and she did, just as she got to the doorway of Solly’s. Their eyes met, and she hesitated for a second but then pushed into the store and disappeared.
“She’s probably meeting Frenchy,” Rudy said.
Morty took a deep breath. “Wow. She’s something.” His heart was pounding. Stupid, he thought. She’s just a girl. What chance did he have with her?
“Want to go in?” Rudy asked.
Morty swallowed, hung back, then pushed down his reluctance and said, “Sure.”
Inside, the back booths were empty except for the girl, who was looking in a mirror and carefully applying a slick of lipstick. Morty approached her and stood beside the booth, silent, because he did not know what to say. She glanced up, and again he felt the visceral punch—like his insides were roiling in his stomach. Those violet eyes. She smiled slightly.
Morty looked around the store. No Frenchy, if that was who she was waiting for. He nodded his head at her, signaling toward the door, wondering if she would understand. He didn’t think he could speak. He felt Rudy standing behind him and heard him whisper, “Go on, get out of here with her.”
“Let’s take a walk,” he said to her. His voice sounded strange, hoarse. She slid out of the booth and followed him outside. Still no Frenchy. Morty breathed more easily. Side by side, they walked quickly down the street until they turned the corner and were out of sight of Solly’s. Then he felt her hand brush his, and moments later he intertwined his fingers with hers. They still did not talk but walked staring straight ahead, holding hands the whole way.
When they got to the playground near the elementary school, it was empty except for two boys shooting marbles in a corner. Morty paused. “Were you waiting for Frenchy?” he asked.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I only told him maybe I’d come.”
Morty nodded. “Okay then,” he said. “I’m Morty Feinstein. And I know you’re Anna. What’s your last name?”
“DeMaio. Anna DeMaio.”
“Italian?”
She nodded.
“I’m Jewish.”
Did she hesitate for a second? Morty wondered. But then she said, “I don’t care.”
“Me either.”
She followed Morty to the swings, where he pushed her higher and higher until she squealed for him to stop, and he did, deliberately slowing the swing by holding the chains back. When she was down on the ground, she said, “I’m scared of going so high.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I was embarrassed.”
“Don’t be scared to say things to me,” Morty said. He stared into her eyes until she nodded and looked away. A long slow flush came up her face. His heart was pounding, and a warmth came into his own face. She likes me, he thought, and he was full of joy.
He searched for something to say to her, but he couldn’t think of anything. “How old are you?” he blurted.
“Twenty.”
That’s good, Morty thought. Just the right age. “Yeah, me too,” he said. “I’m going to Brooklyn Polytech College part-time. To be an engineer.” Did he sound like he was bragging? Was it too much?
Anna nodded. “That’s great. I’m working at my uncle’s deli.”
“Want to see something?” he asked, walking away from the swings and going to the jungle gym. He climbed quickly to the top and then did flips over and under the bar. He could hear her below saying, “Stop, stop! You’ll fall.” But he kept on and finally did one last flip and jumped to the ground.
“Ta-dah!” he said as if he were finishing a performance. He stood facing her, and not sure what possessed him, he grabbed her in a bear hug.
“Stop,” she said, pushing him away.
“I’m sorry,” Morty said. “I just couldn’t help myself. I won’t do it again.” Jeez, what am I doing? I heard Italian girls are fast, but maybe they aren’t.
“No, it’s okay,” Anna said. “Just a little too fast for me.”
“Okay,” he said. I better slow down. “We’ll go as slow as you want. I don’t want to scare you. I want you to be okay with me. I don’t want you to be afraid.”
She breathed in and out, in and out, and looked straight into Morty’s eyes. “I won’t,” she said. “I won’t be afraid.”
Morty loved being with Anna because she made him laugh. There was a brazenness about her, a surety that he thought maybe was because she was Italian and twenty already—the same age as he was. He didn’t know any other Italian girls. They would walk together, sometimes holding hands, sometimes not, and she would look sideways at him and blink her violet eyes, and his insides would turn over.
“Where’d you get those eyes?” Morty said to her the second time they were together. “I never saw eyes that color.”
“I ate grapes. I especially love the purple ones.” She was smiling, and Morty noticed that she had a dimple.
“Stop. You’re pulling my leg,” Morty said.
“No. That’s what my ma told me.”
Morty threw his head back and laughed.
“Of course, she also told me my hair was black because I loved to eat licorice. And I don’t like licorice.”
Morty laughed again. “What else do you like to eat?”
“Oranges,” she said promptly. “I love oranges.”
“Ha, I think I only had a few in my whole life. My mother says they cost too much. Where do you get them?” They resumed their walk.
“My uncle Mario Amato gets us whatever we want. My mother’s his favorite sister.”
“What does your uncle do?”
“Oh, the usual.”
Morty looked at her sideways. “What usual? My father is a mechanic. He works in a shop fixing all kinds of things. What does your uncle do? And where’s your father?”
Anna hesitated. “Well, my father worked with my uncle Mario, until my father died. He had an accident. My uncle Mario has a lot of money, and he gives me an allowance for clothes and stuff. He likes me to look pretty.”
“He’s right about that. You do look pretty.” Morty noticed that today she was wearing a new dress. This one was green striped with orange, and the skirt swung around her legs when she moved. He wondered where this Uncle Mario worked. Probably gang business. Those were the only jobs, he had noticed, that made any money during these hard Depression days. There were gangs all over the Lower East Side and Brooklyn. Italian gangs, Irish gangs, American gangs, Jewish gangs. Sometimes they fought each other, and sometimes they worked together. But they all made money.
“You’re lucky about your uncle. That he can take care of you.” Morty hesitated and then asked the question again. “What does he do, your uncle?”
Anna shrugged. “I don’t know. He works for some other guys, and I don’t know what he does exactly. But something.” She looked away. “He owns the house we all live in. It’s a two-family. My other uncle, my father’s brother Tony DeMaio, lives in the downstairs, and he owns a deli. That’s where I work. Tony’s Deli in Ocean Hill.”
Morty slipped the information into the back of his mind. He figured he’d check it out one day, see what kind of deli it was. “We live in an apartment,” he said. “All my friends and my parents’ friends and families live in apartments. We got nothing. I used to share a bedroom with my sister, Sylvia, but now I sleep in the living room. I’m getting out as soon as I can.”
Anna took his arm. “I know I’m lucky to live where I do. But you’re doing good in school, aren’t you? You said last time you were going to college.”
Morty nodded. “Yeah, I finished one year, even though it took me two. I’m going part-time, so it’ll take me longer, but I’m going to be an engineer. I go at night because we don’t have enough money, and I have to work.” Morty thought about the money his father had put away every Saturday night. He knew a lot of it was gone now . . . he had used it for the store in the first days of the Depression, but he didn’t understand why his father had needed it. It was supposed to have been for him. For Polytech, so he could be an engineer. He couldn’t begrudge his father if he’d needed it, but it sure made things harder for him. “I hope I can make it all the way through.”
“I think you should finish college. That has a future.” Anna was quiet for a few minutes. “The streets here have no future. My father was only twenty-eight when he died. I hardly remember him at all. I was five. Fast lives. Fast death.”
Anna and Morty stood and looked at each other. A lot passed between them. Morty wanted to ask her how her father had died, but he knew it hadn’t been an accident. He could imagine. They both knew stories. They both knew what she was talking about. There were gang fights on the side streets. Dead bodies turned up in alleyways. They could sometimes hear popping sounds that they knew were gunshots.
Not too long before, Morty had passed a dirty white concrete wall that was splattered in blood. He stood and stared, his heart pounding hard. He couldn’t look away. “That’s Murder, Inc.,” a passerby murmured. “I guess the police got rid of the body.”
It wasn’t the first time Morty had heard those words—Murder, Inc. They were all over the paper describing the gang responsible for the random killings all over Brooklyn. It made Morty’s skin crawl.
And no one scrubbed the wall clean, Morty thought. It’s like the police left it as a warning. He wondered who was dead. Someone like him? Another gangster? Suddenly he wondered about Rudy. Had he ever seen murders done? Had he done any murders? He hoped not, but he wasn’t sure. He thought about what the scene must have looked like in the dead of night. Men with shotguns, one or two victims standing against the wall, bullets flying, cutting through the men, and leaving a pattern against the wall, like a red decoration.
Morty agreed with Anna. A fast way to die young. They turned and kept walking.
Walking was the way they saw each other. Neither one could bring the other to their home. The Italian Catholic Anna would be most unwelcome at Morty’s house. And Morty was, he acknowledged to himself, a little ashamed of his family . . . of his parents’ accented English, his father’s stooped posture, the way he spoke so hesitantly and quietly you almost had to bend over to hear him.
Anna told Morty she couldn’t bring him to her house. “Mama would kill me if I brought a Jew home with me,” she said and glanced at him and then away.
Morty’s mouth dropped open. To him, when people called him “a Jew,” it was like a curse. Not that he thought there was anything wrong with the word Jew, but it was used to put you down . . . it was like a punch, like the other swear words people used, and it was often combined with the word dirty. His stomach turned, but he decided he would let the word go . . . this time.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help the way she is. They’re already pushing me to find a nice Italian boy and get married. And you wouldn’t like my house anyway. My aunt and uncle live downstairs with my four cousins, and my nonna lives upstairs with me and my mother. And everyone is always in everyone else’s house. There’s so much yelling, even I don’t like it.”
He nodded. “Yeah, we probably can’t go to either of our houses. We’ll have to figure out other ways to see each other.”
They agreed that they would walk, or sit in the local public-school playground, or take the train to the Botanical Gardens and walk there. That was all fine now because it was still warm—early fall. Morty wondered what they would do in the winter. Then the thought popped into his head, Wow, I really like her. I’m thinking I’m going to be seeing her in the winter.
“Let’s stop at Solly’s,” Morty said. “I’ll buy you an egg cream.”
Anna almost clapped her hands in delight. “I love egg creams,” she said. “They are so . . . creamy and rich.”
Morty laughed. “You know there are no eggs in egg creams. Do you know how to make them? Just chocolate syrup, a little milk, and seltzer.”
“Yeah,” she said, “I do know. But I like to think they’re made different. With real cream and melted chocolate bars. Like they do in Paris.”
“What do you know about Paris?”
“I read about it. They drink wine and they have great food and a wonderful dessert called pot de crème. That’s what I dream about. Going to Paris and having pot de crème. And sleeping on silk sheets.”
Morty looked down at her. He allowed himself to think about the silk sheets and Anna stretched out on them. Her violet eyes were feathered with black lashes. He couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. “I’ll take you there,” he said. “I’ll take you to Paris one day.”
Anna laughed.
“No, don’t laugh. I’m serious. I will take you there. We’ll go together on an ocean liner, like in the movies. With silk sheets.” He grinned.
“And how will you get the money for that? You’re just dreaming. I know how people make money in Brooklyn. And you shouldn’t go anywhere near that stuff.” Anna was standing still now, her eyes blazing. “The kind of money we’re talking about boys like you never have.”
“I will have it,” Morty said. “I’ll get it.”
They walked in silence and soon were in front of Solly’s. But the mood had changed. Anna pulled back before they went in. “I got to go home,” she said. “I’ll see you.” She turned.
“When?”
“The day after tomorrow. I’ll meet you then, after church.”
Morty nodded and watched her leave. Church, he thought. I wonder what that’s like. There was sure a lot about Anna he didn’t know.
Morty saw Anna as often as he could. Sometimes he would buy her an ice popsicle at a candy store nearby; sometimes they shared an egg cream. While the weather was nice, they would go to the Botanical Gardens and walk through the paths and plots of flowers, and after a while they would choose a bench and sit and talk. They talked nonstop. Morty told her about how he had found out his mother wasn’t his mother, and how he felt about it. Anna told him the truth about how her father had died, and it wasn’t an accident.
“It was during Prohibition,” she said. “My father stole some of the crates of whiskey and sold them on the side to make money. He thought he wouldn’t get caught. My uncle told me he was pretty stupid to do that. You never get away with that kind of stuff in the mob.”
The first time Morty kissed Anna, they were sitting at the Botanical Gardens, and he was holding her hand, moving his finger gently around on her palm. They had walked through the park sucking on popsicles they’d bought just before entering the gardens. She leaned against him, her head tilted toward his shoulder and her long silky hair brushing his cheek. His breathing hitched slightly, and he turned his head, stared at her eyes, and leaned in and kissed her full lips, still red from the cherry popsicle she had just finished sucking. Lingering there, he tasted her mouth, the sweetness, the coldness. His tongue roamed over her lips, and she pushed him away.
“Don’t eat my mouth,” she said and laughed.
“I want to,” Morty said. His arms moved around her, and he pulled her close, nuzzling her neck.
“Not here,” she said, pushing him away.
“Where then?” he asked. He felt his heart plummet. Where could they go? Where could he take her to be alone? He knew some of his friends went to cellar clubs they belonged to, places they could hang out in, furnished with finds from the storefronts in the neighborhoods. Some of them had been cheap speakeasies from Prohibition, and now that liquor was available all over, some of the local guys were paying a small rent to have a clubhouse. Morty had never taken a girl there before, never wanted to. He wondered how Anna would feel about that. “Would you come with me to this cellar club I know about? My friend told me about it.”
“Maybe,” she said. “What is it like?”
“I haven’t been there. I’ll check it out and let you know.” They got up from the bench and walked slowly out of the park and to the subway so they could both get home in time for supper. Morty wanted to walk Anna back to her house, but she didn’t want him to. When they parted, he leaned down, kissed her cheek, and watched her walk away, wondering if anything would ever come of this. A voice in his head told him that if she wouldn’t let him walk her home, for fear of her family, how could he ever really be her boyfriend?
She had mentioned that she worked at her uncle’s business in an Italian deli. One day Morty decided to visit the shop, Tony’s Deli in Ocean Hill. He walked into the store and immediately saw Anna at the cash register. Glass cases lined the sides of the aisles displaying meats and cheeses. There were salamis hanging from the ceiling, and shelves opposite with cans of tomatoes and boxes of pasta. Another case held Italian cookies and pastries and bread. Everything smelled delicious.
Morty ordered a sandwich and went up to the cashier, pretending he did not know Anna. She paid little attention to him, acting as if she had never met him either, but she was blushing, and her eyes darted around the deli. Morty tried to chat to her, but she answered him in monosyllables. “See ya,” he said as, feeling chastened, he walked out of the store to eat his sandwich alone when he got to a local park.
Morty had a date with Anna the next night. She was waiting for him at Solly’s, and her eyes were blazing with anger as he walked toward her. “Are you crazy, coming into my uncle’s store like that? What were you thinking?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see where you work.”
“Well, don’t do that again. They’d kill me if they knew I was seeing a Jew.”
Morty’s chest constricted. There was that word again. He felt like he had been punched in the chest. This was the second time she’d called him that. Did I tell her I hated it when she said that? He didn’t think he had made an issue of it. He was upset with himself. I’m a coward, he thought. Now he said, “A Jew? It sounds like a curse word. Is that how you feel about me? That’s the most important thing about me? That I’m a Jew?”
Morty turned and walked away from the candy store. Anna followed him, trying to catch up. He felt sick to his stomach. He had read in the paper about what was going on in Germany. Adolf Hitler was always talking about the Jews, and he made life miserable for the Jewish citizens. His parents were always saying how happy they were that their families didn’t live in Germany. Morty knew there were many people in America who were antisemitic.
He looked at Anna, who was almost trotting beside him to keep up. Antisemitism was everywhere. He thought about the German American Bund, which was really nothing more than American Nazis; they called President Franklin Roosevelt “Frankel D. Rosenfeld,” and his New Deal was the “Jew Deal.” Charles Lindbergh, who was beloved by most Americans and who defended Hitler in all his speeches, was a Nazi sympathizer. And then there was Father Charles Coughlin, the Catholic priest from Detroit, who had these radio broadcasts that were very popular. He was always spewing all this antisemitic crap. Morty’s father had talked about him just the other night. Millions of people listened to his poison.
“I suppose your family listens to that priest, Father Coughlin, and his lies? He’s a priest, so everyone thinks he’s so holy. But he’s not. He’s disgusting. A disgusting man.”
“No,” Anna said. “Of course not. We don’t listen to that.” But she turned away, and Morty didn’t believe her.
Anna grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry, Morty. I didn’t mean anything bad about that . . . calling you a Jew. It’s just what they think—my family. And I don’t want to get them all riled up. My uncle’s mad enough about me not dating the Italian boys he keeps bringing to meet me. They want me to get married.”
“Look, Anna. We’ve both got it hard enough. Don’t make it worse.” He touched her cheek. “I don’t want you to marry someone else, but I sure can’t marry you now.” Just saying it made his breath stop. He thought, Do I love her? I think I love her. “No one’s getting married now,” he said. “It’s the Great Depression. I know all my money is going to help my folks and to my tuition.”
“I know,” Anna said. “Don’t worry. I’m holding them off. I’m not marrying anyone now either.” She wound her arm through his, and they walked down the street.
They dated often. As it got cold, in December and then January, it became harder and harder to hang out together. Morty told her he wanted to take her to New York, to Manhattan, where there were big movie theaters and the Automat, where for nickels you could get a delicious dinner and sit all night. The Automats were glamorous places with marble floors and tables and glass windows with brass knobs on the side walls. “Have you ever been to the Automat?”
Anna shook her head. “We only eat in Italian places.”
Morty laughed. “Yeah. And we eat at home. But you’d love the Automat,” Morty said. “The food’s great. Macaroni and cheese. Baked beans. Salisbury steak. And more kinds of pies than you know. And the best coffee in the world for a nickel. It comes out of a brass dragon spout!” Morty had only been to the Automat once, but he made it sound as if he went there all the time.
They went to Manhattan by subway, walked around Broadway looking at the shows they couldn’t afford to go to, and then ate dinner at the Automat on Broadway and Forty-Second Street. Anna was completely enchanted. The walls were lined with gleaming glass-and-brass windows. Morty laughed when he saw how she giggled when she inserted her nickels and opened the glass door to take out her purchase—a slice of lemon meringue or apple pie or a dish of Salisbury steak swimming in gravy with a side of mashed potatoes. There was deliciously creamy macaroni and cheese and plain sandwiches too. And best of all was the coffee, which, as Morty had said, came from a brass spigot shaped like a dragon’s head. It was, Anna agreed, all wonderful.
Once in a great while, they went to the movies to see a romantic comedy or a thriller. They saw It Happened One Night with Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable and months later Mutiny on the Bounty. He had his arm around Anna’s shoulder in the movie theater, and sometimes she put her head on his shoulder. He wondered again where he could go with her to be alone. He still hadn’t checked out the cellar club in his neighborhood, and although Rudy had twice offered his apartment if Morty wanted to take Anna there, Morty couldn’t bring himself to ask her. It remained a tantalizing possibility but one he didn’t think he would ever use.