GOLDA
When Golda came home from work and picked up the mail that windy day in March 1942, two envelopes confused her. Who did she know in the armed forces? There was no name on the return address of either one, only the stamp of the US Military Postal Service. One was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Ben Feinstein, the other to Sylvia. She carried the mail up to the apartment, put the letters on the table, and went into the kitchen to make herself some tea. She was reluctant to open the envelope addressed to her and Ben, though she didn’t know why.
She took the teacup to the table, sat down, and examined the envelope. The handwriting looked like something she had seen before, and a thought came to her. She felt the skin prickle on the back of her neck. She shook her head. She would wait for Ben to come home to open it. She finished her tea and went into the kitchen to start supper. As she chopped the onions and set them into the frying pan, as she put the potatoes into the oven to bake, as she cut the carrots and put the small piece of liver into the frying pan, she glanced continuously at the table in the next room, looking at the envelope, at the handwriting. She kept hoping to hear the door open and Ben enter with the heavy steps of his characteristic walk. She wiped her hands on her apron, walked to the table again, lifted the letter, put it down, and went back to the kitchen. What was she afraid of? She didn’t want to say out loud what she was thinking because it was so outlandish. She wanted Ben there when she opened the letter.
When he arrived and hung up his jacket, she walked to the table, stood there, and greeted him. “There’s a letter,” she said.
“Yes? From who?”
“I don’t know. But it says the military.” Suddenly something occurred to her. “You’re too old to be called, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” he answered. He picked up the envelope, looked at it, looked at Golda, tore the envelope open, and pulled out the letter. A photograph spilled onto the table. Ben picked it up, looked at it, gasped, and stumbled to a chair. “Golda,” he whispered. “It’s him. Look, it’s Morty.” His hands shaking, he offered her the picture.
Golda sat beside him, and together they stared at the photo. There was Morty, tall, handsome, a grin on his face as he stared at them. “How can that be?” she asked.
Ben opened the letter and read it out loud:
Dear Mama, Papa, and Sylvia,
I don’t know how to even start this letter. I just found out that you think I died. As you can see, I did not. I don’t know how that body was ever identified as me or who it really is, but it isn’t me.
You know after Rudy was killed, I had to go to Liberty. Well, I learned that a rival gang was coming up to the Catskills, and I was threatened, so I ran.
I got on a bus and wound up in Cincinnati. I was afraid to contact you then because I thought the gang was looking for me and they said if they found me, I’d be a dead man. I also was afraid that if the police found me, I could be arrested.
I didn’t want you to have any information that would put you at risk. I never thought they would tell you I was dead. I am so sorry if you were sad. I heard you buried the body in a Jewish cemetery. I don’t know who that body was, but it wasn’t me.
In Cincinnati I waited tables, bartended, and eventually got a job with an engineering firm and went to the University of Cincinnati to finish up my engineering degree. And then when the war broke out, I signed up. A lot of times I thought about writing you or calling you, but I was afraid. So now I’m in basic training, and soon I’ll be sent wherever they send me.
Please write me back. Tell me how you are. Say you forgive me.
Your son,
Morty
Ben’s hands were shaking when he put the letter down. “He’s alive. Alive. I always believed.”
Golda’s heart was thumping. Morty was alive. Their boy was alive. And a soldier. She did not know what to make of it all. What to think. She was stunned. She could see Ben was too.
But she knew that there had always been a part of him that hoped somehow that Morty was still alive. That man in Liberty had told him he had seen Morty at the bus stop. He had always hoped that there had been a mistake.
She shook her head. Suddenly she smelled the unmistakable odor of burning food and jumped up and went into the kitchen to check. Golda heard a key in the lock and knew Sylvia was home. The door opened, and Sylvia came in from her her classes at Brooklyn College. She looked at her father’s face, drained white.
“What happened? What’s the matter?”
Golda handed her the photograph.
“Oh, my God. That’s Morty. Is he alive? Oh, my God. He’s alive. He’s so handsome.”
“Read,” Golda said. She handed Sylvia the open letter.
Sylvia read the letter and quickly sat down hard on a chair. “Mama, Papa, he’s alive.” She could barely contain her joy. She took a deep breath and reread the letter more slowly. “He doesn’t say a word about Anna or Lily,” she said. “I wonder if he knows about Lily.”
Golda shook her head. “Maybe he wrote such a letter as this to Anna too.” They all sat quietly thinking about the two times they had met with Anna and Lily and how Sylvia had brought them together. Now it seemed, with Morty alive, this would all have to be sorted out. Golda suddenly remembered the other letter that Morty had written to Sylvia, and she handed it to her. Sylvia tore it open and read it.
Dear Sylvia,
I am so sorry for all the grief and trouble I caused. I hope when I get home, I can explain what happened and that you all forgive me. Hopefully you have read the letter I wrote to Mama and Papa. But I’m writing you separately to ask you for a very big favor.
I don’t know if you knew that I had a girlfriend, Anna DeMaio. She lives not far from us in Ocean Hill, on 138 Hull Street in a two-family house. I love her, Sylvia. I would have married her if things had worked out differently, and I am praying that it isn’t too late.
I wrote to her and she wrote back. We have a baby girl, Sylvia. Her name is Lily and she’s ten months old. Would you go to see her? Would you write back to me, if Anna lets you see Lily, and tell me about her? Maybe you could even get a photograph.
I’m sending you money to give her too. Here’s the first installment. Oh, sister, I hope you can help me straighten out my life. I know I’ve screwed up badly.
And I miss you too.
Your loving brother,
Morty
Sylvia put the letter down. “He did write to Anna. He knows about Lily, and he wants me to go to Anna, give her some money, beg her to write again.” She gave the letter to her parents to read. “He has no idea I’ve been seeing her. I’m going to call her right away.”