As I RECALL, that Thanksgiving was the watershed moment for me. I watched my family’s reaction, both then and in the months afterwards. Mama and Papa didn’t talk openly about their feelings. Like so many of their generation, they didn’t even have the vocabulary to do so, if they felt the need. Mama, not surprisingly, seemed sad about it all, and any private dreams about Ezra and me under the canopy disappeared. She never questioned our friendship after that, or spoke disparagingly about Ezra, but nor did she ever suggest inviting him for supper again.
Papa only once brought it up to me when we were alone. We had gone for a walk down Fifth Avenue to look at the store windows decorated for Christmas and over to see the tree at Rockefeller Plaza and to smile on the ice skaters swooshing past the grand figure of Prometheus. It was an annual tradition, usually with one or two other of my siblings and Papa. Christmas in New York is an electric time of year, even if you’re Jewish, at least a kind of New York secular Jew.
This year Papa just invited me. It was a brisk walk down Broadway to Central Park South and across to Fifth Avenue. If we were really in for a treat, we’d stop at Wolfie’s on 57th Street for a deli sandwich and their wonderful coleslaw and kosher dills, served at every table. And so we did, almost by unspoken tradition. The sandwiches at Wolfie’s were too big for your mouth, but we always managed. It was at Wolfie’s, with New York’s Christmas winter wonderland going on outside the windows, that Papa asked me.
“Are you still seeing your friend Ezra? You aren’t thinking of becoming a Christian too, are you?” He said it without any venom in his tone, staring me gently in the eyes, as only Papa could do.
“Ezra and I are just friends, Papa, we’re not dating. To tell you the truth, I think he’s thinking of becoming a priest or something.” I tried to smile and hesitated before answering the second part of his question. “And yes, Papa, I’m thinking about Christianity…I was even before I met Ezra, he hasn’t influenced me in that way. I’m just coming to know about Christ and His Church, and I find it all very…consoling… and very…what would you say? Very close to all the wonderful spiritual things about life you’ve taught me, Papa, and very beautiful. Yes, beautiful. It’s a beautiful religion.”
“Judaism is a beautiful religion too, but I think I understand what you mean, my little Rafkins.” Papa hadn’t called me that in ten years! “Let’s just keep it our little secret for now, okay? We don’t need to say anything to your mother about it, okay?”
I was so moved I couldn’t eat another bite of my sandwich, and had to have it wrapped up to take home. I never felt closer to my father than I did that day in Wolfie’s Restaurant, and a great weight seemed to be lifted. I knew I would be okay, that it would be okay. I didn’t know how or when, but it would be okay.
I tucked my arm in Papa’s arm, and we huddled our way over to Rockefeller Center. The tree never looked more beautiful, and the angels blowing on their trumpets were almost audible. I didn’t remember seeing them in years past.
We didn’t speak of it again, until it had all happened, or was about to. I knew that Mama would not be as understanding as Papa, and I remember walking past St. Patrick’s that afternoon, squeezing Papa’s arm and secretly thanking God for Papa and asking Him to show me the way to tell Mama, if this was all supposed to be. It was a little spiritual experience, I think. I was holding onto Papa’s arm, and I could feel my mind and heart going into the cathedral and kneeling before the tabernacle way in the back, and the same peace came to me walking by the church as when I went inside. How strange this new world of faith would be…I had no idea.
I’ll always remember New Year’s Eve of 1965. There was no big New Year’s Eve party to go to, although there were plenty being scheduled around campus, and even at the Feinstein residence a small party was in the offing…perhaps more of a family reunion. Sally was coming up from Philly, and David was coming over and spending the night. Ruthie was allowed to have a girlfriend from school over to stay, and my Aunt Ruth from south Jersey was coming up. I think she even came together with Sally on the train. Aunt Ruth was Mother’s older sister who was married to a musician who at one time had played in the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, but now was in a small band at a fancy hotel-restaurant in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. I guess he had to stay in town to play his saxophone, and Aunt Ruth wanted to come to the Big Apple.
For myself, I had been invited by the Prices to spend the evening at their apartment. It was a concession on their part, wanting to do all they could for their dying daughter. Gracie was home for the holidays, which had been wonderful and rather emotional for the family. Poor Gracie was so gaunt looking, beyond even what anorexic models would desire, but she still had her tremendous smile, although I was taken aback by how large her teeth looked to me, rather like a horse, God forgive me, I should be so cruel in my thoughts.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. New Year’s Eve day I had a “date” to meet Ezra at Tea on Thames for a brunch-tea. He was leaving early that afternoon for a Passionist Monastery in Massachusetts along with his roommates. How weird was that? Not many college guys are off to a monastery for a New Year’s Eve retreat, but then Ezra was not an ordinary college guy. Lady Gwendolyn was in a festive holiday mood; her little tea house looked like a gingerbread house set down in the middle of a Dickens novel. One was expecting Scrooge or Tiny Tim to walk in. Gwendolyn herself was not in costume, but decorated in Victorian Christmas ornaments, or so it seemed. She loved costume jewelry, especially anything with bangles and bobs. She was always so cheerful and welcoming, and was calling on Earl Grey to make his way to our table before we could even ask for him. Tea on Thames had become a regular watering hole for us and a few of our friends.
I had been to Christmas Midnight Mass with Ezra at Blessed Sacrament Church. It was such a moving experience for me that I couldn’t keep the tears from flowing, especially at Holy Communion time. I wanted so much to receive the Lord in Holy Communion. I meditated on how incomprehensible the Incarnation is, and the utter humility of God to become a man. This was Ezra’s first Christmas as a Christian, and he was almost aglow with joy. It was my first Solemn High Mass, and I guess I basked in his glow and in His glow.
Ezra’s favorite priest, Fr. Kelly, gave an impassioned sermon which opened up for me the beginning of a deeper study into what they all called theology. Fr. Kelly said words to the effect that one cannot really understand the mystery and the splendor of Christmas outside of the context of the Blessed Trinity. That was so true. It was the Blessed Trinity or the Triune God—the Three Divine Persons in the One God—that really separated the Christian from the Jew, and the Moslem for that matter. Jesus was not just a prophet like our noted prophets: Moses, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel… He was not just a Rabbi, a teacher of the Torah imparting a social and spiritual teaching, even the Golden Rule. He was truly the Second Person of the Triune God, the Word (the Logos, in Greek). And it was this Second Person, the Word, who became man. He didn’t come in the appearance of a man; He didn’t somehow come down and take over the body of a human being; He was conceived in a virgin’s womb, and was born of her nine months later.
I’ve been pondering this probably every day since that Christmas Midnight Mass. Oh, I had read this, and even tried to argue it and refute it, but spoken that night surrounded by the lights and fir trees and poinsettias galore, it began to sink into my head and my soul. And I knew that either this was true or everything else in Christianity was false; but if this were really the truth, then everything that flowed from it was also true. I’m not sure I put it all into such words in my head way back then, but I knew that was the heart of it. All that Jesus said and did were the words and actions of a Divine Person, or just another rabbinical teacher of Israel, like a Hasidic Rebbe.
I also remember that the side altar dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary was especially beautiful for Christmas, and it was her image I thought of all the next day whenever I listened to a Christmas carol being sung and mentioning her. Jesus and I both had a Jewish mother.
Ezra and I saw each other every day after Christmas, visiting all our favorite Churches and visiting their crèche scenes, praying quietly before the figurines of the Christ Child, Mary, Joseph, the angels and shepherds, and knowing and believing all the time that the very same Jesus this plaster figurine represented was really present in the tabernacle on the altar. The red sanctuary lamp was a living flame keeping watch before the living presence—like the shepherds and Mary and Joseph. It was wonderful to think about the birth of God into our poor world.
Even Gwendolyn had a nativity set in the front bay window, with penguins rather than sheep, which I never understood, nor did I dare ask her why. It was all part of her penguin collection. She had stuffed penguins, glass figurines, trinkets, and even penguin earrings.
It was there at Tea on Thames that I gave Ezra my Christmas gift. I think it may have been the first “Christmas present” I ever really gave to someone, with the exception of Gracie’s gifts over the years, but even those I called Chanukah gifts. I wanted to give Ezra something really special for his first Christmas as a Catholic, but it was very difficult to come up with something he didn’t already have. So I didn’t get him anything religious, at least not tangibly so.
Instead, I got him two tickets to The Sound of Music, the movie which was currently playing, starring Julie Andrews as Maria. It was apparently a smash hit, and I knew he hadn’t seen it. That’s why I got two tickets! I got to Tea on Thames about 15 minutes early, and filled Gwendolyn in on my present, and she went along with my hiding the tickets in an empty teapot. It was one of her finest Christmas teapots which looked like a replica of Ye Old Curiosity Shop, covered in white enameled snow. Her cups never matched or came in sets; we had two of her finest stoneware mugs of different design, shape, and color.
When Ezra arrived, I was already having my usual Earl Grey with some sugar cookies. “More Earl Grey,” I shouted while welcoming dear Ezra. Gwendolyn of course brought the Old Curiosity House teapot in a matter of minutes. I waited to let Ezra pour, as I only had a splash left in my cup.
“This is very light!” he exclaimed, and swished it around. Nothing swished. “There’s no tea in here,” he said, half laughing and half disturbed. He did hear something rattling inside, and when he opened it, there was a fancy red envelope. He confessed later that he just thought it was a Christmas card from Gwendolyn, but it turned out to be two movie tickets. He laughed with delight when he saw it, and promised that we—yes, we, must go when he got back from Massachusetts. The movie tickets included dinner first.
Ezra was going to be on retreat for five full days. He’d be back in time for school, and the Sound of Music. It was funny; I don’t think I had had a male best friend ever before, but that’s what he had become. Maybe I was so used to having two brothers that I could laugh and talk and enjoy doing things with Ezra. He had been very sweet and gave Mama a Chanukah gift: a beautiful punch bowl set he had bought at Bloomingdale’s. Mama was a little overcome with emotion and thanked him very warmly, and even wished him a Merry Christmas without it getting stuck in her throat. He knew Mama and Papa were not comfortable with his being friends with me, but in his own little ways he tried to assure them that his intentions towards me were “most gentlemanly,” as Gwendolyn put it when we told her about the incident. He was all excited about going away to this monastery, and I listened carefully, not quite understanding what it all meant… retreats and monasteries and all that.
I told him that I was spending the night with Gracie, whom he had met more than once, and of course Gracie knew all about him from me. He was glad for her sake that I would be with her. It was probably her last New Year’s, and she should be with her friends as much as possible.
When we were leaving, Gwendolyn, who had obviously picked up bits and pieces of the conversation, gave me a box of cinnamon-raisin scones for Gracie and her family, which I thought was very thoughtful of her, but more surprisingly, she gave Ezra a bag of Christmas cookies with the request that he remember her in his prayers while on retreat.
“God bless you,” she said, not quite as poignantly as Tiny Tim, but it struck us both, as she had never said that before. I think I saw her eyes watering up as she waved, her Victorian Father Christmas earrings bobbing up and down.
Walking down Broadway to the subway, we commented to each other that we really didn’t know anything about Gwendolyn. She never really talked about her family. We didn’t think she wore a wedding ring because she wore several rings on several fingers, but we would ask her about herself next time—“next year.” Ezra said he would pray especially for me, and Gracie, and my family…and he would pray that the new year would be my year.
“My year?” I tried to make it humorous, but I knew what he meant. I decided to walk down Broadway instead of taking the subway, but Ezra needed to get home quickly to grab his bag and his roommates. They were taking a bus to Springfield. We hugged each other at the subway stairs.
“Happy New Year…see you next year…” his voice echoing down into the cavernous subway entrance.
I wanted to walk home to clear my head a little and window shop for something for Gracie. I was tempted to go back to Tea on Thames to see if Gwendolyn was okay, but got distracted by an ambulance siren careening very near me. When I looked up, I saw a crowd just ahead of me, across 86th Street. As I got closer, I could see that someone was lying on the pavement, and the medics were soon attending to her. No one seemed to know what happened, whether it was a heart attack, a stroke, or if she fell over something…or was shot or knifed. She was quickly put on a gurney, an oxygen mask placed on her mouth and nose, and was lifted up into the back of the ambulance. And off they went.
It’s not unusual to see such things in New York; we see life and death right before our eyes every day, or so it seems. I mention it here only because it stuck in my mind for an entirely different—self-centered—reason. I stood there with the little crowd that had stopped for a moment, and I said a prayer for the lady—something very simple and short and spontaneous. I don’t even remember what I said, but something like, “God take care of this old lady, please help her.” And I made the sign of the cross over myself. That was first time I ever did that. I had thought about doing it. I had practiced doing it at home but felt awkward and self-conscious about it anywhere else, even in church. Now it happened almost without my thinking about it; it was almost a natural reaction to a crisis moment, for someone else, not for me.
I passed Westside Records, a favorite place of Gracie’s, who had been much more into the Beatles, Elvis, and even Bob Dylan than I was. I thought of getting her a record, but it wasn’t personal enough. Then I thought of the perfect gift for her, and hurried on home to change and go over to her apartment.
Aunt Ruth and Sally had arrived and were filling the kitchen with laughter and stories. Mogen David had also arrived by the sounds of it, brought no doubt by Aunt Ruth who had a special affection for ole Mogen. She was excited to see me, as always, commenting on everything from my hair to my shoes.
“A college student, and you’re wearing a ponytail?” At least she didn’t comment on my weight, which was probably because she couldn’t talk; she was a “full-bodied woman” too, and then some…as Uncle Max would say.
Sally seemed happy to see me, and I was certainly glad to see her. She was the only one really interested in what courses I was taking, and what papers I was writing, and who was I dating, and what Broadway shows had I seen… sister talk. Apparently Mama hadn’t reported to the reporter about my friend Ezra. She (Mama) probably decided to leave that to Ruthie. David, Papa, and Ruthie weren’t at home, so I missed giving them all an early New Year’s kiss, but I would see them all tomorrow night for supper.
I grabbed my overnight bag, wished Mama, Aunt Ruth, and Sally a Happy New Year, and took off for 68th Street. The Prices lived in a high-rise apartment on West 68th near Central Park West. Their living room had a picture window which looked out towards the Park. Mr. Price is some kind of producer for NBC. They only had two children, a boy nearly seven years older than Gracie, named William, but they called him “Skip,” and Gracie “Darling.” Mr. Price always seemed very friendly and welcoming, which probably comes from his work in television, while Gracie’s mother seemed more formal and a bit chilly, as I remember. I don’t think she really liked me or approved of me. I thought it was probably because I was Jewish and Mrs. Price didn’t like Jews, but that’s all conjecture. I guess sometimes we come to our own faulty ideas about people without really knowing the truth. Our prejudices or our projecting prejudice onto others can be very subjective.
Hector, their doorman, was very nice, as most doormen are. He’s known me for years as I would meet Gracie in her lobby. He used to tease us about being careful of the wolves “out there.” Gracie once whispered to me sardonically that his “literary acumen never advanced beyond Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Feinstein,” I was greeted politely by Hector.
“Hi, Hector, I’m here to see in the new year with Gracie Price.”
“I know,” Hector smiled, holding the door for me, and walking with me towards the bank of elevators. “Miss Price informed me you’d be arriving.” His literary acumen may not have advanced much, but his English was excellent, I thought, as I pushed the button for the 43rd floor.
“Happy New Year, Hector.” The door closed, and I was on my way, hoping my ears wouldn’t pop.
Mr. and Mrs. Price couldn’t have been nicer, and welcomed me most cordially. I said hello to Skip, whom I hadn’t seen since that Saturday at Mt. Sinai. I hadn’t really noticed how grown up and handsome he looked. He also worked for NBC as an assistant set decorator. He had graduated from Rhode Island School of Design and had worked for a year at an interior design company in Boston before coming back to New York and working for NBC. He lived on the Upper East Side, I think around 73rd Street. He was just here for supper and would be off to a party on the East Side.
Gracie was in her bedroom, in a hospital bed actually, but would be coming out for supper. She was very pale and her luxurious blonde hair was now just flat and wispy, but she was sitting up and excited to see me. I would sleep in the same room in her former twin bed, and best of all, she had her own color TV. There was her usual dresser with a statue of Mary standing on a lace doily. Cluttered around the Blessed Virgin were Christmas cards, and ribbons, a couple bottles of Jean Naté Eau de Toilette, a half-burned-down vigil candle, and a framed photo of the family at our graduation. There was also a small vanity table near the window, and a small desk, both of which were cluttered with papers, magazines, books, and hospital paraphernalia. Between the hospital bed and the twin bed was a night table with a ballerina lamp, and an overstuffed living room chair which I didn’t remember being in her room before. I gave her a big hug and she said, “Wanna go to Times Square tonight?” I stuck my finger in my mouth like I was gagging, and we laughed like silly high school girls again.
“I have a little present for you, but not till later; and it’s not wrapped up in anything…oh, Gwendolyn says ‘Happy New Year’ and sent a whole box of cinnamon-raisin scones. They look delicious.” And Gracie laughed at me. I was tickled I could still make her laugh, she looked so pathetic. It was all so sad, her being in that ugly hospital bed.
Supper was very nice: baked breaded flounder with wild rice, acorn squash and asparagus spears done perfectly. We had a non-kosher Pinot Grigio, which had been brought by Skip, who informed us that he was now “William.” Gracie only had half a glass and whispered to me that she was saving room for the champagne later tonight. Dessert was lady fingers smothered in peach preserves and whipped cream and sprinkled with powdered sugar. (I thought to myself, “Aunt Ruth would gag over this one.”) But I smiled and cleaned my plate as I had been taught, for the starving children in China, which somewhere along the way became the hungry children on a kibbutz in Israel. Clean your plate for Israel.
We made up a divan in the living room for Gracie, who sat smothered in quilts and throw pillows, but sitting up like the queen of the ball. We all watched TV for a couple hours and then switched to the television coverage at Times Square. William left shortly after 9:00, and Mr. Price fell asleep in his easy chair sometime around 11:00, but Mrs. Price shook him and kicked his shoes and woke him up in time to watch the Ball drop in Times Square and the crowd going wild welcoming in 1966. Gracie wasn’t kidding about the champagne. We had a glass or two, while singing “Auld Lang Syne” with the TV crowd and kissing each other, “Happy New Year.” It was only then that poor Mrs. Price broke down and cried and quietly left the room. I felt for her and cried inside. But it was Gracie who said, “Let’s say a decade of the Rosary.”
Mrs. Price had returned from the kitchen with a handful of Kleenex. “Do you think we should, dear?” Her eyes indicated my Jewish presence.
“Oh course,” I said, “The Virgin Mary was a nice Jewish girl too.” And that broke the ice. We all laughed and hugged again, and got settled in our seats. Mrs. Price turned down the lights, and we all faced a beautiful icon of Our Mother of Perpetual Help, which was on the wall opposite the TV. Mr. Price didn’t turn the TV off but turned the sound completely down. And it was he who led the Rosary. They all had rosary beads in their hands, and Gracie very unceremoniously handed me hers. They were lovely white beads with little gold “shoulder pads” around each one. From her bathrobe pocket, she pulled out another, less pretty, pair of brown beads, and closed her eyes. I knew the Hail Mary, but I had only prayed it quietly to myself. I was very content to begin the new year this way, in this apartment, with my best friend, and her rosary. We actually prayed five decades, not one, after which Gracie was very tired and wanted to go to her room. While mother and daughter took care of her medicine and getting into bed, I called home and wished Happy New Year to everyone. David scolded me for not being there, Mama was weepy, and I think a little too friendly with Mogen David, as was Aunt Ruth, whose wish was that Sally find herself a husband this year, and Sally whispered she wished Aunt Ruth would stay in Cherry Hill. Ruthie giggled something to me, and Papa got on the phone last. “The Lord bless you and keep you, may He make His face to shine upon you, and give you peace, my Raf-kins. Happy New Year.”
I hung up the phone and said goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. Price and went into Gracie’s room; changed into my PJ’s and sat in the chair next to her bed. She turned over on her side, smiling at me. “So, what’s your gift for me? I know, you’re engaged to Ezra, and want me to be the maid of honor?”
“No, no, no…silly.” I got closer and softly said, “I’m going to become a Catholic, and I want you to be my godmother.”