Part Eight
Gershon, 1917
Chapter 20

On Monday, three days after his nephew’s disappearance, Gershon was first in line at the Navy recruiting station, wrapped in his best coat, when the heavy metal doors opened at eight.

“There’s no record of a Shmuel Levinson enlisting last week.” The clerk, standing behind a gritty counter that Gershon disdained to touch, slid his narrow finger down the columns of the wide ledger, each bearing hundreds of names.

Gershon wasn’t surprised, but he also knew from helping immigrants that those who changed their names often kept the same initials. He asked for all the S.L.’s.

“Do you know how long it would take ...?” the clerk began.

Gershon smoothed out a ten dollar bill and thirty minutes later had his answer: four hundred and fifty-eight names. Ruling out those too foreign for Shmuel to have gotten away with still left over three hundred. He asked for phone numbers, planning to call their parents until he came to someone who didn’t exist.

“I’m not permitted to release that information, sir.”

“My nephew falsified his age. His mother is frantic. Under the circumstances, you can break the rules.” Gershon reached into his wallet again.

The clerk stiffened. “If the boy lied about his age, it’s a legal matter out of my control. The Community Board will have to approve your request before this office can proceed.” He slammed the ledger shut and called for the next person in line.

***

Gershon went to see Rivka, expecting Avram to be at work, but he was home, sitting shiva. His brother-in-law davened, swaying and mumbling, in a corner of the darkened room. The two men ignored each other. Gershon told his sister how he planned to overcome this temporary setback.

“I spoke to Alderman Dickstein and got permission to address the Board tomorrow night. They’ll petition the Borough President, who’ll pressure the district court to give its approval to release the information.” Gershon was sure he could penetrate all five layers of bureaucracy by spreading around enough money. He thought he heard a snort interrupt Avram’s prayers.

Rivka too expressed scepticism. The borough and the district court were well beyond the Lower East Side territory where her brother held power. “Suppose we’re wrong and Shmuel didn’t even join the Navy? We should put a missing persons notice in The Jewish Forward.”

Gershon rejected the idea outright. “Those ads are for women whose husbands run off and disappear, not for sons who go off to fight for their country.”

“Then write a letter to Bintel Briefs for advice on how to trace him. We can’t be the only family whose boy has done this.” Rivka rummaged in Dev’s school things for paper and pencil.

Gershon stayed his sister’s hand. “I know you’re trying to be helpful, but Bintel Briefs is a column for greenhorns and riffraff, not for settled immigrants and respectable people like us.”

Avram rose and pulled away the black cloth covering the window. The afternoon sun lit up the stained walls of the apartment. Turning his back to the glare, Avram stared at his blinking brother-in-law. “You forget, Gershon. We Levinsons, unlike you Mendels, are the riffraff of America.” He jerked the cloth back over the window. “Now go!”