IT WAS A TIME to remember: the year 1936, when three hundred guests had gathered to attend a yearly picnic at the Hillsborough estate of Ephraim’s grandson, another Ephraim. The opulent surroundings were a far cry from the tent city where it had all begun. It was a day to rekindle old memories. Three generations were present, and the guests numbered the oldest and most distinguished of California’s Jewish pioneers. Although the party was limited to direct descendants, and was an annual event, some were meeting for the first time.
The older guests spoke of the dreams that had motivated men like Ephraim; of the cherished legacies that had been handed down to them. They showed their children the daguerreotypes which were on display in the pavilion at the far end of the garden: dark, grainy images of unsmiling men and women in formal poses.
Among that assembly were Martin’s mother and father. Julian Roth (the -enberger having been dropped by Julian’s parents) had married Bess Unger, a cousin three times removed. They stood facing the image of Ephraim with a heavy heart. What would he have thought today had he known that his great-grandson, Martin, had been rejected by Yale? It was painful to contemplate in view of the fact that Ephraim thought that he had left discrimination behind in the Old World. He had forgotten that much of the East struggled to duplicate European society right down to its faults. It was quite clear to Julian that Martin had been turned away only because Yale’s 10-percent Jewish quota had been filled.
For the first time the Roths realized that San Francisco was freer of prejudice than the rest of the country. Like many Western Jews, they had a very secular outlook. They gave large sums of money to non-Jewish causes, not because they felt Jewish ones were less worthy than others, but because they considered themselves part of a larger world where the needs of the underprivileged should not be categorized according to religion. For this very reason they were particularly shocked that Martin, a straight-A student, should be rejected. Martin had been in a state of shock when he handed the letter to his father.
“… It is with regret that, by the time your application was processed, our Freshman class had been filled.”
The next morning Julian was on the telephone with his attorney. “Martin’s going to Yale. Do you hear what I say?”
“You do remember, Julian? I told you about the quota.”
“I would have certainly not believed that it would apply to Martin. Not with his grades.”
“I don’t want you to think that I’m underestimating Martin’s abilities or his qualification, but all students, Jew or gentile, have got to be damn good.”
“Well, I don’t give a damn about that. Martin’s going to Yale.”
Later, in their bedroom, Bess said to Julian, “I still don’t understand any of this, Julian. I find it impossible to believe that Yale could be anti-Semitic.”
“Not overtly. But they are all the same.”
“I had no idea that anything like this went on.”
“Oh, my dear—there is much worse than this happening. There are hotels in America with signs that say: NO JEWS, NO DOGS. There are business concerns that make no apologies for not hiring Jews.”
Bess shook her head. “I just can’t believe this. My God—where have we been?”
“Cloistered and insulated. Now, however, we have a choice. We can either fight or turn aside and have Martin apply to a school with lower standards or fewer Jewish applicants. I say we have to fight it.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” Bess had tears in her eyes. “Maybe he’d be happier with his own kind. Maybe pushing in where we’re not wanted is dangerous. Maybe it’s even more dangerous if he is eventually accepted. I mean, we wouldn’t want him to give up his Judaism.” She felt a cold premonition of disaster.
“You may be right,” Julian said. “But with the slogans currently being shouted by the Nazis maybe we have to fight. We haven’t seen that kind of anti-Semitism since the dark ages. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to speak to Martin.”
Julian found his son in his room, lying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. “I think we should talk.”
“There really isn’t anything to talk about, Dad. They’ve turned me down.”
“We’ll fight their decision!” Julian answered, smashing his fist into his palm. “We have to stand up to tyranny no matter how subtle. If the world had done that when Hitler marched into the Rhineland, the Jews might be free in Germany today.”
But Martin was besieged with conflicting emotions. He’d never thought much about being a Jew; yet he’d never considered hiding his Jewishness either. But suddenly, for the first time, he was overcome with guilt. He really didn’t want to spend four years in a place where he would at best be tolerated. He saw no reason to apologize for being Jewish; if anything, he’d grown up proud of the fact. But he’d also grown up with a strong sense of justice. He believed in fighting for the underdog. It was just that he’d never seen himself in that role.
With a stiffening of resolve, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up to face his father.
“Okay, we’ll fight,” he said. “But it’s a little like shadow-boxing. It’s hard to know who’s the enemy.”
“I’m sure he’ll come forward,” said Julian with a dour smile. “In any case we have until September—several months in our favor.”
But it didn’t take that long. As in the great European universities that Yale emulated, money, big money, spoke in a loud, clear voice. Soon after Julian arranged to donate, anonymously, a new reading room in Sterling Memorial Library, Martin received a letter informing him of an unexpected vacancy and congratulated him on his acceptance.
As Julian swallowed the somewhat hollow victory, he tried to reassure himself that Ephraim would have been pleased. Yale was, after all, a long way from the Paris ghetto.
The first of August found Bess in a frenzy of excitement trying to get Martin ready for school. She sewed name tags just as she had when he had gone to summer camp. There was mending and sorting, and of course, shopping for a proper Yale wardrobe. She decided that they could buy raingear and a heavy wool overcoat when they got to New Haven. In addition, there was the purchase of Martin’s car. He absolutely refused to take his yellow Buick convertible. He said he didn’t think he’d need a car anyway, but if he was going to take one he insisted on trading in the Buick for a Ford. Bess was not entirely pleased with his demand, but still …
The day after Labor Day the three of them took the train to New York, where Julian picked out Martin’s Ford. They spent a few days in the city shopping and seeing shows, then they drove up to New Haven to get Martin settled. It was the first time Bess had visited an Ivy League school and she was suitably impressed. With its Gothic buildings and landscaping, it seemed more like Oxford than an American college.
Martin went to the Bursar and was quickly assigned to a room on Old Campus, the freshman quad at the heart of Yale’s campus. Bess was happy he was the first to arrive in his suite, which consisted of three bedrooms, one of which was a single, a bathroom, and a cozy living or study area. Bess insisted Martin take the single.
“You’ll have lots of work. It will be quieter,” she insisted. “You don’t know the other boys. They may not be so interested in studying.”
Martin, who by now had done a little investigating of his own into Ivy League anti-Semitism, didn’t argue. He might have suitemates who would not care to room with a Jew. But suspecting this and experiencing it were very different, Martin was to discover.
He helped his mother unpack and tried to reassure her he’d be fine. “After all,” he said, “I’ve been away to school. You’ll see. This won’t be very different. I’ll bet you won’t even miss me. You and Dad can plan a second honeymoon.”
Bess smiled, but once settled on the train back West she allowed herself to cry a little. She knew Yale would hot be the same as high school. Menlo School for Boys had hardly required cutting the umbilical cord. It was thirty minutes away from Hillsborough, and Martin was home almost every weekend. But Yale was what Martin and Julian wanted, so she resolved to make the best of it. If she had had any idea of what Martin’s first few days in that respected situation were to be, she might have jumped right out of the train and gone back to New Haven to protect him.
Martin’s first suitemate, a tall, myopic blond, dressed in tweeds, whose bags contained enough booze for the whole dorm, glanced briefly at Martin’s wavy black hair and olive skin and merely asked him if he’d like a drink.
“Not just yet,” Martin said. Although his parents served hard liquor at their parties, his family rarely drank more than a little wine.
“Right,” drawled the blond, who finally introduced himself as Lawrence Perry. “Your kind frowns on the indulgence. Well, Yale should loosen you up,” he added tolerantly.
Martin retreated to his room. Lawrence was unlikely to become a friend, but he seemed harmless. His other suitemates were less innocuous. They arrived together with a welter of athletic equipment which amazed Martin, used though he was to team sports. Two were twins, Tim and Chris Sanders. The third, Mike, had roomed with them at Groton. The twins were from Newton, Massachusetts; Mike from Philadelphia’s Main Line. They accepted Lawrence’s offer of vodka and orange juice with alacrity, and once they saw Martin’s awkward withdrawal, paid little attention. Only Chris asked as he mixed the drinks, “Roth … Roth. That name German? We wouldn’t want to room with a Nazi.”
“Hardly,” said Martin. Then, turning to face them all, he said bluntly, “I’m Jewish.” No one answered and for a while Martin thought things must be okay. It was only when it was time for dinner that he knew that the Yale he had imagined existed only in his dreams. Lawrence pointed out that since classes hadn’t begun, they didn’t have to appear in the dining hall.
“Let’s hit the Taft for steak and a beer.”
Martin started up to go with them when Tim said sharply, “I doubt their beef’s kosher. Isn’t that the word? Anyway, I can’t stop Yale from letting down their standards, but I can keep up my own.”
Lawrence started to protest, but three strong drinks did little to stiffen his backbone and he finally followed the three out of the room with an apologetic wave.
Martin sat stunned. He had always considered himself one of the privileged—and not just because his family had money. The Roths could hardly be called nouveau riche—Martin’s roots went back three generations. They were as much a part of San Francisco society as the Cabots were of Boston. This was his first encounter with outright anti-Semitism.
He made his way uneasily down to the dining hall, deciding he just must have been exceedingly unlucky in his suitemates. But even though over the next week he ran into no other incidents outside his own rooms, he found he wasn’t making friends. He wondered if he could be at fault. Perhaps his first experience in the dorm had made him too wary. But Martin had always been surrounded by friends—Jewish and gentiles. He’d never thought about religion before. His father had told him he had to stand up for the Jews who were being persecuted in Germany, but Martin wasn’t so happy to be fighting his own war during what should have been the happiest days of his life.
It didn’t take long for him to realize that his suitemates were not so different from the rest of the men in his class. Over those first weeks, going to classes, the library, meals, he learned how small a 10-percent quota really was. He noticed that many of the Jews hung out together—they were twice as smart as most of their classmates, but singularly aloof and hardworking.
It wasn’t easy for Martin to find out who he was, not after believing for so long that he knew. But what hurt the most was the enormous endowment that his father had given to the university in order for him to be accepted.
Now that Martin had been made more aware of his Jewishness, he developed a devotion which drew him toward it. In the face of his roommates’ rejection he felt a compulsion to proclaim his identity.
He began to understand the studious habits of his fellow Jews, and found himself spending longer and longer hours in the library. He tried to keep his parents from knowing he was unhappy, but from the noncommittal tone of his letters to Julian and his reluctance to discuss his life at Yale over the phone with Bess, he suspected they guessed.
The first break in his loneliness was none of his own doing. Suffering through a calculus class taught by a crusty old professor who seemed to delight in his students’ misery, Martin caught sight of an animated young man two seats away who actually seemed to be enjoying the course. This bright-eyed enthusiast filed out of class with Martin. At the doorway the student turned to him, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi. I’m Dominic Gatti.”
After weeks of unabated solitude, this introduction seemed like a real gesture of friendship. Dominic was a far cry from the snobbish Mikes, Tims, and Chrises who cold-shouldered him at every opportunity.
“I’m Martin Roth,” he replied eagerly, accepting Dominic’s hand. “So what do you think about this Professor Wheeler? Is he always that sarcastic? I live in fear and trembling he’ll call on me.”
“Save fear and trembling for Lyons’ Intro Philosophy,” Dominic said with a sly smile. “But Wheeler is tough. He’s a piranha. He’ll gobble you up in one semester. If you don’t make it, he doesn’t fool around, I understand.”
“What do you mean, you understand?”
“Because Wheeler is notorious for extracting his pound of flesh.”
Never had a more astute statement been made, Martin found out in the weeks to come. For some reason, Professor Wheeler had singled him out among that vast ocean of faces, just why Martin didn’t know. Each time Martin raised his hand to a question he was sure he knew, the answer was barely out of his mouth before Wheeler had poked holes through every one of his arguments. Martin couldn’t dismiss the thought that Wheeler’s badgering was more personal than academic. Goddamn, he thought. Am I becoming paranoid about my Jewishness? As he and Dominic walked across campus, he tried to figure out a way to ask his friend what he thought without appearing ridiculous. It took him a week, but when he finally mentioned to Dominic that Wheeler might be anti-Semitic, the Italian just laughed and said, “Don’t take it personally. Wheeler’s anti-everything. But especially anti-freshmen.”
As the days passed, Martin had to admit that Wheeler wasn’t happy unless he flunked over half his class. Martin spent his nights cramming his head full of calculus, but the harder he tried the less he found he could concentrate. As midterms drew close, he became certain he was going to fail. He could barely listen to Wheeler’s lecture.
“Now there are two fundamentals with which we must concern ourselves …”
That was the last of the lecture Martin heard. His mind drifted off. He was wondering why the hell he had wanted to come to Yale in the first place. He daydreamed about transferring to Stanford. He was happily imagining long, lazy days at the beach at Carmel when Dominic tapped him on the shoulder.
“Wrong class to sleep through,” he said. “And anyway, it’s over.”
Martin struggled to his feet.
“You may be right about his hating all freshmen, but I still feel as if there is a personal vendetta between the two of us, as if he’s taking his own frustrations out on me.”
“I know what you mean,” Dominic said. “He really does come down hard on you. But you have to understand that professors are not gods. Some are carried away with their own importance. Some bring their own paranoia to class. And some feed off the fears of their students. I don’t know which category Wheeler falls into, but if you survive his class you’ll have a great grounding in calculus because he really is a great teacher.”
Martin thought for a long moment. “Maybe you’re right, though I still get the feeling that Wheeler doesn’t like me. Maybe if I could lick these damn differentials I wouldn’t have to worry. But I just know I’m going to fail.”
Dominic saw the fear in Martin’s eyes. “You know what’s happening to you, Martin? You have a malady common to almost all freshmen. It’s the first time you’ve been pushed into a cold, hard world, where you don’t get everything you want just by asking. You’ve allowed Wheeler to intimidate you so that you can’t even think.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Martin said. “I’m trying so hard to prove that I can make it that I can’t concentrate. Math was always my easiest subject, but this damn thing has got me licked.”
“It’s rough. But look, let’s take this page. There’s a formula to it. Here, let me show you.” Dominic proceeded to show Martin how to work out the equations. It was all so basic that Martin almost laughed.
“Boy, it’s so simple when you do it.”
“That’s just my point,” Dominic said. “Get Wheeler out of your head and you’ll sail right through. Now let me show you again.” Dominic began with another problem.
It was beginning to sink in. “You know, I think I’m beginning to get it,” Martin said.
“Great. Look, if you get into any trouble I’ll be glad to help.”
“Gee, thanks a lot. I just might take you up on that offer. Can I have your phone number?”
Dominic was a local scholarship boy who lived off campus with his parents. He’d invited Martin over several times, but to date Martin hadn’t come. Now he wrote Dominic’s number carefully in his notebook.
“I’ll try working some problems on my own, but if I get stuck I really will give you a call.”
Martin went back to his room. The suite was empty. He wondered if his roommates ever studied. He opened the math book and tried again. For a while he was able to answer some problems, but then he got stuck and his fear returned. It was relieved a little by a call from his parents, who were looking forward to the holidays and his visit home. They would never believe their brilliant son was in danger of failing.
Skipping dinner, he worked until seven-thirty, at which time he wanted to tear the book to pieces. Finally he picked it up and threw it against the wall. There was no doubt about it—he was going to flunk. He flung himself on the bed for a while and stared disconsolately at the ceiling. Then he remembered he had Dominic’s number and decided to call.
“Hello?” the voice at the other end said.
“Is this the Gatti residence?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if I could speak to Dominic, please.”
“I’ll call him to the phone.”
Martin waited.
“Hello?”
For a moment Martin felt embarrassed. He wasn’t used to asking for help.
“This is Martin Roth,” he said awkwardly.
“Yeah? What can I do for you?”
“Listen—you could do me a big favor. Could you explain once more how to do these equations? Wait a minute, I have the book right here.” Before Martin turned the page, Dominic said, “Look, why don’t you come over?”
“You mean it?”
“Sure. If you feel like it. It’s a lot easier if we can sit down together.”
“I wouldn’t be interrupting, would I?”
“No, not at all. Besides, it won’t take more than half an hour. It’s pretty simple when you catch on.”
Again, Martin had the feeling that he was imposing, but he was desperate. “When can I come?”
“If you leave now you’ll get here by eight-thirty.”
“You bet … and, Dominic, thanks a lot.”
“Nothing to it, friend.” Dominic gave him the address.
The Gattis lived in nearby Hamden in a two-story brick house, one of many such dwellings along a narrow street. At one time the neighborhood had been upper-middle class, but the population had shifted and Martin guessed that it was undoubtedly lower-middle income. It occurred to him that he’d never been in such a neighborhood and he realized that in many ways he was as narrow and provincial as his roommates.
Finally he got out of the car, walked up the short flight of stairs, rang the bell and waited.
“Hi,” Dominic said as he stood framed in the doorway. “Did you have a rough time finding the place?”
“No, it was much nearer than I realized.”
Dominic held open the door a little wider. “Come on in.”
Standing in the dark hall, Martin observed the small living room with the overstuffed couch and two matching chairs. The rug was faded and worn. A grand piano took up most of one corner.
“My folks are in the sun room,” Dominic said, drawing Martin inside. “Come on, I want you to meet them.”
Mr. Gatti was stocky, of medium height, with a shock of white hair. He wore very thick lenses which somehow did not detract from his appearance. Mrs. Gatti was a woman of almost her husband’s size. Nonetheless, she appeared almost delicate. Her hands and feet were small and her fingers were elegantly tapered. Her violet-blue eyes seemed to look beyond Martin, giving the impression of studied aloofness.
“This is my mother,” Dominic said, interrupting Martin’s thoughts. “And this is Martin Roth, Mother.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Gatti,” Martin answered.
She merely nodded.
“And my father.”
Mr. Gatti extended his hand. “I’m glad to meet you,” he said and went back to reading his paper.
With those casual amenities out of the way, Dominic said, “I think we ought to get cracking on the books.”
Martin followed Dominic up the dimly lit stairs to his room. It was sparsely furnished with a bed, dresser, and a long folding table which Dominic used as a desk. There was a wooden chair near the door, another by Dominic’s bed, and a faded green mohair upholstered chair with a matching ottoman. On the wall was a picture of Jesus. The table was strewn with an assortment of books—economics, engineering, literature, and an assortment of other subjects.
“All right, let’s get down to cases. Pull up a chair.”
After two hours, Martin began to see the clearing in the wilderness. He laughed. “You thought it was going to take a half hour … I never thought I’d get it through my skull. My God, Dominic, I don’t know how I’m going to thank you.”
“Forget the thanks. Let me know if you have any more trouble.”
That night, for the first time in weeks, Martin’s sleep was uninterrupted by nightmares of flunking. He was always going to hate calculus, but at least he understood enough now to feel that he had a reasonable chance of getting through. And Dominic’s companionship made the prospect of four long years at Yale more endurable.
In the next weeks, Martin and Dominic saw each other in and out of class. Martin was developing an enormous affection for his newfound friend. His fascination with Dominic lay in the fact that their personalities were as different as their backgrounds.
Dominic was tough, proud, tenaciously independent, with a kind of street smartness that he had needed to survive. Under the façade of his wit was a cynicism born of the Depression.
He was nine the year his father lost his job. Dominic never forgot coming home from school and finding his father seated at the kitchen table, crying like a baby. It would have been better if he had screamed, or gotten drunk; but he was too broken. Later, Mr. Gatti cursed the fates that had denied him an education.
Dominic never viewed his father as being uneducated. Quite the opposite. Antonio Gatti was a natural intellectual. Yet all his self-acquired knowledge was not enough to get him beyond being a shipping clerk. If life had been more equitable, there was no telling what Antonio Gatti might have achieved, but though in the years to come he was able to get jobs here and there, they never amounted to much.
Maria Gatti slowly sold her jewelry and the few other possessions she had brought to her marriage. As the Depression worsened and her husband remained unemployed, the tension in the house increased until she wished she could get a divorce. But that was impossible, since she was a devout Catholic. Working ten hours a day in a factory making shoes for other women, she had plenty of time to think back over her past.
She’d married outside of her class. Because of that, she’d been ostracized by her family. Her mother had said that she would live to regret it, and she had. Now, looking back over the years, she wondered what the attraction had been. She had sacrificed herself, and in doing so, she destroyed her dreams of becoming a concert pianist. There was a strange irony to their lives. They were two very extraordinarily gifted people who were unable to exercise their talents.
It was Maria who had made Dominic realize that, without a college degree, he could never amount to anything. If his father had had that parchment, she said, he would never have been fired. If her bitterness blinded her to the fact that there were college professors standing in the breadlines, she had nonetheless imbued Dominic with an indomitable need to succeed. He vowed that what had happened to his father would never happen to him.
He was going to go to college and get a degree no matter what it took. When he was eleven, he worked for a bookie, mowed lawns, and delivered bootleg liquor to a whorehouse. Later, he drove a truck and worked on the docks. He had hoarded everything he made. When he’d won a partial scholarship to Yale, he knew he had the world by a string. He tried to explain his confidence to Martin.
“I didn’t have a doubt in the world that I was going to be able to compete … Don’t look at me like that, Martin.” Dominic smiled and lit up a cigarette.
“Look like what?”
“Like you think I’m a cocky bastard.”
“If I gave you that impression, it was wrong. I think the look was one of admiration. You’re just so sure of yourself. I wish that I were.”
“That’s really funny, Martin. We always wish that we were someone else or somewhere else. Okay, Martin, you ready for this? The first day we really talked I was green with envy. You’d been to private school. You could afford to live in the dorms. Your parents were obviously well off. Well, now that we’re friends I’m not so envious. I guess we all have our problems.”
“I guess that’s right,” Martin said, thinking that one confidence inspired another. Hesitating a little, Martin described how he’d been affected by the 10-percent quota.
Dominic laughed. “Well, old buddy, you grew up believing that the world was round and then suddenly you discovered it was crooked. I don’t know who’s more privileged, you or me. At least I grew up knowing what it was all about; there were no surprises.”
Martin started to answer, then thought better of it.
As if reading his thoughts, Dominic asked, “Do you think that sounds bitter?”
Martin shrugged.
“Well, maybe. But on the other hand, it’s that bitterness that goads me on. Now to more frivolous things. I’d like to go to New York this weekend. Rubenstein’s at Carnegie Hall Saturday. I’ve got a little dough stashed away—do you feel like going?”
Martin agreed. It would be good to get away from the pressures of school for a couple of days, and he knew his parents would be pleased if he heard the famous pianist. It was odd, Martin thought. He had always had every opportunity to attend concerts, opera, and the theater in California, but he and his friends had preferred just riding around, dancing, or simply hanging out with the gang. For Dominic, who had to scrimp to buy his tickets, a piano concert was a prize event.
On Saturday morning the boys got up at six and drove to New York in Martin’s Ford coupé.
No sooner had they checked in to the YMCA than Dominic was ready for action. It was as though he were determined to conquer the city in twenty-four hours.
Martin found himself caught up in the excitement. They bought hot dogs from a street vendor on 49th and Madison, then hopped a bus that dropped them near the Metropolitan Museum.
Martin followed Dominic up the wide staircase to the first landing. He’d visited the museum when he was thirteen, and his parents had taken him to New York for his bar mitzvah, but today with Dominic it was as though he were seeing everything for the first time. Until now he considered most art an excuse for his parents and their friends to get together and give parties. Now he saw that the paintings themselves could inspire a real joy.
Later, as they walked downtown to the Automat, Martin was silent. Landscapes and portraits were unrolling again before his mind’s eye. It was only when Dominic began showing him how to feed in nickels for their supper that he shook off his reverie and began laughing and joking again.
But if Rembrandt and Rubens had stimulated his senses, Rubenstein took away his breath. As they walked back to the Y, Martin said, “Did you ever hear anything so great? Imagine Rubenstein being able to evoke all those feelings. Isn’t it incredible what those ten fingers can do?”
Dominic thought of the piano in their dingy living room. He’d cut his eye teeth on Chopin. Dammit, his mother really could have become a concert pianist if life had been a little more charitable. He shoved the painful thought aside. “I’m really glad you enjoyed it. Now I’ve got to get to bed if I want to make six o’clock mass.”
The next morning Dominic’s alarm clock went off at 5:30. Watching him dress, Martin asked, “How long does mass take?”
“An hour,” Dominic said, tying his shoes.
“Oh, then should I meet you here?”
“Anything you like. But it’s a heck of a morning for walking. In fact, if you want, you can walk to St. Patrick’s Cathedral with me. But move it, move it!”
By the time they reached the magnificent church, they were winded. “Okay,” Dominic said. “How about meeting me here at seven-thirty?”
“It’s a deal.” Martin watched as Dominic disappeared inside, then walked down Fifth Avenue and turned east on 42nd until he came to a coffee shop. As he sat at the counter he felt strangely envious of Dominic’s easy relationship with his God. With all the Roths’ insistence on tradition, religion seemed to be a very distant part of their lives. And suddenly Martin was consumed with curiosity about Catholicism. Judaism didn’t exercise the same magnetic pull; at least not on the Jews Martin knew; and he experienced a peculiar sense of deprivation.
Quickly he paid for his coffee and left. When he got to the corner of 42nd and Fifth Avenue, he wondered what the hell he was going to do now. Without much thought he got on the bus which had stopped at the corner. It didn’t really matter where it was going.
When Martin got off he found himself on the Lower East Side. In a state of shock he realized that the hordes of people crowding the streets were Jews, immigrants like his great-grandfather, Ephraim, whose birthday they celebrated each summer. As he walked past the dirty tenements, was jostled by the crowds around the pushcarts, and saw the pale-faced children, many of whom seemed like stunted adults, he felt a surge first of pity, then shame. An elevated train roared overhead and the very buildings appeared to sway. For a minute, Martin determined to catch the next bus uptown. Then something in the enthusiasm with which the women were outbidding each other for the vendor’s goods, and the quick laughs of the children as they played around overflowing garbage cans, caught his attention. Although he was appalled by their living conditions, the inhabitants of Orchard Street did not seem defeated. Suddenly Martin understood the force which had sustained Ephraim on his journey West. Martin listened to the old men in skullcaps discussing the testaments, each one arguing the fine points of the Talmud and each thinking the other an idiot. They too seemed completely oblivious of their ugly surroundings. They were absorbed by their discussion, and more intensely alive than any of the rich old men who attended his temple in San Francisco. Martin was suddenly jealous of a heritage he felt he’d been denied. These were his people, and for all their poverty they seemed to embody the persistent strength that had ensured Jewish survival through centuries of persecution. These were the chosen people.
Suddenly, being Jewish without that spiritual force left Martin with a sense of being suspended in limbo. He again envied Dominic his simple faith.
Martin couldn’t handle this new flood of emotion. He had to get away. As he hurried toward the bus, he almost stumbled over a little boy sitting on the curb crying. The child looked so frail that Martin’s heart went out to him. He sat down on the curb alongside the child. “What’s wrong?”
The child looked wide-eyed at the stranger. “I lost my ball.”
Taking out his handkerchief, Martin handed it to the child. “Where did you lose it?”
“In the street. A guy picked it up and won’t give it back.”
“How old are you?”
“Five.”
“Five? I thought you were at least six.”
“No, my brother Benny is six.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Jeremy Cohen.”
“That’s a nice name. How about an ice cream, Jeremy?”
The little boy shrugged his shoulders, “Okay,” he answered, although he would have been happier to have been offered a new ball.
Martin took him by the hand and bought him a cone. Forgetting his loss for the moment, Jeremy smiled. Martin observed the child’s tattered clothes and the hole in his left tennis shoe where his large toe stuck out. It was all an accident of birth, wasn’t it? Like being born a Rockefeller, the Queen of England … or himself. Martin took a five-dollar bill from his wallet. As he handed it to the child he wondered if his gesture was born out of charity or guilt. Perhaps it was one and the same. He wasn’t sure. “I want you to buy a ball, Jeremy, and a pair of shoes. But put the money away until you get home to your mama.”
Jeremy was so intent on the five-dollar bill he didn’t notice when Martin got up and walked to the bus.