Bittersweet Brooklyn: A Novel Read online

  Louis, never chatty, hardly spoke as he approached his twelfth birthday in May. For a young man, he had sad eyes. The boys no longer romped with Thelma like before—no more hide-and-seek, but they did play cards together. Abie told Ma it was educational because it taught his sister addition, and if she learned to count cards, she could earn money gambling. And Abie, who’d spent the last three years protecting Louis, now took Thelma under his wing, too.

  The Lorber kids assumed Mandel’s surname, calling him Uncle Moe, not Papa. He stayed off the boys’ backs, so they liked him okay. Thelma was fonder. With her, he was easygoing and affectionate. Her stepfather held her hand. He stroked her cheeks. He brought her lemon drops in paper sacks from the corner candy store. It didn’t take much attention to win the girl over.

  Mama worked hard for Uncle Moe, cooking his old-country dishes at 5:30 p.m. every night. During the day, she cleaned the new apartment in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg, a lively immigrant neighborhood that mixed Jews and Italians. Mama no longer washed strangers’ laundry. She claimed that removed ten years from her age (aided by the boxed hair dye Annie bought her).

  Now the family had their own boarders: Mama’s nephew from Austria moved in, and Uncle Moe got him a job. Since his name was Morris, to avoid confusion he went by his last name, Minzer. The boys called him the Mint, the big spender, because Minzer never pulled a coin from his pockets. The bachelor wore thick glasses, his neck like the pipe under the sink. In his early twenties, he seemed content to sit like a sofa cushion when he wasn’t working beside Uncle Moe on Manhattan’s Maiden Lane. It was the diamond district, which sounded sparkly and glamorous to Thelma, although when Uncle Moe and the Mint came home, they acted as if they were returning from the salt mines, with aching shoulders and heavy sighs.

  The other boarder was also in his twenties. Jesse Lazarus clerked in a nearby warehouse while saving money to lease a Manhattan newsstand. He promised to hire Abie and Louis. They would work together, becoming their own bosses, which seemed to be what everyone wanted in America. The immigrant men wanted to be their own chiefs (and yell at someone else for a change, at least when they were out of the house).

  A handsome-ugly man, Jesse had beady eyes and a shiny smile, broad muscular shoulders and comparatively skinny legs. None of his shortcomings affected Annie, now an office bookkeeper. She had Jesse in her sights from the moment he entered the apartment and loosened his belt.

  The pair pretended to loathe each other. They were a regular comedy act, but Thelma had caught them wrestling awkwardly in the stairwell two flights up. And Annie no longer stalked the apartment in curlers or her ratty robe. As long as Thelma remained far from Jesse, she was safe from her sister. If they were in the same room with him, she wouldn’t hit her little sister or pick on her skinny calves.

  The family expanded with a man at the head of the table and the boarder uncles. They all ate meals together. Thelma was a picky eater, which peeved Mama. To her, rejecting food was a shonda, a shame. The youngest was such a little stick that neighbors asked why Mama was starving the child; Thelma embarrassed her. But when it came to food, she ate three things: rye bread, mustard, and cornflakes. Organ meat disgusted her. She refused mushy green beans that tasted like dirty laundry. Only Uncle Moe could halt the arguments between mother and daughter. Demanding peace for his digestion, he insisted Mama let Thelma eat what she wanted. He would finish her food, and if she starved to death, he would say kaddish, the prayer for the dead, over her skinny corpse.

  If Thelma could have consumed strawberries every day, she would have been content. But in February, when her seventh birthday arrived on Groundhog Day, berries were pricey. Another shonda: buying out of season. Fruit in itself was a luxury and often arrived in the pockets of Abie and Louis, squished but no questions asked.

  Mama held the birthday party on a Sunday, two days early. Now that she had her own Brooklyn apartment and a working husband, she played the balabosta, the big hostess, marking every birthday with a spread of food. She invited a few neighbors and friends but not that many children. She didn’t want to clean up their mess. Still, because it was the bleak of winter, and they were falling over each other in a claustrophobic apartment, she knew they required some festivities. She even let Jesse (the only Russian immigrant among them) set a vodka bottle frozen in a block of ice on the table.

  On the morning of the party, Thelma joined Mama in the kitchen. The mother strapped an adult apron on her daughter, rolling the cloth at her waist so she wouldn’t trip over the hem. Mama was a short-tempered if capable cook, working hurriedly as if on the cliff of a disaster. The broth threatened to boil over; the sponge cake to fall. Once she started she never stopped, not to drink water or kibitz with an uncle. She had one chore for Thelma: chopping cooked chicken livers. The organ meat smelled weird and sour as Thelma steadied a shallow wooden bowl with one hand and cranked the metal meat-grinder handle with the other.

  Mama wasn’t a patient teacher. Thelma knew that within those walls, she must follow instructions and not question. She never mastered the more intricate lessons of making potato pudding or stuffed cabbage. Mama never had time, or money, for the girl’s beginner mistakes. Still, in the kitchen they usually called a truce. Thelma felt as close to Mama there as she ever did. Until Thelma minced the last liver and surrendered the bowl, they were united in their labor, wordless, simply mother and daughter. But when Annie waltzed in and donned her apron, the balance shifted.

  When the time came to eat, Thelma would have a mustard sandwich on rye, maybe taking a single slice of sticky salami just to appease Mama. The rest had pickles and delicatessen and things that were wrapped in beef guts, the kishkes, and tongue. Just the thought gagged Thelma: Who would eat the speckled flesh pulled from an animal’s mouth?

  As the room filled, the guests descended on the table and praised Mama, who continued to shuttle back and forth bringing new dishes and clearing empties. Jesse poured vodka into small glasses and passed them to the men. Annie took one, too. The liquid seemed to release smiles before unseen. For a time, no one picked on anyone else.

  “Where’s Abie?” Mama wiped sweat from her broad brow, the table still full but the tongue decimated. Between the oven and the radiator, the apartment steamed.

  “Who knows?” said Annie.

  “He’ll be here,” said Louis. “He just had a little business.”

  “Monkey business,” said Mama. Only then did the birthday girl begin to worry that Abie, who still lived at home, might miss her party, because Mama seemed so sure he would disappoint. But he promised he’d come. He’d be there in his own time. For now the celebration fizzed. Thelma sat on the sofa on Uncle Moe’s lap, beside Minzer and a jeweler in a skullcap she didn’t know. They passed around more vodka. When she begged, Uncle Moe gave her a tiny, stinging sip and said, “Hey, Minzer, grab your accordion.”

  After some reluctance, Minzer pushed off the sofa. He entered the room he shared with Jesse and the boys, returning with his music box. Jesse retrieved his clarinet. A neighbor produced his violin. Two men shifted the table against the wall while Mama scolded, “Watch the food!” They pushed the chairs against the living room walls beside the hissing radiators (“Watch the curtains!”) while Minzer, Jesse, and the neighbor tuned up, no longer workers but players.

  The musicians began with boisterous old-country tunes. The melodies arched up to the ceiling corners and crawled down into the mouse holes. Once the music started, Thelma couldn’t sit still, hopping off Uncle Moe’s knees and wiggling with the band. She started with a grapevine left and another right, a kick left and one right, walking forward with hands raised and bowing backward. She wasn’t just a jangly bag of knobby knees and sharp elbows but something else, something that might even be beautiful. She felt at the center of the living room, the apartment, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the world, happy and flying and even graceful. And while she began dancing with her head bowed, she now raised it, inhaling happiness and exhaling joy. Uncle Moe and the Min
t clapped with the music; Louis grinned with his small yellow teeth. This was bliss, freedom. The girl couldn’t, wouldn’t stop.

  As the music got wilder, Thelma abandoned the steps and leaped and twirled and spiraled, until she became light-headed and landed with a dramatic fall to the floor as the song ended. The guests applauded.

  Mama flung her dish towel over her shoulder. “Don’t encourage her.”

  “Why not, Becky?” asked Uncle Moe.

  “Once she starts dancing, she never stops until there’s a fight.”

  “It’s a party for Temeleh, nu?” Uncle Moe asked. Mama sucked her teeth, disappearing into the kitchen with Annie. To Thelma, he said, “Such a dancer! My Temmy has talent.”

  She ran back to Uncle Moe’s knees, dizzy and gleeful, unleashed. He smiled down, raising first his right eyebrow and then his left. She giggled. He raised his right eyebrow and lowered his left. She bubbled with laughter. He was her first papa, since she’d never known any other.

  Uncle Moe touched Thelma’s cheek. “Hey, fancy-schmancy dancer, do you know the box step?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll teach you, Temeleh.” He lifted his stepdaughter off his lap and carried her to the center of the room. She liked being held. She liked his soap’s sweet, sharp smell. “Minzer, play something American.”

  Uncle Moe set the girl down, shimmied his shoulders, and planted his feet on the wooden floor. He stretched his right hand, palm up, keeping his left hand behind his back. He bowed so that he was close enough to wink. Uncle Moe opened a door for her that had been shut. She was crossing into the real world where things happened, the world of adults who danced and laughed and drank. You didn’t need money to move your feet. She looked straight into his eyes and read their mischief. They shared a common killjoy: the madwoman in the kitchen.

  Mama returned, clearing dishes with a clatter to rival Minzer’s accordion. Thelma took Uncle Moe’s right hand and then he gave her his left. She felt the eyes of the room on them but didn’t look away or down in shame. She looked up and raised her eyebrows. He waggled his. She shook her shoulders, planting her feet in their shabby oxfords. For a moment, their ugliness didn’t embarrass her. Suddenly, this actually was her birthday. Attention flowed toward her. For a moment, she felt whole, like being Thelma wasn’t a shonda.

  The musicians swung into “I Want to Be a Popular Millionaire.” Thelma entered an enchanted circle as Uncle Moe showed her the steps, saying, “Forward-side-together; backward-side-together.”

  She tried to follow, mixing her right with her left, going ahead when she was supposed to retreat so that her knees bumped into Uncle Moe’s shins. She felt breathless and awkward with every wrong step. But then the steps became more fluid, and Uncle Moe led her through the box, through the square, again and again, until they were one rhythm with the music. She became giddy from the flight around the room as they began to take up more floor space. He spun her out and under his arm and then caught her, returning to the steps that were becoming simpler: forward, side, together; back, side, together. She felt trust in his arms, that he would lead her and her feet would follow instinctively without her bidding.

  As the song ended and there was laughter and clapping and Uncle Moe gave her a last twirl and rested his arm on her shoulder, the door opened. Abie arrived, carrying an enormous bouquet. “Thank you! Thank you! No applause, just throw money!”

  Thelma ran to her brother and flung her arms around his waist. Mama had been wrong; Annie, too.

  Abie handed Thelma a bouquet of yellow daffodils tied with gold ribbon. “Mazel, shayna punim.”

  Pretty face. Only Abie called her that. She floated with happiness.

  Annie muscled forward. “Where have you been, Abie?”

  “That’s a stupid question. I’ve been buying flowers for the birthday girl.”

  Mama came over, asking, “Who died?”

  “Not me, Mrs. Gloom,” said Abie.

  “What kind of person buys flowers?” Mama said, twisting her dish towel. “They’ll be dead by morning. They’re a waste of money.”

  “Yes, Mama, but they are a waste of my money. And so are these.” Abie bent down. He handed Thelma a bag, which she juggled with her arms full of sun-bright yellow daffodils.

  Thelma peeked into the brown paper sack. “Strawberries! You bought strawberries in winter, Abie!”

  Mama snatched the bag. “I’ll cut those up for the guests.”

  Thelma scanned the room. Her jaw fell: so many people, so few strawberries. She was disappointed, then enraged. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, share them. It was unfair. Here were shiny red strawberries for her, and Mama was snatching them before she’d had a chance to taste one. There would be hardly any for her if they passed them around.

  “No, Mama, these are for Temmy. She can share them if she wants—or gobble them down.”

  “Then she can wash them.” Mama slapped her dish towel on her shoulder. Thelma worried, unable to reach the sink by herself. Also, as much as she wanted the fruit all to herself, she feared Mama’s anger: selfish little girl.

  “I’ll wash them. Here, Moe,” Abie said, handing Uncle Moe a vodka bottle, “for the boys.”

  Heading for the kitchen, Abie stopped, swiveled, and said, “Here, Ma, catch!” He threw a green sausage of cash at Mama. She didn’t react fast enough. It bounced off her fingers and dropped to the floor. Silence fell as Mama knelt and grabbed the roll.

  “Goniff,” Mama said—thief. But she tucked the money in her apron pocket, knees cracking as she rose. Still gazing downward, Mama disappeared into the bedroom she shared with Uncle Moe. She was always complaining about money, so why wasn’t she happy? Confused, Thelma hid in the daffodils, feeling their soft petals as the Mint began playing the accordion again; the neighbor scratched his fiddle.

  Jesse set his clarinet aside and stood, rolling up his sleeves. “Stand back,” he said as he strutted to the middle of the floor. The music intensified. Crossing his hands over his chest, he squatted and began to dance the kazatsky. He shot out one leg and then the other, stiffly at first, while the men shouted, “Hey! Hey!” and the women clapped. Kicking and crouching, trying to get lower each time without tumbling backward, Jesse sped up. Sweat spread under his arms. He breathed heavily, shifting from one leg to the other, heels pounding. Then he leaped up and grabbed Annie’s waist, dancing her around the room until even she was panting and laughing and red cheeked.

  Later, after Mama and Annie cleared the table and the neighbors disappeared down the hall and up the street, the birthday girl sat with her elbows on the tablecloth and her chin in her hands, admiring the daffodils in a milk-bottle vase. The Mint sat beside her with a flower that she’d placed behind his ear. He took a butter knife and raised it above the table by its tip. With his jeweler’s hands, he gently swung the silver and, below, the handle swung widely. A bigger shift at the top created an earthquake below. “Even the tiniest movement from above shakes the bottom, where we are,” said the Mint. Uncle Moe called him a socialist, and the conversation went in a man direction the girl couldn’t follow.

  The Mint taught Thelma something that day. He wasn’t as dumb as Mama said he was. She learned that if she waited for the world to stop swinging so she could get her feet under her, she would never find her place. She couldn’t wait for life to start after things settled down, because they never would. The ground was always shifting, cracking, falling away beneath her feet. At least when she was dancing, she floated above the mess.

  Suddenly, Thelma was in a rush. She was a big girl now. She was seven. She needed to settle at the adult table, because she couldn’t care less for children her age. The family was never around long enough at any one place, dolls were deadweight, left behind in apartments abandoned in the dark of night, and other kids were never Abie or Louis. They didn’t know Thelma’s secrets, and when she shared them, the other kids pulled away. She thought she saw horror and disgust in their eyes. Who knew if it was her or them?
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  Part of Thelma wanted to be invisible. The other part wanted to be seen, brightly, like Abie viewed her, like Uncle Moe. She knew she was different, but maybe she was also better, at least better than Annie and Mama. She wanted to be still at the center of the universe and see it spinning, tossing, and turning. She didn’t want to stand on a stoop watching the fun from a distance as if it were a Ferris wheel the Williamsburg Italians erected for feast days five blocks away.

  Thelma loved that old neighborhood of constant celebrations. She adored the grease-pole races where boys competed to climb to the tip to knock fat salamis off the top into the cheering crowd below. She never caught a sausage. The fun was watching the boys and men slide down again and again, oil slicked and angry, laughing or beating their chests and leaping up to try again.

  The year’s biggest, craziest celebration was July’s Giglio, the feast of Saint Paulinus of Nola and Our Lady of Mount Carmel. But every day, just outside, just down the street, Thelma spied Italian men on the corner. They were loud and didn’t bow their dark heads in shame; whenever there was the least bit of sun, they’d strip down to their undershirts, revealing gold crosses, tanned and hairy chests. They swaggered and joked; they whistled at girls. Their teenage sons wore cologne, and even at seven she would have followed a boy down a back alley for that smell.

  Chapter 7

  Brooklyn, 1913

  Four birthdays followed on Hooper Street, with Moritz teaching Thelma the fox-trot and the polka, and Annie marrying Jesse, and a sense that the broken family, if not healed, at least had begun to put down roots in Williamsburg. In the news, Woodrow Wilson entered the White House. The American people—meaning men—might as well have elected a six-legged giraffe, for all Thelma understood of this thin-lipped Gentile, the twenty-eighth president, from Virginia, who said, “I would rather fail in a cause that will ultimately succeed than succeed in a cause that will ultimately fail.” Even then, at the ripe old age of eleven, Thelma would have rather succeeded one way or the other, but she seemed destined to snatch at a life where she had few choices of success or failure, little independence, just her bloody fingertips grasping for survival.