New York, New York
We buried Poppa on October 11, 1930 and that evening prepared for sitting Shiva. Mamma covered Bubbe Yetta’s gilded mirror and placed a large candle in a crystal holder. Nothing, not the comfort of an overstuffed chair or our reflections in a looking glass was supposed to distract us from mourning. Mamma and I sat on wooden crates and cried through the night.
Since tradition forbade us from cooking, our friends delivered special fare by the minute. Every table in our apartment groaned from the weight of dishes. Our neighbors sent traditional boiled eggs and stewed lentils along with roast chicken, tapenade, pickled beets and almond cake. My best friend, Lily, made a Shiva call with her mother and they offered baskets of fruit, bowls of chopped liver and plates of prune Danish.
Some Jews will tell you that grief brings on a ferocious appetite; the mourners picked through the food like hyenas feasting on carrion. Those fortunate enough to have known Poppa praised Isaac Schector, first violinist of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, between bites of food. A few veiled prophecies about our inevitable downfall lurked behind their kind words.
“Such a wonderful man to die so young. We heard that you lost all your money in that horrible mess in ‘29. Poor Mrs. Schector, you have no sons. With a daughter to feed and debts, how can you survive? What will you do without a husband?” Mamma and I ignored the doomsayers and took comfort from Poppa’s musician friends from Harlem. These fellows had fallen on hard times like everyone else but they’d taken up a collection and presented us with twenty-five dollars, a fortune in those days. Between cups of coffee and bites of pastry, a trombone player called Sneaky Pete told us stories about Poppa. “I never heard anyone play jazz on a fiddle like Isaac could. One night he gigged with Louis Armstrong and Bix Beiderbecke and the three of them blew the roof off the joint. Isaac Schector and George Gershwin are the hippest white cats in all New York!”
By the third day of Shiva our apartment reeked of stale food and humanity. Some of the ancient bubbes and zaydehs suffered from flatulence and I’m afraid that added to the stench. Bathing and showering are forbidden while sitting Shiva but we sponged ourselves each morning and zealously applied deodorant cream and talcum powder. A few of our neighbors weren’t as fastidious; maybe they didn’t realize the ban on bathing was for us, not them. We shuffled about the apartment hair unbraided and wearing cloth slippers because of the prohibition against wearing leather. Between waves of visitors, I opened the windows to air out the rooms and spritzed the flat with perfume. It didn’t help.
On the fifth day of Shiva, I heard a knock at our door and when I opened it, Mr. Joseph Nussbaum, the owner of our brownstone apartment building, stood in the doorway. Mr. Nussbaum accentuated his bulk with ill-fitting suits and rumpled overcoats. He wasn’t ugly and had all his hair but his appearance was not the most off-putting thing about him. Even when he smiled Mr. Nussbaum appeared to be on the verge of boiling over with rage. He probably was the wealthiest man in Washington Heights but words like “thug” and “hoodlum” stuck to him like chewing gum on a shoe sole. Grown men made way for him when he walked down Fort Washington Avenue and some even crossed to the other side of the street. The menace intensified the moment he opened his mouth because he rarely raised his voice above a whisper. Conversing with him was a disquieting experience.
My stomach turned when he took my face in his hands and gazed into my face with the intensity of a movie actor. He turned to Mamma and grabbed her by the hand but she pulled it away. She twisted her handkerchief like she always did when she got nervous.
“Mr. Nussbaum, please sit down. Mitzi has just put on a kettle for tea and you’re welcome to join us. Would you care for some babka?”
His face contorted into something that resembled a smile. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Schector.”
He handed me his hat and settled into a parlor chair as if he owned the place, which of course he did, then he stared at Mamma with great intensity. Maybe he wanted her to know that he shared our pain but it looked to me like an attack of indigestion.
Mamma attempted a smile but could only muster a grimace. “Mitzi, please bring us the tea and pastry.”
How could I leave Mamma alone with this schmo? I left the room but stayed within earshot. “Mrs. Schector, please accept my condolences. Your husband was a fine gentleman and will be greatly missed. I share your grief for I lost my own dear wife four years ago.”
His words dripped with oil but I wasn’t having any of it. Everyone knew that he’d shot his “dear” wife and made it look like an accident. No one said a word and the protracted silence made me wonder if he’d gone. He hadn’t. I peeked into the living room. Mr. Nussbaum’s lips were stretched into a furious smile and he and Mamma were staring at each other not uttering a word. Our grandfather clock ticked away. Finally he spoke.
“Mrs. Schector, don’t think me insensitive but there are practical matters to discuss. I know you were affected by last year’s troubles. Please know that I made allowances for your family. I prefer renting to cultured people and charged your husband half of what I could have gotten…”
Mamma cut him off before he could say another word. “Mr. Nussbaum, this is not the time to discuss money especially with my child in the next room. It was the stock market that killed my Isaac. He took such pride in being able to provide for us and when that ended…”
She jumped up from the wooden crate so quickly that I was certain she was going to throttle him; unfortunately, she didn’t. “Please, don’t worry about the rent. My sister has sworn to help us in our time of need. Mitzi is all I have left and she will return to her studies when Shiva is over. I must show you what an accomplished girl she is.”
Mamma walked into the dining room, hauled down my photos and I knew what would happen next - the kvelling would begin! Oh, the utter humiliation of it all! I stifled a scream and prayed, don’t let her drag out my baby pictures - but she did.
“This was my Mitzi at three, already reading and playing the piano. Such a beautiful baby – did you know she sang before she spoke? Here she is at the Wurlitzer organ at the Capitol Theater. She was only ten years old! Look, our little genius at her high school graduation, not quite fourteen yet president of her class. Did you know there is a quota on Jews at Barnard College? Yes there is, but they wanted our little girl.”
It was mortifying to have my mother praise me to this ignorant man but my accomplishments were all she had. Mr. Nussbaum took the photographs in hand and caressed them for what seemed an eternity. “Yes indeed, Mitzi is a beautiful, cultured girl.”
I’d make sure to scrub down the frames with bleach.
The tea had steeped long enough and I placed the pastry, lemon and lumps of sugar on a tray. It would have been easy to spoon a bit of rat poison into his cup but that would have been inhospitable, even to him. I carried in the refreshments, placed them in front of our guest and stood in place flashing the brightest smile I could muster.
“Mitzi darling, why don’t you go to your room? Mr. Nussbaum and I have things to discuss.”
I kept smiling but tiptoed into the hallway so I could be near in case she needed help throwing the bum out on his ear.
Mamma shifted on her box. “Mr. Nussbaum, did you come to share in our grief? If not, may I be so bold to ask why you are here?”
Mr. Nussbaum didn’t answer right away because he was too occupied with stuffing himself with babka. I listened as he slurped his tea like the pig he was and then rattled the plate onto our coffee table. “Very tasty, thank you - Mrs. Schector, I have come to make an offer of marriage.”
Marriage? Poppa had been dead for seven days and he wanted to marry my mother? He was a bad egg all right but this took the cake. “Mr. Nussbaum, what you ask is impossible! My husband isn’t even cold in his grave.”
He poured himself another cup of tea and I hoped he’d choke. “Mrs. Schector, you’re a woman of great charm and beauty but I wouldn’t presume to make such a suggestion especially when you are in mourning. No, it’s Mitzi that I want to talk to you about.”
Me? For a moment I couldn’t breathe. He wanted me for his son, Sheldon, the boy with the pimples and adenoid problems. Sheldon couldn’t even say hello without turning several shades of red.
Mamma sat speechless and Mr. Nussbaum appeared to be enjoying her silence. He wore a triumphant smirk on his ugly mug, a look I would have loved to wipe away with a punch in the nose.
It took a while but Mamma finally found her tongue. “Mr. Nussbaum, Mitzi is a child, not yet sixteen, and as I said before, she has her studies. Your Sheldon is barely nineteen and not husband material. I’m afraid I must decline your generous offer.”
Mr. Nussbaum grabbed the teapot, poured himself another serving of tea, transfixed as the amber liquid trickled into his cup. He threw in four lumps of sugar and stirred slowly. I hoped he’d get diabetes. “Mrs. Schector, I agree with you about Sheldon. He’s very green and not ready for marriage.”
He sucked down his tea like the toad that he was. “I want to marry Mitzi.”
Mr. Nussbaum was older than Poppa and he wanted to marry me? I held onto the wall to keep from falling to the floor. My stomach rumbled, I regretted breakfasting on lentil soup and bagels. His murmurs were so soft that I could barely make out his words but to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear them.
“Everyone knows your husband speculated in the stock market and left you penniless. Let’s be honest, Mrs. Schector, you have no money but I have a great deal. Mitzi is beautiful and cultured but tell me, who’ll marry a girl facing the poor house?”
It was 1930 – the whole country was facing the poor house! Did this schmo think I was fated to wander around Manhattan with a pushcart like some greenhorn from Hester Street? Weren’t the days of marriage brokers and dowries long gone? Who said I wanted to get married? I’m a Barnard girl.
At this point nothing could stop Mr. Nussbaum. “As for you, Mrs. Schector, finding a job could be difficult when people discover how your husband died. Ours is a community where many have witnessed loved ones passing from that terrible plague, tuberculosis. Some people may be fearful but I am not, dear lady. Your pain can be avoided. I’ll pay off all your debts, Mitzi will want for nothing and you may stay in this beautiful apartment, free of any obligation. All I ask for is your daughter.”
Mamma stood up, grabbed Mr. Nussbaum’s hat and handed it to him as she opened the door. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about, Mr. Nussbaum. Please let me digest it.”
He chugged down the rest of his tea then lumbered up from the chair, a look of victory on his face. “I’m a very patient man, Mrs. Schector. Mitzi’s sixteenth birthday would be a perfect time for the nuptials. By the way, since we’ll be related, I’d be honored if you called me Joe. Shalom.”
He shut the door behind him as he walked away. Mamma called out from the silence. “I know you were listening, Mitzi. Come here.”
I marched into the room. One look at her face and I bawled like a baby. “Mamma, I don’t care if we’re poor, I’ll get a job! I’ll work my fingers to the bone but don’t make me marry that horrible man! Please.”
My tears must have been infectious. She pulled me close and held me fast as she sobbed too. “Silly baby, do you think I’d let that animal touch you? Don’t be frightened, darling girl. I’d slit that monster’s throat before I’d let him lay a hand on you. Let me speak to Zisel before I kill him.”
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