Clattering Sparrows (3 page)

1

I HUNG UP THE phone; walked slowly to the front closet; opened the door; and removed the familiar red-leather case with its brass handles and ornate brass hinges from the top shelf. Placing it on the table, I lifted the lid and gazed intently at the Mahjong Set before me. My mind traveled back in time to more than fifty years earlier, when I first laid eyes on the skillfully carved tiles that neatly and precisely filled every inch of the small case. The set had been made in China sometime during the Qing Dynasty. For the remainder of the afternoon, with the set resting on the table in front of me, my thoughts returned to the innocence of childhood, when life was neither complicated nor demanding, and each new day held the promise of tomorrow. Hours later when Jon came home, he found me sitting at the table in the unlit room. He took one look at me and he knew—my best friend, Judy Levine Singer, had died.

***

The early flight from Boston’s Logan Airport to Washington, D.C., was right on schedule. The flight attendant’s request to fasten seatbelts and return seats to their upright positions had just come across the loud speaker. “We will be landing at Reagan National Airport in approximately ten minutes. Washington weather is sunny, and temperatures are expected to rise into the mid-fifties. Thank you for flying with us today, and we hope to see you again soon. Have a great day.”

We had not spoken on the short trip. Lost in my thoughts, I sat eyes closed the entire time, and not wanting to disturb me, Jon had quietly read the paper and flipped through the airline books. As the plane touched down and taxied toward the gate, he glanced over at me and seeing that I had at last opened my eyes, asked, “How are you doing?”

Nodding, I replied, “I’m doing okay.”

It was just past 7:00 a.m. We retrieved our luggage, picked up the rental car, and in less than an hour, we were driving up Pooks Hill Road to the Marriott. The funeral service scheduled for noon at Danzansky-Goldberg Memorial Chapel on Rockville Pike was a short ride from the hotel, and Jon was relieved that the early morning flight had not encountered any delays.

We were shown to our room, and as I unpacked the one bag we had brought, I asked, “Do we have time to catch a quick cup of coffee before heading out to the service?”

Jon answered, “Yes, I’m sure we do. The Café didn’t look too busy when we came in. I think we should have a bite to eat, as well. I don’t anticipate that we will be back to the Singer house until mid-afternoon at best.”

Although the Café was quite full, we were shown to a small table without waiting. We each had coffee and an English muffin, paid the check, and walked to the car.

As Jon drove up Rockville Pike to the funeral home, a few short miles north of the hotel, I was once again lost in thought. The sky void of clouds, and the bright sun and warming temperatures seemed out of context for a funeral. The movies came to mind where more often than not funerals are depicted on cold rainy days, in an effort to reflect the somber mood of the black-clad mourners seeking shelter from the rain under their oversized black umbrellas. The beautiful spring day appeared instead to acknowledge life.

When we arrived at the chapel, there were just a few cars on the lot. We were early. After signing the guest register, we walked down the side hall to the room where the family gathered, and where sadly, we had been so many times before. As we entered, Judy’s husband Ira came over to us immediately and embraced us. “What are we going to do without her? She was the strong one you know, and I can’t believe she’s gone.”

I was too choked up to reply. We spoke briefly with the family, and as more and more people came into the room, we left to take our seats for the service.

As the chapel continued to fill beyond capacity, an overflow of mourners lined the side aisles and stood three deep in the back of the large room. My eyes, hidden behind the dark glasses I wore, glanced about the crowd, and saw not only those I anticipated, but many that I had not seen for almost fifty years. Suddenly, sadness overwhelmed me, and for a brief moment I felt faint.

Earlier in the week when I received the call telling me that my longest and dearest friend Judy Singer had lost her battle with cancer, my mind simply refused to accept the fact that she had died. Jon and I had moved from Maryland to Cape Cod, Massachusetts, a few short years before, and somehow the 500 mile distance between us and our frequent visits allowed me to will her alive in my mind. After all, she lived far enough away, and we no longer saw each other on a daily basis, therefore it would be easy to imagine that nothing had changed. But now as I sat fixedly staring at the raised Star of David on top of the casket, I knew. Reality was finally setting in that never again would I hear Judy’s musical voice, see Judy’s smiling face, or feel Judy’s strength and warmth in her generous hugs. I had lost my best friend and the pain was agonizing.

Suddenly, a hush fell over the crowd. The Rabbi entered the chapel and walked to the pulpit, followed by the family as they filed into the first two rows of seats. The Rabbi began chanting in Hebrew, spoke solemnly of Judy’s illness, and that she had been taken far too soon from her family and friends. Her children and brothers eulogized her interesting life, and what a loving and incredible wife, mother, grandmother, and sister she had been. As I observed Ira, I worried for him. He and Judy had been extremely close, and I couldn’t envision one without the other. Jon and I would insist that he spend some time with us very soon.

I rose and walked to the pulpit. I carried notes in my hand, but as everyone would soon notice, I would not refer to them once. I simply didn’t need anything to remind me of one moment of our lifelong friendship. Staring above the heads of those seated, and into the eyes of those standing at the back of the room, my heartfelt words poured forth as I attempted to fully portray the essence of Judith (Judy) Levine Singer. As I traced the journey of our friendship from the age of five, the congregation cried and laughed and cried again.

“A few minutes to cover a lifetime are hardly adequate, especially when that lifetime was Judy’s. Our bond of friendship was stronger than that of blood sisters as it endured endless ups and downs, and there is no one I would have rather taken the journey with than Judy. We were very much alike yet very different. Judy was the eternal optimist who saw only the good in everybody and everything. She dedicated her life to making the world a better place, especially for children, as evidenced by the many students she taught and gently led into adulthood. Her conviction was not what we take from life, but what we give back. I will forever admire her wit, her generosity, her loyalty, and the joy she brought into my life, as well as so many others.

“At this point, I would be remiss if I excluded the one link that played an immense part in shaping our credulous journey—the game of Mah Jongg—that we innocently learned to play as children, never dreaming how it would affect us. Throughout our lives our weekly games became our salvation. No problem was too big to solve, and no blessing was too small to celebrate, as our hands clattered the tiles across a forty-two inch square table, and set up the walls for the next game and the next and the next, year after year after year for over fifty years.”

Turning and facing the casket with tears flowing freely down my face, I concluded, “Judy, I love you and will always love you. Goodbye for now my dear friend. May you rest in peace, and you needn’t worry, I won’t forget to bring the set!”

As the service drew to a close with the congregation reciting the twenty-third Psalm, and we followed the pallbearers wheeling the casket up the aisle and into the hearse for the long ride to King David Cemetery in Falls Church, Virginia, an announcement was made inviting mourners back to the Singer home after the burial.

As we neared the back of the chapel, I caught sight of a tall dark-haired young man that I had not previously noticed. He was a younger version of the person I at first took him to be. His familiar face evoked too much of a resemblance to be a mere coincidence, and yet it couldn’t possibly be him. When we entered the lobby, I asked Jon to step aside before joining the procession to the cemetery. I wanted to see this young man more closely. We waited for him to leave the chapel, but as the last of the mourners passed through the doors, he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he left through the side door leading to the parking lot—or had it perhaps been an apparition? Was my mind playing tricks on me? The last few days had been nerve wracking and had deeply tested my stability. Was I now seeing ghosts?

Finally at Jon’s urging we left and walked towards our car and got in to join the long procession of cars, following the hearse and limousines that carried family members, wending its way slowly down Rockville Pike, only to pick up speed as one by one the cars exited the pike onto the Capital Beltway and headed towards Virginia.

It was Wednesday the day Judy normally played Mah Jongg. There would be no game tonight.

***

The Singer house just off River Road in Potomac, Maryland, was packed to capacity by the mourners returning after the burial to pay their final respects. Once again, I was overwhelmed. Seeing so many faces from the past, going as far back as to when we were children, was both heartwarming and discomforting under the circumstances. Where had all the years gone? Had it really been so long ago that we lost touch with one another, and could that be possible living in the same small area of Washington, D.C., and its nearby suburbs?

The afternoon turned into evening, but our small group that had reconnected was reluctant to leave. Finally addresses, phone numbers, and e-mail contacts were exchanged, and at last, one by one, we began to depart with faithful promises of keeping in touch.

As Jon and I were saying our goodbyes, Ira handed me a business card. The card read—Heller Pharmaceuticals, Daniel Heller Chief Executive Officer—with an address and phone number in Manhattan. “I’m hoping you can find the time to speak with Danny sometime soon. It was one of Judy’s last requests, and I promised her that I would set it up.”

***

Jon and I returned to the Cape the next day, and for weeks I existed in a state of sadness and loss bordering on depression. The ache in my heart was so unbearable that even the most menial of tasks was impossible for me to do. Jon, our children, and grandchildren doted on me to no avail. I withdrew to my childhood days, surrounding myself with memories that more often brought tears to my eyes than a smile to my lips. Even though our move years earlier had ended our daily contact with one another, our friendship had become too inherent rendering me unable to simply let go.

I woke each morning, had breakfast with Jon, and as soon as he left for work, I retreated to the den for hours on end. On other days, weather permitting, I spent the day sitting on our deck overlooking Nantucket Sound, and although the sight and sounds of the water reasonably soothed my nerves, I could not stop my mind from repeatedly and impulsively returning to 1941.

2

KNOWN AS THE
JEWEL on the Potomac,
Washington, D.C., is the heart and spirit of our great Nation. Those who live there simply call it DC or the District. Within its city limits, exists a hub of world power and a cosmopolitan society that abounds with history both made and in the making, surrounded by the beauty of the arts, magnificent parks, museums, gardens, and architecture.

My name is Sara Miller, and my earliest recollections begin on a specific day at the age of five, but I can remember them as though it were yesterday. It was the day we moved from Brooklyn to DC. We had driven from New York in my Dad’s Oldsmobile, spent the night at The Mayflower Hotel, and arrived at our new house early the next morning to wait for the moving van to arrive.

The residential streets were lined with duplex apartments and row houses, most of which had been constructed after the Great Depression. Our row of houses consisted of five newly completed dwellings in the 1500 block of Oates Street; our home was the end unit. It was the spring of 1941. My father, Ely Miller, purchased the house for $3,200 from the bank, and planned to open his pediatric practice on the lower level of our new home in a few short weeks.

The two-story brick row house had a full basement which had been finished with a reception area, three patient rooms, and a nurse’s station where inoculations could be given. A separate outside entrance on the side of the house led directly to the office. The first floor had a large living room with a fireplace, a dining room, and a kitchen large enough for a big table and chairs. There was a screened porch off the kitchen, and a small yard that ended at the alley which ran behind the houses. The second floor had three bedrooms and mine was painted a pale pink. I was so excited about our move that not even my brother’s usual teasing could dampen my spirits. On the other hand, my brother Jerry who at the age of nine was already an avid Brooklyn Dodgers fan wasn’t too happy about our move at all.

My father had many relatives in DC, and a year earlier while attending my cousin’s wedding, he and my mother discussed the possibility of opening his practice there. His uncle who was in real estate offered to help find a location that would be suitable. My parents loved the house at first sight, deeming it perfect in every way.

Our residential neighborhood covered eight blocks east, west, and north of Bladensburg Road in Northeast Washington, D.C. Bladensburg Road, which started at Benning Road and ran for miles over the district line into Maryland, was the main business thoroughfare of the area. It boasted a Sears and Roebuck Department Store, Giant and Safeway Grocery Stores, a liquor store, a variety store, a genuine New York style kosher delicatessen, a Ford car dealership, and a Polar Bear Frozen Custard, housed in a white stucco building shaped like an igloo with tiny mirrors embedded in the concrete.

A row of four small stores included a drycleaner, a shoemaker, a beauty parlor, and Wexler’s Drug Store whose soda fountain was a neighborhood favorite, especially on warm summer nights, offering authentic New York egg creams, awesome ice cream sodas, root beer floats, and cherry and vanilla cokes. Just a few short blocks north, J.W. Marriott opened one of their first Hot Shoppe Restaurants featuring A&W Root Beer, chili, and tamales. The first Hechinger’s Hardware and Lumberyard located just a few short blocks south on Maryland Avenue led the way in introducing homeowners to the do-it-yourself concept of home maintenance.

On the periphery of our neighborhood at the end of 16
^th
Street which ran four blocks parallel to Bladensburg Road, a cluster of shanty type dwellings housed the few colored folks who lived in the area. Public schools at that time were segregated and none of the colored children were allowed to attend the all white schools, but they were part of our community, and they were accepted as such. As children, we often played together and many of our parents worked together. On the corner stood their small Baptist Church where each Sunday morning their zealous singing could be heard for blocks.

My earliest recollections are of moving into the house on Oates, but more importantly one month later of Judy Levine moving into the house right next door. Ruth and Harry Levine had three children—Mike, Judy, and Bobby. They made the move from New Jersey to DC, when Harry joined his brother’s construction firm. Judy and I instantly became best friends. We were like two peas in a pod. We were both five years old, our birthdays separated by exactly one month, and we looked enough alike that many times we were mistaken for sisters or twins.

By mid-July, the Russo family, the Kiatta family, and the McAvoys occupied the remaining three houses in our row, and by coincidence each had a child entering kindergarten in the fall.

As the weeks passed and we settled into our new home, my brother Jerry watched his favorite team the Brooklyn Dodgers miraculously move closer and closer to winning the National League Pennant which by summer’s end they did. Edging out the St. Louis Cardinals by 2.5 games, they won their first pennant in 21 years, led by manager Leo Durocher. They went on to lose to the New York Yankees in the World Series, but my Dad who was also a big Dodger fan tried his best to get tickets for at least one game. Unable to get tickets for any of the games at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, he settled for two tickets to the second game at Yankee Stadium which turned out to be the only game the Dodgers won. Jerry did manage to get his favorite player Dolph Camilli’s autograph which he boasted about to his new friends and proudly displayed in his room for years until the team moved to Los Angeles.

In August, our mothers registered us at the local elementary, and on the Wednesday following Labor Day we started school at Wheatley. There were two morning and two afternoon kindergarten classes, but Judy and I were both in Miss Eliason’s morning class, as were Tony Russo, Jenny Kiatta, and Billy McAvoy. Although the neighborhood abounded with children of all ages and we played with many of them, the five of us became fast friends.

Regardless of the weather, we walked the six blocks to school and back together each day. And since elementary schools did not have cafeterias, we walked home for lunch and back, as well. If it rained or snowed, we were always prepared with raincoats, boots, and umbrellas. We had taken our first steps towards independence in starting kindergarten, but our routine of school, family weekends, and holidays was what being a child was all about, living in a world of innocence until the years ahead would quicken our steps to a trot, and ultimately to a gallop into whatever fate held in store for us.

That November, our family went to New York for Thanksgiving. Riding the subway into the city, my parents took us to see the Macy’s Parade, and afterwards we had dinner at my grandmother’s house in Brooklyn. Just one short week after we returned, on December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and everything changed. The United States declared war on Japan the next day, and three days later declared war on Germany. As it turned out, we had seen the last Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade until after the War was over.

***

The first half of the 20
^th
Century was an exciting and remarkable time for Washington, D.C. The Capital City exploded economically, socially, and especially culturally. Many new museums and concert halls were built and dedicated, including the Smithsonian Institution. During this same time period, the Daughters of the American Revolution built Constitution Hall, Washington’s largest concert and lecture hall. Popular summer spots and picnic areas included Meridian Hill, Rock Creek Park, and a bathing beach near the Tidal Basin.

Griffith Baseball Stadium was home to the Washington Senators, but the name ultimately changed to Griffith Stadium in 1936, dropping the word “baseball” when the Washington Redskins football team arrived. The entertainment scene boasted three theatres—the Belasco Theatre, the National Theatre, and the Howard Theatre.

The City’s colleges were considered as some of the best in the nation: American University, Catholic University, Georgetown University, George Washington University, Howard University, and Gallaudet College for the deaf.

America’s entry into World War I changed DC forever from a quiet small town with a somewhat southern flair to a vital, lively, and exciting world center. With the arrival of the “government girls,” the need for housing and office space mushroomed. Temporary government buildings were erected between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial site. These temporary buildings would be expanded and ultimately used for 50 years, although they were viewed by many as a blemish on the landscape of our beautiful Nation’s Capital. This advent of significant growth in both manpower and industry also resulted in the establishment of several new government agencies.

By the 1940s, Washington had entered a new dimension, greatly enhanced in 1941, with the opening of the new National Airport on the Potomac, which featured a huge restaurant that quickly became popular with residents and visitors alike. For the first time later that same year, the opening of the National Gallery of Art exposed the City to western European masterpieces.

World War II further transformed the nation’s capital into a command center when the new Pentagon building opened complete with offices, shops, and a restaurant to serve the 40,000 workers stationed there.

The war years were hard on our small community. Many of my friends’ fathers left to serve in the military, and with the lowering of the draft age to eighteen, boys were inducted into the Army days after graduation. As a child, I would come to remember the war years by odd bits and pieces. I remember stickers placed on doors or windows symbolizing family members serving in the military. I remember the blackouts behind dark shades and drawn curtains on the windows to block out the lights during the practice air raids, while waiting for the all-clear siren to sound. I remember ration books with coupons for food staples such as sugar, flour, and meat, as well as gasoline, clothing items, and shoes. But, most of all and at a tender young age, I sadly came to remember the war by the fathers, sons, and brothers that didn’t return from the fighting.

It was a time when everyone helped one another, and it seemed as if we melded into one big family. Our mothers made packages to send to the troops, and our fathers helped the families whose men were away at war. Everyone volunteered and sacrificed for the war effort in any way they could. Many planted victory gardens, and I even remember my mother saving used cooking grease in a coffee tin which she took to the grocery store to be reprocessed. As children, we did our part by saving the tin foil on gum packages and rolling it into a ball. I don’t remember ever doing anything with it. It just grew bigger and bigger with each added piece.

There were paper drives, and collections of countless items, especially those made from any kind of metal. Good used clothing and outgrown shoes were passed on to families in need through Churches and community centers. Nothing was wasted or discarded.

Savings Bonds were widely advertised and sold urging everyone to be patriotic. At school, we purchased stamps each week to fill a small booklet until we had enough to buy a $25.00 Savings Bond in our own name. It was a first-time savings experience for most of us.

We were young, but as the War continued and hardships increased, we learned to read our parents’ moods. When there was good news from the warfront, we watched their elation soar; when there was no news, we watched their optimism waver; but when there was bad news, we watched them renew their hope through prayer. Families with men serving in the military anguished over receiving the dreaded telegram announcing a loved one’s death, having been wounded, or missing in action.

Families that were separated from loved ones serving in the military, especially those without relatives living close by, had major decisions to make. It wasn’t long before Rosie the Riveter became a national symbol to encourage women to return to the workforce to fill the many jobs left vacant by the men in service. Many of my friends’ mothers did return to work to make ends meet. My mother had an open-door policy for soup, sandwiches, cookies, and milk for any of these children whose own mothers were not at home for lunch or after school.

My world seemed to change little if at all. My dad known to all as Doc Ely and my mom as his Nurse Sylvia were both pretty busy, but we were as close knit a family as ever, and Judy and I grew closer with each passing day. After school we were always together, either just the two of us or with our other friends.

Childhood diseases were quite common when we were growing up. If one person in a class came down with mumps, chicken pox, or measles, it was a pretty sure bet everyone would eventually get it. But many diseases such as Infantile Paralysis (Polio) were feared by parents any time their child showed symptoms of fever, headache, fatigue, and soreness in their muscles. In the winter of 1944, as Judy and I walked home from school one afternoon, we decided to stop by our friend Su Ling’s house to see why she had been absent for the past three days. After dropping off our books at home, we walked the two short blocks to her house.

We rang the bell, and her grandmother, opening the door just a crack, quietly said, “Su Ling is very sick with fever. You cannot come in.” Her grandmother looked very sad and worried.

“I will ask my father to come see her. I know he can help.” I said.

Judy and I ran all the way back to my house and straight to my father’s office. We told him that Su Ling had not been to school in three days, and that her grandmother said she was sick with fever. He promised to go see her at the end of his office hours and he did.