Israel (57 page)

Herschel nodded. “Have you always loved her?”

“Long before your father met her. When he confessed his love to me I realized that they were perfectly suited for each other, so I lied. I said I no longer cared for her.”

“She'll never marry you, you realize.”

“Marriage! Please, boy.” Yol shuddered. “Why do I need to get married at my age? No, I just want to protect your mother, Herschel, to keep her company, to keep her
as happy as possible. I can do that at Degania.” He looked into Herschel's eyes. “I loved your father, I love Rosie and I love you. You're all my family. Do you understand?”

“Have you talked to her about it?”

“I've broached the subject,” Yol said. “I think she would like to come, but it would mean the end of her visits to you. She feels awful about that.”

“Take her to Degania. You have my blessing. When she comes to see me next month I shall tell her as much.”

“Thank you.”

“Please, make her happy. She deserves it.”

Yol winked. “Absolutely.”

One month later Herschel's mother paid a final visit to her son, who did his utmost to assure her that she was doing the right thing. During this last visit they did not speak of Frieda nor of any unpleasantness between them. Their love was a vast, dark ocean, and mother and son stood on opposite shores. Each took solace in the pulse and thunder of that sea, but the time when either could make the voyage across had long since passed.

With his mother's visits a thing of the past there was nothing in Herschel's routine to break up the passage of time. The days belonged to the British jailers, but the prisoners owned the night. They did secret exercises by moonlight, and in the shadows they talked and taught one another. Sporadically, as the months passed, news of events beyond their prison walls reached them.

During the summer of 1940 they learned that Abraham Stern, newly released from prison, had split off from the Irgun to form a new, far more aggressively violent group, Lohmey Heruth Israel. The Sternists would not honor the Irgun's unofficial truce with the British for the war's duration. Soon British policemen would find themselves shot down on street corners.

The Irgun, meanwhile, continued its frantic efforts to aid the illegal refugees fleeing Hitler. The ships converged on Palestine. The displaced persons camps administered by the British were soon filled to overflowing.

In November of 1940 two leaky refugee-packed steamers, the
Pacific
and the
Milos
, were intercepted by the British in the bay at Haifa. The refugees were loaded onto the slightly more seaworthy British steamer
Patria
to be transported to the DP camp on the tropical island of Mauritius until they could be returned to Germany. On November 25 in full view of the population of Haifa the refugees aboard the
Patria
blew up the ship. Hundreds of blast-mutilated corpses bobbed in the blue waters as still more refugee-laden ships steamed over the horizon toward Palestine.

When the news of violence was against the British it inspired the prisoners. When, as was much more often the case, the violence was against their own people, it fueled their determination to drive the British from Palestine. Hatred gave the inmates the strength to persevere; hatred seeded their reveries. What sprouted in the hardened souls of these young Jews, inured to violence, was beyond all control.

One sunrise Herschel awoke from a dream of himself and Frieda making love. Even now, wide awake, the taste of her mouth seemed to linger on his lips.

Outside during the exercise period the dream still haunted him. He was heartsick, his loneliness intensified by the knowledge that he had been visited by a ghost.

He must have been walking too slowly. A guard prodded him to hurry his pace, and the next thing Herschel knew his arms were manacled behind him. The guard was bloodied, lying curled on the ground.

Herschel was flogged and put into solitary confinement
for one week. He spent his time in the dark, cramped cell meditating on the sort of being he had become.

He thought back to the Arab riots of '29. Still an adolescent, he killed for the first time in defense of Degania. How he cried over it. He brooded on the shame he felt after his grenade attack on the coffeehouse, and then he pondered how he would have killed that guard if the others hadn't dragged him away. His assault had been pure reflex, with no hesitation and no regret. He didn't even remember doing it.

After their first rendezvous Becky Herodetzky discovered Benny Talkin's maroon convertible idling across the street from Malden's every Monday, Wednesday and Thursday night. At first Becky was able to convince herself that Benny's interest in her would be fleeting and that her life had not taken an extraordinary turn. In the beginning she constantly steeled herself for the night when the convertible would not be waiting for her, but there it always was. Gradually she began to rely on those late suppers and evenings at the movies with Benny.

After a couple of months the trunk of his Cadillac began to spew forth marvelous dresses. “I ain't trying to be forward,” Benny would murmur bashfully, “but when this guy on Seventh Avenue showed 'em to me, all I could think of was how nice you'd look.” Becky would run back into Malden's to change her clothes, and off the two would go to dance to Count Basie or Charlie Barnet at the Famous Door or another club along Fifty-second Street.

Benny was always the perfect gentleman, and that added to his allure. His occasional kiss, his touch could
thrill her, but it was the limits he set for himself that allowed Becky the confidence to surrender her heart. Benny's fabulous tours of nighttime New York always ended with Becky safe in her bed at Cherry Street. Was it any wonder that on the mornings after as she performed all the mundane chores of readying the market for the day's business, her evenings with Benny seemed impossible? If the dresses had not been hanging in her closet as proof of his affection, she might have considered herself mad for daring to hope for the day when she would be his wife.

As the relationship progressed Becky found herself totally captivated. When business at her father's market was slow she would replay the previous night's activities in her mind as she puffed away on the Chesterfields—his brand—she'd taken to smoking.

Benny nearly broke her heart by failing to ask her out for New Year's Eve. She spent that night in tears, her face pressed into her pillow, while on the other side of her locked bedroom door her father begged to know what was wrong.

New Year's Day 1940 was a Monday and Malden's was closed, so Becky had until Wednesday to mourn her loss and to ponder whether life could be worth living without Benny.

Wednesday night the maroon convertible was there, and in the spring Benny kept his word. The car's top came down and the couple spent several glorious Sundays cruising out to Flushing Meadow and the World's Fair.

So Becky's Cinderella romance continued, her happiness uncomplicated and unalloyed. One warm spring night Benny met her after work to take her to a picture everyone was talking about,
The Wizard of Oz
. They'd been meaning to see it for quite a while, but now that they were there Becky had a hard time concentrating. Her own life and her time with Benny seemed far more fascinating than the gaudy goings-on in Oz.

During the movie Benny took her hand. She wondered if tonight they would indulge in their recently begun bouts of petting that turned the Cadillac's windows steamy and left Becky's emotions and clothing in disarray. Becky had been secretly relieved at Benny's passion—they'd been seeing each other for almost half a year—but she was also frightened and uncertain about what she was supposed to do to further their romance. She stared blindly at the screen as she reviewed their relationship, trying to fathom a way to strengthen her claim to Benny's affections. She'd grown up a lot these last six months, begun to have more confidence in her looks and in herself. She'd begun to think she deserved a prize like Benny Talkin.

Those recent balmy Sundays at the World's Fair were the exceptions to the rule of their relationship. At Benny's insistence they met only on the nights she worked at Malden's, excluding Saturday. Benny had yet to make his appearance as her beau at Cherry Street.

“It's best that your dad doesn't know about us,” Benny would assure her whenever she brought up the subject. “It'd cause trouble if he knew.”

Benny told Becky about his own father during one winter evening. They were at the Downbeat on Fifty-second Street. They had a corner table, cigarettes and the obligatory cocktails, from which they rarely sipped. Becky had no taste for drinking after her father's struggles with alcoholism. Benny simply had the traditional disdain for drunkards.

“My dad was born in '84,” he began. “My grandparents were broke, of course, like most in those days. My dad's name was Mendel. He was their only child. He started roaming the streets pretty early, lifting goods off delivery wagons, stuff like that. He was always big for his age, and he got to be known as a brawler. He began to collect protection money from the pushcart peddlers. It
was all on the up and up; I mean, the peddlers figured it was a good deal, paying Mendy Talkin a little to keep the Irish hooligans from stealing a lot. By that time my father had guys working for him. Then along came the movement to unionize the garment industry.”

“Did your father work in a sweatshop, like mine?” Becky asked.

Benny grinned. “My dad believed in working for himself. Anyway, you know the word
shtarke
?”

“Nope.”

“Good. A sweet thing like you shouldn't know, but I'll tell you. Some might say that a shtarke is just a punk, a tough, but in those early union days he was more like a soldier. Those disputes were really wars.

“A lot of gangs worked both sides of the street. Sometimes they'd break up a strike and sometimes they'd enforce it. Not my father, though. Right from the start he threw in with the unions. He and his boys carried cards, and the United Hebrew Trades and the ILGWU paid him a regular salary. If a local was causing trouble, my dad and his boys talked some sense into them. If some scabs tried to cross a picket line, my dad taught them a lesson. And no striker had to worry about goons when my dad was around. What I'm trying to say is that Mendy Talkin had principles. He never forgot his origins. He was always for the working man.”

Becky fought back the most horrendous impulse to laugh. Imagine a hoodlum showing support for the working man by clubbing down any attempt to defy the union. It was at times like this that Becky appreciated her own father, who was poor but honest. She wished her brother Danny could hear what Benny was saying and realize how lucky they were to have a decent man as a father.

“You think my father was just a hood, right? And that means I must be as well, right? That's just how your father would feel, Becky. That's why you can't tell him
about us. Abe probably thinks it was sign carriers like him who won the union's battles.”

“This is a ridiculous argument.” Becky interrupted. “My father did more than carry a sign. He lent his life savings to his union—”

“Through Stefano de Fazio, right? He's chums with de Fazio.”

“Not anymore,” Becky replied. “Not since Stefano became known as a—well, you know . . .”

“A gangster?” Benny asked softly. “Your daddy would never have anything to do with a gangster, would he?”

Becky looked into his face and was frightened. His hazel eyes were cold, even cruel. Like father, like son—the phrase leapt into her mind to make her shudder. “Listen, I didn't mean to insult your father. I'm sure he's a good man.”

“He's been dead for years.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she stammered, thinking how little she knew about her love.

“He died young, but what life he had was good. He made a lot of money from the unions, and they profited from his services. Things started to change after the war. That's when he lost his health and his eyes started to give him trouble. They diagnosed diabetes, but what took away his will to live was the changing times.

“By then the Communist influence had begun to tear at the ILGWU. Hatred made everyone crazy, willing to do the worst to each other. There weren't enough shtarkes to go around.

“Then came the Depression. You know who had the only cash? The bootleggers. The industry had already turned to them for muscle, so why not borrow too if some were willing to lend?”

“And your father was too sick by then to continue?”

“Partly that, but there was more to it. When the
industry moved uptown people like my dad were left behind.” He chuckled. “He was pretty much blind by then, just a relic of the old days when a word to the wise or a punch or two was enough to keep order. You know, Becky, he never owned a gun. He never had need of one.” Benny was leaning forward in his chair. He had taken hold of Becky's hand and was squeezing it hard.

“It's all in the past now.”

“Yeah, sure.” He leaned back and lit a cigarette in order to compose himself. “My dad had some friends, though, friends who thought well of an old-timer who'd always kept his mouth shut. So when he bought some trucks, they threw business his way. My dad knew enough to do them favors in return. You own the trucks, keep up contacts in the drivers' unions, and you can shut down any industry any time you want. That's power. As soon as I was old enough I quit school and went into the business. As my dad got sicker, I took over more and more and made it grow.” He smiled. “Now you know everything.”

“Do I?” He was too good to be true. “Dance with me,” she begged almost desperately. He was her love and she couldn't bear to doubt him.

Benny led her to the floor, wrapped her in his arms and began to sway to the slinky chords. Now it was easy for Becky to banish her doubts as she lost herself in his intoxicating closeness.