steady eighteen knots through the choppy waters of the North
Atlantic.
PART ONE
I
Inside the Neptune room, a dapper dressed man raised his glass in
toast.
"To my fellow American and Italian travelers. To your health," he
said. "Thank you Kirk, health is everything. It's more important than
money," said the American.
"You are an idealist," said the German, "Just like in your movies.
Your women however are realists and they make fools out of you American
men. When they are going with you they talk only of wanting the same
things you want. But once they marry you, then as you say in your
country `the honeymoon is over'. Your women take over and you husbands
have to work yourself to death because your wives want more and more."
III
"Have you ever been married Kirk? You have such a cynical
attitude, I bet it was unhappy," said the Italian. The mustachio rosy
cheeked German got up.
"I must go. A friend of mine in first class invited me over for a
cognac after the movie. They are seeing `Port Afrique' a picture with
this Italian actress. The one who took what you say in Italian -- her
bambino to Italy because her divorced husband wants to see the
child. What's her name?"
"Pier Angeli," said the Italian.
"Cameriere, waiter, bring this gentlemen a pernod," said the American.
"Cognac is too expensive, Kirk. You can order that in first class."
The three men sat back and relaxed on the soft cushions in the
ship's Neptune Room.
IV
A little girl wandered in from the kiddie play land which was across
the hall. She watched the bartender mix the drinks. Kirk's brown eyes
darted to the little girl; he watched her watch the bartender and he
felt the tragedy of growing old. He sipped at his pernod. "Okay, have
it your way. I will go to first class in time. I am in no hurry," he
said, throwing out his hands in resignation.
"You see I was married for twenty years in the old Germany. I
had a daughter. She died when zehn years. Whether this was good or bad,
I do not know. Perhaps it was for the best. Who knows? A zeitgeist!"
And again he threw out his hands in resignation. The white flag was
being hoistened. He sipped the pernod and one had the feeling that the
drink made surrender seem easier. But the little girl watching the
bartender knew nothing of defeat because life to her had only triumph
and a temper tantrum now and then -- certainly no tragedy.
V
"My wife," continued Kirk, "she was a lovely girl. I mean beautiful not
like your American or Italian women. She had a figure -- she would
never lose it... it was that fine. She Never worried about calories or
what you say in America -- Rockefeller diet? She was a woman who would
age gracefully and would not need a beauty parlor to disguise her
wrinkles and keep her young forever like the old young women in
Hollywood, how you say?"
VI
The American and the Italian gazed at each other only for a second
lowering their eyes at the same time, perhaps feeling an affinity
of guilt. To the Italian his women were the most beautiful in the
world between the ages of eighteen to twenty five but they got married,
grew out and got big.
And to the American, his women were the tallest in the world because
of the food they ate and the climate they enjoyed. But they had a fear
of growing old and no matter how tall you are or whether you're from
Miami Beach or Los Angeles, they wanted to relive the memories of
their youth and thus failed to grow old gracefully by living in
their yesterdays instead of their todays.
"My wife she is a wonderful girl," said Kirk. "Only complaint I have
she was too attached to her parents, especially her father. When I
got this job as a restaurant manager in Canada, she did not want to
come with me. She cried and cried until finally I just up and left."
Kirk paused, sipping his pernod. "When you go back to Frankfurt, you
think you will see her there?" asked the Italian.
"I doubt it," he answered. "I haven't seen my wife for ten-eleven
years. I do not want to see her. I tell you the truth, man to man.
I have a friend in Ontario. She no want to get married. She had a
sweetheart who died. She says me and her, it would never work out. She
always has those wonderful memories of him. I always have those
memories of my wife and daughter." Kirk nurtured the last drop.
"No, my American - Italian friends, I will never get married again.
When you are single, the woman she does everything for you but once you
marry you must do everything for her."
Kirk looked at his Swiss movement wristwatch. "It is getting late and I
must go see my friend in first class. She is very bored -- it is so
lonely there."
He walked to the doors of the Greek ship's Neptune Room.
He hesitated and turned around like he had left Something behind.
Something he had forgotten.
His brown eyes darted over to the little girl who was watching the
bartender make pernods and cognacs. Then he walked out.
"It’s a pity, isn't it," said the Italian.
The American swallowed down his Danish beer. "Yes it is/ I
feel sorry for him."
And the little girl kept watching the bartender, not knowing he was
helping only those travelers who wanted to forget.
The Big Apple, April 11,2011 five decades later.... 2011***********************************************************************
PART TWO
"You Americans are all alike," said Natalya, a young German woman
on the Greek ship "Arkadia" midway in the North Atlantic, en route to
her home in Duseldorf after a year of work as a dressmaker in
Montreal. "You think you can win any girl with your money.
All you do is show off. You have - how you say - some complex.
Inferiority complex? You American men, all you do is talk and talk. You
big shots, all of you."
5000 miles away on a tennis court North of Beverly Hills Hotel in
Beverly Hills, the owner of a motion picture studio was warming up his
backhand. He swung the racquet through the air with vigor.
"Beautiful form, chief. Beautiful," said the studio's casting director.
"We'll moider 'em, right?" asked the owner of the studio.
"We will chief, we really will," answered the studio's casting
director.
The "Arkadia" slipped through the choppy waters of the Irish sea. On
the top deck standing inside the bingo room, Bryan, an Australian
returning to his native land after a year of working for a tobacco
company in Canada said, "You know 'Harr, you are an odd bloke for an
American. You're not a cannibal, after all. You're quite a decent chap.
Now nothing personal, of course. No offense. But I heard America is
the land of cannibals."
The studio's casting director walked over to the owner of the studio.
"Shall I serve first, chief? That way we can let up a little on your
serve."
The studio chief handed the balls to him. "You go ahead and
serve. My shoulder is still sore from the twist last night. You
shouldn't have taken me to that party, Solly. You know Rosita always
ends up drunk and wants me to dance every dance with her."
***********************************************************************
Alice, a French Canadian and wife of a film director in Paris,
walked on the main deck of the `Arkadia'. "Am I ever happy in bed?
Yes?" she laughed.
"You see, I like Jewish men.. They are more open minded, they don't
make a fuss like most men. They read, they are clever, very clever.
"My husband, he is clever. You know, I worked veree hard to make this
trip. I went to school three times a week to learn dress design. I
make very simple clothes but they are chic. I worked during the days
as a secretary and sewed at nights to save enough monee for this
trip. I haven't seen my husband for seven months, Harree"
"Wonderful shot, wonderful chief," cried the studio's casting
director on the tennis court North of the Beverly Hills Hotel in
Beverly Hills. "You're hitting the ball like Pancho Gonzales. Just
great, never seen anything like it. Right, boys? Right!"
In the shaded patio overlooking the court, two men concentrated on
a backgammon game. "Your move." One of the men turned his head to the
court. "Yeah, you're right, Chief, you're playing terrific. You must
have been practicing at Cannes," said the man, turning back to the
backgammon game.
The owner of the studio laughed. "Come, come boys, you know better
than that. I'm just a virile buck. I never grow old. You should of
seen me in that celebrity tournament in Palm Springs. Tell you all
about it sometime," said the owner of the studio, moving closer to
the net.
Hazel, a plumpish mother of three, was homeward bound for Derby,
England after a stay with her mother and father who had migrated from
England to Canada.
"You Americans, you spoil your children, Yank. Now I'm not saying I
wouldn't have wanted an American for a husband. That's what we English
girls always talked about when we were single." She shrugged her
shoulders. "Of course, I'm happy. I married the bloke I did. He
provides us a good living. Our children are still children.
Not like American children who are born like most babies but right away
become adults, getting their own way. Trouble with you Americans,
Yank, is you want more and more. You're never satisfied."
Out on a tennis court north of the Beverly Hills Hotel in Beverly
Hills, the owner of the studio wiped the sweat from his hand off the
handle of the tennis racquet with his tee shirt. He walked to the
service line, served, the ball hit the net for a fault. The second
serve was good but shallow. The return was deep to the studio's chief's
forehand. He took a half swing, the ball dropping over the net, inside
the other side's service box.
The opposing player returned the ball short to get the studio
owner's backhand side.
"Get it. Get it. "shouted the owner of the studio. The studio's
casting director ran for the ball, scooped it up with his racquet
before it made a second bounce, and prayed that the opposing side
would flub the shot.
The owner of the studio guarded his alley with his forehand.
"Beautiful run. You play another shot like that and I'll pull you off
that Mexican location. Keep you near me in the studio," said the owner
of the studio.
The `Arkadia' wiggled its way through the Irish Sea, the ship swaying
from side to side.
In their tourist class cabin, a German born Canadian chemist named
Hans Kruger, turned to his wife, a commercial artist from Montreal.
"There's no sense in killing ourselves for a bloody dollar, you know
that, darling. You don't have to keep on working anymore. I don't want
you to. We're doing well enough on my salary."
The diminutive, very pixie-like brunette with the rosy puffed
rice cheeks, placed her hands around her husband's neck. "You
are very considerate, dear, but I want to work. I love my job and we
need all the money we can get. You know how expensive living is in
Paris, you can't get an apartment. It's like the Puerto Ricans in New
York, places are so hard to find."
And as the Greek ship `Arkadia' moved closer to its ports of
embarkation, the distance between the ship and the tennis court
north of the Beverly Hills Hotel in Beverly Hills, grew larger and
larger.
The way the day starts off for most of the Americans making this
trans-Atlantic crossing for the first time, they lie awake in
their cabins, thinking about how they'll plan their day. Of course
I can't speak for all the Americans except the six at table 34. They
are an ebullient lot, always exchanging bon mots with their waiter
from Bremerhaven, Germany, Ralph.
"Well, what should we do today, Anna? You think we should have our
Italian lessons first? Or would you rather go to French?" asked
Celeste.
Anna, a handsome American woman, mother of a girl in her junior
year at the Sorbonne, and wife of a Manhattan psychiatrist, had
arrived at table 34 late for breakfast.
"Oh, you're such a darling, Celeste. Starting right out by organizing
my day, you dear. But you know this Greek Captain - the one
in charge of the ship - well, I can't figure him. He's always
throwing curves, you don't know what to expect."
"You think Sal Maglie - you know the guy who used to pitch for the
Dodgers and Giants - you think he's a Greek. He had a breaking curve if
I ever saw one," said the thirtyish year old bachelor high school
teacher from North Hollywood, California.
"Yes, I'm sure of it," said Frieda, the wife of a doctor who always
sat at her left. "I knew it for a fact Sal Maglie is Greek. If he ever
retires from baseball, he would make a wonderful sea captain. He's
traveled around a lot in his time; thrown a lot of curves."
"What irritates me about our Captain is he's always interrupting my
day with drills. Why yesterday Luigi's orchestra was playing `The
Star Spangled Banner' and we were all standing up when the bells and
sirens started going off. We never did hear the end of the piece.
Everybody was stumbling out on the deck to lifeboat stations, putting
on life jackets," said Anna.
Sandy, the young American girl from Long Island, sliced her hard
boiled egg on her roll. "Don't remind me. I like my eggs poached and
on toast. It reminds me of home. But doesn't Luigi play wonderful
dreamy music. He's the best thing on this boat. And have you
heard him play rock and roll, he's just the greatest."
"That's the German beat. They play American music on a Greek ship where
only the Captain and his first mate happen to be Greek. The rest are
German. These Germans are so polite. So efficient like Thomas Mann's
"Felix Krull". Did you read it, Anna?" asked Celeste. "They make
wonderful waiters."
For a rare moment no one said anything. The doctor was scanning the
‘Arkadia',the ship's paper. "You know people, I have no interest in
the news. Here I am in the middle of the Atlantic and I don't know
whether Arthur Godfrey is recovering or Jackie Gleason has gone back to
work. And you know something funny, I don't care." He studied the
paper a while. "I see Panama is stirring. Some trouble, something about
a revolution."
The boat rolled to the hot beat of Luigi's first class orchestra,
the same orchestra that played for the tourist class under the name
of just `Luigi'. He played the same music for both classes, but he
played more for the tourist class since there were two hundred and
fifty of them to thirteen first class travelers in a ship that
normally carries a passenger list of 1300.
Table 34, the table with the grinning American gringos had it `made
in the shade' as they say in the states. "You haven't said anything
this morning, Maria."
"What's on your mind?" asked the blonde-haired doctor's wife and
mother of two boys at Harvard and Yale.
Maria, a Lebanese-American from Massachusetts, and mother
of a twenty-six year old Lieutenant Junior Grade in the Navy,
forced a smile. She popped a pill in her mouth. "Oh, I'm seasick. Stop
this crazy boat from rock and rolling, I feel nauseous."
The bachelor high school teacher from North Hollywood looked at his
sunset colored cheese omelette. He had paid off Ralph, table 34's
waiter, with a two dollar tip, so he could have an omelette and toast
waiting for him when he woke up.
"You're a cool cat, Maria. You get seasick like this every day and
you'll have a wonderful voyage. You'll play your days by ear, no
organizing, no worrying about time.
If you wanna go swimming, you'll swim. If you wanna eat and sleep,
you'll do that. If you wanna Cha Cha, mambo, waltz, polka,
folk dance, stand on your head, you'll do that. Horse racing every day
at five, bingo every night at eight. Four bars, always open for
drinks, two dance floors. Why you got a ball, Maria. A real wonderful
ball."
The attractive dark haired mother stuffed another pill in her mouth.
"Dramamine, I'm too weak to do anything else. Wait till my Italian
family sees me next week. You think Sandy, I'll get my color back
in my cheeks by then?"
"Don't worry, don't worry," said Sandy, sipping her black coffee. "A
Friday and Saturday night in Paris will put color in your cheeks if
Any thing will."
And so the Americans finished breakfast and walked away from table 34.
Their step showed determination of purpose. They knew their destiny;
whether it was a Greek ship or a German crew - it made little
difference in the long run. They started planning their day while still
in bed. No one -the North Atlantic, the Greek Captain, seasickness –
would make them change their day.
They knew their destiny. They knew where they were going. The
two men - an American high school teacher and the other an
Italian professor knew each other well enough that it made no
difference neither knew the other's language. They spoke - one with
his blue eyes, the other with his brown eyes - as they moved their
chessmen into play. This then was their esperanzo. The way they
touched each other's lives with meaning and purpose.
The European man - older and graying - had the continental wisdom
and savoir faire which comes from knowing oneself and thereby
knowing others. He spoke softly in a somewhat epigrammatic manner, but
he made himself clear whenever he moved forward in his chair saying,
in German, "Schachmatt", checkmate.
The American high school teacher displayed a tension, an
aggressiveness forcing him to push his pieces out for a quick
offensive. But this drive for making the "deal" placed him right into
the professor's trap. "Oh estupido. Muy stinko," cried the
American, his outgoing and buoyant American way demonstrating
unconsciously his own feeling of inadequacy.
"Professore, molto bene. Tres bien. Mucho stronger hombre. Un
champion," he shouted, his mind groping for the sureness of the
European mentality and the European languages.
Luigi's first class orchestra struck a medley of tunes from
Johann Straus's `Tales from the Vienna Woods'. "Ah ha, Straus's
`Waltzes'" exclaimed the professor, his brown pupils dilating as he
inhaled a filter tipped `Matinee' cigarette.
An American woman traveling in the schoolteacher's party approached
the two men. By discerning their faces and how they wore triumph or
tragedy, she knew the outcome. It might be that humiliation is not
sometimes as discerning as defeat or the other way around, but the
American schoolteacher wore his heart on a very sensitive sleeve. And
that heart was crying from a fourth defeat in a row.
Better though to cry on such an occasion; notwithstanding the
fact he was chronologically too old to cry, yet not so young that
he didn't know sadness.
The American woman had been to Europe before. She knew the trying
patience of the European's mentality. That each day although appearing
like the others is somewhat different in its subtleties and nuances.
And perhaps this is reason enough to want to live and survive,
fulfilling the promising dawns of each day with the awe and wonder the
human adventure demands.
Thus the life instinct in a way prevails at all times, the death
instinct only functioning at the curtain call.
We Americans are too petty, thought the American teacher as he watched
the American woman and the professor talk in French. Our ego
involvement prevents us from letting our minds float on the
thoughts of our future.
"Be inspired by the belief that life is a great and noble calling;
not a mean and groveling thing to shuffle through as we
may please but a lofty and elevating destiny."
The American schoolteacher could only talk for himself, for sure.
However, he knew six other Americans at table 34 were plagued by
resentment if one of them was fortunate enough to get an outside cabin
with a porthole opening on the North Atlantic; the less fortunate not
being satisfied with an inside cabin.
They spoke very highly about the Democratic principle, yet in
practice they seemed to disregard it. "Do as I say, don't do as I
do."
Therefore when one of the Americans tipped the waiter an extra
two dollars for a cheese omelette every morning, another member of
the party spoke up.
"Now look here, if Harree has a cheese omelets for breakfast, I see no
reason why I can't have one also. He's no privileged character. In
fact, I'm his leader, I'm supposed to chaperone him in Rome. Make sure
he acts like any American should when they live with an Italian
family. I demand equal food, equal rights, equal time. I want a cheese
omelette, too too."
If the American doctor from Great Neck, Long Island, wants the benefit
of a cheese omelette, he must pay the burden. Is this too much to ask?
How can an impoverished spirit afford to eat for less than two bucks?
The American schoolteacher wanted to rub out of his mind such pettiness
along with words like "agreement" or "disagreement". "I
disagree with you" only indicates again the two buck poverty of
petty thinking.
Why couldn't the Americans learn the expansiveness of the European
mind? Could not the American schoolteacher learn from the
Italian professor? Defeats in chess are only the feeble origins, the
beginnings of our development. And, therefore, victory is meaningless
if we are not modest enough to take off our masks as we grope for
our identities.
The American schoolteacher got up out of his chair. He heard the
American woman ask the professor, "J'ai entendre dire que vous etes un
champion de chess. "
"Avez vous gagne tous le jours?" he answered, "Je ne joue pas trop
mal." Out on the deck, the American schoolteacher looked out on
the ocean of humanity.
The Greek ship "Q.S.S. Arkadia" was cruising along the calm waters
at 18.56 knots on her way to her first European port, Cobn in
Ireland.
He heard the soft violins playing in the first class quarters. It
was `Violoncello' from Madame Butterfly. Somehow he felt Puccini must
have known about the struggle and survival of the human lot. He
walked toward the sound of the violins.
The passengers on the Greek line's to steamer "Q.S.S. Arkadia" seemed
dull and languid as the Montreal-LeHavre voyage went into its eighth
and last day. The four liquor bars had closed down early two nights
before.
The Canadians, British, Germans, French and Americans refused
to budge from their cabins, better to get some sleep and save some
money. They were all pooped out from too much partying over
too little time.
Harree, the Air Force Reserve high school teacher on his
way to Rome from California, with stopovers in France, Italy, Israel,
Cypress and Germany paced the upper deck of the ship. He knew the
voyage was closing another chapter in his life.
He had left the states for this trip taking him halfway around the
world really to get away from Lynn rather than just have an
experience.
It was funny how he met her in the first place... He was stationed
at an Air Force base out on the desert of California, about 87
miles from Los Angeles.
Having no time to wine and dine women at the leisurely dining spots in
Los Angeles, Beverly Hills, or the San Fernando Valley, his work in
the legal office spending all his energy, he placed an ad in the
personals of the L.A. Daily Mirror.
‘Ambitious Air Force high school teacher seeks wife, mother, confessor,
cook and Girl friend. State qualifications.’
Harree Longway, the Air Force Reserve high school teacher walked fore
to the sun-deck. He ignored the sign `First class passenger only' and
sat down on a bench.
From the pocket of his trench coat, he took out Lynn's letter - the
first one she had written him, answering his ad.
"Dear Ambitious Air Force high school teacher, I liked your ad. Ever
since I arrived in Los Angeles, I've been buying all the papers in
pursuit of a job. The Mirror isn't much use as far as secretarial
jobs go, but I keep buying it because the "Strictly Personal" ads
makes me chuckle. I've been feeling very superior and wondering what
type of person must place those ads, and what type must answer
them. All of a sudden, I stopped feeling superior and thought - maybe
its someone as lonely as I who has a little more courage than I, and
is doing something about it......"
Harree Longway, Air Force Reserve high school teacher, leaned his head
back against the sundeck's bench. The sun felt wonderfully warm against
his bearded cheeks. He unscrewed the cap off the copa tint sun tan
lotion he had bought at the Beverly Wilshire drugstore on Wilshire
Boulevard in Los Angeles. He smeared some of it on his hands and rubbed
it into his beard.
"Your ad appealed to me - you don't describe yourself as far as
your physical appearance age etc, and I like that. I've never
considered material things to be of too much importance and I hope
you don't either.
Maybe I'm wrong though, so I'll tell you a little bit about myself. I'm
thirty, but I look younger and I am pretty in a nice, refined way. I
hope that doesn't sound conceited - but being pretty has never seemed
to be much of an asset to me.
"People never bother to look for what's underneath when you're pretty,
and after a while you wonder if its worth the effort to try to be
sincere and honest. Oh well - anyway, I have blonde hair and blue yes
and I'm very tall, 5'9" and weigh 135. I'm of English-Irish-German
descent and although I have no formal church affiliation, I was raised
as an Episcopalian.
"I was born and raised in New York, and my family is back East. I came
here alone because I wanted to end a dead-end romance with a married
man. I've been here less than a week, and I don't know a soul.
"The loneliness is very depressing, and you might say its desperation
That drives me to write to you. I'd like to make a friend here. If he
turned out to be a husband protector, father confessor and boyfriend,
all the better. I do long for a nice, decent life with all the
trimmings and maybe there's a chance yet....."
Harree Longway, Air Force Reserve high school teacher, closed his eyes
and leaned his head against the sun deck's railing. He saw a plane
soar high overhead, the grayish blue sky a background in counterpoint
as the `Q.S.S. Arkadia' moved along the grayish-blue North Atlantic.
He continued reading....
"I have a meager education. I finished high school in three years at
the head of my class and was so bored with education that I turned
down a scholarship for a job as a clerk. I have a very high I.Q. –
something like 150, and I know a little about most things. I'm an
introvert, I guess. I like to read, and I like music and the theatre.
I'm a poor dancer, and I have an offbeat sense of humor, but I think
I'm pretty honest - as women go. I don't really know how to answer
these ads, because I never did this before.
Oh well - if you don't like the way I sound, forget about it. Maybe
it's a silly idea to begin with......"
Harree Longway, Air Force Reserve high school teacher, put the letter
aside. His eyes scanned the seas until they came to rest on a fishing
trawler about five kilometers to the starboard side. Then he looked
back at the letter ....
"I can't give you a phone number or an address. You see, I expect to
decide on a job Monday. I'm living at a hotel now, and as soon as my
week's rent is up, I'm going to find an apartment near
whichever job I take. I'll be moving Tuesday, and you probably
won't receive this letter before then. Anyway I'm a little afraid to
give you my phone number, or even my name.
Try and understand why I'm so cautious -this is all so new to me. If
you'd like to meet me and spend a few hours in conversation, will you
be at the Owl drug store on 6th and Spring on Friday at 8 p.m.? I'll be
having a cup of coffee and I'll wear a black dress and a beige coat if
it's cool. I'll sit as close to the hotel entrance as I can.
I hope I'll have one pal in Los Angeles for my troubles
Lynn..................
Harree Longway, Air Force Reserve high school teacher on his way to
Italy from California folded the letter slowly and placed it back in
his trench coat pocket.
An English fighter-bomber circled the ship, dived low, and pulled up a
few feet from the steamer's smoke stack.
A seagull hovered above the `scume', the foam, the `Q.S.S. Arkadia'
left behind in its wake as it cruised along at 19 knots, destination
Le Havre, France.
***********************************************************************
Third day in Paris - Anna, the wife of a Manhattan psychiatrist,
boarded the boat train at Le Havre, France. In a few hours she would be
seeing her daughter Jan, for the first time in a year. What
changes could a mother expect to find in her 18 year old daughter,
living all alone in Paris?
Anna had mixed feelings about seeing Jan. The last time they had met in
New York, they were both repressed and their parting was businesslike
and unemotional.
To Anna, mothers must always love their daughters with the same
intensity that daughters love their mothers. Yet if one obeyed such a
principle, wasn't it in a way an admission of never growing old.
Realistically, the intensity cannot be the same. Jan was a student of
the Political Science college of the Sorbonne, a New York girl seeking
the same elegance Parisian women are noted for having all over the
world.
She kept herself aloof from her fellow-Americans. "I am
exclusive," she said. "I only date Africans, Algerians, Indians and
Negroes. I hate Frenchmen, they're so sure of themselves. I wouldn't
have an affair with one if you paid me."
Anna hated the thought of growing old in America. It was not the best
country in the world for the old to die. It was a land of yearning
youth; yearning; always yearning for something beyond their reach.
Old people yearn only for peace, contentment, friends.
If she had her way, France would be the place for one to die. The
older you get the more you are respected, honored for your gray hairs,
each hair a degree of wisdom.
And your ideas are sought because your mind is a fertile
battleground of life's struggles. You have fought and you have won. But
Anna's husband was practicing in New York. It was impossible for him
to earn enough dollars, even francs, to keep his wife in France,
his daughter in school and maintain an apartment on Madison Avenue
and 57th. He didn't have the money nor the energy - not even the
contacts to make the money - for such an international undertaking.
Meanwhile the daughter left her room on the Rue de Vaugirard, prepared
to meet her mother at the depot.
The night before, while sitting at a sidewalk cafe, sipping a glass of
acqua de minerale, she had been tempted to accept any one of three
passes thrown her way. She refused, not wanting her mother to think
her baby girl, Jan, had grown up, bags under bloodshot eyes, ready to
accept just any offer.
If Jan's mother had been less Puritan minded than most American
mothers, she would share a few intimate confidences, holding back
only those which were of scandal-shocking proportions in America.
Jan had learned about biology in France; she knew how to take care of
herself. Every girl learns it when they're knee high to a grasshopper".
Only in America do unwed mothers face social ostracism on account of
ignorance, and the bad manners of their peers and parents.
As for American men, they are children de piccolo till they are 30,
and then they pass right into old age. By that time, their libido is
in a state of limbo and it's too late to save them.
That night in Paris - their first night out together in over a year –
mother and daughter realized the French people were little
concerned with they style of American masks they each wore.
In the Pigalle, Anna chain-smoked her cigarettes, swung her
pocketbook and felt young and foolish again. In Montparnasse and
the Latin Quarter, Jan knew how it felt to be a woman.
That night mother and daughter grew up together. One, young; the other,
old. They knew then what it was for a mother and her daughter to find
each other. They had come 4000 miles to find each other and they had
found themselves.
***********************************************************************
5th day among the Parisians… The American tourist, a
school teacher named Harree Longway, never let his eyes wander from
the back of Jean Jacques Tavignot, his guide and French friend in
Paris.
Com'on,Harree we don't have much time to get to the
Trocodero. Are all you Americans that slow?"
Harree Longway looked around the Metro. "Vavin stationto Montponasse.
Change." "Loterie Nationale" "Crio c'est la vente Linge
plus beaux mains."
Sitting in the second class section of the Paris subway, not too far
away from the first class car, Harree Longway's American blue eyes
caught the French blue eyes of a redhead; very reserved, very classy,
and very French. "Can we pick up girls in the Metro, Jean? Is it
anything like the subways in New York?"
Jean's French eyes fell on the fille in first class. "Oui, she is
nice. See her smile, she knows we are talking about her. When we get
off at Trocodero, Harree ask her in the only French you know, parlez-
vouz Francais?" To Harree he felt at home. It could have been Times
Square during rush hour instead of Paris at noon.
As he moved toward the first class exit, there was no urgente, no
Anxiety about him. He could have been taken for a Frenchman or a Roman
he was so at ease, his presence of mind somewhat like that of
a headwaiter at Longchamps.
The train stopped, people shoved. Harree got a glimpse of the
girl. He followed quickly now. Jean gripped his hand. "No, Madamoiselle
is taking local. We're on Express."
For all the American knew, he was taking the same train as the French
woman. In his mind - BMT, IRT, Express, Local, it was all the same.
"No, no Monsieur Harry," cried Jean, tugging at the American's sleeve.
"She's going to Avenue H, we're at Newkirk. This is where we get off.
In Trocodero Park, the French sparrows not unlike those in Flatbush or
North Hollywood, squirmed in the dirt, wiggling for the glory of
liberation.
An Irish setter snapped at Jean's heels, proving the adage that dogs
are dogs whether they be Irish, French, or what have you. They bark in
the same language, no matter how long they've lived say in
America, Israel or the Vatican City.
A photographer snapped their picture as they crossed the bridge toward
the Eiffel Tower. "Picture, American?" he asked. "500 francs."
Harree hesitated. A dollar in American money he thought. But what if
there were no film in the camera? Or even if there were film, what
guarantees could the Frenchmen give about mailing the shot to
California?
The Parisian knew Harree Longway would not take a plane
to Paris in order to press charges over one buck. The Berlin wall
may have had its difficulties, but it was made all the harder in
this day of the hydrogen knockout drop, because no one knew who was
buying, who was selling, who was bluffing, and who would press charges.
Here on this bridge facing the Eiffel Tower, Harree Longway could walk
away. Herter and Gromokyo in Geneva could walk away also, but
they might have to face the consequences of the charges. The
American teacher and the French student stood under the Eiffel Tower.
"No go up," said the student teaching the teacher a lesson in
economy. "500 francs, only for suckers."
They walked away again but were buttonholed by a swarthy youth.
"American want pictures? Very cheap."
Harree Longway, American schoolteacher, forgot he was a schoolteacher.
There was no dog to put on, no masquerade costume.
He felt in his pockets for the monopoly money. He would pay any price
to prove his masculinity back in the states.
"No no, Harree," said Jean, sensing what was in the American's mind,
yet not realizing the psychic attraction of the erotic magnetism.
"In the trade, it cost him a hundred francs. He's asking two
thousand. He's Algerian, he's dishonest. Come, we must go."
He took Harree by the arm. "Never stop to talk to peddlers. Him,
Algerian. He get mad, he stick knife in you. No talk. Algerian
hungry, very hungry."
They hurried past Napoleon's palace. Then a building where the Deputies
met and argued through the nights. Through the Luxenbourg Gardens,
beyond the Comedie de Francaise.. Jaywalking across Rue after Rue...
Running.........
That night Harree Longway had his first dream in nationalistic tones.
Paris - New York. The Seine - the Hudson… Eiffel Tower - Empire State.
Arch de Triumph - Statue of Liberty. A World Government in a hundred
years? Capitol Paris? New York? Eliminate war? Poverty? Disease?
Harree Longway woke up, the Algerian peddler's knife went too deep.
***********************************************************************
When auto-bus 62 destined Tel Aviv stopped at Allenby and
Ben Yehudah Street, an elegante Israeli-born Sabra leaped off and ran
into the arms of a tall American man…
They walked arm in arm toward the Mediterranean, their thoughts
centered on the universe of their passion, not knowing the
Furies were angry with them for allowing their happiness to soar
into the Heavens without having any concern for the
realities of the Earth they left behind.
"Now look, Mirala, ya just gotta get fired from your job. Ya just
gotta," said the American. He felt like he wanted to drop his hand from
hers but the habits of all his yesterdays of courting in America.
The woman rolled her brown eyes at the American. "Herbert, you don't
know your own mind. This is your third trip to Israel. You've flown
around the world to marry me. Why make a short romance out of a
thousand pounds?"
She held his hand tightly. He could feel the heat from her fingers.
"Because ya gotta try and beat the system. That's the American way. Ya
gotta find an angle," he said.
"I know no..how you say?" "Angle." "I know no angle."
"Didja try comin' late to work?"
"Ken."
"How about callin' your friends up on the office phone and talkin'to
'em about the life?"
"Ken."
"Didja try ignorin' the people when they come in the office to
argue about their income tax?"
"Ken."
"How about goin' home early?"
"No."
"Why not?" he cried.
Her brown eyes sizzled. She was back in Sinai and this American was an
Arab soldier. "Oh, you terrible. Money, money. That's all you think
of. I think you learn that in Brooklyn and Beverly Hills."
"How about Israel? Is it any different over here? The
government won't kiss you off cause it costs them a thousand pounds.
They won't fire you even if you burnt the joint down. They're that
tight..."
"We a poor country. American rich. And the Histradrut protects
employees from getting fired. They say if government dismisses you, you
get severance pay. Only then. You cheap. You come this far. A thousand
pounds is stopping you."
She tore her fingers loose from the American's hand. "We finish. A
short romance. All because you think money is everything. You foolish
boy. You make big mistake. You see, I am lucky girl…"
She ran back to Allenby and Ben Yehudah. Autobus 62 "Kiriat
Shalom" wheeled around the corner, the doors opening, she boarding.
The American watched the autobus move on until it vanished by
the Tel Aviv traffic.
He turned his eyes toward the Mediterranean. A chill came off the
water.
He pulled up his coat collar And walked back to his hotel, shivering.
He entered the lobby, breathing on his hands.
***********************************************************************
Tel Aviv, Israel 4th of July, 1960
Dear Aunt Tess and Uncle Harry
You don't know how delighted I was to hear from you. It seems it
takes an awful big "wack" to get a letter out of you especially,
Aunt Tess.
But enough of this chit-chat as I know you want to hear those dreary
Details concerning your nephew Leon's impulsive romance with a
glamorous Israeli "dame".
My mistake, I believe - and hindsight is never a good judge - is
that I moved in with the Segal family and lived in their three room
flat outside of Tel Aviv. This, mind you, wasn't of my doing but at
their insistence. Living in such close proximity involves not only a
clash of wills, egos, temperaments and what have you, but it also
gives you a perspective and insight into drives, interest,
personalities that you wouldn't otherwise get unless you yourself
were a living dead person.
In such surroundings, I dwelled for eleven days until the demon inside
of me wanted to be liberated. Not to be on call for meals, not to
have petty squabbles with my fiance, but to be alone with a woman
who was once my sweetheart or even to be alone period. However –
the demon inside of me notwithstanding - I took positive steps to go
ahead with the marriage.
I contacted the embassy and filed an application, Uncle Harry, to get
Miriam under the Israeli quota.
Then I tried to nail down the Grand Rabbi and I don't think I or
anyone could nail him down even if he had a hammer with a
12 inch head. Shrewd and slippery, he talked in such equivocal terms
that I thought he would make wonderful presidential timber - almost as
good as Nixon in wooing everyone yet not saying anything.....
"I can't tell you. I just can't until I see your case," said the Grand
Rabbi. "But this is the case, sir," I said. "I want to get married as
quickly as possible. I have to go back to the states and....."
"Why? Don't you like this country?"
"Yes, but...." "What has your America got that Israel hasn't? You got
a pretty Sabra, haven't you? I don't understand why you're impatient.
All you Americans...."
"But, sir, I got to go back. I got to make money."
"Ah, so that's it. Money, money, money. That's all you Americans ever
think about."
"Look, sir, be a good guy. Have a heart, expedite the papers."
"You ever been married?"
"No."
"You ever been divorced?"
"I just told you I've never been married."
"You ever been a father?"
"I told you.....
"You a goy?"
"My mother's maiden name is Kaminsky. She's from Berditchev."
"Berditchev in the Ukraine. Fine country. I know the place well. Marc
Chagall.. "
"Sir, don't digress, please. I'm in a hurry."
"Where you going? We're a small country. You can see it all in a day
and a half."
"I got to send a telegram to California, telling them
I don't need money anymore. That you, the Grand Rabbi of Tel Aviv,
said so."
"I did not. I never said such a thing in my life."
"When do you say something?"
"When I have the case. I need papers. Hasn't your fiance filed the
papers?"
"What papers?"
"The papers for the marriage. You got to file papers. How do I know
you're not a goy. You look like one You sure your mother's name
is Kaminsky....
I don't believe you. Here, let me look at your......"
"Get away from there. My sperm count is my own business. My mother's
name is Kaminsky and she's from Berditchev," I cried running out.
With warmest affections
Your Nephew, H
