Brooklyn Secrets (3 page)

“No, of course not! We knew. We knew what those bums were. They were people to avoid. And you know what? We were the good, smart girls. We weren't looking for nightclubs and flashy jewelry, so those nogoodniks weren't looking for us.” She added with a laugh “It's been many a decade since I used a word like ‘nogoodnik.'”

Lil was looking away from her friend, as if her thoughts were somewhere else altogether.

Ruby went on. “I can say this: we could walk home from work, from the subways, late at night, even carrying money, and never be afraid. There were always people out and about who knew us and wouldn't let any harm come our way.” She thought for a moment. “And the truth is that they did not bother upstanding, normal citizens. It was one gang against another. As I said, much-exaggerated.”

Her friend was still staring off into space, and I wondered if we had lost her, when she turned back to us and said, “Ruby, you are full of crap.”

Ruby gasped. Had we heard that right?

“Just full of it.”

Chapter Four

Ruby turned pinker than her makeup.

“Lil, you are getting tired. I'm going to walk you up to your room.” She turned to me, her self-control unaltered, but her voice now shaky. “Erica, it's been lovely. Call me if you have any questions. Now, Lil, let's get you up.”

“I'm not going anywhere.” She looked right at me, her face pale and her hands clenched. “Ruby's spinning you a nice story about the good old days. Old people like to do that, and she's old, we both are. Really old now. The only thing wrong is that it isn't true. I have a different story for you.”

“You're calling me a liar?”

Lil shrugged. “You can hear liar, or you can hear losing your marbles, or you can hear telling a ‘nice' story.” She made air quotes with her fingers. “Your call. It doesn't matter to me anymore.”

This had mysteriously turned into a conversation that didn't include me.

Ruby stood up, fumbling for her flower-painted cane. “I am very hurt by your attitude, Lillian. After all these years! Erica, thank you for coming here to see me. Come back any time.”

She walked away, back straight, head high.

Lillian looked at me and smiled wearily. “She'll get over it. She'll decide I was affected by my meds. You can decide that for yourself after you hear my story.”

Her tired blue eyes looked straight into mine, and I already knew what I thought.

“Do you have the time today? It's a long story, but I don't know if I myself will have the time to tell it again.” She smiled, a little wry smile without much joy in it. “I am dying, you know.” I said something that came out as in incoherent murmur.

“Oh, no, no, don't try to say something comforting. We are all dying, of course, but some of us have a more definite checkout date. Mine is coming up soon. I'm not sure I'll get to see those tulips I watched them plant last fall. Do you knit?”

I shook my head, surprised by the sudden change of subject.

“We all used to. A very useful skill. These days I'm thinking about dropped stitches. I want to pick up some of mine.”

She shook her head as if to clear it. “If I tell you a true story about those days, will you do something for me?”

“Yes. Of course.” I thought she meant, maybe, fetch her a coffee. Or do some outside shopping. Bring her a nice plant for her apartment.

“If you come across my brother's name in your research, tell me.”

“I don't understand at all.”

She held my hand and again, looked at me deeply. “You are researching Brownsville and you are interested in crime? Maybe you'll know how to look for this, for my lost brother. I always meant to do it myself, but then I ran out of time. The last time I saw him was dinner at home, July 16, 1936. He was twenty-two and I was ten.”

She leaned back and closed her eyes, as if her story was finished.

I wanted to grab her and shout, “What are you talking about?” underlining each word. What I did say, softly, was “I think I need to know a little more. Like his name.”

Her eyes flew open again. “Well, of course you do! What was I thinking? I should tell it from the beginning.

“People like Ruby say the crooks never affected us, their neighbors. It's a
shonda
they think, a shaming of the whole community. And there are people who even romanticize them. Back when I still thought I could dig this up myself, I read a book that turned them into heroes, almost. Phooey on that. A lady doesn't spit in public or I would.”

She was silent for so long, I thought she'd fallen asleep, but then she went on.

“Believe me, they were thugs, greedy, lazy lowlifes who would rather live off hardworking, honest people than do any work themselves. Some of them were smart, though, and they organized the thugs into a business. Assassins for hire, that's what they were. It was the papers that named them Murder Incorporated, when Dewey finally dragged them to trial. Now that was some brave man. The only time in my life I voted for a Republican was when Dewey ran for governor.

“They called it business, but you know, some of those hoods got into it because they liked it, liked hurting people. Them, I would call psychopaths. And I should know.”

I gave her a puzzled look.

“Before I turned into a little old lady with failing body parts, I was a psychologist. Dr. and all. That was later, after the war.” She smiled at my surprise. “Yes, I was. Some of us went to school and worked hard and got out the honest way.”

“And your brother? How did he fit in?”

“Honest job. He was a butcher, a good job in those days, and he was a union man. Those guys. Besides the assassin business, they were in the protection racket, and the unions, too. They'd say ‘Give us a job at the union—good pay, no work—and we'll protect you from those gangsters the bosses hired.' Of course they made the same offer to the bosses. Whoever had the most money got their so-called protection.” She stopped and dabbed at her eyes.

“What happened?”

“He left the house for a union meeting and never showed up. End of story.”

“No! Come on. No one looked for him?”

She nodded. “His friends, around the neighborhood. My pop. And some of his union pals, that same night. After a while word was passed around that they should stop looking. I learned all that much later, after I was all grown up.”

“But I don't understand. Didn't your parents tell you anything? You must have been asking questions. And didn't they go to the police?”

She shook her head. “They sent me away, right after, to my uncle in south Jersey. He had a chicken farm, if you can believe that. I really did not want to go. I didn't understand until years later that they were protecting me. And of course I asked questions! Of course I did, but family life was different then. Grown-ups would say, ‘Stop with the questions or you'll get such a smack!' And they meant it.” She smiled again, sadly. “It's not an accident that I went into psychology, of course.”

“But what happened when you came home?”

“They never mentioned his name. They had taken down his only picture and they never mentioned his name. Believe me, I got the message to keep quiet about it.”

“I don't believe this. I don't mean I doubt you. It's just hard to accept that no one raised bloody hell about it. Pardon the expression.”

“They were afraid. Everyone who knew those guys was afraid.” She paused, considering. “This is how it worked—they ate in a diner and left big tips. Was the owner about to say no? They walked the streets like big shots. They'd ask a kid to watch the car or run an errand and give him generous money for it. Then, if the kid was eager, there would be other jobs.”

“And the law?”

“Well, a lot of the cops were in on it too, so where could you turn for help? And everyone knew not to talk about them. You couldn't be called as a witness if you didn't see or hear or know anything. And if you were called, you'd better swear you didn't see or hear or know anything. Years later, when my parents were both gone—personally, I think they died of heartbreak—believe me, I asked everyone else and they were still afraid.”

“And now?”

“I don't give a good goddamn. What can they do to me now that's worse than the cancer? They're all dead now anyway, and if there is an afterlife—which I doubt—they are most certainly not where my brother is.”

She was quiet so long I thought she had drifted off but then she said, “Lately I feel like he's with me. Strange, isn't it, considering I'm an unbeliever? I feel like he wants me to know what happened, and I am ashamed I waited until now.”

What could I say but yes? I tried to explain that my main responsibility was to my own work but she just hushed me.

“You'll be looking around in all those old records. Maybe you'll see something. Who knows? Maybe you'll run across someone who's an expert and might have answers? Or know where to look? Who knows? His name was Frank Kravitz. Write it down.”

She tapped my arm, her polished nail surprisingly sharp. “Write it down. And come back if you see something.” She smiled, a bitter raw smile. “Pretty soon it won't matter anymore.” Her eyes closed, opened, closed again and this time stayed that way.

An aide with a wheelchair looked in, saying Mrs. Boyle had told her Ms. Kravitz was here. “I'll just take her back to her room. It's time for her pre-dinner meds.”

She didn't need my help and I left, carefully finding my way through the complex of parkways.

Home and dinner. I had the television on, catching up on the news. When I heard the word Brownsville, I took a look. And then I couldn't move away.

A reporter on location, talking into a mike. “In the predawn hours a badly beaten young girl was found in this empty lot. She was spotted this morning by workers passing by on a sanitation truck, and police and EMS were called. She is now at Brookdale Hospital in critical condition and has not regained consciousness.”

I could not tear my eyes from the screen.

“She has been identified as Savanna Lafayette, a resident of Van Dyke houses and an honors senior at elite Brooklyn Technical High School. Sources at her employer, the Stone Avenue branch of Brooklyn Public Library, reportedly told police that local gang members have harassed her recently.”

And they introduced her mother on a film clip.

She spoke carefully, with tears in her eyes, and a wavering voice. “Someone knows the truth. Someone out there saw them, saw something, and knows what happened. Please, please step up and tell the truth.” She looked at the reporter, who pointed, and then she looked right at the camera.

“I quote John 8:32, ‘the truth shall set you free.' It would set all of us free, all of us who cannot have a moment of peace, not knowing what happened. All of us who know my daughter and all of us who have children we want to keep safe. And we are not the only ones who need the truth. All of you who know, really know, that you will not have peace unless you stand up for truth and justice, too. Please.” Then she turned away, weeping, and was surrounded by a comforting crowd.

Ah, damn. I sat there for a few minutes, unable to move. That nice young woman. The girl who was going places. I remembered how Savanna talked about her mother with exasperation and respect. And I reached for the Kleenex.

Only a few years older than my Chris, who was at that moment safely on her bed, doing her homework. Or perhaps texting with her friends in spite of my social media blackout rule on school nights.

At that moment, I didn't care. She could be giving herself multiple piercings or painting her bedroom black, as long as she was safe at home.

In fact she was coming downstairs, looking for dinner. Then she saw my face and I had to tell her, as briefly as I could, while we ate.

She was horrified of course, and wanted to know everything I knew, which was next to nothing.

Her final words on the subject were, “Did they say they talked to her job? But that's just like grownups. They should talk to her friends! If there's something going on in her life, her friends would the ones to know.”

It wasn't until later, when I watched the story again on late news, hoping for a positive update, that I realized what else was nagging me about the broadcast. I knew Zora Lafayette, Savanna's mother.

It was a long time ago. She was older now and her hair was different, neatly trimmed instead of braided into brightly dyed rows. She wore an ordinary grownup pantsuit not gangsta-style fashion. But I knew I had met her. Was it in a class? The first time I was in college, or the second?

Chapter Five

It came back to me slowly. I live in so many different worlds, I could see a face on the street and not always know if it was someone from my childhood, a class, Chris' life, or just a frequently seen face on the street.

But Savanna's mother? A large class on what? Sociology and family, something like that? She stood up and fearlessly challenged a guest speaker on his research about what working mothers need. Was that it? And said she was one herself, a student with a baby, and he should be asking people like her.

Leaving the classroom, I passed her and said, “Good for you. I know. I have a baby at home, too.”

She wasn't impressed by my admiration but said something like, “These men! These expert men? Sometimes they just don't get it. Know what I'm saying?” And as she walked away, I saw on her pack a huge button with a photo on it. It was a smiling toddler, her hair tied in puffs with red ribbon.

I was pretty sure that was it, the memory I was trying to retrieve. Or something like it. Damn. That must have been Savanna.

What now? I didn't really know her, the mother, didn't think my contacting her would be anything but an intrusion. But I also didn't think I could forget any of this. It wasn't just another case of violence in a violent neighborhood. Not anymore. Not to me.

There was one thing I could do. Maybe helpful, maybe not, but better than doing nothing. I could call the number flashed on the screen, the one that said, “if you have information…” and tell them about my encounter with those boys who had also been bothering Savanna. I didn't know if it would be helpful but it was something.

The number was gone from the TV screen, of course. I couldn't scroll back. My ancient TV does not have all the bells and whistles, as Chris has pointed out regularly. The words “stone age” come up on those occasions. It only took me minutes to find it online.

Call now? Or call tomorrow? Get it over with. What did I want to say? I wrote it down to keep focused. I called.

In just a minute, I was connected to a detective, Sergeant Asher. I told her about the incident, stumbling over my words.

“You say it was around three o'clock? At Dumont, just off Mother Gaston?”

“Yes, right around the corner from the library.”

“But you did not see them with Miss Lafayette?”

“No, but I heard them talk about her.”

“Any of their names that you heard?”

“No, but the guard at the library—Mr. Wilson, I think—saw them and he knew them. Like I said.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm double-checking to get the facts right. Did you see any identifying marks on any of them?”

“No, not really. Wait! Wait. The one who grabbed my arm? He had a tattoo.” I closed my eyes. Visualize, I told myself. See it again. Ugh. “It was a snake, I think. Or something crawly. Crawling up his forearm.”

“Ahh.” That was a satisfied sound if I ever heard one.

“Is that helpful?”

“Remains to be seen.” Those were the words, but the tone of voice was lighter. “Last question: could you identify them if you saw them again?”

I had to think about it. Could I see them now, in my mind? “Maybe two of them.”

“Thank you, Ms. Donato. We appreciate your good citizenship.”

“Was it even helpful?”

I thought I heard a smile in her voice. “Could be.”

It turned out that making the call did not get it off my mind. Just the opposite. I had dreams all night, or so it seemed, about scary young men who turned into snakes. Or something like that. Mixed up with a little girl in red ribbons. The details evaporated by the time I was getting out of bed, but the ugly feelings remained.

And there was something else on my mind. Half awake, I went to a bookcase in the hall. Top shelves, overstuffed with old texts and notebooks from college and grad school, never looked at but I couldn't quite throw them away. The college stack. Sociology texts, family life. We did team projects. A folder with a syllabus and a class list. By the time I found it and pulled it out, I was covered with dust and papers were all over the floor, but at least no books had fallen on my head.

I keyed in the e-mail for a woman whose name was Zora Lafayette. It didn't make sense any more than it had earlier, but I couldn't not do it.

We were classmates in sociology of the family at Brooklyn College. I saw you on TV last night. I met Savanna at the library that day and liked her. Can I help in any way at all? I have a teen daughter myself.

How to end it? Too emotional felt like intruding. We were barely acquaintances. Too matter-of-fact felt like ignoring her reality. Finally, I just told the truth:

Sending best wishes.

***

In the morning, I told Chris not to talk to me until I had coffee. She took one look at my face and said, “Uh, fine. I'll get breakfast on the way to school.” I knew that probably meant a doughnut and I didn't even care, that morning.

What was on my calendar for today? Not a day at my job. I knew that much. I hoped it would be a nice, quiet day of hiding in a library, doing my research, reading very old books in silence and taking notes. With many coffee breaks.

That's how it turned out and I was able not to speak to any human being except the librarian for three hours. My brain knew what to select from the research, my hands know how to type it into the laptop, and I didn't have to think very hard.

By the end of the day I would have all I needed to write this chapter and move on. That was my plan.

It was almost lunchtime, and I must have been feeling better, because a new name caught my eye. It not only caught my eye, it registered.

Frank Kravitz. I skimmed through my notes from the visit to the home on the Hudson. Was that Lil's brother, the one who disappeared? Though her story was interesting, I hadn't taken the request very seriously. I could not make it my project; I just had too much else to do. And what were the chances I would find it by accident?

Apparently pretty good. That was my first surprise.

I read the page again. He was only mentioned in passing, but not as a Brownsville hero. He's one of a list of “sometime associates of organized crime figures”. That was my second surprise.

I flipped to the index. Was he mentioned anywhere else? No. I keyed his name into my computer screen? No. Dummy, I thought to myself. There I was sitting in the Brooklyn collection of the Brooklyn Public library system. And I did know the old
Brooklyn Eagle
newspaper was online. So, duh, as Chris would have said to me.

There it was, just a face in the crowd in a handful of photos with captions. One was a meat cutters union meeting where he spoke; another, Frank in the background, behind some very questionable characters. And just one final photo, with the boxer Bernie Rosenblatt, celebrating.

Who the heck was Frank Kravitz? Clearly he was not an important public figure. But was he the hero Lillian remembered? Certainly didn't look like it now. Where could I look further?

Courthouse archives? Maybe, if he was in fact hanging around with some of these notorious names. And then I had to think about where I'd have to go, and who I'd have to apply to, to get a look at them. I could not accept that he had entirely vanished. I could plow through a dozen other books, looking for traces.

Or I could take a little ride up to the other end of New York and speak with Lillian Kravitz again. My early morning, bad-dreams-induced lethargy was gone. I was ready for action.

I made copies of the photos I had found. They were not very good. Better, I bookmarked the
Brooklyn Eagle
site. I would show her those on my laptop.

I kept the radio on for the whole drive, wondering if I might hear anything more about Savanna, but no. I listened so hard I missed my exit and had to navigate through some back streets to find my way.

A desk attendant called her and she said she'd come down soon. It wasn't soon. When she finally got there, holding tight to her walker, she looked different. Makeup could not conceal the pallor of her skin, and the deeper shadows around her eyes. Today her track suit was canary yellow.

“I didn't expect you, my dear.” A shadow seemed to cross those blue eyes. “Did we have a date?”

“Oh, no. I am sorry. I found some things, and had time…it was an impulse…” I felt like an idiot. “I should have called.”

“No matter.” She patted my hand. “I am a little unwell, fatigued, today and had no plans. Come. We will have lunch. I can order an extra plate for you.”

So that is how I found myself choosing between vegetarian lasagna and tomato soup plus grilled cheese sandwich, in a room full of people old enough to be my grandparents. Even my great-grandparents.

She hesitated, looking around, until a worker came to say, “Would you like a private table? Is this one of your grandchildren?”

“Oh, no, she's…she's a friend. Yes, a private table. We want to talk. I guess.

“We have dairy at lunch, and meat at dinner,” she explained to me. “Not that I care. I left all those kosher rules behind in my wild days.” She sighed. “And we never have shrimp here. Or lobster. I miss it.”

Her thoughts seemed elsewhere, perhaps on seafood, until I took out my pictures.

“Is this your brother?”

“That is very blurry. I have my magnifying glass in my bag.” She handed it to me. “Here, you look for it.”

When found, she stared for a while, as I pulled up the photos on the laptop. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Yes, it's Frank. My darling brother.”

I showed her the
Eagle
photo. “Oh, yes, that's him. But who is he with? I can't read this.”

I enlarged it and she read the caption out loud. “Alleged gangsters? Is that what it says? Then it can't be him. He never associated with that type of person.” She stared at me. “Never heard of them in my life.”

Lunch came just then, giving me a break to think about what I was going to do. She did certainly seem very tired, or ill. She certainly wasn't the outspoken firecracker of my earlier visit.

She concentrated on her food, occasionally stopping to say, “Now this is very good,” and “I hope you are enjoying your meal. There might be ice cream for dessert, you know.”

Lunch seemed to perk her up. She turned to me and said clearly, “Now what can I do for you, my dear? Let's move to the lounge where we can talk.”

We moved, very slowly, and finally were settled on a sofa. “You asked me to keep my eyes open for any information about your brother?”

“Yes, of course I did. And did you find anything?”

I had showed her my findings not half an hour ago. I showed them again. “I don't know if you see the problem here.” And I didn't know quite how to say it, either. I could not bring myself to say, Based on what is here, nothing you told me is true. “Do you recognize any of these names now?”

She looked at them again. A light seemed to go on. “Yes, that's my dear brother. Of course it is. And these men?” She stopped, thought. “They are crooks, aren't they? Gangsters?” She shook her head. “Impossible. This is impossible. They were not his kind of friend at all. I told you. He was a hero. Dig harder and you'll find out. I know you will.”

I started to say something, but she held her hand up and went right on.

“He was a wonderful brother. He helped me with my homework and brought me little treats and even, sometimes, played tag in the street with me and my friends. He took me to the park. Whatever parenting I got, whatever affection, came from him. So don't tell me…don't tell me…. just find out what happened to him. That's all.”

“What if I find things you don't want to know?” It was a hard question to ask when she looked so sad, yet hopeful, like a small child. “Should I just keep quiet about them?”

She turned to me with a fierce expression, much more like the Lillian I had first met. “What a shocking thing for a scholar to ask! We academics look the facts in the eye. I can take it.” She smiled. “Besides, I know he was a hero and you will, too. So there!”

So there, indeed. That sounded a lot like marching orders to me.

A soft-voiced woman in a uniform came up to us. “Why, Ms. Kravitz, what are you doing here? It's time for your meds. Would you like ice cream to get them down?”

“Ah, my keeper is here.” To her, Lil said, “Is there vanilla-fudge?”

“You know there is.”

“Yes, if there's vanilla-fudge I will come.” She winked at me. “Told you there might be ice cream. Come again if you can. I like having company.”

Behind her back, the nurse whispered to me, “It's good for her. She hasn't been at all well.”

Later that night, there was a phone call. A frail, sad voice with no name. She said, “I was just a little girl. What did I know about his life outside the house? Maybe I turned him into a hero myself.”