Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (11 page)

Rachel was having other thoughts, however. As the doctor examined her ankle, Rachel took notice of the woman’s wavy hair and the gold wedding band on her left hand. A Jewish woman, married, with no head covering, she thought. And a doctor too. Rachel was intrigued.

Doctor Schiffman also had an air of confidence about her, in the way she moved, the way she examined Rachel’s leg. Her touch was both soft and strong at once. And so pretty, Rachel thought, such delicate hazel eyes, and slight freckles beneath the makeup on her nose and cheeks.

“I’m afraid this ankle might be broken,” the doctor said, looking at Hannah. Rachel had been so lost in her thoughts, she’d hardly felt the doctor manipulating her leg. “We need to take her down the hall to Radiology for an X-ray to be sure. Who is your pediatrician?” she asked Rachel.

“Doctor Bronstein,” Hannah interjected.

Schiffman nodded.

“You know him?” Rachel asked.

“I most certainly do,” Schiffman replied with a smile. “He’s famous around here. He takes care of lots of the children in the neighborhood.”

“He’s on staff at this hospital,” Hannah said in a tone that indicated she wished he were there in the room with them at that moment.

“I know,” Schiffman replied, not taking Hannah’s discomfort personally. Most Hasidic patients preferred to be treated by their own, and Bronstein was a Lubavitcher. “If you like, I’ll see if he’s in the hospital.”

“No, its okay, that won’t be necessary,” Hannah responded, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

“Good,” said Schiffman, “but if you change your mind, let me know.” She turned to Rachel and added, “And you, young lady, let’s get you to X-ray.”

“It really hurts,” Rachel said as Schiffman slid open the curtain to summon an orderly.

“Don’t worry, we’re going to give you something for the pain right away,” Schiffman responded. She smiled again at Rachel and Hannah. “I’ll see you two as soon as the X-rays are developed,” she added as she slipped away to attend to another patient.

A moment later, two orderlies came in and transferred Rachel onto a gurney. “We’ll have her back in a few minutes,” one of the orderlies said to Hannah.

As they wheeled Rachel out, Hannah was reminded that with all the tumult she’d forgotten to call Isaac. Rachel was already halfway down the hall when Hannah waved to her and rushed out to a phone in the waiting room where Esther and her mother were still sitting.

Rachel watched the ceiling move as the orderlies pushed the gurney toward the X-ray room. She was no longer afraid, and despite her pain, even managed a slight smile. Doctor Marcia Schiffman had entered her life, and in that, she had finally found her answer, her way out: Rachel Weissman was going to become a doctor.

But that wasn’t all.

The trouble really began a few years later, one balmy June afternoon in 1963. Rachel had just turned twelve; Esther’s birthday was a month away. They were on their way home together, as usual, from the Beth Sarah School for Girls where they were inculcated, day after day, with the do’s and don’ts of maidenly Hasidic life.

“Let’s not go straight home, today,” Esther suggested. “I have something I want to show you.”

Rachel looked at her. She knew Esther well enough to guess when the girl was up to no good. “And what might that be?”

“Why tell you and spoil the surprise? Trust me, my dearest, and all will meet with your complete satisfaction. I guarantee it.” Esther always tried to make herself sound dramatic.

Rachel figured it had something to do with boys; these days, that was the only thing Esther ever thought or talked about. “I just know you’re taking me someplace we ought not be going, Esther Mandlebaum, down the path of temptation I would bet.”

Esther twirled herself around as if she were dancing. “How clever, my dear, how clever indeed. But ‘clever’ is thy middle name, is it not?”

“Indeed.”

“Then, let us not waste another moment,
the
day
is
short,
and
there
is
much
work
to
do
,” Esther said, citing a well known Talmudic dictum.

Rachel chuckled at the blasphemy. “So it is,” she said. She loved to banter with Esther; she loved Esther’s
joie
de
vivre
. And though she was more reserved than Esther, she always loved the adventure.

They walked up Carroll Street to the corner of Rochester Avenue, and then across Rochester to the entrance to Lincoln Terrace Park. “So what do you think?” Esther asked as they stopped in front of the park.

“About what?”

“This,” Esther exclaimed, pointing to the basketball courts about a hundred feet away. Rachel could see the courts, and could hear the tumult of the games, but didn’t understand what Esther was so excited about. “Those are basketball courts, Esther,” she observed.

“Ah, yes, but not just any basketball courts. Come, my dearest, let me show you.”

They walked toward the courts, and Esther inhaled deeply through her nose. “Such fresh air.”

Rachel smiled.

They approached the tall wired fence surrounding the basketball courts when Rachel finally realized what the hullabaloo was about. Before her was a group of young men, mostly white, all in shorts, and some shirtless. They were running, jumping, pushing, and shoving. Strutting their masculinity.

“Take a look at that one,” Esther said, pointing to a well-built, dark haired young man of unquestionably Italian stock.

“Quite appealing,” Rachel confirmed. She stood and observed the young man for a moment, and found that she enjoyed what she saw. She enjoyed watching him sweat, watching him bump up against his opponents, watching his muscles tighten and his hair fly as he jumped through the air. She felt a tinge of guilt over her feelings, but that didn’t stop her from looking, or from liking it. She was forced to admit that Esther Mandlebaum had most definitely discovered something worthwhile.

For her and Esther, it was most unusual to find boys like this. The boys they knew were scholarly and, even on the hottest days of the year, wore several layers of clothing. It was forbidden for a Hasidic young man to be out on the street without his black hat and jacket. Beneath the jacket, a shirt was always buttoned fully except for maybe the very top; beneath the shirt were the
tzitzis
, a garment with fringes on the corners to remind one of the Torah’s commandments; and beneath the
tzitzis
was always an undershirt to keep the sacred garment from touching the body. Hasidic boys were well shielded, too well, Rachel now thought.

She became mesmerized by the sight. This one young man was surely outstanding, but several of his friends weren’t bad either. She was taken, also, by another shirtless young man on the opposite team, a tall, freckled red-head, with green eyes and a sweet face. Glistening from perspiration, his legs and arms looked powerful and muscular, so much so that she couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to be next to him, to touch him. Her mind was out of control.

She assured herself that this was merely innocent fun, fantasy. It wasn’t real; it could never be real. Not with a Gentile, not even with a non-religious Jew. She loved her parents and her religion, and though she was to become a doctor—something she hadn’t yet shared with her parents—she was still planning to marry a scholar and lead as much of a Hasidic life as a female doctor could. She imagined her husband as having all the outward appearances to satisfy her parents, and all the inner passions to satisfy her. She believed that such a man existed, constantly telling herself,
If
I
exist,
so
does
he
. Of course, none of the Hasidic boys she’d met ever seemed to measure up. They were robots, espousing the usual thoughts and perceptions, not daring to deviate an inch. But somewhere, she knew, she would find her
basherte
, her intended. As for now, that Adonis on the basketball court would do just fine.

Rachel and Esther were quiet, lost within themselves. The boys on the court were too engrossed in the game to even notice the ogling lasses in their ankle length skirts and long-sleeved blouses. It was apparently an Italian versus Irish wrangle, the sort of contest that was taken most seriously in these parts.

“How did you find this?” Rachel asked, disturbing the silence.

“By accident, really. It was about a month ago. I had a fight with my sister, Shira, because she refused to let me borrow one of her dresses for
Shabbos
. You know how she can be about those things.”

Rachel nodded in agreement. Esther had often complained to her about Shira’s stinginess.

“Anyway, I stormed out of the house, and it was good that I did. I swear, I was ready to hit the
fabissina
.”

Rachel chuckled at Esther’s reference to her sister as a “bitch.” Strangely, she regarded her friend’s penchant for vulgarity as yet another sign of emancipation.

“It was a beautiful day,” Esther continued, “not as hot as today, but just as sunny. So I decided to walk off my anger and, somehow, God brought me to this spot. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“And how many times have you been here since?”

“Ah, the third degree. Okay, I’m sorry. I suppose you have a right to be pissed that I waited so long to tell you, but…”

“It’s all right,” Rachel responded, knowing quite well why Esther delayed sharing her secret. They both knew that Rachel was more attractive—by far—and it was understandable that Esther had felt threatened.

“It’s too bad we can’t stay here all afternoon,” Esther said, changing the subject.

“I’ll second that!”

“It is getting late. We have to be home soon, or explanations will be required.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Rachel responded, wondering what she could possibly dream up to explain her tardiness. But that was just her guilt talking, for if she got home soon, it wouldn’t be necessary to explain anything. Rachel often came home a little late, and Hannah never inquired, for she usually assumed that her daughter was at Esther’s house. At this moment, Rachel appreciated her mother’s assumptions. It was one thing to keep secrets, another to lie.

As they turned to leave, Rachel noticed a group of young black men playing in their own game on a far court. She stopped for a second to watch, and then turned away. “I wonder why they don’t play together,” she asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Just thank God they’re not killing each other. My father says that there are a lot more
shvartzes
in the neighborhood these days, but not to worry, the Italians and the Irish are going to force them out.”

“You think that’s the right thing to do?”

“I don’t know. I guess so. I mean, they don’t belong here.”

“I’m sure some people say that about us, too.”

“Maybe. But I don’t really care all that much what happens here. I’m not going to live here forever, you know. Hollywood awaits me.”

“Indeed it does,” Rachel replied as she took her best friend by the hand.

CHAPTER 10
 

One crisp, sunny Saturday afternoon in the second week of November, 1963, Alfred and Evelyn Sims were riding in their Lincoln on the Van Wyck Expressway, traveling to Manhattan to purchase a mink coat for Evelyn from one of Alfred’s father’s old business associates. Alfred occasionally gave his wife extravagant gifts, hoping they might pacify her. It rarely worked.

The traffic in their direction was light and, strangely, the other side of the Expressway was barren, not a car for miles.

“Why do you think that is?” Evelyn asked as she pointed to the empty road.

“I don’t know,” Alfred answered. “Could be a major accident up ahead.”

They continued driving, still curious, for another minute or so, until they saw a long motorcade led by police cars and motorcycles. Sirens, flashing lights, and limousines passed by on the opposite side of the highway, and in the middle of the entourage was an open car carrying President John F. Kennedy, his wife Jacquelyn, Attorney General Robert Kennedy, and another lady Evelyn recognized from her society magazines as Mrs. Peter Lawford.

Evelyn was awestruck to have witnessed such a thing out of the blue. Alfred then recalled that he’d heard on the news that the President had been in town overnight for some special dinner, and surmised that the group was now on its way to Idlewild Airport for their return to Washington. He mentioned this to Evelyn as he tried to contain his own excitement at seeing the President, for Alfred was no longer a Democrat from Brooklyn. Now that he was a true Republican from Nassau County, it would be unbecoming to be thrilled by the sight of a few Kennedys and a Lawford.

“I can’t believe they let him ride around in an open car like that,” Alfred said, astonished. “Somebody could shoot him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she reacted. “Everyone loves Kennedy.”

“Yea, you think so, huh.” Arrogance. “A lot of people hate him!”

She looked at him with disdain. She couldn’t stand it when he was cocky, which was just about all the time. But she tried to focus on the mink coat, and the fact that she’d just seen one of the most handsome, dashing men she’d ever laid eyes on, in person: John F. Kennedy.

Less than two weeks later, on November 22, Kennedy was assassinated while riding down a Dallas street in an open car. Evelyn was devastated. She wept for several days. Not only for the President, his family and the country, but for herself, her dreams and her hopes, for all the things that were obliterated by the life she led and the man with whom she led it. It was as if she blamed Alfred for the assassination; after all, hadn’t he predicted it?

Yes, she could blame Alfred for this, and all the other ills of her existence. And in doing so, she would never really have to examine herself, or any of the things she’d done to contribute to the very circumstances she so despised.