Measure of a Man (13 page)
N
ew York 1947. The city that year was magical.
The streets hummed with people and possibility. I arrived eleven days before the start of the legendary 1947 all–New York World Series. The Yankees’ Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, and Phil Rizzuto were set to take on Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, and Duke Snider of the Brooklyn Dodgers. It was Yankee Stadium in the Bronx versus Ebbets Field in Brooklyn. I knew nothing of baseball. What was unmistakable, however, was that the city was in full celebration.
I was, too. My aspirations were at an all-time high. I was young, strong, and eager. I had already fallen in love with New York during those first few days staying with Aunt Elka. Even
though I was headed to Baltimore, something in me told me I’d find my way home to New York.
My cousin Mark Fendrich showed me the town and did his best to explain America to me. Mark was successful and handsome, with a face that reminded me of my mother’s. He told me I had another maternal aunt, named Gussie, who also lived in Baltimore. Mark said the plans that had me moving to Baltimore to live with Uncle Irving had changed.
“You’ll still be in Baltimore, but you’ll be living with your first cousin, Frances Berman, and her husband, Moe,” Mark explained. “Great people, very successful. Moe made his money in real estate and bail bonds. Frances is a milliner—makes the most gorgeous hats you’ve ever seen. They have a big, beautiful three-story home with plenty of extra room for you. They have three daughters, Barbara, Natalie, and Rikki. You’ll love them. They can’t wait to meet you. Cousin Frances is going to pick you up and drive you to her and Moe’s home in Baltimore.”
I hated to burden family, but I was grateful to have people that cared so much for me.
The Bermans’ home on Callaway Avenue was just as promised. It was a huge white house with green shutters and six bedrooms. When Frances and I pulled up, the whole family came out to hug and greet me. Moe spoke Yiddish. The others spoke English. I walked into their immaculate home, and within minutes Frances and the three girls were sliding plates of delicious home-cooked treats in front of me.
The Bermans treated me like a king. It was like living in a luxury hotel, complete with maids and fine furniture. Every meal was a formal dining experience. The Bermans took me all around
Baltimore and made several introductions to people with whom I had no way of communicating. It was sweet. And awkward. The youngest child, Rikki, was about ten years younger than I, and I became the brother she had always wanted. I did my best not to disappoint her. We’d play little games while I tried to entertain her through silly facial expressions and hand gestures. Unless Moe was around to translate, though, we had no clear way to communicate.
After my first few nights in the house, Frances said the family wanted to buy me a nice suit for job interviews. She took me to the store and bought my first GGG suit. Named after the three Goldman brothers—William P., Mannie, and Morris—GGG was the premier manufacturer of hand-tailored men’s suits in New York. I had already heard of GGG because my friend Kalvin worked there in the factory. Frances said a GGG suit was the best money could buy. I felt bad the family spent so much money on me. Until, that is, I put the suit on. It draped my body beautifully. I looked smart and sharp. If I couldn’t speak English, at least the suit would speak for me.
“You look like an American,” Frances said. “You’ve got a great American suit. Now all you need is a great American job. I think I know just the man and place.”
Frances said Moe had spoken to a Mr. Ben Miller about hiring me to work for his furniture upholstery business. Best of all, Mr. Miller spoke Yiddish. Two days later, Mr. Miller pulled up to the Bermans’ home in a big fancy Cadillac. He stepped out of the car wearing a dapper suit and walked slowly to the door with the help of a cane. That a rich and important man who had to walk with a cane took the time to drive himself to meet a nineteen-year-old
refugee told me all I needed to know about Mr. Miller’s character. When he offered me a job nailing upholstery, I took it.
That night I called Kalvin and shared the good news. He congratulated me on my new position but lobbied me to leave Baltimore and move to New York to work with him at GGG. He said we could be roommates and split the rent. I told him I would think about it but I wanted first to try my hand at the upholstery business. Mr. Miller had been so generous and kind. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful or rude.
For the next three weeks, I worked in Mr. Miller’s big upholstery factory wrapping and nailing fabric. I worked hard and did well. Mr. Miller liked my attention to detail. He said I worked harder than any employee he had ever hired. His compliments strengthened my confidence.
After work and dinner, Frances, Moe, and I would sit around the dining table and chat. I started to notice the delicate but unmistakable manner in which people who knew I was a survivor tried to steer the conversation toward the Shoah to see if I was willing to discuss my experiences. I understood their curiosity, but I found it hard to talk about what we went through. It wasn’t just the emotional pain of dredging up all the death and darkness that made me reticent. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. If I had grown up in America and someone told me the story, I’m not sure I would have believed it myself. Something that bleak, that grim seems impossible to survive. For it to have happened in a “civilized” society was inconceivable to most Americans.
Perhaps for that reason, I contemplated changing my name from Maximilian Grünfeld to something more American. One
evening after dinner I asked Moe what he thought about the idea. “Yes, Maximilian Grünfeld might be tricky for some people to spell. It also sounds very ethnic,” he said. “But Max Grünfeld isn’t all that bad.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t sound American. I want a good, strong American name,” I said.
Frances walked in from tidying up the kitchen and joined us at the dining table. She asked Moe to interpret and explain what we were discussing. “I love your name, Maxi. Why would you want to change it?” she asked.
“I’m an American now,” I said. “I want a name that shows it.”
I couldn’t even speak English fluently and yet somehow I was convinced an all-American name change was in order. I had no way of knowing that our conversation would determine the branding of my future fashion business.
“Well,” said Frances, “what kind of name are you thinking about?”
“Something similar to my real name, but different,” I said.
“Similar but different,” she said, her eyes wandering up to the ceiling. “Hmmm. . . .”
“I want a name people will respect,” I said.
Moe and Frances tossed out different names. Finally Frances blurted out, “What about Martin? Not Martin Grünfeld—Martin Greenfield?”
“I love that!” I said, smacking the table with my hand. “Moe, what do you think? Martin Greenfield?”
“Sounds good to me,” he said. “Why not?”
Just like that, I became Martin Greenfield. That was the great thing about starting over in America—you got a fresh start.
Whatever you told people, you became. For example, when Kalvin got to America, he decided to make himself two years older. Even though Kalvin was actually younger than I, on paper he was older. He never tired of teasing me about that. “Listen,
young
man . . . ,” he would joke in an authoritative tone.
Maybe my business would have grown faster with an unusual brand name like Maximilian—who knows? Then again, Martin Greenfield possessed a certain dignity and heft. Better still, it was easy to say and spell. It worked.
As the weeks went by, my inability to communicate with the Berman girls and others frustrated me. As a kid in Pavlovo, I dreamed that one day I would become a doctor and help save people’s lives. But here I was, nineteen years old, and I couldn’t so much as write or understand a simple English sentence. I had no way of expressing myself to others, sharing my thoughts and feelings with them. It was uncomfortable, embarrassing. Every few days or so, when I spoke to Kalvin on the phone, I realized how fast and fluid our conversations were by contrast. And of course Kalvin wasn’t making things any easier on me. “You should see the girls here in Brooklyn. If you were here, we’d be going out every night and setting the city on fire,” he said. “You can take a train from Baltimore to Brooklyn and be here tonight. I’ve already talked to my supervisor. You have a GGG job waiting for you. You’re great with your hands. Besides, you don’t need any skills to start as a floor boy.”
“I like the job I have right now just fine,” I said. “It’s the language that’s the problem. I know I can learn English very fast. I know Czech, Hungarian, German, and Yiddish. I’m a quick learner and good with languages. I just have to make the time to take the English classes and study hard. The problem is I can’t attend classes when I’m working.”
“That’s what I’m telling you! I took the classes here. You can too. They even have night classes so you can work in the day and learn English at night,” he said.
“They do? At nighttime?” I asked.
“Yes!” he said.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You always say that, Max.”
“It’s Martin now! Martin Greenfield!”
“Okay, Martin Greenfield. Talk to you later.”
If I was going to move to New York, I had to do it my way. I refused to show disrespect or ingratitude to the Bermans or Mr. Miller, so I needed to talk to them before making any decisions. The next day at work I spoke to Mr. Miller.
“Sir, I’ve been thinking about my job,” I said. “You have been so good and kind to me. I am extremely grateful to you and always will be. But you see, I have this friend, he lives in Brooklyn now, and he said he can get me a job at GGG as a floor boy. He says New York is the place for a young man to be and that we can share an apartment together.”
“I see,” said Mr. Miller, tapping his pen on his desk. “Well, it sounds like an exciting opportunity. What’s the problem?”
“Well, sir, I just don’t want to hurt the Bermans. They, like you, have been so good to me. They opened their home when I first arrived, even though they had never met me. I just don’t. . . .”
“You don’t want to hurt their feelings,” he said.
“Exactly,” I said. “It’s just very hard for me to communicate with the kids. I’m not comfortable unless I do it on my own, without having to rely on someone to translate. I know I will learn English rapidly. They even have classes in Brooklyn where I can
learn at night so I can work in the day. I just don’t know how to tell the Bermans. I don’t want them to think I’m ungrateful or disrespectful.”
“Of course I’ll help you,” said Mr. Miller. “I will come to the house and be your interpreter for you. When they see that I’m there to support you, they will understand.”
Mr. Miller came to the Bermans’ home, just as he promised.
“Martin has asked me to come here to translate some very important things he wants to say to you,” Mr. Miller said.
I explained that I loved each of them very, very much, that my heart was full of gratitude for how they had opened their home to me. I expressed how “thank you” could not begin to capture the depth of my appreciation for all they had done for me. However, I needed to learn the language, I explained. I didn’t want to be a burden on them and had decided to get a train ticket to Brooklyn. I would work at GGG and live with my boyhood friend Kalvin.
“By Hanukkah,” I said, “I will be speaking to you in English. You watch and see!”
Having Mr. Miller there to translate made all the difference. The Bermans were a loving lot. They understood and supported my decision. They said if ever I wanted to return to Baltimore, their home was my home.
The next week I took the train to Brooklyn.
