Measure of a Man (15 page)

He was genuinely and deeply interested in us and the hell I endured. That a man of his power and prominence would take time
out of his schedule to treat two poor refugee boys to lunch astounded me.

“I want to stay in touch with you boys if that’s okay,” he said.

“That would be wonderful, sir,” said Kalvin.

“I would like that very much, sir,” I said.

“Here now, write down your mailing address so I have your information,” he said.

I thought for sure he was just being polite. I never expected he would write. But he did. More than once.

A year later, Alben William Barkley became the thirty-fifth vice president of the United States.

Spring in Brooklyn. Baseball season finally rolled around, and I couldn’t wait to see my first game. Tickets in the nosebleed seats were a quarter, and I made my first trip to Ebbets Field by myself. The crowd, the cheering, the spectacle—I was hooked. The players spit, spun, swung. I had no idea which team won or lost. But being in the stadium, shoulder to shoulder with all the citizens, made me feel like a true American. I felt like I belonged.

After English class, I told my teacher about my first baseball game. I loved the experience, I told her, but was more confused about the rules of the game than before I went. “If I buy your ticket to the game, will you go with me and explain the rules?” I asked shyly. She agreed, and off we went.

Ebbets Field proved to be the ultimate American classroom. My teacher turned the baseball diamond into a chalkboard. She made me pronounce every position, every rule. She taught me about runs, innings, and strikes. She made me read the signs and billboards. She quizzed me to make sure I understood the
rules. When I’d get an answer wrong, she’d giggle and gently correct me.

Around the eighth inning, I looked out across the lush green field and up into the clear blue sky. A soft breeze blew against my face. I was struck by the improbability of the moment. My life was a miracle. The crack of a baseball bat had replaced the smack and sting of a flogging stick. I had friends and family. I had a green card. I had a job and a chance. I had Jackie Robinson. A rush of gratitude overcame me—a feeling that my life had a meaning and purpose that I couldn’t fathom, that by some astonishing act of divine benevolence I’d been one of the fortunate few who were spared the flames.

Back then, people called New York the Wonder City. It was. But that was only half right. America, my beloved new home, was the Wonder Country. I couldn’t get enough. Within a couple of months, my teacher had given me the gift of English. Language was a currency I would not squander.

Money was tight. I decided to free up my food budget by taking a second job at night pressing clothes. It paid no money, but I was remunerated with a daily meal, and the invaluable knowledge I gained more than compensated for the lack of financial reward. Working as a presser brought me closer to clothes and was my introduction to fabrics. The quality of a suit—how it stands up against the needle, how it drapes, how it moves, how it withstands stains and the elements—begins with the fabric.

My eyes and fingers learned to distinguish quality fabrics from cheaper textiles. Without looking at the brand label, I’d examine
a jacket’s fabric—thumb the weave, inspect the buttonholes (buttonholes on quality suits are sewn by hand, not machine), and run my fingers down and across the lining. I’d guess whether the jacket in my hands was made by a well-known designer or was a cheap knockoff before opening the suit and reading the tag. By the end of two weeks, I never guessed wrong.

Yet as valuable as my short stint as a presser was, no one was more important in my education than the owner of GGG, Mr. William P. Goldman. One of five brothers and the mainstay of the business since he founded it at the age of thirty, Mr. Goldman taught me everything I know about the hand-tailored menswear business.

Mr. Goldman took an instant liking to me. To increase my efficiency, I’d had a carpenter build a large box in which I organized all my spools and materials at my station. Mr. Goldman and Adolph Rosenberg had been surveying stations, when my box caught Mr. Goldman’s eye. “What is that?” he asked.

“Open it and show him,” said Rosenberg.

Inside, all my spools, needles, tailor’s tape, and other supplies were organized and at the ready. “I did it this way to avoid wasting time going back and forth to get materials,” I explained.

“Brilliant,” said Mr. Goldman. “Absolutely perfect.” He loved anything that increased efficiency and reduced costs or waste. From that moment on, I was a standout in his mind. He always called me “Martino.” One day I asked him why. He said, “Many of the best tailors are Italian. So I call you Martino because I think one day you’re going to outshine even the Italians.” When he was alive, I never called Mr. Goldman by his first name. I still don’t. I respect him too much.

A tall, distinguished, grandfatherly looking man with a soft face, thin lips, and piercing eyes, Mr. Goldman always wore a GGG suit when circulating on the factory floor. After his rounds, he’d throw on his tailor’s apron and head straight to the cutting room. He loved cutting because his father, who was also a tailor, had taught him the art. On Thursdays Mr. Goldman worked out of the company office on Fourteenth Street in Manhattan.

Mr. Goldman was from the old school. He treated his workers with respect, and his handshake meant something. At lunchtime he would handpick a half-dozen workers to eat with him. There was only one rule for these luncheons: you couldn’t talk about work, only your family, hobbies, interests, or life. Mr. Goldman wanted to understand people, listen to them, validate their issues, and address their concerns. When a worker needed something, he tried to help him out. When an employee had a request, he instructed his managers to do their best to accommodate it.

After working at GGG a while, I’d saved up a few hundred bucks and decided to buy a jalopy and fix it up myself. One of the first things I’d noticed about Americans was their love affair with the automobile, and it had become my goal to own my own car. I couldn’t afford a new car, or even a used one. I could, however, afford a broken-down 1937 Pontiac with a busted engine. So I bought it—$225 for the car and another $25 to tow it off the lot. Given my experience as an auto mechanic, I knew that, with time, I could rebuild the car’s engine. The trouble was I had nowhere to park the thing. When Adolph Rosenberg heard about my dilemma, he said I could park the car behind the factory for free. Better still, he gave me permission to work on the car after hours. After several
months, I successfully rebuilt the engine. I was among the first refugees to own a car.

The second “G” in GGG was Morris Goldman, the head of sales. It was a great job for him because he liked to take risks and go for the big payoff. That desire to beat the odds and score big fueled his passion for horse racing. In fact, Morris took me to my first horse race. He taught me how to bet and how to pick the best horses.

Mannie Goldman was the third “G.” Someone once said that Mannie was the kind of man who wakes up in the morning wondering what he can do for someone. An elegant man with powerful connections to presidents, celebrities, and business barons, he traveled frequently and was in charge of fashion trends. When he wasn’t globetrotting to gather new swatches and styles, Mannie came by the factory every afternoon around four o’clock to make sure operations ran smoothly.

The younger Goldman brother, Abe, came to work at GGG later. The most eccentric boss I ever had, Abe was mysophobic. His fear of germs was so severe that during GGG parties he stood near the bar to drink Scotch so he could be near alcohol to cleanse his hands. When we sewed the buttonholes on his suits, Abe made us douse the silk in alcohol so that the thread where his hands would touch when buttoning his jacket wouldn’t be tainted. Ironically, Abe died from infection.

The Goldman brothers were a philanthropic clan, establishing the William P. Goldman & Brothers Foundation, which exists to this day. Mr. Goldman’s generosity came in many different forms. After six months at GGG, I’d already worked my way up from floor boy to fitter to blind stitcher. One day Mr. Goldman walked
over to my station to inspect my stitching. He held up a piece of my work and ran his fingers along my stitch line. “Quality work, Martino. Quality work,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” I replied.

“Do you enjoy working here?”

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

“So you want to be a tailor for life?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” I answered. “When I was growing up I always thought I wanted to be a doctor. But I heard here in America it takes a long time and a lot of money to be a doctor.”

“Do you know how long that will take? You’ll be sixty years old before you become a doctor. I can give you the same money and promote you to an assistant supervisor. You’d then be an executive. I’ll even put you on the profit-sharing plan and waive the five-year rule. Martino, I will make you a
suit
doctor!”

“A
suit
doctor!” I chuckled. “Wow, thank you, sir. That’s very generous of you. I accept!”

“Happy to do it,” he said. Mr. Goldman put his hand on my shoulder and stared intently at me. “Martino, have I ever told you the secret to success in this business?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I said.

“Would you like me to?”

“Very much.”

“Success in this business is about producing quality with intrinsic value.” I nodded but didn’t know what “intrinsic” meant. “What that means, Martino, is that a man will pay more for a GGG suit because he knows we use superior materials and production than our cheaper competitors,” he explained.

“I see,” I said.

“So even though we cost much more, they pay it, because they know our suits are the best in the industry and therefore last much, much longer,” he said.

Produce quality with intrinsic value
.

Mr. Goldman’s words became my motto. Quality is the greatest bargain.

When Kalvin and I weren’t working, we were fumbling our way through courtship and romance. Our GGG suits made us the best-dressed refugees in all of Brooklyn. But we had yet to master the art of approaching a young woman properly, face-to-face, wooing her with charm and wit.

Young women lived in our two-story rental house: two plump sisters who shared a bedroom and a striking model who hogged the community bathroom in the mornings, leaving Kalvin and me to vie for the shower to get ready for work. To avoid waiting in line during her hour-long beauty ritual, we were forced to wake up thirty minutes early.

One morning while getting ready for work, I walked to our window and looked out. My eyes slowly scanned the street before floating to the windows of the building directly across from ours. There, framed in an open window, stood a girl with silky blond hair and a sweet smile. I stood and watched as she talked to someone inside her house. The girl laughed and gestured frequently with her hands. Her vibrant energy captivated me. All of a sudden she turned toward the window and locked her eyes on mine, jolting me out of my stare. I quickly raised my hands and pretended to be closing the window. Yet even as I lowered the glass pane, I gazed
at her. She didn’t look away. In fact, she waved. I smiled wide and waved back.