Measure of a Man (16 page)
For a week I made it a point to look for her on the street outside our house when walking to and from my jobs. Finally, I saw her entering her home.
“Hi there. I’m Martin,” I said, extending my hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Helen. Helen Vitalis. How long have you lived here?” she asked. I didn’t know if she meant the rental house or America.
“Oh, well, I’ve been roommates with my friend Kalvin for the last several months,” I said. “We work together at GGG. We’re tailors.”
“Wow,” she said, “that’s great.”
A dating relationship soon started.
Helen’s father, who liked me from the beginning, was an announcer on the Greek radio station. Her mother was an attractive Ukrainian. On weekends Mr. Vitalis drove Helen and me in his big Ford to the beach, to dinner, or anywhere else we wanted to go.
Helen’s older sister, Maria, was in her twenties and a semiprofessional singer. One night Helen invited me to go with her to Manhattan to hear Maria perform on the radio program
Your Hit Parade
. “I think you’ll enjoy it,” said Helen. “They hand out free packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes.” I smoked Chesterfields but didn’t have the heart to burst her bubble. Besides, free cigarettes were free cigarettes.
We arrived at the venue and, sure enough, attendants handed out free packs of Lucky Strikes. I grabbed several packs and stuffed them in my jacket pockets. As I’d learned train hopping in my
black-market trading days, a committed smoker would trade items of value for a pack of his favorite smokes.
“This is so exciting to get to see your sister sing,” I said. Maria walked on stage and took her place alongside the other two backup singers. She sang with confidence and poise. After the performance, Helen and I waited for Maria to come out and greet us. We congratulated her on her performance.
“Some of the singers and I are going to a restaurant a block away to blow off some steam. Would you like to join us?” she asked.
I didn’t drink alcohol but was happy to go anyway. “That would be lovely,” I said.
“Wait right here. I’ll get the others so we can walk together,” said Maria. She returned with the crooner and two backup singers. “Martin and Helen, please meet our leader, Frank Sinatra,” said Maria.
“Thanks for coming,” said Sinatra. “Hope you enjoyed the performances tonight.”
“It was beautiful,” I said. “You were spectacular. I loved it.”
“Great,” said Sinatra. “Let’s go.”
We walked down the street as a group to the restaurant to grab a bite. Sinatra wanted a drink.
I had heard Sinatra’s name before but knew almost nothing about him. He had released only two albums to that point,
The Voice of Frank Sinatra
in 1946 and
Songs by Sinatra
. His voice was pure magic. But as a poor Holocaust survivor on a razor-thin budget, I was just as interested in the free packs of smokes as in meeting Sinatra for the first time.
I enjoyed spending time with Helen, but I wasn’t sure she was the girl for me. Eager to get Mr. Goldman’s assessment, I brought
her to GGG for a New Year’s dinner and introduced them. Later, I asked him what he thought. “Well, Martino, she’s a beautiful woman,” he told me. “But if you’re asking me if she’s the girl you should marry, I have to say no.”
“Why? What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Well, I just think you should get a nice Jewish girl, that’s all,” he said.
D
uring the summer of 1948, I realized Mr. Goldman was right: Helen wasn’t the girl for me. It wasn’t anything she did, but what I had yet to do: live, roam, explore. America is big—huge, in fact. There were encounters to be had, lessons to be learned. Put simply, I realized I was not ready for marriage. It was unfair to lead Helen on or waste her time. Still, I didn’t know how to break it off. I didn’t want to hurt her. She and her family had been nothing but kind. What’s more, having lost everyone I ever loved, I was terrible with good-byes.
The solution to my cowardly breakup dilemma arrived in the form of a letter I received from my uncle in Mexico. Uncle Antonio Berger had no children. He lived most of his life in France but moved to Mexico when he was unable to gain entry into the United
States. Like my other maternal aunts and uncles, Uncle Antonio never met my mother, having left Pavlovo before her birth. Uncle Antonio and I had maintained regular correspondence from the time Uncle Irving included his mailing address in those early letters sent to Gabersee. In his latest letter, Uncle Antonio informed me he would be sending me an airplane ticket to Mexico to visit him. He said the ocean was clear, the girls were gorgeous, and the weather was perfect—a paradise for a much-needed getaway.
I had never ridden on an airplane. The idea of flying to a vacation destination was foreign to me. In my mind, civilian aviation was for rich, famous people, not common people. And certainly not broke refugees. The timing was perfect, though. The factory closed every summer for the union holiday.
That summer, when the sun baked Brooklyn like a brick, Uncle Antonio told me to keep an eye on the mail for his paid airline ticket and to prepare for a week of pure bliss in Mexico. Uncle Antonio had done well for himself in the real estate and jewelry businesses. His generosity moved me, but it was getting to spend time together and strengthen the family ties that excited me most.
Kalvin understood this and was happy for me. He was also glad that at least one of us would be able to say he had flown on an airplane. “Big shot! Maybe you’ll meet movie stars or singers. You never know,” he said, giving me a brotherly chuck on the shoulder.
My Mexico adventure gave me a way to let Helen down easy and go our separate ways. Instead of telling her I was going on a one-week vacation to Mexico, I told her I was
moving
to Mexico. Permanently. Since we lived next door to one another, my ruse forced Kalvin and me to move. Relocating was easy. Everything
we owned fit into a couple of suitcases and boxes. Besides, we had wanted a larger place, and now we had an excuse—bad as it was—to find one.
I spent some money on a nice necklace, and when I put it around Helen’s neck, I told her she could always look at it and think of the fun and memories we shared. “I’ll always care for you,” I said, meaning every word, “but you and I need our freedom to live and love. You’re a wonderful, beautiful woman. Happiness will always find you.”
Kalvin and I then decamped to the Hotel Brickman, a popular Jewish vacation spot in the Catskills. The resort offered a special summer rate for single young men and women, just thirty-five dollars for an entire week’s lodging with swimming, tennis, ping-pong, and other activities. I figured I would stay several days and return in time to receive Uncle Antonio’s airplane ticket.
Scores of young women and men came for the singles’ special. The only objective was having fun. My life to that point had been one of constant work, so the notion of traveling for pleasure was entirely foreign to me. Our simple lives in the Carpathian Mountains never included luxury resort accommodations.
I could get used to this
, I thought. After three days of soaking up the sun and enjoying the company of the girls, I received word that Uncle Antonio had purchased a ticket on American Airlines and that my flight departed the next day. Kalvin, Aunt Elka, and her family came to the airport to see me off.
On my first flight from New York to Dallas, I felt like an aristocrat. I sat in a window seat. The plane buzzed down the runway and took flight, hovering over New York City. The aerial view of the massive metropolis was mesmerizing and sent my mind flashing
back to my arrival in America less than a year before, when I stood on the deck of the
Ernie Pyle
staring at the Statue of Liberty. So much had changed. I now knew what she was and meant.
The plane lifted through the clouds and drifted dreamlike above them. I wondered what Mexico and my uncle would be like. Uncle Antonio’s letters were warm and welcoming. Earlier that year, I’d mentioned in a letter I was still contemplating becoming a doctor. Uncle Antonio told me he would be happy to help me through college. I appreciated the gesture, but that wasn’t my style. Whatever I received, I had to earn. Yet the generous offer to a nephew he had never met confirmed the goodness of his heart.
The plane made its descent into Dallas. The next leg of the trip required me to go through immigration to enter Mexico. The line was long and my flight full. When I got to the front, I showed the official my ticket and green card. His eyes hopped back and forth between my face, ticket, and green card. “Sir, I’m sorry, but we cannot let you into Mexico,” he said quietly.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“It says here you were born in Czechoslovakia. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Pavlovo, Czechoslovakia.”
“Yes, well, sir.” He cleared his throat. “That is a Communist country. We cannot allow you to board the flight to Mexico.”
“I know it’s a Communist country. That’s why I left Czechoslovakia and came to America! I’m very aware it’s a Communist country.”
“We can’t allow you to fly, sir.”
“You don’t understand. My Uncle Antonio Berger lives in Mexico. He was the one who bought me the plane ticket. I have a green card. In a few more years I will be an American citizen. I just need to get to Mexico to see my uncle. He’s waiting for me.”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside so I can help the next customer. Maybe my supervisor can help you,” he said dismissively.
I waited. The supervisor couldn’t help me. They handed me off to the American immigration officials, who said they would send a limo to pick me up and take me to a nearby hotel until the situation was resolved.
“Driver, what hotel are we going to?” I asked.
“One of the nicest hotels in all of Dallas, sir,” he said. “The Hotel Adolphus.”
We pulled up to the massive brick hotel and the driver let me out. I stepped into splendor. Ornate moldings, sparkling crystal chandeliers, mahogany-paneled walls, a grand staircase—the Hotel Adolphus, which is still operating, was magnificent.
I could really get used to this
, I thought.
The hotel’s Century Room featured entertainers and musical acts. At the check-in desk, I asked who would be performing that week. “Doris Day,” said the front-desk attendant. Her tone suggested that Miss Day was someone of importance. I had no idea who she was but decided I would see her perform before leaving.
From my room, I called Uncle Antonio to explain the situation. He said he had several high-powered contacts and connections in Mexico. Whether those individuals extended to the consulate he wasn’t sure, but he would do all he could to resolve the situation.
In the meantime, I figured if I had to be stuck in Dallas and have a room at the Adolphus on American Airlines’ dime, I might as well make the best of it and experience the city. I flipped through the Yellow Pages and found a Jewish social club before calling for the driver. Checking my white suit in the
mirror one last time, I went down to the car and hopped in like I owned it.
The driver drove me to the address I gave him. The sign out front said, “The Columbian Club.” I opened the car door and began to step out.
“Sir,” the driver said, “I’m pretty sure you have to be a member to get in.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I said, before shutting the door.
The GGG suit I was wearing was top of the line. Better still, it was white. Most people my age owned only a navy-blue or charcoal-gray suit, if any. Wearing a white suit tailored to the nines was a symbol of wealth and distinction. It said, “This kid has money, or belongs to someone who does.” If I projected a confident demeanor, I knew I could slip in.
Sure enough, the doorman gave me the once-over and welcomed me with a smile. “I’m a guest,” I said while walking. “I’m meeting my party shortly.” A hand-tailored suit and a steady demeanor. That’s all it took to make things happen.
I went to the main dining room, ordered a meal, and signed the charges to American Airlines before striking up conversations with a few waitresses. They wanted to know who I was. I told them I was headed to Mexico on business. When they asked what line of work I was in, I simply told them “fashion.” They were impressed.
I noticed a pretty young woman sitting by herself near a window. When I caught her eye, she smiled. I walked over to her. After about an hour of friendly conversation, I asked if she would join me for dinner. I had no money to take her out, but I did have my room and food covered at the Hotel Adolphus. “Tonight I’d like to
take you somewhere special. Have you ever eaten at the Hotel Adolphus?” I asked her.
