Up From Orchard Street (12 page)

“You want a buckle?”

Jack hesitated. He disliked fake jewelry and the prospect of a shoe buckle studded with gaudy glass caused him to scrunch up his face. But Rocco, like a man long accustomed to panning gold, swept away most of the pompous junk. Digging deep into a carton, he brought out an oval sterling silver buckle, small, unobtrusive, fit for Marie Antoinette in the movies. Jack smiled with delight.

“How about the kid?”

“What about the kid?”

“She got a dress for the wedding or not?”

Jack lit a cigarette and drew on it rapidly, too fast-witted to admit that he hadn’t given it a thought. “You have something in mind?”

We walked two blocks, my father tugging at the sleeve of my sweater to pull me along. A sign on the window read Girls’ Party Dresses Girls’. Jack hesitated. Through the window he could study yards of eye-blinding purple, cerise, lemon, green.

“It has to be conservative.”

“What does it cost to look?”

Frilly party dresses lay on sewing machines, on the floor and in racks that lined two walls. Jack dismissed them with a glance. At the back of the room, where the colors dimmed and the flounces diminished, one dress caught his eye: fine white organdy with tiny red polka dots, a Peter Pan collar banded with the merest hint of red satin, a wide red satin sash, and a stiff, layered red petticoat.

I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. It was my dream dress. It wasn’t even suggested that I try it on. My father held it up to my throat. “That’s the one,” he announced crisply. I didn’t dare tell him how much I loved, adored and worshipped this dress. Jack scrutinized the hems and said disapprovingly, “Machine-stitched. They have to be hemmed by hand. One of the girls near Farber’s does beautiful hem stitching.”

“Hey, Jack,” Rocco berated him, “you take me for a cheap chiseler? We got hem stitchers right here. It figures that Mister Jack would want hand stitching for his kid for a wedding. We go for coffee, it’s all done.”

The prospect of leaving the dress behind sent me into a panic. On the pretext of watching the young stitcher—twelve years old, a little gnome with bad teeth and skin that rarely saw daylight—I stayed behind. The petticoat seemed to be a circle within a circle, but the girl worked miracles, content to hunch over other people’s party clothes, and finished before the two men returned.

“Hey, where’s the step-ins?” The reason Rocco ruled the streets was that, like my father, he kept the inventory of every store in his head. As soon as he located the polka-dotted underpants, we left, Jack carrying the dress wrapped in tissue paper over his arm. No money passed between Rocco and my father. Rocco might treat to a few meatballs or a lemon ice—just common courtesy—but my grandmother’s shoes and my dress were paid for either in hard cash or with an LY—last year’s styles from Farber’s store, which went to Rocco’s wife or a lady friend. Rocco didn’t mix Jack’s betting with any other transaction.

Nor did Jack bargain or haggle over price. Rocco named the sum, Jack nodded. Both had come up from the streets, where it was unmanly—not to mention life-threatening—to screw around for pennies or go back on your handshake, your marker.

Proudly, I crossed over the Bowery without holding on to my father. He kept a cigarette in one hand and my outfit in the other. Motes of dust fell from the cracks of the rails of the Third Avenue El overheard. My father, who prided himself on reading women from ages six to seventy-six, realized that I was dizzy with happiness. As we walked home together he said nothing to intrude upon it.

Bubby had Lil call Dr. Koronovsky to ask how many guests were expected for the wedding. She intended not only to bake the wedding challah—sweet and with golden raisins, consumed by the guests as soon as the mazeltov resounded to signify the legality of man and wife—but the “sweet table”—the desserts following the food. Lil expected to speak to one of the sisters, Etta or Yetta—their names, like their appearance, were almost identical—but Dr. Koronovsky answered. Somewhat thrown by speaking to him in person, she discovered that the entire wedding party would consist of no more than thirty.

“Manya needs to know because she’s baking the wedding challah. Is that all right?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“And the sweet table.”

“Please tell Manya not to bother with sweets. We have to rush off to make the boat. Friends from the wedding party are coming to see us off, so there won’t be time for eating.”

Lil relayed the message to my grandmother word for word, but she pretended not to hear. “Wine they’ll have to drink, so they could have a piece of strudel, or a nut cookie, or a tiny rugulach, I’ll make them very small. Maybe fifty each, no one should be like my customer who was having ten women for coffee and ordered ten rugulach. When I asked her what she would do if someone wanted an extra one, she laughed and said, ‘She can’t ask for what’s not here.’ ”

Jack tried to intercede. “Ma, at such a rushed wedding, no one will eat three of everything plus the challah. If you baked fifty pieces of strudel and thirty cookies it would be more than enough.”

“Ich ken im nisht fah shaymen. I can’t shame them.”

No one could argue with her about the baking, which started on Wednesday so as to be ready for delivery on Saturday night. Clayton cracked open ten pounds of walnuts and pulverized them in the mortar and pestle brought from Odessa. A gallon of Manya’s own apricot preserves and another of raspberry were opened. Clayton carried home several dozen eggs and then returned to the store for fifteen pounds of flour. Lil, the expert in tissue-thin strudel dough, worked her skillful fingers for two batches. For once she did not wear high heels while pulling the dough across the entire length of the dining room table. We rushed our lunch customers, but they didn’t complain. A news item about what Manya planned to bake for Dr. Koronovsky’s wedding appeared in the
Jewish Forward
. The announcement of his forthcoming marriage was printed in the
New York Times
.

Even with two helpers, Bubby stood on her feet for hours, her cooking oxfords stained with flour, jam and egg yolks. The miniature rugulach proved more arduous than she had anticipated: cutting tiny triangles of rolled-out yeast dough required patience and care. Willy, Clayton and I lived on “the cripples,” the rugulach or cookies slightly twisted or not perfect in shape, and the strips of strudel that had been kept in the oven too long. The odor of baking swept over Canal and Orchard Street like a heady balm. From hour to hour for those three days neighbors popped in, hoping for a handout. For once Bubby was too busy to respond.

The wedding challah came last, baked Saturday morning. The tray took up the entire oven and Bubby worried over it, careful to check inside the oven every half hour. At the exact moment that the bread turned golden, neither too pale nor too dark, she took one side of the pan and Lil the other, both holding their breath during the bread’s short journey from oven to kitchen table. Uncle Goodman brought us several fresh cartons lined with tissue paper for the sweets, and an especially large one for the challah.

Everyone in the building came to view the results of these labors: a mountain of strudel, a white lake of confectionery sugar for the crescent-shaped nut cookies, a hillock of rugulach with glistening apricot jam peeping through the centers. Distributing the last-minute cripples, Mrs. Feldman in a moment of rare generosity declared that Manya’s baking was not only the best in the city, but “über der ganzer veld.”

We waited until 1:30 before my grandmother and I set out for the public baths. Although I hated the experience, few women showed up on holy Saturday—the big rush came on Friday, before the Sabbath. If some of the sidewalk mavens mocked us as goyim as we trudged toward Eldridge Street, our towels in a big Macy’s bag, we paid no attention.

Happily, the old crone who cut toenails wasn’t there. We chose an isolated corner where my grandmother washed her long hair, which was dusted with flour and other residues of her baking marathon. Lil had brought home shampoo from Pandy’s, which we carried in a jar. The green stuff felt wonderful, slippery and clean, not just in our hair but on our bodies.

In the steamy public room we sat on a waterlogged cracked bench and hand-dried our hair before walking home slowly. In a rare instance of resting, Bubby napped in my parents’ bed in the late afternoon. I sat in the living room mesmerized by our dresses, the gray lace and the red polka dot, their hangers hooked on nails pounded into the bedroom door.

Before dark, I walked with Clayton to Grand Street where we hailed a cab—no one would stop for him alone. Abe Abramovitz with his twice-broken nose and greasy cap was our preferred driver. One of Bubby’s many schnorrers, Abe gladly helped Clayton load his car with its delicate cargo. On his return, Clayton held up a nickel, what the Koronovsky sisters tipped him for bringing in a half dozen boxes.

We started dressing at eleven the next morning, Lil attending to Bubby’s brassiere and corset, silk stockings and those incredible satin shoes. Pandy came over to do her hair, to back-comb the top and push it forward against her cheeks before arranging the long heavy braid with hairpins, so that it stood up like a crown. A small boy knocked on the door and handed over a white box with a single orchid, a present from Rocco.

After Bubby slipped the taffeta undergarment and then the lace dress over her head, Lil pinned on the flower with shaky fingers. “Ma, I’ve never seen you more beautiful. Definitely, you’ll be more beautiful than the bride. Turn around just once . . .”

I was accustomed to thinking of my mother as our movie star. But on this day with her diamond earrings, her pearls, the ravishing dress, the festive shoes, the orchid, the Chanel No. 5 behind her ears and on her wrists, I couldn’t imagine any grandmother more dazzling than mine, not in the movie magazines, not in the movies.

Soon I slipped into my polka-dotted underpants, my red slip and my polka-dotted dress with its wide satin bow. For the occasion I wore white socks with lacy cuffs and black patent leather shoes. My mother put a tiny dab of rouge on my cheeks. “Perfect,” she said. “Who has better taste than Daddy? From hundreds of dresses he picked the perfect one for you.”

Exactly at one-thirty my father left Farber’s and drew up with Abe Abramovitz and his rattling taxi. We walked carefully downstairs, my grandmother holding her right hand in mine, clutching her evening purse from Mister Elkin’s theater nights in the other. We were followed by a retinue of neighbors in the building, all of them, including Mrs. Rosinski, the Polish lady, and everyone applauded as we entered the car.

Jack handed Abe a dollar tip for the short drive to Grand Street. “Take care of my two girls.” His voice broke with pride.

Once in Dr. Koronovsky’s apartment we realized that we were the only ones from the neighborhood. The chuppa had been set up against one wall of the living room. A heavyset middle-aged woman in a flowered print dress rushed up and asked Bubby, “Are you the mother of the bride?” Bubby shook her head. The bride was nowhere in evidence, but Bubby could have won a prize as the most beautiful woman in the room. All of the men were of medium height, inclined to be paunchy, and wore blue suits and white shirts. White yarmulkes were affixed to their heads. A short white-haired man and the rabbi, from an uptown shul, covered their shoulders with silken tallisim.

Dr. Koronovsky could have pierced the gray sky with his smile. I knew the word
ecstatic
from books, but I never knew what it meant until we came face to face. “Manya, Manya, how splendid you are. And Elkaleh—what a beautiful dress. Both of you, utterly beautiful.” The small, slender man with white hair proved to be the bride’s father. “This is Walter Hess, my father-in-law,” Dr. Koronovsky said with pride. “And this is the famous Manya.”

Mr. Hess extended his pale white hand. “Manya, I have a confession. I couldn’t wait and already ate a piece of strudel. The best I ever tasted. Do you give out your special recipe?”

Bubby blushed. I realized it wasn’t only Orloff whom she excited, but a courtly gentleman like Mr. Hess. “Thank you,” she said modestly. “Ah shayna dank.”

“I love people who speak true Yiddish, deep Yiddish.” Bubby’s hand relaxed in mine.

A man with a huge stomach bounded up and declared, “Bernie Frankel. I understand you’re a master chef. Eating is my hobby. Any executive chef is a friend of mine. Manya, if you give me your address I’ll be in your restaurant next week.”

How could my grandmother reply, “12 Orchard Street?” She smiled instead. “Any time,” she said carefully.

Bubby had been right. The guests were either doctors or those who worked with the librarian bride, everyone happy but subdued, no one laughing loudly, all of them smiling but not joking, and I the sole child there. Dr. Koronovsky’s sisters hovered in the background, wiping tears from their eyes with crisp white handkerchiefs that contrasted with their long, shapeless, tan dresses. The moment we came near them they burst into fresh tears.

“You heard? He took a practice uptown, but two days a week he’ll see patients down here. If you get sick Muntik un Dunerstik, you have your old doctor. Otherwise it’s a bus to West Eighteenth Street, God knows where. This apartment, it’s now just for us. He pays double rent. For us, for them, by Fifth Avenue. On the two nights when he has patients, he sleeps by us. Ah klug tsu dem ganza veld.”

We couldn’t reply. Mr. Hess, followed by an equally small Mrs. Hess, walked into the bedroom to fetch the bride. Waiters in short white jackets, bow ties and black pants unfolded chairs. The rabbi from uptown said in a British accent, “Would you kindly take your seats. As you know, the bride and groom leave for the pier in an hour.”

Bubby and I sat in the second row, on the aisle. Dr. Koronovsky stood under the chuppa, his bar mitzvah tallis over his shoulders. There was no music. We craned our heads to see the bride as she walked in with her father. Slim and brown-haired, she wore a pink suit with pink satin buttons, appropriate for the wedding and for her honeymoon trip to Paris on the
Ile de France
. Her pink satin shoes matched her pink cloche, which had a veil that covered her brow but not her eyes. Later, when my parents asked, I told them that the new Mrs. Koronovsky looked intelligent.