Come Pour the Wine Read online

  I don’t know if I really feel like it …

  Stop acting like a ninny. Of course you feel like it. What you need is something to occupy your time instead of mooning around. Do something constructive. Remember what they say in Kansas, idle hands make idle thoughts. Maybe they don’t know about that expression in Manhattan, but it’s a philosophy a lot of people could profit by. Including you.

  That’s absolutely right. Besides, my French grandmother didn’t teach me to sew those fine stitches by hand for nothing …

  Now you’re getting a little gumption …

  She reached for the towel and rubbed herself so vigorously her skin tingled. A new spirit rose in her, a feeling of purpose that seeing her image on the cover of Vogue hadn’t equaled. Quickly she opened the dresser drawer, took out a pair of brief panties and a lace bra. Should she wear the black sheath? No. She wore that all week. She reached for a pair of yellow capris and drew them on over her long legs, then tucked the tails of a striped cotton shirt into the waistband. She buckled her sandals, tied her hair back with a red bandanna, picked up her purse and ran from the room down the stairs to the street, then breathlessly boarded the subway train.

  After what seemed an eternity Janet found herself on Hester Street. So this was the Lower East Side, that famous, fabled part of New York. She hadn’t ventured further east than Third Avenue and 59th where she had stopped at Bloomingdale’s. The first time she wandered among the endless aisles in that gigantic department store she was staggered. The largest store in Wichita could have fit easily into one corner. But if Bloomingdale’s with its multitude of shoppers had surprised her, the panorama that lay before her now was even more startling. Ragged children played in the streets, bearded old men in skullcaps seemed to be discussing something of enormous moment. They were seemingly unaware of what went on around them. Garbage cans overflowed. Women screamed at a vendor because his carrots weren’t large and plump and they argued over the price of a pound of potatoes. Young mothers and some not so young sat on the door stoops exchanging gossip as they breast-fed their children. Strangely dressed men gesticulated as rapidly as they spoke, in a tongue that fascinated Janet. There was an asceticism about their bearded faces and their black, broad-brimmed beaver hats. The black frock suits they wore were shabby with age but their demeanor seemed lofty, even spiritual. Somehow she felt very humble. Her eyes wandered to the roofs of the dirty tenements. Clotheslines stretched from one end to the next. The winds of Manhattan were brisk, making the sheets billow out like sails on a sea. Children ran down the alleys, disrupting a small group of men who were playing a game of dice. Little ones in their bare feet ran into the gushing water of an open hydrant, slipping and sliding and laughing.

  Janet started to weave through the milling crowds, totally caught up in the carnival-like atmosphere of this strange new world. It didn’t seem possible this could be a part of a borough called Manhattan with its sophistication and culture. It was a far cry indeed from Bergdorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue or from Carnegie Hall. For all its squalidness and poverty, it far from repulsed her … quite the contrary. Its abject simplicity and liveliness were somehow beautiful. Strange, she thought, Greenwich Village had been a frightening place but here she forgot her loneliness, and her mind conjured up a long-forgotten story of her father’s grandfather … He’d been a Jew as these people were and the sudden realization that she was a part of this scene filled her with feelings she could not quite articulate. She moved on excitedly … This was not the slick, impersonal world of Fifth Avenue, Madison or Park. There was a togetherness she felt these people had with one another that was unique … These people? Really my people too. She had a strange feeling … of wanting to embrace them …

  Inside of Nussbaum’s Kosher Delicatessen she stood on the white tiled floor and observed the assortment of salamis hanging on a hook. The smell of stuffed cabbage mingled with garlic and onion rose from the steam-table and wafted through the air. There were slabs of smoked salmon, pastrami and fat juicy corned beef ready to be sliced, then put on large slices of Russian rye bread accompanied with crisp kosher dills and slices of pickled green tomatoes.

  Janet was startled when the proprietor, Mrs. Nussbaum, called out from behind the counter, “Next.” For a moment Janet stared at the ample woman whose cherubic face was framed by curly black hair. “Nu, girlie,” Mrs. Nussbaum said as she wiped her hands on her apron. “So, what’s for you?”

  “Ohh,” Janet replied, “I think I’ll have … ah … a pastrami on rye.” Having said that, she felt, somehow, enormously proud.

  Janet watched the pudgy nimble fingers place the meat on two thick slices of rye, and cut the bulging sandwich in half.

  “So what do you want, cole slaw or potato salad?”

  “Ah … yes.”

  “What do you mean yes? You can’t have both unless you pay for it. So, cole slaw or potato salad?”

  “Oh … I’ll take the cole slaw.”

  “Mazel tov. And what do you want to drink, cream soda or seltzer?”

  “Cream soda.”

  “Mazel tov, enjoy.”

  Janet smiled and answered, “Thank you. How much is that?”

  “You pay at the end of the counter.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Come again.”

  “I will.”

  “Next,” Janet heard as she paid the toothless old man who sat on a high stool punching the keys of the nickel-plated cash register, which was older than he.

  Janet was all ears as she sat at the round table, listening to a language she had never heard before that somehow didn’t seem at all foreign. To the contrary, it sounded lovely, melodic. She was struck with the feeling that she was a part of these people—maybe only a small part, but in her veins ran the same heritage as in theirs. She had a surging desire to know more about her heritage—the roots from which a part of her had come. She was fascinated, she wanted so badly to know more about these people … about herself …

  As she munched on the sandwich, Janet observed the camaraderie among the customers, and a feeling of closeness she had never felt before came over her. She was so absorbed in the sights and sounds about her that she was startled by the voice of the young busboy when he asked if she was through. Looking up from the half-eaten sandwich into his bespectacled young face, she realized it was an invitation to leave. She looked at her watch. Without realizing it, she had been sitting here for forty minutes. Flustered, she apologized for having overstayed, then got up and left.

  As she wandered down Hester Street she saw a little boy sitting on the curb and crying. He seemed so pathetic, and sitting alongside him on the cement she asked, “Why are you crying?”

  The child looked wide-eyed at the stranger. “Because I lost my ball.”

  Taking out a handkerchief, Janet wiped the small nose and dried the blue eyes. “Where did you lose it?”

  “In the street. A guy picked it up and wouldn’t give it back.”

  “Oh. How old are you?”

  “Five.”

  “Five? I thought you were at least six.”

  “No, my sister’s six.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jeremy Cohen.”

  “That’s a nice name. How would you like an ice cream cone, Jeremy?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay,” he answered, although he would have been happier to have been offered a new ball.

  Janet bought him an ice cream cone and once again they sat on the curb, Jeremy having forgotten his loss for the moment and contentedly licking his cone.

  She observed his tattered clothes and the hole in his left tennis shoe where his large toe stuck out and thought how the children she’d known in Kansas were different, and yet not so different, from Jeremy Cohen. It was a question of being privileged at birth, and now she felt both guilty and grateful that she’d had the luck to be among the privileged part of humanity … “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Jeremy. I hope we meet
again.” Jeremy’s response was a nod of the head. As Janet got up, she looked at the little boy once again, took out a dollar bill and handed it to him. “I want you to buy a ball, Jeremy.”

  He blinked. A ball didn’t cost a dollar, he thought, but goyim didn’t know any better….

  Janet walked further down Hester Street until she came to Orchard. Masses of people occupied the sidewalks but there were few children. The surrounding buildings were much the same as on Hester Street, crumbling tenements with laundry flapping in the wind, and here and there were street vendors who sold shoes, handbags and belts. She walked slowly, peering into windows that looked as though they hadn’t been washed in years. Pausing at the entrance of a store, she heard the sounds of laughter as the women in a back room stuffed pillow casings with soft white eiderdown for the ladies and gents of Park Avenue to lay their heads on. She stepped aside as several of the women, with white feathers clinging in their hair, walked out to the street and stood in front of the store to smoke a cigarette. One took out a package of Luckies and shared it with her coworkers. Janet went inside to look at the magnificent satin comforters. When the owner asked if there was anything she could help her with, Janet smiled and said she was just looking.

  “So go look, mein dear. Enjoy.”

  “Thank you, I will.” She browsed for a while longer, then left.

  Next door the sign read, Kowalski’s Fine Fabrics. As she walked into the dimly lit store, a voice from the back, Fayge Kowalski’s, greeted her. “So what can I do for you, dahlink?”

  Janet answered, “I’m looking for some silk, can you show me something?”

  “Yardage I don’t sell. If you look, you’ll find.”

  Janet rummaged through the bins of fabric until she found a three-yard remnant of lovely orchid taffeta. At one corner was a large grease stain. Would there be enough material when she cut the stain off, she wondered as she held it up. Yes, she felt she could work it out. “How much is this?”

  Fayge chewed and swallowed her mouthful of hard-boiled egg before saying, “Make me an offer.”

  Janet didn’t have any idea what it was worth. “How much do you want for it?”

  “Make me an offer,” Fayge repeated as she salted the egg and took another bite.

  Janet stood there, bewildered. “I don’t know how much to offer you.”

  “So how much is it worth to you?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Make a wild guess, I’ll take it or I won’t.”

  “All right … ten dollars.”

  “Twelve.”

  Janet was beginning to catch on. “Ten-fifty.”

  “That’s a very fine piece of silk—100 percent. Ten-fifty I wouldn’t take.”

  “Eleven?”

  “Eleven-fifty and it’s yours.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  As Mrs. Kowalski stuffed the taffeta into a brown grocery bag she looked Janet over and thought … such a pretty little shiksa. It really wouldn’t have hurt if she’d given her a better price. She looked like such a sweet little nebbish.

  When Janet handed Mrs. Kowalski a twenty dollar bill she glanced first at the money and then at Janet. “This is the smallest you got?”

  Janet went through her wallet again. “I only have a ten and a five.”

  “Give me the ten. You owe me the dollar and a half.”

  “I’ll change it and come right back.”

  “No one would change it for you. You’ll owe me.”

  Janet smiled. “It’s very sweet of you to trust me.”

  “What’s sweet? If you trust, nobody cheats you.”

  It was early evening when Janet let herself into her room and leaned back against the door. Somehow the room didn’t seem as depressing as it had that morning. What she had seen and experienced had washed away the emptiness she felt. And the thing that impressed her most was the fact that Mrs. Kowalski had trusted her. It was rather like Kansas. She undressed, showered and contentedly got into bed. Sleep came blessedly easy tonight. So many of her misgivings seemed to have gone. She fell asleep with thoughts of next Sunday in that special world of Fayge Kowalski.

  The week that followed was no different than others had been, but she knew when Sunday came there would be no question of how she would spend it. The experience had sustained her for a week….

  This Sunday morning Janet awoke eager for the day that lay ahead. On the way to the subway she stopped at the bakery and bought a strawberry torte to give to Fayge in exchange for her trust. As she wove through the crowds of Hester and Orchard streets, retracing her steps of last week, once again the curious scene gave her a feeling of belonging. She did belong here. This place made her feel that way.

  When she walked into Fayge’s store she found her eating a chopped liver sandwich at a table in the back. Janet smiled. “I’m so happy to see you, Mrs. Kowalski.”

  Fayge continued munching and looked up at her vaguely, wondering who she was. Then she remembered, the little shiksa who had been here last week, the one from the orchid taffeta. Wiping the crumbs away from her mouth, she answered, “Likewise, I’m sure. You came for more material?”

  “No, I want to pay you your money and thank you for trusting me,” Janet said as she handed Fayge the cake box.

  If Fayge was surprised that the shiksa had remembered to give back the money and that she herself had forgotten the money was even due her, she was astonished by the cake box the girl had presented her with. Who remembered Fayge? To get back the money and to get a present on top of it … “This you didn’t have to do.”

  “You didn’t have to trust me and you did.”

  Looking deep into Janet’s almond-shaped eyes, Fayge felt ashamed that she had charged her eleven-fifty for the piece of material when, in fact, it wasn’t worth five dollars … Nu, God, so I was a little greedy. “Listen,” she said, “I got a pretty piece of brocade upstairs where I live. On you it would look beautiful. Come, I’ll show it to you.” Taking a ring of keys in her hand, Fayge got up, her bulk protruding beneath the loose cotton dress, and on her turned-over heels made it to the front of the store to turn the sign to CLOSED and lock the door behind them. A step or two beyond the entrance to the store she slowly proceeded up a narrow stairway, holding onto the banister. When they reached the top Fayge paused, her breathing labored, and put her hand against her full bosom and felt the thumping of her heart. Oy vay, those stairs would kill her …

  Janet followed down the dark hall, unable to avoid noticing the warped wooden floors and the chipped painted doors which led to the four bedrooms. When they reached the living room, Janet was shocked at the condition of it. In the corners there was material stuffed into paper bags and cartons that looked as though they were ready for the trash bin. A threadworn sofa with protruding springs sat against one wall. In the center was a large round table and surrounding it were six unmatched chairs. Fayge pulled out a box, sending the bags on top tumbling to the ground, then reached inside and plucked out a creased but magnificent brocade in startling colors of gold and peacock blue. Handing it to Janet, Fayge said, “Here’s a present. On you it would be beautiful … it’s you.”

  Janet couldn’t accept it. “Thank you, Mrs. Kowalski, but really, I couldn’t—”

  “What do you mean you couldn’t? Then I couldn’t take the cake.”

  “Well, that’s different, it was my way of telling you how much I appreciated your trusting me—”

  “A cake you didn’t have to bring me for your appreciation. Why shouldn’t I trust you? You’re a nice girl,” she said, placing the fabric in Janet’s hands.

  Janet had tears in her eyes when she looked at it. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “What’s to say? You’ll make a nice dress. Now, maybe you’d like a cup of tea?”

  “Thank you, I’d like that.”

  “Fine, so you’ll sit.” Fayge quickly took off the food-stained newspaper on the dining room table and replaced it with a clean issue of the Yiddish Forw
ard. After all, she was entertaining a beautiful young guest.

  As they sat drinking the tea and eating the homemade sponge cake Fayge asked, “In New York I know you weren’t born. Where do you come from?”

  “Kansas.”

  Fayge squinted. “Kansas?” It was as far away as Pinsk.

  Janet nodded. “Yes, that was my home until I came to New York.”

  “Your family still live there?”

  “Yes.”

  “You live alone?”

  Janet toyed with the crumbs and merely nodded.

  From the sad look on Janet’s face Fayge knew she was very lonely. Shiksa or not, lonely could happen to anybody. “How come a nice girl like you comes to New York?”

  “I wanted to be a model.”

  Fayge shrugged. “A model was the best thing you could be?”

  For a moment Janet wondered the same thing. “Well, you know how it is when you’re young and have crazy dreams.”

  Fayge sighed. When had she been young? She was forty-five already and the foolish dreams she’d had were long gone. “You miss your momma and your poppa?”

  “Very much.”

  “You got brothers and sisters?”

  “No, I’m an only child.”

  An only child wasn’t so only. One of Fayge’s dreams had been to have many children, but God had had a different plan. But at least she had Mendel. Only two weeks ago she had brought him back from the sanitarium in Denver where he had been recovering from tuberculosis. Thank God … thank God for giving her back Mendel. “You’re not eating your strudel. Eat. Tell me, what does your poppa do?”

  “He’s a doctor.”

  That, Fayge liked. After God, doctors were the most important. “Well, finish the tea. Sunday is the best day for business and I gotta go downstairs to open the store.”

  Janet got up and thanked Fayge for her generosity. When she picked up the piece of material, without thought she turned and put her arms around Fayge’s bulk and kissed her on the cheek.