was bar-mitzvahed there.”
“And you don’t know that it’s orthodox?”
“Yes. I do. It is.”
“Then
you
must be.”
“Oh, yes, I am,” I said. “What are you?” I popped, ushing.
“Orthodox. My husband is conservative,” which meant, I took it, that he didn’t care. “Brenda is nothing, as you probably know.”
“Oh?” I said. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“She was the best Hebrew student I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. Patimkin said, “but then, of course, she got too big for her britches.”
Mrs. Patimkin looked at me, and I wondered whether courtesy demanded that I agree. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said at last, “I’d say Brenda is conservative. Maybe a little reformed…”
The phone rang, rescuing me, and I spoke a silent orthodox prayer to the Lord.
“Hello,” Mrs. Patimkin said. “…no … I can not, I have all the Hadassah calls to make…”
I acted as though I were listening to the birds outside, though the closed windows let no natural noises in.
“Have Ronald drive them up … But we can’t wait, not if we want it on time…”
Mrs. Patimkin glanced up at me; then she put one hand over the mouthpiece. “Would you ride down to Newark for me?”
I stood. “Yes. Surely.”
“Dear?” she said back into the phone, “Neil will come for it…No,
Neil,
Brenda’s friend … Yes … Goodbye.
“Mr. Patimkin has some silver patterns I have to see. Would you drive down to his place and pick them up?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know where the shop is?”
“Yes.”
“Here,” she said, handing a key ring to me, “take the Volkswagen.”
“My car is right outside.”
“Take these,” she said.
Patimkin Kitchen and Bathroom Sinks was in the heart of the Negro section of Newark. Years ago, at the time of the great immigration, it had been the Jewish section, and still one could see the little fish stores, the kosher delicatessens, the Turkish baths, where my grandparents had shopped and bathed at the beginning of the century. Even the smells had lingered: whitefish, corned beef, sour tomatoes—but now, on top of these, was the grander greasier smell of auto wrecking shops, the sour stink of a brewery, the burning odor from a leather factory; and on the streets, instead of Yiddish, one heard the shouts of Negro children playing at Willie Mays with a broom handle and half a rubber ball. The neighborhood had changed: the old Jews like my grandparents had struggled and died and their offspring had struggled and prospered and moved further and further west towards the edge of Newark then out of it and up the slope of the Orange Mountains’ until they had reached the crest and started down the other side pouring into Gentile territory as the Scotch-Irish had poured through the Cumberland Gap Now in fact the Negroes were making the same migration following the steps of the Jews, and those who remained in the Third Ward lived thp most squalid of lives and dreamed in their fetid mattresS of the piny smell of Georgia nights.
I wondered, for an instant only, if I would see the colored kid from the library on the streets here. I didn’t, of course, though I was sure he lived in one of the scabby, peeling buildings out of which dogs, children, and aproned women moved continually. On the top floors, windows were open, and the very old, who could no longer creak down the long stairs to the street, sat where they had been put, in the screenless windows, their elbows resting on fluffless pillows, and their heads tipping forward on their necks, watching the push of the young and the pregnant and the unemployed. Who would come after the Negroes? Who was left? No one, I thought, and someday these streets, where my grandmother drank hot tea from an old
jahrzeit
glass, would be empty and we would all of us have moved to the crest of the Orange Mountains, and wouldn’t the dead stop kicking at the slats in their coffins then?
I pulled the Volkswagen up in front of a huge garage door
“And you don’t know that it’s orthodox?”
“Yes. I do. It is.”
“Then
you
must be.”
“Oh, yes, I am,” I said. “What are you?” I popped, ushing.
“Orthodox. My husband is conservative,” which meant, I took it, that he didn’t care. “Brenda is nothing, as you probably know.”
“Oh?” I said. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“She was the best Hebrew student I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. Patimkin said, “but then, of course, she got too big for her britches.”
Mrs. Patimkin looked at me, and I wondered whether courtesy demanded that I agree. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said at last, “I’d say Brenda is conservative. Maybe a little reformed…”
The phone rang, rescuing me, and I spoke a silent orthodox prayer to the Lord.
“Hello,” Mrs. Patimkin said. “…no … I can not, I have all the Hadassah calls to make…”
I acted as though I were listening to the birds outside, though the closed windows let no natural noises in.
“Have Ronald drive them up … But we can’t wait, not if we want it on time…”
Mrs. Patimkin glanced up at me; then she put one hand over the mouthpiece. “Would you ride down to Newark for me?”
I stood. “Yes. Surely.”
“Dear?” she said back into the phone, “Neil will come for it…No,
Neil,
Brenda’s friend … Yes … Goodbye.
“Mr. Patimkin has some silver patterns I have to see. Would you drive down to his place and pick them up?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know where the shop is?”
“Yes.”
“Here,” she said, handing a key ring to me, “take the Volkswagen.”
“My car is right outside.”
“Take these,” she said.
Patimkin Kitchen and Bathroom Sinks was in the heart of the Negro section of Newark. Years ago, at the time of the great immigration, it had been the Jewish section, and still one could see the little fish stores, the kosher delicatessens, the Turkish baths, where my grandparents had shopped and bathed at the beginning of the century. Even the smells had lingered: whitefish, corned beef, sour tomatoes—but now, on top of these, was the grander greasier smell of auto wrecking shops, the sour stink of a brewery, the burning odor from a leather factory; and on the streets, instead of Yiddish, one heard the shouts of Negro children playing at Willie Mays with a broom handle and half a rubber ball. The neighborhood had changed: the old Jews like my grandparents had struggled and died and their offspring had struggled and prospered and moved further and further west towards the edge of Newark then out of it and up the slope of the Orange Mountains’ until they had reached the crest and started down the other side pouring into Gentile territory as the Scotch-Irish had poured through the Cumberland Gap Now in fact the Negroes were making the same migration following the steps of the Jews, and those who remained in the Third Ward lived thp most squalid of lives and dreamed in their fetid mattresS of the piny smell of Georgia nights.
I wondered, for an instant only, if I would see the colored kid from the library on the streets here. I didn’t, of course, though I was sure he lived in one of the scabby, peeling buildings out of which dogs, children, and aproned women moved continually. On the top floors, windows were open, and the very old, who could no longer creak down the long stairs to the street, sat where they had been put, in the screenless windows, their elbows resting on fluffless pillows, and their heads tipping forward on their necks, watching the push of the young and the pregnant and the unemployed. Who would come after the Negroes? Who was left? No one, I thought, and someday these streets, where my grandmother drank hot tea from an old
jahrzeit
glass, would be empty and we would all of us have moved to the crest of the Orange Mountains, and wouldn’t the dead stop kicking at the slats in their coffins then?
I pulled the Volkswagen up in front of a huge garage door
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