Measure of a Man by Martin Greenfield, Wynton Hall Page A

big black Mercedes!” I said laughing.
    “I remember that story,” he said with a sly smile.
    We drove through the streets of New York, the colors and shapes of the city a kaleidoscopic blur through the raindrops onthe passenger window. Cars honked, lights flashed, and people tromped down slick sidewalks. The sight of stores everywhere made me happy. “So many stores,” I said. “Does everyone have a job here?”
    “Everyone who wants a job does,” replied Aunt Elka.
    We headed to Aunt Elka’s small brownstone in the Bronx. We were greeted at the door by her Hungarian husband, Uncle Louie. We hugged, laughed, spoke Yiddish, and ate. “Well, what do you think of America so far?” Joe asked me.
    “I love it!” I said. “I’m an American living in the Bronx of the New York!”
    The family— my family—burst out in laughter.
    “It’s just ‘the Bronx,’” said Joe. “We just say, ‘the Bronx.’”
    “Okay,” I said. “I’m an American living in the Bronx!”
    “Perfect,” he said. “Just right.”
    That evening, the city’s thousand sounds lulled me into the deepest sleep I’d experienced in years.
    The next morning, Joe and Aunt Elka took me on a driving tour of the city. We had driven less than half a mile from their home when I saw a disturbing sight. An endless line of tired, miserable-looking people snaked around a massive, wide building. “I had no idea,” I said in a concerned tone. “Things must be terrible here. These people are hungry? I’ve never seen so many people waiting in a breadline!”
    “Sweetheart, that’s not a breadline,” said Aunt Elka. “That’s Yankee Stadium!”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    GGG

    N ew York 1947. The city that year was magical.
    The streets hummed with people and possibility. I arrived eleven days before the start of the legendary 1947 all–New York World Series. The Yankees’ Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, and Phil Rizzuto were set to take on Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, and Duke Snider of the Brooklyn Dodgers. It was Yankee Stadium in the Bronx versus Ebbets Field in Brooklyn. I knew nothing of baseball. What was unmistakable, however, was that the city was in full celebration.
    I was, too. My aspirations were at an all-time high. I was young, strong, and eager. I had already fallen in love with New York during those first few days staying with Aunt Elka. Eventhough I was headed to Baltimore, something in me told me I’d find my way home to New York.
    My cousin Mark Fendrich showed me the town and did his best to explain America to me. Mark was successful and handsome, with a face that reminded me of my mother’s. He told me I had another maternal aunt, named Gussie, who also lived in Baltimore. Mark said the plans that had me moving to Baltimore to live with Uncle Irving had changed.
    “You’ll still be in Baltimore, but you’ll be living with your first cousin, Frances Berman, and her husband, Moe,” Mark explained. “Great people, very successful. Moe made his money in real estate and bail bonds. Frances is a milliner—makes the most gorgeous hats you’ve ever seen. They have a big, beautiful three-story home with plenty of extra room for you. They have three daughters, Barbara, Natalie, and Rikki. You’ll love them. They can’t wait to meet you. Cousin Frances is going to pick you up and drive you to her and Moe’s home in Baltimore.”
    I hated to burden family, but I was grateful to have people that cared so much for me.
    The Bermans’ home on Callaway Avenue was just as promised. It was a huge white house with green shutters and six bedrooms. When Frances and I pulled up, the whole family came out to hug and greet me. Moe spoke Yiddish. The others spoke English. I walked into their immaculate home, and within minutes Frances and the three girls were sliding plates of delicious home-cooked treats in front of me.
    The Bermans treated me like a king. It was like living in a luxury hotel, complete with maids and fine furniture. Every meal