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

was a formal dining experience. The Bermans took me all aroundBaltimore and made several introductions to people with whom I had no way of communicating. It was sweet. And awkward. The youngest child, Rikki, was about ten years younger than I, and I became the brother she had always wanted. I did my best not to disappoint her. We’d play little games while I tried to entertain her through silly facial expressions and hand gestures. Unless Moe was around to translate, though, we had no clear way to communicate.
    After my first few nights in the house, Frances said the family wanted to buy me a nice suit for job interviews. She took me to the store and bought my first GGG suit. Named after the three Goldman brothers—William P., Mannie, and Morris—GGG was the premier manufacturer of hand-tailored men’s suits in New York. I had already heard of GGG because my friend Kalvin worked there in the factory. Frances said a GGG suit was the best money could buy. I felt bad the family spent so much money on me. Until, that is, I put the suit on. It draped my body beautifully. I looked smart and sharp. If I couldn’t speak English, at least the suit would speak for me.
    “You look like an American,” Frances said. “You’ve got a great American suit. Now all you need is a great American job. I think I know just the man and place.”
    Frances said Moe had spoken to a Mr. Ben Miller about hiring me to work for his furniture upholstery business. Best of all, Mr. Miller spoke Yiddish. Two days later, Mr. Miller pulled up to the Bermans’ home in a big fancy Cadillac. He stepped out of the car wearing a dapper suit and walked slowly to the door with the help of a cane. That a rich and important man who had to walk with a cane took the time to drive himself to meet a nineteen-year-oldrefugee told me all I needed to know about Mr. Miller’s character. When he offered me a job nailing upholstery, I took it.
    That night I called Kalvin and shared the good news. He congratulated me on my new position but lobbied me to leave Baltimore and move to New York to work with him at GGG. He said we could be roommates and split the rent. I told him I would think about it but I wanted first to try my hand at the upholstery business. Mr. Miller had been so generous and kind. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful or rude.
    For the next three weeks, I worked in Mr. Miller’s big upholstery factory wrapping and nailing fabric. I worked hard and did well. Mr. Miller liked my attention to detail. He said I worked harder than any employee he had ever hired. His compliments strengthened my confidence.
    After work and dinner, Frances, Moe, and I would sit around the dining table and chat. I started to notice the delicate but unmistakable manner in which people who knew I was a survivor tried to steer the conversation toward the Shoah to see if I was willing to discuss my experiences. I understood their curiosity, but I found it hard to talk about what we went through. It wasn’t just the emotional pain of dredging up all the death and darkness that made me reticent. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. If I had grown up in America and someone told me the story, I’m not sure I would have believed it myself. Something that bleak, that grim seems impossible to survive. For it to have happened in a “civilized” society was inconceivable to most Americans.
    Perhaps for that reason, I contemplated changing my name from Maximilian Grünfeld to something more American. Oneevening after dinner I asked Moe what he thought about the idea. “Yes, Maximilian Grünfeld might be tricky for some people to spell. It also sounds very ethnic,” he said. “But Max Grünfeld isn’t all that bad.”
    “Yes, but it doesn’t sound American. I want a good, strong American name,” I said.
    Frances walked in from tidying up the kitchen and joined us at the dining table. She asked Moe to interpret and explain what we were discussing. “I love your name, Maxi. Why