Page 14-THE NEWS-April, 1984
The Great Escape
By Roberta Graff
I didn’t move from the
Bronx; I escaped. That was 24
years ago when the only accep
table means of get-away was
matrimony. My marriage
license became my passport
when I said “yes” to the hand
some Ivy Leaguer who elicited
nods of approval from the
neighbors who judged my
every move.
They congregated on camp
chairs outside my apartment
building on warm summer
evenings, patiently watching
as my boyfriend circled the
block a dozen times looking for
a parking spot. They nodded
to each other as if to say, “We
‘ knew he’d never find a space,"
as he double parked. Taking
the steps to the lobby two at
a time, he dashed into the
elevator and pressed the but
ton for Four.
I was always ready, and
minutes later we walked back
past our audience on the way
to the car.
“See, I told you he was for
4B,” Mrs. Waxman
whispered.
“So again you’re right,” her
husband answered.
How I resented their stares
and comments, which in
evitably led to a heated discus
sion with my mother the next
day. “Why are they so damn
ed nosy?” I would fume.
“Can’t they mind their own
business?”
“They don’t mind their own
business because they have no
business worth minding,” my
mother would answer in her
most condescending tone.
“They are always interested in
you. You were the most beau-
*■ tiful baby on the Concourse.
You had a white coach car
riage. When I pushed that car
riage by Poe Park every head
turned. Believe me, they’re
still talking about that
carriage.”
Though I found it highly
questionable that my baby
carriage could remain on
anyone’s mind for more th£in
20 years, no matter how
uneventful their own lives had
been, I wisely chose not to
challenge my mother’s state
ments. Instead I would
change the subject to my com
ing marriage, my new apart
ment, my new life.
“Are you going to move,
Mother?” I would ask.
“Because you are moving
away, that means I should
too,” my mother would
answer, giving me just that lit
tle stab of guilt she found
necessary to keep me in line.
“Why should I give up such
an apartment — facing the
Concourse, southwest ex
posure, tile kitchen, sunken
living room, always a breeze?”
she continued like a real estate
agent with an unsure pros
pect. I would think of the
sweltering July nights when
you could barely breathe...the
limited closets...and keep my
mouth closed. “No dear,” she
would conclude, “apartments
like this you simply do not
give up.”
True to her word, she never
gave up the apartment, even
when her winters in Florida
ran into spring and then
summer.
“Why should I come
home?” she would ask me on
the telephone from Miami on
the Fourth of July. “It’s not
even hot here.” However, to
her newly made Floridian
friends: “I have a home up
north, you know, and I’ll prob
ably go for a visit next
month.”
But next month never came.
The apartment became a
storehouse for possessions and
memories that my mother
would never part with.
And now I have returned to
the Bronx, considerably
mellower and minus the
hostilities I carried with me
when I left. The job of giving
up the apartment is now mine.
The furniture dealer has been
contacted, the charitable
organizations, always happy
for contributions, have been
called, and the realtor has been
notified that, after 40 years,
4B is now for rent.
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I drive around the block at
least six times looking for a
place to park. I am luckier
than my former boyfriend;
someone pulls an old Chev
rolet out of a spot not far from
my mother’s building. I walk
down the street where I once
roller skated and notice how
the neighborhood has chang
ed. The kosher deli, its fat hot
dogs dripping with mustard
and sauerkraut, is now a
bodega. The corner candy
store where we’d sip chocolate
egg creams topped with white
foam, is a bar.
I pass two little black girls
jumping rope as I approach
the entrance to the apartment
house. I look around the once
■ elegantly furnished lobby.
There is an old stained sofa
pushed off to a comer. Its
stuffing is falling out. I walk
into the mail room where I
often played hide-and-seek.
My mother’s mailbox is
crammed full of junk mail ad
dressed to Occupant and Ten
ant. One envelope is address
ed to Our Friendly Neighbor.
Remembering my mother’s at
titude, I laugh. The names on
tHe letter boxes have changed.
Levine £ind Goldstein have
been replaced by Gomez and
Hernandez. I open the
elevator door. The walls are
covered with obscenities I
didn’t know until I was too old
to derive any satisfaction from
using them. I feel for the keys
in my pocket. There are four,
one for each lock on the door
of my mother’s apartment.
The elevator stops at one. A
very old lady eyes me
suspiciously, hesitates and
slowly walks in. She looks
vaguely familiar.
“Mrs. Waxman?” I ask
uncertainly.
“Yes, who is it?” she asks
nervously as though I had
rung her doorbell in the middle
of the night.
“I’m sure you don’t
remember, but I used to live
here.”
Moving a little closer, she
looks up at me and a faint
smile crosses her wrinkled
face.
“Of course, 4B, what a big
beautiful girl you’ve become,”
she says appraising all 5 feet,
2 inches of me.
“I can’t believe you
remember me, after all these
years,” I reply.
“Why, who could forget that
white carriage?”
a/
(Detach & return with check)
Please respond (with check for $12.50 per person)
no later than April 27
To:
NORTH CAROLINA ASSOCIATION OF JEWISH WOMEN
C/0 MRS MIRIAM VALENSTEIN
610 HEMPSTEAD PLACE
CHARLOTTE, N C. 28207
.ddress
Check Here u for Fish Plate
No of Reservations
During their one w^k tour of Charlotte Israeli students, Yuval
Tal (I) and Sigal Raz (r) spoke to the Chai group.
Special thanks to the Mark Perlin family for stepping in at the last
minute as host to Sigal when Rita Mond had to suddenly go out-of-town.
Special Book For Children
I fc. ! 4. . Mouse in the Matzah
•TOlll MllllSXl in tha ^^ctory. By Francine Medoff;
rue mUlUKJIl^ lllU illustrated by David Gold
stein. Kar-Ben Copies, Inc.,
11216 Empire Lane, Rockville,
MD 20852. 1983. 40 pages.
Ages 4-8. $8.95 hardcover;
$4.95 paperback.
THE NORTH CAROLINA HEBREW ACADEMY
IS NOW ACCEPTING APPLICATIONS FOR
ENROLLMENT FOR THE 1984-1985
SCHOOL YEAR
KINDERGARTEN THROUGH SIXTH GRADE
FOR INFORMATION CALL;
Eleanor Weinglass - 366-6093
Ann Abel • 364-8093
Peggy Gartner - 366-2100
m
Tonight. . .
Dine Half a World Away.
Nakato Japanese St«afc Houw
2501 E lnd«p«nd«nc« Bivd
(704) 372-1000 for Reservation}