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  Patsy put on the light. Sam’s face was a dark red. He was perspiring from every pore. He pulled up the quilt to cover his shoulders.

  “Why did you do it for, Sam?” asked Patsy.

  “What? What?” Sam said excitedly, “what did I do?”

  “The gas. You turned on the gas radiator without making the light.”

  “It wasn’t lit?” cried Sam in astonishment.

  “No,” said Mrs. Costa.

  Sam grew quieter. He lay back. “I made a mistake,” he said. “This is the first time I made such a mistake.”

  “Didn’t you do it on purpose?” asked Mrs. Costa.

  “What on purpose? Why on purpose?” Sam asked.

  “We thought—”

  “No,” said Sam, “no, I made a mistake. Maybe the match was no good.”

  “Then you shoulda smelled the gas,” said Patsy.

  “No, I got a cold.”

  “The only thing that saved you was you got a lot of air. You’re lucky this flat ain’t windproof.”

  “Yes, I’m lucky,” Sam agreed.

  “I told you to put on a coat,” said Mrs. Costa. “He was standing out in the snow without a coat,” she said to Ida.

  Ida was pale and silent.

  “Well, come on,” said Patsy, taking his wife by the arm, “everybody wants to go to sleep.”

  “Good night,” said Mrs. Costa.

  “Leave the windows open for a coupla minutes more, and don’t light no matches,” advised Patsy.

  “I’m much obliged to you for your trouble you took,” said Sam.

  “Don’t mention it at all,” said Patsy, “but next time take more care.”

  “It was a mistake,” said Sam. “Nothing more, I assure you.”

  The Costas left. Ida saw them to the door and turned the lock. Sam covered himself more securely with the quilt. The house was freezing with the windows open. He was afraid he would begin to sneeze again. Ida said nothing. Sam fell asleep very soon.

  Ida waited until the house was free of the smell of gas. Then she closed the windows. Before undressing, she looked at the radiator and saw that the stopcock was closed. She got into bed, utterly fatigued, and fell asleep immediately.

  It seemed to Ida that she had slept only a short time when she awoke suddenly. Frightened, she looked at Sam, but he was bulked up beside her with the covers over his head. She listened to his deep, heavy breathing, and the momentary fear left her. Ida was fully awake now, and the events of the day tumbled quickly through her brain. She thought of the episode of the gas, and a sharp streak of pain ripped through every nerve in her body. Had Sam really tried to take his life? Had he? She wanted to wake him and ask him, but she was afraid. She turned over and tried to sleep again, but she couldn’t.

  Ida reached over to the night table and looked at the luminous face of the clock. It was four-twenty-five. The alarm would ring at six. Sam would get up and she would ask him, then maybe she could sleep. She closed her eyes, but still no sleep came. She opened them and kept them open.

  A faint tinkling on the window caused her to look out. By the light of the street lamp she could see that it was snowing again. The flakes drifted down slowly and silently. They seemed to hang in the air, then the wind rose and blew them against the windows. The windows rattled softly; then everything became quiet again, except for the ticking of the clock.

  Ida reached over for the clock and shut off the alarm. It was nearly five. At six o’clock she would get up, dress, and go downstairs. She would pull in the milk box and the bread. Then she would sweep the store, and then the snow from the sidewalk. Let Sam sleep. Later, if he felt better, he could come downstairs. Ida looked at the clock again. Five past five. The sleep would do him good.

  1943

  Benefit Performance

  Maurice Rosenfeld was conscious of himself as he took the key from his pocket and inserted it into the door of his small apartment. The Jewish actor saw his graying hair, the thick black eyebrows, the hunch of disappointment in his shoulders, and the sardonic grimness of his face accentuated by the twisted line of the lips. Rosenfeld turned the key in the lock, aware that he was playing his role well. Tragedy in the twisting of a key, he thought.

  “Who’s there?” said a voice from inside the apartment.

  Surprised, Rosenfeld pushed open the door and saw that it was his daughter who had called out. Sophie was lying in her bed, which became the couch when it was folded together, and her bedroom became the living room. There was one other room, a small one, where Rosenfeld and his wife slept, and an alcove for the kitchen. When her father was working and came home late after the performance, Sophie would set up three screens around her bed so that she would not be awakened by the light which he put on while heating up some milk for himself before going to bed. The screens served another purpose. Whenever Sophie and her father quarreled, she set them up and let him rant outside. Deprived of her presence, he became silent and sulked. She sat on her sofa, reading a magazine by the light of her own lamp and blessing the screens for giving her privacy and preserving her dignity.

  The screens were stacked up in the corner, and Rosenfeld was surprised to see his daughter in bed.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  “I’m not well,” she answered.

  “Where’s Momma?”

  “She went to work.”

  “Today she’s working?”

  “She had half a day off. She’s working from five to ten.”

  Rosenfeld looked around. The table in the alcove was not set and it was nearly suppertime.

  “She left me to eat, something?”

  “No, she thought you were going to eat with Markowitz. Is there anything doing?”

  “No,” he said bitterly, “nothing is doing. The Jewish theayter is deep in hell. Since the war, the Jews stay home. Everybody else goes out for a good time to forget their troubles, but Jews stay home and worry. Second Avenue is like a tomb.”

  “What did Markowitz want to see you for?” Sophie asked.

  “A benefit, something. I should act in a benefit for Isaac Levin.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “you had a good season last year.”

  “I’m too young to live on memories,” he said.

  Sophie had no answer to that.

  “If you want me to make you something, I’ll get up,” she said.

  He walked into the kitchen and looked into the pots on the gas range.

  “No, I’ll make for myself. Here is some potatoes and carrots left over. I’ll warm them up.”

  “Warm up the hamburger in the oven. Momma made one for me, but I couldn’t eat it.”

  Rosenfeld pulled down the door of the broiler and glanced distastefully at the hamburger on the wire grill. “No, it burns me my stomach when I eat chopmeat,” he said, closing the broiler door.

  “How is your stomach?” she asked.

  He placed his hand underneath his heart. “Today I got gas.” He was moved by her solicitousness.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked her.

  “Like always. The first day is bad.”

  “It will go away.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said.

  He lit the flame under the vegetables and began to stir the mashed potatoes. They were lumpy. The remnants of his appetite disappeared. Sophie saw the look on his face and said, “Put some butter in the potatoes.” For a moment Rosenfeld did not move, but when Sophie repeated her suggestion, he opened the icebox.

  “What butter?” he said, looking among the bottles and the fruit. “Here is no butter.”

  Sophie reached for her housecoat, drew it on over her head, and pulled up the zipper. Then she stepped into her slippers.

  “I’ll put some milk in,” she said.

  Without wanting to, he was beginning to grow angry.

  “Who wants you to? Stay in bed. I’ll take care myself of the—the supper,” he ended sarcastically.

  “Poppa,” she said, “don’t be stubb
orn. I’ve got to get up anyway.”

  “For me you don’t have to get up.”

  “I said I have to get up anyway.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Someone is coming.”

  He turned toward her. “Who’s coming?”

  “Pa, let’s not start that.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “I don’t want to fight. I’m sick today.”

  “Who’s coming, answer me.”

  “Ephraim.”

  “The plum-ber?” He was sarcastic.

  “Please, Pa, don’t fight.”

  “I should fight with a plum-ber?”

  “You always insult him.”

  “I insult a plum-ber? He insults me to come here.”

  “He’s not coming to see you. He’s coming to see me.”

  “He insults you to come here. What does a plum-ber, who didn’t even finish high school, want with you? You don’t need a plum-ber.”

  “I don’t care what I need, Poppa, I’m twenty-eight years old,” she said.

  “But a plum-ber!”

  “He’s a good boy. I’ve known him for twelve years, since we were in high school. He’s honest and he makes a nice steady living.”

  “All right,” Rosenfeld said angrily. “So I don’t make a steady living. So go on, spill some more salt on my bleeding wounds.”

  “Poppa, don’t act, please. I only said he made a steady living. I didn’t say anything about you.”

  “Who’s acting?” he shouted, banging the icebox door shut and turning quickly. “Even if I didn’t support you and your mother steady, at least I showed you the world and brought you in company with the greatest Jewish actors of our times. Adler, Schwartz, Ben-Ami, Goldenburg, all of them have been in my house. You heard the best conversation about life, about books and music and all kinds art. You toured with me everywhere. You were in South America. You were in England. You were in Chicago, Boston, Detroit. You got a father whose Shylock in Yiddish even the American critics came to see and raved about it. This is living. This is life. Not with a plum-ber. So who is he going to bring into your house, some more plum-bers, they should sit in the kitchen and talk about pipes and how to fix a leak in the toilet? This is living? This is conversation? When he comes here, does he open his mouth? The only thing he says is yes and no, yes and no—like a machine. This is not for you.”

  Sophie had listened to her father in silence.

  “Poppa, that’s not fair,” she said quietly, “you make him afraid to talk to you.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy him.

  “Don’t be so much in the hurry,” he said more calmly. “You can get better.”

  “Please drop the subject.”

  The bell rang. Sophie pressed the buzzer.

  “Poppa, for godsake, please be nice to him.”

  He said nothing but turned to his cooking, and she went into the bathroom.

  Ephraim knocked on the door.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened and he walked in. He was tall, very well built, and neatly dressed. His hair was carefully slicked back, but his hands were beefy and red from constant washing in hot water, which did not remove the calluses on his palms or the grease pockets underneath his nails. He was embarrassed to find only Sophie’s father in.

  “Is Sophie here?” he asked.

  “Good evening,” said Rosenfeld sarcastically.

  Ephraim blushed.

  “Good evening,” he said. “Is Sophie here?”

  “She will be here in a minute.”

  “Thank you very much.” He remained standing.

  Rosenfeld poured some milk into the potatoes and stirred them with a fork. “So you working now in the project houses?” he asked.

  Ephraim was surprised to be addressed so politely. “No,” he said. “We’re working in the Brooklyn Navy Yard on the new ships.”

  “Hmm, must be a lot of toilets on the battleships?” Rosenfeld asked.

  Ephraim did not answer him. Sophie came out of the bathroom with her hair neatly combed and a small blue ribbon in it to match the blue in her housecoat.

  “Hello, Eph,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Sit down,” she said, placing a chair near her bed. “I’ll get back into bed.” She lifted her feet out of the slippers, fixed the pillow so she could sit up, and covered herself with her blanket. Ephraim was facing her. Over his shoulder she could see her father scooping out the vegetables onto a plate. Then he sat down at the table and began to mash them.

  “What’s new, Eph?” she asked.

  He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, the fingers of both hands interlocked.

  “Nothing new,” he said.

  “Did you work today?”

  “Only half a day. I got three weeks overtime.”

  “What else is new?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Did you hear about Edith and Mortie?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. Rosenfeld lowered his fork.

  “They got married Sunday.”

  “That’s good,” he said.

  “Oh, another thing, I bought tickets for the Russian War Relief at Madison Square Garden. Can you go Friday night?”

  “Yes,” he said. Rosenfeld banged his fork down on his plate. Ephraim did not turn and Sophie did not look up. They were silent for a moment, and then Sophie began again.

  “Oh, I forgot,” she said, “I wrote to Washington for those civilservice requirements for you. Did your mother tell you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Rosenfeld banged his fist on the table. “Yes and no, yes and no,” he shouted. “Don’t you know no other words?”

  Ephraim did not turn around.

  “Poppa, please,” begged Sophie.

  “Yes and no,” shouted her father, “yes and no. Is this the way to talk to an educated girl?”

  Ephraim turned around and said with dignity, “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to your daughter.”

  “You not talking to her. You insulting her with yes and no. This is not talk.”

  “I’m not an actor,” said Ephraim. “I work with my hands.”

  “Don’t open your mouth to insult me.”

  Ephraim’s jaw was trembling. “You insulted me first.”

  “Please, please,” cried Sophie. “Poppa, if you don’t stop, I’m going to put up the screens.”

  “So put up the screens to hide the plum-ber,” her father taunted.

  “At least a plumber can support a wife and don’t have to send her out to work for him,” cried Ephraim, his voice full of emotion.

  “Oh, Ephraim, don’t,” moaned Sophie.

  For a moment Rosenfeld was stunned. Then his face reddened and he began to stutter, “You nothing, you. You nothing,” he cried. His lips moved noiselessly as he tried to find words to say. Suddenly he caught himself and paused. He rose slowly. Rosenfeld crossed his arms over his breast, then raised them ceilingward and began to speak deliberately in fluent Yiddish.

  “Hear me earnestly, great and good God. Hear the story of the afflictions of a second Job. Hear how the years have poured misery upon me, so that in my age, when most men are gathering their harvest of sweet flowers, I cull nothing but weeds.

  “I have a daughter, O God, upon whom I have lavished my deepest affection, whom I have given every opportunity for growth and education, who has become so mad in her desire for carnal satisfaction that she is ready to bestow herself upon a man unworthy to touch the hem of her garment, to a common, ordinary, wordless, plum-ber, who has neither ideals nor—”

  “Poppa,” screamed Sophie, “Poppa, stop it!”

  Rosenfeld stopped and a look of unutterable woe appeared on his face. He lowered his arms and turned his head toward Ephraim, his nostrils raised in scorn.

  “Plum-ber,” he said bitterly.

  Ephraim looked at him with hatred. He tried to move, but couldn’t.

  “You cheap actor,” he cried
suddenly, with venomous fury. “You can go straight to hell!” He strode over to the door, tore it open, and banged it so furiously that the room seemed to shake.

  By degrees Rosenfeld lowered his head. His shoulders hunched in disappointment, and he saw himself, with his graying hair, a tragic figure. Again he raised his head slowly and looked in Sophie’s direction. She was already setting up the screens. Rosenfeld moved toward the table in the alcove and glanced down at the vegetables on the plate. They bored him. He went over to the gas range, carefully lit the flame under the broiler, and pulled down the door to see whether the hamburger was cooking. It was. He closed the door, lowered the flame a bit, and said quietly:

  “Tonight I will eat chopmeat.”

  1943

  The Place Is Different Now

  Late one warm night in July, a week after they had let Wally Mullane out of the hospital on Welfare Island, he was back in his old neighborhood, searching for a place to sleep. He tried the stores on the avenue first, but they were closed, even the candy store on the corner. The hall doors were all shut, and the cellars padlocked. He peered into the barbershop window and cursed his luck for getting there so late, because Mr. Davido would have let him sleep on one of the barber chairs.

  He walked for a block along the avenue, past the stores, and turned in on Third Street, where the rows of frame houses began. In the middle of the block, he crossed the street and slipped into an alley between two old-fashioned frame houses. He tried the garage doors, but they were locked too. As he came out of the alley, he spotted a white-topped prowl car with shaded lights moving slowly down the street, close to the curb, under the trees. Ducking back into the alley, he hid behind a tree in the back yard and waited there nervously for the police car to go by. If the car stopped, he would run. He would climb the fences and come out in his mother’s yard on Fourth Street, but he didn’t like the idea. The lights moved by. In five minutes Wally sneaked out of the alley and walked quickly up the street. He wanted to try the cellars of the private houses but was afraid to because someone might wake and take him for a burglar. They would call the police, and it would be just his luck if his brother Jimmy was driving one of the radio cars.

  All night long Wally hunted through the neighborhood, up Fourth, then Fifth Street, then along the parkway, all the way from the cemetery to the railroad cut, which was a block from the avenue and ran parallel to it. He thought of sleeping in the BMT elevated station but didn’t have a nickel, so that was out. The coal yard near the railroad cut was out too, because they kept a watchman there. At five o’clock, tired from wandering, he turned into Fourth Street again and stood under a tree, across the street from his mother’s house. He wanted to go into the cellar and sleep there, but he thought of Jimmy and his sister Agnes and said to hell with that.