Family Interrupted (38 page)

The Dream Box
. Originally intended as a kind of hope chest, it now held her personal history—reminders of her joy and pain. Even sixty years with a good man couldn’t erase all the pain. In the end, however, it didn’t matter because somehow, together, she and Charlie had become one.

She carried
The Dream Box
to the desk she’d brought from her parents’ house, and carefully set it down. With a trembling hand, she lifted the lid and reached inside.

Chapter 2

Ani l’dodi v’dodi li – “I am my beloved’s

and my beloved is mine.”

-- Song of Songs

In the tradition of our ancestors we invite

you to join us for the wedding of our children

Rose Leah

and

Joseph Abraham

Sunday

December 7, 1941

12:00 p.m.

At the bride’s home

225 Hewes Street

Brooklyn, New York

Anna and Shimon Kaufman

Fanny and Mendel Rabinowitz

Rose had written every single invitation by hand. Enough for the whole family, enough for the whole neighborhood. Her papa and mama had no money to splurge on printed invitations—no one she knew did—but Rose had the energy and desire to mark the once-in-a-lifetime occasion. So, with her fine-pointed fountain pen, a supply of India ink and plain white paper, she’d become a scribe for her own wedding. Then she’d personally delivered every one of the invitations to the aunts, uncles, cousins—the whole
mishpocha
—in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

And now they were all here, gathering downstairs in the big living room and in the hallway—anywhere space allowed on the street-level floor of her family’s brownstone.

She hadn’t seen Joe yet and wouldn’t before the ceremony, not that she was superstitious. Not really. But on her wedding day, she’d do nothing to invite bad luck, and remained out of sight in the upstairs bedroom she shared with her sisters.

She started to hum, then sway, then waltz around the bedroom. “You’d…be…so easy to love…” Not a great voice, but today she would sing.

Joe! Her heart raced as she thought about him. She loved that man, so thankful her friend Sarah had an older brother. So delighted that Joe had
finally
viewed her in that special way girls dreamed about.

Rose had noticed him years before. He was everything a girl could want—well educated, handsome, funny and respected. A professional man—steady and reliable. Teaching high school English meant a paycheck they could count on—and needed—because Rose, at twenty, had two more years of college ahead of her before she could contribute. Rose’s family was as poor as everyone else’s in the neighborhood, but all the Kaufman kids went to college. “For a good future,” her papa would say, “not like now.” The City University was free, a bonus for living in New York and earning good grades in high school.

“Dum…dee…dum…dum…all others above…” She grasped the bedpost and continued to sway and hum “So Easy to Love.” So right! Joe and Rose. Rose and Joe.
Mrs.
Joseph Abraham Rabinowitz. Lucky, lucky…. A lifetime together wouldn’t be enough. She’d fix up their small apartment, make it special. “Dum…dum…to waken with…” she sang softly.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. The door opened and her sister Edith stood there, apron tied around her waist, her face flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Her eyes sparkled, however, as she took charge.

“Mama sent me to help you. It’s almost time.” Edith walked to the closet where Rose’s wedding dress hung on the door.

“Is Joe here yet?” Rose whispered, suddenly finding it difficult to speak.

Edith nodded. “The rabbi’s here, too, and everyone’s making their way upstairs now.” She waved toward the front of the house. “We were smart to take all the beds apart and clear out the other rooms up here. There’s lots more space than downstairs, especially now when it’s too cold to use the backyard.”

Her sister kept chatting, but her hands were busy as usual. Edith was the oldest, their mother’s first in line to assist and maybe the one most like Annie. A real
baleboosteh
, Edith could do anything, not that Rose and Gertie were left idle. In Annie Kaufman’s house, everyone had jobs to do.

“Thank you, Edith.” Rose reached for her sister. “So much cooking and cleaning…” Suddenly her eyes filled with tears, and Edith had a handkerchief ready to blot them.

“Bridal jitters? Don’t worry, Rosie. I’m still your sister, and you’re not going very far.” Calm words filled with common sense. “I’ve enjoyed the cooking…I’m good at it. And…I recruited a lot of help.”

“Well, the stuffed cabbage smells delicious,” replied Rose, sniffing the faint, tangy aroma that wafted upstairs. Not that she had much appetite right then. And not that she hadn’t helped prepare the sweet-and-sour dish. Goodness, they’d made vats of it this week and borrowed refrigerator space from their neighbors to store it.

“I’ve already arranged the gefilte fish and chopped liver on two big platters,” said Edith. “Lots of crackers, challah and rye bread squares. Everything’s set to serve right after the ceremony, including the sandwiches.”

At the last minute, Mama had ordered platters of deli sandwiches from the kosher caterer—an extravagance Rose hadn’t expected. So yesterday, with her younger sister Gertie’s help, Rose had prepared the potato salad and coleslaw to go along with the sandwiches. She’d been kept busy, but in the end, Mama and Edith were in charge of the wedding.

Edith reached for the dress and turned toward Rose. “It’s time.”

“Yes.” Barely a whisper.
This is the beginning of the rest of my life.
Rose swallowed hard, then thought about Joe and felt a smile cross her face.

“It’s not appropriate to walk down the aisle looking like the Cheshire cat,” Edith said with a laugh.

Rose twirled in place. “But I’m happy, Edith. Wish me well.”

“Of course I do, you goose. Now I wish you’d get into this dress!”

Rose removed her housecoat and raised her arms, allowing Edith to slip the ivory satin over her. A simple tea-length affair with three-quarter sleeves and empire waist, the dress showed off her curves. She’d spotted it in a secondhand store and it was three sizes too large for her. But she’d liked the style, knew the bias-cut skirt would flatter her, and bought it for twenty dollars. Then her work began. She took apart every seam, cut, pinned, basted and finally sewed it together again by hand stitch by tiny stitch, including the lace trim on the rounded neckline, lace that Edith had given to her.

“Slowly,” said Edith now, motioning Rose to turn around. “It looks beautiful. Perfect. Wait—I’ll roll the mirror to you.”

“I’ll go.” Rose walked to the corner of the room and stuied herself in the big, portable wood-framed mirror. Her thick, dark hair, styled with a pompadour and pulled back in a low chignon, was still neat. A light powder and a bit of rouge added color to her face. She reached for a pink lipstick and looked in the mirror again.

“A bride is supposed to look beautiful on her one special day,” she whispered. “Maybe I do. At least a little.”

“You
are
beautiful, Rosie!”

“As long as Joe thinks so,” she said.

Edith’s laughter rang out. “No problem there. The man’s besotted. Let’s get this veil on you.”

“Wait a moment.” Annie Kaufman’s voice interrupted.

Rose’s mother stood in the doorway, her husband right behind her. Only five feet tall and a hundred pounds, Annie filled any room simply by being “Mama.” She swept toward her daughters, her keen eyes taking in the scene.

She spoke to Edith. “How is she?”

“Mama, I’m right here,” said Rose.

“I know.”

“She’s fine,” replied Edith. “Ready to walk down the aisle to Joe.”

Now those sharp blue eyes studied Rose. “Is she right, my Rosela? You’re ready to stand under the chuppah and take your vows?”

“As long as Joe’s waiting there for me,” Rose said, “for the rest of my life.”

Her mother nodded and kissed her on the cheek. “Good. Good. A good man is Joe.” She walked back to Rose’s father. “Shimon, do you have the gift?” she asked, using her husband’s Yiddish name as she always did.

He reached into his pocket, and Annie returned to her daughter. “From your papa and mama, Rosela. Let’s see how they look.”

Rose opened the small box. Nestled inside were lovely pearl earrings. So unexpected. With shaky fingers, she put them on. Then her mama reached for the simple veil and, with a bobby pin, attached it to Rose’s hair in the back. She gently pulled some of the netting down over her daughter’s face, tweaked and fussed until it lay just so.

Annie Kaufman turned to her husband. “Shimon, tell the rabbi and Joseph that the bride is ready. It’s time for a wedding!”

##

To:Joe Rabinowitz, 106th Infantry, U.S. Army; somewhere in Europe

July 14, 1942

Dear Joe,

You left the States only last month, and I’m already trying to count the days until you come home. If we only knew when that will be! Training with an artillery division is a step closer to the front lines. Please be careful! In my optimistic moments, I think the war will end quickly, before you have to fight. Of course, that’s my heart speaking, not the army. But who knows? We have to have hope, no matter what.

I’ve decided that our six months together was our honeymoon. Maybe we’ve set a record for “longest honeymoon ever.” I miss you so much and comfort myself with thoughts of our wedding and the time we had as man and wife.

I’m not sure how or when or if the army is forwarding mail, but I haven’t received anything from you since you left. Maybe a letter will arrive this week. When it does, I’ll save it in the beautiful keepsake box my sisters gave us as a wedding gift. I call it our Dream Box, Joe, because for now, dreams are all we have. I love you and miss you and will write to you every day.

Yours forever,

Rose

August 15, 1942

Dear Joe,

A bunch of letters arrived today, and I read each one at least ten times. You describe everything so vividly. No wonder you became an English teacher! I will save the letters forever.

I have some news—news that will raise your spirits. My dear, darling Joe…I found out today that you and I are going to be parents! We have a baby “in the oven,” as they say. So now you have even more reason to take care of yourself and be careful. I’m not surprised, but I’m almost sorry you’ve been promoted to sergeant even though the pay is better. Casualty numbers are starting to be reported here. Joe, I love you and I want you back. Don’t be a hero. Be a daddy instead.

Yours forever, Rose

“Hoo-ha!” Sergeant Joseph Rabinowitz sat on his cot and leaned against the barn wall. His unit was resting in the English countryside and these quarters had served them well. A radio was playing “If I Had a Talking Picture of You,” and although the sun’s rays had long disappeared, he was able to read by lamplight due to the working generators.

“What’s up, Rabbi?” Almost everyone had a nickname out here, and his was a term of affection—a short form of Rabinowitz. They called him either Rabbi or Sarge. A bunch of swell guys.

Joe looked at his men, felt a grin cross his face, then felt heat crawl up his neck. “For crying out loud,” he said to no one inparticular. By now almost every eye was on him, and he pushed himself forward, his feet on the floor, and studied the fifty faces turned toward him, half of them younger, half of them older than his own twenty-eight.

He made his announcement: “Rosie says I’m going to be a daddy.”

With those words, he realized he already was—army style. He choked on his own breath for a moment until the cheers broke out, and congratulations filled the air.

“Let’s get this war over with so we can all go home and be daddies,” said one of the men.

Exactly what Rosie wanted. “When we get back,” said Joe, “every one of you is getting a cigar to celebrate my son.”

“Or your daughter,” a voice called out.

“Or my daughter,” concurred Joe, looking at the speaker, the one guy in his platoon who came from the same neighborhood in Brooklyn as Joe—Charlie Shapiro. Joe hadn’t known him before the war, but Charlie was an okay guy. Funny. Smart. Always thinking…but knew when to shut up, too—an excellent trait.

Joe glanced at his wristwatch. “Five minutes to lights out. Can’t use up all the juice.”

The men settled in. By civilian standards, it was still early, but this was army life. A physical life with early reveille, even for the men on guard duty. With that thought, Joe took a flashlight and went outside to make his own rounds, have a word with the sentries.

All was in order and by the time he got back to his cot, the barn was quieter. The men, however, seemed restless. He could hear them toss and turn, still not ready for sleep. Which meant they’d start to think about home too much, about family, about being three thousand miles away from their familiar worlds.

“I didn’t get any mail today,” a voice said, confirming Joe’s fears.

“And I got twelve letters all at once,” said another.

Joe chimed in. “The same thing happens stateside, too. Rosie went a couple of weeks without anything, and I’ve been writing almost every day. The mail will get here…eventually.” At least he could promise them that. Mail call was the highlight of the day, and he keenly felt their disappointment when men turned away empty-handed.

“Hey, Sarge,” said Charlie. “Nobody’s sleeping. How about finishing up the story of the Shrew, or the one about how you met Rosie.”

“Again?” Joe chuckled. He really was a daddy telling bedtime stories. Shakespeare helped, and Joe knew every play—he had plenty of material to help his men get through this war. And as far as Rosie went…well, he could talk about her for hours.

He heard the others quiet down. As an avid reader, he thought the word
story
had a magic all its own. Here he was, in the middle of England, with a platoon of girl-starved soldiers who wanted to hear a story. It sounded crazy, but war was crazy, too.