Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (47 page)

CHAPTER 53
 

Jonathan Kenon arrived on the shores of the U.S. from the Island of Trinidad on August 9,1970. His wife, Dorothy, and their three small children remained behind, while he, an uneducated auto mechanic, tried to establish a life so that they could eventually join him. He found lodging in a dilapidated SRO on Atlantic Avenue, and worked pumping gas for minimum wages at a Texaco station.

Jonathan was a punctual and reliable employee, and Martin Siegel, the Jewish owner of the station, took a liking to him. Martin was refurbishing his home in Great Neck, Long Island, and the contractor needed help, so he offered Jonathan extra work on the weekends. A few weeks later, one of the mechanics strained his back, and Martin decided to give Jonathan a chance to step in. Within two months, Jonathan was earning a full mechanic’s salary at Siegel’s Texaco on Atlantic Avenue, plus the weekend job.

It took three years for Jonathan to save enough for a down payment on a home, assume a mortgage, and send for his family. It hadn’t been easy, but Jonathan was a disciplined, God fearing man. He never drank, womanized, or gambled. In fact, the only place he ever went besides work was to church on Sundays. His rent was cheap, he never bought clothing or much of anything, and his food preferences were simple. The only indulgence he had allowed himself during these years had been two trips back to Trinidad.

All in all, Jonathan had saved a “mint.” By the time Dorothy and the children arrived, the red-brick house on Crown Street had been fully prepared. He had purchased beds and furniture for the children’s rooms and master bedroom, a dining room set, living room set, and even some odds and ends for the basement. He had used the skills he acquired on his weekend job to renovate one of the bathrooms, and had done such a fine job installing carpet in the living room and master bedroom, he just had to bring Mr. Siegel over to see it.

“I would have expected nothing less,” his boss said, offering the praise Jonathan had hoped for.

Jonathan was the last of ten children. His father had died of cholera shortly before his birth. Mr. Siegel was as close a substitute as Jonathan had ever encountered; kind, fair, and compassionate. Siegel’s own parents had also been immigrants, and giving someone like Jonathan a break came naturally.

Jonathan’s family had always been poor. His older brothers had worked from the time they were seven just to put food on the table. He had spent his youth dreaming of a better life, of coming to America and giving his children the education and opportunities he never had. And now, only ten years after his arrival on the shores of New York, Jonathan Kenon’s oldest and only son was about to graduate from Brooklyn College.

Dorothy had found the perfect dress for the occasion, and was showing it off to Jonathan when the doorbell rang. It was late, ten-thirty, an unusual time for a visitor, and the sound of the bell was startling.

Jonathan descended the stairs to the front door and asked who was there. The caller identified himself as Ephraim Gross, one of Jonathan’s Hasidic neighbors. Recognizing the name, Jonathan immediately opened the door. Ephraim Gross was not alone.

“Ah, Mr. Kenon, sorry to bother you this time of night,” Ephraim Gross said. Jonathan looked at the three other Hasidic men with Gross, none of whom he recognized, wondering what was going on. Gross continued, “May we come in, please, there is something we would like to discuss.”

Jonathan had known Gross for the past seven years, and had always found him to be a respectful, though cold neighbor. With what was happening in the neighborhood lately, even that was a blessing. He had no reason to suspect anything untoward from Gross, so he instinctively opened the door and invited the men into his living room.

Dorothy, still upstairs, called down to him, asking who was at the door. “It’s our neighbor, Mr. Gross, and some other gentlemen,” Jonathan answered, adding, “I’ll be up soon.”

The five men sat, and Ephraim Gross introduced the three Hasidim with him: Paul “Pinchas” Sims, Yossie Bloom, and Moshe Friedman. Omitting any niceties, Gross got right down to business. “We’re here to talk to you about possibly selling your house,” Gross said, almost casually.

Jonathan was dumbfounded. “But my house isn’t for sale.”

“Yes,” interrupted Paul, “we are aware of that. We are here to make you an attractive offer, so that you might consider selling.”

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Jonathan said, “I don’t mean to be impolite, but my house is not on the market, and if that’s all, the hour is late.” He glanced at his watch to emphasize the point.

His visitors stared blankly at one another before Paul turned again to Jonathan. He had a well-rehearsed script to deal with such resistance. “Look, Mr. Kenon, I intend no disrespect, but we are prepared to offer you a significant sum of money, cash, that will surely yield you a nice profit on what you originally paid, and enable you to move anywhere you like.”

“I like it just fine right here!”

Dorothy called again from upstairs: “Jonathan, is everything okay?”

“Yes dear, I’ll be right up.” To the others: “Gentlemen, as I said, it
is
late.”

“Just one more thing before we go,” Paul said. “I don’t know what you paid for this house, but I would imagine it was somewhere around fifty or sixty thousand.” Paul actually did know the exact figure—to the penny. “That was seven years ago and, as you know, real estate hasn’t exactly been booming in these parts.” The others nodded. “In all, we’re prepared to pay you a twenty percent profit on your initial investment, which, if you check up on things, is quite handsome.”

“Only to someone who is selling,” Jonathan responded adamantly.

“Will you at least think about our offer? We can come back next week to discuss it further.”

“Don’t bother, I’m not interested.” With that, Jonathan stood, walked to the front door, and opened it.

Paul looked at his colleagues, signaling that it was indeed time to leave. Yossie Bloom and Moshe Friedman left first, passing Jonathan as if he were a fixture. Ephraim Gross stopped to shake his neighbor’s hand, and Jonathan hesitantly obliged. Paul stopped and said, “I’m sorry if we offended you, Mr. Kenon. Please understand, that was not our intention. We simply have people coming to live here, to be closer to our grand rabbi, from all over the world, and we’re running out of space. I assure you, this isn’t racial.”

“Fine,” Jonathan responded, not wanting to get into any further discussion on the matter. He shook Paul’s hand also, closed the door, and stared at the walls around him. His body trembled, he watched his hands shake. Twenty percent profit on his house, undoubtedly a tempting offer, all things considered. He calculated the exact amount in his mind, close to a year’s salary. Tempting indeed! But he could never do it. Everything he’d ever worked for or dreamed of was under this roof, and nobody was going to take it from him. He thought about Paul’s last words:
this
isn’t
racial
. “Not much,” he mused.

Outside, Paul and his cohorts licked their wounds. Jonathan Kenon had been their third prospect that evening, and thus far only one was even remotely interested. They had a list of ten homeowners to be covered before the end of the week. It was late, and they were worn from the defeat. They would meet again the next night to continue. Perhaps the break would invigorate them.

Paul decided to walk for a while before returning home, mulling over his acts, rationalizing that the Hasidim needed more housing within safe walking distance to the synagogue to accommodate growing families and new immigrants. But he knew that this was only part of the truth, for Rav Schachter had even spoken about encouraging Asians to buy up homes in the neighborhood; anything to rid the area of blacks.

Paul’s contribution to this cause had certainly gained him respect and influence among his peers, but he was left uneasy, haunted by the voice of Rabbi Weissman telling him of how the Nazis sought to make Germany
Judenrein
, free of Jews. And then there was Loretta; how heartbroken she would be if she ever learned of this.

Still, he couldn’t stop. Aside from his indebtedness to Rav Schachter, he simply couldn’t deny himself the acceptance and admiration from others he was finally receiving.

He wandered for a while, unsure of where he was heading, mindlessly turning corners and drifting through the streets, until he found himself standing in front of the building in which Loretta and Joshua lived. He was perplexed as to how or why he’d ended up there, but after some reflection, he understood. It had been years since he’d last seen Loretta, and she was still the only person who could make him feel okay. He needed her now, more than ever.

As he approached the door, he hesitated, recalling that awful night with Rachel and wondering if she had ever told Joshua about it. He became fearful, and was about to leave, but felt himself compelled to stay. He had to see Loretta, and if that meant a confrontation with Joshua, so be it. He rang the bell.

Loretta answered the door in her bathrobe, appearing quite surprised to see him. It had been many years. She looked older, her hair mostly gray, and she’d added some weight to her still handsome figure.

Paul heard the television in the living room, and was relieved he hadn’t awakened her. He apologized anyway, for appearing unannounced this time of night. She assured him it was nothing, and told him, in fact, that she wished he would visit more often. He was always welcome.

She lamented that Joshua was out at some sort of business meeting. Paul was silently thankful. She showed him into the living room and turned off the TV. He didn’t have much to say, no explanation for his visit, and she didn’t ask for one. She was happy just to see him, and went on and on about Joshua’s fortune. He told her he had read about it in the newspaper, and watched her face come aglow with pride.

They talked some about his parents. He told her that it was silly for her to continue working for them. “That’s funny, Joshua says the same thing,” she commented, and then said nothing more about it. It was no time for a disagreement.

He stayed for close to half an hour, and left without any mention of his recent escapades. He had found what he had come for—someone who simply appreciated him. And yet, having gotten that, he felt even worse than before.

When he finally arrived home, it was after twelve. Chava was upstairs sleeping. He stopped in the girls’ bedroom, as he did every night, to watch them sleep for a little while.

He stood quietly in the doorway, his eyes on Rifky, his youngest, now ten. “My little princess,” he always called her, knowing that a cuter, more precocious child was simply nowhere to be found. A wave of sadness came over him; she was growing up, and Chava could not bear more children. The doctor had said no, the last pregnancy had been too difficult.

He then turned his attention to Sheindy, his first, now twelve. The serious, studious one, a pleasure across a chess board, or discussing biblical passages. God had been less kind with her appearance, he had to admit, but he was confident she would thrive. He was becoming an important man, and both his daughters were destined to marry scholars.

He caught himself, surprised to be thinking of his little girls and marriage. He looked at them, feeling ridiculous for considering such a thing while they were still so young. Yet, as he turned away and walked to his bedroom, the thought lingered. There was no denying it, the years were speeding by.

He tiptoed around the room, thinking Chava was asleep, but as usual, she wasn’t. She pretended, as she believed a dutiful wife should. And she wondered.

He had never explained his late nights, and she had never asked. She knew he was involved in the citizens’ patrol, which accounted for two, maybe three nights a week. But recently he’d been out almost every evening, and she knew he wasn’t spending that time at the yeshiva. In fact, she’d heard through the neighborhood rumor mill that his presence in the yeshiva had dwindled quite a bit these past few months.

She had learned many things from the
yenta
brigade, like the stories she’d heard before they were married concerning his supposed interest in another woman, and other similar rumors that had resurfaced over the years. She had always dismissed such chatter, going about her business, and praying to God that everything would turn out well for her and her children. But now it was coming back to haunt her.

Paul was haunted too, his ceaseless battle with insomnia fueled by his recent adventures. He wanted to tell Chava what he’d been doing, perhaps merely to alleviate some of the guilt, but he was afraid of her disapproval, and also concerned she might pressure him to quit. He couldn’t quit now; he had to stay the course.

So here he was, nearing thirty-two, duplicitous, weak, and sneaking around behind his family’s back, all to attain an elusive sense of worth and importance. And in the end, amid the self loathing and incessant doubt, there was only one fact of which he could be certain: he was nothing more than his father’s son.

CHAPTER 54
 

It had been years since Arthur Miller’s death, but his memory still stirred the attendees of the annual Nostrand Avenue Commerce Association’s dinner and dance. Joshua sat beside Connie, restlessly listening to speech after speech, award recipients and community leaders parroting the ills of local law enforcement and the preferential treatment afforded their Hasidic neighbors. The Miller incident and its aftermath had left a bitterness that would seemingly never wane. Joshua looked around. Hatred was thriving in the midst, unchecked, uncensored. The storm was closing in.

The complaints had become all too familiar: the closing down of streets and rerouting of buses on the Jewish Sabbath and holidays; the Hasidic anti-crime patrol preying on blacks, checking innocent people for identification when they walked the streets; rumors of attempted blockbusting by offering exorbitant amounts of money to buy out black residences; the Hatzalah Ambulance Service, an emergency medical group started by the Hasidim, denying services to blacks and other non-Jews; and lastly, the disproportionate influence of the Hasidim in the allocation of public funds for housing and other community needs. Joshua couldn’t deny that much of it was true. The blacks were by far the majority, at least seventy percent of the community, yet their clout was meager in comparison to the Hasidim. Corrections were due. But the venom disturbed him.

Amid the applause and cheering, he scanned the room for fellow skeptics, and thought he spotted a few. He could tell that Connie was uncomfortable as well. They were on the same page about most things, and equally worried about the future.

The evening was redeemed by the food and music. Lobster bisque followed by a delectable three greens salad, and an entrée of Chateaubriand, roasted potatoes, with asparagus and Hollandaise sauce. Joshua had his steak rare, and when dessert came around—a choice of chocolate mousse, New York cheese cake, or a fruit cup—he had all three.

Connie skipped the soup, selected the salmon instead of steak, and stuck with the fruit cup. She watched her partner enviously. “Forget what the speakers have been talking about, what really is unjust in this world is how someone can eat the way you do, and stay thin,” she said.

“The benefits of a fast metabolism,” he replied.

She just watched in disbelief.

The six-piece band had a nice sound, and things livened up a bit after the speeches. It was time to party and forget the misery, something that seemed to come easily to the crowd.

Because of his leg, Joshua had always been shy about dancing. Connie had never coerced him to try, though they’d attended several dinner-dances together. They usually sat, watched the crowd, drank and joked some, and simply found pleasure in being together away from the office. Their bond was strong, even more so since they’d stopped messing around.

She’d recently been dating a gentleman named Marcus Sterling, a good looking local black lawyer who had been elected to the city council. Joshua was glad, for Marcus was an “up-and-coming,” ambitious player who, like himself, rose from the streets and fought hard. The difference between them was that Marcus was a politician, savvy from the get-go, and a mite too radical for Connie’s blood. Joshua had been encouraging her to stick with Marcus anyway. “Politics isn’t everything,” he had told her just a few days earlier.

“Maybe not,” she had responded, “but it sure makes for strange bedfellows.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

That had given her a good laugh.

Marcus was at the dinner, and had spent most of the evening smoking stogies and hobnobbing with cronies and constituents. He had greeted Joshua and Connie earlier, and had promised Connie a dance later in the evening. Now, Joshua saw him approaching their table, and figured the councilman was going to make good on his promise. But Joshua was wrong. Instead of asking for a dance, Marcus took a seat beside Connie, put his arm around her, and started talking with the two of them. He seemed smooth and calculated. Joshua knew something was up.

“So, you folks having a good time?” Marcus asked.

“Real good,” Joshua answered.

Connie just smiled. Somehow she sensed, as Joshua had, that this was going to be a conversation between the two men.

“You know, Connie, your partner here seems to be the talk of the town these days,” Marcus said.

“Really, what did he do now?”

They all chuckled.

“No, seriously,” Marcus said to Joshua, “I’ve been speaking with people all night, and your name keeps popping up.”

“For what?” Joshua asked.

“Well…” Marcus hesitated, looked Joshua in the eye, and said, “There’s a vacancy coming up on the community board.”

Joshua froze. That wasn’t even close to what he’d expected to hear. He had thought Marcus might solicit some
pro
bono
legal work on a lost cause case or something, but never this. Connie looked equally surprised.

“Community Board Nine?” Joshua asked.

“That’s the one,” Marcus replied.

There was a long moment of silence, which Marcus broke, saying, “Look, I understand you weren’t prepared for this. Take some time, think about it. We’ll get together in a few days for lunch, the three of us.” He looked at Connie, and continued, “We’ll talk it over then. For now, I’m going to steal this pretty lady away for a dance.” He shook Joshua’s hand, stood up, and led Connie from the table.

Joshua sat alone, contemplating what had just transpired. It was a flattering offer, no doubt, and quite perplexing, especially coming from Marcus Sterling. Joshua knew that Sterling was a close associate of both Alvin Thompson and Jerome Williams, and figured that Sterling must have been aware of his lack of cooperation with the professor in the past. He wondered why Sterling would be interested in
him
.

Community Board Nine was a hotbed, and had been since its inception eight years earlier in 1977, when Mayor Abraham Beame, under pressure from the Hasidic community, divided the Crown Heights “community advisory board” into two separate boards. The new districts were separated by Eastern Parkway, with Board Eight representing the north side, and board nine representing the south side. Since community boards were mandated with the allocation and distribution of public funds, the Hasidim sought the redistricting because of demographics. The south side of Eastern Parkway was their stronghold, and by excluding the north side, which was predominantly black, they became less of a minority, gained greater representation and, thus, more resources for themselves. Black leaders had challenged the redistricting in federal court, arguing that it was a political payoff to the Hasidic community for their electoral support of Mayor Beame. The case had been thrown out.

To Joshua’s mind, Board Nine was no different from the streets, just another battleground for conflict between blacks and Jews in Crown Heights, its very existence a thorn in the side of rapprochement. Sadly, he knew it could have been a forum for community leaders to reason and resolve differences, but such dreams rarely prevailed against the opportunity to bicker and divide. Especially in Crown Heights.

And here he was, once again being asked to join the circus, his solicitor none other than a representative of those whom he’d thought had scorned him. His immediate inclination was to decline, of course, but first he needed to learn why they’d chosen
him
.

Loretta and Connie were ecstatic about the idea, but neither was surprised at Joshua’s hesitance. Loretta relished the prospect of her son becoming a community leader, while Connie focused on the positive effect it would have on business. Joshua couldn’t deny Connie’s point, nor could he deprive his mother of yet another boost of pride. But then there was Rachel. This wasn’t going to be an easy decision.

Rachel was cautious. “This would put you right in the middle of things, wouldn’t it?” she asked, leaning on the table with both elbows, her face resting in her hands. It was the next evening, and the luncheon with Marcus Sterling was scheduled for the following day.

“It would. It would also give me the chance to do some good.” He was trying to convince himself as much as her.

“Possibly. The latest I’ve been hearing is that the board spends all its time fighting over how many blacks versus how many Jews should be sitting on it. There isn’t much good in that.”

Joshua nodded.

The waitress brought their orders. Rachel had a large salad. Nuts, raisins, alfalfa sprouts, grated carrots, cherry-tomatoes, and cucumbers atop a bed of romaine lettuce. Joshua had a veggie-burger, the closest he could get to “real” sustenance.

He was amazed how they’d been coming to the same place, week after week, year after year, ordering the same dishes, and sitting at the same table. He had once joked that the owners should hang a picture of them on the wall above the table, or at least name a sandwich after them.

“You’d have to be famous for that,” Rachel had said.

“Even in a place like this?”

“Most certainly.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to become famous.”

Once in a while they would get together with Esther and Stephen for dinner, both of whom Joshua had come to like over the years. He felt good about going out with another couple; it seemed almost “normal.” He also enjoyed watching Rachel with Esther, the way the two women treated one another, and Rachel’s implacable trust in Esther’s discretion. There was much about their relationship that neither he nor Stephen would ever grasp. One thing he did see, however, was that whenever Esther or Stephen talked about their children, Rachel struggled to conceal her anguish. Joshua, too, had some regrets in this department.

Rachel was comforted that Esther had put on some weight since her pregnancies, and was looking healthy. Esther and Stephen had a seven year old girl and six year old boy. Luckily for them, Stephen’s mother was available to watch the children during the days and some nights. Money was tight, and they both had to work to make ends meet. Several years back he had fallen into managing a grocery store owned by a distant relative; Esther was at the check-out counter. They still belonged to a small repertory that put on a few off-beat plays during the year, in a basement firetrap somewhere in the West Village. They rehearsed evenings and weekends.
So
much
for
dreams
.

“I’m sure you’ve already decided what you’re going to do,” Rachel said.

“Not really.”

“Seems you’ve got a lot to think about.”

“What’s your opinion?”

She threw him a serious look.

“I know, you don’t want to interfere,” he said.

“No, I do,” she responded assuredly. “I think you
should
do it. Whatever Sterling’s motivations, maybe you
can
do some good. God knows someone has to sooner or later.”

“Yeah, but what if I get sucked in.”

“Sucked in to what?”

“The prestige, the power.”

She laughed. “That’ll never happen.”

He wasn’t so sure.

Mario’s was a quiet little Italian place at the far end of Montague Street, just off the Brooklyn Heights promenade, which overlooked Manhattan’s downtown skyline. It had been Sterling’s choice, an unpopular, out-of-the-way place with decent food and guaranteed privacy. He, Joshua, and Connie were the only customers, and Joshua couldn’t help wondering if it had somehow been arranged that way.

Joshua and Connie walked from the courthouse together. They were already sitting at the bar and had just ordered cocktails when Marcus arrived. He was wearing a three-piece, navy pinstripe, starched white shirt, the collar of which was pinched by a gold tie-bar, and a solid red silk necktie with matching handkerchief. His cologne, which Connie knew was Aramis, was obvious, though not strong enough to extinguish the smell of tobacco. Connie had complained to Joshua, on more than one occasion, of Marcus’ cigar habit.

They exchanged niceties. Marcus looked at his watch, giving the distinct impression that he hadn’t much time to waste on chit chat. That was fine with Joshua. They took their table, and got down to business.

“So, have you considered our conversation the other night?” Marcus asked, not even bothering to lift a menu.

“Yes, I’ve thought a lot about it.”

Connie’s mind was on the menu. She knew she wasn’t going to be participating much in the discussion, that she had been invited solely because her presence would make Marcus and Joshua more comfortable with one another.

“It’s a great opportunity, for you, and for the community,” Marcus said.

“I’m definitely flattered.”

“You seem hesitant.”

“Well, to be honest, I practice law, not politics.”

“And you’ll still be able to practice law. That’s the great thing. The community board doesn’t really require a tremendous time commitment. They meet once a month, and, of course, there are those annoying social affairs that you have to attend. Otherwise, your life is as it was. You conduct your business as usual, though you might pick up some new high-powered clients here and there.”