November 5, 2005--Saturday Story: "Dirty Jew Bastards!"

“Dirty Jew Bastards!”

The wedding dinner was proceeding without a hitch. That is until Jack Monahan began to weave his way toward the microphone.

The waiters, who had manned the Viennese Desert table, had put aside their flaming swords (brandishing flaming swords is how they announced the entrance of the rolling cart of pastries and other delights), and thus it was clear it was about time to send the new bride (my Ex) and groom (me) off on their honeymoon in Canada. (Having chosen such a cold place to tryst should have been warning enough about what awaited us.)

But Jack, who had had a few belts, wanted to say something and thus grabbed hold of the hand mike.

I need to begin by telling you how he got invited to the wedding in the first place since it was considerably more complicated than simply sending an invitation to him and his wife Roslyn.

Roslyn was my father’s long lost sister who had resurfaced just a few years before, after a life on the road. Most recently as a prostitute. You may be wondering how a Nice Jewish Girl from a middle class Brooklyn home wound up being a prostitute. When I found out that she even existed and then subsequently learned about her profession, you can be sure I wondered as well. Here’s that story and then, I promise, back to Jack and my first wedding.

Roslyn’s mother, my Grandma Annie, always wanted one of her children to be a star—not like most Jewish mothers a star in medical school or law school or in business. But on stage. And Roslyn, the last in the line of her thus-far untalented children, was Annie’s last hope. So from an early age she dragged Roslyn from talent agent to talent agent, from tryout to tryout, from amateur hour to amateur hour, thinking that since her final child looked like Shirley Temple and sang like Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale, she would be a star before she turned six.

But in spite of Annie’s dreams and assessment of Roslyn’s looks and talents, all the agents, all the producers, all the amateur hour hosts thought otherwise. Show Biz then and now is a crass business and what Roslyn heard and Annie ignored was, “She’s ugly and also sings off key.”

Annie was if nothing else persistent; but after years of schlepping Roslyn from place to place, when Roslyn turned 16, she took off on her own. Heading West.

And when she left town, Annie pretended that she had never existed, shredding all her 8x10 glossies. And her rivalrous siblings, who were relieved and thrilled to see her gone, also pretended she never existed—the four of them could resume their competition for their mother’s scant attention. Drifting back to the way it was before “what’s-her-name” arrived and spoiled all of their lives.

And so I grew up thinking my father had just two brothers, Ruby and Ben, and one sister, Madeline. No Roslyn.

During the first 15 years of my life, my father never ventured on his own further than a very occasional trip to Jersey City to visit his beloved Aunt Bess. So when one day he announced he was going to Wyoming, to say the very least, we were stunned. We even felt the need to double check the map to see if there might be a Wyoming, New Jersey where he might be going. There did not appear to be such a place; and so we were compelled to assume, no matter how unimaginable, that he was headed considerable west of NJ. And we knew this for sure when he said he’d be gone for at least a week and that he was going by train, round trip.

For sure, my father disappeared and ten days later returned, without any explanation about why he had left in the first place, but with a small pouch full of silver dollars, casually remarking, as he tossed the deerskin sack on the kitchen table, that this was the basic currency in, yes, Wyoming, Wyoming. That was it. Not a word about the train or what he saw much less what he experienced or did.

He just gave the silver dollars to me, as if that were explanation enough. As if to say, “Son, I just moseyed off to Wyoming to get you a fist full of dollars.” But, in truth, because they were so exotic and magical to me I quickly lost curiosity about why he had gone west and instead spend hours fantasizing about how these well worn coins might have circulated among cowboys in saloons and maybe even among Indians.

About a year later Grandma Annie died suddenly. Most stricken was Madeline who was irreconcilable in grief. In her keening, I thought I heard her sobbing, “Roslyn, Roslyn, where is my Roslyn?” I imagined in her grief and delirium she was speaking in a Jewish version of Tongues. “Roslyn, Roslyn, where’s my Roslyn.”

But from my parents’ furtive glances and averted eyes I began to sense that there was a better story here than they had thus far revealed. Finally, after further attempts to ignore Madeline’s wailing, and relentless prodding from me, they told me that she was talking about a person she knew and was calling out to during these sad hours after her mother’s death.

But not to be deterred, I pressed on, asking again, “But who is this Roslyn?”

My mother, after again trying to change the subject, at last confessed, “Roslyn is Madeline’s sister.”

“Her what? She doesn’t have a sister just three brothers—dad, Uncle Ruby and Uncle Ben. Am I missing someone?”

“Yes, you have another aunt, Aunt Roslyn.”

And then bit by bit, story by story, I learned the details of my new aunt’s life. To the dénouement--that she had run off to Wyoming at sixteen (ah, Wyoming!); she had worked in a bar; and she had “entertained” ranchers in a room upstairs. And then she had been arrested and went to jail. And, remember when a couple of years ago your father went to Wyoming, well he went there to get her out of jail and bring her home.

“Home where? To Brooklyn? Why haven’t we visited her?”

“Actually,” my mother replied, “she lives in Philadelphia. With her husband.”

“You mean I also have another uncle?”

“Yes, I guess so, Jack Monahan. But he’s not Jewish.”

And so, it came to pass that I met my new aunt and uncle for the first time at Annie’s funeral because Madeline insisted there would be no funeral unless her SISTER Roslyn was there. Over the strenuous, very strenuous objections of her brothers (especially Ruby’s, the family millionaire who had a mansion on the water in Kings Point and who did not want his Long Island friends to know he had a sister who didn’t go to the beauty parlor much less who had a goy for a husband and had spent most of her adult life as a prostitute) because of Madeline’s insistence, my Aunt Roslyn and Uncle Jack were allowed to slip into the chapel in the funeral home but were not permitted to go to the cemetery for the burial much less show up for the shiva.

After this quick glimpse of them (true, from that there was little evidence that Roslyn had ever been in a beauty parlor), they were spirited off to the train and home to Philadelphia.

I must admit that even that brief encounter fired my transgressive imagination—Roslyn in that instant became my most intriguing aunt, quite an antidote to the others who resided in my affections more as loving and sacrificing than alluring, mysterious, and sinful. As I relentlessly counted and stacked my cache of silver dollars, I thought about how each of them might have perhaps been Roslyn’s. Best of course were those she might have earned in that room above the bar where she entertained her ranchers. No more Lone Ranger and Tonto for me. Instead, High Ho and Cheerio Aunt Roslyn!

Thus when it was time to make up a list of whom to invite to the wedding, when we got to the category of uncles and aunts, I insisted that we include all of my aunts and uncles—Jack Monahan and Roslyn too!

This precipitated another dispute within the family. With her life story fully out in the open, my father shouted, “I will not have that who-er at my wedding!”

By then I had become unafraid enough to confront him—“First of all it’s not your wedding, it’s mine. And if we are inviting Ruby and Ben and Madeline we are also inviting their and your sister Roslyn.”

This battle, and it was just that, lasted for weeks. If it had gone on another day, we would have eloped (not really, we wanted the presents). My father began to sense that and thus relented. The Monahans were duly invited and accepted. I couldn’t wait to see them again.

And come they did. They were the last to arrive for the ceremony and slid into seats in the last row—just as at Annie’s funeral. I must admit, through the exchange of vows, I hoped that they wouldn’t steal away as they had and be off to Philadelphia before I could talk with them and begin to get to know them and maybe even, if I had enough wine in me, ask a little about life in Wyoming. Minimally, how they met while out there. Above the bar??

They did stay on and joined their siblings and in-laws at the table assigned to Zwerling aunts and uncles. As my Ex and I worked our way among the tables it was obvious that the Zwerling table was uncharacteristically quiet. Under more ordinary circumstances the tummeling going on there would have drowned out even the three-piece band. But I did get a chance to talk with them, albeit superficially—this was neither the right setting nor time to try to find out anything much about Roslyn’s ranchers. But we did connect and promised to drive down to Philadelphia after our honeymoon so we could have a real visit.

We were interrupted by the flaming swords and the tidings of final festivities. And then as I mentioned, Jack got up, wobbling a bit from a glass or two, and made his way forward to where the band was. He turned to them and whispered something and then spoke into the microphone—

“I want to sing a song dedicated to my new niece and nephew. They are wonderful people, having brought their aunt, my wife Roslyn, back into the family after all these years.”

With that, the band began to play, and accompanied by them, he sang a beautiful rendition of “Danny Boy.” It was the highlight of the wedding and sent us off toward Canada basking in the tearful spirit of love and happiness.

* * * * *

A few months later, my cousin Linda, Uncle Ruby’s daughter, was to be married in a huge tent on the lawns of their property on Long Island Sound. We knew it would be something exceptionally sumptuous, dwarfing what we had been able to provide at the catering hall of the South Orange Jewish Temple in New Jersey. We heard especially about the literal trellised wall of orchids that would form the backdrop for the ceremony and the fountains of Champaign that would dot the grounds and the white-gloved French service (whatever that was) and 11 piece orchestra (not band). It would be something special. How special I couldn't begin to imagine!

Since Jack and Roslyn had made our earlier wedding so memorable and feelings had warmed a bit toward them, they were once again invited and they once again accepted and attended.

All again began quite well. Though my immediate family was a little jealous and competitive about the dueling weddings, we were nonetheless having a good time and feeling no pain—recall, there was a Champaign fountain every ten yards and it was difficult to resist frequent stops as we circulated among the guests.

It was indeed a beautiful day.

Inside the huge tent, all the tables were arrayed and decked out in silver and crystal. The orchestra had set up before that incredible tropical trellis. All that appeared to be missing were parrots. There seemed to be at least 12 courses and wine flowed along with limitless quantities of harder libations. The music and dancing were elegant. Uncle Ruby and his wife Aunt Lillian kvelled, glowed in pride. All that hard work to amass all of these things, all of this money was not only on display but worth all the long days and years of struggle. This was America! So what if none of their three daughters would complete college; if this first wedding was an intimation of the future, they all would at least marry well enough to live nearby in equivalent houses by the water with sterling silver everything.

Then, as a culmination to all of this splendor and happiness, Jack Monahan again, pulled himself to his feet. With a little more difficulty than when in South Orange because he had been quite busy at those fountains and had topped all of that off, like the rest of us, at the Zwerling aunts’ and uncles’ table. He again made his long way toward the front and once more took hold of the orchestra’s microphone. Perhaps leaning on it a bit to steady himself. This time not apparently whispering anything to the conductor.

The crowd silenced. Would he sing “Danny Boy” again or something even more special considering the surroundings and how much money they had spent per couple on the catering?

With a voice more slurry than a few months ago, Jack Monahan, to that rapt silence said—

“I want to say a few words to the Zwerlings. Especially to Roslyn’s sister and brothers. All along you knew about the kind of life she was living in Wyoming and how she needed to make a living. You knew that she was always in trouble and even a few times wound up in jail.” I noticed the beginning of stirring at the Zwerling table. “You knew all those things, and what did you do? Nothing. Here you are in this mansion.” He gestured. “Here you are with all this money.” He turned out one empty pants pockets. “And again you did nothing.” My father was on his feet.

“You spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on this wedding and your sister needs new teeth. Did you help her? No.” My father was tacking his way through the tables, heading toward Jack and that trellis. “And now she is living in a five floor walkup apartment in Philadelphia surrounded by Coloreds and what did you do? Again, nothing.” My father was about 15 feet from him.

“You know what you are?” The microphone was screeching with feedback and the sound and his words was ricocheting up and down Soundview Lane and across all of Kings Point.

“You’re just a bunch of dirty Jew bastards. That’s what you are--Jew bastards”

My father pounced and tackled him, both now entwined, toppling in among the musicians. People were leaping out of their chairs and screaming for the police. Cousin Linda, the bride, ran into the house and locked the door.

And the trellis, with those thousands of orchids, came crashing down on the orchestra and on my father and Jack Monahan who were locked in a drunken embrace. Rolling on top of each other until stilled by exhaustion.

The police did arrive, seemingly in an instant (one benefit of living is such a wealth community are the very responsive municipal services) and helped direct the fleeing guests and their cars out onto Kings Point Road and safety.

As things began to settle, the police asked what to do with Jack Monahan and Roslyn, the “perpetrators,” who stood off to the side in calm contemplation, taking in the sweep of the gardens, statuary, and the immense house itself. Since there was no legitimate reason to arrest them (my father and his brother Ruby couldn’t convince the police to do so), and since they had come to the wedding by train, the LIRR, and had been driven from the station to Soundview Lane, someone would have to get them back to town.

The police indicated they would take them, but I stepped in to say that I would drive them and wait with them until a train to New York City came through.

Which I did. And during the most amazing two hours of my life thus far, Roslyn told me her version of her life’s story. I learned about how she earned those silver dollars.

All the Zwerling siblings from that generation are now gone--the three brothers and, and the two sisters. But I still have Roslyn's story, those silver dollars, and that deerskin pouch.