From the corner of her eye, Annie saw Chatzkel Perlstein come out and offer chairs and cold drinks to the newcomers. After a few more minutes of conversation, Moe turned to him and explained about the Freed hotel and the repairs it needed. “If it’s okay with you, I’d love to see the rest of your place,” he said, “and talk to you about plumbing repairs.” He and the landlord walked into the hotel, already throwing around terms like valves, air gaps, and septic tanks. Artie walked with them, and Marjorie, clasping Ruchele’s hand, followed.

Left alone with Perele Schwartz, Annie allowed herself to feel her fury. “How could you, Perele?” she demanded, each word an accusation.

Perele looked surprised. “How could I what?”

“Bring Marjorie, when you knew Artie is here.”

“What does Artie have to do with this?”

Annie shook her head impatiently. How could Perele not have noticed?

“Artie and… and Marjorie. Perele, I’m afraid. They’re two young people and they like each other and….” Her voice trailed off into the realm of unexpressed fears.

Perele looked both shocked and contrite. “I’m so sorry, Annie. I didn’t realize… I knew your brother didn’t want to make the long journey in his own car, and Marjorie would drive across America in that Mustang of hers, so I thought that if I join in, that would solve all the problems. And I thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“A surprise, yes. But I’m sorry, Perele, not a very nice one.”

From inside they could hear sounds of conversation, of Artie’s inquiring voice, of Marjorie’s laughter.

“Come, Annie, let’s take a walk. Show me the grounds and we’ll talk about it.”

The two strolled through the garden, overgrown but still attractive. They were quiet for a few moments, Annie trying to control her anger. After all, it really wasn’t Perele’s fault. Perele seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. Finally, she broke the silence.

“Annie, even if you’re correct, would it be so terrible for the two of them to… to consider a shidduch?”

Annie stopped short. “Perele, have you gone crazy? Artie’s a good, frum boy. And Marjorie—”

“She’s a nice girl, Annie. She’s lively, she’s wonderful with children. A little immature, but people grow up.”

Annie could hardly believe this conversation. “She’s not frum, Perele. That’s the main thing.”

“She’s interested. I see it all the time. She has questions, she talks to your brother often. She’s a lot smarter than she seems to be, Annie, beneath all her fun and nonsense. And lately she’s been staying with us in the hotel for Shabbos, not running off to her friends. It’s not what you may have wanted, but Annie, maybe it could work.”

Fighting for control, Annie paused to pick up a crabapple from the ground. She stared at it. Wormy. Bitter. Horrible. She flung it away and it vanished into the weeds.

“Work? How in the world could it work?  For a boy from a shomer Shabbos home to marry a girl who’s eaten treif all her life, who didn’t even know what chometz was! How can you possibly say such a thing?”

“I can say it,” Perele said quietly, gently laying her arm on Annie’s shoulder, “because that’s what I did.”

O

utside the ballroom, Grossinger’s was going about its business, with its teeming indoor pool, busy tennis courts, packed dining rooms, and an almost manic search for fun and escape from life’s challenges. But here, the atmosphere was very different, at least to Mutty Levine. The vast material delights of the popular hotel seemed to fade away like early morning mist on the Catskill mountains. Here were no artificial thrills, no high-pitched shrill laughter, or meaningless contests and games.

Here there were stories. Of heroism. Of comradeship. Of battles lost and won, of soldiers fighting evil, giving everything, even their lives, to protect their homes, their families, their country. Fascinating stories, inspiring stories.

Meaningful stories.

Mutty looked around, at the twins who spotted the lavish buffet spread and raced over to get their fill, forgetting all about Daddy’s war friends; at his father, enveloped by a huddle of middle-aged, slightly paunchy men — doctors and truck drivers, accountants and teachers and car salesmen  — many of them displaying stripes and medals on their suit jackets, and all connected by experience and memories of battle. He stood quietly, unobtrusively, taking in snippets from the many conversations going on throughout the room.

“Twenty years, can you believe it? We were just boys, my son is older than I was then.”

 “Remember the plane ride in? I  was more worried about losing my breakfast than about losing my life.”

“Yeah, and the way our boots got stuck in the sand and mud when we parachuted down.”

“Forget that — I got stuck in a tree. Swinging back and forth, I  had a bird’s-eye view of Normandy.”

“Hey, whatever happened to Charlie Beamer? You know, the guy who was always clowning around.”

“Chuck? He made it through, was called up again in Korea, and never came home. Left four little kids.”

A moment’s silence, a tribute to a fallen comrade, and the conversations struck up again: In this ballroom they’d come to celebrate survival and life, not to dwell on blood and gore and graves hurriedly dug on foreign soil.

Before entering the room, the guests, veterans and family alike, had been given name tags, so when a shortish fellow, walking with a cane and a pronounced limp, passed nearby, Mutty could immediately identify him: Sergeant Andrew Baker.

With a mixture of excitement and shyness, Mutty approached him. “Sergeant Baker?” he said, stretching out a hand. “My name is Mordechai Levine. I’m Captain Levine’s son. My father has told me all about how your squad destroyed a tank in Holland.”

“So you’re Captain Levine’s boy, the baby whose picture he always showed us, all grown up.”  Sergeant Baker returned the handshake with a smile. “I’ve already spoken to your father. Come,” he said, pointing to a less crowded corner. “Let me tell you a few things about your dad. I’ve got a bum leg, ever since I froze some toes off in Bastogne, and I’ve got to sit down for a bit.”

Mutty discovered that Andrew Baker, a sergeant under Captain Levine’s command during the war, was now a professor of English literature in a small Michigan college. He must be one terrific teacher, Mutty thought, as he listened, riveted, to Baker’s tales of Captain Levine’s heroism and leadership. Abe had often shared war memories, but here were stories he hadn’t told, memories of his breaking regulations in order to help his men, about his refusing to accept a medal unless the enlisted men were also officially recognized. The clink of glasses, the hum of conversations, even the rowdy singing of a group in another part of the room all vanished, and Mutty was there with Sergeant Baker, and with his own father, creeping through the hedgerows of Normandy, shivering in the fierce and savage cold of the Ardennes Forest.

The arrival of another veteran broke the spell. Mutty had noticed him a few minutes earlier, hovering nearby, listening. There was something about him that set him off from most of the others; maybe the five-o’clock shadow on his face, or the slump of his shoulders, so different from the military bearing of most of the men. And, though most of the veterans were sipping cocktails, this one was shooting down a large glass tumbler of bourbon.

He walked over. “Teaching the next generation the glories of war, are you, Baker?”

Wincing slightly, Andrew Baker stood up and put a steadying arm on the man. “Good to see you, Jim. How’ve you been?”

“How’ve I been? Still running, Andy.” He held up the glass of honey-brown liquid. “Still running to mama.” His voice grew louder. “Why don’t you tell him about the nights, Andy, when you’re safe at home, but you’re running in the water, with the bodies being thrown up and down in the waves.” He stared squarely at Mutty. “Ever seen a drowned body, young man? Ever see your friend in the water, and he’s staring at you, but he doesn’t see you, his open eyes don’t see you, because he’s dead? Dead, dead, dead.”

The man is drunk, Mutty thought, shifting uncomfortably. Should I answer him? What in the world should I say?

“I’m… umm… really sorry,” he began, his cheeks reddening.

Suddenly rescue came.

Dad.

Abe’s sharp eyes immediately took in the scene. “Hey, it’s Jimmy-boy,” he said, enveloping the man in a bear hug. “Great to see you. Come, let’s get some food in you, the blintzes here are absolutely amazing. You’re the only guy here who hasn’t gained weight. What’s your secret?”

“The secret’s in the beaker,” the man said, lowering his voice and lifting the glass again. He gave a little humorless laugh. “Nice kid you’ve got, Captain.”

“The best. Now let’s go get you some food and find our seats, Jim. Speeches are starting. Mutty,” he said, giving his son an understanding glance, “can you find the twins and make sure they’re leaving a little food for the rest of us? They’ll be bored by the speeches, maybe take them out and explore a little.”

He left, his arm wrapped around Jim’s shoulders, leaving Mutty and Andrew Baker staring after them.

“Jim… he was a brave soldier,” Baker said quietly. “Saved my life once. Copped a few medals. For some men, son, war brings out the best in them. For others, well,” a deep sigh, “they’ll be fighting battles all their lives.”

He held out a hand, clasped Mutty’s in it. “Nice meeting you,” he said, and limped away, leaving Mutty alone.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 865)