As always, Mutty’s tone was light. He was a gifted writer (like his Uncle Moe, Annie thought) and his letters were evocative and full of fun (THAT was like his father).

“Yesterday, we had a ten-mile night run, me and the platoon and the mosquitoes, who apparently can run even quicker than we do. We were in full gear, and I can’t figure out how they managed to get through my uniform, but they certainly left their mark. Ouch! And then, just to keep things interesting, we did push-ups until my arms felt like jelly. And the crazy thing was how good I felt when we finally got to drop into bed for a couple of hours before reveille.

“On Monday we did an exercise on evacuating a wounded soldier under fire, and guess who got to play the victim. Me! So picture this: I’m lying on a stretcher, the wounded hero, while the guys are hauling me to safety with gunfire popping around us like crazy. (Don’t worry, Mama, we use blanks.) We’re all feeling like movie stars in one of those dumb war pictures, when suddenly José (you remember him, I wrote about him last week, great guy but what a klutz!)  trips on this stupid little stone. Next thing you know, we’re all in a heap on the ground, laughing our heads off. No more war movie, now it was Laurel and Hardy slapstick! Even the DI was smiling, until he started yelling at us.”

She finished his letter, and then pulled out a small paper that he’d folded separately into the envelope.

“Mama, this is just for you. I know what it cost you to let me come here, and I want to thank you with my entire heart. Hashem has always been so good to me, with a great family and success in almost everything I tried.  But now, when things are much tougher, and sometimes I mess up (and boy does the DI scream about it), I feel so much more alive. I always thought I had everything in life, and in a way I do, but I never realized just how much I needed a serious challenge. And now I have that too. I love you and Dad and can’t wait to see you again when Basic is over.”

After the tears, a crazy combination of gratitude and fear and love pouring from her eyes, Annie’s face grew thoughtful.

After a few minutes, she picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Freed Hotel.

D

ecades before, it was called the Lincoln Highway, the first road to cross the entire  country. “From Times Square to the Golden Gate” was its slogan, and those comforting and hopeful words had followed Marjorie through four years in airless college classrooms and her own pretty pink and soul-stifling bedroom.

Over the years paper-pushing government bureaucrats had renamed most of the roads that made up the Lincoln Highway with boring numbers like Route 206 and Route 30, but in Marjorie’s mind she, her Mustang, and her unusual but interesting uninvited guest would be traveling the highway named for the Great Emancipator who’d brought freedom to the enslaved.

Now, as Mama Mumu dumped a huge duffel bag into the Mustang’s trunk and plopped into the passenger seat, Marjorie took a deep breath, shifted the gears, hit the clutch and the gas pedal, and roared away. When it came to this trip she had (Mother would never have believed it) done her homework well, and she’d equipped herself with goodies for the road, equipment for roadside emergencies, and a detailed map outlining the route to San Francisco. But though there were other, faster ways to get to New Jersey, the first of 13 states they would be passing through on their way to California, Marjorie chose to first drive to 42nd Street and Broadway.

This is it, Marge. From Times Square… to the Golden Gate!

“O

kay, Sis, here we are, starting a two-hour drive to make a shivah call to someone you met for a few days and I spoke with for about an hour. What gives?”

There hadn’t been much time for explanations. Annie had made the call, her voice both urgent and determined, demanding that Moe leave whatever it was he was doing (finally, he’d just got around to starting a new chapter in his slow-growing novel), grab a cab to Boro Park, and drive her up to the Catskill Mountains. Now, comfortably ensconced in the Cadillac’s deep leather seats, it was time for her to tell Moe just what, exactly, was going on.

“He was really a special man, Moe, and I’d like to tell his sons how much those few days in the Manor House meant to me. And,” she added, trying to sound casual, “I want to make another stop, too, up there in the mountains.”

“Ha! So where is this other stop, the one you really want to make, using this shivah business as a pretext?”

“How did you know?” Annie couldn’t help but laugh. So much for keeping this a secret from her brother.

“Hey, I’m a novelist, remember? I know when a plot is thickening.”

“How’s the new book going, by the way?”

“It’s a slow business, the hotel keeps me pretty busy. I think I’ll give Henry Burton a call one of these days to discuss giving me some more time. And maybe I’ll speak to Marjorie while I’m at it — see how she’s doing. It’s been too quiet around the hotel, now that she’s gone.” He stopped for a moment to swing the Cadillac back into his lane — he tended to slip into the wrong side of the road, a souvenir of his years of British driving — and then continued. “But don’t try to change the subject, Annie, what’s going on?”

A little reluctantly, Annie told him about the offer Abe had gotten, and how he had turned it down for the sake of the family. And her own shock at the thought of moving away from her satisfying Boro Park existence.

“Okay, I get it. And I understand completely. So why are you schlepping me to the mountains now, leaving my poor novel unwritten once again?”

Annie looked out the window, at the factories and smokestacks of the city they were leaving behind. It wasn’t going to be easy to explain feelings that she hardly understood herself.

“I got a letter this morning from Mutty.”

“Great! How’s he doing?”

“Baruch Hashem. He’s loving every hard minute of it. And I can see that it’s so good for him. He’s growing in so many ways. Even with his Yiddishkeit. He’s so smart and talented”—she smiled, the smile of a proud Jewish mother—“and I think life was a little too easy for him. He needed something more.”

“And….”

“He talked about how much he loves his new challenges. And Moey, while I read that letter, it was like hearing Abie talking, too. He’s not a complainer, but I can tell by the way Abe keeps mentioning the kids’ ‘ears and tummies’ that he’s just plain bored with his practice.”

And with Mutty in the army, if Abie is not busy and involved in new challenges, who knows if the nightmares will not begin again?

She left that particular fear unspoken; it was not fair to Abe to reveal his battles with war memories to anyone, even her brother.

“I always knew Abe was an adventurous soul. That’s one of the things I love about him,” she continued. “And I’m his wife. Moey,” she said, still staring out the window, “I let my son go to the army, maybe even to war, because he convinced me it was the best thing for him.” She turned to face her brother, her voice a plea. “Doesn’t my husband deserve the same?”

T

he shivah visit went very well. There were no visitors when Moe and Annie walked in. None of Chatzkel’s three sons lived in the Catskills anymore, but they had decided to sit shivah in the hotel where their father had spent most of his life, and where they’d grown up. The neighbors had already paid their respects, and a cousin or two and a few of the sons’ friends had made the trip the day before.

After a few awkward moments between strangers, the conversation began to flow. They spoke about their father, his dedication to the community and to his guests. Annie shared how restful and healing it had been in the Manor House when she’d been on the cusp of a major decision. They discovered that they had something in common: They had all grown up in a small Jewish hotel. That led to a discussion of  frum life in the Catskills — not, of course, in the summer, when the camps and bungalow colonies and luxurious hotels reigned, but during the quiet fall and winter months. High school boys went away to dorm at yeshivos, they learned, but there was a small but quality day school in a nearby town for younger children.

What had started for Annie as a fleeting thought was beginning to solidify; possibilities were opening up, frightening but at the same time oddly alluring.

By the time the last “HaMakom yenachem eschem” had been said, the two families had bonded, and Annie and Moe left with promises that they would get together some time in Brooklyn for a meeting under happier circumstances.

“So, Sis, what do you think?” Moe asked, as they walked toward the Cadillac.

“What do I think? I think that we should go and meet this Dr. Sloan, and see what kind of hospital he’s running. We’ll just tell him we were in the area and were curious. No commitments, but—”

“But it looks like kind of a nice place to live.”

Annie took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 876)