Winter.

1940

Chicago, Illinois 

The gray shadows on the ceiling and walls begin to lighten.

His eyes opened. Remembering, he was back at the window. The spot had frosted over and steam from the radiator had caused a formation of an additional thickness of ice. Putting his hand flush against the window, wincing at the burning sensation as the pads of his fingers and the soft flesh of his palm absorbed the cold, the boy melted a hand‑shaped opening and looked through the palm‑print. Everything was covered with snow! Mitchell’s world, as much of his world as he could see, was clean and white. Heavy flakes of snow were still falling, and there was a three-inch-high drift of snow on the window ledge.

Unable to contain his excitement a moment longer…

Below, on the second floor, sleeping in the largest of three bedrooms, the middle bedroom, waking with the rapid thudding of the boy’s feet, Mrs. Kaplin glanced at the ceiling, muttered, “Momzer!” [bastard] and pulled the pillow over her head.

Mitchell ran from his bedroom at the rear of the apartment, past the back door, past his parent’s proudest possession—an electric refrigerator. He ran through the kitchen, past the pantry, through the hall, past the air‑well, middle bedroom, and toilet, through the dining room, past the front door, and through the front room to the smallest of the three bedrooms, the current—by decree of Walter Lipensky—bedroom of his parents. The bedroom that was, because Walter liked to sleep, the farthest away from the early morning noise of the “god-damned janitor!” The bedroom that was the farthest away from the noise of the hub of his home: the kitchen. And last but not least, as far away as possible from the noise of his six-year-old son.

Standing just outside the open door, speaking softly, “Ma‑me.” Whispering, so he thought. “It snowed last night an’ it’s still snowin’ now an’ I wanna go outside! Ma‑me! Wake up, Ma‑me!”

Lifting her head from the pillow, looking at the Baby Ben alarm clock on the dresser through half‑open eyes. “Mitchell, it’s not even seven,” Myra Lipensky whispered. “It’s too early! Go back to bed!”

“Mommy, I went back to bed before, an’ I can’t sleep no more, an’ I wanna go outside. Please, Mommy, get up!”

“Mitchell, shhh! You’ll wake your father!”

The boy looked at the back of his father’s head.

A sound sleeper, facing the wall with the blanket pulled to his ears, settling lower on the pillow, “What time’s it,” Walter muttered.

Mitchell waited a few moments, then, hearing nothing else from his father, whispered, “But, Mommy, I can’t sleep no more.”

Sighing, “Okay, Mitchie. I might just as well get up.”

Slipping from under the blanket, Myra pulled the flannel nightgown down from around her hips and buttocks. Standing, she ran her fingers through her hair, stretched, sat on the bed and, reaching down, started to put her house slippers on.

Feeling the motion of the bed, turning from the wall, Walter looked at his wife’s back, then at his son. “Mitchell, didn’t you hear your mother?” Glancing at the clock, “It’s not even seven!” he said angrily. Walter Lipensky had been awoken, and if there was one thing that always made Walter angry, it was being awoken when he didn’t have to be awake. “Myra, it’s too early! Come back to bed!”

“No, it’s okay, Walt. You know once I’m up, I’m up. You go back to sleep. I’ll fix him some breakfast and get him dressed. I’ll be back after he’s outside.”

“You ought to send him back to bed, Myra. You really spoil that kid!” Fluffing his pillow, Walter turned back to the wall. “You really do, you know.”

                                                        ***

Myra Lipensky was a tall, beautiful, heavy‑set woman in her late‑twenties. She had straight, dark brown hair that came to a widow’s peak, gray eyes, a straight nose and a small mouth. Her son’s face was definitely a combination of both his parents, and his hair, widow’s peak, and mouth were noticeable contributions of his mother’s.

Myra had gained a considerable amount of weight during her pregnancy because her doctor believed that women were better off, during a pregnancy, if they added weight and Myra had been told, within limits, to eat what she wanted, and, “Of course it’s okay to drink malted milk!” Myra’s favorite drink was malted milk, the thick, solid kind that supported the weight of a spoon. Prone to easy weight gain normally, Myra had always watched her diet—more or less, but she did take the doctor at his word, and six years later was still unable to shed a good part of the weight that she’d gained during her pregnancy.

An extremely handsome man, Walter Lipensky had dark brown eyes and straight black hair. Six feet tall, dark complected and solidly built, though intelligent, Walter was frustrated because working as a salesman at his father’s manufacturing company he had no outlet for his creative energy.

A confirmed bachelor, Walter was twenty‑seven when he and Myra first met. Although he’d thought himself too set in his ways to ever marry, Walter and Myra fell in love and, within four months of their first meeting, married.

First-generation Americans, the roots of both families went to Russia, but that was where the similarity ended. Myra’s father, Morris, was a carpenter, whereas Walter’s mother and father were both scholars.

Walter was obstinate and opinionated, and this frequently led to bitter, extremely vocal arguments between him and his wife. In addition, though he did love his wife and son, Walter had trouble showing affection; consequently, Myra’s family, while they did like Walter, felt he was unaffectionate and distant.

Mitchell had a round face, a button of a nose, large green eyes and long lashes. He was a beautiful child and people would often stop his mother as she would wheel the buggy, and as he grew older, when they would walk together, “Shayner punnum!” [beautiful face] they would say, pinching a cheek or ruffling his hair.

Large for his age, Mitchell had unlimited energy and would rarely sit still for more than a few seconds at a time, and he never walked when he could run, which had converted the downstairs neighbors into constantly complaining enemies.

 “Mitchell, walk! Stop running!” his mother would shout as he’d jump off a chair in the kitchen or the bed in his bedroom and run across the linoleum-covered floor of the kitchen and hallway and out the back door, slamming it shut behind him. “You’re driving the poor Kaplins crazy! Stop running!”

Bang! Bang! Bang! would come the sharp sound of a broomstick pounding the ceiling of the apartment below.

“It’s a wonder she hasn’t poked that damned stick through the floor by now. Please, Mitchell,” his mother would implore, “stop running!”

When they would pass each other in the hall, or outside, or at Abe’s Delicatessen or Sam’s Grocery, Mrs. Lipensky, out of guilt, would always smile at Mrs. Kaplin and say, “Hello, Mrs. Kaplin. So, how’s by you? Mr. Kaplin, he’s feeling okay?”

“Hurrumph!” would come the icy reply, and Mrs. Kaplin would turn her back on Mrs. Lipensky and stalk away.

Now, in all truth, Mrs. Lipensky really did feel bad that these innocent downstairs neighbors had to be subjected to the merciless pounding of her son’s feet across the carpetless floors of the kitchen, hall and two back bedrooms, But, she thought, Jesus! Can’t they see I’m doing everything in my power to make him stop? Can’t they see that? What the hell am I supposed to do with the kid? Lock him in a closet? Chain him to a bed?

Whenever the embarrassment of Mrs. Kaplin’s snubs became too much, things begin to fall. A bed frame dropped with a thud. A chair fell with a clatter. “My God, that twelve-quart pot just jumped out of my hands! Can you imagine that?” Mrs. Lipensky would say as, Bang, Bang, Bang, would come the pounding of the broomstick on the ceiling below. Occasionally, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, Mrs. Lipensky would imagine the Kaplin’s pock‑marked ceiling.

When deserved, Myra would spank her son. Walter had never spanked the boy, but Mitchell was somewhat afraid of his father and would try, whenever possible, to stay out of his way.

                                                            ***

“Hi, Joe!” Squatting, looking through the lower portion of one of the kitchen windows where the heat of the radiator had melted the frost, Mitchell knocked on the glass and waved to the janitor, who glanced up, but because of the snow was running more than an hour behind schedule, although, even if he were on time, Joe would ignore the boy’s greeting, just as he did then.

                                                             ***

In this neighborhood, garbage was usually collected at a pre‑dawn hour, which was why the back bedroom, though it might be larger than the front bedroom, usually housed the kids rather than their parents. Those unfortunate enough to sleep in the rear bedrooms were awakened seven days a week, summer and winter, by the garbage collection ritual when the janitor—who was also the plumber, painter, gardener and electrician, whom for some reason usually seemed to be of German descent, which may have accounted for the general neatness of the buildings—clumped up the stairs in heavy‑soled work shoes. In winter, if it had snowed, the sound of a metal shovel scraping snow off the stairs preceded the ritual. Then Joe or Karl, Heinz or Fritz, would tramp up the stairs with a huge, steel collection can slung across his back. The can would be dropped onto the porch with a thud and the smaller can would be slammed into the larger can with a resounding, off‑key, cymbal-like clang that would jar even the soundest sleeper out of the soundest sleep.

Janitors, so it would seem, were given the contractual right, so the tenants thought, to make whatever noise was needed to be sure that if they were awake everyone should be awake, and no amount of pleading with Joe or Karl, Heinz or Fritz, or the unseen god-like landlord would lessen the din.

With bad, though, often comes some good, and few rear bedroom tenants were ever late for work or school, and in future years “Reveille” would literally be as music to their ears in comparison to the noise made by the collision of the garbage can into the collection can.

                                                           ***

Coming from the bathroom, Myra looked out the window, too. “Yup! It sure snowed all right. What’d you want for breakfast, Kiddo?”

Thinking a moment, “Oatmeal.”

“With warm honey?”

“Yup!”

“Okay. Go get washed and brush your teeth, and put your long-johns on, okay?”

“Okay.”

He began to run, but catching him by the seat of his pajamas, “Mitchell,” she said sternly, waving a finger in front of his face, “walk! Don’t run! It’s much too early to wake the Kaplins! Do you understand me?”

Nodding, walking on tiptoes, Mitchell looked at his mother over his shoulder.

“That’s a boy.” Myra put her finger to her pursed lips. “Shhh!”

The boy loved both parents, but felt closer to his mother. All of his life, sometimes hiding in his bed or the closet, he’d listened to the arguments of his parents through closed doors and, in all instances, though he had no idea why they argued, Mitchell always mentally sided with his mother.

Deciding to try to “make,” wearing only his long underwear, by the time he returned to the kitchen there was a glass of orange juice, a glass of milk, and a steaming bowl of oatmeal with warm honey puddling the circumference of the bowl with a chunk of melting butter in a depression in the middle. Anxious to be outside, dropping onto the chair, lifting a spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth he stuffed it in, then pursing his lips he drew air inward to cool the heat of the molten oatmeal.

“Mitchell, slow down! The snow’s not going anywhere!”

His mouth stuffed full of oatmeal, a thin line of it dribbled down his chin as, swallowing with a loud gulp, he took two more spoonfuls then pushed away from the table.

“Oh no, young man! You just sit there and finish eating!”

“Aw, gee whiz!”

Smiling at his serious expression, “Don’t you go gee‑whizzing me, young man! You finish your breakfast!”

                                                         ***

“Mitchell,” squirming, as she help him dress, “stand still!” A flannel shirt buttoned to the neck was stuffed between the long underwear and a pair of corduroy pants. Two pair of heavy woolen socks were pulled over the cuffs of the corduroys. Leggings, a sweater, shoes, galoshes with four metal buckles, a wool scarf, his coat, an Ace cap pulled over his ears and woolen gloves on his hands…

“Uh‑oh… Mommy.”

Uh-oh? With apprehension, “Yes, Mitchell?”

“Mommy, I gotta make.”

“You’ve got to make! Now? What do you have to make, Mitchell?”

“Poopie. I made before but gotta again.”

Like a movie running in reverse: off came the gloves, hat, coat, scarf, sweater, so the leggings could be lowered. Off came the shirt, so he could unbutton and lower the long underwear. Down came the leggings and corduroy pants that bunched up over the galoshes.

“Okay, Mitchell,” Myra sighed. “Go make poopie.”

Taking small, shuffling steps, dragging the leggings and pants, the boy went from the kitchen to the bathroom. Unbuttoning the underwear, dropping it too his knees, sitting on the toilet, he put his chin into his cupped hands and, turning red in the face, strained… but nothing happened. He lifted and buttoned the underwear, pulled the pants and leggings up and went back to his mother, whose patience was beginning to wear just a little thin.

“Come on, Mitchell, let’s get you dressed and out of here.”

Outside, at last!

The snow had all but stopped falling, but even there on the porch it was up to the second buckle of his galoshes. Standing a minute, breathing deeply, filling his lungs with crisp, clean air, he watched as the vapor of his breath dissipated in the air.

Steel runners bumping from step to step, dragging his Flexible Flyer behind him by the piece of laundry‑line that had been slung through the handle, he carefully, slowly, made his way down the stairs that Joe had shoveled earlier but hadn’t time yet to spread furnace cinders over. More blowing snow had fallen onto the steps and, hampered by the bulk of his clothing, holding the banister with his right hand and the rope of the sled, held near the handle with his left, Mitchell struggled down the three flights of stairs.

Finally, downstairs, Joe had shoveled a path from the steps to the entry of the wooden fence that separated the yard from the alley. The mounds were too much to resist. Dropping the sled, taking a running start, throwing his body onto a fluffy embankment, Mitchell rolled over the top and down the other side. Standing, covered in snow, he flung himself over the mound again, onto the shoveled sidewalk, bringing a small avalanche with him then did it again.

“Hey, you! Lipensky!” Joe yelled at the boy from the basement substructure. “Shtop vit der shnow! Get the hell out vitch you! I han’t shovlin’ shnow from der sidevalk hall day so you kin get it full vit der shnow hagin! Get hout! Go play in der halley!”

To a janitor, snow, after all, only meant three times the work, and being short‑tempered anyway, Joe didn’t look at the wet, heavy stuff through the eyes of a six-year-old child.

“Okay, Joe!” Taking the sled, he trudged kitty‑corner through the unshoveled portion of the yard, out the gate and into the alley.

Trucks, cars, and the horse‑drawn wagons of peddlers traveling the streets and alleys made compacted furrows that, with melting and re‑freezing, become hard as concrete and slick as… well, ice, and vehicles were often forced to travel in unwanted directions as their wheels become captive in the deep ruts. By this time a few trucks had driven the T-shaped alley compacting the snow into twin strips on either side of the ridge.

Holding the sled against his chest, Mitchell stepped onto and into the soft ridge. As he began to run, he could hear the sounds of his breathing and, as it rubbed between his well-clothed thighs, the swishing of the smooth fabric of his leggings. Taking nine or ten longs strides, he flung himself onto one of the slick strips. Momentum took the sled twenty or thirty feet. At the “T” section of the alley he was able to steer out of the rut and, aiming towards a garbage can, he waited till the last second, then rolled off letting the sled crash into the can. Standing, brushing snow from his coat, reclaiming the sled, about to repeat the feat going in the opposite direction with the fence as his target but, “Hi, Nick!” stopped because Nick and Erma had entered the alley.

“Hi, Mitchie!” Nick yelled from the high seat of the wagon. “Whoa, Erma!” Thick plumes of vapor streaming from her wide nostrils, the horse stopped on command, lifted her tail, and with a “fart” that he could hear, though Mitchell was about fifteen yards away, Erma deposited a huge plop of steaming manure onto the clean, white snow.

So much for sledding in that direction.

“’AY, BEANS! FRESH LIMA BEANS!”

Sun or snow, peddlers traveled the alleys.

“CARROTS! APPLES! FIVE CENTS A POUND! BANANAS! ’AY, BEANS, FRESH PEAS!”

“Nickey! You‑whooo! Nickey!”

Turning, trying to locate the distant voice, spotting her, “Oh, no!” Waving at, answering… “Mrs. Lefkin!” the lady that lived at the far end of the third floor in Mitchell’s L-shaped building. “What can I bring for you today, Mrs. Lefkin?”

“Nickey, if you vould be so kind,” calling through cupped hands, “bring for me von bunch carrots, von pound hepples.”

“Madonn!” Nick said to himself, looking across the snow-covered yard and up the three flights of slippery stairs. Shrugging his shoulders, glancing at Mitchell, he climbed off the wagon, went to the rear, shook open a brown paper bag, took three Jonathan apples from a bushel basket, weighed them on the Toledo scale that hung from a hook at the rear of the wagon, put them in the bag and picked a bunch of carrots out of a crate, as all the while he looked for another customer, hoping he wouldn’t have to make the arduous journey for only fifteen cents. “FRESH FRUIT! VEGETABLES! PEAS!” But no one else called so, pulling his cap down and his collar up, the peddler started his trek.

Watching from the window, waiting till her son had started down the stairs, thinking, That should keep him busy for a while, Myra went into the bathroom, turned the water on, and, while waiting for it to get hot, brushed her teeth. Steaming water coming from the spigot, she’d adjusted the mix, disrobed, put her shower cap on, stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain closed.

                                                       ***

Turning the water off, she’d wiped herself, then the fogged mirror… Through brushing her hair, she had taken a bottle of toilet water from the medicine cabinet, poured a generous amount into her hand and rubbed it over her chest and under her breasts. Putting the robe on, wanting to go back to bed, wanting to be in bed with her husband, thinking, Just in case, returning to the kitchen, Myra locked the door.