________________________________________________________________________

“I want to give daddy a name! I want to become pregnant!”

Knowing he could barely afford the family he had. Also knowing that in the Jewish religion the soul of a departed person cannot rest—so he’d been told—until that person is “given a name.” And because Mitchell was well aware of Marsha’s love of her father, and well aware of her stubborn determination, also because he truly liked his father-in-law—and, because of the reason Marsha had for wanting to become pregnant at this time, it was but a fleeting thought: because it was so much fun trying—“Sure, honey,” he said. “If that’s what you want, it’s fine with me.”

________________________________________________________________________

 Peoria, Illinois

January 6, 1960

Another Death

“Marsha! Hi, honey, how are you?”

Since the funeral of her father and especially since last October’s announcement that Marsha was pregnant with her second grandchild, Myra had been particularly solicitous of her daughter-in-law.

Never overjoyed at hearing from her mother-in-law, “Oh, okay,” Marsha replied. Then, doing her best to sound sincere, asked the perfunctory, “How are you?”

“Well, my back and neck have been hurting and I could do with some warm weather, but outside of that I’m okay, I guess.”

Expecting that sort of answer, “Yeah, this winter’s been awful, but we’ve only another three months to go… How’s everyone there?”

“Like always: Walt and the boys are just fine, thank God. But the reason I’m calling, besides talking to my favorite daughter-in-law…”

On the other side of this conversation, thinking, Your only daughter-in-law, placing two fingers into her mouth, Marsha pretended to gag.

“…is to tell you that Walt’s mother,”—not sounding too unhappy about it—“Emma, aleha ha­shalom (may she rest in peace), died.”

Because she’d lived in Los Angeles, Marsha had met Walter’s mother one time only: at her wedding. And now, due to the untimely death of her father, she felt ambivalence over the more timely death of this older person whom she’d met only once. “Oh,” again making a stab at sincerity, “that’s a shame. How old was she?”

“I’d sign a contract today!” Myra replied. “Eighty-six.”

“How’s, uh…” after all this time, for most people it would have been easier to give in, or at least concede a first name, “your husband taking it?”

Doing her best to ignore it, very wisely having given up that fight, at least for the time being, Myra forced herself to swallow what she really wanted to say. “She was an old lady and hadn’t been well for quite a while and actually… I’m sure I told you that Walt and Emma had been distant for a number of years.”

“Yes, you did.”

“But still, she was his mother.”

Thinking she was getting a hint, but planning on doing it anyway. “Is he there? Can I offer condolences?”

“No, Walt’s out making calls.”

“I’ll talk to him later, then. What’s happening with the funeral?”

“Because the family lives in Chicago, the body’s on its way here now. The funeral will be the day after tomorrow, on Friday, and you’n’Mitch ought to be here.”

Annoyed because she thought Myra didn’t think she knew the proper thing to do. Also, usually anxious to visit family and friends, especially since she’d begun to “show,” “Of course we’ll be there,” Marsha said. “Mitch usually calls home about eleven. After I talk to him, I’ll call you back and we’ll probably drive in today.”

Whenever visiting they would stay at the house in Skokie.

“Okay,” Myra said. “I can’t wait to see that little bum of yours.”

“Okay. Talk to you in about an hour or so… Bye bye.”

Chicago, Illinois 

January 8, 1960

“Damn it!”

Viewed through the wiper smudged windshield, outside, striated with streaks of black, the sky appeared to be muddy gray. Too cold this morning for any accumulation, a light granular dusting of snow speckled the windshield of the Ford convertible.

“God damn-­it!”

Leaving a bit less than an hour before, well before the start of the viewing, condolence period and service, due to the fact that the family deemed Morris no longer able to drive safely, and because their apartment was on the way, Walter, Myra and Morton had stopped to pick up Myra’s parents on their way to the funeral parlor.

Michael was left in the care of the Brandt’—neighbors of Myra and Walter who also had a child the age of Michael.

Thick plumes of vapor streaming from mouths and nostrils, Marsha and Mitchell in the front of the frigid car with Lawrence and Emma Lipensky’s oldest and dearest surviving friend, Libby Leibowitz, in the rear.

Having been in America since the age of nine, “Nu, Mitchell,” cold, but for Libby more than cold, impatient to be at the funeral of her oldest and dearest friend, speaking with a slight Russian accent, “are you going to be able to make it start?”

“You probably got it flooded now.”

“What the hell do you know?” Glancing at his brother in the rear view mirror. “You don’t even drive yet!” Looking at Libby over his right shoulder, “It always starts!” he said, adding to himself, Maybe.

Crossing his arms across his chest, “Yeah, it always starts.” Larry beat his hands on his shoulders in comic, or, because it really was freezing in the car, maybe not such a comic, exaggerated motion to keep warm. “Except today.”

No longer pumping the accelerator, now holding the pedal firmly against the deck, “Shut up, twerp!” Mitchell said as he turned the key that always… well, usually, gave ignition to the motor. But, so far, not today.

What usually occurred on frigid days was the metallic humming of the starter, a moment’s hesitation, then, until he eased up on the pedal, the simultaneous roar of the V6 motor along with a fart of noxious, blue gray exhaust that emitted from the tail pipe.

Today, though—with the possible exception of the sound of a shell being pumped into the breech of a shotgun in a dark room to one that should not be in that dark room—came one of the most repugnant sounds known to any human being: the nerve shattering, diminishing sound of a rapidly dying car battery.

“So?” her voice tinged with not only impatience but anger, too, “Nu, Mitchell?”

Turning the key to off, lifting his foot from the accelerator, turning in the seat, “Libby, I can’t help it! I’m doing everything I can… Okay,” he conceded, looking at his brother, “it probably is flooded now, so…”

“And now you’ve killed the battery!”

“So…” he said, glaring angrily at Larry—his look telling his brother to shut the hell up—“before I kill the battery altogether, why don’t we all go back in the house and wait a few minutes. Then I’ll come out and try again.”

Going to this funeral because she knew it was the right thing to do, but really not wanting to attend another funeral this soon after the death of her father; knowing the memories that were still so vivid in her mind would resurface.

Truly not caring, actually hoping the car wouldn’t start, “Yeah, good idea.” Opening the door, stepping out of the car, holding the back forward, thinking, I’ll let her sit in the front when we go, if we go, Marsha helped a muttering Libby Leibowitz out of the rear seat.

Back in the house, sitting impatiently with their coats off, forced to hear Libby Leibowitz muttering, “I knew I should have gone sooner! I knew I should have gone with Walter! Nu, Mitchell,” glaring at him, “how can I possibly miss the funeral of my oldest, dearest friend?”

Having nothing to say, looking at her, shrugging his shoulders, Mitchell looked away.

                                                                   **** 

Waiting five minutes, putting his coat on, “Let’s see if she’ll start now.”

In the car, fighting the temptation to pump the gas, instead, pressing the accelerator to the deck, thinking, God, please, God, let it start! Turning the ignition key, yes! The battery resurrected, holding his breath…

The metallic humming of the starter, then, with a shudder, the simultaneous roar of the V6 motor along with a fart of noxious, blue gray exhaust….

“Yeah!”

                                                                     **** 

“Uh-­oh!”

Sitting in the rear, “Uh-­oh what, Mitchell?” Marsha asked.

“Where we going?”

“To the chapel!”

“Yeah, Libby, I know. But which chapel?”

Most Jews living on Chicago’s north side gave their family business to one of two funeral parlors: Weinstein or Piser.

“Piser!” Libby said.

“No,” Marsha corrected. “Weinstein! I’m sure it’s Weinstein!”

“I d’know,” Larry added. “I kind’a think it’s Piser, too.”

Thinking a moment, “Yeah, me, too.” Mitchell said.

“I’m sure your bubby’s at Weinstein!”

“It’s three to one.”

“Mitchell, I’m telling you, the funeral’s at Weinstein!”

“Know what, Marsha? You’re not always right!”

“Okay, Mitchell, whatever you say. You’re driving.”

                                                                    **** 

“Lipensky?”

Uh-oh.

The attending funeral director at Piser said, “Lipensky? There’s no Lipensky internment here today. You must want Weinstein.”

Uh-­oh!

Rushing, a by­ this ­time more ­than ­just muttering Libby Leibowitz, a sheepish Larry and a more than slightly smug Marsha back to the car, leaving the mortuary on Peterson Avenue, thinking, A cop—“Where ya goin’ buddy, to a funeral?”—Yeah, maybe, if they got stopped by a cop, maybe they could get an escort. But as the Ford convertible sped the few miles from Piser to Weinstein…

Where’s a cop when you need one?

                                                                  **** 

“There’s Weinstein!” Turning a sharp left into the parking lot, the Ford squealed to a stop… in the, “Uh-­oh,” all ­but­ empty parking lot.

“Wait here!” Running into the mortuary, “Lipensky!” Mitchell said to the man in the black suit. “When’d the Lipensky funeral leave here?”

The man, in an appropriately somber voice said, “The Lipensky procession left for Waldheim, oh, maybe, ten minutes ago.”

“Where do we catch them?” In near panic. “How they going?”

“Well, if you rush…”

Sure, pal, Mitchell thought, what the hell you think I’ve been doing?

“…you may be able to catch them someplace on Peterson.”

“Peterson? We just came from Peterson.”

“Or,” the funeral director went on, “on Cicero. They’re taking Peterson to Cicero, Cicero south to Roosevelt, then west on Roosevelt to Waldheim.”

The Jewish cemetery is located southwest of Chicago, between the cities of Forest Park and Berwyn. Mitchell had always thought, because of the distance from wherever he’d lived, Waldheim Cemetery was at the end of the earth—which in a way it is.

“Peterson to Cicero, Cicero to Roosevelt,” Mitchell repeated as he turned away. “Yeah, thanks.”

Grabbing his elbow, “Hold on!”

“Yeah?”

“When you catch up, if you catch up, if you don’t want to be stopped by the police for following the procession through lights…”

Who would, Mitchell thought, want to get stopped by a cop?

“…you’ll need a tag.”

Following the man into an office, Mitchell was handed a white, 9x12 paper placard with a Star of David and the word “FUNERAL” printed in dark blue ink, with sticky strips along the top and bottom.

“So?” Marsha asked as he got into the car.

“Nu?” Libby asked as he got into the car.

“Peterson,” he said, sticking the placard onto the windshield. “The guy there said we should be able to catch up with them on Peterson or Cicero,” adding another unheard, “Maybe.”

                                                                **** 

Speeding west on Peterson—and still no cop—breathing a sigh of relief because, sure enough, about two blocks ahead, “There they are!” he saw a long, unbroken line of cars making a left turn onto Cicero Avenue without stopping for the light. Speeding up, pushing harder on the accelerator, scooting through the amber light as it turned to red, the mud splattered, dark blue convertible became the last car in the procession.

Relaxing for the first time in well over an hour, “Good!” Libby said. “It’s good I’ll be at the funeral of my oldest and dearest friend, Emma.”

“Yeah, we’re glad we’re here, too! Ain’t we, you two?”

Enjoying the drama, “Yeah, Mitch!” Larry said.

“Oh, yeah!” Marsha said.

As always, the ride from the far north side of Chicago through the southwest side and the cities of Cicero and Berwyn confirmed Mitchell’s opinion that, yes, Waldheim Cemetery is at the end of the earth.

                                                               **** 

Finally, approaching the cemetery, the procession turned right onto Desplaines and, taking a left, the line of cars slowed, then stopped altogether as the hearse and lead cars funneled through the gate into the cemetery complex.

On the south side of the roadway to the left was a long, eight ­foot­ high concrete wall. On the right, to the north, a black, seven ­foot ­high wrought iron fence.

Now, because the cars were stopped… “Uh-­oh!”

“ ‘Uh­-oh’, Mitchell? What’s with the ‘uh­-oh’?” Libby asked.

Quiet, staring to be sure what he saw he was really seeing but, “Uh-­oh!”

The placards stuck onto the windshields of the cars before him were not white with the Star of David, but rather dark blue with the white emblem of a Cross.

“Uh­-oh,” because rather than turning to the left, passing beneath the entrance with the Star of David, the procession of cars were passing through the entrance with the sign of a Cross above going into, “Uh­-oh!” Concordia Cemetery.

                                                                  **** 

Waldheim being huge, with at least six entrances, Mitchell did not find the funeral of his grandmother, and Libby Leibowitz did not attend the funeral of her oldest and dearest friend, Emma. And because of this, not caring why the car wouldn’t start, nor understanding how anyone with any intelligence could possibly fall in line and follow the wrong funeral procession…“A ‘goyish’ funeral procession, yet!” Libby thought Mitchell Lipensky an idiot.

True, Mitchell did feel bad about it, but also knew he’d done everything possible to get to the funeral on time. However he thought that rushing to, then following the wrong procession was kind of funny, in a macabre way.

As for the two in back: thinking this was just about the funniest thing that had happened to Mitchell since he’d accidentally stepped into the bucket of water at Polk Brothers, grasping each other’s knee with one hand, trying to hold it down for Libby’s sake but not doing a really great job of it, Larry and Marsha had their other hands clamped across their mouths to keep from laughing hysterically.

 Peoria, Illinois

April 25, 1960

So hot!

So unseasonably hot that the next day.

 TOO HOT, EVEN FOR BABIES!

It was even too hot to have babies Sunday.

Peoria hospitals reported only four babies born here in a 48 ­hour period ending at 9 p.m. Sunday.

Normally six to seven times that number are born over the weekend.

St. Francis Hospital reported not a single birth; Methodist just one, and Proctor hit the jackpot with three.

METHODIST HOSPITAL: A daughter was born to Mrs. Mitchell Lipensky 6820 S. Wisconsin, Sunday a.m.

PROCTOR HOSPITAL: A daughter was born to….

So said the article in the Peoria Journal Star.

                                                                    ****

Named for, and “giving a name” to Eli Goldman; weighing in at six pounds, twelve ounces, the little girl was named Ellie Jan Lipensky.