Chicago, Illinois

May 1946

The Balance

He was the tallest boy in his class, and with the exception of only one other boy in the eighth grade, the tallest in school.

Still a nosher [one that eats between meals] he remained on the heavy side, but due to his bone structure carried the weight well. His face had turned from round to oval, giving him a slightly more masculine appearance. Going on twelve, Mitchell Lipensky was considered the best looking boy at Holland School.

He liked the way he looked, and did whatever he could to enhance his appearance even further. Using one of Myra’s nylon stockings, he’d made a cap and slept with it on, hoping to train his straight hair to fall into a wave, which in time it did. In summer he would spend as much time as possible in the sun to ensure a dark tan. Mitchell was always meticulously clean, although, much to the annoyance of his mother, he allowed his bedroom to become messy and the clothing that she so carefully ironed and hung in closet to go awry.

For all his good looks, however, Mitchell Lipensky did have a balance…

He was bashful, very bashful, and in the presence of strangers—particularly girls—his heart would quicken, his palms would become moist and minuscule droplets of perspiration would break out along his hairline. Believing people were looking at him made him feel clumsy, as if he were about to trip over his own feet… But, even though he did become nervous when being looked at, or when he thought he was being looked at, oddly enough, Mitchell enjoyed the attention.

Prone to daydreaming, unless the subject matter completely held his interest, Mitchell’s mind would wander and often, even when trying to concentrate, it was as if a barricade of gauze lay across his brain, keeping whatever the subject from sinking in.

Even though he’d had the “male/female” conversation with his father, Mitchell still hadn’t the slightest idea of what “it’s” all about, and had absolutely no idea of what to expect when, and if, it ever happened.

When thinking “dirty,” he could only fantasize breasts because breasts were something he knew, for sure, girls had and guys hadn’t, and even though hardly any of the girls in his class had even the budding of a breast, in his sexually charged, over-active imagination, beneath each flat-fronted blouse or sweater there sprouted two dark pink—as the lady on the train—or brown—as Louise Ann—nippled breasts. Whatever girls had between their legs, was still an absolute void. As far as still he knew, girls still had nothin’!

When in the presence of an unknown girl, or girls, he’d taught himself, even at that age, to hide his shyness by appearing to be aloof, and to those that did not know him, this sham, combined with his good looks, became the image of conceit. But Mitchell’s vanity was truly focused inward.

Most pretty girls, being pretty and being girls, usually do not want to be seen with a boy that is better looking then themselves, or with a boy that may, for whatever reason, project more conceit than themselves.

It was for this reason that, for most of his life, the girls that he wanted to know better usually backed away from him leaving him feeling inferior, confused and wondering, What’s wrong with me?

The Meeting

May 11, 1946

“Sam, slice for me a pound salami, hard, please.”

Reaching up, the grocer lifted a wrinkled Vienna salami off a hook. “Hard enough, Ida?”

Ida Parminter nodded her head.

Peeling about four inches of the Hebraic-inscribed casing with the edge of a knife, placing the salami on the marble slab, Sam cut perfectly uniform slices.

Turning her head to the tinkling of the bell as a tall lady pushing a buggy came into the store, “Myra, hello!”

Squinting a moment as her eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight to the subdued light of the grocery store, “Ida, how nice to see you… Sam,” wheeling the buggy to the counter, “hello.”

“Oy, let’s see the boychick.” Wiping his hands on his apron, coming from around the counter, Sam bent over the buggy. “Myra, another beautiful baby; another Mitchell.” Tickling the baby’s under-chin, Lawrence giggled.

“Shayner punnum,” Ida said, putting her forefinger in the baby’s open hand. Closing his fist, the baby held her finger.

Tickling him again, Sam was rewarded with a laugh. “You and Walter, you make beautiful babies,” he commented as he returned to his place behind the counter.

Blushing, “So, Ida,” Myra asked, “how’s by you? Frank and the boys, they all okay?”

“Yes, sure, by me everything’s fine. Frank’s working hard—two jobs, you know; I hardly see him anymore.”

“Where’s your Norman? I haven’t seen him in weeks. I asked Mitchell, but he wouldn’t say. The boys didn’t have a fight, did they?”

“Norman?” Thinking a moment, “Oh! Mitchell didn’t tell you?”

“No. Tell me what?”

“Well, my Norman’s going to be twelve in June, and if we want him to be a Bar Mitzvah he’s got to go to Chader!”

“Hebrew school! That’s where he is! No wonder Mitchell never mentioned it.”

In the past, whenever Myra and Walter had spoken of Hebrew school, they both agreed that, yes, they did want their son to have a Bar Mitzvah. But with the end of the war, the baby, the studio, and the way “time just flies,” it had slipped their minds. And Mitchell, of course, not being inclined to school of any kind, would never mention that Norman was going to Hebrew school because if he did, it would remind his parents and he’d be going, too… Oh, yeah!

“Ida, I must be meshuggi! [Crazy] You just reminded me, Mitchell is going to be twelve in August.”

“So, you’re going to send him to Chader?”

“He’s not going to be happy about it, but, yes, on Monday, my Mitchell will be going to Chader with your Norman. Where are you and Frank sending him?”

“The old Chader, over on St. Louis.”

May 13, 1946

The Prison…

…Was an old, one story, yellow brick building. At the south end of the building there was a chain-linked, pea-graveled playground without equipment or benches. A hand-painted sign on cracked canvas hung over the front of the building. The dark blue Hebrew lettering had faded to a transparent cameo with only the darker, outer edges of the lettering still visible. Underneath, painted in black letters, in English, were the words “MONTIFORIE HEBREW SCHOOL.”

Mitchell Lipensky knew that on that, the thirteenth day of May, 1946, as he reluctantly followed five paces behind his mother and father through the playground entrance, after all but being physically dragged the nine blocks from his home to this combination Devils Island and Alcatraz, that on that day his fifteen-month sentence was about to begin…

“Oh, shit!”

At 3:40 p.m. on any weekday there would be dozens of children milling about the playground.

Norman was there, talking to “Big” Rosalind Feigenbaum, a homely, largeboned, redheaded girl from the “block.” Looking up as the Lipenskys entered the playground, Norman waved to Mitchell, but, as though to say, “This is your fault,” Mitchell shook a clenched fist at his friend.

                                                                          **** 

“So, Mr. and Mrs. Lipensky, you wish to have, uh…” glancing at the application on his desk, “Mitchell,” he said, looking at the boy with obvious dislike, “ready for his Bar Mitzvah in such a short time, eh?”

Usually cognizant of people’s reactions to him, noticing the Rabbi’s dark look, Why don’t he like me, Mitchell wondered, when he don’t even know me?

Rabbi Isaac Mietzner did dislike the boy, and he also disliked the boy’s parents; the boy, because he knew by his attitude, he’ll be nothing but trouble, and the parents, because they’d put their son’s Hebrew schooling off for so long, depriving the boy of much of the education, and himself of the income.

Answering the Rabbi’s question, “Yes, Rabbi,” Walter said, “but his thirteenth birthday’s not till August… Uh, next August.”

“Fifteen months, eh?” Mietzner said sarcastically. “That does make all the difference! You speak Yiddish, or maybe Hebrew?”

“Yiddish, a little, when we don’t want him to know what we’re talking about,” Myra answered.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lipensky, you know, of course, that some boys going to Chader in preparation for their Bar Mitzvah attend, sometimes, for five years!”

Five years! Mitchell visibly shuddered at the thought.

“But, Rabbi, Norman Parminter…”

Mietzner looked at Myra over the top of his glasses. “Ah, yes!” Cutting her off, “Parminter! That’s another one!”

“Rabbi,” Myra glanced at Walter, “we know we’ve been wrong, but with the war, and we had a baby and started a business…” Stopping because she knew those were just excuses, “You’re right, Rabbi. We definitely should have brought him here sooner.”

Mietzner glared at Mitchell. “You do understand you will have to work hard to catch up!”

Sitting slouched in a straight-back chair, “Yeah.” Mitchell grudgingly muttered, squirming under the Rabbi’s skeptical stare.

“All right, then,” Mietzner looked at Walter, “leave him and we’ll start today.”

“Uh,” looking up, “I gotta? Today?”

Rising from his chair, standing directly in front of Mitchell—who immediately straightened his body—“Yes!” Poking his stiffened finger in his son’s chest for emphasis, “Today!” Poke. “And if you” poke “know what’s good for you” poke “you’ll work your tuchas off!” Poke. “Do you understand me?” Poke, poke, and poke.

“Yeah! Ouch! Yes, I understand!”