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“Your brother… Roger said that… That your dad, uh…”

Rushing to the phone, about to grab it, it rang. “Yes!”

“Marsha…”

“Aunt Ida, what’s wrong?”

“We didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but thinking about it we thought it best to let you know because…”

In panic, “Let me know what?”

“We didn’t want the three of you rushing home and getting into an accident yourselves, but…”

Her voice rising, “Aunt Ida, please! What happened to daddy?”

“This morning, before he opened, some bum, some dirty, god-damned nigger bum came into the store, and… The bastard shot your father!”

“Daddy? Shot?” Not allowing herself to think it, “How… How is he?”

Struggling to find words, the line was silent a moment. “That’s why there’s no need to rush here,” Ida said. “Marcie, Eli… Your father’s dead.”

Bk2#8:A Second Death

July 24, 1959

How could it be?

How could this day possibly be such a beautiful day?

In surrealistic contrast to this beautiful summer day the mood within the car was drearily gray and the silence oppressive.

Emotionally drained from the horror of last week’s endless drive from Peoria to Chicago and the funeral then the Shiva—the seven days of mourning for the dead, beginning immediately after the funeral in the home of the deceased—since leaving the home of, now, only her mother, though he had made an attempt at small talk, Marsha, with Michael cradled in her arms, asleep, had not responded and, receiving no response, Mitchell, too, had lapsed into a depressed silence.

…Breaking the silence, “You know,” Marsha said softly, “they say only the good die young.” Adding sarcastically, “Guess that means ‘mother’ will live forever.”

Relieved at hearing her voice, glancing at her, not thinking she expected an answer, placing his hand on Marsha’s knee, Mitchell brought his attention back to the ribbon of highway before him.

“You do know they liked him! The cops really liked daddy and they always told him: ‘Eli, don’t threaten those bastards! Just kill ’em, then give us a call and we’ll send a wagon and cart ’em away with no questions asked’. ”

He’d heard someone at the funeral or Shiva say that— possibly even one of the many policemen that had come to offer their condolences.

“Poor Roger.”

Never having heard Marsha say anything nice about her brother, he glanced to his right again.

“Having to identify the b… uh, daddy.”

He didn’t remember who told him, but Mitchell had heard this before, too, but thought it best to let her talk.

“To be called there! To find daddy sitting on the floor between those two stools with his eyes open, smiling… Oh, God!” Shuddering, shaking her head from side to side as though attempting to rid herself of the sight. “At first he thought daddy was okay, then Roger saw the hole in his forehead and that he wasn’t moving.” Hugging her son, “Oh, God! My, God!”

Wanting to offer solace. Desperately wanting to say something, anything to console her, but not knowing what to say, he squeezed her knee.

“And they let him go!” Now railing against the police, “The god-damned cops find the son-of-a-bitch running around waving a gun saying, ‘I just shot a man!’ And because the god-damned ‘Urban League’ (the forerunner of the N.A.A.C.P.) said it wasn’t his gun, and that he shot daddy in self-defense they let him go! God-damn-it!”

Attempting to give comfort, of sorts, “Marcie, you know what that one cop told you.”

“Yeah, that one day they’ll find that nigger dead in an alley.”

“Marcie…”

“No! Don’t say it! Ruby’s a mench, (a good person) but the bastard that killed my father is a nigger!” Silent a moment, then… “I want a baby!”

“Huh?” So far out of context, “What did you say?”

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

Knowing that they’re just ‘getting by’ with 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.”

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 ha-shalom (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. “Emma 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, after all 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.”

January 8, 1960: The Funeral Fiasco

“Damn it!”

Viewed through the wiper-smudged windshield, 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 Mitchell’s grandfather, 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 Brandts—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. So 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 then putting his coat on, “Okay, 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!” Marsha said.

“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?

To be continued