A Becoming Excerpt

Chicago, Illinois

March 14, 1945/Geography +

Thinning, soot-coated remnants of winter still clung to naked tree limbs even as barely seen buds pushed through layers of winter bark.

 Driblets of muddy water swept over curbs into thousands of miles of gutters, then combined and surged to become gushing streams that poured from all directions of the compass into the fast-flowing currents of the Chicago River.

 Wanting this endless day to end. Squirming restlessly on the hard oak seat of his desk paying scant attention to the droning, slightly accented voice of his sixth-grade teacher. His eyes half closed, Mitchell Lipensky gazed through the dirt-streaked window.

 Whenever he thought of Frank Rizzo, which really wasn’t all that often, he missed him but did not miss Baylor, especially since his brother, Lawrence Joseph, had been born.

 The war, so far, had brought no great calamity to either family.

Myra’s brother, Sheldon, was somewhere in Italy reconstructing airfields that had been destroyed by the retreating German army, while Ira, Walter’s youngest brother, had spent the duration in Colorado as a clerk ‘rubber-stamping’ documents.

Radio, newspapers and movie newsreels claimed decisive victories for the Allies throughout Europe and Asia, and Americans knew that it was only a matter of time till ‘it was over over there’.

 Slumping lower in his seat, stretching his legs forward, the toe of his shoe nudged the heel of the boy sitting in front of him and the boy, as though awakened, started and fleetingly looked over his shoulder then he, too, looked out the window.

 Checking to be sure that Mrs. Stakowsky was not looking in his direction, touching the tip of his finger to his tongue, Mitchell put it through the opening of the small packet of Sen-Sen that was in the breast pocket of his shirt, then licked off the seven or eight tiny, licorice breath-sweetening confections.

 Looking at the multi-colored map that was pulled down like a window shade in front of the blackboard, he tried to comprehend his teacher’s words as she pointed to the map with a wooden yardstick, but his brain seemed to be covered with a layer of gauze and his wandering mind wandered to his tracings and, as happened so often then, his penis, completely uninvited, began to stretch his underpants.

Recently, using his comic books and enlarging the breasts and filling in the nipples and crotch as best as he could visualize, he had taken to tracing pictures of women onto tracing paper and had an assortment of naked women, as best as he could visualize, ranging from Wonder Woman to Archie’s girlfriends, Veronica and Betty hidden in the recessed top of the built-in hutch in the dining room.

Second from the end, his seat was in the row closest to the window.

Slouching, his Jockey shorts had hiked into his groin and by putting his left hand into his pocket and stretching his finger through the hole he’d discovered when his nickel had fallen out, by ripping the hole further he was able to push two fingers through to beneath the elastic band of his underpants. Looking about to be sure that no one was watching him, and with the possible exception of Toby, the girl that sat directly behind him, no one was. Mitchell hunched forward, slumped lower and by angling to the right, unless Toby went out of her way to look, he was able to hide his lower body. Pulling it through, his penis then jutted at a left angle through and from under the elastic band of his shorts and up through the hole in his pocket and, with absolutely no show of motion, he began a squeezing, rolling motion beneath the glans, till, Uh-oh, better stop! But his fingers, as his penis, seemed to have minds of their own and no part of his body obeyed. Straining the material of his pocket—squeezing, rolling—he tightened his knees—rolling, squeezing—pushed his legs forward and sat upward in his seat then, remembering where he was, slouched again…Stop! Why won’t his fingers listen to his brain? And within moments, with a rapid intake of breath, sensing the onset of his orgasm, constricting his thighs, groin and rectum, Mitchell’s nervous system taking over he jerked upright and…

 “Tach!” Clicking her tongue in annoyance, Toby whispered, “Mitchell! Can’t you sit still, even for a minute?”

 He felt the warm spurts of sticky semen in the palm of his hand, and…

His squirming and, although she’d whispered, Tobey’s words had caught someone else’s attention.

“Mister Lipensky,” Mrs. Stakowski said, pointing the yardstick at him, “would you please come forward and go to the map and define the eastern, pre-war boundaries of the Soviet Union.”

Thinking, Oh, my God! he rose slowly and slower yet made his way to the front of the room.

“And ‘for goodness sake, Mitchell!” Mrs. Stakowski scolded. “Take your hands out of your pockets!”

                                               ****

Shadows In The Mind

Radio: The age of imagination.

How wonderful to lie comfortably on the softly carpeted floor.

To be snug and warm on a cold winter day with your brother or sister beneath mommy and daddy’s sweet smelling blanket.

To smell grandpa’s aftershave and feel his arms about you as you sat on his lap.

To close your eyes and be carried away…

“RETURN WITH US NOW TO THOSE THRILLING DAYS OF

YESTERYEAR WHERE OUT OF THE DISTANCE COMES

THE THUNDEROUS HOOF BEATS OF THE GREAT HORSE

SILVER! THE LONE RANGER RIDES AGAIN!”

With our imaginations wide open we could see them!

They were there!

There! There’s the Lone Ranger and his great horse Silver! There’s Tonto and Scout!

“HI-HO, SILVER, AWAY!”

“Lux Radio Theater presents, ‘The Dawn Patrol’!”

“Mom, I saw that movie! Can I stay up an’ listen? Please?”

“No! There’s school tomorrow and it’s past your bedtime!”

“Aw, gee, Mom. I’ll get washed’n’brush my teeth’n’get into bed soon’s it’s over! Please!”

On Saturday mornings…

“Cream of Wheat is so good to eat,

yes we have it every day.

We sing this song, it’ll make us strong,

and it makes us shout hooray!”

“Cream of Wheat presents, ‘Let’s pretend’! Today the story of ‘The Princess and the Pea’!”

“Grand Central Station! Crossroads of a thousand lives!”

“Corless Archer: ‘America’s Junior Miss’!”

Raptly listening.

Imagining.

Being there!

Run home from school. Go to the store for mom. Take a package of Twinkies and a glass of milk and sit on the floor in front of the radio:

“Jaaack Armstrong, the ‘All American Boy’!”

“Captainnn Midniiight!”

“The Green Hornet!”

“Look, up in the sky!”

“It’s a bird!”

“It’s a plane”

“It’s ‘Superman’!”

After supper, take the garbage to the can. Rush through homework. Back on the floor again because:

“It’s time for Jack Benny!”

“Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy!”

“Fanny Brice as ‘Baby Snooks’!”

“ ‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?

The Shadow knows’!”

“Today, April twelfth, nineteen-hundred, forty-five, our president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, died suddenly of a massive cerebral hemorrhage in Warm Springs, Georgia.”

“God save America!”

“Today, May eighth, nineteen hundred, forty-five, Germany surrendered to the Allied Forces.”

“The war in Europe is over!”

“Today, August, fourteenth, nineteen hundred, forty-five, Japan surrendered to the Allied Forces.”

“WORLD WAR TWO IS OVER!”

We, and our radios, were there.

                                         ****

Chicago, Illinois 1946

 In 1923, when Walter Lipensky was seventeen years old, he’d discovered that he had two loves: one, an outlet for his type of adventure, and the other an outlet for his creativity. ‘Sailing’ and ‘photography’.

Throughout his younger years, even through the great depression and right up to the time he’d met and married Myra, Walter was able to participate, if not wholly then passively in both of these activities.

When you’re in love and have a beautiful new wife, even if money is not as scarce as during a depression, old loves are usually abandoned… if not with a backward glance than ‘certainly’ with a warm remembrance.

Walking the shore in spring or the beach in summer. Driving the Outer Drive in sight of Lake Michigan in the fall. A soft breeze or a gust of wind would bring pangs of quiet longing to Walter and he would desperately crave the feel of a small boat heeling in the wind and the touch of spray on his face.

Colored kites with necktie tails floating above the trees.

Children huddled in a circle shooting marbles.

A lonely, gnarled tree silhouetted before ominous gray clouds. These sights would register upon the mind of Walter Lipensky and he would hunger for the satisfaction of being able to show these mental pictures to others as he saw them.

But… A wife cost money. A child costs money.

What was needed took precedence: rent, food, medicine and clothing.

What was wanted was put on the back burner beneath a growing list of priorities.

‘Sailing’? ‘Photography’? Sailing and photography were way, way down, at the bottom of the list.

                                                ****

At the end of the war when defense plants began the process of retooling for the produce of peace, the massive work forces were being cut back and, knowing he’d be out of a job shortly, Walter decided that then might be the best time to combine business with pleasure and so began to think of looking for work in the field of photography…

...Sailing he forgot—temporarily.

                                                     ***

The ‘Park Studio’ was on Kedize and Fifteenth Place, about a mile from the Lipensky apartment.

In the waning days of the war, Park Studio’s owner, Mister Myron Pincus was in his late sixties when he’d received the telegram informing him that his son, Elmer, had been seriously wounded, and Pincus suffered a heart attack.

Morris Barrish and Mister Pincus attended the same synagogue. One Friday evening after the Shabbes service, Pincus mentioned that he was looking for an assistant and, putting a good word in for his son-in-law, Morris called Walter when he returned home.

                                                    ****

On Monday evening Walter brought samples of his photographic work to his job interview and was hired immediately… Well, immediately after an hour of haggling over a livable wage for a family man with two children. 

Walter worked at the Park Studio for less than six months when, early in 1946, Pincus suffered another, more debilitating heart attack and was told by his doctor to retire or die.

Having to sell the studio, Pincus made a proposal to Walter. Walter made a counteroffer. Pincus made a counter-counteroffer and they settled for seven hundred dollars down, five percent of the gross for five years, then a two-thousand-dollar buyout.

 Walter and Myra Lipensky became the owners of the Park Studio on 

March 3, 1946.

The husband and wife worked together with Walter doing the shooting, darkroom work and retouching, while Myra handled the bookkeeping, the reception of customers and, after discovering that she had a steady hand, for those customers willing to pay, Myra hand-colored portraits in oil.

 Mitchell was old enough to care for himself after school and on Saturdays so Walter and Myra brought the baby, Lawrence, to the studio with them each day.

 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, 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. 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. He was ‘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 though he were about to trip over his own feet… However, even though he did become nervous when being looked at, or when he ‘thought’ he was being looked at, oddly enough, for some unknown reason 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 though a barricade of gauze lay across his brain, keeping whatever the subject matter 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 Mitchell knew girls still had ‘nothin’!

When in the presence of an unknown girl, or girls, he’d taught himself, even at ‘nearing the age of twelve’, 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 they 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?”

“My Norman, a fight?” 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 next year, 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 Monday through Thursday 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!”

_____________________________________________________

To be continued as:’’’

1946 Atomic Ring +

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Notation: The very next “Hebrew School” episode is, “Amy Pearlman Farts” that I posted as an individual post on 12/16/19 when Mitchell Lipensky literally sticks his foot into it, which I think is rather funny.

So, if you are continuing with this series, I would suggest you back page to 12/16/19 as I do not wish to re-post “Amy Pearlman Farts” again. Then return to 1946/47 &1948                                                    Thank you