Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [119]
Baltimore was borderline. Borderline hunger, borderline soles on the shoes. Whatever it was, it was borderline. Hannah’s sister, Sonia, and her maligned husband, Jake Rubenstein, were in a perpetual state of struggle. Sonia’s bridal shop had gone down the drain, sunk by Jake’s gambling debts.
Uncle Hyman, the one success story in the family, owned a large pharmacy on Fayette Street, near the central post office, in downtown Baltimore. Hyman gave to the relatives in Baltimore, keeping them afloat, gave to the relatives in the old country, gave to relatives in Palestine, gave to the synagogue. He never stopped giving. Such a blessed man.
Uncle Hyman took in Lazar as an apprentice pharmacist and paid his tuition to study at night school at the Maryland College of Pharmacy. Hyman’s gesture kept their heads above water.
From Moses Balaban, months would pass without so much as one thin dime of support money. Moses would meander into Baltimore on the holidays, spiffed up like the Prince of Wales, and honor his family with a visit. Once or twice a year he’d give each of the girls a new silver dollar. Otherwise, no wife, no support.
Hannah had to be beyond merely industrious. By day she sold a line of ladies’ foundation garments on a door-to-door basis: corsets and bust bodices. She would pick up an occasional order for a wedding gown, always, it seemed, just in the nick of time to stave off a disaster, or to spare her from the humiliation of having to go to Uncle Hyman for money.
The girls ran the household. In the evenings, they helped Momma, enabling her to take in more alteration work. Hannah’s foot was always at the treadle of the sewing machine until far into the night.
So they managed ... barely.
After five years in Baltimore, Hannah was able to open a tiny shop on Gay Street, between the deli and a house no one talked about, except in whispers. It was an open secret what went on in “that” house, with its constant parade of men, particularly on payday. Her daughters, by the ages of eight, ten, and twelve, became deft at cutting patterns and even doing hand-beaded work.
After a year of apprenticing, studying, and cramming, Lazar became a certified pharmacist and things opened up a bit. They were able to move into a relatively decent apartment on the second floor above a bakery, where at least they always had that pleasant aroma drifting up. The baker, one of many charmed by Hannah, always gave her first crack at the day-old bread and cakes counter.
Lazar was a nice sort of fellow, not too bad-looking and quick with the smile and a joke. Someday, Hyman assured, he’d have a pharmacy of his own. Lazar had gone from boyhood to manhood unselfishly. In return for Hannah’s early love and protection, he became entirely devoted to her needs and those of his sisters.
One would expect that Hannah and the girls would have held Lazar in special esteem for his sacrifices. After all, when he received his certification, he was earning enough to go out and live on his own and enjoy the fruits of bachelorhood. But Lazar remained in a cauldron of angry women. He was taken for granted, a semi-person within their walls. Lazar was Lazar ... an all-right boy ... an observant Jew ... an altogether decent provider.
And with the passage of time the memory of the dead Saul expanded out of reality. They forgot how wild Saul had been, how irresponsible, how difficult to handle. How he had probably instigated his own death. Saul was remembered as the family defender, a sainted boy. Saul was credited like an Irish patriot for deeds he never did and songs he never sang. The yahrzeit of his death was observed with no less solemnity than Yom Kippur. Lazar lived beneath the shadow of his revered dead brother.
To be sure, Lazar was well served. He sat at the head of the table and his clothing was always spotless and