Lower Topia • Chapter 1
Episode 4
Omnipotent god
“…which of God’s churches do you belong to?”
I don’t remember the first time I learned about god; what I do remember, however, is that the rules were specific, inexorably unchangeable, and very strict. What I do remember being taught about our “god” is it was offered as the forbearer of all the other monotheistic gods. Asking Charlie to confirm this, he admitted that he was too young to understand what omnipotent meant, what he did know was his god was so exclusive it wasn’t to be offered in any version or variation, nor in any domain, nor in any situation other than in prayer. When mentioned outside the synagogue [aka “Jewish church” as it is known in the deep South], the user must never speak god’s name nor give any description of it. In conversation, outside of a prayer, Jews were to call their god “Hashem”, which in Hebrew means “the Name.” If it was to be written outside of prayer, Hashem would be written G-d, thereby eliminating its formal use as within the prayer. At the most, this was an example of an assimilation, and at the very least a compromise with the ‘great nation of people’.
“Charles, do you remember that you were that type of kid that did not like to go on stage and perform. When you were a student in Hebrew school, the adults of our synagogue insisted on having the children in their congregation do just that?” “Yeah, I remember. I’m not much different now. As long as I have a prepared speech, written and from which to read, in front of me, I’m okay. But put me opposite a group of people, and ad lib, well, it’s a horror story” I confirmed. Charlie then added “I wasn’t a lover of foreign languages either Charles. And when those in power of my life in Hebrew school raised the bar and made Hebrew the language of my family’s prayers, well I found out that I was to become a rock star at lip syncing. So, I avoided religious services as best as I could, remember?” “I do.” I answered. Charlie continued, “During services I would wander off into the hallways of the Synagogue. I would end up either hanging out with similar Hebrew school misfits or sit in a classroom by myself ”. Charlie recalled making the point as clear as he could to the Rabbi one day. “Hey Rabbi, let’s agree that if I come to services, you won’t volunteer me to participate. I’d just rather sit in the congregational pews and be left alone. I promise to watch and pay attention, just leave me sit there.” “Nonsense son,” the Rabbi responded, “We would love to have you join us.” Charlie wondered how his choices never amounted to more than one selection from which to choose, theirs. Needless to say, Charlie would eventually find himself, later on, too preoccupied with other more worldly things then to consider attending Saturday morning services at his father’s shul.
Charlie clearly made it understood, however, that he will always and thoroughly respect and admire his father’s love for his heritage, culture. While he completely understood what rules he would be breaking, he just will not follow them. This was something that remained an integral part of his being throughout his life. “I will always remember the amazing stories Dad would tell Steve and me of his early life; where and how they lived when he was a child in Eastern Europe, how they immigrated to America, and their survival in America. Dad had a magnificent singing voice, also; as did all his brothers. This voice was even inherited by our own brother, Steve. One of our uncles, Eli, actually became a religious leader of his own congregation. Sadly, I somehow missed that trait when the singing genes were being distributed.” Charlie told me. “I named one of my cats after this uncle. Uncle Eli symbolized the strength of our past; its structured routine, and it’s resilient stubborn determination to honor its traditions. So did the cat that was given his name.” I added. Charlie seemed not to be bothered by my interruption, and continued as if not to have taken a breath, “Although religion for both of our parents was a way of life for them, for mom, it was to be her day to day struggle and endurance, while observing its strict rules, that allowed her own personal upbringing to put boundaries these routine rituals. Orphaned first by her mother’s death in England, then by her father’s passing after a year of settling in America. She willingly found conflict as a result of her desire to taste the culinary pleasures of the other cultures; it was to be her Eden’s apple” Charlie defining his portrayal of his mother, and his foundation. “The underlying passion that my family had for their prayers was to become a permanent part of my soul. Yet, in the end, all that I retained from that indoctrination was my love of the spiritualism and history of the Jews; just not the religious part. And my mom seemed to have rounded off the corners of the straight lines drawn by Judaism” Charlie finished. With Charlie’s role in our family and his upbringing as my template, I will always be immensely proud of who I am, where my family came from, and my cultural foundation; but I also couldn’t and wouldn’t sing nor speak its language in its praise. This restricted how Charlie and I would practice our religion. But that’s okay. Charlie always enjoyed being a Jew, he would just honor its rituals from the pews. I would do the same.
November 2003 Soon after setting up my new home in Lower Topia, with my dog back then, Jack, and I knew that Arnold wasn’t very healthy. Cancer, we would find out later. Isn’t that always the case. Cancer. Who dies from a back ache, or sinuses. Not sure what brand of cancer Arnold had, but two years after meeting him for the first time, he died.
Jack really liked Arnold. Ever since his first encounter, Jack had been the happy recipient of a Christmas biscuit each of those two years that Arnold lived across the street from us. Jack and Arnold had nurtured a special bond all on their own. It was a very healthy respect that each gave the other.
Before we left for Lower Topia, Jack and I were advised and thus believed that as transplanted New Yorkers, we would be out of place in our new southern neighborhood. As New York Jews crashing the Bible Belt, it had the opportunity, according to rumor, to turn badly. From our well-wishers up north, ominous predictions of social disasters were yet to happen . It didn’t help that Jack was a 116 pound Lab/Boxer mix of bark and attitude; Jack was hard to miss; if you didn’t see him, he would remind you. To help me compete with the pressure from the many owners of designer dogs of the Lower Topia dog park, I couldn’t just admit he was a rescued mutt. I thereby christened Jack as a brand new trial breed known as ‘Loxer’ [Lab/Boxer mix, brilliant!]. They apparently were very impressed. I could only imagine that it became the number one Google search that Winter. “Google, what is a Loxer?” “Google, where can I buy a Loxer?”
Arnold stood at the base of his driveway, that morning in early November 2003. Jack and I were only residents for just 2 weeks, barely. It was later understood that Beatrice, Arnold’s wife, normally had most of her chores inside the house. Please don’t misunderstand; I didn’t make the rules of the decade that Beatrice came from, I’m just reporting it. That morning, however and for some reason, Beatrice came outside to join Arnold. To see us? Jack and I were on our driveway; I was breaking down the boxes so the moving company can pick them up the next day; looking for a refund was my driving motivation. While leaning over the box I was flattening, Jack stood steadfast facing the street; he was off leash, nothing unusual. Completing the staging of the encounter which was just about to take place, Beatrice had positioned herself on the front walkway of her home, her arms folded and resting on her stomach. She didn’t have a smile. Without describing her face as cold stone, and without emotion, it was rather a matter of just staring and showing signs of being out of her element. Arnold was standing on the apron of his driveway; a picture of Stonewall Jackson comes to mind. He staring at his new neighbors across the street. It was obvious Arnold wanted to say hello, and Beatrice seemed to be there to support that effort. Arnold, over 6 feet tall with a slight bend to the shoulders displaying age, stood his ground. His advanced illness would later be used to describe the display of its wear on Arnold’s statue, and with this slightly slumped stature he stared at us with a small hint of a smile forming. His voice was confident and proud with a touch of the northwest corner of America. “Hi there, neighbor.” he said. Arnold would become a good neighbor, and I was always appreciative. At that moment, however, as Arnold’s welcoming message traveled across the street, I was too preoccupied breaking down the boxes to notice him. But Jack heard him. Arnold and Jack stared at each other. Arnold endured his position at the base of his driveway, waiting for an opportunity to formally introduce himself to me. But the only thing that he attracted at that moment was Jack’s bark. Several barks. Jack’s acknowledgement. Jack began to walk cross the street towards Arnold; all 116 pounds. His fourth, maybe fifth, bark suddenly became my alarm clock. I raised my head to see Jack moving towards Arnold. Jack’s head submissively down, interestingly matching Arnold’s stature. What a pair of bookends they were to become. He approached Arnold with a couple of additional barks, as if to maintain his dominance. All the while, I was hoping [no praying] it was just his way of saying hello. I finally became fully aware that this had all the possibilities of going very badly. Arnold stood quietly. By the time I fully reacted to the barks, I was ready to command my dog to stop moving. Please G-d make him heed me. I shouted, “JACK SIT!!!”. It was too late. Jack had already reached the apron of Arnold’s driveway, and gave one more loud bark. “Oh, SHIT JACK!!” I shouted like a true New Yorker. “SIT JACK!!” Then ending with total resignation to tragedy that was about to happen, my voice trailed to a plea, “Please sit Jack.” My voice tapered to a whimper as Jack was now fully at the foothold of his destination. I walked towards him and hoped that Jack would just sit and not growl at Arnold; sit there long enough for me to grab his leashed collar. Without any apparent apprehension, Arnold showed no sign that he was concerned, I knew all too well that Jack and his bark was only meant to scare the shit out of anyone. So, it just seemed to me that Arnold must have been playing out the role of that deer caught in some car headlight scenario. At the same time, my thoughts were also all over the hope that Arnold and Beatrice, and anyone else in hearing distance, didn’t hear the word “shit” that I threw out there in this mid-America Victorian neighborhood, as nothing more than my first of two “sits”. It was too late for any corrective action on either account, now being the best time to pray to G-d that nothing goes seriously wrong. Admittedly, and with some degree of hindsight, I should not have allowed Jack to be off leash, even on our driveway. We were so new to this neighborhood, so why was I lax in my control over Jack. Bad habits are hard to break, I guess. Quickly praying “G-d please make Jack sit and not do anything that will make our first public appearance our worst experience in our new Lower Topia home. “In return, G-d, I will eat all my vegetables.” Really?? Charles is that the best you can offer your god?” I whispered.
Jack now sharing our neighbor’s driveway with our neighbor, each staring at each other, it was too late for anything other than to join Beatrice; to be a spectator. Let it just play itself out, I reasoned. Trying to remember about hindsight’s alternative choices was not paramount, living in their neighborhood for only a couple of weeks, what was I thinking when I gave Jack that much free range.
For an instant, Jack’s head looked upward into Arnold eyes, then quickly turned his gaze back down at this human’s feet. With the grace of a ballerina, Jack rolled in midair, allowing his body to collapse onto Arnold’s driveway while his head landed squarely onto Arnold’s left foot. “Sigh” Jack whispered. Arnold returned the greeting. “Hey Buddy.” “Sigh” was Jack’s repeated response. Bonded. Lower Topia, we’re home.
January 2006 Two years pass quickly, sadly. That morning, for some reason, Jack got up unusually early. I gathered the necessary stuff for the walk: collar, leash and 2 poop bags, for which he normally uses. Sunrise had occurred minutes ago, so I didn’t need a flashlight, almost 7am. Exiting our house, we both noticed a car parked on Arnold and Beatrice’s driveway; their car is always parked in the garage at night, I thought. Jack also seemed particularly curious about this car; always ready to investigate what guests were visiting Arnold. This time he appeared more accepting then suspicious. Noticeably calm, however, he couldn’t remove his concentration from that car on Arnold’s driveway. As if he knew who was there so early in the morning, head titled like RCA’s Nipper, he waited patiently for the owner’s appearance. The car was station wagon, one of the few remaining on the road, having been replaced by the influx of SUV’s. It was a basic unremarkable black station wagon, with a placard stuck to its front door; most likely by a magnet. It reported who the owner was:
CORONE
County Medical Examiner
Minutes after we had positioned ourselves on the end of our driveway, the front door of Arnold’s home opened to allow a gurney to exit, followed closely by a man pushing it. The man had tilted the gurney upward so the front wheels cleared the front door’s sill, then lowered the front end to be followed by raising rear wheels; the gurney jerked up and down twice. The passenger, however, seemed peacefully undisturbed. With transition to the front walkway completed, the rest of the journey to the wagon was smooth as to afford its passenger its last comfortable ride from its home. It was clearly a form of a body that was draped under a white sheet, as the man guided him carefully to the station wagon. The gurney’s attendant was drably dressed in an unassuming stark
outfit; gray pants, and a darker gray jacket, the shirt was white. Although the car’s sign told me who this guy was, the countenance of the guy easily confirmed without any doubt that he was a Coroner. Being at home hospice for the past 6 months, Arnold had passed after his very long fight with his brand of cancer. Jack, as it now was obvious to me, apparently had only one mission that morning; to get up early and pay his last homage to his friend. Jack just sat quietly at the foot of our driveway, while across the street his friend was being placed into the back of the station wagon. Beatrice didn’t follow Arnold this time. Jack’s role was to sit quietly, motionlessly, and just watched as his friend was put into the car, and then watch as the station wagon slowly drove down their Lower Topia street and out of their neighborhood. Jack remained there for a couple more minutes; processing change and inevitability the best way that he could. That day Jack lost his first human friend; at the age of 12, Jack mourned as best that he knew how, silently.
Beatrice also grieved quietly for the loss of her husband. She spent most of that time in her home. Jack and I went to visit with her a couple of times; on those days, Jack would sit by Arnold’s recliner. Since she didn’t go to her church in the early days of her grieving, her church’s pastor would come to her home and stay with her. He would arrive mid-morning each day at 10 am, his arrival confirmed for me what time it was. I was outside one morning when the pastor walked out of Arthur’s house. As the he walked to his car, I approached him, and asked how Beatrice was doing. The conversation quickly focused on the fragility of life; how suddenly change in our lives happens to us all. It was a well rehearsed mini sermon. The pastor then paused with his off the cuff homily, reached out with his hand to me. I accepted, we shook, he added, “Thank you, Charles for being there when Beatrice needed help. You are a good neighbor. We all appreciate you.” The pastor offering this almost spiritual thank you. As we shook hands, the pastor’s free hand cradled my hand he was already holding so as to sandwich mine in between his two hands; the sincerity of this engagement was intensely real to me. But more then I needed. “It’s good to see you today, Charles,” the Pastor continued. Please don’t let him become a close talker; I am uncomfortable with them sharing my air. He stops well before he commits this proximal offense. “Beatrice tells me you visited and stayed with her occasionally. That was nice of you to do that. Thank you for caring.” The pastor continued to embrace my hand with his two, and with a smooth transition of attention, turned his focus to Jack, who was sitting close by, staring. He was paying very close attention to this stranger grabbing his human’s hand. “And I hear this fellow was Arnold’s special friend. Isn’t it wonderful that these creatures of God’s making create such strong bonds with humans.” The pastor’s turned his attention back to me. Without space for even a small breath, nor thought, nor purpose the Pastor smoothly transitioned, “And Charles, may I ask which of God’s churches do you belong to?”
1949-1962 Charlie established himself very well in his Levittown hometown. A talent for assimilating that he would call upon when he eventually settled into his last home in Lower Topia. Charlie was a product of the 50’s; sandlot gang who passed their lazy summer days at a nearby pond skipping stones on the water, or riding their bikes to places where mothers never knew about. Charlie lived during an era when kids attached baseball cards to the bike’s frame with wooden clothes pins so they would slap the spokes as the wheel turned, and with their baseball hat brim positioned squarely over the eyes. The cap’s crown proudly stood tall, high above the visor, formed to do so after Charlie stuffed a baseball card inside the hat, shaping the crown to stand tall. Charlie, with much trial and error, successfully sucked on a Sugar Daddy taffy down to the white stick trying not to bite off a piece of the candy prematurely. And, it was a proud moment to successfully to hunt down the origin of the clanging bells of a Good Humor ice cream truck as the driver entered his neighborhood while yanking on the cord attached to the bells; doing so while riding his crate stake board made of wheels from discarded skates screwed to the bottom of a piece of 2 x 4 board, to which an orange crate was nailed to the top of that plank of wood. All ingeniously engineered over decades from kids embellishing on an idea that started in the 1940’s. Charlie was also well versed in his religion. He knew how to respect the kashrut, and how to honor the Shabbat [although that didn’t guarantee not to break it]. And, of course the ten commandments; he knew them as well, and their order. Charlie was a Jewish boy that knew right from wrong with no strings attached to either edict. He was keening aware that there was a world outside of his ancestral realm. A world to which his father was a stranger. A world outside his birthright that he knew he would someday conquer and claim to be his own. Almost like a dual citizenship. Charlie had to admit, however, that he had serious insider help.
Edythe, Charlie’s mother, was proficient in tickling G-d’s fancy, always boasted G-d’s favor when good things happen to her and her family. Edythe would acclaim, “From your mouth to Hashem’s ear! G-d’s willing” which she hoped would have sealed possibility that whatever she prayed for would happen. But if life threw a curve ball at her, someone cut her off with their car, she would proclaim, in kind, “May G-d rip your back two tires off your car, and you land hard on your ass!!!’ Edythe was quite capable of working her beliefs are both side of the bible. Charlie’s father, Lester, on the other hand, was far more traditional, pragmatic, and timid in his approach to life; his praise of G-d was performed in daily prayers; honoring the omnipotent deity daily with the ‘Shema’.
Edythe sported her connection with G-d often by using her own form of spiritualism, wishing something would come true, or justifying her annoyance because of her belief that she had a direct link to G-d’s ear; and Charlie believed her.
Edythe represented a new trend of women in the society of the 50’s and 60;s; post wars of the previous decaded, and now with a new Asian war brewing, encouraging some young men to dodge nationalism, while other died for it. Those times had a direct effect on Edythe’s sense of motherly protection for her two sons [mostly Charlie], who were well below the draft age, but still vulnerable, in her eyes, to the tense general atmosphere of those crazy times. The once dutiful ‘stay-at-home-mom’ also found herself involuntarily leaving the kitchen.
She entered the workforce, no longer a single girl looking for a secretarial job, she was needed to help bring extra income into our badly depleted family coffers caused by a raging recession of the 50’s. Charlie learned what it was like to be the first generation of baby boomers to wear the label ‘Latch-Key’. In conjunction with mothers working full time was the rebirth and evolution of the age-old Blue Laws; a religious edict that added an eleventh rule, ‘thou shalt not work, drink or generally do anything other than go to church on Sunday’. “But we go to pray on Saturday,” exclaimed a very confused Charlie. More to learn about the world of the ‘goy’. This new source of employable moms, plus society’s disapproval of any activity other than going to church on Sunday, made Saturday a valuable family shopping day. And if your religion also used Saturday to pray to your god, then you must find your congregation at odds with society. Grand openings, graduations, parades and generally any event the public at large would consider valuable entertainment would be performed on your Sabbath. So, it was also decided, that Saturday afternoon had to become the day where a Jewish mom could treat her blond hair, fair skinned favorite child to lunch and clothes shopping; after Shul, of course. “A compromise. We must learn to compromise, Charlie” Edythe would instruct her second son. It became an afternoon which would be devoted just to this pair. This son wouldn’t be able to join his father in prayer that Saturday, dad would have his first born anyway, Charlie decided. Charlie was okay with that; it would mean one less day of performing away from the refuge of the pews.
Their plan would always include a visit first to a restaurant that was to become one of Charlie’s favorite places to eat, quickly becoming a community icon, ‘Cookies’. “Charlie, if you tell your father where we are about to eat, I promise from my mouth to G-d’s ear, I will disown you.” There she goes again, Edy showing me her powers over the omnipotent power. His mother needed company on her journey that would take them inside of the ‘other’ world; a world where the ‘goyim’, the ‘gentile’, non-jew, would dine, at one-of-a-kind self-serve restaurant. And Charlie became her hostage. What was advertised as the appetizer became her entrée´, Mom walked to the buffet serving table, she would fill a plate filled to its capacity with shrimp; some shell removal required; it seemed to make his mother all the giddier with anticipation eating such illegal non-kosher food. Just plain wrong for a Jewish girl to do, against all the laws of ‘Kashrut’. Based on a century that preceded refrigeration and preservation techniques, the law was certain that: ‘consumption of foods that are not pure, proper, or suitable for eating’; shell fish fell into that rule. Charlie knew well enough that they would build an entire religion around a set of rules based on what you can and not eat. So, Charlie sat and stared at his mom. He knew what shrimp were, knew of the wrath that would, should follow, and wondered if he was sitting too close to his mother. And, then remembered his mother’s warning about being orphaned. How can his mother get away with this act of religious defiance? Not so much about what his father would say, his not omnipotent; but G-d was. Charlie would never snitch. He knew that, and so did Edythe. But what about G-d’s wrath? No snitch needed there. G-d is an Omnipotent god. G-d is everywhere. Sees all and judges everything. Has surpassed Claus by millennium of time. “Please don’t hurt my mom” Charlie prayed silently.
“What would you like to eat?” his mom asked. “I’m having my favorite, a full plate of shrimp.” Charlie’s frozen stare confirmed that fact. “Not a word Charlie! We are here to enjoy a world we can’t enjoy every day at home. So, tell me what secret would you like to eat?” “Well, I would like to try something my friend brought to lunch last week at school. Looked and smelled delicious. I’d like to have a ham sandwich with American cheese. Mustard with a pickle on the side.” Charlie replied. “Done, sweetie. And I’ll get that awesome looking baked clam dish. You’re welcome to try anything on my plate. Let’s enjoy lunch, then spend the afternoon shopping together.” Edy finalized the plan and placed the order, sharing our secret to the waiter. That plate of shrimp was being devoured as he sat in awe. With her fingers dripping in melted ice and pieces of pink shells, she made audible gratification sound illegal and telltale. How do you hide guilt? Charlie wondered quietly to himself. When his lunch arrived, he decided he would totally enjoy every bite of his ham and cheese sandwich; he even ordered a glass of milk to wash it down. Telltale be damned. At least for this afternoon with his mom. If he’s going to Hell, then the milk will help him quench his thirst on his way. His lunch room friend did that; drink milk with his ham sandwich. Totally forbidden, but it looked good. It was. “Please don’t hurt me neither.” He prayed silently to G-d.
Nothing. No bolt of lightning, no plagues, no collapsing of the walls from a parting sea. Nothing. Maybe this isn’t the dark side after all. Where will this take him? Charlie was not sure of the answer just yet. But this was definitely fun. He’ll do it again. Charles agreed.
July 1955 If Charlie had to name his favorite character from the bible, he would without much thought choose David, King David. Partly because that is his middle name, but mostly because of what David represented, and basically why his mother chose that name for him. David’s song, known by the ‘other world’ as Psalm 23, ‘The Lord Is My Sheppard’, represents everything that David was and exactly who Charlie wanted to emanate when he grew up. I can attest to the fact, as much as Charlie tried, that didn’t happen. Charlie understood that because David’s fame was mostly focused on his bloody victories in battle for his G-d, David became a king of Israel but was not allowed to build a temple for his G-d. Charlie wondered if this was the first example of man’s frustration with his fate. His fate. Charlie fought no battles for his G-d. Won no honors, and built no temples.
Charlie figured, “I know for a fact, if I were shunned by someone that I fought for and for whom I supported thoughout my entire life, I would be pissed. I definitely would not be the person who would have ‘turned the other cheek’, as David did. Then offering to help G-d gather the funds and man power so that my son could build that temple that should have been mine to build. To add insult to injury, the foundation of this temple that Solomon would build, would have only been started after David was dead. “I would never accept that; but then I’m not David”, Charlie was certain. “Well, maybe only in name”. Charles thought. King David would write his song of lament and praise G-d. For this act, and for the first time, the definition of ‘Tzedakah’, charity, was introduced to society. “Would I be this person who cared that much, Charles?”, Charlie asked. “Not sure if what I’ve accomplished was of any solace for the bad that was given to me. I’ll have to think about that. I know now that I have finally stopped this nonsense of giving when nothing was offered to me” I replied.
As much as this was a powerful story of love for one’s god, and the influence of this god’s omnipotence, there could not have been any stronger evidence of faith in man’s G-d then that conviction and commitment shown by Noah. If you, dear reader, had the last car out of town before it was burned to the ground, who would you pick to join you as you escaped? Your choice was obviously limited by how many could fit in your car; knowing that those who you didn’t pick would definitely parish before your eyes. Would you pick anyone?
Noah had this blind obligatory faith in his G-d. We all know the story. But how many of us accept the cold fact that he left the rest of the world to drown. Was that part of his devotion? “Charles, I think, bottom line,” Charlie confirmed to me, “if I were Noah, my main role in this tragedy would be to get the hell out of Dodge; and, most definitely to just simply affirm my seat in my Ark.”
“There was an opportunity for Steve and I to ask a question; we sat waiting for our ritual Friday night family dinner to be finished. We decided this would be a great time to ask,” Charlie told me. Shabbat candles would soon be solemnly lite by mom; reciting her prayers as her hands covered her eyes, and a laced “tichel” sheltered her head. Earlier she had cooked our chicken dinner, mashed potatoes, and some vegetable that neither Steve nor I like. All this was accomplished on a tiny 4 burner electric stove that was supplied by Arthur Levitt. A loaf of braided challah bread resting on its ceremonial Shabbat tray, covered by its decorative cloth. Next to the loaf, the bottle Manischewitz wine sat on the table in its square container, surrounded by our individual kiddush cups. Both bread and wine were each waiting patiently for Shabbat to begin at sundown, then to receive their respective blessings and consumption which would somehow ensure a sweet and productive week ahead and a blessing of the week just passed. At this moment, this family’s world was filled with pastel visions of peace and stability; which by itself was difficult to grasp with so many families recovering from personal losses from two major wars. With world peace, or maybe world capitulation from sheer exhaustion from these wars, now an economic recession was rearing it monstrous head threatening economic security. Suddenly, with some well-deserved rest and recovery, we were now being blanketed with a looming fear of nuclear warfare. Air raid drills in school teaching babies how to cower under desks, or genuflecting in front of our lockers in a darkened hallway, all the while enforcing lessons in our science class on what a well-stocked fallout shelter should have stocked and stored inside. All this existed, while at that moment Edy said “Amen” as she finished lighting the Shabbat candles, and Lester blessed the Challah and gave each of us a chunk of freshly baked bread, and a sip of the ceremonially blessed wine from our individual kiddush cups. At that moment, our world lived in peace, inside the Truman Show of a fake reality. Here we were, a family that I wished I had as an adult. If only Facebook existed back then; people would see I might have had that social media family, for that moment After all. How did it fall apart leaving me with a wasteland of shards, splinters, slivers?
“I remember that lesson, Charles” Charlie said. “It was just another lesson, and I never really thought much about it at the time. In 8th grade science, a lesson in the lab manual, instructions on building air raid shelters, how to stock them with crackers and water. For how long? Really, why can’t I remember any discussion in this lab about a bathroom in the shelter? Should I have asked the teacher? How long would we have to stay in our tombs? Bomb shelters made within converted storage basements of schools, factories. But, on Long Island, were you ever more then 60 miles from Manhattan at any point? Did it really matter if New York City was the bullseye? The public Fallout Shelters of community schools and factories all bore the official Federal Government plaque over their doorways noting their existence. A number beneath the nuclear radiation symbol represented the number of people allowed in this specific Ark. “Once a month, usually on Saturday, but never on Sunday, the local church services took precedence on that day, my friends and I would hang out in the street waiting for noon. Even if we didn’t plan on playing outside on that day, we would sit on the curb and purposely wait for the alarm noting the end of the world was arriving. Precisely at noon, each neighborhood’s firehouse blasted its sirens; one very long and loud alarm, signally that everyone run home so as to prepare for a nuclear bomb to be dropped. John couldn’t wait; he always ran home about 30 seconds before the alarms sounded. The government knew when the bomb was to hit, we were being told afterward. I was a kid, Charles. So, what was I to think. For the most part it was a game for us; we hung out in the street to run home.” Charlie recalled. “But, what did you do when you got inside your home? Where would you hide inside the house. Our home, Charlie, was so tiny. So much smaller than our apartment in the Bronx.” I asked trying to remember the sense of anticipation of the siren, the excitement of running home before the bomb exploded, the fear when the realization finally hit me that there was no place in my house to hide safely if a bomb was dropped on us by the enemy. “We just ran home. I had some cookies and milk. It was noon, so it was time to come home anyway, and rest. The threat of the Polio virus was a real threat back then. Naps in the afternoon were supposed to prevent kids from getting it. So, they believed.” Charlie ended the talk about growing up back then.
So that night, as we finished our Shabbat dinner with some more prayers, we would talk. Charlie was going to make that Friday night different. His topic was different. “Those nights are hard to remember now, Charlie.” I recalled. “I remember waiting patiently for dad to finish his prayers,” Charlie remembered. “I was looking at Steve for some assistance in what we had agreed to ask them that night. But clearly Steve was no help. It really wasn’t something that actually bothered him as much as it did me.” Adding, “Steve never ran inside to take ‘cover’ when the sirens alerted the neighborhood of an impending nuclear attack from Russia. Steve never really went outside much; he had no friends, and those that knew him teased him mercilessly, for being weird and smart.” Going solo wasn’t Charlie’s way of doing things. Remember, he hated singing in public. “Dad, Mom, can we build a fallout shelter in our backyard.” Charlie certainly didn’t create any intro, just jumped on 1 for a count of 3. Gate open, he continued, “I was told in school that there are companies that would dig a hole in the ground and make a room for us to hid until the ‘All Clear’ signal was sounded. Not sure how long we would have to stay down there, I heard maybe 2 weeks. Can we have a shelter built in our backyard?” Charlie sat back on his chair watching his parents look at each other for an answer for a question just took seconds and minimal words. Charlie thinks that their inhale and exhale had taken more time to complete then expected.
Lester sat quietly, and Edythe stared at her son in a way that Charlie didn’t recognize. Anger, like she does with Steve? Love, like she does with him? Pride, like his teacher does when he finally gives the right answer? Not a look that he is familiar seeing on his mother’s face, however; neither was her husband’s. As if she knew the answer already, she only wanted her husband to tell me? Lester spoke the next few words, Edythe turned her gaze to her husband, with the same look she gave Charlie; a gaze. “Charlie, Steve,” Lester started talking in a low, unemotional voice “Yes, I heard about companies that would do this. It’s something that has become a popular topic, indeed. With all of this Russia stuff being talked about, and the rush to build the ‘Bomb’. What a mistake it was to drop that thing on Japan. It did end the war, but what a mess we are all in now. It’s kind of expensive, Charlie. I guess we could look into it, but understand that one of the things I heard, and now is a huge doubt in my mind whether to do this or not, was what would we find when we finally came out of this shelter; the whole world gone. Everything and everyone who didn’t have a shelter to go to; gone.” Lester paused so his family could consider this option. He left the kitchen, came back minutes later with an article he had cut out of the newspaper. Laid the article on the table facing Charlie; Steve and Edythe leaned over the table’s edge to review what was written. “Looks awfully small.” Steve spoke with an unexpected tone of interest. Steve added “Looks like it would be really tight just for us. Not enough room for much more then maybe crackers and water. I heard that we would have to stay underground for about 2 weeks, like Charlie said. Would this hole even work and save us from nuclear fallout?” Charlie, after looking at the article that his father had laid on the dinner table, “Small is only a part of the problem. The other issue is there doesn’t look that there would be enough room for my friends.” “Assuming that your friends would have even been an issue to consider, Charlie,” Lester added. Lester wasn’t really sure he wanted to even spend the money on this hole in the ground, and most likely wouldn’t have even shared the article at all, but it was a question Charlie asked, and he wanted to offer this article and hopefully move on to less expensive ideas like taking a trip to Fort Ticonderoga in Upstate New York.
“No friends, and if we had a pet, probably not the pet either,” Lester was firm, but sympathetic. “Steve, yes, this Fallout Shelter would hold the four of us comfortably, and the article claims enough crackers and water for about 2 weeks. Not sure about all the other particulars like bathroom, lights etc., but definitely no friends, no pets.” Lester leaned back on his kitchen chair. “So, what do you want to do? Edythe, if you want to add anything please do so now. What do you think about living in this hole in the ground for two weeks?” Steve interrupted the discussion that his father was trying to create, that hadn’t any momentum yet. Edythe was supposed to speak next, according to Lester’s gaze at her. Without a thought of priority, my brother jumped right. “Dad?” “Yes, Steve,” Lester directed our attention to my brother. “So, the way I see it is Noah had a much easier decision to make.” “How so Steve?” Lester asked, almost in whispered voice. No one in this family prayed more over the bible then Dad, what was Steve going to say that would change this discussion. Is this going to be another tug-of-war between the brains in the family? “Listen, the way I see it is Noah had a boat full of people and animals before he started turning away people that he knew were going to die in the flood. Our Fallout Shelter will have no one else in it except us when we turn people away.” “Yeah, how can I tell my friends they can’t come in? How can I watch them burn up while I am safe inside the shelter?” Charlie added, with a slight hint of a tear forming. “That’s a horrible thought, Charlie. Just horrible.” Edythe squeezed herself into the discussion between the brothers. “Well, the fact is that shelter can only be so big to hold us comfortably for maybe 2 weeks. It can hold so much water and food. We will not have any room for anyone else. I would hope that if we do this, we don’t tell anyone else we have a shelter. This way no one will know to ask.” Lester said. “They will know, and we will see them for the last time when we close the door.” Charlie decided that’s the last thing he wants to add to this conversation. He was done with this discussion. He had a secret hiding place, but that was just for him. This fallout shelter was not his secret hiding place. His hiding place always gave him the comfort knowing that he would be able to return to the real world any time. That his private ‘shelter’ was only for those times he needed momentary peace. It wasn’t to watch people die on the outside; just remove himself from them for a while. Charlie didn’t want this Fallout Shelter now. It turned out to be a dumb idea. Steve was also against having this shelter, and offered that they take a trip instead. Edythe agreed. Lester said, with a sigh of relief, that he would buy the maps that will take them to Fort Ticonderoga. I was pleased with that decision, too.
