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To Tell You The Truth
by
Enid Levinger Powell
The week before my wedding, in November, 1950, my mother warned me about my Brooklyn grandmother. “Don't be hurt by anything Grandma Rae says,” she murmured through the pins in her mouth. She was trying to finish up my going-away suit.
“What would she say?” I asked, squirming. I always felt a bit nauseous standing on the dining room table while my mother measured.
She removed a few pins. “Oh, she'll find fault with something—your dress, the food, it's just her way. She'll start by saying, ‘I have to tell you the truth.' Only no one ever asks her and it's never the truth.”
“But you and Dad always say I'm just like her,” I said, heading towards a “gotcha.”
My mother spit out the rest of the pins. “All we meant was she always speaks her mind.”
“So?”
“Well, darling, you pretty well say whatever you're thinking, too. Which is good. We always know where we stand.”
I figured my mother was preparing herself for criticism because she was in charge of the wedding plans. My job had been the invitations until four months ago when I'd burst into tears because there would be twice as many guests from my fiance's family as mine. “It's not fair,” I cried. “You're paying for the dinner, the reception--everything.”
“Sweetheart,” my Dad said. “Most of Ben's family lives here in Cincinnati.”
“But even his aunts and uncles in Iowa accepted,” I said, as if that were a gross breach of etiquette. “And on top of that, his sister is going to be my Matron of Honor. Thanks to you,” I'd added, stabbing a finger at my mother. “‘A gracious thing to do,' you said, and now look. They've taken over.”
My father patted my shoulder. “After all, it's only seventy-five people—“
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “and fifty of them his—“
“Listen,” my mother said, ignoring the interruption. “You've already chosen the photographer, so let your father and me handle the rest. We really don't have much to do.” .
I blustered a bit about leaving all the work to her, but given that I was still a few weeks away from my nineteenth birthday, and never had given a party, and I had no idea what the “rest” consisted of, I agreed.
Having moved to Cincinnati only a couple of years earlier, in my junior year of high school, my family had practically no close friends to invite and all our relatives lived out of town. Although I had asked a few friends from college and from my new job as a Dictaphone operator at an advertising agency, that was it–except for an aunt, some uncles and my two grandmothers. My brother was only nine and my sister, four, so their contributions as ring-bearer and flower-girl, while adorable, could hardly count as guests from my side.
Whatever tasks my mother still had were put on hold when Grandma and my two bachelor uncles arrived from Brooklyn a couple of days before the wedding. They brought their own pots and pans because they kept kosher. Mom took them to a kosher butcher to buy food and the dime store to pick up some inexpensive dishes, knives and forks. My uncles insisted on paying for everything with an apologetic glance at their mother, who watched with a regal air as her dark eyes roamed her surroundings with distrust. Over forty years earlier, Grandma had escaped from a Russian pogrom with her husband and two older children, but she still kept a close watch for stray Cossacks.
After lunch, my grandmother sat in my bedroom admiring my trousseau as my mother held up each item for her inspection. When she came to a sheer black nightgown that my parents had bought for me in New York some months before, Grandma exploded in a burst of Yiddish. “Don't worry,” my mother said quickly. “Of course she'll be wearing a slip underneath.”
Later that afternoon, settled in and sipping her hot tea in a glass, my grandmother called me to her side. She wanted to know what my Ben did for a living—he owned a small dress shop. She wondered if he wouldn't rather be a bank teller or an accountant. I didn't think so. Then she leaned closer and, in a conspiratorial tone, confided, “I'm sure you'll have a lovely wedding, Ninotchka. But I have to tell you the truth. It won't be as nice as your mother's.”
I was shocked. Too shocked to ask why. Later, when I asked my mother, she rolled her eyes. “Who knows? Maybe she thinks mine was special because my older sister had eloped with an Irishman. Or maybe she doesn't like the Rabbi because he's Reform. She keeps muttering he's a priest.”
“But why is she so mean about everything?”
“She's always been like that,” my mother said. She lowered her eyes, but I'd already seen the sadness in them. “I've often thought that it was her way of saying, don't expect too much—life can disappoint you.” She looked up with a wry smile. “So she does it first.” She touched my cheek gently. “Believe me, your wedding will be ten times more beautiful and more fun. Now let me finish working on your suit jacket, while you go pack for your honeymoon.”
Early on the day of the wedding, my father's mother arrived from Chicago with my Aunt Esther and Uncle Jim. Grandma Lily lived half the year with them and half with us. This Grandma, well under five feet tall, had a round, baby-sweet face that clashed with what came out of her mouth. Manhattan-born, she considered her family above reproach in manners and decorum, yet would announce, when appropriate, “It's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”
“Years of living with my father,” Dad would explain. “He could make a truck driver blush.” Nonetheless, it was still startling when she studied my ring and pronounced with satisfaction, “Very nice. It will be good to pawn.” My father and his sister exchanged a sighing glance, but Uncle Jim, my other Irish uncle, laughed and hugged her. “You've got to love the woman,” he said. “She's an original.”
“Isn't that a coincidence,” I once asked my parents. “You each have a sister who married an Irishman.” They didn't think so. After all, one was Catholic and one was Protestant, and besides, everybody's a New Yorker first, they'd explained with a touch of civic pride.
After the greetings, my mother went back upstairs and motioned me to follow her into the bedroom. “The skirt is finished,” she said. I understood immediately, even as I asked, “And the jacket?”
“I'm afraid I had to rip out the collar and the lining.”
“Why?”
“They weren't lying right. I can fix it, but...”
“Not in time,.” I said, with a sarcastic edge. “You never finish anything on time.”
My mother gave me her this-too-in-its-time-will-pass look. She had barely finished my senior prom dress before my date arrived. And I had often sat down only to jump up after a couple of forgotten pins in the hem of a skirt jabbed me. But those were exceptions and we both knew it.
“So what am I going to do?” I whined. “I have nothing to wear.”
“You still have the skirt and blouse.”
“I'll look like a school girl. I might as well wear a jumper and knee socks.”
In the loaded silence, we heard music coming from downstairs and realized my Uncle Ari was playing the piano again. My father came in a bit breathless and said that Uncle Murray was teaching Uncle Jim a Russian folk dance and we had to come down and watch. That was the last straw. Tears burned my eyes as I said, “How am I supposed to get ready with all this craziness going on?”
“I have a great idea,” my mother said. “I'm going to call Ida, and you and she can go over to the hotel right now, order a nice lunch and take your time getting ready.” With that, she ran out of the room while my father stared at me. I stalked over to the closet and pulled out the burgundy tweed skirt, first checking for pins, and the pink silk blouse and began folding them.
Ida, about ten years younger than my mother, was her best friend. Formerly a dress buyer for Lord & Taylor in New York, she now had two little boys, and happily treated me like a kid sister, dispensing advice on make-up and fashion. She came right over, gathered up my two suitcases and the garment bag with my wedding dress, veil and shoes. My father drove us to the Terrace Plaza, a new modern hotel downtown. Exactly the right move. It was my first time in a hotel; we usually stayed with relatives when we returned to New York on family visits. Now I was fascinated by the beds which were half-hidden in the wall so they looked like sofas until you pressed a button and they slid out. I moved them in and out a few times, while Ida hung up my dress and ordered lunch.
A month ago Ben and I had rented an efficiency apartment and I told Ida that the best thing in it was the “In-a-Door” bed. “It comes right out of a closet. I never have to make it. Just get out and push it up.”
“Saves buying a bed,” she said. “Any other furniture?”
I nodded. “Dad gave us a check and the first thing we bought was a knotty pine desk with a green leather top. It has a file drawer, too. I love desks. Oh, and a sofa,” I added as an afterthought. “And a wooden card table with a top that lifts up and turns into a dining table. With four folding chairs.” I emphasized “four” to indicate that we were prepared to entertain.
“So how are you fixed for kitchen things?”
“We've got all the pots and pans I'll ever need and six pairs of candlestick holders. I'm returning five.”
“Two pairs could come in handy,” Ida said. Without waiting to see if I agreed, she asked if I had any favorite recipes.
I reminded her that my mother had made a deal with me when I was eleven: if I practiced the piano two hours a day, I didn't have to help with housework or meals. Luckily, after my sister was born, we had a part-time housekeeper, so the deal was still on.
“You haven't ever cooked?”
“Don't worry. Mom gave me a cookbook. After all,” I said, smiling, “I can read.”
“Which reminds me, “Ida said. “Do you think you'll miss not finishing your education?” “Like I told Dad, I'm going to be a writer. I don't need an education.”
She looked down at her watch. “I think I'll check on our lunch.”
After we ate and showered, Ida put my hair up in rollers. Once we spread out on the sofas, she mused that my parents must have a lot of confidence in Ben to let me marry so young. She knew they had to go with us to the license bureau to give permission. “Well, Ben is twenty-six and obviously mature,” I told her. Then I chuckled. “He really startled my father by taking him aside and formally asking for my hand in marriage.”
Ida laughed. “Ben's a mensch,” she said. We both knew it was the highest compliment. A man of integrity.
In my eyes, though, his being an “older man”, made him a real catch. On one of our dates, he'd shown me his World War II scrapbook wrapped in a German flag. Seeing a photo of him in a uniform, I said, shocked, “I didn't know you'd gone to military school.” He hadn't. He'd been an infantryman in World War II, but admitted he'd not yet begun shaving when the picture was taken after his induction. In fact, when he and his buddies were marching through Germany, near the end of the war, they had stopped at a German farm house for food. None of them could stomach the army rations anymore. Once they had reassured the farm family that they meant no harm, the grandmother walked over to Ben, removed his helmet, took his face between her palms and said, in a mixture of German and English, “You should be home with your mama.” So my mistake was forgiven.
“He's also really funny,” I told Ida. “After we'd been dating awhile, whenever we were saying goodnight in the entrance hall, my mother would come out on the upstairs landing and say, nicely, ‘Ben, dear, it's getting late and you have to be up early in the morning,' And he'd say, ‘Yes, Mrs. Levin, I'm just leaving.' Week after week we went through this until one night, after my mother delivered her little announcement, Ben looked up at her with the sweetest expression and said, distinctly, “Ah, shaddup.' We heard this burst of laughter from my father in the bedroom while Mom scurried away. She never came out on the landing again.” Ida laughed and shook her head. I didn't tell her that I'd realized, with a relief I didn't understand, that my husband-to-be wasn't afraid of anything–not even my parents.
The wedding went off without a hitch. Unless you count the fact that my little sister, presumably following instructions about “strewing” the flower petals down the aisle, carefully stooped to place one petal at a time on the carpet, ending up at the wedding canopy with a nearly full basket. My father and I were barely controlling our silent laughter as we began our march down the aisle.
Despite Grandma Rae's disapproval, the Rabbi, who had known Ben's family for many years, was the perfect combination of erudition, humor and brevity. One part particularly caught my attention. “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife.” And the woman, too, the Rabbi had added. That didn't sit well with me. If there was anything I was sure of, it was that my family outranked all other considerations. I didn't mind, actually, that it applied to Ben. As charming as his mother was, I'd heard about mother- in-laws. I was also struck by the Rabbi's saying that there were two things a marriage required: Chesed and Emes --kindness and truth. But all other details faded in the afterglow of the wedding, the enthusiastic praise for my dress, my hair, the flowers and food, and the genuine happiness of those who loved us. It was as if the event itself were saying, “See? You did the right thing in the right way at the right time.”
After dinner, when Ben and I had changed clothes, my mother mentioned that all the family members were coming back to the house. “They'll be leaving in the morning. If you like, you can stop in to say goodbye.”
I smiled indulgently, understanding how hard it must be to know that your eldest child has her own home now.
Ben and I stowed my two small suitcases in the car and drove to the other big hotel downtown, the Netherland Plaza, where we'd be spending one night before continuing on to our honeymoon in Wisconsin. Up in our room, which I noted had one double bed, I started unpacking my suitcases. Ben had hung up his robe and pajamas and sat on the chair watching me for a few minutes. “How come you didn't put all the things you'd need for tonight in just one case?” he asked.
I looked down at my toothbrush, slippers, robe and my white silk nightgown. I'd decided to save the black one for the actual honeymoon. I didn't want to say that I'd never packed anything before, so I said I forgot we were switching hotels and repacked in a hurry.
After closing the suitcases, I sat down on the bed next to them. Ben pointed. “If you're through with those, I'll put them in the closet.” I nodded and he removed them. I looked at my watch. Not even ten o'clock. “It's kind of early for bed, “I said. Ben nodded. “Mom said everyone's going back to their house.”
“That's nice,” Ben said. “I really liked your aunts and uncles.”
“How about my grandmothers?”
He smiled. “Your Grandma Lily said your ring was a good investment.”
“I doubt she put it that way.”
He shrugged. “Close enough.”
I got up and looked into the large mirror over the dresser. “Mom said we could stop in if we wanted to.
“Really?”
“It might be fun to sneak back and surprise them. I'm sure they're not expecting us.” Suddenly, I felt foolish, but Ben stood up and said, “Okay. Let's go. Maybe we can liven things up.”
There were a few cars out in front, so we parked about a block away. As we reached my house we could hear music and laughter. We tiptoed up the porch steps to peer through the large living room windows. The room was full of people holding glasses of wine. A few were gathered around the piano where my father and uncle Ari were playing a duet and my aunt, who had studied for the opera, was singing. My uncle Jim was dancing with Ida, while her husband gallantly chatted with Grandma Lil who was ensconced on the sofa like a Buddha surveying her domain. I wondered if she had told him how cold it was.
“Want to go in?” Ben asked. “They look like they're having a great time.”
“Don't they,” I said. I wanted with all my heart to rush inside and be engulfed by hugs, to stand around the piano and sing the show tunes my father always played, especially my favorites from “Oklahoma.” To do the polka with my uncle Murray. But I couldn't move. I had gone to enough new schools to recognize the feeling. My parents couldn't help me. I was on my own now.
Ben put his hand on my shoulder. “So, are we going in?”
“It's too late,” I said and turned to go.
But Ben was barring my way. “You sure?”
Under the porch light I could clearly see his black hair and surprisingly light blue eyes. When she'd seen our engagement photos, my mother had smiled at Ben and said, “Handsome as a movie star.” Ben had shrugged. “If I really looked like that, I'd've gone to Hollywood.” But he did look like that. The brave boy soldier who should be home with his mother.
The Rabbi's words rang in my head like a discordant note. “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife.”
“You sure?” Ben was eyeing me as if my answer was important.
How could he have married an eighteen year old girl? Didn't he have sense enough to be afraid? To know he was bound to be disappointed? Desperate to think of something funny to say, I blurted out, “I have to tell you the truth—“ and stopped. I was not like my grandmother—even though my mind was filling my throat with words I didn't want to say. Emes. Chesed . Were truth and kindness incompatible? Were we? I finally fell back on the only truth I was sure of at that moment. “I don't know how to pack a suitcase and I can't cook.”
Ben let out a long breath, (he told me later he'd been holding it the whole time.) “I guess I have to tell you the truth, too,” he said. “That's not a deal-breaker.”
Laughter burst out of me like a shout of relief. Ben grabbed my hand and we raced to the car as if we were running for our lives, not once looking back.
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