It was an unseasonably warm day in March, and Julie, my boyfriend and I agreed to meet for a walk. He lived less than a half-hour away on the Kings Highway bus, which stopped just six blocks from my house. I started walking slowly towards Flatbush Avenue and Kings Highway; the sun was setting and the sky had turned vibrant colors of orange and red with streaks of yellow peeking through. As the cars whizzed by me on Quentin Road, where I lived, I stopped to watch the orange fade, the sky turn gray, then brown and the sun finally disappear completely into the darkness. The dogs in the big brick house on the corner of Quentin and 39th Street barked incessantly as I passed the gate to the front yard
I turned on to Flatbush Avenue, staying on the east side of the street, where I would see Julie walking from the bus stop. I was dressed casually in jeans, a buttoned- down white shirt and a light blue sweater, and of course my trusty sneakers. Since this wasn’t date night, I didn’t change my clothes when Julie called earlier and suggested we meet for a walk.
The street bustled as people did their evening shopping in the variety of small stores that lined the street. I lingered at the well-lit Deli window displaying mouth- watering cheeses, meats, and prepared macaroni, potato and green salads, imagining their taste. Since my family kept kosher, we never patronized the store and I could only imagine the mélange of flavors to be found within.
Stopping by the newsstand, I glanced at the New York Post headlines about frictions at the 38th parallel in Korea. Although the war in Korea had officially ended a year earlier in 1953, there was no peace on the peninsula. It was happening, however, in a far away, little known place and although I followed the news, I felt rather distant from it.
The rush hour traffic on Flatbush Avenue clogged the street, and the buses, stopping at every other corner, along with the double-parked delivery trucks, brought the traffic to a standstill. The honking horns filled the air, as the cars tried to maneuver around the trucks which had left them little room. I could feel the frustration rising, as drivers rolled down their windows to yell at the vehicles blocking them. I wondered whether Kings Highway was similarly congested, and whether Julie’s arrival would be delayed.
I debated with myself as I passed the candy store. The hunger pangs were coming on, or so I rationalized and I could hear my favorite candy calling me. I really shouldn’t, I thought, but no harm in just looking. The small store was crowded, and the attractive and well-organized display of candy and gum was hard to ignore especially Peter Paul Almond Joy in its familiar blue and grey wrapper on the top shelf. The bar has two pieces of candy, I thought, I could have one now and one later after dinner. I reached for the candy and handed the store keeper a dime, tearing off the wrapper as I exited. I plopped one chocolate covered coconut bar with an almond on top into my mouth and savored each coconut flake as I chomped down on the almond. The flavors blended together and I stood there fully relishing them, as I fondled the half of the bar that remained. I stood there a moment, temptation and discipline vying with each other, as I reluctantly put the remaining bar into my purse.
I continued my walk down Flatbush Avenue to the corner of Kings Highway, occupied by the Dime Savings Bank, an elegant building with a grand circular entrance, where a few months earlier I had been adopted by a stray dog who followed me home. The dog stayed with us for about a week or so, and then one day my father took it for a walk and “lost it”. My father had expressed his dislike of dogs in general, so “losing the dog” was not unexpected. My father grew up in a shtetl in Eastern Europe where dogs were considered unclean, and even as an adult he was unable to overcome his dislike of them. The dog had not stayed long enough for any of us to develop a deep attachment to it, so we hardly missed it when it was gone. But I did wonder who he would follow home next.
Julie got off the bus on the opposite side of Kings Highway, just as I got to the corner, pleased that the timing had worked out well. We waved to each other over the whizzing cars and lumbering trucks as he waited for the light to change. He crossed the street, we kissed, hugged, and joined hands as we walked along Kings Highway looking for a quieter side street for our walk.
It was unusual for us to get together on a school night, because Julie left early mornings for his trek of over an hour by subway to the Bronx campus of the City College of New York (CCNY), where he studied Civil Engineering. He was 23 and would graduate in June, and we had been going “steady” for over a year, having known each other since I was fifteen. I was 17 at the time and beginning my Freshman year at Brooklyn College, an easy commute by bus from my house. I was curious about this mid-week meeting and thought that there was something on his mind. I wondered what it was.
We turned left on Kimball Street, choosing a nice residential street with modest semi-detached two-story wood frame or brick veneer houses, built in the 1920s or 30s. The tree-lined street was typical of the neighborhood. Although this was tract housing, over the years the owners had individualized their homes, adding awnings, front gardens, lawn ornaments, fences and pavement stones. The lights in the houses had mostly been turned on and the street lights provided the street with good illumination.
Julie, dressed casually in khakis and a grey sweatshirt, emblazoned with CCNY letters, waited for an opening in our catch-up chatter. “I have a feeling there is something on your mind,” I said. He nodded and tightened his grip on my hand. “I have been giving a lot of thought to telling my Draft Board to move my name up on the list,” he expressed in a monotone.
I knew immediately what that meant; this was a time of an active draft, and Julie like most of his classmates, including my brother, who was two years younger, had gotten a deferment until they finished college. Julie would finish in a few months, and the expectation was that he would be drafted. Yet, this was the first time he had raised the issue.
I dropped his hand, as I asked, “Have you made a decision about joining the army, or are you asking my thoughts?”
“I have more or less decided,” he replied, as his voice dropped. “This arrangement gives me more options, than if I were drafted, which almost certainly will happen.”
I stood still and turned to face him. “But this is the first time you have even mentioned it to me. How come?”
He looked a little sheepish, like a kid caught with his hand in the candy jar. “I needed to sort this out by myself,” as he reached for my hand
My sense of annoyance was palpable, as my voice rose. “You could have at least mentioned that you were thinking about it. This is a surprise to me.”
“Mmmmm.” Julie turned to me, looking for understanding. “I needed to weigh the pros and cons. I am likely to be drafted either way, and if I don’t move my name up on the list, I will have no choice about how I spend my time in the army. The last thing I want is to be sent to Korea.”
“I understand that” I replied, but you might not be drafted. What do your parents think about it,” reasonably certain they would not be happy, as I walked around the kid’s tricycle left in the middle of the sidewalk, dropping his hand for the second time.
Just then a car motor started, and the lights went on in the front room of a house we were passing, illuminating us in the dark.
Julie took some time to answer, I could see he was upset and perhaps reluctant to share his father’s reaction with me. He answered slowly, parsing his words. “As you can imagine, my father was really angry, and thought I was crazy not to seek a deferral, which he was sure I could get, as the only child of a sick mother. He didn’t speak to me for a few days.”
I wasn’t surprised. His father depended on him, even guilting him, when he thought he wasn’t sufficiently attentive to his mother’s needs. Initially he was also opposed to our relationship, feeling that was an unnecessary distraction from his studies.
I nodded, “You know, he could be right,” and at that moment it occurred to me, that Julie may have seen the army as an escape, and a way out of the obligations that weighed heavily on him, though he never complained.
Julie shrugged, looking at me with a “who knows” reaction. I sensed he didn’t want to go there.
“Where does that leave us,” I asked, my voice rising, making no attempt to hide my annoyance with being presented with a fait accompli.
“We’ll definitely see each other when I am on leave, and you should feel free to date other guys if you want.”
I raised my eyebrows, looking at him quizzically. He stopped walking and turned to face me. “We have a good relationship and I love you, but this is not the right time to make a more serious commitment. Let’s just see where things are when my army service is over.”
By that time, we reached my house, but since neither of us felt ready to part, we sat down on the front steps. The lights were on in the kitchen, but the high stoop protected us from being seen from there, and it was still early in the evening. I was looking for some reassurance, particularly since this was a surprise and I had not been part of the decision.
“When do you think your service will start,” I asked trying to get a better handle on the news I had just been handed.
“It’s hard to know, as it depends on the Draft Board’s quota and how many they have in the pipeline. I would guess fall to winter. But we still have a lot of time till then,” he said, as his voice rose trying to cheer me up.
“So, will you look for a job after you graduate?”
“Several possibilities have been posted at the school, but I really can’t apply for anything long term, so I need to keep looking. Hopefully, there will be short term or temporary jobs available, and I’ll talk to some of my profs.”
I waved to my next-door neighbor walking the dog, as I relaxed a little. This wasn’t imminent. I had time to get used to the reality, and decide whether I would date others or just wait for him.
We talked about the weekend and whether we wanted to see a movie, and gradually the tenseness and annoyance I felt dissipated. At least, I had time to see where our relationship was, when he entered the service, and what I felt about dating others.
We both were feeling more comfortable, when Julie leaned across to give me a kiss. “I’ll see you Saturday, and we can think about the movie playing at the Kings. It sounds good and Barbara and Donnie might join us for dessert afterwards at Juniors on Kings Highway.”
By the weekend, I had accepted the new reality and Julie’s failure to engage me as he considered the options faded into the background. I was too young and inexperienced to see that omission as an indicator of Julie’s tendency to go it alone and keep his own counsel.
He was drafted in the late fall of 1954, and after basic training was assigned to Fort Chaffee, Arkansas as a clerk typist, which in a few months he parlayed into a job as Chaplain’s Assistant. During his second year he was assigned to the Presidio, outside of San Francisco, a plum location which included watching the fog roll in over the Golden Gate bridge while at roll call. Julie also managed one trip to Europe during his service, traveling free on a space available basis on Military Air Transport. He made the right call about the draft as his two years in the army turned out to be interesting time for him, traveling in the US and Europe. He also was freed of ongoing family responsibilities. We managed to see a lot of each other when he came home on leave, and we corresponded regularly. I decided to date casually and it was not until about two months before Julie was released that I met someone, who might have become serious competition to Julie, if the timing had been different.
Julie completed his service in the late fall of 1956 and by the Spring we decided to become engaged. We thought we would announce it to our families at a joint Seder at his house, and as a gimmick, arranged to send a telegram, scheduled to arrive around 5 PM before the Seder started.
As planned, the doorbell rang just around 5 which Julie answered, taking the telegram in hand and dramatizing its arrival.
“Look, we’ve gotten a telegram,” he announced waving it for all to see. “I wonder who it could be from,” as he started opening it.
Just then, his grandmother, who was preparing the food, shouted from the kitchen. “Julie come quickly, my tzimmes is burning. I need you.”
He shrugged his shoulders and handed me the telegram, but I felt the air had gone out of the room and we had lost the momentary spotlight. When he returned to the living room, he read the telegram. “We are pleased to announce the engagement of your children, Myrna and Julie.”
Everyone was excited, but when I think of that evening, I think first of the burning tzimmes. Was that meant as a sign?