George Sand wrote, “There is only one happiness in life: to love and be loved.”

                             For my very special “Bobbi,” whose love makes me incredibly happy.

 This is an absolute work of fiction.   Persons and events that are in the public domain have been used to lend realism to the narrative.  Names, dates, character traits, business and organization names, places, events, conversations and all storylines are purely the product of my imagination and inventiveness.

In the few instances of a direct quote’s usage, I have inserted three asterisks *** to indicate same.  Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or passed, news events outside of commonly known reporting is entirely coincidental and hopefully conjured up by your own images of the past, real or imagined, that I have written for you to enjoy while learning about what went before, or remembering it..

 ©Howard Leff
Spring, Texas
 2011

  

_______________________________________________________________________________________

THE EARLY LIFE AND TIMES OF MAX HANOLD

Chapter One

Brooklyn, New York - February 1962

It was dark and yet, it was peculiarly bright. The moonless night cloaked a sleeping

metropolis. Snow had been falling for hours and as it whitened all of New York City, in

an alley on Sixty-Fifth Street in Brooklyn, a black cat with glistening fur from falling

crystals, scurried atop a decaying wooden fence. It stood silently for a moment and then

jumped onto the partially covered tin trash can below. With rapid movements of its front

paws, the cat was able to tumble discarded chicken bones to the white below. After

discovering its treasure, the cat quickly jolted to the frozen ground. Its pink tongue

ravenously lapped at the swill, its body shivering amidst the frost and flakes. The hunger

that diminished the nameless eat's strength slowly subsided with every precious morsel

that entered its belly. It ate the wastes and forgot all of the cold that enveloped it; all of

the filth around it and all of its frantic searching that had temporarily come to an end.

High above the crafty kitty's white and black head, a beam oflight abruptly pierced

through the dark alley to the garbage cans. Startled, the cat briefly peered upward at the

glow before returning to the cache of food. The flakes continued to fall.

The glimmer oflight was emanating from a third-floor apartment kitchen window.

Inside, the sparse dwelling's two occupants were oblivious to the twenty degree weather

outside, the cat eating the remains of its sparse supper and even the falling snow. A man

of twenty stood in the doorway of their bedroom inspecting the flat he had leased the

previous month. The three kitchen bulbs just switched on, cast enough brightness to

expose the light green paint on the walls. Max Hanold was not a painter by trade, but to

save money he painted the two-and-a-half room apartment in the color his wife had found

in a thrift shop. Centered above the double bed hung a portrait of an old bearded man

with a wide brimmed fur hat saying his morning prayers. Although it only slightly

appealed to her, Bobbi Hanold purchased the print because it was on sale for three

dollars, a modest price they could afford. To the left of the bed stood a wooden orange

crate that Max had painted brown to almost match the dated dresser, stumbled upon at a

used furniture store. Bobbi had concealed their improvised night stand with a bed sheet

skillfully placed to conceal a large hole in it. On the white sheet stood a clock, the ninety

degree angle of its hands signaling fifteen minutes past mid-night. Max gazed at the

clock, at the room he had painted and furnished and at the girl of nineteen who shared his

bed and his life.

He deliberately tip-toed across the room hoping not to awaken his wife. Max looked out

the window surprised by the sight of falling snow and mechanically started unbuttoning

his worn white starched shirt. After folding it fastidiously so that he could wear it again,

he placed it on the metal chair to the right of their crated-night-table. The coins in his

pocket jingled softly as he slid his pants over his brown shoes. The pants were also

folded with care and placed on the back of the chair. Slowly sitting down on the edge of

the bed, he bent to unlace his shoes and noticed that the sales were once again detaching

from the upper leather. Max placed the shoes in front of the chair and thought: one more

thing to worry about. His brown cotton socks had been darned before and would

undoubtedly have to be patched again. Walking most of the day, Max's cotton hose lost

the scuffle to the worn-out leather. He stared out the window at the winter's cold wrath

and began fidgeting, restless, thinking and worrying.

Awakened by her husband's slight movements, Bobbi saw his upper frame silhouetted

against the two windows on the opposite side of the room. Immediately, she knew by the

slope of his shoulders that he was deeply troubled.

"Maxie," she sighed, "I'm sorry you didn't have any luck today."

"Nah," he said lightheartedly, "Those dumb bastards don't even know a good man when

they see one. All they want is someone who will follow orders and has some experience,

not a man who thinks. Please tell me ... if I don't get ajob how can I have any

experience ?"

"I had a dream Max. Ijust know that tomorrow's the day you'll get your break."

Bobbi did not have a dream about a job for Max. She knew her husband. They had been

dating for nearly five months when he popped the question. She didn't have to think

about the reply. They were married one month later in a simple civil ceremony at City

Hall and now they had their own space, away from parents, relatives, questions and

suggestions on how to live their young lives. She knew how to soothe the beast that

swelled in Max every now and then. While motivated and attending Brooklyn College

majoring in journalism and languages, he was hard working, hot-headed and overly

ambitious. All that he needed was that elusive first chance.

She patted the mattress invitingly. "Maxie, give me a kiss, huh? Please come on to bed.

You can't stay up all night. You'll be too tired tomorrow."

"Baby, you stick with me and I'll give you a house and diamonds and furs. We'll travel

and see the world. We'll have lots of kids and they'll all be as beautiful as you are!"

As he uttered the last syllable, Max turned to his wife with a loving heart. His hands

brought her soft warm body close to him. Nudging her chin downward, he kissed her on

the forehead. They looked at each other. They smiled and then began laughing. They

laughed; they loved, for tomorrow would surely be the long awaited day.

In June 1961, Bobbi Frank graduated from Martin VanBuren High School, designated as

number Q435 by the NYC Board of Education. After the summer she went to work for

Upland Steel and Corrugate, Inc. in their NYC office as the receptionist and teletype

operator. The job was mind-numbing; answering phones; creating one inch wide

transmission tapes by hitting a standard alpha-numeric keyboard that spewed holepunched

yards of ribbon-like durable paper; and incessant filing. Six times a day the

collections of tapes were used to transmit orders and messages to their plants and home

office. The holey strips were rapidly interpreted by the teletype machine's reader, the

converse of raised Braille dots converted to letters and numbers. Despite Bobbi's adept

typing abilities, she was no challenger to a tape converting machine that kept connection

and communication costs low by transmitting at a steady rate of ninety words per minute.

By the time she and Max married, her job paid as much as he was earning. When all of

her benefits and cost of living index adjustment were included, she grossed more than

him. They decided not to rely on any assistance from either family. It was a good theory

with absolute negative practical aspects. Shortly thereafter, they concluded that maybe a

little help wouldn't be too bad.

It was a difficult adjustment for Bobbi to live in Brooklyn, a borough where she had no

friends or family. Everything was strikingly different than her plush Queens'

surroundings. Two salient facts tempered her uneasiness: she and Max went to work

together using public transportation or he occasionally drove her to work and then went

to his own job; and most relevant, they lived near Brooklyn College to make it easier for

Max to become the person whom he wanted to be in the profession of his choice.

For the spring semester Bobbi enrolled at Hunter College for two classes. The days were

long for both. As the eleven o'clock news signed on, they snoozed off. However, there

were nights that the newlyweds acted so. They were in love and it glowed.

Max desperately desired to be a writer of short stories, novels or a featured columnist for

one of the six daily newspapers. Taking a week of vacation from his job allowed him the

time to make the rounds of potential employers.

The snow was melting to slush and grimy muck by the time he walked up the subway

stairs at Grand Central Station. The forecast was for clear skies with a balmy low forty

degrees during the next two days with the possibility of snow returning for the weekend.

His routine was simply to take the elevator to the top floor of a building and walk the

hallways searching for companies whose name implied a connection to the world of the

printed word. The one page resume that Bobbi typed for him highlighted aspiration with

zero extant experience or expertise in the field of journalism.

Entering through the opaque-glass door marked "Hamburger & Sons," Max said, "Good

morning. My name is Max Hanold. I'm here to see whoever is in charge of hiring."

"I'm sorry Max, but we're not looking for anybody," he was told.

As he tumed to leave, the middle-aged frumpy lady said, "Why don't you fill out an

application and we'll keep it on file?" With that, she handed him a four page form.

An endless number of employment applications were completed; resumes left; staircases

descended, all to no avail. Max returned home dejected, rejected, solemn and silent.

Unfortunately, Bobbi was wrong in her premonition of success.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Two

New York City -1943

Max Levi was born on December 10,1941, in the New York City borough of Manhattan;

three days after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, effectively declaring war on the

U.S.A. His parents, Maleah and Leon Levi, lived on the Lower Eastside which was the

gravitational melting pot for successive waves of immigrants since the last quarter of the

nineteenth century. They married hurriedly to make her pregnancy appear as the result of

a happy union. In actuality, there was little love between the couple, their families, their

friends and everyone knew it. Still they kept up appearances for almost three years and

then came a separation and finally, a bitter contentious divorce.

There was one incident in particular that resonated in Max's psyche since he was a

toddler and barely walking. He was sitting on the kitchen floor playing with and banging

on pots and pans as Sinatra crooned a mellow tune on the radio in the background. The

simple cacophony of his thwacking sounds was shattered by his parents' explosive

yelling and screaming at each other.

"Why the hell did I marry you?" asked Leon. "I would've been much better off

without you and the kid."

Maleah answered, "Go to hell. I'm sorry we ever met."

"Not as sorry as I am!"

"You can go to hell!" Maleah repeated.

Objects violently flew around the room and Max began to cry hysterically. His wailing

shocked Maleah and Leon enough to declare a temporary sudden truce to the fighting and

squabbling. However, it wasn't a lasting ceasefire and Max still carried the emotional

scars of those early unsettling days. He vowed that his life would be different, a life

without acrimony and discord.

Life seemed to get better for Max once the divorce dust settled. He and his mom moved

to Brooklyn to live with his maternal grand-parents and aunt. All five people lived in a

three room apartment on the fourth floor of a five-story, city rent controlled walk up

tenement building. During the day, the middle room served as living space that was

converted at night to a bedroom for three by opening the convertible couch and rolling

out a flimsy folding bed.

Mondays were very special days for Max; he accompanied his mother to her job. Maleah

took a part-time position as a bookkeeper for a lumber yard just three blocks from their

new home. He proudly walked holding his Mom's hand and needed to take three steps to

her two in order to hold on and keep up. The Babylon Lumber Company provided little

Max with an opportunity to be amongst men. Aside from the brothers who owned the

firm and were their salesmen, he was allowed to ride in the big delivery truck with Jesse.

Jesse was as big as a house to little Max; he had enormous strength to lift planks and

boards of wood from the long huck and lay them where the buyer designated them to be

placed. His shoulders were fully five of Max's body width and yet he was the gentlest,

most caring, mellowest male figure to his young companion. Max loved riding beside the

delivery driver.

"Little man, we're going over the Williamsburg Bridge to drop this load to a building

site. Hav'ya ever been on a bridge?" asked Jesse.

"Nope, the only time 1 get to ride in anything is with you."

"I want ya to look at the East River with all the boats and tugs. They help make New

York a great place to make money."

"Where are you from Jess," asked Max.

"My people are all from Georgia. 1 came north to find a better job and get my kids into

schools to learn more than they teach in Augusta."

Jesse was Max's best friend outside of his own family. He saw a great man who took

care of him while his mother worked. Young Max recognized that his skin was much

darker. So what, Jesse was his only true pal.

Max ate breakfast and lunch perched on a double-width window sill while watching

players on the red-sanded clay tennis courts below. The ledge also doubled as his dinning

table. Although he didn't understand what the game was about, he did enjoy the fast

paced volleying, running and white tennis garb. It was also a means to exercise in his

mind instead of employing his body, since the borough's streets were deemed unsafe for

a four year old to run, jump and play on. His doting family's vigilance was rewarded by

his not being attacked, bludgeoned, beaten or kidnapped for a ransom that would have

been un-payable beyond five bucks.

As a direct result of being sheltered and not allowed to have fun in the ominous street in

front of the building, Max listened to the radio in his and his mom's bedroom as often as

was possible. He eagerly looked forward to Don McNeil's Breakfast Club, The Great

Gildersleeve, Gang Busters, The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet, Superman, The Lone

Ranger, and even several hours of IS-minute dramas; among them, One Man's Family,

Pepper Young, Guiding Light and others that would become the source of early television

programmmg.

Watching tennis was his mealtime diversion, but radio made Max aware of the giant

world, as his mind's eye summoned hopeful thoughts and vivid images well beyond his

juvenile years. Indeed, "The Golden Age of Radio," was an apt moniker that drew many

persons of all generations to a heightened awareness past their own limited surrounding's

exposure. As non-native English speakers arrived in droves, radio became the ideal

learning medium for language, culture and a welcomed escape mechanism from the

tedium of a long hard working day. Listening became synonymous with living, learning

and lavish dreams of optimism for better days ahead.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Three

Brooklyn - January 1959

The legal age to obtain a New York State driving license in non-rural areas was eighteen.

Max's daily obsession while awake and more often in his dreams, was focused on female

adolescents; how to attract them; how to keep them; how to entice them, to embrace and

fondle them; and lastly when he was bored, how to get rid of them. His answer to catch

their attention, aside from his high cheekbones, cleft-chin good looks, sky-blue eyes and

boyish charm, was to have wheels of his own. No longer content with trains and busses,

he wanted a car to venture beyond his own neighborhood. There were conquests to be

surmounted in Queens, Long Island, New Jersey and elsewhere. Being young,

impoverished, ambitious and the son of a family that barely eked out an okay living, left

Max with only one possible answer: to get a job and forego daytime college in favor of

evening classes as a fully matriculated student. A marvelously ill conceived thought

Having made the conscious decision to work and accumulate money to purchase a car,

the choice of how to proceed was considered. An ad in The New York Post, placed by

Watson Employment Agency, called out to him. On Monday, January 19th, Max shaved

his light fuzz; put on ironed dress pants, shirt, tie and polished shoes; walked the three

long city blocks to the elevated HEL, " train 55th Street station; and paid the ten cent fare

for the noisy shaky ride to the Wall Street station. Three short blocks away he found 263

Broadway, an impressive tall building filled with a whole host of companies that had

long and short names on the lobby tenant directory board. Towards the very bottom was

the line listing of 'Watson' being housed on the second floor in room 210.

Max nervously filled out an application and waited patiently to be interviewed. After

what seemed to be an eternity, twenty minutes later he was shown into an office that

spewed bright sunlight thru windows facing Broadway to meet Grace Watson. She was a

gentle tigress who asked questions rapidly:

"How old are you? Why aren't you going to college? What do you want to do?"

Max responded honestly, "Seventeen; I intend to go at night; I don't know."

She looked at Max hard and long and then said, "you listed stamp collecting as one of

your hobbies?"

"Yes," came the hesitant reply.

"Would you say that you know countries of the world?" she asked.

Again, an apprehensive affirmative response was voiced.

Mrs. Watson queried, "Can you type?"

An up and down head shake silently answered the question.

She studied him slowly with piercing green eyes, brows furrowed and then with some

uncertainty, finally said, "I have ajob as a trainee in a freight forwarding company. It

pays seventy dollars per week plus benefits. Would you like me to set up an interview?"

While delighted with the anticipated salary, Max had no idea what a freight forwarder

did. So, he asked the question, "What do they do?"

The straightforward reply, "They ship various things all over the world."

He thought: what could be that bad? "Yes, please make the call," was his cautious

courteous response.

Grace Watson gave Max a white envelope containing an introductory card and a copy of

his completed employment application. He walked the few long blocks to 187 Broad

Street, the home-office of Campbell & Company, Inc. who leased half of the ninth floor.

Sitting in an impressive waiting area, Max adjusted his tie several times, coughed to

sooth his parched throat and then decided to chew Chowder's violet breath freshener to

relieve the dryness. A pretty, perky and vivacious older mid-twenties smiling girl led

Max to the office of John J. McCloskey, affectionately called, "Mac," the senior traffic

manager of the company.

After a brief question and answer session, he was offered the starting position. The quick

acceptance was, "Yep, when do I start?"

The following Monday the 26th was agreed upon.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Four

Brooklyn -1945

Eating healthy foods and simply ingestion was an ongoing problem for Max. His meager

appetite had the family troubled desperately trying to find something nutritious that he

might enjoy or would just take bites of while watching the tennis games below. His

adoring grand-mother, Tiskhon, "Bubbie," Cohn, would mash or chop all of his food

using a gadget with four blades repeatedly palm-pounded to maul meat. She added

ketchup so that frail Max would have some sustenance. Her short height did not impede

her arm-strength for chopping, or her love of doing everything for her grandson.

"Maxella, you have to eat something. What do you want? I'll make for you. Just tell

me," she would tenderly question.

"Bubbie, I'm not hungry." This was his regular reply.

When that didn't work well, he would pretend, "I'm allergic. I'm not supposed to eat it.

Mommy told me its okay not to."

He was sustained by mushed home baked or boiled chicken made red in color; boiled,

"red" mashed potatoes and Wise potato chips eaten habitually for his scant lunches and

dinners. Breakfast was simply an Oreo cookie or a Yankee Doodle cupcake consumed

over the course of a half hour with three or four sips of milk while listening to Queen for

a Day with host Jack Bailey, At four years old, Max weighed a scant thirty-four pounds.

Bubbie Tishkon was not only the family matriarch; she was the giver oflots oflove; the

absorbing sponge of family pain and sorrow; the emotions equalizer and the gentle

dispenser of compassion and kindness. Arriving from Minsk, Byelorussia in 1917 she

worked sixty hours weekly in a lady's garment sweat-shop sewing clothes that others

would wear. A year later in a pre-arranged agreement by a matchmaker, she was

betrothed to Samuel Cohn. By May 1921, two daughters were born eighteen month

apart. Sylvia and her younger sister Maleah were total opposites in all respects with the

notable exception ofa common ultra-strong love of family. Sylvia was tall, dark haired,

medium complexion, smart, ambitious and not interested in boys. MaIeah loved the

schoolboys' attention, did not care about school, was unmotivated, fair-skinned, light

haired and short. Both girls were pretty in a plain homely way.

Sam Cohn collected useless items that he refurbished and sold or if un-repairable would

wholesale for parts or scrap. His found junk filled a small store on Madison Street with

discarded items that he carted by horse and wagon. The clippety-clop clatter of

"Lucky's" hooves over the cobble-stoned streets combined with his whinnying were

magical sounds to young Max. He sat high-up on the bouncing buckboard seat next to

his Grandpa, as the breeze ruffled his light brown hair and the sun tamled his fair skin.

"Grandpa, where're we going today?" he would excitedly inquire.

"Vell today, vee goes looking for plum--bing pipes. Brass is tventy cents by a pound. Ve

can make good money from da trow-avays."

His mother's father was a no nonsense man who doled out gruff love to his wife, children

and grandson. He arrived at Ellis Island from the ghettos of Vilnius in late 1917 just

before the Conference of Ambassadors approved Poland's retention of the territory won

in its brief confrontation with the Soviets. It was a war that he did not have to soldier in.

Persistently, Cohn struggled to improve his family's circumstances. He had an obsessive

work ethic that did not allow for any pleasures or free time. Work and resting on the

Sabbath consumed his days. While not a particularly religious man, Sam did need to

relax. Saturday served him well and God was presumed happy with his choice of days.

Germany - 1945

It was an excellent year for the free world: The Axis powers were defeated; U.S. men

and the few brave women who served in the Armed Forces started returning home.

Concentration camp victims who were barely alive began the painful process of

repatriation or absorption by the Allied Nations and other realms. The horrors of war had

ended but the wrenching memories would live in the minds of millions around the Earth

for centuries, one painful day at a time.

One of the afflicted Polish/Galicia displaced persons was a late-thirties male who had lost

his wife and three young children in the Nazi gas chambers at Auschwitz.

Benjamin Hanold physically survived the atrocities by joining forces with more than a

dozen men who together made a daring escape over the barbed wire fences into the thick

forests surrounding the extermination and labor camp. Two of the bands were shot in the

back as they reached the anticipated safety of the tree line and died instantly. The bullet

intended for Benjamin grazed his left fore arm two inches above his numbered tattoo.

419904 proved to be a lucky integer. Mentally, Hanold was heinously damaged. He

survived the waning days of the holocaust by constantly hiding, moving and staying one

step ahead or behind the retreating German ground forces and the advancing Russian

troops. Whether his eyes were opened or closed, during every day of flight, Bennie heard

the piercing anguished wailing cries of his murdered family. The weeping sounds

doggedly haunted him.

There were too few governmental organizations coordinating the readjustment and

settlement of the camps' surviving frail victims. Instead, the enormous curative task was

left to fraternal and communal groups to take care of their own families and friends left

homeless, heartless and apathetic by the Second Great War. One of those collective

groups was the Lomza Brotherhood.

The small town or shetel named Lomza is in the Polish province of Lomza situated

approximately eighty miles northeast of Warsaw. It was founded during the mid- tenth

century. In 1494 there was the first written mention of at least one Jewish dweller. The

Great Synagogue was completed nearly four hundred years later to allow fervent prayers

to soar heavenward. At the beginning of the twentieth century, nearly 20,000 farmers,

peasants, artisans and merchants lived in the town; a full fifty-five percent ofthe

population followed the faith as taught by Moses. By September 1941, the year that Max

was born, The Great Lomza Synagogue had been totally destroyed and the town and the

province had zero recognized or acknowledging Jews.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Five

New York City - May 1959

Max enjoyed his work learning about the ocean transportation industry. He, along with

three other young men, was the order out department. Eighteen Assistant Traffic

Managers supervised the beginners in handling humdrum paper tasks for their major

accounts; oil companies, heavy equipment manufacturers, foodstuffs or other

conglomerates' commodities. It amazed Max that he was a cog in the wheel of ocean

shipping for so many products that he was familiar with. American made goods: shoe

polish, band-aids, car engines, basic chemicals of all sorts and many other raw materials

and finished goods were sought by peoples on every continent, with the notable exception

of Antarctica. Several other ATM groups processed the requirements of more than one

smaller client company.

The order out department would be given files with all pertinent information written on

folder covers needed to type delivery orders and dock receipts to enable truckers,

railroads and lighter age companies to bring cargoes to the assigned pier in time for

loading aboard a vessel. Typing was done on pre-printed, "master forms" that had a hard

purple carbonized backing that created a key's image on the back of the white form when

the typewriter struck it. By carefully putting the master form into the biting metal-jawed

opening and aligning it correctly, Max used one of the six Gestetner spirit duplicating

machines to "run-off" the two different forms, one in triplicate and the dock receipts in

quintuplicate.

There was one universal phone in his department. No personal calls were allowed to be

made, it was strictly for business use by the young men.

"Hello, this is Max Hanold with Campbell. You have a truck load of drummed corn

syrup that I want delivered to the Hakara Maru at pier 17 North River by 11 A.M. this

Friday."

"What do you mean, you can't? Of course you can! Let me speak to Mr. McGee, he'll

get it done for us!"

"Jim, this is Max. I really need a favor .... " Max became skilled at asking for and getting

what he wanted. Bashfulness was turning to boldness.

Ditto master form corrections were cumbersome. It was nearly impossible not to get the

purple carbon color on his hands, his clothes and most embarrassingly, his finger nails. A

specially made pink liquid soap never quite removed all of the plum color of work.

Taking the train back home with purple tinted nails made him hold his college study texts

with fingers inward to be less conspicuous. In actuality, no one noticed nor cared, except

for the self- conscious Max.

After six months on the job at Campbell, Max was offered a promotion and a salary

increase of fifteen dollars per week. He was to be the assistant in the nascent air freight

department which consisted of one man, Bart Drummond, a rotund graying man in his

late forties. Bart was infamous for his liquid lunches that lasted well beyond the normal

one hour allotted break. Max was moved to a desk along-side his new boss that had a

telephone on it designated for his business use. He would cover as best as was possible

for his tipsy supervisor, which gave him an excessive amount of self-taught on the job

training because Bart was not available to guide him.

"Hello, this is Max Hanold at Campbell air freight. I wanna make a booking for two

cartons weighing 108 pounds total, for your flight 800 to Bombay."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll have them delivered by your cut-off time. Maybe even before five."

"Can you please do me a favor? I'll send out some gummed labels attached to my

paperwork. Just please stick two on each package for me."

"Thanks for your help. Have a great afternoon."

One early afternoon the corporate Vice-President, Bob Bowley, had his secretary

summon Max to his office in the executive wing of the office. He was sure that he

going to be fired for something, although he didn't know what it was. Or even worse,

maybe they wanted to close the air freight department! Either way, he assumed he would

lose his job.

Nervously he knocked on Mr. Bowley's closed glass door. Although on the phone, the

imposing thin angular faced executive signaled with hand and mouth gestures for Max to

wait until he was finished talking. When the call ended and the hand-piece replaced in its

cradle, Mr. Bowley motioned for Max to enter the inner sanctum.

"Young man, please have a seat. We've been watching your progress. We're very

pleased with your work ethic and general demeanor. I know that Bart hasn't been lucid

in the aftemoons to really help you. Yet, you've done a good job and have never once

complained. "

"Thank you, sir," was the relieved reply.

"Max, I have a very big job that I want you to do for me."

"Yes, sir, anything that you need, I'm prepared to tackle!"

"I know that using air freight as a practical means of cargo transport has not made the

inroads that we were hoping for, mostly because of the limited size openings ofthe

luggage compartments in the aircraft's lower decks, as well as the generally perceived

high rates. I have convinced CTX, one of our largest ocean freight customers to consider

using air freight to deliver Christmas presents to their worldwide customers."

"That sounds exciting."

"Now son, before they give us the go ahead, I need you to work up pricing and routings

for 186 five pound packages to 186 destinations. They and I will study your suggestions

and pricing. I want you to prove that Campbell can ensure a cheaper and faster delivery

than the U.S. Postal Service that they normally use. Can you do that. .. say within the

next two weeks?"

"Mr. Bowley, I know I can do it. It'll be ready and meet your deadline."

Max was given the list of destinations before leaving the number two big boss's office.

He worked on the project enthusiastically. His geographical knowledge was truly put to

the test as was his proficiency in reading airline schedules and rate charts. The chore was

made easier with the advent of jet planes that flew faster and longer than propeller

powered aircraft. The Boeing 707 and its rival the Douglas DC8 took half the time to

reach a destination and thereby could get to twice the number of cities in the same

amount of time on any given day.

Pan American World Airways inaugurated the first trans-Atlantic jet service from New

York's Idewild Airport to Orly Airport in Paris on October 26, 1958. By the time

was preparing his report for the gifts, Pan Am was the major U.S. international carrier

with service to 109 of his 186 global destinations. Howard Hughes' Trans World

Airlines was a far distant second in US overseas passenger carriage while using

Lockheed four-engine prop-driven Constellations. While Max was doing the costing and

routing study, TWA became the first major airline to employ a Negro as a stewardess.

Change was in the sky-winds and would be blowing into all forty-nine states.

Max went to the Campbell office over the intermittent weekend but choose not to put in

for the overtime on his weekly time sheet. The hours of effort concluded that each gift

should be on one air waybill at a minimum, "minnie, " cost of $29.00 to $45.00 plus a

small documentation fee of$15.00. He was confident that using air freight would indeed

be cheaper than the Postal Service and offer a faster verifiable delivery.

The information for Mr. Bowley was handed to him two days ahead of the promised date.

Max sat quietly looking at the V.P.'s back while he diligently read Max's report. Putting

down his glasses, Mr. Bowley swiveled in his chair and turned to him with a smile.

"Max, this is very good work. I think that we can save CTX over seven thousand dollars

and still make around three thousand dollars profit for your effort. You're to be

congratulated young man. In fact, to show our appreciation, I am going to raise your

salary to $100.00 per week. You've done fine work ... Fine work indeed! "

Max beamingly replied, "Thank you very much sir. I really want you to know how great

I feel about the job and the raise is very much appreciated."

"One more thing Max, please don't tell Bart about the project and especially the raise.

We should have the shipments by early December. So be ready to put your plan into

action," he was told.

"It'll be my pleasure Mr. Bowley."

During the first week of December, the printer for CTX delivered one-hundred and

eighty-six brown-wrapped 1960 weekly appointment leather bound books that were put

into one of the Campbell store rooms. Max worked industriously and within nine days all

the packages were on their way, the billing was done and Bart was fuming, while Mac

and Mr. Bowley were pleased.

Max Hanold took the state driving test on his eighteenth birthday, Thursday, December

10, 1959. He passed with an error-less ride. One week later, Maleah proudly placed the

new permanent license on his dresser-top for him to have when he returned from work.
____________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter Six

Havana - January 1960

National Airlines began U.S. domestic service in 1934 with limited services to and from Central America and three Caribbean Islands, adding daily Cuban flights during 1946.

In the winter of 1959, Freddie Gambeli, the lead cargo customer agent for National at Idewild, invited the six years younger Max to join him for a free weekend trip of broads, booze and betting in Cuba.

“Come with me Max, you’ll have a blast down there. I go more than once a month.  Believe me you’ll want to stay there and never come back to cold New York,” said an excited Gambeli.

Max approved, “Freddie, it sounds great.  Let’s go after New Years, though.”

“I’ll make arrangements for our employee passes.”

The pair departed on Friday, January 8th at three in the afternoon aboard flight 851, “El Emperador,” and arrived aboard the luxurious four engine DC 7B plane at Jose Marti International Airport in Havana at the scheduled 6:20.  They each had a small overnight case that they carried on and placed in the overhead storage rack in the first class compartment.  Max had never flown before.  The ride was smooth and uneventful aside from one air pocket that deposited half of his scotch and soda into his lap as the Douglass liner lurched forward and downward   A few linen napkins absorbed most of the liquid. Freddie and Max were treated royally by the female cabin crew who were outrageous flirts, possibly because the two were listed as VIP travelers on the passenger manifest.

Fred wisely said, “Don’t fool with the domestic stuff.  They’re probably just teases and who needs that when we’re on our way to the real doers waiting for us in Havana!”

“Yeah, teach, I’m with you all the way Freddie!”

Deplaning, Max was immediately struck by the warm humid night air; intensely uncomfortable, yet invigorating.  Passing through Cuban Customs and Immigration was a laugh: If you looked like you had money and carried a bag with clothes, you were welcomed as a source of revenue who would carry his or her suitcase back home when the money was gambled away or the hotel reservation ended making room for the next loser. 

A bus took the flight crew and other non-revenue airline employees the twenty kilometers to the swank Hotel Nacional de Cuba. It drove along The Malecon de la Habana offering a magical view of the bay on one side and the overflowing streets on the other; the sights and sounds saturated the nocturnal air with the heat and beat of conga drums. Along the Malecon working women were walking and showing themselves as available for paid romance or just about anything else, within reason.  Cars stopped; negotiations were conducted; concluded quickly and temporary pleasures completed and paid for. 

Proceeding up the well-lighted tree-lined long curved-driveway, Max’s head swiveled from right to left and front to back immersed in Latin rhythms, awash with pungent cooking garlic bouquets and anticipating romance with amorous free spirited senoritas.

“I can’t believe I’m here, Freddie.  You’re great for inviting me!’

“Oh, forget it Max.  You’re a friend of mine and I like you.  Besides, because you’re so damn ugly, I get to look better to all the girls.”

“You only wish that was true, knuckle-head. What a classy place this is. I didn’t bring that much money.”

“I don’t care about your money.  You’re with me so, don’t worry about a thing.  Just relax and let’s have some fun.”
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter Seven

New York City – 1949

The Lomza Brotherhood consisted of men and women who luckily left Europe for America before WW II erupted.  All were seeking a better life for their families in the land “that had gold paved streets” and “a chicken in every pot.”  Their broken English, Yiddish and some native Polish speech allowed the majority to assimilate in varying degrees to the new life styles of a free society, while still holding on to a treasured shared past.  Part of that preceding way of life in the old country carried responsibilities to take care of the influx of fellow towns-people.  That concerned compassionate credo brought Benjamin, “Bennie, Ben,” Hanold to New York City in July 1948.

Upon his arrival, he moved in with his brother, Emmanuel, who had immigrated to the US in 1928. “Manny” was a long-time member of the Lomza Brotherhood who sponsored Benjamin for entry into the USA as a displaced person, by signing papers guaranteeing that he would be accountable for this brother and insure that Bennie would not become a concern to the over-burdened welfare system. They lived together and enjoyed the endless hours of conversations to pass on events transpired during a separation of twenty years. There were smiles of recognition; there was laughter; and there were tears. Torrents of tears were shed as the two reminisced, reflected and remembered countless massacred family members and friends.

It was difficult for newly arrived immigrants to fully enjoy the fruits of their new freedom.  There was always an inclination to look over their shoulders in search of someone following, checking or stalking them.  Freedom needed to be learned.  It was never innate for holocaust survivors.

 Bennie was no different.  Not being able to acclimate to his new city of five boroughs with over four million residents and so many tall buildings was overwhelming.  He naturally sought out Brotherhood members to relate to and soon became a prominent well liked person to over three-hundred former Lomza inhabitants.

On the third Saturday night of every month, nearly every one of the previous and recent refugees attended a social mixer and dance.  The men and women all looked for familiarity and the comfort of a known common language.  Bennie and Manny were always dazzling in newly pressed suits and heavily starched shirts, dazzling ties and highly polished shoes.  The brothers, while ten years apart in age, made a glorious pair of sought after singles.  Manny was divorced having a son living with his ex-wife and Bennie was the extrovert outside, while inside the forlorn widower still hearing faint voices crying out for help.

“Bennie, are you ready to go already?” asked Manny.

“Give me a minute.  I need to find my tie that matches my jacket.  The ladies will wait for us, Manny.”

“O.K, enough with the looking already! You can be the second best handsome one at the dance.  Let’s go, it’s not good to be late.”

The separate and unequal racially divided Armed Forces of the U.S.A. ended with President Truman’s pen.  In late July 1948, the thirty-third President signed Executive Order 9981: ***It is hereby declared to be the policy of the President that there shall be equality of treatment and opportunity for all persons in the armed services without regard to race, color, religion or national origin.***

 

As Manny and Bennie danced for companionship in New York, the majority of Southern Americans danced for a much different reason: another step towards fairness.

Maleah Levi, while not a Lomzaite by birth, was invited to attend the monthly Brotherhood function by a friend whose parents were Galicianas.  Upon entering the large brightly lit ballroom with small round cocktail-tables scattered around and bars in two corners, Maleah immediately spotted the dapper, Benjamin, dancing gracefully.  She instantly was smitten with the six foot two “Lomza Adonis.” 

“Dottie, look at that big handsome guy in the dark blue suit dancing with Gertrude,” Maleah told her friend.

“Wow, he’s very nice looking.  Don’t get your bloomers in a dither.  The good ones are always married,” she was told.

“Oh well, we’ll see what happens by the end of the night.”

Manny was first to see Maleah and asked her to dance to an old Polish polka that was scratching accordion-swishes and drum-thuds from a well-worn 78 RPM record.  After half-step sliding around the room, they walked off the dance floor and made their way to a vacant table.  Shortly thereafter, Bennie joined his brother whom he introduced to Maleah.  By night’s end and for the next year and a half, the two became fast friends, flirtatious foes and then engaged to be married.  Ever so slowly Ben’s internal sounds of the past terrors subsided.

The wedding in July, 1950, was in a Lower Eastside Manhattan synagogue.  Maleah and Ben did not know the Rabbi, but he knew the prayers and had the civil power to sign the “Ketubah,” the marriage certificate.  A reception followed the ceremony in the shul’s multi-purpose room, which was held to a minimal number of twenty guests to keep the costs as low as was possible. Neither family could afford lavish treats. The couple had an inexpensive weekend honeymoon in Providence, Rhode Island, just to get away from the sweltering heat of the bigger city.

Max idolized Bennie.  And Bennie loved Max.  It was very natural and expected that a formal adoption would be in order.  The official process in November, 1950, took place in Judge Rabinoff’s chambers in downtown Brooklyn’s Family Court Building. The Judge asked Max if he wanted to be adopted and the timid affirmative reply was instantaneous; legally and psychologically Max Levi became Max Hanold.
______________________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter Eight

 January 1960 - Havana

 “The Cloister,” in Boca Raton, Florida was inspired by the elegance of Spanish, Moorish and Gothic lines, curves and pillars. When it was sold by the original title-holder, the new owner spent eight million dollars to renovate and enlarge the property to become the twin spired Boca Rotan Country Club that became the model for The Hotel Nacional that opened in 1930 with its own two turrets.

After a bloody coup in 1933, led by Fulgencio Batista, the Island Nation was ruled by a duly elected socialist government.  There was economic progress; international investment and labor unions until the mid-fifties when the disparity between the few haves and the proliferating population of have nots, revolted.

During the years of prosperity, the hotel was visited by the famous: Frank Sinatra, Ava Gardner, Mickey Mantle, John Wayne, Marlene Dietrich, Gary Cooper, Marlon Brando, Ernest Hemingway, and various well known celebrities; the noble: Winston Churchill, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and other monarchs and countless Heads of State.

In 1946, the notorious visited the island. A “mob summit” run by Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky was held at the Nacional attended by Santo Trafficante, Jr., Frank Costello, Albert Anastasia, Vito Genovese and other Family Dons and underlings.

By 1955 Mr. Batista, the benevolent malevolent dictator,  in need of money and support agreed to the sale of the Nacional’s daily management to Pan Am’s Intercontinental hotel chain and a concurrent sub-lease for the construction and operation of a bar,  restaurant,  showroom and a casino to be operated by Mr. Lansky and his associates.  The Casino Internacional opened in 1956 and was an immediate money maker for all those involved in the operation and for the Batista’s family’s wealth.  He authorized three other hotel casinos to well linked Lansky friends. 

 The Internacional was still thriving when Freddie and Max walked through the majestic entrance hall in January 1960. They immediately gave their bags to the doorman and went directly to the gaming tables. Max had $125.00 in his left pants’ pocket when he started playing Black Jack. After an hour of cards and free drinks he had $325.00 and a headache. 

He walked to find Fred at the craps table and said, “Hey man, I need to a take a breather to sooth this pain and clear my head.”

 Agreeing to take a dinner break for food to absorb some of the alcohol,  the duo went to the fashionable Commodore de Angular Restaurante for a meal that consisted of a fresh shrimp cocktail followed by broiled lobster flown in from Maine by National Airline, baked potato with all the mix-ins, and green beans. Fred ordered a bottle of white wine and Max had his first sip of California Chardonnay to accompany the sumptuous spread. 

Dessert was prepared tableside by a maitre’ d using a rolling cart with a small gas canister-burner, a large chafing dish, and various readied fresh ingredients.  Meticulously, the sweet butter was melted, fragrant orange zest was scraped from the skin and the fruit was cut in half and squeezed for its juice.  All of the moist ingredients were added to the sterling silver pan, sugar stirred in, thin pancakes rolled up and placed in the dish. At that point, Grand Marnier was poured in which immediately erupted in blue flames and then disappeared.  The smell was that of sweet citric ambrosia which the tuxedoed headman deftly swirled in the pan to cover and be absorbed by the delicate crepes.  Three petite saturated puffs were plated and served to the diners.  The taste was euphoric.  Max was in a food trance induced by a combination of components he had never tasted.  Freddie laughed at the ear to ear grin on young Max’s face.

“That was the most incredible meal I ever ate.  I’m stuffed up to here.” Max said pointing to the top of his head.

“It was good alright.  In fact, I think it was p-e-r-f-e-c-to!’

“What happens next?” asked Max.

“You just wait my friend.  You’ll see.”

A small cup of strong black coffee was served to cleanse their palates.

A cigar was the ideal end to a wonderful meal, especially in Cuba.  A busboy brought a haul of wooden boxes emblazoned with gold letters and logos that held four distinguished brands; Cohiba, Montecristo, Partagas and Romeo y Julieta.  Max and Fred chose the same cigar and the ceremony began: An Xeto cigar cutter was used to sever a small portion of the closed end to allow the rolled leaves to be lit. An imposing bottle of twenty-five year aged Remy Martin VSOP was tilted and poured into two large snifters; each glass was angled slightly to expose the convex circular-sides to an open flame to release the placid leathery, violet, jasmine and plum aromas. Then the snifters were placed in front of each anticipatory ceremonial on-looker.  Next a tumbler was half filled with the same superb cognac and both ends of the Montecristo were reverently bathed in the golden liquid.  The blunt cut ends were then passed through and over a flame, lighted and handed to the mesmerized pair. A sip of Remy, a draw of the cigar and blown out smoke in almost perfect small circles made Max feel that Heaven had descended to Earth.

 Fred said, “Max, what could possibly be better?

To which he replied, “Nothing!  Absolutely… nothing at all!”

After the extraordinarily phenomenal meal with all its ambience and service, the pair ambled to the ornate front desk, were checked in and led to rooms on the top floor by a red uniformed aged bell hop, complete with a gold tassel atop a red Fez that buckled under his chin.  The man effortlessly took their carry-on bags and guided them to the bank of four elevators. He spoke a bit of English slowly switching to rapid Spanish for emphasis.  With Fred’s help in loosely translating, Max learned a smidgen about the hotel’s amenities and facilities.  They both chuckled as Max nodded in agreement to whatever they were saying, “si, si, you’re right.” he said.

 Freddie was shown to room 804 and Max was across the hallway in 803. Eight-O-Three was furnished in a garish art deco Spanish theme with a large window that fronted the Bay.  Fred’s room was similarly decorated and looked towards El Centro. Both rooms were air conditioned, which surprised Max.  Unpacking was quick and effortless as there was one shirt and a pair of trousers to put on hangers, one pair of underwear and socks to put in the sleek dresser drawer and a few toiletries to place in the bathroom.

Less than ten minutes after entering his room, Max was knocking on Fred’s door anxious to return to the casino and parlay his winnings into an even bigger stash.

“Fred let’s get outta here and back to the action.”

“Whoa Maxie, I thought you wanted some female action here?

“Maybe later we can hook up with those stewardesses who flew us in?

“I told you, it’s an absolute waste of time.  You tell me when you’re ready and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

 The bell for the descending elevator rang simultaneously with the green arrow above the doors changing to red.  They were the first to enter and walked to the back of the compact space.  The lift stopped at all seven floors as people entered, exited and some stayed until the button was illuminated for planta principal and the doors opened with a soft peal.  Without ventilation, the elevator car was excessively humid.  As the doors opened on the ground floor, a welcomed breeze gently blew across them, also delighting other hotel patrons and workers. Max was learning about the joys outside of Brooklyn.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Nine

New York City – 1951

Not being able to easily converse with English only speaking New Yorkers, Bennie’s employment opportunities were limited.  He tried being a leather crafter in Manny’s place of work and found it dull and monotonous.  Next was a failed attempt as a salesman in a jewelry shop owned by a fellow lodge member.  Dealing with the public in his deficient, highly accented stilted Americanisms was a formidable task that he had not yet overcome.

After several months of attempting whatever someone suggested he undertake, Bennie became a butcher’s assistant in a kosher delicatessen purveyor. In actuality, his strong back and lifting ability made him ideal for moving around hanging cow carcasses, cleaning dirtied slicing machines, stained smoking-ovens, sweeping or mopping floors and generally doing what few others wanted to.  He could communicate with fellow workers in “Yinglish,” a combination of his native Yiddish and acquiring new jargon.   The physicality of the job left him little time to think of his past European family life.

Taking the subway to and from work at Glassman’s Kosher Emporium, near the Essex Street Market in lower Manhattan, was enlightening.  Bennie looked at how people dressed and listened to all the chatter around him. Assimilation began as he learned about New York, its inhabitants, where to go to share in the abundance of everything imagined and improbable; all to shed the negative and “greenhorn,” label; to become a U.S. naturalized citizen and to be known as an able-bodied American.  Slowly, the mind sounds of screeching souls dissipated as Bennie worked from seven in the morning until five at night or beyond, with little time to think of what was.  The pay was worth the commute and the long tiring days of corporal heavy lifting, pulling, bending and other arduous tasks, helped to vanish the tormenting ghosts.

Soon after their wedding, Maleah and Ben decided to rent their own apartment with Manny as a tenant and most importantly a financial contributor to the monthly obligation   of $85.00.  Their new abode was the lower floor of a two story attached brown brick building amongst neatly arranged ones that were identical on both sides of Wynonna Street.

Standing near his four step stoop throwing a pink Spalding against the stairs, he was waiting for boys his age to exit their homes and play. In six days he had no one to call a friend.  His frustration was thrown towards the bricks in an attempt to hit the exact ninety degree corner of each brick step to make the ball swiftly return to him on the fly, instead of continually striking areas that made the pinkie bounce back on the pavement.

When the door to the right side of his half of the building opened, a pleasant woman in a yellow house coat stepped out smiling at him.  She was followed by a girl approximately Max’s age.  She wore a simple green shirt with matching flared slacks; brown very unruly curly hair was cut two inches above her shoulders and supporting braces were on her left arm and leg. Her Mom helped her navigate the stairs downward. Once completed, she greeted him with a simple “Hello.” For a long frozen moment he gazed at the two of them. Something was wrong, different and dreadfully disturbing.

“Hello, my name is Max Hanold.  I just moved in last week.  What’s your name?”

Awkwardly, the girl attempted to answer him.  Instead, spittle slowly dripped from her lips.  Her Mom answered for her: “Her name is Norma and I’m Mrs. Goldman.  It’s nice to meet you Max.”

Trying not to stare or be rude, he walked closer to Norma offering to shake her hand.  She was barely able to position it in such a manner that Max could latch-on.  She smiled at him with the most wondrous eyes in appreciation of his not saying the obvious about her malady.

Mrs. Goldman said, “Norma has Muscular Dystrophy which causes her muscles to act in strange ways while they are slowing weakening.  Most of the children make fun of her with taunts and name calling.  It breaks my heart not to let her stay out by herself to enjoy some fresh air.”

“That’s not a problem Mrs. Goldman; I’ll stay with her and protect her too.” Max said.

“What a nice young man you are.  I’ve some things to do and will check on you two in about fifteen minutes.”  She appreciatively smiled, kissed Norma and returned into her side of the building.

Max had never met anyone with a major disability, let alone someone his own age.  He tried bouncing the ball to her, but she was incapable of grasping it. Figuring that sitting was the best position for them, he gently helped her be seated and then sat next to her.  In general, talking was problematic so Max astutely asked questions that were easily answered with a brief uncontrolled subtle nod.  He talked and she nodded with eyes sparkling at her new friend.  Before long, two older boys walked past them and viscously yelled “RETARD!”

In a split second, he jumped up swinging with clenched fists at both of them.  “TAKE THAT BACK AND IF I EVER HEAR YOU SAY THAT WORD AGAIN, I PROMISE TO BREAK BOTH OF YOUR NOSES!” 

Although it was two taller and older juveniles matched against Max, his adrenaline and

compassion turned the passive cat to a roaring lion.  The pair ran towards where they came from.

Complying with the dictum in Ethics of the Fathers, “The most important thing is the deed not the theory.”  Max started to learn to live by convictions of his heart making decisions that his pragmatic mind had done before.

When Max again sat next to Norma, she slowly stretched her arm with difficulty to touch the blood under his eye.  Tears fell as she felt the hurt of the bruise of her protector.  Hearing the noise, Mrs. Goldman ran to Norma to check what was wrong.  Max told her the story of the bullies. She kissed his check because her daughter was unable.

This encounter was the start of the most beautiful deep-seated unromantic love anyone could ever feel.

Maleah and Bennie next set up home in the expanding suburb of Brooklyn’s Brownsville neighborhood on Riverdale Avenue. The five room apartment on the second floor of a private home was costly at $125.00 per month.  To help pay the rent, Manny moved in with the couple and their son. The bedroom facing the street became Manny’s. Moving towards the back of the dwelling with its pink cotton sheer curtained windows were a large rectangular living room, small kitchen, bathroom, and the couple’s bedroom. Then off to the side, for the first time, Max had his very own room.  Harmony prevailed.

There was still the problem of Max not gaining weight due to his poor appetite and limited eating preferences.  Determined to do something, Bennie made a proposal:

“Maxie, I want you to gain weight.  You’re too thin.  I’ll give you a dollar for every pound you put on from now until the end of the year.”

The ten year old said, “O.K. Dad it’s a deal.”

His seven dollars were hard earned. He ate sweets, cakes and breads instead of healthy solid fare.  The boy’s food selection was broadened slightly by the addition of deli specialties that Ben bought from his employer at a reduced price or given in lieu of extra hours worked.

Life in Brooklyn during the early fifties was ever changing.  Most individuals lacked the ability to pay a high mortgage amount, despite interest rates of two to four percent. Instead, potential home owners opted for two-storied, two family houses to gain the sorely needed additional money by leasing one of the levels.  More and more people moved away from the tall tenement dwellings on crowded Manhattan Island in favor of private residences in the outer boroughs and beyond. There were Elm, Maple, Oak and Sycamore tree-lined streets; yards with green grass in the front and back; budding shrubs to define boundaries; dogs were rediscovered and children were everywhere.  Public schools were rapidly being built to educate War Babies and Baby Boomers.

 Integration of the races, ethnicities, religions and all other divisive characteristics was under way to becoming acceptable, although not always the prevailing law.  Some parents did not posses the mettle to want their offspring to be exposed to the new admixtures.  Uniformity and separation were still ingrained and foremost in the majority of peoples’ hearts and minds. 

Public School 181 was a six block walk for Max to take four times each weekday; first to  school; second to return home for lunch; third to go back to school and lastly to amble homeward to do his studying to be prepared for the next day’s lessons.  The school’s pupil population was seventy percent Caucasian.  Italian and Irish Americans made up twenty-five percent each while the balance was comprised of a blend of European Jewish Americans.  Thirty percent of the student body was Negro brought from West Africa over three centuries before by inappropriate Southern states’ enslavement.

Teaching was left to an absolutely 100% white team of old and young licensed trainers.  Relations amongst the groups varied from polite and cordial to occasional animosity with curt bumpy encounters in between. 

Relations amongst the groups varied from polite and cordial to occasional animosity with curt bumpy encounters in between. 

While Max was in school, Maleah received a disturbing phone call from Norma’s Mom informing her that Norma’s degenerative disease ended her young physically challenged life.  Mrs. Goldman wanted Max to know that he was incredibly influential by providing friendship, companionship and concern.  He was absolutely adored by her daughter.  The details of the funeral were noted by Maleah.  How was she going to tell her son the sad news?

 

All excited about getting 100% on his weekly spelling test, Max whistled when entering their apartment.

“What’s wrong Mom?  You look so sad and your eyes are red.  Have you been crying?

“Oh Max, I received a call from Mrs. Goldman… Norma has passed away.”

At first, Max looked incredulously at his Mom.  He sat on a kitchen chair and put his head forward onto his hands and started sobbing.  Maleah stroked his sandy-blonde hair and took his head to her chest.  He moved away after a minute or two.  Stoically he said, “I knew it was going to happen this year.  She just kept getting skinner because of not being able to swallow and when I visited two weeks ago, she could hardly stand. Sometimes, I guess God works His miracles for His own reasons.”

“Do you want to go to her funeral tomorrow morning?” she asked.

“Of course I do!  She was one of my most favorite people in the whole world!”

Maleah said, “Max you’ve never been to a funeral.  It’s very sad with lots of crying and shrieks and sobbing.  I don’t know if you’re ready for that much reality?”

“MOM, I’M GOING AND THAT’S THAT!”

Resolved to mourn for Norma, he clenched his teeth with resolve fearing his first

encounter with the remedial reward, finality and inevitability of death.

Mondays after the Labor Day holiday were the single most difficult day of the year for young Max.  Consistently, the Delaney Card that contained all the pertinent information about each New York City student was the source of his anxiety and alarm. It was on that first day of school when teachers called out the student’s name for the first time.  Most instructors asked that the pupil raise their hand or stand up to be known.  There was always confusion about him.

“Where is Max Levi or is it Max Hanold?”

He would timorously acknowledge his presence as requested.

“I don’t understand why you have two names here?” 

Bravely, with a quiver in his voice he would supply the answer. “My name is Hanold.  I was legally adopted and my name was changed.”  Embarrassed, he would slouch in his one piece wooden seat and desk set as all classmates glared at him.  The negative stigma of divorce and adoption always brought him shame and anger.  Classmates snickered, mumbled or laughed at the outcast Max.  Children were merciless in their prejudgments and home-prejudices.  As the first week of school ended, he was readily re-accepted and his adoption forgotten.  It was his imagined scarlet badge that would in time fade until the next semester began.

 Hanold was an above average student who maintained an “A” grade average for the first four years of schooling.  He was well liked by all groups who thought him to be tolerant and understanding of their discernible differences.  Max became a peace maker amongst his friends and other learners.  Memories of argumentative contentious behavior by his Mom and biological father added to his want of peace, stability and tranquility.

In the middle of the fifth grade year, a disagreement erupted in social studies class between the races over the sensitive discussion of slavery.  The division was obvious and distinct. Voices were raised, fists were clenched and frail gray-haired Mrs. Buchanan struggled to keep a semblance of order and avoid a major fracas.

“Now class, we will have none of this in our school!  This is not a playground for hooligans!”

Max stood up and raised his voice, “Hey jerks, STOP IT! Respect for one another is the only way that WE’LL all get ahead.  It really doesn’t matter what happened a hundred years ago. Who gives a damn about who did what or didn’t do what?  All that stuff is behind us now. It’s ancient history that shows us the way so we don’t screw up again.  Look, there’s a new year coming up soon and we should move forward not backwards.”

Thirty-two pairs of eyes froze on the diplomatic go-between.

The nearly six-foot tall pig-tailed Loretta Jones, who always liked Max, silently rose to her full height, turned and looked at everyone.  Her gaze penetrated the hardest extremist on either side of the argument.

“Max, here, is right!  Let’s get back to learning!” she said.

The peacemaker had worked his magic to avoid a melee.

After school, Loretta walked over to Max and put her right arm over his left shoulder.   When her arm dropped, she re-raised it.  This time it was extended to Max in a handshake of friendship and admiration.  They shook hands and deeply searched each other’s eyes. 

Loretta said, “You’re alright for a white guy.”

Max replied, “Yeah, I hope you mean O.K, for any kind of guy.”

“I suppose so.” She said.

The silence that ensued said it all. They would and could only be school friends and never anything more.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Chapter Ten

Havana- January 1960

It was ten past midnight when they re-entered the bustling boisterous casino.  Freddie waved bye as he went back to the craps tables. Max looked around through the veiled-smoke, the yelling and joyous shouting and strolled triumphantly to the roulette table. For the next hour, Max played his favorite numbers; 12, 10, 19, 4 and 1 for his birthday at fifty cents per pink chip on each of the five squares, but to no avail.  He calculated that with thirty-six numbers and two green house winning zeros, he had a 13% chance of success with one of his numbers. At 35 to 1, he would win $17.50 less his $2.00 of his $2.50 investment for a net profit of $15.50.  He didn’t need calculus, trigonometry, algebra or any other learned higher math skill.  Easy arithmetic with simple numbers, and a straightforward wheel all added up to a sure thing.

After thirty minutes of consistently losing with every spin of the wheel, he decided that his chance of winning had increased because none of his bets had won.  Between three red numbers and two black ones that he bet on, surely that little white ball would fall into one of his numbered slots on the wheel.  He stopped accepting the free drinks to keep his mind lucid and doubled his bets to $1.00 by placing two pinks on each of his five promising numbers. 

Off to his left he heard tumultuous hand clapping, whistling, hoops and hollers as dice bettors were apparently happier then he.  Fred was jumping up and down as he waved his friend to join him.  Max cashed in his remaining pinkie chips and was given two green and black $25.00 tokens.

Gloomily, he walked away from the capricious unkind table towards the commotion and a game he had never played, nor knew how to play. Freddie welcomed him with a slap on the back and pulled him near at the table.  It was virtually impossible to understand the directions he was receiving with all the tumult going on.

“Max, have you ever played craps?” he was asked.

“Nope, I’ve seen some of the older guys playing it around my neighborhood but I don’t know what to do or how to bet.”

Fred was elated.  He yelled out, “I’ve got a virgin here.  Give me the dice!”

                                             

A path was cleared to the head of the table as Max cautiously followed his beaming compatriot while strangers patted him on the back or others shook his hands.

“All you have to do is choose two die from the ones that will be pushed towards you.  The luck of the virgin will be with you! Then you have to throw the dice towards the cushioned end of the table in front of us and not make a 2, 3 or 12 which would be crapping out.  Try for a 7 or 11 on your first roll, it’s called a ‘natural,’ and we win.  Any questions Max?”

“Nah, it’s a piece of cake.  How do I bet?”

“Give me your chips and I’ll do the betting for both of us.  Just use that “good luck of the virgin” and throw them natural numbers,” he was told.

A man with a curved stick pushed five red dies towards him.  Onlookers were deliriously anticipating their winnings.  Max picked up a pair of dice and looked around the table at the frenzied men; old, young, middle age in shades of white to bronze faces.  Fred put Max’s chips and four of his own on the” pass line.”  Max took a deep breath, cupped his hands, and blew on the “bones” as he had seen others do, closed his eyes and hurled the red cubes with a good right handed side throw.  He opened his eyes to a roar, as one die stopped with the number 5 face-up and then the second die ended its tilting and six was upright.  An eleven made their money double.

Freddie, whispered, “Let’s let it ride. You’re on a roll.  I can feel it.”

The next roll was a four and a three.  Again a loud roar as most people at the table won their bets.  Max looked at the chips, pushed his way and counted eight $25.00 black and green marked plastics.

Max murmured in Freddie’s ear, “Whatta we do now?”

“Take half the chips and put them in the rack in front of you.  Leave the others on the table.”

Max complied. With eyes opened this time, he rolled a six and a six, “boxcars,” and his ride was over. He crapped out!  The cheering crowd was mostly silent except for a few, “oohs and ahs.”  The virgin dice roller was defeated, dejected and deflated.  He had $100.00 left to cover Saturday and Sunday morning until they would depart for home.  Max went to his room alone, leaving Fred to wager on.

He fell asleep quickly being exhausted by his first plane ride; his first gourmet meal; his first cigar and his first casino gambling experience.  The sleep was deep and long.

 “Max wake up.  It’s me.” It was a familiar voice accompanied by loud knocking on his door.

Reluctantly, he opened his bleary eyes, sat up and yelled back, “Hold on, I’ll be right there!”

When he opened the door wearing only his jockey shorts, hair disheveled and sleep still in his bloodshot-eyes, Freddie appeared fully dressed, well groomed and wide awake.

“Max come on get dressed. It’s twelve o’clock.  We’ve got a busy day ahead.  There are some places I want to show you before the tables open at four.”

He asked, “Freddie, how’d you do last night?”

“I won seventeen-hundred smackaroos!”

“There’s no way Freddie!  Come on! You’re kidding, right?”

“Way! I’m telling you the truth.” He took a thick roll of bills from his rumpled pants pocket and clenched them in his fist extended high in the air.  “After you left an old guy in a cruddy cowboy hat and filthy boots took the dice and worked some kind of astonishing voodoo.  At four he was still rolling strong.  I was just too tired to stand there so I took the money, put it under my mattress and went to sleep for a few hours. Get dressed and I’ll wait for you in the Veranda Restaurant and you can order anything you want. It’s my treat!”

A quick cold shower, clean underwear and socks and the same clothes worn previously had Max ready in fifteen minutes.  Before leaving the room, he washed his soiled garments, wrung them thoroughly to remove some of the wash water and placed them atop the shower rod to dry.

Fred was seated at a table staring at the people walking along the beach front. The two ordered freshly squeezed orange juice, scrambled eggs with home fried potatoes, bacon and buttered toasted white bread, along with freshly brewed coffee.  Conversation was unusually light:  Fred was joyous with his huge winnings and Max was depressed about his major unaffordable losses.

After the leisurely breakfast, they strolled along the avenidos of Vedado adjacent to their hotel which were filled with shops, restaurants, clubs and other hotels: the Havana Hilton, Sans Souci, and the Habana Riviera.  La Habana Viejo, or Old Havana, with its narrow streets was visited as were two of its castles: El Morro, guarding the entrance to Havana Bay and San Salvador de la Punta Fortress, on the opposite shore protecting its side of the harbor entrance; the baroque, San Cristobal Cathedral on the Plaza de la Catedral; the Great Theater of Havana and a Freddie commanded cursory glance at other city highlights.  Max was duly impressed with the grandeur of old world Spanish colonial styles not seen in his New York surroundings. He was also bored, thirsty, hungry, hot, ready for some more gambling action and maybe a Latina, if he won enough money.

Walking along, Fred asked, “Maxie what do you wanna do?  I mean Campbell can’t be your future, can it?

“Well, you know I’m going to Brooklyn College at night.  I’m hoping to major in journalism and languages once I finish some of these silly prerequisite courses.”

“What’ll you do when you graduate, Max?”

“I think I wanna be a newspaper reporter or maybe a writer.  Probably get to travel around and see things using some of the French and German I’ve been slaving over.  I liked our plane ride here.”

Fred inquired, “What about the Russian you told me about?”

“That’s a tough one to learn, Fred.  I’m o.k. at it but I’m not sure I feel good about visiting a country where Americans aren’t welcome.  If they don’t want me, I don’t want them either.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, buddy, that’s a hard one to deal with.”

When Fred and Max returned to the hotel at 6:15 PM, they went to the coffee shop for a beer and a burger.  The friends continued to talk about their dreams, the Cold War, the uncertainty of what Fidel Castro was going to do now that he was the Prime Minister and what to do with their remaining time in Cuba.

After the late satisfying lunch, they naturally wandered towards the gaming salon. There was a light stirring of air through the lobby that diminished the heat and stifling humidity, but only by a tad.  The casino was kept cold by air conditioning. It was more comfortable than the vestibule and surprisingly the crowds of the previous night were not present.  The duo went directly to the lucky table where Fred had won all of his money.

“Hey bud, stay with me and just put your chips where ever I put mine.”

“O.K. Fred, lead on to the big money!”

Max lost two more twenty-five dollar chips in less than an hour.  He was totally despondent about being in a fun city with only fifty dollars to spend and a whole day plus before departure.  Fred stayed at “his,” table and Max walked out to the lush verdant gardens beyond the lobby, to think about what to do next.

 He was seated on a wrought iron bench puffing on his Camels when a mustached-man in his forties, nicely dressed in an expensive-looking suit complete with a narrow-brim Panama straw hat asked if could sit down. Miguel Soto introduced himself as a hotel guest from the island’s second largest city, Santiago de Cuba.  At first he asked innocuous questions about what work Max did, his plans for the future, his family and friends.

 Max asked, “Why is everyone so interested in my future plans?” 

Mr. Soto responded,” I can tell that your answers are sincere and true. I need to trust you with very secret facts about my country.”

Suddenly, the conversation turned to whispers of politics; to thoughts about freedom; Batista’s former tyrannical dictatorship and of the group formed to free Cuba.  Max listened attentively to unbelievable stories of people named Pais, Che Guevara and the Castro brothers, Fidel and Raoul. He knew of the bearded Fidel, but not the younger sibling.

“There is the ‘26th of July Movement,’ started four years ago with less than 200 people that has become thousands strong throughout Cuba.  They stayed in the mountains and made raids into the cities that forced Batista into exile.  Cuba is changing and not for the better.”

“Mr. Soto with all due respect, what does all this have to do with me?” asked Max.

“Despite what Fidel is saying to your Mr. Nixon that he and his liberators are not communists, I am worried about the future of my homeland. Your government’s arms embargo two years ago has made Castro look to Khrushchev for help. True freedom is impossible without America’s assistance.”

Miguel gave him a business card showing that he was un abogado, a lawyer.  On the back of the card was his younger brother’s name and phone number in Miami.

“You must promise to call my brother.  He will give you the details about how to help us. You must help us or we will perish.”

 Max placed the card in his wallet and promised to call Ramon Soto. A profuse handshake followed and Miguel Soto disappeared as abruptly as he became visible.

 Perplexed and disturbed by what had transpired, Max worried: Why was he chosen to be spoken to?  What was he supposed to do?  What could he do?  Why should he do anything?

His state of confusion was swiftly broken by an ardent desire to win back his losses and extra.  He joined a disheveled Fred Gambeli, who was still standing at the craps table with two racks of all black chips, each circle worth a hundred dollars.  Drunk from free booze and with the joy of success, Freddie was significantly slurring his words and staggering from one foot to the other.

“Loo-ok at this Maxxie, mo…err… moneee…”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter Eleven

Brooklyn – 1953

In November 1952 the election of World War II hero, Five Star Army General Dwight David “Ike,” Eisenhower as the thirty-fourth President signaled a victory for the U.S. military industrial complex to provide a strong deterrent against the newly emerged Cold War opponents, the Soviet Union and its ally, Communist China.  Ike was sworn in by the Chief Justice of the US Supreme Court on a bitterly cold January 20th.                                                                                                                            

Walking back to school after eating a pb&j sandwich lunch in front of the twelve inch black and white ” Dumont,” television, Max thought about what the afternoon assignments might be. He enjoyed watching the serial dramas that he and Maleah had listened to on the radio. Their imaginations no longer had to conjure up what people looked like, how they moved about or how they incessantly cried.  The actors all had faces, expressions and overworked long lasting story lines. Max became addicted to the fifteen minute “TV soap,” vignettes.  His favorite was the tear jerker, “As the World Turns.”  Each school day they silently watched the programs from 12:15 to 12:45.  Max would walk home quickly in order to not miss the program’s beginning and likewise would walk back to school hurriedly, after the daily conclusion of his other favorite show, “Guiding Light.” Often, he would trot to avoid being marked tardy for the ringing of the one o’clock bell.

As he walked to school for the second time that day, he was passing the one and only neighborhood tailor and dry cleaning shop, when Mr. Greunwald, the owner, called out to him: “Maxella, come here, look at this….Ike’s being sworn in as President.  It’s a miracle to watch it live, just as it’s happening.  You have to see this and remember it’s the first time a President is on television.  Imagine how many more you’ll be able to see in your lifetime!”

Max walked into the store and gazed over the green-counter at the black and white fuzzy screen. “Gee, thanks Mr. Greunwald.  We’re studying about presidents in history. Now I can say I’ve seen my first inauguration.”

Although he ran to school, Max was marked late for class.

The three Hanolds and Uncle Manny moved frequently among Brooklyn neighborhoods and private homes that others owned. From Brownsville to Canarsie to Borough Park, then to Bensonhurst; always shifts in the struggle towards the much wanted middle-class status.  As a result of the moves, Max attended four different elementary schools in five years.

The last school, P.S. 227 also known as “Shallow Junior High School” was built in 1929 and named after a former City Board of Education Associate Superintendent. Four floors of various size rooms and offices allowed over twelve-hundred boys and girls an opportunity to learn the seventh and eight grade curriculum. Shallow was a 90% white school body made up of second or third generation American born early teenagers.

 It was a short ten blocks from Max’s home to the school. He would meet with Barry, Albert, Marilyn and Natalie along the way.  The group passed Cohen’s Candy Store where great one cent sweets, freshly made fountain chocolate egg creams and  squat colorful Mission bottled soda made cold in a block ice- cooler, all called to them; the Miller Drug Store, where Max worked at delivering  prescriptions and other necessities by bicycle three afternoons a week and on Saturdays; Sal’s Bar and Grill that always had a neon sign flashing open and constantly smelled of stale smoke, sour beer and moldy-floors; a hand-laundry operated by newly arrived Chinese immigrants, who lived in two rooms atop the store, that had its own peculiar whiff of ironed starch; Mandelbaum’s Bakery whose sweet aromas made the troupe hunger for a bite of bread, cookies or danish; the 78th Police Precinct bricked-building with black and white cars parked in front and frowning, brass-buttoned, blue-uniformed, silver-badged, gun-carrying men abruptly coming and going; and the countless rows of houses built  side by side with each builder using a slightly different color brick, trim paint or tree and shrub placement to achieve harmonized suburban diversity.

 The friends mostly walked on the south side of Sixteenth Avenue to school and then on the north side when returning home.  There sights and sounds were somewhat different:  Tony’s Pizzeria with ten cent slices that perfumed the air and were often an excellent after school treat; a Martin’s Dry Cleaning Shop that always smelled of cleaning fluid and steaming presses complete with a hissing-whoosh; a newly opened Oriental restaurant, Hung Ho, with sweet soy garlic smells floating into the street that made the clique collectively turn their noses up to better breath in the heady scents; and the endless cookie-cutter two-storied multi-family homes side by side, divided by right flanked driveways, with separate adjoining entrances for the owner and the renter.

Barry Abrams was seven months older than Max, although they were both in the seventh grade, as was Albert D’Grassi who was one month younger than Barry.  The threesome was best of friends and shared raging active adolescent androgen testosterone.  Objects of their pubertal charge, Marilyn, Natalie and other estrogen developing soon-to-be-teen girls, brought their own fleeting fantasies to ever changing partners.  “Going steady” became a badge of accomplishment for both budding genders affording reliability and never having to be dateless while waiting for the phone to ring.

 Few of the participants knew what they were supposed to do or how to do “it.”  Most were kissing with lips parted and some exchange of tasting, licking or even occasionally swallowing the other person’s bubble or chewing gum and the sporadic magnetic attachment of braces.  As for touching one another, there seemed to be stricter rules in place: Good girls were untouchable and did not touch boys’ unknown unseen parts; bad girls had reputations, deservedly or not.  Boys were inquisitive and multi-handed; always groping probing, prying and trying to feel where they should not.  It was a game of cat and mouse played over and over again at parties, dances and at movie theaters on Saturday, Sunday or both afternoons.

When one of the extended groups of friends’ parents left home for an evening or went out of town, it was an immediate communicated signal for a party.  In most instances, the gatherings of ten to fifteen were uneventful. As the sun set, hormones began to flow in abundance as if drawn-out by the moon’s gravitational pull.  The festivities started with the obligatory stalemate: boys standing on one side of the room with girls on the other.  A record player would begin playing as new faces were searched out among the familiar ones and the boys leered at their quarry, while the girls feigned coquettishly,  grinning at their potential partner for a dance, the evening or maybe beyond, for an actual date.

Girls kicked off their shoes and began dancing with one another to rapid rhythms, while the boys felt the musical beat, but were too intimidated to dance. The staring contests, limited mixed conversations, as the mutual evaluation processes lasted until the first slow song was played.  Magically, the boys each crossed the room to ask a girl to dance.  And the girls eagerly responded by “why not?”  After an hour or so of contact-dancing, it was time for everyone’s favorite social game, “spin the bottle”.  Its premise was simply to whirl a large empty glass soda bottle while all contestants were seated on the floor in a kind of circle, alternating in a boy-girl pattern  When it stopped and the bottle’s neck was aimed towards or was pointing closest to a member of the opposite sex, the two were obliged to kiss.

The kiss could be meaningless if the participants were not dreamy-eyed about each other; or insignificant when the intent was one-sided; or an effusive show of mutual admiration and desire that garnered applause, whistles and admiration or jealousy from the observers.  If the two would be kissers sought privacy from their friends, they were often allowed to venture into another room, except a bedroom, turn off the lights and slobber about for a few minutes.  Booing, hissing and heckling brought the couple back to reality from their moments’ bliss, returning to the main room for the spinning to continue. And so the game went on, with intermittent breaks for slow dances, until someone was close to their curfew or parents were expected to shortly return home.

Before leaving, everyone would help to clean up. It was a task of both appreciation and anticipation for the next party invitation.  The minors said their, “good-byes,” paired together in mixed couples who held hands or the more common, separate groups of threes and fours that slowly walked home.

After one such party, Max and Natalie walked with clasped hands.  He wore her lipstick color around his mouth and she had his pomade in her hair.

“Are we going to meet up and walk to school?” he asked.

Natalie smiled showing her silver-colored braces.  “Sure if you want to.  Just remember, there’s still no touching and especially no holding hands when Marilyn is around.  She likes you Max and I just can’t hurt my best friend!”

Taken back a little and being conciliatory, Max let go of her hand, frowned briefly, pumped his shoulders twice, smiled and joined Al and Barry for the walk to their homes. Natalie scowled at him and then joined her girl friends. There were so many girls to choose from, Max didn’t care about dating either Marilyn or Natalie. To be fond of friends was one thing; feelings for or have a thing about them was completely wrong.  While kissing Nat was fun, he preferred to have the chance to woo as many girls as was possible.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Chapter Twelve

Havana - January 1960

“Max, ole… buddy, th…ere… ya…er!  I’ve bee...n look…ink for you.  Loo…ook… what I’ve got!”

He hoisted over $5000.00 in chips and nearly fell backwards.  Max rushed forward to shore his mentor upright and prevent an embarrassing fall.  In appreciation, and being unquestionably smashed, he gave Max two black chips from the hoard on the table.

“He…re, go...ha…ve...fa’un on mee.  Li’ve a lit…tle. You’re a goood pa…al!”

“Fred, you’re drunk.  Let’s get you out of here before you tip-over.  These people are looking at you making a spectacle of yourself.  Come on buddy, I’ll help you upstairs for a nap.”

With that, Fred put his hand around Max’s waist and grasped onto his belt. The pit boss signaled to Max that he would hold the accrued wealth until Fred or he returned.  Max put his left arm around Fred’s mid-section and helped him through the casino and into the elevator. He propped Fred into a corner so that he could hold onto the railings.  With him standing steady for the moment, Max searched and found the metal key to Fred’s room in his pants pocket.  When the doors opened and they labored to walk out  holding each other, an elderly couple waiting to descend remarked, “My, my.  They allow children to drink too much!”

Max gave them a look of disgust but remained silent knowing that his task was to put Fred to bed, not to argue with seniors whom he would never see again.  With great effort they made it to room 804 and again Max had to steady his friend, this time against the door jam.  The key worked and he dragged the collapsed body across the room, tossed him on the bed and began to remove his outer garments.

“Max, you’…re a goo-ed fr’i…end.  Fra…hank you.”

“You’re most welcome. There’s nothing to worry about, Fred.  Just take a nap and sleep it off.  You’ll be fine in the morning.”

Quietly closing the door, Max was hesitant about going to his room at only 9:30. Instead he went back to the casino to make his fortune.  With $300.00 he decided that roulette or black jack were his best choices, especially without his dice-tutor.  He alternated between tables amid losing, wining and inescapably losing all of his money by mid-night.  There was nothing else to do except skip an anticipated late royal dinner, go to his room and get ready for the morning flight home.

Turning the key to his room and opening the door, he noticed that the bathroom light was on. He was sure that he had switched off all of the room’s lights when he left earlier. Stepping into the room, his eyes beheld a svelte, voluptuous brunette in a transparent negligee sitting up in his bed propped up against the back-board.  He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.  The apparition was still there.  This time he pinched himself so hard, that he jumped.  She laughed and said, “I am the cortesia of senior Fred.”

Max undressed quickly, threw his clothes on the floor, hopped into bed, but did not even think about sleep until his night’s ethereal present slipped out of 803, as the sun was going up brightly in the east.

.

When he closed his eyes, Max saw the lascivious brunette, Alicia, over and over and over again and yet again!  How had Fred arranged to surprise him?  How much did that sweetheart of a guy spend?  He was ecstatic, thrilled and high on an exhilarated euphoria.

Dark colored heavy drapes could not keep the Sunday morning orange sun from seeping through.  Max just lay in his bed looking at the white ceiling, silently cackling, noiselessly crowing and wearing a silly smile at his good fortune.  There he was just nineteen, in a foreign country, traveled there by airplane and spent a short eternity with the most exquisite woman he had ever seen.  She excited him so much that he broke his own record and made love five times in one night!

The “sleep fairy,” which looked just like Alicia, lulled him to a light brief snooze. For the second morning in a row, Fred was his alarm clock thumping on the door and creating a brouhaha.

Grinning as broadly as his face could show, Freddie magnanimously mellowed, “How was your night Maxie?”

“You’re a wonderful S.O.B!  I left you on your bed dead drunk. How the hell did you arrange anything in your condition?”

“Maxie, Maxie, my friend!  Old Freddie invited you for a fun weekend and I fixed you up when I won all that money on Friday night.  Remember the bell guy with the funny hat who took us up here?  Well, a few well placed bucks and it was done! I never saw her.  How was she?”

“My friend, it was T E R R I F I C! If I live to be a hundred, I will never ever forget last night.  I owe you big time.”

“It was my pleasure.  You don’t owe me a thing. Chop, chop Max.  The company bus leaves for the airport in an hour. Be downstairs and we‘ll get out of here.”

Max took care of his needs, put on his dry shorts, threw his few items in the carry-on case and was at the check out desk in less than forty minutes.  He was embarrassed at not having any money to pay the hotel bill.  Fred was waiting for him with a white envelope in his hand.

“What’s in the envelope, Freddie?

“It’s your bill, dummy!”

Max looked down at the tiled floor and in a serious sad tone, “Fred, I don’t have a penny left.  I lost all my money at the tables.  Would you please lend me some money?  I’ll pay you back as soon as I get paid.”

“You’ve gotta have trust.  Would Freddie leave you out to dry?  It’s all paid for by National!  Here’s a hundred bucks for the parking back at Idewild.  I had a very lucky weekend because of you and besides, I enjoy your company very much.  So just, chill!”

The calm ride to New York in the front of the plane had Max lulled asleep after his first scotch.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Chapter Thirteen

Brooklyn - 1954

Frail Max had blossomed into a young mature adult.  At his Bar Mitzvah, resplendent in white shirt, red tie and dark blue suit with a red carnation boutonniere, he was almost six feet tall and weighed a respectable 115 pounds. Partially covered by a white skull cap, his hair had more blonde to it; his check bones were high; and his eyes were a twinkling sky blue.

He walked up to the pulpit confidently with shoulders thrown back and took his place alongside the Rabbi who had tutored him in chanting his Torah portion and the Hebrew reading from The Prophets.  His voice was firm, hauntingly melodic and satisfied the family and guests that he had indeed “become a man.”   The speech he wrote started with those same words to signify that he was qualified to join the hundreds of generations succeeding Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  It ended with, “today I am also a fountain pen,” acknowledging the typical inexpensive gift given by some who could not afford a US savings Bond or a $25.00 check.

Following the traditional orthodox ceremony, a catered lunch was served while a band played dance music for all ages in attendance.  Max sat on a chair and was lifted high into the air when the ensemble started performing, Hava Nagila, the time-honored celebratory song.  It demonstrated to all in attendance that he was elevated literally and more importantly, spiritually. By late afternoon, he, Maleah and Bennie had counted $975.00 in cash and checks, $300.00 in bonds after waiting the mandatory seven years to maturity and four Whitman and two Sheaffer fountain pens.

The money that his parents had spent was taken from the cash and a $350.00 savings account was opened at the Dime Savings Bank for Max Hanold with Ben as the legal custodian until his eighteenth birthday.   While working at delivering items for the pharmacy, he made $1.00 an hour plus tips. In a good four day week, Max earned between twenty and thirty dollars.  Fifty percent of the money was stashed in a sock put into his lower dresser drawer and the balance was deposited into his savings account to buy a car, his future four-wheel automatic chick-magnet.

On Friday afternoons, he would finish the weekend homework assignments in order to have two days of interrupted fun. Max would close his bedroom door and reach down for his moneyed cotton-sock stash and remove $12.00 to cover his enjoyment costs.  If Maleah cooked a meal that Max didn’t like or just to get away from home, he would join Barry and Al at Hung Ho for Chinese food or Tony’s for pizza or hero sandwiches.  The oriental food was a newly acquired taste that Barry had introduced to him.  While barbecued pork spare ribs were not kosher, they definitely tasted fantastic.  So were other “forbidden,” foods introduced by Albert and Barry to be amazingly tasty to Max: shrimp, lobster, sausage, dumplings, and all Italian cold cuts, especially when eaten on a piece of hot, freshly baked, hard-crusted bread with lettuce, olive oil, vinegar, oregano, salt and black pepper. Max found his appetite.

After a meal, the trio would meet with friends gathered in or around one of the luncheonette/soda shops or outside on the sidewalk near their corner and always under a bright street pole lamp.  There the male groups would clown around to the delight of the assembled female onlookers.  It was pure bravado similar to Johnny Weissmuller beating his chest and yodeling for attention from the animals and Jane.  Little difference existed between the two rituals except that Tarzan was looking for one woman. Max Hanold, Barry Abrams, Albert D’Grassi and friends were all looking for any girl who would have them or whom they could smooch with.

If there wasn’t a home party, there was usually a dance to attend in a school, a synagogue, a church or a social club.  The three amigos and others would walk, take a bus, elevated train and subway or infrequently be driven by a friend’s older sibling to the evening’s gathering.  Friday night dances were a chance to meet new girls from different schools and neighborhoods.  It was also a way for girls to do the same and meet new boys. 

Not being able to talk freely on the family black rotary telephone located near the large living room, Max used the phone booths at Herb & Stanley’s Luncheonette a short walk away underneath the noisy “El”. When going there, he would bring a pocket filled with coins that were part of his delivery tips to use in the public phones costing ten cents for the first five minutes and then five minute increments or any portion were five cents each.  It was an important part of Max’s and his friends’ weekly routine of trolling for dates.

Girls whom they met the previous week and whom they liked for one or another reason from a vast assortment of incentives, real or imagined were called to make dates for the coming weekend.  The most impressive ones of the group were called on Monday or Tuesday and if nothing was confirmed, the boys would work their way down their individual inventory to the least choice creature by Wednesday.  If they still had nothing by mid week, it was deemed to be too late and excessively embarrassing to make a call. Dating a trio of female friends was important to the three buddies so that Max, Albert and Barry would be together for traveling, horsing around and just simple strength in numbers.

To achieve the desired goal was difficult.  The three unventilated AT&T booths standing side by side was the ideal placement for opening the folded see through doors to tell or signal one another their own choice’s response. If two of the three potentials declined, the boys would move on to another school of female-fish.

During those adolescent times, the date was taken to the movies on a Saturday or Sunday early afternoon.  It didn’t matter what was playing.  The game was to sneak to the upper balcony rows, so that while patrons seated below watched the movie, the couples would have probable privacy.  Kissing was the most usual pursuit in the darkened theatre as eager couples discovered each other’s lips.  Boys raging with desire for more than simple lip or tongue exchanging, tried numerous repositioning, shifting and prodding hand moves that were usually thwarted by developing girls. Because Max and company paid for the date’s admission to the picture show, it was not a purchase or promise of petting.

The closest cinema to the Hanold’s apartment was a Loews theater-building, opulently appointed outside and within, on the corner of New Utrecht Avenue and Fifty-Second Street.  Max was a weekly customer who had at least one pre-arranged date for either day.  He would pay the admission fees at the outside booth, hand the coupons to the ticket-taker and be seated in the first loge row. 

An elderly grey haired rotund white-uniformed usher would pace the side aisles, the center aisle and the cross passageways to look for misbehaved youngsters to scold and keep peace and quiet in her building.  When “the warden” would reach the very front row of seats with her back to them, he and his date would stealthy scamper up the steps into the balcony smoking area, forbidden to the under sixteen crowd.  Once seated and out of sight in the highest row, the couple would share the popcorn, jujubes or malted balls and watch the show.  When the goodies were consumed their own entangled display was not put on view to seeing eyes looking forward at the silver screen.

Max met many girls whom he dated, who introduced him to their friends, whom he introduced to Al and Barry, who introduced them to their friends, who met Max and whom he dated.  By the time the Three Love Musketeers turned sixteen, the circle of schoolgirls expanded to include at least one girl whom one of them had dated in every neighborhood adjacent to Bensonhurst.

In the nation’s capital, the nine Justices of the Supreme Court rendered a nine to zero decision to end racially separated and vastly different schooling across all forty-eight states. As of May 17th, Monroe elementary school in Topeka, Kansas was compelled to offer equal educational opportunities to all of its students.  Dixie democrats were appalled; Northerners and Midwesterners already had seventeen states compliant; the Far Western states had little problem with the edict as well as few people of darker colored skin.





EMAIL ME AT: HOWARDLEFF@ATT.NET TO READ MORE ABOUT MAX.