Excerpt
- Week 1, Friday
Dotty
“That sure is a
fancy ride,” a passerby called and whistled while a black Buick Roadmaster
rolled to a stop next to the curb on E. 167th Street.
Dotty fanned
herself with one hand and clutched the handle of her large, olive-green bag
with the other. She was winded and shvitzing after she schlepped from her
family’s third-floor walk-up apartment during a Bronx heat wave.
Cars zipped
past, and the elevated Jerome Avenue subway rumbled along the tracks. She said,
“Good riddance”
to the concrete and brick buildings she was leaving behind. It was thrilling to
escape the city heat for a couple of months.
Just last night,
she had been surprised when Papa told her there was a seat available in the
taxicab. She planned to take the bus. She waved goodbye to the neighborhood,
flashing a sunny smile over her good fortune. A hack was such a decadent way to
travel to the mountains.
“The middle seat
is open,” said the driver, rearranging luggage in the trunk.
A gentleman
stood outside the car so she could crawl into the center of the three-person
bench seat. She rested her handbag on her lap and settled in for an adventure.
“I can’t believe I’m going to the Concord!”
“Oh, the Concord,”
the silver-haired woman sitting to her left said in a dreamy voice. “I’m going
to the Heiden Hotel in South Fallsburg.”
“I’m visiting my
aunt and uncle at the Hotel Evans in Loch Sheldrake for the weekend,”
volunteered the gentleman, who was back inside the car, sitting to her right.
“We’ve got one
more stop to fetch a wife staying at Sunny Oaks bungalow colony in South
Fallsburg for the next two months. Her husband won’t be in the mountains until
next week,” the driver said, speeding off.
“Are we in a vaudeville
act?” Dotty asked a few minutes later. She watched the middle-aged woman
bringing out suitcases, food, a lamp, an ironing board, dishes, pans, and
sheets. It seemed she had packed her entire city apartment.
The driver
huffed and puffed as he tied a rope around the roof rack. The lamp wobbled, a
casserole dish crashed, and a flock of pigeons hijacked a loaf of bread.
Once everything
was loaded and everyone was seated, the driver was chatty. “It’s the first year
the Concord has been open year-round.”
“I’ve heard
wonderful things about it.” Dotty shimmied her shoulders, gazing at the scenery
roll by. “I’m one of the first waitresses under the new maître d’, Irving
Cohen.”
The driver
removed one hand from the wheel to snap his fingers. “You are going to a
happening place. How’d you end up at Arthur Winarick’s masterpiece?”
“My papa said
you can make real nice money in the mountains. So, I went to an employment
agency down in the Bowery. Since most boys are off at war, they are desperate
to hire workers.”
“I’ve stayed at
Grossinger’s. Never at the Concord,” said the gentleman heading to Hotel Evans.
“The Grossingers
are the reason I have such a thriving business. They attracted the vacationers
to the Catskills. People love to stay under Jennie Grossinger’s roof. They
don’t call it the ‘Waldorf of the Catskills’ for nothing,” said the driver.
Dozens of people
had mentioned Grossinger’s to her after learning she would be waitressing in
the mountains. She pictured a stately hotel sitting on sprawling grounds.
The driver
snapped his fingers again. “Here’s a little mountain history for you.
Grossinger’s was the most lavish resort until your new boss, Arthur Winarick,
cropped up with a fortune in hand. One night he couldn’t get a room at the G
because the hotel was booked. Right then and there he vowed to build a bigger
and better hotel to lure the guests away. After the prior owner of the Ideal
House defaulted, he lucked out and acquired it. Renamed it and rebuilt it.
That’s how the Concord started. There were thirty guests in the beginning and
look at it already—there are three hundred guests now.”
“It’s true.
Grossinger’s has the name recognition, but the Concord has the finances,” said
the woman heading to Sunny Oaks.
“Every building
at the Concord was designed to meet Winarick’s vision of richness,” said the
Heiden Hotel guest.
“Bet you didn’t
know that Winarick bought concrete and steel structures in their entirety from
the 1939 World’s Fair. He also purchased a ferryboat at 125th Street and
dismantled it for steel.
He didn’t have
to borrow a penny,” the driver said, veering to the left.
“How did he become
so wealthy?” Dotty asked.
“Winarick was a
barber during Prohibition. He’s one lucky son of a gun. On account of his
profession, he had rights to alcohol, and his brother just so happened to be a
chemist. They set up a basement barber shop. Sold bootleg liquor on the side
and made a killing selling Jeris Hair Tonic—largely consisting of alcohol and
perfume.”
“He’s a real
clever man,” she said.The driver sang the jingle, “Jeris hits the jackpot for
greaseless good grooming and healthier, handsomer hair.”
She had high
hopes that her pockets would soon be overflowing with tips and she would be
able to buy Papa some of the hair tonic for his birthday.
“It’s hot in here!”
shouted the wife in the front, fanning herself with a handkerchief.
“Roll down a
window!” shouted the gentleman in the back.
“The wind is
blowing on me,” complained the wife.
Dotty raised her
hand and caught the silver-haired woman’s pillbox hat before it flew out the
window. The woman sighed in relief.
“Have you
considered trying out for the Yankees with a catch like that?” asked the
driver.
She smiled and
leaned her head back. She remembered the one time her family had stayed at the
Delano Hotel in Monticello. She loved playing the pinball machine there.
About midway
through their trip, coasting on the narrow, two-lane Route 17 highway, the hack
turned off and into the crowded parking lot of the Red Apple Rest. Dotty stared
at the large red apple that sat on top of the roof as they waited for an
overheated car’s engine to spring back to life. Once the parking space opened,
she sprinted under the multicolored striped awning.
Astonished by
the impressive roadside eatery, she surveyed the wide selection of hot and cold
food. Papa had told her the washrooms here were the nicest public ones
anywhere. He had also said Reuben Freed, the owner, showed genuine care for his
patrons. The outdoor line for frankfurters and ice cream was long, so she
settled on a root beer soda pop from inside. She did not have an appetite
anyway. The lively waystation made her even more excited to reach her
destination.
They drove
through Chester and Goshen. In Middletown, the traffic became bottlenecked on
the winding streets. From Middletown, they traveled back roads. At the bottom
of the Wurtsboro mountain, the hack was so overloaded she feared they would not
clear the hill.
Abe
Riveted by all
the billboards lining the country roads directing guests to the Catskill
Mountain resorts, Abe kept his nose pressed to the window. As the black Buick
Super wound through towns and villages that made up Sullivan County, he saw
bungalow renters unloading their jam-packed vehicles and airing out their
summer bungalows. They were his first glimpse of summer vacationers in the
mountains.
A
rectangular-shaped building painted a buttery shade of yellow with brown trim
came into view. The Buick skidded to a halt in front of it, and the driver
said, “You can make a real comfortable living here. Arthur Winarick created
something special.”
Abe jerked
forward and his glasses slid down his face. It was a grand version of the
architecture he was used to back in Brighton Beach. He counted the windows on
the four-story building that could stretch the length of three Brooklyn blocks
as he crawled out of the back seat. He ran his eyes over the lush landscape,
inhaling fresh mountain air, already filled with respect for this Arthur
Winarick fella. Exquisite gardens and dense trees lined the pristine grounds. Crystal-clear
Kiamesha Lake, to the left of the main building, faced the perfectly maintained
nine holes of the golf course.
Three
entertainers were wedged together in the backseat, surrounded by costumes and
props that would not fit into the overstuffed trunk. He retrieved his bag from
under wigs, cards, and a top hat. “My pockets might not be full yet, but I’m
only returning home once they are overflowing,” he vowed, waving goodbye to the
fella behind the wheel who’d given him a lift to the mountains. He spent the
entire ride memorizing every piece of advice he received, determined to make a
success of himself with the fortuitous opportunities in front of him.
He threw his
shoulders back and held his head high. He fit right in. Back in New York City,
the lack of men on the streets made him ashamed that people believed he was a
malingerer not returning to war. The doors to the hotel were pulling him to
something special. He followed the bustling bellhops and energized guests into
the lobby.
Luggage began to
pile up in front of the doorway while he waited for his room assignment in the
staff living quarters. An unassuming man wearing a white shirt, suspenders, and
faded pants hurried over to haul the suitcases to a corner, so Abe trooped over
to help. He stacked suitcases one on top of another, presuming the man must be
an older lobby porter and well-liked since everyone who passed by smiled his
way.
After they
stacked all the suitcases, the man stuck his hand out. “Thank you. I can
already tell you’re a hard worker. I’m Arthur Winarick. Welcome to my hotel.”
His heartbeat
doubled its normal rhythm. He expected a sharp-dressed gonsa macher, not just
an ordinary fella with thinning hair and lackluster clothing.
Already counting
his luck, he received his room assignment and trekked the short distance to the
staff living quarters, a separate hotel called the Colonial. It sat behind the
main hotel where the guests stayed. The white-painted building reminded him of
an oversized bungalow. He let out a low whistle as he pushed into the
first-floor room.
A boy with wavy
brown hair and a polite smile said, “I’m Leon.”
Introducing
himself, he took the bed on the left since Leon had already chosen the one on
the right.
“Hello, Abe.
Where did you travel from?”
“Brighton Beach.
And you?” He inspected the empty drawers of the dresser. He omitted that he had
grown up in Philadelphia, only moving to Brooklyn once his mother had
reappeared.
“I’m from
Warsaw. I escaped at the start of the war.”
Speechless, he
unzipped his bag. He knew Poland was thousands of miles away and Leon’s journey
must have been dangerous. His childhood in foster care had been no picnic, but
Leon’s life in Europe had presented greater challenges. He tossed a pair of
socks into the drawer.
Leon continued.
“I was working at a luncheonette in Manhattan, struggling to make a living,
when I heard they needed help in the hotels. Can you believe I was completely
unaware that there were hills north of the city?”
He had
previously traveled to upstate New York, so he was familiar with the
countryside. He pulled more socks from his bag. “As soon as I heard about the
high wages and all the luxuries that came with living in the mountains, I
signed up on the spot. I prefer this to being cooped up inside my stepfather’s
garment factory all day. I didn’t expect such a dandy space to call home for
the summer.”
“How come you
aren’t enrolled in the army?”
He shifted his
eyes to the single window in the middle of the room. “They discharged me.”
Leon remained
quiet. His kind eyes encouraged Abe to say more.
“I was a drill
sergeant in Miami until a doctor diagnosed my eyesight as too poor to continue
to serve.” He returned from duty, at 19 years old, with his brunette hair a
shade more golden, his skin tanned, and his muscles bulging from a year of
physical activity under the Florida sun.
“There is no
shame in wearing spectacles.”
He tapped the rim of his glasses. “My eyesight isn’t that terrible.”
Leon reached for
his checkered newsboy hat; his voice was friendly. “Ah, a Jewish doctor who
didn’t want to see another Jewish boy come home in a coffin.”
He raked his
hands through his hair, swallowing hard. Here he was a young man in perfect
health, while both of his brothers were still serving in the U.S Army. He never
wanted people to think he was less patriotic. His Ma’s words rang in his ears.
“Abe-ala, this means I won’t lose all three of my boys.”
That comment had
stung.
“The Concord is
lucky to have you.”He snapped back to the present. “I have had the pleasure of
meeting the owner already.”
Leon’s eyebrows
shot toward the ceiling. “Arthur Winarick? Making a good impression right away
is smart.” He pointed to his head. “I made sure to use Jeris Hair Tonic today
in case I bumped into him. That’s why my hair is so glossy.”
He scratched his
ear, not admitting he did not understand the reference. “How come you speak
such fluent English?”
“I had a
neighbor back in Poland who was a diplomat and a resistance fighter. He taught
English classes.” Leon placed the newsboy cap on top of his head.
Sprawled out on
his mattress, stretching his legs and wiggling his toes, Abe knew he had made
the right decision. And he was glad he had someone like Leon by his side. “I
feel like a king.”
“There’s
tremendous potential.”
His smile spread
from ear to ear. “I think I can pave my own way up here.”
A whole new
chapter was beginning.
Dotty
Dotty tried to
read every single one of the hotel billboards cramming the landscape. When they
approached the sign that said, “Turn Here to Concord Hotel,” she was jiggling
her legs.
The Hotel Evans
guest hollered, “Can you drop me off first?”
“I have specific
directions. She’s number one on the list.” The driver tilted his head toward the
woman en route to the Heiden.
At the first
drop-off, Dotty could not take her eyes off the Tudor-style building as the
driver announced, “The Concord is the next stop.”
Now she could
not sit still.
Minutes later,
after zooming up the mountain, the driver said, “We’ve arrived. Good luck.” He
handed her olive-green bag over.
“The Bronx has
no space that compares to this.” She gawked in awe at the size of the building
nestled in rich grounds.
The yellow paint
on the exterior reminded her of their kitchen’s wallpaper at home. Oh, she
could not wait to tell Ma and Papa about this exquisite place. Her parents,
Merke and Isaac, expected her to write to them all summer long. She would send
a postcard soon.
She took a
moment to smell the sweet floral scent from the colorful flower gardens before
she schlepped her bag through the entryway. People crowded the lobby, greeting
each other as long-lost friends. Some staff were new hires, like herself.
Others were returning for another season in the mountains.
A helpful
bellhop tapped her on the shoulder. “I’ll carry your bag to the Colonial, where
you’ll be staying.” He led her to another building.
She blinked
hard. “I get to live here? It’s an entire hotel!”
“Staff living
conditions like this certainly aren’t the norm. Nobody sleeps on a cot in a
closet around here. Arthur makes sure we have the best.”
“I’m so lucky
the Concord hired me.” She watched two fellas stride into the Colonial.
“It’s coed,”
said the bellhop, winking.
She raised her
eyebrows, never having stayed in co-ed living quarters. She stepped into her
new home. The blue and white floral wallpaper caught her eye. Her papa, who
worked as a wallpaper hanger, always made sure to do careful work. He would be pleased
with the job done here.
Once she reached
her assigned room, she straightened her skirt and blouse. A striking girl with
chestnut-colored curls appeared in the doorway. “I heard you thumping down the
hallway.
Welcome. I’m
Eva. I’m a waitress in the main dining room. Do you play cards? How about
poker?”
She plopped her
bag onto the ground and sat on the empty bed to catch her breath. “I’m a
waitress as well. Yes, I love playing cards.” She ran her hands through her
dishwater-blonde hair, wishing it had as much volume as Eva’s.
“I’m organizing
a Sunday night game, after we collect our tips, of course.” Eva touched the
opal heart-shaped stone hanging on a gold chain she wore around her neck.
“I’ll be at the
table,” Dotty promised. She would have to ask Ma for some hints since Ma played
cards every day on the Grand Concourse back home in the Bronx.
“Very good.
We’ll be working hard, but don’t worry, there’s lots of time for socializing.”
She began
unpacking as Eva peppered her with questions. “Do you have experience waiting
tables?”
“Oh, yes. I
learned everything I know at the Lido Beach Hotel on Long Island. I spent a
season there before the Navy turned it into an amphibious base and discharge
center. I worked at a resort in Far Rockaway and another one out in Lakewood,
New Jersey, after that.”
Eva put her
hands on her hips. “How old were you when you started waitressing?”
“14,” she
admitted. “I told the man I was 17 and he told me to say 18.” She chuckled at
the memory. She had worn high heels and bright red lipstick, clomping down Skid
Row to the employment agency in the Bowery. Today she was 18 years old and did
not have to fib about her age to work at the Concord.
“You’re an old
pro,” Eva said, sweeping her hand through the air.
“How long have
you been waitressing?” Dotty, too, had questions.
“After I
traveled over from Germany, Arthur Winarick hired me. That was Pesach
(Passover) two seasons ago.”
“Are you a
refugee?” She placed her hand over her heart.
“Yes. I’m very
lucky to be here. My German mom and British dad raised me in Southern
Germany. I’m an
English citizen. My parents wanted me out of Europe. They felt it was safest
for me to come over to the States. Arthur has a soft spot in his heart for
refugees. I landed at the right hotel.”
Glad about that,
Dotty rested her head on the pillow, enjoying the comfort of her own bed for
the first time. She stretched out her legs and closed her eyes. “I’ve shared
the sleeper sofa with my sister and listened to the Jerome Avenue train my
entire life.”
“You’ve spent
the day traveling; a snooze before Shabbat dinner might set you right.”
She jumped back
up and parted the curtains to gaze at the greenery. “I hope Irving Cohen isn’t
too strict.”
Eva flung her
wrist in the air. “People call him ‘King Cupid.’ How harsh do you think a man
with that nickname can be?”
“What if, since
it’s his first summer in charge of the dining room, he’s extra tough?” She took
a deep breath.
“Bet you didn’t
know he was recently married. Consider him still in the honeymoon phase. Act
confident and you’ll do fine.”
“I’ve always
received compliments from my bosses. I’m not worried.” She bit her bottom lip
and watched Eva study her reflection in a handheld mirror.
Eva had a
twinkle in her eye. “Stay away from Hershel. He’s my bashert.”
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