determined to conquer the city in twenty-four hours.
Martin found himself caught up in the excitement. They bought hot dogs from a street vendor on 49th and Madison, then hopped on a bus that dropped them near the Metropolitan Museum.
Martin followed Dominic up the wide staircase to the first landing.
He’d visited the museum when he was thirteen, and his parents had taken him to New York for his bar mitzvah, but today with Dominic it was as though he were seeing everything for the first time. Until now he considered most art an excuse for his parents and their friends to get together and give parties. Now he saw that paintings themselves could inspire a real joy.
Later, as they walked downtown to the Automat, Martin was silent.
Landscapes and portraits were unrolling again before his mind’s eye.
It was only when Dominic began showing him how to feed in nickels for their supper that he shook off his reverie and began laughing and joking again.
But if Rembrandt and Rubens had stimulated his senses, Rubinstein took away his breath. As they walked back to the Y, Martin said, “Did you ever hear anything so great? Imagine Rubinstein being able to evoke all those feelings. Isn’t it incredible what those ten fingers can do?”
Dominic thought of the piano in their dingy living room. He’d cut his eye teeth on Chopin. Dammit, his mother really could have become a concert pianist if life had been a little more charitable. He shoved the painful thought aside.
“I’m really glad you enjoyed it. Now I’ve got to get to bed if I want to make six o’clock mass.”
The next morning Dominic’s alarm clock went off at 5. 30. Watching him dress, Martin asked, “How long does mass take?”
“An hour,” Dominic said, tying his shoes.
“Oh, then should I meet you here?”
“Anything you like. But it’s a heck of a morning for walking. In fact, if you want, you can walk to St. Patrick’s Cathedral with me. But move it, move it!”
By the time they reached the magnificent church, they were winded.
“Okay,” Dominic said.
“How about meeting me here at seven-thirty?”
“It’s a deal.” Martin watched as Dominic disappeared inside, then walked down Fifth Avenue and turned east on 42nd until he came to a
coffee shop. As he sat at the counter he felt strangely envious of Dominic’s easy relationship with his God.
With all the Roths’ insistence on tradition, religion seemed to be a very distant part of their lives. And suddenly Martin was consumed with curiosity about Catholicism. Judaism didn’t exercise the same magnetic pull; at least not on the Jews Martin knew; and he experienced a peculiar sense of deprivation.
Quickly he paid for his coffee and left. When he got to the corner of 42nd and Fifth Avenue, he wondered what the hell he was going to do now. Without much thought he got on the bus which had stopped at the corner. It didn’t really matter where it was going.
When Martin got off he found himself on the Lower East Side. In a state of shock he realized that the hordes of people crowding the streets were Jews, immigrants like his great-grandfather, Ephraim, whose birthday they celebrated each summer. As he walked past the dirty tenements, was jostled by the crowds around the pushcarts, and saw the pale-faced children, many of whom seemed like stunted adults, he felt a surge first of pity, then shame. An elevated train roared overhead and the very buildings appeared to sway. For a minute, Martin determined to catch the next bus uptown. Then something in the enthusiasm with which the women were outbidding each other for the vendors’ goods, and the quick laughs of the children as they played around overflowing garbage cans, caught his attention. Although he was appalled by their living conditions, the inhabitants of Orchard Street did not seem defeated. Suddenly Martin understood the force which had sustained Ephraim on his journey West. Martin listened to the old men in skullcaps
Martin found himself caught up in the excitement. They bought hot dogs from a street vendor on 49th and Madison, then hopped on a bus that dropped them near the Metropolitan Museum.
Martin followed Dominic up the wide staircase to the first landing.
He’d visited the museum when he was thirteen, and his parents had taken him to New York for his bar mitzvah, but today with Dominic it was as though he were seeing everything for the first time. Until now he considered most art an excuse for his parents and their friends to get together and give parties. Now he saw that paintings themselves could inspire a real joy.
Later, as they walked downtown to the Automat, Martin was silent.
Landscapes and portraits were unrolling again before his mind’s eye.
It was only when Dominic began showing him how to feed in nickels for their supper that he shook off his reverie and began laughing and joking again.
But if Rembrandt and Rubens had stimulated his senses, Rubinstein took away his breath. As they walked back to the Y, Martin said, “Did you ever hear anything so great? Imagine Rubinstein being able to evoke all those feelings. Isn’t it incredible what those ten fingers can do?”
Dominic thought of the piano in their dingy living room. He’d cut his eye teeth on Chopin. Dammit, his mother really could have become a concert pianist if life had been a little more charitable. He shoved the painful thought aside.
“I’m really glad you enjoyed it. Now I’ve got to get to bed if I want to make six o’clock mass.”
The next morning Dominic’s alarm clock went off at 5. 30. Watching him dress, Martin asked, “How long does mass take?”
“An hour,” Dominic said, tying his shoes.
“Oh, then should I meet you here?”
“Anything you like. But it’s a heck of a morning for walking. In fact, if you want, you can walk to St. Patrick’s Cathedral with me. But move it, move it!”
By the time they reached the magnificent church, they were winded.
“Okay,” Dominic said.
“How about meeting me here at seven-thirty?”
“It’s a deal.” Martin watched as Dominic disappeared inside, then walked down Fifth Avenue and turned east on 42nd until he came to a
coffee shop. As he sat at the counter he felt strangely envious of Dominic’s easy relationship with his God.
With all the Roths’ insistence on tradition, religion seemed to be a very distant part of their lives. And suddenly Martin was consumed with curiosity about Catholicism. Judaism didn’t exercise the same magnetic pull; at least not on the Jews Martin knew; and he experienced a peculiar sense of deprivation.
Quickly he paid for his coffee and left. When he got to the corner of 42nd and Fifth Avenue, he wondered what the hell he was going to do now. Without much thought he got on the bus which had stopped at the corner. It didn’t really matter where it was going.
When Martin got off he found himself on the Lower East Side. In a state of shock he realized that the hordes of people crowding the streets were Jews, immigrants like his great-grandfather, Ephraim, whose birthday they celebrated each summer. As he walked past the dirty tenements, was jostled by the crowds around the pushcarts, and saw the pale-faced children, many of whom seemed like stunted adults, he felt a surge first of pity, then shame. An elevated train roared overhead and the very buildings appeared to sway. For a minute, Martin determined to catch the next bus uptown. Then something in the enthusiasm with which the women were outbidding each other for the vendors’ goods, and the quick laughs of the children as they played around overflowing garbage cans, caught his attention. Although he was appalled by their living conditions, the inhabitants of Orchard Street did not seem defeated. Suddenly Martin understood the force which had sustained Ephraim on his journey West. Martin listened to the old men in skullcaps
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