Authors: Leon Uris
Sophie, the daughter, was plain. She married a plain guy with a promising sales route in Baltimore, where most of the Cadyzynski family had settled. It was nice to travel to Baltimore for family reunions. One couldn’t complain. America had been good. They were reasonably successful and always close in a pinch despite the usual family squabbles and feuds.
It was Ben who gave Morris and Molly the heartaches. They were proud enough of their athlete hero son. Such glory he had brought them, they could not deny. There was a school cheer for Ben even after he graduated,
BASH EM, BAM EM, BEN, BEN, BEN!
Ben Cady was a child of the thirties. He never saw a colored person without feeling pain for him. Sensitive to the suffering of the depression, despising the ignorance of the South, he leaned more and more to the clever and fanatic voices that promised liberation of the toiling masses. It made more sense to him than anything in the world. The Earl Browders and Mother Bloors and James Fords who came down from the North and dared preach their gospel in mixed meetings with the blacks in tiny black halls of black town.
“So look, son,” Morris said to Ben, “you don’t want to be a baker and that’s fine by me. I don’t want my sons to be bakers. We can hire a foreman, we can hire bookkeepers so there should always be income from the business. Don’t do me favors. Don’t be a baker. Ben, look already, nine colleges, including the University of West Virginia, are on their knees begging humbly to give you an athletic scholarship.”
Ben Cady had black eyes and black brows and black hair, and when not bursting from his intensity on the athletic field it burst from his being in a manner that no one could fail to understand.
“I want to screw around for a few years, Dad. You know, just look things over. Maybe sign on a ship.”
“You want to be a bum.”
Abe turned off the Jack Benny radio show because they were starring to talk loud in the next room. He stood in the door, gangly. He looked about half the size of Ben.
“Abe, go do your homework.”
“It’s July, Pop. I don’t have any homework.”
“So you’ve got to come in and take Ben’s side and gang up on me.”
At this point Morris Cady went through the story of his youth in Poland and his struggle in Palestine and his continued struggle for the family. All of this led up to his wife, Molly, the finest woman God ever created and then came the children.
About Sophie, what’s to complain? A plain girl with a plain boy. Only three years married and two gorgeous children. Such
nachas
I get from the grandchildren. Maybe her husband Jack is a putz but he’s a good provider, and he treats Sophie like she’s pure gold.
Abe, look at the grades he gets in school. Nobody in the entire family denies Abe is a genius. Someday he will be a great American Jewish writer.
“Ben,” Morris bargains, “Ben, let’s put
tochis afn tisch.
You got through school through one method, brute force. So, you don’t want to be a baker. Honkey dorey with me. But with fifteen colleges, including the University of West Virginia, humbly begging your presence for God’s sake get yourself a degree. I’m asking too much that you should educate yourself?”
Ben’s face radiated blackness.
“How do you think your mother and I feel when you go to that
goyim
airfield and do those crazy things in an airplane? Spelling out names in the sky with smoke. That’s what we struggled to raise you for? Let me tell you, Ben, you should see the look on your mother’s face waiting for your footsteps to come on the porch. Your mother dies every minute you’re up there in the sky. Some consideration. She cooks the meal, and she says to me, Morris, I know this food will never be eaten by Ben. Look at me, son, when I’m talking to you.”
Both Abe and Ben have their heads hung and wring their hands.
“What’s bothering you, son?”
Ben looked up slowly. “Poverty,” he said, “fascism, inequality.”
“You think I didn’t hear all that Commie crap in Poland. You’re a Jew, Ben, and in the end the Communists will betray you. I know from firsthand what kind of butchers they are in Russia.”
“Pop, stop picking on me.”
“Not until you educate yourself. All right, son, it’s fashionable for young people to go into the colored section and dance with
Schwartzes.
First you dance with them, then you bring them home to your mother.”
Morris held his hand up for silence before Ben could answer.
“Look at this business. Flying. Becoming a Commie, fraternizing with
schwartzes.
Ben, I don’t have a prejudiced bone in my body. I’m a Jew from the old country. Don’t you know I know how these black people suffer. Who, after all, are the most liberal thinkers and the most decent to the colored people? The Jews are. And if something goes wrong, if the blacks explode ...who do you think they’ll turn on ... us.”
“Are you finished, Pop?”
“Deaf ears,” Morris opined “I’m talking already to the wall.”
2
WE DIDN’T LEARN ABOUT MY BROTHER BEN GETTING KILLED BY A TELEGRAM OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT. WE GOT A LETTER FROM ONE OF HIS BUDDIES IN THE LACALLE SQUADRON, A GROUP OF AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS FLYING FOR LOYALIST SPAIN. SOME WERE MERCENARIES AND SOME, LIKE BEN, WERE TRUE ANTIFASCISTS. IT WAS A RAG-TAG GANG. ANYHOW, IT SEEMED KIND OF STRANGE THAT THE LETTER WAS FILLED MORE WITH TALK ABOUT THE CAUSE FOR WHICH BEN DIED AND THE FACT THAT THE FASCIST FLYERS WERE COWARDS.
BEN WAS FLYING A RUSSIAN CHATOS BIPLANE. IT WAS OUTDATED AND THEY WERE ALWAYS OUTNUMBERED BY THE SWARMS OF GERMAN HEINKELS AND ITALIAN FIATS. ON THIS PARTICULAR MISSION BEN HAD DOWNED A JUNKER BOMBER, WHEN THEY GOT INTO A DOGFIGHT. THREE AMERICANS WERE JUMPED BY THIRTY-FIVE HEINKELS, THE LETTER SAID.
BEN’S DEATH WAS LATER CONFIRMED BY A GUY WHO CAME TO VISIT US IN NORFOLK, WHO HAD BEEN A VOLUNTEER IN THE LINCOLN BATTALION OF THE INTERNATIONAL BRIGADE. HE HAD BEEN WOUNDED AND LOST AN ARM, AND WAS SENT BACK TO THE STATES AS A RECRUITER.
ALL THE RELATIVES CAME DOWN FROM BALTIMORE WHEN THEY HEARD BEN HAD BEEN KILLED AND ALL THE OLD FRIENDS CAME FROM CHURCH STREET. THE HOUSE WAS FILLED DAY AND NIGHT.
THERE WERE OTHER PEOPLE TOO. SOME OF BEN’S TEACHERS AND COACHES AND CLASSMATES AND NEIGHBORS, SOME OF WHOM HAD NEVER SAID HELLO OR SET FOOT IN OUR HOUSE BEFORE. EVEN TWO MINISTERS, A BAPTIST PREACHER, AND A CATHOLIC PRIEST CAME TO VISIT MOMMA AND POPPA. POPPA ALWAYS GAVE DONATIONS TO ALL THE CHURCHES IN THE NAME OF THE BAKERY.
FOR THE FIRST TWO WEEKS MOMMA NEVER STOPPED COOKING. SHE KEPT SAYING OVER AND OVER THAT THE COMPANY SHOULDN’T GO HUNGRY. BUT WE ALL KNEW SHE WAS WORKING TO BURN UP THE NERVOUS ENERGY AND KEEP BUSY SO SHE COULDN’T THINK ABOUT BEN.
AND THEN SHE CAME APART AND HAD TO BE PUT UNDER SEDATION. SHE AND POPPA WENT AWAY FOR A LONG REST TO SOPHIE’S IN BALTIMORE AND LATER TO THE CATSKILLS AND MIAMI. BUT EACH TIME THEY CAME BACK TO NORFOLK IT WAS LIKE THEY HAD COME HOME TO A MORTUARY. MOMMA AND POPPA WOULD GO TO BEN’S ROOM AND SIT BY THE HOUR LOOKING AT HIS SCHOOL PICTURES AND TROPHIES AND READ AND REREAD HIS LETTERS.
I DON’T THINK THEY WERE EVER THE SAME AFTER BEN DIED. IT SEEMED THEY STARTED GROWING OLD THE DAY THEY HEARD THE NEWS. FUNNY, UP TILL THEN I NEVER THOUGHT OF MY PARENTS GROWING OLD.
SOME COMMUNIST FRIENDS OF BEN’S CAME TO OUR HOUSE AND TOLD MOMMA AND POPPA THAT BEN’S DEATH SHOULD NOT BE IN VAIN. THEY PERSUADED THEM TO ATTEND A RALLY FOR LOYALIST SPAIN IN WASHINGTON. I WENT UP WITH THEM. BEN WAS EXTOLLED AND THEY GLORIFIED MOMMA AND POPPA FOR GIVING A SON TO THE CAUSE OF ANTI-FASCISM. WE ALL REALIZED THEY WERE JUST USING US AND WE NEVER ATTENDED ANOTHER OF THOSE MEETINGS.
I GUESS MY BROTHER BEN WAS THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IN MY LIFE.
I REMEMBER SO MANY THINGS ABOUT HIM. HALE’S UNDERTAKING PARLOR HAD THIS BIG BOAT THAT HELD MAYBE FORTY OR FIFTY PEOPLE. YOU COULD RENT IT FROM THEM FOR $15.00 A DAY AND GET UP A BIG PARTY AND CRUISE UP THE CHESAPEAKE. EVEN THOUGH I WAS THE KID BROTHER HE ALWAYS INCLUDED ME. I HAD MY FIRST DRINK OF WHISKEY ON ONE OF THE SCHOOL PARTIES. I GOT SICKER THAN HELL. ON THE BACK OF OUR LOT WE HAD A GARAGE AND OVER THAT, A LITTLE APARTMENT. THE PEOPLE WHO OWNED THE HOUSE BEFORE US HAD A COLORED COUPLE LIVING IN IT. BUT MOMMA LIKED TO DO HER OWN HOUSEWORK AND ONLY HAD A CLEANING LADY ONCE A WEEK, SO WE USED THE APARTMENT AS A KIND OF HIDEAWAY.
WHEN BEN WAS FLYING HE’D PLAY SEMI-PRO FOOTBALL ON SUNDAYS AT THE OLD LEAGUE PARK FOR THE NORFOLK CLANCY’S, MAN, I’LL NEVER FORGET THE DAY HE MADE TWO TOUCHDOWNS AGAINST RED GRANGE’S VISITING ALLSTARS AND CUT GRANGE DOWN ON THREE OR FOUR OPEN FIELD TACKLES. BEN WAS REALLY SOMETHING. MOST OF THE KIDS DID THEIR NECKING ON MAYFLOWER DRIVE ALONG THE LAFAYETTE RIVER, BUT WE HAD THE APARTMENT AND WE SURE HAD SOME GREAT PARTIES.
THE YARD BY THE GARAGE WAS PRETTY BIG AND WE’D FUNGO FLIES AND GROUNDERS TO EACH OTHER. USING THE SIDE OF THE GARAGE AS A BACKSTOP BEN TAUGHT ME HOW TO PITCH. HE PAINTED A TARGET OF A BATTER ON THE WALL AND MADE ME THROW AT IT UNTIL MY ARM NEARLY FELL OFF. HE WAS REALLY PATIENT.
HE’D PUT HIS HANDS ON MY SHOULDER AND TALK BASEBALL TO ME. WHEN BEN TOUCHED ME IT WAS LIKE BEING TOUCHED BY GOD.
“LOOK, ABE,” BEN WOULD SAY, “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DAZZLE ANYBODY WITH YOUR SPEED OR BLOW THEM OUT OF THE BOX. SO YOU HAVE TO PITCH WITH YOUR JEWISH HEAD.” I WAS TAUGHT A VARIETY OF SLOW CURVES AND CHANGE-UPS AND A SLIDER. IN THOSE DAYS A SLIDER WAS CALLED A SCREWBALL. WELL, BEN TAUGHT ME TO BE A REAL JUNK PITCHER WITH JUST ENOUGH MUSTARD ON THE FAST BALL TO KEEP THE BATTER HONEST. I WAS NEVER AN OVERPOWERING TYPE PITCHER, BUT BEN TAUGHT ME ENOUGH TO BE FIRST STRING FOR MAURY HIGH AND GET A SCHOLARSHIP TO THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA. OFTEN WE’D PLAY TILL DARK, THEN KEEP GOING UNDER THE STREET LIGHTS.
THERE WAS A DIRT AIRFIELD WHERE GRANBY STREET CURVED AROUND THE BEND NEAR THE CEMETERY AT DEAD MAN’S CORNER ON THE WAY TO THE BEACH AT OCEAN VIEW. THE WHOLE AREA WAS TRUCK FARMS, AND YOU HAD TO MAKE YOUR APPROACHES RIGHT OVER THE TOMBSTONES. IT’S ALL PART OF THE NAVAL AIR BASE NOW BUT ONE OR TWO OF THE OLD BUILDINGS REMAIN. ANYHOW, THERE WAS THIS RICH JEWISH DEPARTMENT STORE OWNER NAMED JAKE GOLDSTEIN, WHO WAS A BIG FAN OF BEN’S AND OWNED A COUPLE OF AIRPLANES, ONE A WACO TAPERWING. IT COULD SHAKE YOUR TEETH OUT BUT COULD YOU EVER DO STUNTS IN IT. BEN STARTED FLYING THE WACO, AND I STARTED HANGING AROUND THE FIELD.
BEN WAS THE ONLY JEWISH PILOT EXCEPT FOR MR. GOLDSTEIN BUT EVERYONE RESPECTED HIM. HE WAS A LOT LIKE THEM. YOU KNOW, A BREED APART SO BEING JEWISH DIDN’T MATTER, AND WE DIDN’T HAVE TO GO THROUGH ALL THOSE FIGHTS AGAIN.
JAKE GOLDSTEIN SPONSORED BEN AT A LOT OF AIR RACES, AND HE’D GO OFF AND BARNSTORM AND STUNT FLY AT FAIRS. WHEN HE WAS GONE I’D RUN ERRANDS FOR THE PILOTS AND CHOCK DOWN PLANES AND THEN I GOT TO TINKERING WITH ENGINES AND ONCE IN A WHILE I’D GET MY REWARD, A PLANE RIDE.
BEN WOULD LET ME TAKE THE STICK AND LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE, HE TAUGHT ME HOW TO FLY. BUT WHEN HE WAS GONE SOME OF THE OTHER GUYS REALLY SHOOK ME UP. I KNOW THEY WERE JUST CLOWNING, BUT THEY’D START LOOPING AND SNAP ROLLING AND WOULDN’T STOP UNTIL I WAS READY TO PASS OUT. I’D STAGGER OUT OF THE COCKPIT AND RUN FOR THE TOILET AND PUKE MY GUTS OUT.
THERE WAS ONE ANTI-SEMITE IN THE CROWD. A GUY BT THE NAME OF STACY. ONCE WHEN BEN WAS GONE HE STUNTED ME UNTIL I FAINTED. SOME OF THE GUYS TOLD BEN ABOUT IT, AND BEN AND I QUIETLY WENT TO WORK. HE TAUGHT ME EVERY TRICK IN THE BOOK.
THEN, ONE DAY BEN SAID, “HEY, STACY, WHY DON’T YOU GO UP WITH ABE FOR A RIDE. I THINK HE’S ABOUT READY TO SOLO AND MAYBE YOU OUGHT TO CHECK HIM OUT INSTEAD OF ME.” STACY FELL FOR IT. WE GOT INTO THE TWIN COCKPIT WACO, BUT WHAT STACY DIDN’T KNOW WAS THAT HIS SET OF CONTROLS HAD BEEN DISCONNECTED.
BEN GOT EVERYONE OUT TO WATCH. POW! WHAP! ZAM! DID I LET THAT SONOFABITCH HAVE IT. I FLIPPED HER OVER ON HER BACK AND BARREL ROLLED RIGHT OVER THE RUNWAY, THEN ANGLED HER UP SO STEEP SHE POWER STALLED AT THREE G’S RIGHT AT THE HANGAR. I LOOKED BACK. I THOUGHT STACY WOULD SHIT HIS PANTS. ANYHOW, I KEPT IT UP UNTIL HE BEGGED ME TO SET HER DOWN. THEN I LET HIM HAVE A LITTLE MORE, A FEW OUTSIDE LOOPS.
STACY NEVER CAME BACK TO THE AIRSTRIP AGAIN.
I WAS THE YOUNGEST FLYER OF THE GANG AND EVERYTHING WAS GOING FINE UNTIL I HAD TO DO A BELLY LANDING IN A CORNFIELD ONE DAY WHEN THE ENGINE QUIT. I WASN’T SCARED ALL THE WAY IN UNTIL THE PLANE STOPPED DEAD AND NOSED OVER. I GOT SCARED WHEN I CLIMBED OUT AND STARTED CRYING, “PLEASE DON’T TELL MOMMA AND POPPA.” I WAS BANGED UP REAL GOOD AND TOLD A WHOPPING LIE ABOUT FALLING OFF THE ROOF OF THE GARAGE, BUT THEY LEARNED THE TRUTH FROM AN INSURANCE ADJUSTER AND INVESTIGATORS.
JESUS, WAS POPPA MAD!
“IF YOU WANT TO BREAK YOUR GOD DAMNED NECK, BEN, THAT’S FINE BY ME, BUT WHEN YOU TAKE A SENSITIVE CHILD LIKE ABE AND MAKE A GANGSTER OUT OF HIM, I’M GOING TO FORBID IT!”
MY POPPA, GOD REST HIS SOUL, HARDLY EVER FORBID ANYTHING IN HIS LIFE. HIS WAS THE FIRST BAKERY TO UNIONIZE WITHOUT A STRIKE OR BLOODSHED JUST BECAUSE HE WAS A LIBERAL THINKER. THE OTHER BAKERY OWNERS WERE READY TO LYNCH HIM, BUT POPPA DIDN’T SCARE EASILY. AND HE WAS THE FIRST TO HIRE A COLORED BAKER. A LOT OF PEOPLE MIGHT FORGET ABOUT HOW MUCH GUTS IT TOOK TO DO THAT IN THOSE DAYS.
WELL, I DIDN’T FLY FOR A LONG TIME AFTER THAT. NOT UNTIL BEN GOT KILLED IN SPAIN. THEN I HAD TO FLY AND POPPA UNDERSTOOD.
I GUESS WHAT I REMEMBER MOST ABOUT MY BROTHER BEN WERE THOSE QUIET DAYS WE JUST HORSED AROUND. MAYBE WE’D GO TO THE MARSH BEHIND J. E. B. STUART SCHOOL AND CATCH A COUPLE OF FROGS. THERE WOULD ALWAYS BE KIDS FROM THE TURNEY HOME THERE AND WE’D HAVE FROG RACES ...OR MAYBE WE’D BOWL A FEW GAMES OF DUCKPINS AT THE OLD BUSH STREET ALLEY. IT WAS THE ONE THING I WAS BETTER AT THAN BEN.