She countered, “One day when you find out there really is a God, it will be too late. Only idiots have to wait until they are dead to get proof!”
The two continued to battle over what appeared to the onlookers as every subject possible.
“You are here for how long and you aren’t a citizen? I got my citizenship papers in 1923!” Freida Sima said proudly.
Mordche looked at her in surprise. “Why in the world would I want to be a citizen before we bring the revolution to America? I’ve done fine like this for the past twenty two years.”
And so it continued. In between sparring over politics and religion they found they did indeed have a few things in common – among them a love of Jewish liturgical music, schmaltz herring, and the ocean. But within moments they would return to their ideological battles.
Pulling Freida Sima into the kitchen to help with the hot drinks, Fanny Carlin gently questioned her about Mordche.
“You know he isn’t a bochur,” she began.
“So what is he?” my grandmother asked, raising her eyebrows. “A katchke [duck]?”
“Don’t be silly,” chuckled Fanny. “Didn’t he tell you he is a widower with four grown sons?”
Hiding her surprise, Freida Sima put a hand on Fanny’s arm. “Of course he did. He told me all about it.”
“Good,” said Fanny. “I wouldn’t want you to get involved with him before you knew the whole story.
“Zorgt nisht, Fanny – don’t worry, he told me everything,” my grandmother responded before leaving the kitchen and going back to sit with Mordche at the dining room table.
Late evening turned to night and by three in the morning Fanny and Morris shooed the couple out the front door. At the top of the stairwell Mordche turned to my grandmother and took her hand once again.
“This has been such a wonderful evening,” he said to her with a smile. “So tomorrow we get married, right?”
Freida Sima pulled her hand back in shock. “Married?” she shouted. “This is how you are asking me to marry you?”
“I thought it was settled already,” Mordche replied, “but if you want time to think, you can give me your answer by the time we get down to the street.”
How long does it take to descend five flights of stairs? How many thoughts go through a person’s mind during the time it takes to walk down a hundred steps? How quickly can someone who thought she would remain a spinster forever decide to marry a man who was the opposite of everything she had ever dreamed of: a communist, a freethinker, an atheist, a widower with four sons?
As they reached street level, Mordche turned to her with a gleam in his eyes. “So, Bertie, do you have an answer for me?”
“I understand you are a widower with four grown sons,” she said.
“Does it make a difference?” he asked.
“No, it doesn’t,” she answered truthfully.
“So now will you marry me?” he asked laughingly.
“I will, but not tomorrow; in two weeks,” she said, recalling the requirements of Jewish marital law.
Mordche let out a long sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for the entire five flights of stairs. “Good. In the morning tell your boss you are quitting, and come meet my parents. Oh, and tomorrow you’ll meet my boys as well.”
* * * * *
The next two weeks passed in a blur as Freida Sima gave her boss and landlady notice, met her future in-laws and stepsons, introduced Mordche to her family, and prepared to get married.
