“That is my father, Jakob Rosen, at the Lublin yeshiva,” Eli said as he set a coffee service on the table. “The picture was taken in 1930. My father and grandfather built that building.”
“I’m sorry to say I don’t know much about Lublin or the yeshiva,” Mimi said. “Maybe someday I’ll visit.”
Eli poured three cups of coffee. “The Lublin you’d visit today would bear little resemblance to the Lublin I knew before the war. My family lived in the Jewish quarter, not too far from that building. Back then, the Jewish community was vibrant and comprised a third of the city. We had twelve synagogues and two Jewish newspapers. To me, I thought the whole world was like that. I didn’t know any different. Everyone spoke Yiddish. Do you know any Yiddish, Mimi?”
“A bissel.”
Eli chuckled. “Of course, your grandmother is from Lodz. That was a big city—over six hundred thousand people, and a third of them were Jewish as well. I traveled to Lodz many times for business. And then…” He paused as a breath caught in his chest. Another one of those times, thought Mimi. A momentary digression. And just as quickly, Eli returned to the present and said, “And then for other reasons. Anyway, that was a long time ago.”
Some powerful memories must be tugging on him, thought Mimi, and someday I’m going to find out his secret. The reporter in me knows there’s a story buried here. Wouldn’t that be something to write?
Eli sliced three pieces of babka and set them out on his coffee table. Mimi broke the silence. “A few minutes ago, if I said something that made you uncomfortable, Mr. Rosen, I am sorry. I apologize.”
“No, no. Please don’t be sorry. You said nothing wrong. A couple of things went through my mind, that’s all. You asked about Lublin, and before the war it was a wonderful place to live and work. My family had been Lubliners for generations. We always said we built the famous Grodzka Gate in the year 1357.” He smiled. “I can’t personally vouch for that. Anyway, after the Nazi occupation, everything that it stood for was no more. No more yeshiva, no more Grodzka Gate, no more Jewish quarter, no more Lublin Jews. Barely two hundred of our people survived.”
He shook his head, turned and said, “Forgive me for running on. It’s a bad habit of mine. Now I work for the federal government, and I am a brand new resident of Albany Park. Tell me, how was the congressman’s party tonight?”
“Lavish,” Mimi said. “It was crowded and filled with politicians and businessmen.”
Nathan made a face, and Eli said, “I take it you don’t agree.”
“Oh, it was lavish and crowded,” Nathan said, “but it was a Vittie Zielinski production, more of a political rally than an engagement party. It shouldn’t have been that kind of party. It should have been a celebration of two young people who have announced they are going to get married. For me, it was cold and impersonal.”
Mimi nodded. “That’s true. It was all about the congressman, not the couple.”
“You’re writing the story for the Tribune, aren’t you Mimi?” Eli said. “Will you be expressing that opinion? Cold and impersonal? Businesslike?” He had a glint in his eye. “After all, you’re a reporter. Aren’t you going to report the truth?”
Mimi scoffed. “Who are you kidding? Write those things about Vittie Zielinski? Where would I be working tomorrow?”
“Didn’t you make notes of all the politicians and businessmen that attended? Deals made? Smoky backroom politics? I think it would make for spicy reading.”
Mimi smiled. “I made notes and there was plenty of that going on, but my story will be printed in the society pages. My readers will be more interested in what the women were wearing and what dishes were served.”
“I would love to read the real story,” Eli said. “I’d be far more interested in which politicians and captains of industry were in attendance.”
Mimi raised an eyebrow and thought, I bet you would.
“Will you write that story for me?” Eli said.
Mimi stood. “Well, maybe someday, Mr. Rosen.”
“I’ll hold you to it. Good night, Miss Gold.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHICAGO
ALBANY PARK NEIGHBORHOOD
JUNE 1965
The doorbell rang and Mimi heard her mother call, “Nathan’s here.”
“About time,” Mimi said. She came out of the back bedroom with a light sweater over her shoulder, kissed her mom on the cheek and took Nathan’s arm. “I’ll be home late tonight; we’re meeting Christine and Preston at the Earl of Old Town. Chrissie said they have an important announcement to make.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t on time,” Nathan said, opening the door for her. “Mr. Rosen was sitting on the front stoop when I arrived. He remembered me from last month, and I stopped for a minute to chat with him. He was reading the Tribune and the headline said that fifty thousand more GIs were being sent to Vietnam. I told him my brother had been drafted and was headed out to Fort Dix. When I said that, his expression changed. He looked concerned. Sympathetic.”
“Well, obviously he’s been through a war.”
“I know. He wished Billy well and said he would pray for him.”
“He’s a nice man,” Mimi said.
“I told him we were going to meet up with Preston and Christine tonight, and right away he started asking me about the engagement party and Congressman Zielinski. Did I know him very well? Had I been to his office? How did Preston like working for him? Did I know any of the other members of his staff? He sure seemed curious.”
“I get the same feeling,” Mimi said. “He’s asked me about him as well. He wants to know who was at the party. What politicians, what businessmen, what military contractors. It’s more than just a passive curiosity. I wonder if the FBI is investigating Vittie?”
Nathan laughed. “Do you still think Mr. Rosen is with the FBI?”
Mimi shrugged. “Mom does. Or maybe she thinks it’s the CIA. He doesn’t appear to keep regular hours or even a regular job that he goes to every day.”
“And I suppose the CIA is now operating out of a one-bedroom apartment in Albany Park?”
Mimi winked. “They can be very covert, you know.” She put her finger to her lips and whispered, “Shh. We better be careful what we say in the hallways.”
* * *
The TV above the bar at the Earl was displaying the news and a segment on Vietnam. The camera panned the military base at Danang: GIs in T-shirts, cigarettes hanging from their lips, and boxes upon boxes of supplies stacked on the ground. Many more were being unloaded from C-130s. Sandbags were piled around guard posts. In the background, fighter jets of the Eightieth Tactical Fighter Squadron were taking off, and the roar forced the reporter to pause his narrative. He had been talking about the rapid buildup of men and supplies. He pointed to the sky; “Operation Rolling Thunder,” he said. “Those are F-105 Thunderchief fighters, headed north toward the DRV.” Going back to his script, the reporter quoted the State Department press officer, saying, “President Johnson announced today that if requested by the South Vietnamese government, he has authorized General Westmoreland to commit American soldiers to ground combat.”