Because he had chosen to live within walking distance of his jewelry store my father was a DP. This was in the Coolidge era when even the West Bronx contained its saving remnant, but in our diaspora of neat private houses, gray brick apartment buildings, and vast stretches of weedy lots, communion was a rare event. A chance encounter in the street, a casual chat on a park bench and a brief sholom—these were too uncertain to be institutionalized. The nearest synagogue lay a good mile to the east, and except for Mr. Katz, who cleaned, pressed, and altered in the taxpayer around the corner, my father knew nobody to whom he could talk man to man. As a result he was lonely and morose, a condition never more evident than on Sunday mornings when, insulated against everything but his memories, he would sit for hours reading and rereading the Forward in the front parlor.

On one such morning, however, as I sprawled on the floor examining the sports page of the Home News, the silence was rudely broken by a resounding whack on the arm of my father’s chair. “Joey,” he announced in a voice trembling with emotion, “I’m going to buy you a new suit!”

“Sure, Pa—” Unable to understand his excitement, I looked up quizzically. “I guess I need a new suit all right.”

“Today—I’m going to buy it today!”

“But it’s Sunday—how can you buy a suit on Sunday? And besides, I got a stickball game at ten o’clock.”

“I’ll give you stickball!” He put his paper aside and started for his hat and coat. “Come—we’ll ride down to Stanton Street.”

“But Pa—”

“Shah! No more questions!” He glowered over his glasses. “Put on your jacket and let’s go.”

In a few minutes and after a brief consultation with my mother we set out on our journey. Stanton Street, my father explained on the crosstown trolley, was on the Lower East Side.

“But why do we have to go to the East Side to buy a suit?”

“Where else can you buy a suit on Sunday? Anyhow, I was born on the East Side.”

The non sequitur only diverted my curiosity.

“On Stanton Street?”

“No, no—on Eldridge, right next to the livery stable.”

“What’s a livery stable?”

“It’s a—well, it’s like a barn—a place for horses.”

“That’s where you were born, Pa?”

“I was born next door,” he said with deliberate patience. “If we get finished in time, I’ll show you the house.”

The ride downtown went quickly. We took the first car and I stood in the front next to the motorman’s compartment pretending it was I who controlled the train. I swung the brake wheel to the right as we screeched into stations and as we roared into the dark tunnel below 161st Street I swung it boldly to the left. The misty red and green lights of the winding cavern signaled to me alone.

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We soon emerged into the quiet Sunday morning of the East Side and immediately I was struck by the narrowness of everything. The streets, the tenements, and the distances, even the people themselves, seemed oddly small and warped. I remember how surprised I was to hear two black-bearded men arguing in Yiddish.

Once when we had passed a block of closed stores and covered outdoor stalls I stopped to point to a suit in a store window, but my father slapped my hand down and jerked me away.

“Idiot!” he said breathlessly. “Don’t point! And for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut!”

“But, Pa,” I remonstrated, “that was just the kind of suit Mama wants us to get.”

“So we’ll get it. But in the right place and the right time. All I ask is you should trust your own father and keep your mouth shut! Is this too much to ask?”

We continued silently for another block until we reached a clothing store my father seemed to recognize. He paused for a moment, glanced at the window display, shook his head and started to move on. But we did not get far. Before we had taken half a dozen steps a cheerful voice was shouting after us, “Can I help you, my friend?”

We turned to confront a bald head and a gold-toothed smile in a rosy, clean-shaven face.

“No,” my father said, “we were just looking.”

The face placed a friendly hand on the lapel of my father’s coat. “Mister,” it said, “we got the biggest stock merchandise in the city of New York. You don’t find what you want here, you don’t find it nowhere else neither. So help me, my good man, you’re using up for nothing your shoe leather.”

My father brushed the hand away. “It’s my shoe leather,” he said.

“You look like a reasonable man,” the face declared. “Come in and have a look. How can you go wrong just to see what we got?”

My father checked his watch. He shrugged. “Okay. I guess we can spare a few minutes, Joey.”

Inside the dimly lighted store the rosy face turned us over to a young fellow with a complexion like melted wax. We were led to the rear where among the racks of clothing several other customers were being taken care of. One of the salesmen was an old white-bearded man with a black skullcap. He was trying a suit on a boy who had come in with his mother. The other salesman was a younger man who resembled the rosy face that had returned to its post at the door.

“For yourself or the boy?” our salesman asked.

“For the boy. Something in a tweed.”

“Got just the thing,” our man said, retreating farther to the rear.

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Above the tall mirror on the back wall was a large sign bearing the black-lettered inscription: STRICTLY ONE PRICE. I was staring at it when my father whispered furtively, “And remember, please keep your mouth shut!”

“Just for size,” our salesman said as he returned with a suit.

My father examined the material with a professional air. “A potato bag. If this is all you have, we’re just wasting our time.”

“Please, mister,” the salesman entreated. “Please, just for size.”

I tried on the jacket but my father refused to look at it. He was busy examining some suits on a nearby rack. In any case, the jacket was much too large for me. The salesman took it off and made another trip to the rear. He returned with three suits, all tweeds.

“How about these, my friend?”

My father considered them. He pouted skeptically as he sampled the material between thumb and forefinger. “Let’s try them on,” he directed.

I tried each of them in turn and each time my father grunted unhappily. He grunted loudest after the last one, though it was a beautiful pepper and salt and fitted me perfectly.

“The boy could make a model,” the salesman commented, standing back a little to admire me. “You don’t have to alter hardly a stitch. He could walk out with it this minute and nobody would know if it was custom-made or not.”

“How does it feel?” my father asked doubtfully. I was about to reply but he cut me short. “Kind of tight, huh?” His hands pinched into my shoulders.

The salesman ran his fingers over my arms. “A perfect fit. You’ll forgive me but custom-made couldn’t be better.”

“How much?” my father asked nonchalantly.

“They don’t make suits like this any more,” the salesman said, ignoring the question. “Take a look at these buttonholes. ₍Hand-stitched every one. And such a cut! Believe me, my dear friend, you got here a suit with a capital S.”

“How much?”

The salesman ran his hand along the lapels. He loved the suit. “It don’t skimp any place. You got here every inch of material you pay for. Iron couldn’t be stronger.”

“How much?” my father repeated.

The salesman looked at the price tag on the trousers. He sighed. “With two pair pants it’s a sacrifice for twelve ninety-nine.”

My father gasped. Disbelief, scorn, and horror contorted his face. “Take it off, Joey, take it off right away!” he commanded.

I did as I was told. I stood there uncertainly, the jacket still in my hands.

“You want a cheaper line? Okay, mister, so I’ll show you something cheaper.” The salesman snatched the jacket and started for the rear.

“I want this line,” my father said. “But twelve ninety-nine? You think I’m stuffed with money like a gefite fish? I’ll give you eight dollars straight. Not a penny more!”

“Mister,” the salesman murmured pityingly while he fondled the jacket, “let me show you something.” He exhibited the price tag but my father refused to look at it. “Fifteen ninety-nine,” the salesman read aloud. “And we’re offering it to you today for twelve ninety-nine cash on the line with two pair pants!”

My father was unimpressed. “Put on your coat,” he said to me. “I can see we’re just wasting our time.”

The salesman dashed to a nearby table and opened a drawer from which he withdrew a thick batch of vouchers. He waved them furiously at my father. “You don’t believe me? Okay—look at the wholesale price. Seven twenty-five! And you got the nerve yet to offer seventy-five cents more! You don’t believe in the profit system? Overhead you never heard of? You think we buy from slave labor?”

“Eight dollars,” my father said. “That’s my price.”

The salesman looked up at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t live to go home to my wife! My children should only go hungry and without shoes! Seventy-five cents profit? It should happen to Haman!” His face was turning from salmon pink to a hot and flushy red. He ran his hand through his hair and began to address the ceiling in Yiddish.

Suddenly I found myself staring at the sign above the mirror. I realized my father’s awful mistake. I felt sick to my stomach and ashamed for him. “Pa—” I called.

“Shut up!” he said. We moved together toward the door. I was trembling with embarrassment.

“Mister Kay!” the salesman cried. His voice sounded a note of desperation.

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The old man in the skullcap turned abruptly and shuffled across the floor. His small red mouth was smiling as he stroked his beard and placed himself between us and the door. “So—?” he inquired calmly.

“The gentleman wants the suit,” our salesman explained. “So I quote him our price—twelve ninety-nine.”

The old man nodded. His eyes fastened tenaciously on the disputed garment. “Twelve ninety-nine—yes?”

“He wants it—for eight dollars he wants it!” He paused dramatically. “Blood he wants!” Tossing the suit to the man in the skullcap, he strode away with unconcealed indignation.

“My good friend,” the old man said reproachfully to my father, “you must be making a joke.”

“Jokes are for the rich,” my father replied. “Eight dollars is all I can afford.”

“But do you have any idea what kind garment this is, my friend?” The old man stroked the suit tenderly. I marveled at his patience.

“I know my own pocketbook. Eight dollars.”

“Not for this suit. Better we should starve.” His voice almost broke with emotion. “Yes—much better.”

“Come on, Joey,” my father said.

For an instant I was so appalled by my father’s callousness that I could not move. My impulse was to turn to the old man and beg him to forgive us. Surely my father had not observed the sign above the mirror.

“Joey!”

“Wait,” the old man said. “I’ll tell you what we do.” He gazed around cautiously, then whispered, “I want to make a customer. Let me have ten ninety-nine and the difference you can give to charity.”

“Eight,” my father said. “I’ll give the difference to myself. That’s a real charity.”

The old man chuckled, he wet his lips, his shoulders rose and fell. “You’re a hard man. Nine ninety-nine. That’s the best I can do.”

My father smiled. “Try it on again, Joey,” he said.

Bewildered, I did as I was told, going behind a curtain to put on the trousers. When I came out, the store tailor was waiting for me. A small fat man with pins sticking out of his mouth, he looked me over with a practiced eye, felt under the armpits, measured the length of the sleeves, and tested the waist and the crotch. It was a perfect fit. Because we did not wish to wait, Mr. Katz, my father decided, would take care of the cuffs. The suit was therefore wrapped, my father paid the nine ninety-nine and the old man with the skullcap thanked us effusively as he returned the penny in change. I could not understand how he could have forgiven my father so easily.

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As we walked down the street my father was in high spirits. He held my hand firmly and whistled a lively tune. “Now I’ll show you where I was born,” he said happily.

At the corner I stopped to look into the window of another clothing store. Something familiar had caught my eye.

“What is it, Joey?”

“That suit—it’s the exact same suit we just bought!”

My father frowned. He adjusted his glasses and peered at the pepper and salt displayed on the manikin in the window. The price tag read: SALE $9.49.

All at once he began to laugh. He ran his hand through my hair and laughed out loud. “How can it be the same suit? I ask you—how can it possibly be the same? Yes—and even if it is—even if it is—?”

I don’t think I knew what he meant, but somehow we marched joyfully in the direction of Eldridge Street.

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