Merken Street

by Annie Elizabeth Kreiser

Where I’m from, everyone’s grandparents were either Holocaust survivors or they knew one. In my steadfast commitment to conformity, I was no exception. My bubbe wasn’t like the others, though. She didn’t come to talk at school in the winter. In fact, she hardly talked about it at all. And that was fine by me; I’d heard about it plenty. I could tell you all kinds of numbers related to it. Years, people killed, survivors, refugees, camps, laws. There were numbers for everything, and I was good at numbers. Bubbe never talked about numbers. She could barely remember her address. I could. 214 Merken Street, apartment 3B.

Every Friday afternoon, my tired parents shuttled my brother and I from the suburbs to her apartment in Brooklyn. I never understood why we went to her house instead of the other way around, but every time I asked my parents they never gave me a straight answer. I hated being in that apartment. The vaguely nauseating wallpaper was faded and peeling. The refrigerator was yellow and the shower was pink. We took off our shoes at the door and walked on the thick blue carpet in our socks. Jacob and I fought over who got to play the Yorkie in Monopoly. My father read his books, whispering in the corner. My mother prepared food and Bubbe sipped tea.

It had been this way every weekend as long as I could remember. At night, Jacob and I would sleep on the floor, my parents on the futon, and Bubbe in her twin bed. I’d watch the lights from the cars on the street below flash along the ceiling, counting them. 21, 22, 23, asleep before 30.

For years we continued on in this way, quietly, with little change apart from holidays and Jacob’s Bar Mitzvah. The Sunday after his Bar Mitzvah, the whole family had dinner together to celebrate. I wore my favorite dress. It was made of crushed velvet. Bubbe braided my hair into a crown around my head and slipped a pearl pin into it.

“Let’s go show your mame,” Bubbe told me. My mother was taking kugel out of the oven when Bubbe and I came into the kitchen. She set the dish down and turned to look at us.

“Wow, Chana,” she said. “You look beautiful. Come, let’s get a picture of you and Bubbe together.” She couldn’t find the digital camera, so she used Bubbe’s polaroid instead. She marched us outside to pose in front of the house. Bubbe and I put our arms around each other and smiled.

“Chana, turn your head to the side a little so I can see that pearl thing,” My mother directed, “No, that’s too much. There, that’s good. Smooth your dress down a little. Okay, ready? Three, two, one, smile!” The little white rectangle rose out of the camera. My mother gave it to me to wave around, pulling Bubbe into the kitchen to help with the cake. The rest of the company arrived to shower Jacob with gifts and congratulations. Aside from polite inquiries about school from various aunts, I was left to the side. I didn’t mind. I held the developed picture in my hands under the dinner table. I looked at the two of us, glad we used the polaroid. We were beautiful.

After that, Jacob started reading and whispering with my father instead of playing with me. My mother kept fussing in the kitchen, refusing my help, or pretending to nap. I was 10, with nothing to do, and wound up sitting across from Bubbe at the kitchen table, slapping my feet on the linoleum.

“I’m going to make tea,” she’d say, “Would you like some?”

I’d wrinkle my nose and say, “No, thanks.”

She’d say, “What about some hot chocolate?”

I’d agree to that, of course. I’d drink my hot chocolate, or, in the summer, my lemonade. Bubbe would drink her tea, always hot, no matter what season. I’d feel quite grown up. Sometimes, I’d even read the newspaper. When I got bored, she’d indulge me in a few card games. Most of the time though, we talked.

“What did you learn in school this week, Chana?”

“Well, we learned how to do long division. You put the greater number on the inside of the house and the lesser number on the outside. Then the answer goes on the roof.”

She’d nod, say something like, “Oh, okay. Very good,” and sip her tea. “What did you learn in history?” She’d always ask.

I always told her, “Bubbe, we don’t have history. Only social studies.”

She’d wrinkle her brow, just as confused the 500th time as she was the first, and say, “Well, what did you learn in social studies, then?”

I’d say something like, “We learned that there are mountains, rivers, valleys, deltas, plateaus, and… a bunch of other stuff,” or “Abraham Lincoln gave the Gettysburg Address, and he wanted the slaves to be free, like in the North.”

And she would shake her head a little, say, “I’m going to freshen up my tea. Do you want more?”

When I was 11, Lexi invited me to her birthday party at Spa-tacular on Saturday afternoon. My mother put the pink invitation down on the kitchen table and said, “No.” I sobbed the whole time she was on the phone with Lexi’s mom. I appealed to my dad, who deferred to my mom.

“But why?” I whined.

“You know why,” my mother said, cooly. “It’s shabbos.”

“It’s one time!”

“Shabbos is shabbos, Chana. It’s not up for debate.”

It was hopeless and I was devastated. By the time Friday night rolled around, my anguish had cooled into unforgiving anger. I glared out the window, filled with the injustice of it all. On the subway to Bubbe’s my dad asked me, “Chana, what’s the matter?”

I snapped. “I hate being Jewish,” I told him. My voice came out mean and poisonous. It sounded nothing like mine. My mom’s face snapped up, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Before I had time to process anything else, I heard a loud crack and felt a hot pain radiate from my left cheek across my face. “Ari!” My mother said, “We’re on a train, please!” I reached my fingers up to touch the side of my face and felt tears. It was the first and only time my father ever hit me.

I didn’t speak to anyone that night. I counted the headlights on the ceiling while my mother stayed up late in my chair at the kitchen table whispering with Bubbe. 27 “I don’t know what to do, Mame,” 28 “He just…” 29 “…Right in front of the whole train” 30 “I’ll talk to her” 31 “…looks better in the morning.”

The next day, I didn’t sit with Bubbe in the kitchen. I stayed in the living room, pretending to read. She found her way to me eventually, sitting down on the couch beside me. “I brought you your hot chocolate,” She said, holding out the mug.

“No thank you, Bubbe. I don’t want it today.”

She sat it down on the coffee table, “I’ll just leave it here until you’re ready.”

She sat there quietly for a little while, sipping from her own mug. I was determined not to say anything to her, believing this was integral to my rebellion. After some time, she coughed a little and said, “I heard you’re missing out on a special occasion today.”

“Mom wouldn’t let me go to Lexi’s birthday party, but everyone else is and now I’m missing it because I have to be here in this ugly apartment.”

If Bubbe was offended, she didn’t show it. She just said, “Turn around, let me braid your hair,” I did as I was told, and Bubbe picked up the comb I’d left on the coffee table the night before. She got to work, gently weaving her fingers and the comb through my hair. She didn’t tug my hair like my mom did. She just patiently worked at it, untangling the masses of curls that seemed to appear within minutes no matter how often I brushed my hair. As she worked she sung softly in Yiddish. I couldn’t read or speak it, but I remembered the song from a long time ago, when I fell asleep to songs instead of headlights. She twisted my hair into an intricate braid, weaving it into a piece of art fit for a medieval princess. Eventually, I picked up my hot chocolate, a little cool now, and began to sip.

I looked out the window on to the street below. A man sat alone in the 24 hour laundromat, his head slumped to one side. Steam rose from the grate in the sidewalk while a couple walked along, holding hands. The owner of the Chinese restaurant was cleaning the windows, her face wrinkled from tiredness and her hair slipping out of her bun. A young woman juggled a paper bag full of groceries, trying to get her keys out. A loaf of bread tipped out of the top and fell onto the sidewalk, a square of brightness on the gray pavement. An old man sat smoking underneath a tree with a cardboard sign that read “HOMELESS VET. ANYTHING HELPS. GOD BLESS”. Cars sloshed by on the road, spraying gray slush in their wake.

“There,” Bubbe said. “Go look at yourself in the mirror.” I went into the bathroom and looked at my reflection in the mirror above the pink sink. The yellow light gave my skin a strange glow. Bubbe appeared in the mirror beside me. “You’ve gotten so tall,” she said. It was true. Until now, I hadn’t realized that I was a couple inches taller than her. I studied my face in the mirror. My bubbe and I had the same nose, but my face was rounder and her lips were thinner. Bubbe’s face was all angles, as if carved from stone. Mine could have been dough. “You know,” she said, “I hate this bathroom.” I looked away from the mirror to her, surprised. I’d never heard Bubbe complain about the apartment before. “This life is not perfect, Chana. But it is ours. Gedenk ver ir zent.” She left me in the yellow lighted bathroom. I turned back to look at myself in the mirror, wondering if this was what people meant when they talked about growing up. From the kitchen, I heard Bubbe call, “Would you like some tea, Chana?”

Next shabbos, Bubbe was in the hospital. She’d suffered a stroke. We went to visit her there, but spent most of the time at home in the suburbs. A few days later, we buried her. I didn’t go to her apartment again.

“Hannah!” I heard Megan call, “Chelsea and Allie are here!”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I responded. I made sure to unplug the flat iron and tugged on the hem of my jean skirt. I went out of the bathroom to find Megan waving out the window, one hand on my open physics book. She turned around when I closed the door behind me. “I just saw them walk in,” she said, “They should be here any minute.”

“Great,” I said, “I just have to put my jacket on and I’m ready.”

“Hey, whoa, wait a minute,” she said.

I stopped in my tracks. “What?”

“You just look really good tonight.”

I laughed, “You’re full of it.”

“No,” she said, “Come here; let me see you.”

I walked closer to her and she snaked her arms around my waist. I guess it didn’t take much to get us started. We didn’t have long though. Within moments, there was a knock on the door. I snuck in one last kiss and ducked into the bathroom to fix my makeup while Megan opened the door. The corners of our bathroom mirror were taped over with pictures of Megan and I that weren’t nice enough for the rest of our apartment but had enough sentimental value to avoid the trash. Once I fixed my lip gloss I stared at my face in the mirror, looking for anything else wrong. My eyes drifted up to the left corner of the mirror, to a polaroid picture of me and my grandmother. I was much younger then, in a dress I wouldn’t be caught dead in now. My face was pudgier and my hair was messier. Still, in that particular picture, it had been twisted into suitable braids. I touched my hair, wondering if my grandmother would recognize me now. What would she think? I slapped the bathroom light off. My friends were waiting. Within minutes, the four of us were on the subway.

“So what did you say this place was, again?” I asked Chelsea.

“Oh, Back Street, it’s like this super cool bar. It’s new, you know. It’s only been open a couple of weeks. It’s in Brooklyn.” She said.

“Sounds expensive,” said Megan.

“Cheaper than Manhattan,” Allie said.

“Well there’s no cover first Fridays, which is why we’re going tonight,” Chelsea said. “I bet you a lot of other people from campus are going.”

“Great,” I said.

We walked out of the subway into a wonderland of boutique restaurants and fashionable people.

“Wow, this is a really nice part of Brooklyn,” Megan said.

“Yeah,” I said, “Everything looks brand new.”

A man walked out of a tapas bar with a woman who had a perfect balayage. They held hands and walked off together, smiling and laughing. I looked at Megan and imagined holding her hand. She was listening to Chelsea complain about some professor and didn’t seem to notice my gaze.

“Oh my gosh, look at this bakery!” Allie almost yelled, pulling me along with her. Megan and Chelsea followed. We peeked into the glowing window of the pastel blue shopfront, proudly displaying maple bourbon cupcakes with mile-high icing. “Oh, that looks good,” Allie whispered. Before we could be tempted enough to go inside, Megan pulled us away. “Alright guys, come on. If this place is as good as Chelsea says it is, we don’t want to be too late.” Reluctantly, we left the bakery behind and passed restaurants and clubs, hearing different snatches of music as we walked by each one.

In true New York fashion, Back Street was tucked between a sushi place and a cantina. By some miracle, there was no line. We walked into the bar. It was dark, dimly lit, just like every other bar, no matter how expensive they were. “Okay, let’s get drinks first,” Chelsea said, leading the way. The bartender had big brown hair, which she’d somehow managed to wrangle into a bun. Her neckline was low enough for me to know she got good tips. Megan ordered their specialty cocktail, something called Garbage Fire. I was too disoriented to come up with anything original, so I got the same. It was strangely spicy but otherwise fine. We had one, and then another before Chelsea and Allie disappeared into the mass of bodies on the dance floor.

I slid my hand over Megan’s thigh, and her hand caught mine in the darkness under the counter. We finished one more round while watching the crowd of dancers, occasionally spotting Allie or Chelsea dancing with a group of girls or a guy. I could feel the warmth of the alcohol in my chest. The song sounded like mostly bass. I rubbed Megan’s hand with my thumb. Our eyes met and she smiled. We were drunk enough to dance together.

Without a word, she pulled me into the crowd. A song played, some remix of a Top 40. Our hands slipped up and down each other’s bodies. I found her hips and pulled her closer. I could smell her sweat mingled with perfume. She turned around and started grinding on me. I laughed at the absurdity of it all, pulled her closer still. Nothing was enough. We danced on like that. Two girls, drunk enough to be unbothered. Time blurred into one long, meaningless song. Eventually, she held my face in her hands and yelled over the music, “Okay, now I really have to go to the bathroom.”

“Do you want me to come along?” I asked

“What?”

“Do you want me to come along?’ I yelled louder.

“No, it’s fine. Stay here; I’ll come find you.”

I smiled, squeezed her hand before she left. She disappeared into the crowd and I started trying to weave my way back to the bar. People pushed up against people. I looked around, seeing if I could spot Chelsea or Allie. I finally broke out of the crowd and stood still a moment, catching my breath. I started to walk back to the bar when I felt someone grab my wrist. I whipped my head around, ready to snatch back my hand.

“Hey,” he said, shocking me into stillness.

“Josh!” I said, pulling my hand back gingerly. “What a surprise seeing you here.”

“It’s good to see you too,” he said, taking a step towards me. “You’re not here all alone are you?”

“My friends are right over there,” I said hastily.

“Hm,” he grabbed my waist, close enough for me to smell the malt alcohol on his breath. “Why don’t you come back with me, then? I never get to see you anymore.”

“Josh,” I said, as a warning, “you’re drunk.”

“And you aren’t?” He said. “At least give me a kiss. What are you, now? A dyke or something?”

I pulled away more forcefully, separating myself from him. “Shut the hell up, Josh.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “Oh! Shit! Touched a nerve, huh?”

“Shove it up your ass,” I turned to walk away but he said, a little louder than necessary.

“Your parents know about that one, honey?”

I stopped and looked back at him. “Josh, you’re not gonna remember this in the morning anyway. Just leave me alone.”

“Come here and give me a kiss if you don’t want me to remember.”

I walked back and shoved my face against his, intending to pull away. He grabbed my butt with his hand and pushed me against him so I could feel. Before my brain realized what was happening, he was gone, walking away without a word. I stood still, trying to figure out if I had somehow imagined it. Everything vibrated. I wanted to sit down; I needed a break. I turned back towards the bar again and looked straight at Megan. She was standing still and straight, staring right at me. My heart dropped. I felt like I was going to throw up. I rushed past her.

I stumbled out of the bar, pushed through the door that felt too heavy. The realization that it had begun to rain dawned on me as I felt my clothes getting wetter. Everything moved in slow motion. I knew the way back to the subway, which train would take me back to our apartment. I didn’t want to go. I leaned against a tree, hoping its wilting leaves would give me some small relief from the rain. A car going too fast on the road splashed through a puddle, soaking my legs and shoes. I broke down. I sobbed, leaning against the tree, which felt like the only really solid thing in the entire world. I looked up across the street.

There was an apartment building, a characteristically art deco one, recently renovated for posh millennials with trust funds and pea coats. New Luxury Lofts, the sign on building read. I looked closer. I had a strange feeling that I knew this place. But I couldn’t. I had never lived in this part of the city.

I shook my head as I walked to the end of the block, resigning myself to the humiliation of the apartment Megan would eventually return to. The neighborhood, which had seemed so fresh and inviting just hours ago, now annoyed me. The rain seemed to have washed away the cosmetic enchantment of it all. The storefront of the bakery, now closed, looked tacky and disappointing. The young professionals had been replaced by college guys, yelling at each other from across the street. The rain seemed to pick up. I wrapped my arms around myself and walked faster. The subway was just on the next block. I was almost there. A couple yards from the intersection I froze.

The green street sign read “Merken Street,” neutral as any other. I turned around to look at the luxury loft building. I walked back a little too fast. Things I had been avoiding for years seemed to be chasing me. I passed by the bakery again. Didn’t there used to be a bodega there? There was a sushi place next to Back Street. I had a vague memory of a woman who used to clean similar-looking windows, but that was at a hole-in-the-wall Chinese place, the only Kosher one in the neighborhood. Back Street’s sign caught my eye. The neon flashed, illuminating one word at a time, and then both. The laundromat’s neon sign used to do the same, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I felt like everything was falling apart around me. I had to go all the way back to the tree, just across the street from the apartment building.

The awning had tasteful off-white letters against a maroon background, nothing like the color scheme of Bubbe’s apartment. Squinting my eyes to see through the rain, I could just make out the address: “214 Merken Street.”

Annie Elizabeth Kreiser is an angry feminist majoring in secondary education and English. She is also a sophomore and the managing editor for Pitch. Her work is influenced by coming of age as a woman and has been featured in Onyx and Volume 10 of Pitch.