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Selected Shorts
Grace Paley Centennial
00:58:15
The unique, unquenchable writer and activist Grace Paley would have turned 100 in 2022. On this Selected Shorts, host Meg Wolitzer shares our tribute to the influential and outspoken New Yorker who was a great friend of the series. Paley’s emphasis on friends, family, and doing the right thing are evident in the three stories on this show. In “Wants,” a woman has a chance encounter while returning a lot of overdue library books. It’s read by Adina Verson. Two old friends work their way from childhood to middle age in “Ruthy and Edie,” read by Rita Wolf. And we meet a woman with a wonderfully checkered past in “Goodbye and Good Luck,” read by Joanna Gleason. Featuring commentary from novelist Lauren Groff.
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- [00:08]
Meg Wolitzer
Equality, Community, and how to deal with those library books you checked out 18 years ago and somehow never returned. Coming up on Selected Shorts celebrate the fiction of the great Grace Paley with me, your host, Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Does the name Grace Paley ring a bell? If so, maybe you know she would have turned 100 in 2022. But even if you don't know her, sit tight. This is worth sticking around for. Grace Paley is one of those quintessential New York writers. She was born in the Bronx in 1922, went to Hunter College and lived in Greenwich Village with her husband and two children. Between writing, parenting, getting involved in the anti war, anti nuclear, anti racist and feminist movements, well, she had a lot going on. And each of her passions kept her anchored to the world in a different way. Paley wrote three collections of short stories, the Little Disturbances of Man, in 1959, followed by Enormous Changes at the Last Minute in 1974 and later the Same Day in 1985. Just three books, and yet her impact has been profound. Like pretty much all the writers I know, I love Grace Paley's work. She was a real presence in the world of literature and also served as a model of how to be a good citizen. She didn't seem to have to fold her politics into her life. It was her life. Along with writing short stories, teaching and being in a family, she marched and got arrested. These acts weren't really extricable. All of them came from conviction. Our live show, dedicated to Paley, was hosted by the author Lauren Groff. Here she is, speaking from the stage about her connection to the writer.
- [02:06]
Lauren Groff
I fell in love with Grace Paley's work in college. Like her, I started as a poet. Unlike her, I was profoundly unsuccessful at that particular art form. Only when I took a fiction class and began to read the stories of living masters of the short story like Lori Moore, John Edgar Weidman, Louise Erdrich and Paley herself. Did the clouds part, the angels sing Hallelujah. And I finally found the genre that spoke to the best parts of me. I admire Paley's maternal rage as well as her citizen's rage. She is the best model of a lifelong artist activist that I know of. I also met Grace Paley once. She was a tiny person with a head of white, fluffy hair, and she was utterly ferocious. I remember I asked her a question that time has mercifully erased. Pele, who suffered no fools looked me dead in the eye and refused kindly but firmly to answer. I found myself equally abashed and full of admiration. It has been helpful to me ever since, while editing, to imagine a tiny Grace Paley sitting in the vicinity of my third eye, skeptically reading my sentences as they rise up to her and flinging away the ones that don't measure up to her standards of truthfulness and generosity. They say never to meet your heroes, but sometimes the mere thought of your hero's gentle scorn can guide you to better prose.
- [03:31]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Lauren Groff speaking from the stage at Symphony Space, but let me step out of the way so you can hear from Paley herself. This first piece will give you a sense of her particular blend of funny and heartbreaking. You'll see how much is packed into this roughly 800 word story. Not just a meeting outside a public library, but a whole lifetime. Packing it all in can sometimes be the Grace Paley way. The story was performed by Adina Verson. She is known for series including only Murders in the Building and is a regular on stage appearing in shows including Indecent on Broadway. Now here's Adina Verson reading Wants by Grace Paley.
- [04:16]
Adina Verson
I saw my ex husband in the street. I was sitting on the steps of the new library. Hello, my life, I said. We had once been married for 27 years, so I felt justified. He said, what? What life? No life of mine, I said, okay. I don't argue when there's real disagreement. I got up and went into the library to see how much I owed them. The librarian said, $32 even. And you've owed it for 18 years. I didn't deny anything because I don't understand how time passes. I have had those books. I have often thought of them. The library is only two blocks away. My ex husband followed me to the book's return desk. He interrupted the librarian, who had more to tell. In many ways, he said, as I look back, I attribute the disillusion of our marriage to the fact that you never invited the Bertrams to dinner. That's possible, I said. But really, if you remember, first my father was sick that Friday. Then the children were born. Then I had those Tuesday night meetings. Then the war began. Then we didn't seem to know them anymore. But you're right, I should have had them to dinner. I gave the librarian a check for $32 immediately. She trusted me, put my past behind her, wiped the record clean. Which is just what most other municipal and or state bureaucracies will not do. I checked out the two Edith Wharton books I had just returned because I'd read them so long ago and they're more apropos now than ever. They were the House of Mirth and the children, which is about how life in the United States in New York changed in 27 years. Fifty years ago, a nice thing I do remember is breakfast, my ex husband said. I was surprised. All we ever had was coffee. Then I remembered there was a hole in the back of the kitchen closet which opened into the apartment next door. There they always ate sugar cured smoked bacon. It gave us a very grand feeling about breakfast. But we never got stuffed and sluggish. That was when we were poor, I said. When were we ever rich?
- [06:56]
Rita Wolf
He asked.
- [06:57]
Adina Verson
Oh, as time went on, as our responsibilities increased, we didn't go in need. You took adequate financial care, I reminded him. The children went to camp four weeks a year and in decent ponchos with sleeping bags and boots just like everyone else. They looked very nice. Our place was warm in winter and we had nice red pillows and things. I wanted a sailboat, he said, but you didn't want anything. Don't be bitter, I said. It's never too late. No, he said with a great deal of bitterness. I may get a sailboat. As a matter of fact, I have money down on an 18 foot two rigger. I'm doing well this year and can look forward to better. But as for you, it's too late. You'll always want nothing. He had had a habit throughout the 27 years of making a narrow remark which, like a plumber's snake, could work its way through the ear, down the throat, halfway to my heart. He would then disappear, leaving me choking with equipment. What I mean is, I sat down on the library steps and he went away. I looked through the house of mirth but lost interest. I felt extremely accused. Now, it's true, I'm short of requests and absolute requirements, but I do want something. I want, for instance, to be a different person. I want to be the woman who brings these two books back in two weeks. I want to be the effective citizen who changes the school system and addresses the board of estimate on the troubles of this dear urban center. I had promised my children to end the war before they grew up. I wanted to have been married forever to one person. My ex husband or my present one either has enough character for a whole life, which, as it turns out, really is not such a long time. You couldn't exhaust either man's qualities or get under the rock of his reasons in one Short Life. Just this morning, I looked out the window to watch the street for a while and saw that the little sycamores the city had dreamily planted a couple years before the kids were born had come that day to the prime of their lives. Well, I decided to bring those two books back to the library, which proves that when a person or an event comes along to jolt or appraise me, I can take some appropriate action. Although I am better known for my hospitable remarks.
- [09:56]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Once by Grace Paley, performed by Idina Verson. You can probably hear why Paley's stories are considered slices of life. While a story may revolve around a coffee break or a trip to the library, the characters confront the world's injustices, their unfulfilled lives and complicated relationships. Before we hear our next Paley story, let's hear from the author herself. She actually hosted a live edition of Selected shorts back in 1995, and we have some charming audio from that night. I wish I'd been there.
- [10:29]
Grace Paley
I wrote short stories because I wrote short stories, right? Because that's what I did. And it became a way of thinking. It's a way of thinking about the world for me to write those stories. So it was after I was writing these stories or after I'd been writing these stories that I began to understand what stories were about. I didn't seem to know what they were really about while I was writing my first book, or even my second, but I understood more and more what the story meant to people. And I don't mean my stories. I mean every single story. I mean the story you want to tell about yourself. The story that your friend wants to tell is the story about the life of your people, the story about how others are living, and the story that the child tells, which is the very first story that's told, that the child comes home after school and says, ma, I want to tell you something. And the mother either listens or doesn't listen, and probably the child's fate is decided then and there.
- [11:31]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Grace Paley on stage at Symphony Space. Now, that next story I promised you, it's about longtime friendship and the commitments that come with it. This story was read by an elegant, frequent shorts performer, Rita Wolf. Her many New York stage credits include out of Time and the recent revival of Edward Albee's A Delicate Balance. And here she is with Grace Paley's Ruthie and Edie.
- [11:58]
Joanna Gleason
One day in the Bronx, two small girls named Edie and Ruthie were sitting on the Stoop. Steps. They were talking about the real world of boys. Because of this, they kept their skirts pulled tight around their knees. A gang of boys who lived across the street spent at least one hour of every Saturday afternoon pulling up girls dresses. They needed to see the color of a girl's underpants in order to scream outside the candy store. Edie wears pink panties, Ruthie said. Anyway, she liked to play with those boys. They did more things. Edie said. She hated to play with them. They hit and picked up her skirt and played war on the corner. Edie said, it wasn't that good. Ruthie said, another thing, Edie. You could be a soldier if you're a boy. So what's so good about that? Well, you could fight for your country. Edie said, I don't want to. What, Edie? Ruthie was a big reader and most interesting reading was about bravery. For instance, Roland's horn at Roncesvo. Her father had been brave and there was often a lot of discussion about this. At suppertime, in fact, he sometimes modestly said, yes, I suppose I was brave in those days. And so was your mother, he added. Then Ruthie's mother put his boiled egg in front of him where he could see it. Reading about Roland, Ruthie learned that if a country wanted to last, it would require a great deal of bravery. She nearly cried with pity when she thought of Edie and the United States of America. You don't want to? She asked. No. Why, Edie? Why? I don't feel like. Why, Edie? How come you always start hollering if I don't do what you tell me? I don't always have to say what you tell me. I can say whatever I like. Yeah, but if you love your country, you have to go to fight for it. How come you don't want to? Even if you get killed, it's worth it. Edie said, I don't want to leave my mother. Your mother? You must be a baby, your mother. Edie pulled her skirt very tight over her knees. I don't like it when I don't see her a long time. Like when she went to Springfield to my uncle. I don't like it. Oh boy, said Ruthie. Oh, boy, what a baby. She stood up. She wanted to go away. She just wanted to jump from the top step, run down to the corner and wrestle with someone. She said, you know, Edie, this is my stoop. Edie didn't budge. She leaned her chin on her knees and felt sad. She was a big reader too, but she liked the bobsy twins or honey bunch at the seashore. She loved that nice family life. She tried to live it in the three rooms on the fourth floor. Sometimes she called her father dad, or even Father, which surprised him. Who? He asked. I have to go home now, she said. My cousin Alfred's coming. She looked to see if Ruthie was still mad. Suddenly she saw a dog. Ruthie, she said, getting to her feet. There's a dog coming. Ruthie turned. There was a dog about three quarters of the way down the block between the candy store and the grocer's. It was an ordinary middle sized dog, but it was coming. It didn't stop to sniff at curbs or pee on the house fronts. It just trotted steadily along the middle of the sidewalk. Ruthie watched him. Her heart began to thump and take up too much space inside her ribs. She thought speedily. Oh, a dog has teeth. It's large, hairy. Strange. Nobody can say what a dog is thinking. A dog is an animal. You could talk to a dog, but a dog couldn't talk to you. If you said to a dog stop, a dog would just keep going. If it's angry and bites you, you might get rabies. It will take you about six weeks to die and you will die screaming in agony. Your stomach will turn into a rock and you will have lockjaw. When they find you, your mouth will be paralyzed wide open in your dying scream. Ruthie said, I'm going right now. She turned as though she'd been directed by some far off switch. She pushed the hall door open and got safely inside. With one hand she pressed the apartment bell. With the other she held the door shut. She leaned against the glass door as Edie started to bang on it. Let me in, Ruthie. Let me in, please. Oh, Ruthie, I can. Please, Edie. I just can't. Edie's eyes rolled fearfully toward the walking dog. It's coming. Oh, Ruthie, please, please. No, no, said Ruthie. The dog stopped right in front of the stoop to hear the screaming and banging. Edie's heart stopped too. But in a minute he decided to go on. He passed. He continued his easy, steady pace. When Ruthie's big sister came down to call them for lunch, the two girls were crying. They were hugging each other and their hair was a mess. You two are nuts, she said. If I was Mama, I wouldn't let you play together so much every single day. I mean it. Many years later, in Manhattan, it was Ruthie's 50th birthday. She had invited three friends. They waited for her at the round kitchen table. She had been constructing several pies so that this birthday could be celebrated in her kitchen during the day by any gathered group without too much trouble. Now and then one of the friends would say, will you sit down, for God's sakes? She would sit immediately, but in the middle of someone's sentence, or even one of her own, she'd jump up with a look of worry beyond household affairs to wash a cooking utensil or wipe crumbs of flour off the Formica counter. Edie was one of the women at the table. She was sewing by neat hand a new zipper into an old dress. She said, ruthie, it wasn't like that. We both ran in and out a lot. Nope, said Ruth. You would never have locked me out. You were an awful sissy sweetie, but you would never, never have locked me out. Just look at yourself. Look at your life. Edie glanced, as people will when told to do that. She saw a chubby dark haired woman who looked like a nice short teacher, someone who stood at the front of the schoolroom and said, history is a wonderful subject. It's all stories. It's where we come from, who we are. For instance, where do you come from, Juan? Where do your parents and grandparents come from? You know that, Ms. Seaton Porto Rico. You know that Alango Taimo, Juan said. Probably in order to mock both languages, Edie thought, oh, to whom would he speak, for Christ's sake? This is a party, isn't it? Said Anne. She was patting a couple of small cases and a projector on the floor next to her chair. Was she about to offer a slideshow? No. She had already been prevented from doing this by faith, who'd looked at the clock two or three times and said, I don't have the time. Jack is coming tonight. Ruth had looked at the clock, too, next week and said, okay, okay. But Ruthie, I want to say you have to quit knocking yourself. I've seen you do a million good things. If you were such a dud, why did I write down in my will that if anything happened to me, you and Joe were the ones who'd raised my kids? You were just plain wrong. I couldn't even raise my own right. Ruthie, really. They're pretty much raised anyway. How can you say an awful thing like that? Edie asked. They're wonderful, beautiful, brilliant girls. Edie knew this because she had held them in her arms the third or fourth day of life. Naturally, she became the friend called Aunt. That's true. I Don't have to worry about Sarah anymore, I guess. Why? Because she's a married mommy? Faith asked. What an insult to Edie. No, no, that's okay, said Edie. Well, I do worry about Rachel. I just can't help myself. I never know where she is. She was supposed to be here last night. She does usually call. Where the hell is she? Oh, probably in jail for some stupid little sit in or something. Anne said she'd get out in five minutes. Why she thinks that kind of thing works is a mystery to me. You brought her up like that and now you're surprised. Beside which, I don't want to talk about the goddamn kids, said Anne. Here I've gone around half of most of the nearly socialist world and nobody asked me a single question. I have been a witness of events. She shouted. I do want to hear everything, said Ruth. Then she changed her mind. Well, I don't mean everything. Just say one good thing and one bad thing about every place you've been. We've only got two hours. It was 4:00 at 6, Sarah and Tomas, with Letty, the first grandchild standing between them, would be at the door. Letty would probably think it was her own birthday. Someone would say, what curly hair. They would all love her new shoes. And her newest sentence, which was, remember dad. Because for such a long time there had been only the present, full of milk and looking. Then one day, trying to dream into an afternoon nap, she sat up and said, grandma, I broke your cup. Remember that? In this simple way the lifelong past is invented, which as we know, thickens the present and gives all kinds of advice to the future. So Anne, I mean just a couple of things about each country. Ah, that's not much of a discussion. For Christ's sake, it's a party, Ann. You said it yourself. Well, change your face then. Oh. Ruth touched her mouth, the corners of her eyes. You're right. Birthday, she said. Well, let's go then. Sudan, she stated. Two good things and one bad thing. About Chile, an earlier visit. Rhodesia, the Soviet Union and Portugal. You forgot about China. Why don't you tell them about our trip to China? I don't think I will, Ruthie. It only contradict every word I say. Edie, the oldest friend, stripped a nice freckled banana. She'd been watching during Ann's talk. The thing is, Ruth, you never simply say yes. I've told you so many times, I would have slammed the door on you, admit it. But it was your house and that slowed me down. Property, Anne said. Even among poor people, it begins early.
- [23:16]
Rita Wolf
Poor?
- [23:17]
Joanna Gleason
Asked Edie. It was the Depression. Two questions. Faith believed. She'd listened patiently long enough. I love that story, but I've heard it before whenever you're down in the dumps, Ruthie, right? I haven't, said Anne. How come? Ruthie, also, will you please sit with us? The second question. What about this city? I mean, I'm kind of sick of these big international reports. Look at this place. Looks like a toxic waste dump. A war. Nine million people. Oh, that's true, Edie said. But Faith, the whole thing is hopeless. Top to bottom, the streets. Those kids. Dumped. Plain dumped. That's the correct word. Dumped. She began to cry. Cut it out. And shouted, no tears, Edie. No. Stop this minute. I swear. Faith said, you better stop that. They were all even, Edie, ideologically, spiritually, and on puritanical principle against despair. Faith was sorry to have mentioned the city and Edie's presence. You said the word city to Edie, or even the cool adjective municipal. Specific children, usually sitting at the back of the room, appeared before her eyes and refused to answer when she called on them. So Faith said, okay, new subject. What do you women think of the grand juries they're calling up all over the place? All over what place? Edie asked. Oh, Faith, forget it. They're going through something. You know, you three lead such adversarial lives. I hate it. What good does it do? Anyway, those juries will pass. Edie, sometimes I think you're half asleep. You know that woman in New Haven who was called? I know her personally. She wouldn't say a word. She's in jail. They're not kidding. I never opened my mouth either, said Anne. Never. She clamped her mouth shut there and then. I believe you, Ann. But sometimes, Ruth said, I think. Suppose I was in Argentina and they had my kid. God, if they had our Sarah's, Letty, I'd maybe say anything. Oh, Ruth, you've held up pretty well once or twice, Faith said. Yes, Ann said. In fact, we were all pretty good that day. We were sitting right up against the horses knees at the draft board. Were you there, Edie? And then the goddamn horses started to rear and the cops were knocking people on their backs and heads. Remember that? And Ruthie, I was watching you. You suddenly plowed in and out of those monsters. You should have been trampled to death. And you grabbed the captain by his gold buttons and you hollered, you bastard, get your goddamn cavalry out of here. You shook him and you shook him. He ordered them Ruth said. She set one of her birthday cakes, which was an apple plum pie, on the table. I saw him. He was the responsible person. I saw the whole damn operation. I'd begun to run the horses, but I turned because I was the one supposed to be in front, and I saw him give the order. Never honestly been so angry. Ann smiled. Anger, she said. That's really good. You think so? Ruth asked. You sure, abu Zaaf said Anne. Ruth lit the candles. Come on, Anne, we've got to blow this out together and make a wish. I don't have the wind I used to have. But you're still full of hot air, edie said and kissed her hard. What did you wish for, Ruthie? She asked. Well, I wish some wish, ruth said. Well, I wish that this world wouldn't end. This world? This world, ruth said softly. Me too. I wished exactly the same. Taking action, Anne hoisted herself up onto a kitchen chair, saying, my back. Ouch. My knee. Then let us go forth with fear and courage and rage to save the world. Bravo, edie said softly. Wait a minute, said Faith. Anne said, oh, you, you. But it was 6 o'clock and the doorbell rang. Sarah and Tomas stood on either side of Letty, who was hopping or wiggling with excitement, hiding behind her mother's long skirt or grabbing her father's thigh. The door had barely opened when Letty jumped forward to hug Ruth's knees. I'm going to sleep in your house, Grandma. I know, darling. I know, Grandma. I slept in her bed with you. Remember that? Oh sure, darling. I remember. We Woke up around 5 and it was still dark and I looked at you and you looked at me and you had a great big Letty smile and we just burst out laughing and you laughed and I laughed. I remember that, Grandma. Leti looked at her parents with shyness and pride. She was still happy to have found the word remember, which could name so many pictures in her head. And then we went right back to sleep, ruth said, kneeling now to Letty's heights to kiss her little face. Where's my Aunt Rachel? Letty asked, hunting among the crowd of unfamiliar legs in the hallway. I don't know. She's supposed to be here, letty said. Mummy, you promise she's really supposed yes, said Ruth, picking Letty up to hug her, then hug her again. Letty, she said as lightly as she could. She is supposed to be here. But where can she be? She certainly is supposed. Letty began to squirm out of Ruth's arms. Mommy, she called. Grandma is squeezing, but it seemed to Ruth that she'd better hold her even closer because though no one else seemed to notice, Letty, rosy and soft cheeked as ever, was falling already, falling, falling out of her brand new hammock of world, inventing words onto the hard floor of man made time.
- [29:32]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Rita Wolf with Ruthie and Edie. By Grace Paley Grace Paley gets this friendship down pat, and the jump from the past to the present doesn't even feel huge. It's more like a skip from one Lily pad to the next, kind of like life itself. When we return, love and acting lessons from the Rudolph Valentino of Second Avenue. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to Selected Shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. This hour is dedicated to the life and work of writer Grace Paley. If you're listening, my guess is you love stories. Head to selectedshorts.org where you'll find all episodes available to stream. And while you're there, why not subscribe to the podcast no road is Long with good company, so the Turkish proverb goes. We couldn't agree more and we hope to see you in the coming months as we take Selected Shorts on tour. We're crisscrossing the country with stops in Dallas, Texas, Los Angeles, California Huntington, Pennsylvania Beaverton, Oregon and Albany, New York. We promise there is nothing like seeing these great performances in person sitting next to your fellow Shorts fan. Head to selectedshorts.org ontour for venue and ticket information. We hope you'll join us. The final Pele story we'll share this hour is Goodbye and Good Luck. It's a fan favorite in part because the immediacy of the narrator's voice and the direct address make us sit up and pay attention right away. Also, I urge you to listen to Paley's diction here. The turns of phrase she gives our narrator, Aunt Rose are wonderfully idiosyncratic. The performer reading the story is Joanna Gleason. She won a Tony for her performance in the original Broadway production of into the woods, and her many on screen credits include the recent series Sensitive Skin. Here is Joanna Gleason really digging into the story. Goodbye and Good Luck by Grace Paley.
- [32:05]
Rita Wolf
I was popular in certain circles, says Aunt Rose. I was no thinner then, only more stationary in the flesh. In Time to Come Lily, don't be surprised. Change Is a fact of God. From this, no one is excused. Only a person like your mama stands on one foot. She don't know how big her behind is getting. And sings in the canary's ear for 30 years. Who's listening? Papa's in the shop. You and Seymour are thinking about yourself. So she waits in a spotless kitchen for kind words and thinks, poor Rosie, Poor Rosie. If there was more life in my little sister, she would know my heart is a regular college of feelings. And there is such information between my corset and me. That her whole married life is a kindergarten nowadays. You could find me anytime in a hotel uptown or downtown. Who needs an apartment to live like a maid with a dust rag in the hand, sneezing. I'm in very good with the busboys. It's more interesting than home. All kinds of people, everybody with a reason. And my reason, Lily, is a long time ago I said to the fore lady, Mrs. If I can't sit by the window, I can't sit. If you can't sit by the window, girly, go stand on the street corner. And that's how I got unemployed in novelty wear. For my next job, I answered an ad which said, refined young lady, medium salary, cultural organization. I went by trolley to the address. The Russian Art Theater of Second Avenue. Where they played only the best Yiddish plays. They needed a ticket seller, someone like me, who likes the public but is very sharp on crooks. The man who interviewed me was the manager, a certain type. Immediately he said, rosie Lieber, you surely got a build on you. It takes all kinds, Mr. Kremberg. Don't misunderstand me, little girl. He said, I appreciate. I appreciate a young lady lacking fore and aft. Her blood is so busy warming the toes and fingertips. It don't have time to circulate where it is most required. Everybody likes kindness, I said to him, only don't be fresh, Mr. Kremberg, and we'll make a good bargain. We did. $9 a week, a glass of tea every night. A free ticket once a week for Mama. And I could go watch rehearsals anytime I want. My first $9 was in the grocer's hands, ready to move on already. When Mr. Kimberg said to me, rosie, here's a great gentleman. A member of this remarkable theater wants to meet you. Impressed, no doubt, by your big brown eyes. And who was it, Lily? Listen to me. Before my very eyes was Volodya Vlashkin. Called by the people of those days. The Valentino of Second Avenue. I took one look and I Said to myself, where did a Jewish boy grow so big? Just outside Kyiv. He told me how my mama nursed me till I was six. I was the only boy in the village to have such health. My goodness, Lashkin's six years old. She must have had shredded wheat there, not breasts. Poor woman. My mother was very beautiful, he said. She had eyes like stars. He had such a way of expressing himself. It brought tears to Krimberg. Vlashkin said, after this introduction, who is responsible for hiding this wonderful young person in a cage? That is where the ticket seller sells. So, David, go in there and sell tickets for half an hour. I have something in mind in regards to the future of this girl and this company. Go, David, be a good boy. And you, Ms. Libra, please. I suggest Feinberg's for a glass of tea. The rehearsals are long. I enjoy a quiet interlude with a friendly person. So he took me there. Feinberg's. Then around the corner, a place so full of Hungarians it was deafening. In the back room was a table of honor for him. On the tablecloth, embroidered by the lady of the house, was here Vlashkin eats. We finished one glass of tea in quietness, out of thirst. When I finally made up my mind what to say, Mr. Vlashkin, I saw you a couple of weeks ago, even before I started working here in the Seagull. Believe me, if I was that girl, I wouldn't look even for a minute on the young bourgeois fellow. He could fall out of the play altogether. How Chekhov could put him in the same play as you, I can't understand. You liked me? He asked, taking my hand and kindly patting it. Well, well, well. Young people still like me so. And you like the theater too. Good, good. And you, Rose, you know, you have such a nice hand. So warm to the touch, such a fine skin. Tell me, why do you wear a scarf around your neck? You only hide your young, young throat. These are not olden times, my child, to live in shame. Who's ashamed? I said, taking off the kerchief. But my hand right away went to the kerchief's place. Because the truth is, it really was olden times. And I was still of a nature to melt with shame. Have some more tea, my dear. No, thank you. I'm a samovar already. Dorfman, he hollered like a king. Bring this child a seltzer with fresh ice. In weeks to follow, I had the privilege to know him better and better as a person. Also the opportunity to see him in his profession. The time Was autumn, the theater full of coming and going, rehearsing without end. After the Seagull flopped, the Salesman from Istanbul played a great success. Here the ladies went crazy on the opening night. In the middle of the first scene, one missus, a widow or her husband, worked two long hours, began to clap and sing out, oi, oi, Valashkin. Soon there was such a tumult. The actress had to stop acting. Vlashkin stepped forward only not Vlashkin to the eyes. A younger man with pitch black hair, lively on restless feet, his mouth clever. A half a century later, at the end of the play, he came out again. A gray philosopher, a student of life from only reading books. His hands are smooth as silk. I cried to think who I was. Nothing. And such a man could look at me with interest. Then I got a small raise due to. He kindly put in a good word for me. And also for 50 cents a night. I was given the pleasure, together with cousins in laws and plain stage struck kids to be part of a crowd scene and to see, like he saw every single night, the hundreds of pale faces waiting for his feelings to make them laugh and bend down their heads in sorrow. The sad day came. I kissed my mama goodbye. Vlashkin helped me to get a reasonable room near the theater, to be more free. Also my outstanding friend would have a place to recline away from the noise of the dressing room rooms. She cried and she cried. This is a different way of living, Mama, I said. Besides, I am driven by love. You, you are nothing. A rotten hole in a piece of cheese. Are you telling me what is life? She screamed, very insulted. I went away from her. But I am good natured, you know. Fat people are like that kind. And I thought to myself, poor Mama. It is true she got more of an idea of life than me. She married who she didn't like. A sick man, his spirit already swallowed up by God. He never washed, he had an unhappy smell, his teeth fell out, his hair disappeared. He got smaller, shriveled up little by little, till goodbye and good luck. He was gone, and only came to Mama's mind when she went to the mailbox under the stairs to get the electric bill. In memory of him and out of respect for mankind, I decided to live for love. Don't laugh, you ignorant girl. Do you think it was easy for me? I had to give Mama a little something. Ruthie was saving up together with your papa for linens, a couple of knives and forks. In the morning I had to do piecework if I wanted to keep myself So I made flowers before lunchtime every day. A whole garden grew on my table. This was my independence, Lily dear, blooming. But it didn't have no roots and its face was paper. Meanwhile, Kremberg went after me too. No doubt observing the success of Vlashkin. He thought, aha, open sesame. Others in the company similar after me in those years were the following. Kremberg I mentioned. Carl Zimmer played innocent young fellows with a wig. Charlie Peel, a Christian who fell into the soup by accident. A creator of beautiful sets. Color is his middle name, says Lashkin, always to the point. I put this in to show you your fat old aunt was not crazy out of loneliness. In those noisy years I had friends among interesting people who admired me for reasons of youth and that I was a first class listener. The actresses Raisla, Maria, Esther Leopold were only interested in tomorrow. After them was the rich men, producers, the whole garment center. Their past is a pin cushion, future the eye of a needle. Finally the day came. I could no longer keep my tact in my mouth. I said, blashkin, I hereby carrier pigeon that you have a wife, children, the whole combination. True? I don't tell stories. I make no pretense. That isn't the question. What is this lady like? It hurts me to ask, but tell me, Vlashkin, a man's life is something I don't clearly see. Little girl, I have told you a hundred times, this small room is the convent of my troubled spirit. Here I come to your innocence shelter to refresh myself in the midst of an agonized life. Ah, Flashkin. Serious, serious.
- [42:54]
Meg Wolitzer
Who.
- [42:55]
Rita Wolf
Who is this lady? Rosie? She's a fine woman of the middle classes, A good mother to my children. Three in number, girls all. A good cook in her youth, Handsome now no longer young. You see. Could I be more frank? I entrust you, dear, with my soul. It was some few months later, at the New Year's ball of the Russian Artists club, I met Mrs. Lashkin, a woman with black hair in a low bun, straight and too proud. She sat at a small table, speaking in a deep voice to whoever stopped a moment to converse. Her Yiddish was perfect, each word cut like a special jewel. I looked at her. She noticed me like she noticed everybody. Cold like Christmas morning. Then she got tired. Vlashkin called a taxi and I never saw her again. Poor woman. She did not know I was on the same stage as her. The poison I was to her role. She did not know. Later on that night, in front of my door, I said to Vlashkin, no more. This isn't for me. I am sick from it all. I am no homebreaker. Girlie. He said, don't be foolish. No, no. Goodbye. Good luck. I said, I am sincere. So I went and stayed with mama for a week's vacation. And cleaned up all the closets and scrubbed the walls till the paint came off. She was very grateful. All the same, her hard life made her say, now we see the end. If you live like a bum, you are finally a lunatic. After this a few days, I came back to my life. When we met, me and Vlashkin, we only said hello and goodbye. And then for a few sad years with the head, we nodded as if to say, yes, yes, I know who you are. Meanwhile, in the field was a whole new strategy. Your mama and your grandmama brought around boys. Your own father had a brother. You never seen him. Reuben, a serious fellow. His idealism was his hat and his coat. Rosie, I offer you a big, new, free, happy, unusual life. How with me we will raise the sands of Palestine to make a nation that is the land of tomorrow for us Jews. Reuben. Then I'll go tomorrow. Rosie says, Reuben, we need strong women like you. Mothers and farmers. You don't fool me, Reuben. What you need is dray horses. But for that, you need more money. I don't like your attitude, Rose. In that case, go and multiply. Goodbye. Another fellow, Yankel Gerstein, a regular sport, dressed to kill with such an excitable nature. In those days, it looks to me like it was yesterday. The youngest girls wore undergarments like Battle Creek, Michigan. To him, it was a matter of seconds. Where did he practice? A nice Jewish boy. Nowadays, I suppose it's easier. Lily. Oh, my goodness. I ain't asking you nothing. Touchy, touchy, touchy. Well, by now you must know yourself, honey. Whatever you do, life don't stop. It only sits a minute, and dream's a dream. While I was saying to all these silly youngsters, no, no, no. Vlashkin went to Europe and toured a few seasons. Moscow, Prague, London, even Berlin. Already a pessimistic place. When he came back, he wrote a book you could get from the library even today. The Jewish actor abroad. If someday you're interested enough. In my lonesome years, you could read it. You could absorb a flavor of the man from the book. No, no, I'm not mentioned. After all, who am I? When the book came out, I stopped him in the street to say congratulations. But I am not a liar. So I pointed out two things. The egotism of many Parts. Even the critics said something along such lines. Talk is cheap. Flashkin answered me. But who are the critics? Tell me, do they create? Not to mention, he continues, there is a line in Shakespeare, in one of the plays from the great history of England, it says, self loving is not so vile a sin, my liege, as self neglecting. This idea also appears in modern times, in the moralistic followers of Freud. Rosie, are you listening? You asked a question. By the way, you look very well. How come no wedding ring? I walked away from this conversation in tears. But this talking in the street opened the happy road up for more discussions in regard to many things. For instance, the management, very narrow minded, wouldn't give him any more certain young men's parts.
- [47:48]
Joanna Gleason
Fools.
- [47:49]
Rita Wolf
What youngest man knew enough about life to be as young as him? Rosie, Rosie, he said to me one day, I see by the clock on your rosy, rosy face you must be 30. The hands are slow. Vlashkin. On a week before Thursday I was 34. Is that so rosy? I worry about you. It has been on my mind to talk to you. You are losing your time. Do you understand it? A woman should not lose her time. Vlashkin, if you are my friend, what is time for this? He had no answer, only looked at me, surprised. We went instead, full of interest, but not with our former speed up to my new place on 94th Street. The same pictures on the wall, all of Vlashkin, only now everything painted red and black, which was stylish and new upholstery. A few years ago there was a book by another member of that fine company, an actress, the one that learned English very good and went uptown, Marja Kavkaz, in which she says certain things regarding Vlashkin, Such as he was her lover for 11 years. She's not ashamed to write this down without respect for him, his wife and children, or even others who may also have feelings in the matter. Now, Lily, don't be surprised. This is called a fact of life. An actor's soul must be like a diamond. The more faces it's got, the more shining is his name. Honey, you will no doubt love and marry one man and have a couple of kids and be happy forever till you die. Tired. More than that, a person like us doesn't have to know, but a great artist like Volodya Vlashkin, in order to make a job on the stage, he's got to practice. I understand it now. To him life is like a rehearsal. Myself, when I saw him in the father in law, an older man in love with A darling young girl, his son's wife, played by Razel Amazel. I cried. What he said to this girl. How he whispered, such sweetness. How all his hot feelings were on his face. Lily, all this experience he had with me. The very words were the same. You can imagine how proud I was. So the story creeps to an end. I noticed at first on my mother's face the rotten handwriting of Time, scribbled up and down her cheeks, across her forehead, back and forth. A child could read. It said, old, old, old. But it troubled my heart most to see these realities scratched on Vlashkin's wonderful expression. First the company fell apart, the theater ended. Esther Leopold died from being very aged. Krembert had a heart attack. Mario went to Broadway. Also Razola changed her name to Rosalyn and was a big comical hit in the movies. Vlashkin himself, no place to go, retired, it said in the paper. An actor without peer. He will write his memoirs and spend his last years in the bosom of his family, among his thriving grandchildren, the apple of his wife's doting eye. This is journalism. We made for him a great dinner of honor. At this dinner, I said to him for the last time, I thought, goodbye, dear friend. Topic of my life. Now we part. And to myself I said, further finished. This is your lonesome bed. A lady what they call fat and 50. You made it personally. From this lonesome bed you will finally fall to a bed not so lonesome, only crowded with a million bones. And now comes Lily Guess. Last week, washing my underwear in the basin, I get a buzz on the phone. Excuse me, is this the Rose Libra formerly connected with the Russian Art Theater? It is. Well, well. How do you do? Rose, this is Lashkin. Vlashkin. Volodya Vlashkin, in fact. How are you, Rose? Living, Vlashkin. Thank you. You are all right. Really, Rose, Your health is good, you are working? My health, considering the weight it must carry, is first class. I am back for some years now where I started in novelty wear. Very interesting. Listen, Vlashkin, tell me the truth. What's on your mind? My mind, Rosie. I am looking up an old friend, an old warm hearted companion of more joyful days. My circumstances, by the way, are changed. I am retired, as you know. Also I am a free man. What? What do you mean? Mrs. Lashkin is divorcing me. What come over her? Did you start drinking or something? From melancholy? She is divorcing me for adultery. But Lashkin, you should excuse me. Don't be insulted, but you got maybe 1718 years on me, and even me. All this nonsense, these daydreams and nightmares, is mostly for the pleasure of conversation alone. I pointed all this out to her. My dear, I said, my time is past. My blood is as dry as my bones. The truth is, Rose, she isn't accustomed to have a man around all day, reading out loud from the papers the interesting events of our time. Waiting for breakfast, waiting for lunch. So all day she gets madder and madder. And by nighttime a furious old lady gives me my supper. She has information from the last 50 years to pepper my soup. Surely there was a Judas in that theater, saying every day, vlachkin, Vlashkin, Vlashkin. And while my heart was circulating with his smiles, he was on the wire passing dope to my wife. Such a foolish envelope. You're to such a lively state story. What is your plans? First, could I ask you for dinner and the theater uptown? Of course. After this. We are old friends. I have money to burn. What your heart desires. Others are like grass. The north wind of time has cut out their heart of you, Rosie. I recreate only kindness. What a woman should be to a man. You were to me. Do you think, Rosie, a couple of old pals like us could have a few good times among the material things of this world? My aunt Lily in a minute was all together. Yes, yes. Come up, I said. Ask the room by the switchboard. Let us talk. So he came that night and every night in the week. We talked of his long life, even at the end of time. A fascinating man. And like men are too, till time's end, trying to get away in one piece. Listen, Rosie, he explains. The other day I was married to my wife, you realize. Nearly half a century. What good was it? Look at the bitterness. The more I think of it, the more I think we would be fools to marry Volodya Vlashkin. I told him straight. When I was young, I warmed your cold back many a night, no questions asked. You admit it? I didn't make no demands. I was soft hearted. I didn't want to be called Rosie Lieber, the breaker up of homes. But now, Vlashkin, you are a free man. How could you ask me to go with you on trains? To stay in strange hotels among Americans? Not your wife be ashamed. So now, darling Lily, tell this story to your mama from your young mouth. She don't listen to a word from me. She only screams. I'll faint, I'll faint. Tell her. After all, I'll have a husband, which, as everybody knows, a woman should have at least one before the end of the story. Oh, my goodness, I'm already late. Give me a kiss. After all, I watched you grow from a plain seed. So give me a couple wishes on my wedding day. A long and happy life, Many years of love. Hug Mama and tell her from Aunt Rose goodbye and good luck.
- [55:59]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Goodbye and Good Luck by Grace Paley, performed by Joanna Gleason. What a great story and a great reading. I felt connections to my own family. My grandparents interspersed Yiddish words throughout their conversations. I attended something called the Sholem Aleichem Yiddish Folk School on weekends. I think it was called that, where I learned to read Yiddish from a primer that featured characters like Dick and Jane, except they were named Matila and Gittela. When I heard this story, I felt thrust into a past and a city and an essence of a language that feel as if they've evaporated. But a writer like Grace Paley can take what's evaporated and add a little water, maybe even a little seltzer from one of those blue bottles that a delivery man might have deposited at the door each week and bring it to life before our eyes. Her characters are definitely alive for me and I hope for you, too. Sadly, Grace Paley wasn't around to see her 100th birthday. But as you heard, the stories she's left behind are vibrant, vulnerable, passionate, and very distinctly her own. So if a friend wants a writer recommendation for their book group or just a good read, you can't go wrong with Grace Paley. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Dierdorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.