Brooklyn, 1932
Eli Abramowitz cures meat and makes pickles in his parents’ deli in Williamsburg. Not a bad job during the Depression. His family is his whole world—almost. He spends every Sunday at the movies and hopes to hit it big as a Hollywood screenwriter. But how can he tell his parents that one day he’ll be leaving?
Across town, Evelyn Rosenstein’s father works for the mob—undoubtedly the reason they’re doing so well. Definitely the reason she’s not allowed any farther than their mailbox unescorted. Even though her parents have chosen a husband for her, a family tradition, she fantasizes about a life in service to the unfortunate. But for the moment, she dreams of escape, if only for a few hours.
Opportunity strikes, and she ends up at the deli. Evelyn and Eli meet only briefly, but their instant connection tempts an unlikely, forbidden romance. When a charity dinner has them again crossing paths, danger follows. But will it shadow them into their futures?
Brooklyn, 1932
Eli Abramowitz cures meat and makes pickles in his parents’ deli in Williamsburg. Not a bad job during the Depression. His family is his whole world—almost. He spends every Sunday at the movies and hopes to hit it big as a Hollywood screenwriter. But how can he tell his parents that one day he’ll be leaving?
Across town, Evelyn Rosenstein’s father works for the mob—undoubtedly the reason they’re doing so well. Definitely the reason she’s not allowed any farther than their mailbox unescorted. Even though her parents have chosen a husband for her, a family tradition, she fantasizes about a life in service to the unfortunate. But for the moment, she dreams of escape, if only for a few hours.
Opportunity strikes, and she ends up at the deli. Evelyn and Eli meet only briefly, but their instant connection tempts an unlikely, forbidden romance. When a charity dinner has them again crossing paths, danger follows. But will it shadow them into their futures?
Brooklyn, 1932
People cursed at Eli in English and Yiddish as he navigated the broad, April-puddled intersection of Union and Grand, dodging streetcars and pedestrians and automobile drivers honking their horns. He’d been running late to meet his cousin at the movies, and it seemed all of Williamsburg had conspired, from the hazards of black umbrellas to inconveniently placed food vendors, to keep Eli from his destination.
But finally he was closing in.
Cousin Artie stood beneath the Orpheum marquee, nonchalantly perusing the latest issue of True Detective Mysteries, the strap of his book bag across his skinny chest.
Eli had spied that book bag somewhere between nearly getting the point of someone’s umbrella in his eye and the sweet potato man calling him a klutz.
The book bag could only mean—
As Eli’s feet found purchase on the sidewalk, he gasped out the words, “Did he write back?”
Artie’s movements were slow, maddeningly slow. Eli had a strong suspicion his cousin—also seventeen, but younger by two months—was doing that on purpose. He carefully closed his magazine, eased it into the leather bag, and peered up at him through his thick, round spectacles.
“I’m sorry, Eli. There’s been no mail for you this week.”
Eli eyeballed the worn, well-oiled satchel as if it actually did contain a letter from Mr. Jack Warner of Warner Brothers and Artie was only teasing him.
Artie gave the bag a loving pat. It had been his father’s. “I just didn’t want to crease the magazine. I’m saving all the issues that have installments of ‘I Am a Fugitive from a Georgia Chain Gang!’ in them. I read that they’ll be making it into a movie at the end of the year.”
Eli supposed he shouldn’t feel so disappointed. Undoubtedly Mr. Warner was a busy man. But he’d been waiting for such a long—
“He’ll write back.” Artie smiled. “I’m sure he will. It’s a wonderful script.” He cocked his head, scrutinizing Eli again. “But there’s something else troubling you.”
Artie could always tell when something else was troubling him. Eli dug into his right trouser pocket and pulled out two quarters for their movie tickets. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
After Mr. Finkenthal tore their tickets, they found their usual seats, center, fourth row from the back. Eli unwrapped the pastrami on rye he’d made for them at the deli, thankful that it had survived his helter-skelter trip across Williamsburg in his jacket, and handed Artie half.
Their silence, except for chewing, lasted through the coming attractions. One with Barbara Stanwyck. One with Joan Blondell. Their feminine appeal was obvious to Eli. Their motivation? Often as clear as the smoke rising from the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
“Women, Artie. Women are a mystery to me.”
“But you like mysteries,” Artie said. “Remember the last one we saw? You thought the chauffeur did it, but I was certain it was the man with the monocle…”
Eli laughed, a little sadly, addressing the remains of his sandwich. “This is a different kind of mystery. A wholly different mystery that I don’t know how to begin to solve. In a million years, I don’t know that I’ll ever figure it out.”
“Is this about the furrier’s daughter?”
Laura. The knot of tension in Eli’s chest began to loosen. “I thought we were getting along, getting to be friendly. When I deliver their lunch order, she signs for it, and then we talk a little. I thought she liked me. She has such a nice laugh.” He couldn’t stop a wistful smile. “She even touched my arm once, when she thanked me for bringing extra mustard. Then yesterday, I asked if maybe she’d like to go for a walk or get a soda one of these days.”
“Something tells me this story doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“It had an ending all right.” He lost his appetite, scrunched the paper around the last few bites and shoved it into his pocket. “You know, I used to like that laugh. But not when she laughed in my face and said, and I quote, ‘I don’t see any future for myself that involves a deli-man’s boy who smells like the inside of a pickle barrel.’”
The lights faded to black. The two cousins slumped in their seats and the newsreel—something about President Hoover promising a swift end to America’s economic woes—spooled up.
“Well, that was a rude thing to say,” Artie said. “A person can communicate something unfortunate like that without being rude. It’s simple human decency.”
“No kidding. And it gets worse. Last night Pop and I were down in the basement putting up the corned beef, and I tell him, and he says maybe I’m shooting too high. That I should stick to my own.”
“She’s not Jewish?”
“Yes, she’s Jewish. But too rich for our blood. Those were Pop’s exact words. And I quote.”
“Then she’s not the girl for you.” Artie dabbed at his mouth with a threadbare handkerchief, folded it neatly, and stuck it back in his pocket. “She is right about one thing, and I’m not intentionally trying to be rude, but you do smell like the inside of a pickle barrel.”
Eli groaned. He’d tried everything. His mother’s brown laundry soap, the industrial cleanser they kept in the kitchen, even the cut lemons his father swore by. Nothing worked for him. It didn’t help that their family’s apartment was right above the deli. The onions, the dill, the vinegar, everything… It permeated his clothing, his sheets and pillows and mattress, his books and typing paper. Mr. Warner had even noticed. In his last letter, he waxed nostalgic that Eli’s scripts smelled like the delis of his childhood.
“It might not be all that bad,” Artie said. “Maybe you’ll find a girl who likes that.”
When pigs fly. “Yeah, and maybe I’ll be as big as Dashiell Hammett.”
“You’ll be bigger.”
Artie’s optimism, usually helpful, did little to boost Eli’s spirits. “Get outta here. Bigger than Dashiell Hammett. Bigger than Sam Spade.”
The flashlight of doom cut in their direction, followed closely by Mr. Finkenthal’s voice: “Can the chatter, you little pishers.”
They sank lower.
“Bigger,” Artie said under his breath. As the titles for Scarface began, he continued. “And I’ll be right there in Hollywood with you. Just don’t tell my mother.”
“Just don’t tell my mother. Because she’ll tell Pop, and I’ll be making pickles for the rest of my—”
“Hey. Don’t make me toss you two outta here again.”
“Sorry, Mr. Finkenthal,” Artie stage-whispered. “We’ll be quiet now.” He leaned closer to Eli. “Next week bring an extra sandwich for him.”
Evelyn and Eli are like-minded souls, but from opposing worlds in 1930's Brooklyn. Either by fate (a theme throughout the book) or their sheer magnetism, they bump into each other repeatedly in a short period of time. Evelyn's visits start to become more intentional, however, creating a great deal of danger for both of them - from Evelyn's dad and fiancé, who are both in the mob. Ultimately, they both have to decide whether the risks their relationship pose are worth it.
I thought the tone and style of Boris's writing really fit the setting, and loved all the details specific to 1930's Brooklyn - which seemed well-researched. The actions and speech of the characters also seemed appropriate for the setting, creating a whole picture of Evelyn and Eli's lives. As a historical fiction lover, I consider this very enjoyable.
The maturity levels of Evelyn and Eli were more accurate to their ages than portrayals of teenagers often are. At first I actually thought they were reading too young for their ages, but I quickly realized my argument would be based on other fiction but not real life. Most of this involved what often felt like poor decision-making, which I know can be hard to take - especially in large amounts. But it wasn't poor decision-making purely for the sake of desperately creating conflict.
These poor decisions had well-established emotion behind them the reader could connect with, and it is often the other conflicts they face that push them together. Furthermore, it is closer to reality to depict teenagers that make bad decisions, especially when love and stress are involved. So I'd advise you to not turn away from this one just because of the poor decision-making!
The book's tone didn't reflect the bleakness of 1930's Brooklyn, but both narrators were in pretty comfortable positions for the time, even if they were worlds apart. Since it was so accurate in most other ways it would've improved the read, but that doesn't mean references to it aren't frequent. The reason this stands out is to Boris's credit: the immersion being so well-done and greatly aided by the tone make you expect this topic to reflect more in the tone. However, the tone is perfect for a powerful first love story.
I would recommend this to historical fiction lovers, and anyone that loves a coming-of-age romance!