Two Beas—Not to Be
Title
Two Beas—Not to Be
Creator
Jacob Schlitt
Description
"As I look back over my life, especially my love life, I remember two young women named Bea who played short but memorable parts in my early life."
Date
2009-07-31
Format
application/pdf
Type
text
Language
en
Coverage
1941/1950
Identifier
1941,_44,_50_TWO_BEAS—NOT TO BE
Text
TWO BEAS—NOT TO BE
As I look back over my life, especially my love life, I remember two young women named Bea who played short but memorable parts in my early life. The first Bea is Beatrice Birnbaum. I met her in the Arbeter Ring Shule that my mother sent me to, after my Bar Mitzvah. I had attended the Shule from about the age of eight until I was nine, when my mother decided I should have a traditional Hebrew School education and a Bar Mitzvah. She took me out of the Shule, and enrolled me in the Fox Street Shul's Hebrew School. I returned to my old Shul after my Bar Mitzvah, older and wiser. A major difference between my Hebrew School and the Shule was the presence of girls in the Shule. One of the girls was Beatrice Birnbaum.
I first became aware of the attractions of the opposite sex when I was in sixth grade in PS 62. Two of my classmates excited me: Phyllis Flyer and Rita Feit. Phyllis was tall and blond; Rita was of medium height and had dark hair. Both were very bright. I was shy and had very little to say to either one. I would look furtively at both of them. I confided my feelings to a friend who suggested that we go to Phyllis's apartment house on Southern Blvd after school. We did, and I went into the court yard, called out "Phyllis, I love you," and ran away. It was sixth grade and I was 12 years old. The fact is, I was really in love with my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Young. She was tall, beautiful, and wore a coat with a fur collar which I touched a few times when she wasn’t aware. She had a lovely habit of rising up on her toes as she stood in front of the class. Some sort of exercise, I guessed.
But then I left PS 62 and went on to JHS 52, which was an all boys school. And it was in my last year of junior high school when I attended the Shule and met Bea. I was shy; she was shy. We had very little to say to each other. She went to JHS 60, the girl's junior high, but we didn't talk about school or about anything else. We sat next to each other in Mr. Bernstein's class and learned Yiddish. When I graduated from junior high, in 1942, I left the Shule, and said goodbye to my classmates, including Bea.
On to Stuyvesant High School, another all boys school. In the spring of 1944, I had no girl friends and I certainly wasn't dating. Several of my friends had girl friends, and when a junior prom was announced, they suggested that we all go as a group. I was urged to go with them. Not wanting to reveal that I didn't know any girls, I racked my brain to come up with someone I might invite. I thought of my cousins Barbara and Rozzie. That didn’t seem right. Sort of incestuous. My mother had a friend who had a daughter, but I didn’t really know her, and she was older than me. Then I thought of Bea. I found her phone number; I called her; she was surprised to hear from me. It had been two years since I had left the Shule. We chatted. I asked her about school. I told her about Stuyvesant. Then I asked her if she would go with me to the junior prom. She said yes. Terrific. On the appointed evening, I picked her up. I can't remember where we went, though I do remember that we had a picture taken, which I no longer have. We made a lovely couple: two uncomfortable 16 year olds, trying to act sophisticated. I guess we both felt relieved when the evening was over. I brought her home. I am not sure whether I got a goodnight kiss. That was always the reward that the boy got at the end of a date. She thanked me for a lovely evening. I thanked her. We said good night. I never saw her again.
Over the next six years, I gained a lot more experience. Other names were added to Bea's in my little black book. The dating ritual was established. In the late '40s, it just wasn't right for a young man or a young woman to sit home alone on a Saturday night. The rule was for the young man to call the young woman on Tuesday, to ask for a date for Saturday. If you called Monday, it appeared that you were too anxious. If you called Wednesday, you were taking the young woman for granted. Initially, I would take my date to a movie followed by an ice cream soda or a sundae. As I became more of a man about town, I would get tickets to a Broadway play and we would go out for coffee after the theatre. I had no steady girl friend.
In the fall of 1949, I was a student-teacher at the High School of Music and Art. I couldn't have gotten a better assignment. The school was next door to CCNY, and it had a wonderful faculty and a bright and talented student body. I worked with an outstanding history teacher and a serious and interested senior class. One of the students in the class was a beautiful, bright, red haired young woman named Beatrice Warhaftig.
It was a busy time for me: I had started graduate school, I was working, I was dating, and I spent a lot of time with my friends. In January 1950, Bea graduated, and started her spring semester at City. I ran into her within days after the term began, and was delighted to see her. We talked about the classes she was taking and I told her about my plans to apply to the ILGWU Training Institute. We met frequently over the next weeks, and I enjoyed being with her She had a classic beauty, like a Renaissance painting. And she was smart and talented. We had coffee in the cafeteria; we walked around the campus, and we talked. It was clear that we liked and were attracted to each other.
But I felt guilty. It was not right for a teacher to get involved with his student. However, I was no longer her teacher. We were both students at City now. It is true that she was a freshman, and I was a graduate student, and that she had been my student, but that was no longer the case, so it should be alright. Still…
I asked her out. It was March 1950. We had a wonderful time. I felt something for her which I don't remember feeling before. But the timing was awkward. I had applied to the Training Institute which was to start in May. I had been dating a few other women, Charlotte, Davy and Sylvia. They were closer to my age. But there was something about Bea.
We had several dates, and we enjoyed each other's company. In late spring, one of my friends came up with the idea of a night boat ride up the Hudson. I took Bea and we had a great evening. However, the boat ride took much longer than expected. I don't remember what caused the delay, but instead of docking around 11 PM, it was closer to 1 AM. Then, the long, slow subway ride to her home in the West Bronx.
When we arrived at her apartment house, it was very late, past 2 AM. Standing on the steps of the apartment house was her father. I have no idea how long he had been waiting there. He was obviously very worried, and very angry. Bea was embarrassed and upset to see him standing there. I didn't know what to think. I believe I said hello, and tried to explain why we were so late. All he said was that he does not want me to see his daughter again. It was said quietly, but it was clear that he was seething and that he meant it. Bea went inside with him. No good night, thank you for a lovely evening, and no good night kiss.
I called her several times. On a few occasions, her father answered, and I quickly hung up. When we did speak, she made it clear that she could not go against her father's wishes. She was 18; I was 22. Her father told her that she could not see me. In 1950, in the Bronx, that was an insurmountable obstacle. My dream of a future with Bea—was not to be.
7-31-09
As I look back over my life, especially my love life, I remember two young women named Bea who played short but memorable parts in my early life. The first Bea is Beatrice Birnbaum. I met her in the Arbeter Ring Shule that my mother sent me to, after my Bar Mitzvah. I had attended the Shule from about the age of eight until I was nine, when my mother decided I should have a traditional Hebrew School education and a Bar Mitzvah. She took me out of the Shule, and enrolled me in the Fox Street Shul's Hebrew School. I returned to my old Shul after my Bar Mitzvah, older and wiser. A major difference between my Hebrew School and the Shule was the presence of girls in the Shule. One of the girls was Beatrice Birnbaum.
I first became aware of the attractions of the opposite sex when I was in sixth grade in PS 62. Two of my classmates excited me: Phyllis Flyer and Rita Feit. Phyllis was tall and blond; Rita was of medium height and had dark hair. Both were very bright. I was shy and had very little to say to either one. I would look furtively at both of them. I confided my feelings to a friend who suggested that we go to Phyllis's apartment house on Southern Blvd after school. We did, and I went into the court yard, called out "Phyllis, I love you," and ran away. It was sixth grade and I was 12 years old. The fact is, I was really in love with my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Young. She was tall, beautiful, and wore a coat with a fur collar which I touched a few times when she wasn’t aware. She had a lovely habit of rising up on her toes as she stood in front of the class. Some sort of exercise, I guessed.
But then I left PS 62 and went on to JHS 52, which was an all boys school. And it was in my last year of junior high school when I attended the Shule and met Bea. I was shy; she was shy. We had very little to say to each other. She went to JHS 60, the girl's junior high, but we didn't talk about school or about anything else. We sat next to each other in Mr. Bernstein's class and learned Yiddish. When I graduated from junior high, in 1942, I left the Shule, and said goodbye to my classmates, including Bea.
On to Stuyvesant High School, another all boys school. In the spring of 1944, I had no girl friends and I certainly wasn't dating. Several of my friends had girl friends, and when a junior prom was announced, they suggested that we all go as a group. I was urged to go with them. Not wanting to reveal that I didn't know any girls, I racked my brain to come up with someone I might invite. I thought of my cousins Barbara and Rozzie. That didn’t seem right. Sort of incestuous. My mother had a friend who had a daughter, but I didn’t really know her, and she was older than me. Then I thought of Bea. I found her phone number; I called her; she was surprised to hear from me. It had been two years since I had left the Shule. We chatted. I asked her about school. I told her about Stuyvesant. Then I asked her if she would go with me to the junior prom. She said yes. Terrific. On the appointed evening, I picked her up. I can't remember where we went, though I do remember that we had a picture taken, which I no longer have. We made a lovely couple: two uncomfortable 16 year olds, trying to act sophisticated. I guess we both felt relieved when the evening was over. I brought her home. I am not sure whether I got a goodnight kiss. That was always the reward that the boy got at the end of a date. She thanked me for a lovely evening. I thanked her. We said good night. I never saw her again.
Over the next six years, I gained a lot more experience. Other names were added to Bea's in my little black book. The dating ritual was established. In the late '40s, it just wasn't right for a young man or a young woman to sit home alone on a Saturday night. The rule was for the young man to call the young woman on Tuesday, to ask for a date for Saturday. If you called Monday, it appeared that you were too anxious. If you called Wednesday, you were taking the young woman for granted. Initially, I would take my date to a movie followed by an ice cream soda or a sundae. As I became more of a man about town, I would get tickets to a Broadway play and we would go out for coffee after the theatre. I had no steady girl friend.
In the fall of 1949, I was a student-teacher at the High School of Music and Art. I couldn't have gotten a better assignment. The school was next door to CCNY, and it had a wonderful faculty and a bright and talented student body. I worked with an outstanding history teacher and a serious and interested senior class. One of the students in the class was a beautiful, bright, red haired young woman named Beatrice Warhaftig.
It was a busy time for me: I had started graduate school, I was working, I was dating, and I spent a lot of time with my friends. In January 1950, Bea graduated, and started her spring semester at City. I ran into her within days after the term began, and was delighted to see her. We talked about the classes she was taking and I told her about my plans to apply to the ILGWU Training Institute. We met frequently over the next weeks, and I enjoyed being with her She had a classic beauty, like a Renaissance painting. And she was smart and talented. We had coffee in the cafeteria; we walked around the campus, and we talked. It was clear that we liked and were attracted to each other.
But I felt guilty. It was not right for a teacher to get involved with his student. However, I was no longer her teacher. We were both students at City now. It is true that she was a freshman, and I was a graduate student, and that she had been my student, but that was no longer the case, so it should be alright. Still…
I asked her out. It was March 1950. We had a wonderful time. I felt something for her which I don't remember feeling before. But the timing was awkward. I had applied to the Training Institute which was to start in May. I had been dating a few other women, Charlotte, Davy and Sylvia. They were closer to my age. But there was something about Bea.
We had several dates, and we enjoyed each other's company. In late spring, one of my friends came up with the idea of a night boat ride up the Hudson. I took Bea and we had a great evening. However, the boat ride took much longer than expected. I don't remember what caused the delay, but instead of docking around 11 PM, it was closer to 1 AM. Then, the long, slow subway ride to her home in the West Bronx.
When we arrived at her apartment house, it was very late, past 2 AM. Standing on the steps of the apartment house was her father. I have no idea how long he had been waiting there. He was obviously very worried, and very angry. Bea was embarrassed and upset to see him standing there. I didn't know what to think. I believe I said hello, and tried to explain why we were so late. All he said was that he does not want me to see his daughter again. It was said quietly, but it was clear that he was seething and that he meant it. Bea went inside with him. No good night, thank you for a lovely evening, and no good night kiss.
I called her several times. On a few occasions, her father answered, and I quickly hung up. When we did speak, she made it clear that she could not go against her father's wishes. She was 18; I was 22. Her father told her that she could not see me. In 1950, in the Bronx, that was an insurmountable obstacle. My dream of a future with Bea—was not to be.
7-31-09
Original Format
application/msword
Collection
Citation
Jacob Schlitt, “Two Beas—Not to Be,” Autobiographical stories & other writing by Jacob Schlitt, accessed April 19, 2024, https://tsirlson.omeka.net/items/show/78.