Page 146 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Courtship

to the train, and acted like a gentleman, buying her a box of candy
and a magazine for the trip. I saw her off, making her promise to
write often. I waved and waved as long as I could see her little hand
through the window of the car. I felt like my heart was sinking when
the train disappeared. My only consolation was the many letters she
would write and that she would be thinking of me.
To me it was painful, thinking about her absence. It made me
realize the pangs of love, and the desire to see the one I loved, and to
worry about her welfare. I began to figure the miles from New York
to Buffalo and the time it would take from a letter being postmarked
to its arrival. Like all the heroes in the love stories, I hoped to hear
from her and see her soon. On the third day I watched the mantle
board in the kitchen, but no letters or postal cards. I could not sigh
aloud, because the family would suspect me. The next day my heart
was leaping out: surely it must be there, that lovely letter or postal
card! But days passed, and not one word from her did I receive. This
torture, this mental suffering and suspense, plus a certain fear of
losing her, kept me in a morose and melancholy state of mind for
two weeks. What could have happened? A dozen things occurred to
me: sickness; the mail was lost; she was waiting to write a lot of
things at once; or, maybe, her mother did not like me altogether, and
had torn up the letters. Only poets could describe those tortures I
bore.
At last the two weeks were over and she came home from
Buffalo. When I came in from work she was there already. I was not
able to talk with her in the presence of the family about her actions,
so I just greeted her and asked how she felt. She answered me in such
a cold tone that it froze my blood. Then I asked her to read a lesson,
and she told me she was tired of it. The next day I went to her office
building and waited outside in great suspense until she came out from
work. Her greeting and smile were not the same as before her trip.
She was cold and reserved, with a haughty air of superiority, a change
that stopped me from reprimanding her for not writing me. I became
meek and afraid to ask questions. I took her arm when crossing the
street, like I used to, and she pulled away, objecting politely and
telling me to forget all about it. “What is the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing, nothing,” she said.
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