A Trip, A Dance, and Finally, A Job

Papa Cohen gave me a very generous gift: he paid for me to go along with my mother and Aunt Eleanor to the Soviet Union to visit my great-aunt Rosa and her family. Rosa was the only sister of Nana Cohen, my late grandmother who had bravely sailed from her family and homeland at the age of sixteen.

Nana would never have imagined when she departed Russia that she wouldn’t see her sister again for fifty-two years. She would never have imagined that her communication with her sister would be cut off for more than twenty years under Communist rule. Nana worked like a gumshoe detective to track down anyone who could become a conduit for their letter exchanges, and her determination paid off: In the mid-1960’s she found someone to spirit the letters back and forth. In 1974, when Nana was already in declining health, she made a solo trip back to Kiev and shared a week-long, bittersweet reunion with her sister.

When she opened the door and I saw how much she looked like Nana, I fell into her plump arms with tears of joy and relief.

After Nana died in 1977, my mother, Eleanor and Papa Cohen kept their promise to my grandmother and flew to Kiev to maintain the bond with our family stuck behind the Iron Curtain. Now, five years later, with Rosa quite elderly, Mom and Eleanor were eager to go again. I was thrilled to join them, but from the minute we landed, an atmosphere of oppression weighed thickly in the air. Never before had I experienced the feeling of being watched and mistrusted because I was an American and a Jew. At the airport, Mom and I were hustled away from Eleanor to a separate room. A stocky, dour-faced apparatchik intimidated and bullied us, examining our belongings with ludicrous, almost hilarious attention. She dispatched her lackeys to take away other items for reasons that remained mysterious.

Invasions of our hotel room emphasized that we were being watched

I was a nervous wreck by the time we arrived at Aunt Rosa’s tiny apartment. When she opened the door and I saw how much she looked like Nana, I fell into her plump arms with tears of joy and relief. Our hotel room was routinely searched while we were out—the clear message that we were personae non grata.

One day I asked Aunt Rosa something in Yiddish while we were on a public bus. It was the only language we had in common, though mine was rudimentary at best despite two consecutive Yiddish courses at U.C. Berkeley. Rosa’s eyes darted left and right in fear as she placed a finger to her lips and whispered to me, “In der haym.” In the house. I felt so foolish for my gaffe. Where did I think I was, Brooklyn? Here in the Soviet Union, one didn’t advertise one’s Jewishness in public. I left the country with many incredible experiences and a much more profound appreciation for the freedoms I took for granted at home in the United States, not least of which were freedom of movement, speech, and religion.

I had yet to sell anything to a large or secular newspaper or magazine—I knew I’d break through one day.

After this once-in-a-lifetime adventure, I moved back in with my parents as I looked for a job, scouring the “Help Wanted” ads every day and jumping straight to “editorial” or “writer” listings. I subscribed to writers’ magazines, and sent story pitches to major magazines in New York, crafting and typing each letter with scrupulous care, even including the self-addressed stamped envelope that was de rigueur in those days. A month or so later, each of my SASEs would wend its way back to me, with the magazine’s standard rejection note enclosed, including the boilerplate copy wishing me luck with my future writing endeavors. I had yet to sell anything to a large or secular newspaper or magazine—I knew I’d break through one day.

A new social connection leads to an important interview

On Tuesday nights I began to frequent Café Dansa, a little club on L.A.’s West Side which offered Israeli dancing. I had plenty of time on my hands and plenty of energy to dance off. I had great fun, brushing up on the steps that I had practiced every week at the Hillel House while still a student at UCLA. I’d invariably see and chat with casual friends at the café, and it became a highlight of my week. Most everyone was young, with a smattering of older adults who still had the moves. I admired how fit they stayed and made a note to myself: never stop dancing!

One night at Café Dansa I met a man named John, and after one dance he invited me off to the side to talk. John was tall, slim, with curly dark hair and a gentle personality. He was an executive at a local hospital and sixteen years older than me, so I was determined to politely decline if he asked me out, which I expected him to do. However, when I mentioned my job hunt for a writing position, he offered to put me in touch with a pal of his, a magazine publisher who was looking to hire a fulltime writer for a new monthly title. I thanked him and gave him my number so that he could pass her information along to me when he obtained it. I hoped very much this might turn into something, because my job search was going nowhere fast. He called to give me her information, and yes, I agreed to go out with him.

It felt strange to be interviewing for a writing job whose subject remained shrouded in mystery. Whatever it was, I wanted it.

Within a week I was dressed for success and presented myself to Carol, John’s publisher friend. Carol was in her mid-40s and wore stylish clothing accessorized by elegantly manicured nails painted in mauve. Her perfectly coiffed wavy, shoulder-length hair framed an attractive face expertly made up. Her expansive dark wood desk was piled with stacks of paper and various file folders. This desk was a hub of publishing decision-making, and Carol was its commander.

A job offer in the healthcare field–sort of

I sat ramrod straight in a chair across from her as she reviewed my resume, which I had printed on a cream-colored linen paper stock. In a slightly raspy smoker’s voice, Carol asked me several questions about my experiences in writing and reporting. Did she like my answers? I wondered. How was I doing? It felt so strange to be interviewing for a writing job whose subject remained shrouded in mystery. Whatever it was, I wanted it. Scoring a full-time magazine writing job close to home seemed like a dream come true. Besides, Carol’s other magazines were in the healthcare field—one was for EMTs, another was about dialysis and transplantation. I imagined myself pumped with adrenalin while writing such consequential matters, about people making life-and-death medical decisions. While visions of ambulances and caring doctors, nurses and EMTs still danced in my head, Carol set my resume and cover letter down and began to tell me about her new magazine, Hospital Gift Shop Management.

Had I heard correctly? The name jarred me. If I had heard correctly, what in the world would I write about? Teddy bears? Candy bars?

“Um, did you say, ‘Hospital Gift Shop Management?’ What sort of articles would there be?” I blurted out. Had I just quashed my job prospects? I could write about Teddy bears if I had to. Candy bars, too, though I would have to fake any appreciation for candies with nougat. But Carol was a shrewd businesswoman and had clearly done her research. She began ticking off a bounty of article topics, tapping each one of her beautifully manicured fingers against their mates on her other hand as she listed them.

“There are management issues. Most hospital gift shops are run by volunteers, so it can be hard to keep a solid staff. Nearly all the shops are small, so how do they showcase their merchandise at best advantage? The money earned helps hospitals afford equipment they wouldn’t otherwise have. . . ”

I nodded my head, my understanding of this itty-bitty niche in retailing expanding by the second. I liked Carol and I got the feeling that she liked me, too. I could have been her daughter, a daughter following in her own publishing footsteps. Carol not only offered me the job, but when she asked me for my salary requirement, I punted, as my mother had advised. Good thing too, because Carol offered me several thousand dollars more a year than I had hoped to get. (Seeing the consistently pathetic wages offered for starting writing jobs had trained me to expect the paltriest pay for my labor.) I rushed home in excitement, hugging my mother over my new employment status.

I was a writer! A paid, full-time writer!

Having a regular job from 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. and a half-hour for lunch presented a paradigm shift in my life.

On my first day at work, Carol took me out to a fine restaurant for lunch, just the two of us. She made me feel so special, and I listened with great interest to her own background in writing. She and Debbie, her friend and co-publisher, had launched the company as divorced, single mothers who needed to earn a living. Over the years they had succeeded, with a staff of over thirty employees working on four books (which we called the mags), all fat with advertising—the name of the game. I felt so grateful that Carol meant to take me under her wing.

Co-workers with “personality plus” would have filled endless seasons of “The Office”

Having a regular job from 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. and a half-hour for lunch, presented a paradigm shift in my life. I had no homework. I retired my resume. My social life slowed, as many of my college friends had gone away to grad school. For the first time in my sheltered life, I was also in “the real world,” working with a majority of non-Jews in an office environment. It was a colorful crew to be sure. For example, Debbie often swore a blue streak and stalked the halls, fuming about an electricity bill or a cancelled ad contract. Hearing her complain about costs was a hoot since she and Carol had their manicurists wheel their carts into the office each week, while charging who knows what on travel and dining. (Though my own expensed lunch with Carol was clearly a vital company expense.)

Jeanne, proofreader extraordinaire, was not only eagle-eyed when examining typeset copy. Short, middle-aged and with a slight lisp, she also was driven to examine the identity of any other women answering the call of nature at the same time she did. She must have noted all the women’s shoes each morning as we filed into our offices; how else to explain, during what should have been my private moments, Jeanne calling from the next stall, “Is that you, Judy?” I became especially friendly with Chris and Donna, two lively graphic designers, and we laughed all the time about Jeanne and her “curiosity.” We once schemed to bring in Army boots and take turns wearing them whenever “the need arose,” but we didn’t have the heart to deprive Jeanne of her fun. Nearly everyone in the place had “personality-plus,” the stuff of future seasons of “The Office.”

I dated John a few more times, and my parents, bless their hearts, said not a word about the considerable age difference between us. “He’s a nice boy,” my sweet father said. John was “a nice boy,” but not for me, and I was grateful that he entered my life at the right time, to be an emissary of sorts between unemployment and my first, real job.