Radio romances (July-Dec 1945)

caught mine, I didn't feel apologetic any more. I felt, instead, oddly happy and at ease. I laughed. "I guess I don't really want to study tonight and I just took it out on the books and on you." He laughed, too, then, and his teeth were white and even. "I know," he said, and handed me the books. "People ought to have to go to the library on rainy nights only. There ought to be a law." I took the books and opened them and tried to read. But I couldn't. I knew he wasn't reading either. I could feel him looking at me occasionally, and I could sense his restlessness. Finally I glanced up, and we both smiled. "Look," he said, leaning across the table. "I'm going to give up. Will you give up too and come out and have a coke or something with me?" This wasn't a pick-up. This was just a friendly gesture. "I'd like to," I said. "Thank you." We took our books back to the desk, and walked down the library steps together. "My name is Robert Lesser" he said. "I haven't been in Newtown very long." "Mine is Phyllis King. I've lived here all my life." Then I said, "What was it you were reading so hard when I came in and interrupted you?" "Architecture . . . Oh, I'm not an architect. But I'd like to be. I studied for a while but then my money ran out and I had to give it up. Now that I've been left a little I decided it was too late to go back to school, and I've gone into the real estate business — opening new additions and buildings, you know. I looked around and decided on Newtown because there was all the good, undeveloped land out there by the river and not too far from the factory. I'd like to build inexpensive houses for the workman." ¥ REMEMBERED then why his name ■* had seemed vaguely familiar. There was a new, neat little sign in one of the windows of the Clarke office building that I'd seen. It said, "Robert Lesser, Real Estate." We sat on the high stools at the counter of the drug store and he .told me more about his plans. His dreams, really. He dreamed of low-cost houses for people who didn't make much money, people with children, who needed sun and light and air and space, instead of living all cramped together. His eyes glowed as he talked, and I knew this was more than a business with him. It was an ideal. "There's no reason just because they're poor that kids can't have sunshine and lawns to play in," he said. "I'd like, somehow, to help them get it and this seemed a good place to start." Then he asked questions about me and I told him all there was to know. And as we walked on down the shadowy street to my house, I felt happy and expectant. Expectant of the promise that this evening held — like being on the verge of something rare and lovely and exciting and yet not quite daring to believe it. "Where do you come from?" I asked him. It was no idle question. I wanted to know. I found I wanted to know everything about Robert Lesser. "Chicago. My grandfather settled there after he came to his country. He had had to leave Europe, with his family, during one of the pogroms." "Pogroms?" "Against the Jews. I'm Jewish, you know," he said, quite simply. I felt as if something had stopped me dead in my tracks. It was so unexpected I couldn't think of anything to say. There were Jewish people in Newtown, of course. But only a few. There was old Moses Abrams, the junkman, who had a black beard and drove an ancient horse and wagon, collecting bottles and old rags. And there were the Rabonowitzes who ran the tailor shop and spoke with a heavy Polish accent. I taught their ten-year-old Reba in school. When I thought of Jewish people at all, it was in terms of them. But this man wasn't like that. He was just like — anybody. Any