Groucho Marx
I was friends with the kids in my school and with the kids in
our building, but my closest friends were Victor and Catherine.
Catherine grew up on a farm in Henderson, Kentucky. There
were no animals, just corn and soybeans. She was proud
that her father was one of the few Negroes in Kentucky who
owned a farm. But the farm was lots of hard work. Jumping
Joe Savoldi, who had somehow wound up in Henderson,
took Catherine under his wing and told her to go to Chicago.
She started her job as a housekeeper with us when we moved
into the apartment on Wellington Avenue. She was eighteen
or nineteen when she started so now was is about twenty-four.
Catherine and I liked going to the movies. Sometimes she
would even come on Saturday afternoons and we would
go to the Lake Shore theater together. But when a movie
called The Egyptian came to the Roosevelt theater downtown,
I saw she was nervous about us going there. I knew why too.
She had a really serious expression on her face when she
saw the pictures from Little Rock, Arkansas, in the Tribune.
I had never really thought about prejudice against Negroes
until I saw those pictures. Anyway, we didn’t see The Egyptian.
Incredibly enough, a movie called Land of the Pharaohs came
to the Lake Shore theater at almost the same time. We saw it
immediately. I had mainly been interested in ancient Rome
but Land of the Pharaohs got me interested in ancient Egypt
and it turned out there was a huge amount of stuff about
ancient Egypt in the main library on Michigan Avenue.
After a movie Catherine and I always went next door to Ricky’s
deli. She was an excellent artist and she would do drawings
in her notebook about the movie we just saw. She wanted to
be a dress designer and a few nights every week she went to
a school to learn about the fashion business.
Catherine watched movies carefully and had good ideas about
them. In Jet Pilot, for example, there was a scene where the
beautiful Russian pilot tries on a dress in front of a wrap-around
mirror in a dressing room. Catherine said that the mirror lets you
see how beautiful she is from three directions all at once. In
Prehistoric Women we both noticed that the bad cave girl was
more beautiful than the good cave girl. Catherine said the movie
was more interesting because the bad girl was more beautiful.
The evil princess in Land of the Pharaohs was supposed to be
beautiful but she wasn’t really that beautiful. However, the men
in the movie couldn’t resist her. Whether it was the Pharaoh or
the Pharaoh’s bodyguard, she got them to do whatever she
wanted. At the end of the movie she got trapped forever in a
pyramid with a large group of really horrible priests.
After we saw Land of the Pharaohs it was late in the afternoon.
When we got back to the building we started to go through the
side entrance, which is what Catherine and I always did. Then
we would take the freight elevator to the eighth floor.
But I had an idea. I said, “Let’s go in the front way.”
“Hm. I don’t think I’m supposed to do that.”
“It’s fine, come on.”
I knew that Joe would be the elevator man at this time of day.
All of them were old but each of the elevator men – Joe, Pete,
Egnar, and Steve – had individual characteristics. Joe had
trouble talking and my mother explained that he must have
had a stroke. I was sure that Joe wouldn’t mind Catherine
taking the front elevator. Neither would Egnar or Steve. Pete
might have been different but Joe was the elevator man now.
The building’s lobby was not brightly lit. When Albert Arenberg,
my father’s business partner, visited the building he wanted to
redesign the lobby but so far nothing had happened. The walls
had enlarged photographs of old-time Chicago. There were
couches in front of the photographs but I never saw anyone sit
there. The elevator was at the far end of the lobby and I could
see a group of people waiting for it to come down.
There was Jerry Feldman, a famous gossip columnist who
lived on the floor above us, and his wife Lizzie.
Groucho Marx was also there, with a beautiful young woman
who must have been Groucho’s girlfriend or his date for the
evening. Somehow I knew it wasn’t his wife, if he had one.
Lots of celebrities visited Jerry Feldman. It wasn’t unusual to
see them in the elevator so I wasn’t surprised to see Groucho
Marx. Also, I had seen Groucho Marx so many times on You
Bet Your Life that I felt like I already knew him. It was slightly
surprising that he was wearing a beret but maybe he did that
for his girlfriend. With her short haircut, I thought she looked
French. I had never seen a French woman in person but I
saw the preview of And God Created Woman with Brigitte Bardot.
Catherine didn’t seem surprised to see Groucho Marx either.
Maybe she was used to seeing him on television like me. Or
maybe she didn’t know who he was.
The elevator arrived. Joe held the door open and we all went
in. It was a tight squeeze for six passengers, plus Joe. We
started going up but the elevator was always slow. Lizzie
Feldman was staring, or glaring, at Catherine, who looked
composed but she must have felt uncomfortable. Groucho
Marx looked uncomfortable too, maybe even a little frightened.
On You Bet Your Life he always seemed in charge. His date
stared forward without expression. Maybe this was a big new
world for her.
As we passed the fourth floor I decided to speak to Groucho
Marx. I said, “Hi, Groucho. My father and I love You Bet Your
Life. We watch it every week.”
Groucho Marx didn’t react. He didn’t smile or make a joke.
He just looked at me out of the corner of his eye, or maybe
turned his head slightly.
“It’s great when somebody says the secret word and the duck
comes down,” I added.
We reached the eighth floor and Joe opened the elevator’s door.
Lizzie Feldman seemed really angry. “Oh god, Mitch,” she hissed.
I was surprised she knew my name. I had been to their apartment
many times to visit Freddy Feldman, who was a year older than me,
but Jerry Feldman always called me “my boy.”
Later, after Catherine went home, I was in the library with my
parents. They wanted to ask me about school but I headed them
off by mentioning Groucho Marx. They took it in stride, just as I had.
Then I said, “Jerry Feldman’s wife didn’t like Catherine riding in
the front elevator.”
“Why not?” my mother asked.
“Because she’s a Negro.”
They seemed shocked. My mother said, “Lou, is this a building of
all Jews and Catherine can’t ride in the front elevator? Is there a
rule of some kind?”
My father shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“Well, you can ask about it at the next board of directors meeting.
You can find out.”
“I will.”
It seemed hard to believe that they had never noticed that Catherine
always arrived on the freight elevator. But I had never thought about
it myself until the articles in the Tribune about Little Rock, Arkansas.
Now my mother was starting to get angry. She looked much angrier
than Lizzie Feldman in the elevator. My mother got that way a lot
because she was sick. She could be a really aggressive person.
She said, “Tell those fuckers that everybody can ride in the front
elevator! If they don’t like it, tell them they can shut their goddamned
vorem diche moyl!”
Vorem diche moyl was an expression that meant “mouth full of
worms.” I knew that because I once asked her to translate it after
she said it to me.
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