Going to Edithvale Public School in our area of Willowdale in the 1950s, everybody in the school was Protestant. The Protestants were the ones who went to the “good” school; the Catholics hid away in their own schools, and were different. That’s what my grandmother told me. As a 12 year old, I wasn’t sure how and why they were different. All I knew was that as a Protestant, I should never dream of marrying a Catholic. All Catholics were going to a place where we couldn’t mention that started with an “h”. My grandmother told me all this, too. A couple of guys on my softball team were Catholic. They were pretty good players and helped our team win, so they couldn’t be that bad.
In grade 5, Harry and Winston Smith moved to our neighbourhood. They were, as we called them then, Negro. They were also good at sports, so they seemed to fit in just fine. We were all curious about their soft, curly hair. I imagined it was soft like a lamb’s wool. I say imagine, because, living in the city, I had never touched a lamb’s fleece. Henry Fong, who was Chinese, arrived in grade 6. Like the Smiths, he enjoyed sports, and we were very curious. He smiled a lot, so it was hard not to like him.
There was one other group of people that I was curious about – the Jews. Whenever we went to visit my brother in Weston, we had to go across Bathurst Street. It was here that the Jews lived. They even had their own school, Yeshiva College, hidden away on Finch Avenue near a spot called Shadowbrook. I always wondered why their school was not out in the open like mine.
Now, I wasn’t really sure what a Jew was. I had never met one. All I know was that my father seemed to be angry at them every now and then. For instance, when somebody cut him off in traffic, he would shout, “Learn to drive, you Jew.” So I figured that Jews were bad drivers and they made my father angry. Other than that, I didn’t have a clue about Jews.
When I went to junior high school, I was mixed with students from several schools, including one near Bathurst Street. For the first few days, all was well. I was at the time of life when my voice was changing and when I looked at some girls, strange feelings flowed through my body.
There were two girls in my grade 7 class that particularly caught my eye. One was Mary Davidson. Davidson sounded like a nice Scottish name. What I remember most was her beautiful, long neck. It was smooth as marble. Around it was a velvet choke collar with a small stone at the front.
The other was Maxine Marovitz. She came to school elegantly dressed, often wearing a kerchief draped over her shoulder. Both of them wore perfume, and when they walked by, I was treated to exotic scents that I never imagined could have existed. The women in my family never had perfume that smelled like this. These two girls showed such style and grace. To top it all off, Maxine had bosoms. Not being well instructed in feminine ways, I could only guess what these were like. I imagined that they were soft. They looked soft. I know that they gave Maxine a mature look, and I liked that. Maxine and Mary were the best of friends.
A few days into the school year, Maxine, Mary and a few others in our class were absent one day. The teacher explained that they were absent because they were Jews and this was a holiday. They were Jews? Is this what a Jew was? How could people like Maxine and Mary make my father angry?
Time went on and my curiosity about Jews grew. I watched all of the Jews in our class to try to figure out why they were so different and what my father could have against them. Aside from having some different holidays, I couldn’t see much of a difference. And when it came to Maxine and Mary, what could I say? Every day they amazed me with their wonderful perfumes and stylish clothes. I wonder what they thought of me. Our family didn’t have much money, so I wasn’t dressed as nicely as they were.
One day we had cross country for gym. The girls were running the same course, but our instructor let the girls start well before we did. I wasn’t going to let any girl beat me, no matter how much of a head start she had. I passed almost every one of them. I ran so fast that day that I was even ahead of Jim Hunter, the fastest grade 7 runner. I was poised to beat him. My determination was not as strong as my body.
Entering the school yard, with the finish line in sight, my searing lungs couldn’t suck in any more air. My mind went dark and I felt like I was going to faint. I stopped running and started walking – staggering was more like it. My spirit sagged. As I wobbled along the final part of the race, I felt a hand touch my elbow. It was Maxine. She and her friend, Mary, guided me the last few hundred yards to the finish line. I remember their gentleness, their genuine concern for me. Others raced by me, but they didn’t. This was the first time I had been touched by a Jew. It felt rather nice.
However, I still didn’t know what to think of Jews. Why did people get angry at them?
I don’t know why, but I decided to attend the grade 7 school dance. Asking Darlene Morrison to dance at our grade 6 grad party and being told flatly, “No!” had left me in a fragile state. Many in our class were at that dance, including Mary and Maxine. For the whole evening I walked around the perimeter of the gym wondering why I had even come. Not having danced at all, why was I there? Then one of the teachers announced, “Last dance.” Well, I had to dance at least one dance, so I plucked up my courage and asked Maxine. She said yes.
Even in the darkened gym, her eyes shone. Her shoulder length hair framed her pretty face perfectly. Ah, the perfume – what a delightful contrast it was to the gym that reeked from the sweat of gyrating teenagers. The last dance is always a slow one. Did I know how to dance? Not really, but I knew I was supposed to hold my partner close, so I did. The smell of Maxine’s perfume in her hair would have best been described as intoxicating, but I didn’t know what that meant either. And yes, her busom was soft, very soft, and I wasn’t sure if it was her heart I could feel beating against my chest or my own, but I was in another land. Like most last dances, it started and was finished all too soon. I kicked myself for not having the courage to get out on the dance floor sooner – but I had danced with Maxine Marovitz!
As we walked home, my friends and I talked of what we did during the evening. I kept telling my friends that I had danced with Maxine Marovitz. Mind you, it was the only thing I had done all evening, but that was not why I was repeating it. No, I had actually danced with Maxine Marovitz. I felt her heart beating through her soft busom against my chest. I had never felt this way before.
I never had the courage or the occasion to share any more intimate moments with Maxine Marovitz. I still wonder if she ever knew the effect she had on me. It could have been love, but I really didn’t know what that was at that time either.
I do know that a few weeks after the dance, I was in the back seat of the car and my father was driving. He didn’t like the way the guy in front of him was driving. “That Jew!” he shouted. Immediately I smelled the perfume in Maxine’s hair, felt her heart beating against mine and her soft busom against my chest. I couldn’t understand his anger, and I needed an explanation. I boldly said to my dad, “How do you know that’s a Jew? It isn’t written on his licence plate. Anyway, what’s wrong with being a Jew?” My father immediately became silent and drove on.
Funny, though, either the Jews became better drivers on that day or they must have stopped driving altogether, because I never heard my father call anyone a Jew any more after that.
*Note – the names of the people in this story are not their actual names.
