Brighton Beach 1963

Facing the back of our apartment is the alley. Street games spill over into it, and we  like to make up new ones: “Bet you can’t hit the wire with the ball.” Sometimes the super yells at us. There are broken bottles and smells from garbage cans. But the alley is our backyard— private, hidden from grown-up eyes. At night, though, this child’s playground transforms into a scary place.

I overhear conversations from neighboring apartments and imagine the lives of the people I hear. Jackie is a small, skinny, tough kid who lives a few floors above us. I do not play with him and wonder where he goes during the day. I never hear a man’s voice from his apartment, just Jackie and his mother yelling. I think that Jackie’s father is in prison. 

There are the sounds of the wild cats—yowling, meowing, crying. And there are footsteps in the night, unrecognized and frightening, as strangers cut between buildings.

Our bedroom windows are on the ground floor. My mother warns me, “Keep the blinds closed.” The stairs to the basement are below us, and unknown voices come and go. Going to sleep, I imagine there is a man climbing into my window and keep my blanket up to my neck from the knife he carries.

Grimms’ Fairy Tales give rise to fantasies. I am a plump child ready for the oven or about to be swallowed by the wolf. Jungle cats, with eyes that pierce the night, lie in wait. I see things in the peeling ceiling paint. 

My father comes home from work about 1:00 A.M. When he opens the bedroom door, and light momentarily enters my dark dreams.

Years later, as a teenager, I come home from high school in the afternoon. I like being alone and having the TV to myself. I watch with my back to the rest of the apartment.

One day, I hear noises behind me— gurgling sounds. I think the shower is backing up again. I go to check and see a man coming through the small bathroom window from the alley. He has on work clothes. I think he must be coming to fix the shower. He is neither in nor out the window but stuck, like the witch in Hansel and Gretel. I rush to the door and run out the apartment into the hallway. I grab a woman waiting for the elevator. I do not let her go upstairs when it comes. “There’s a man coming through my window,” I tell her.  Then, through the large lobby window, I see him backing down the ladder, which should not have been there, from the window which could not be fully opened.

There really is a monster in the alley who looks for children. He climbs in windows.

*** 

Judith Meyerowitz is a retired psychologist living in Manhattan. This piece was written for a memoir writing class at the 92nd St Y senior center.