They were both old. Irwin was Jewish. Horatio was black. It was mid August, somewhere up in the Finger Lakes. They were sitting on a porch gazing at water that stretched out further than either could see. They’d met over dinner and told their wives they’d be back upstairs before too long.

“Remember where you were 70 years ago today?”

“Got trouble remembering where I was yesterday.”

“It’s VJ Day.”

“Sunuvabitch.”

“Bet you remember now.”

“Oh yeah. Was in San Diego. Serving meals to white officers on a destroyer about to deploy. But it didn’t. I was out of the Navy and back in Harlem before Halloween. How ’bout you.”

“I was in Harlem.”

“Get the fuck outa here,” Horatio sputtered as espresso spewed from his mouth.

“It’s the truth. I’ll tell ya the story. But what you said about serving those white officers …”

“Yeah?”

“You okay with talking about that a little?”

“Why you wanta hear about that?”

“I’m not sure. Probably because I’m Jewish. I took a lot of abuse when I was in the Marine Corps. Got called ‘kike’ and ‘sheeny’ more times than I can count. I’m thinking it was worse for you.”

“Way worse.”

“Don’t wanta talk about it?”

“Tell your story. We’ll  see.”

———–

It was right after President Truman’s radio announcement on the morning of August 14, 1945. Irwin was a Marine corporal about to be sent to the Pacific for a second time. A crusty first sergeant named O’Grady caught up with him in the mess hall. Good news? He wouldn’t be clamoring onto a west side troop ship. Bad news? He’d be walking a night beat as an MP in Harlem.

“Gee, top. Now I can get shot even sooner.”

“Look at it this way, boyo. Each of us must depart this earth at some time.” Watching the man saunter off, Irwin thought of how differently their cultures viewed fate. The Irish mocked it; the Jews railed at it.

——-

His partner was a strapping twenty-two year old from Mississippi. Irwin described him as yet another boy who’d  seen too many friends slaughtered or maimed.

“His spirit wasn’t broken, but there was a sadness that hung over Otis like summer humidity.”

After a short briefing at 1800 hours on Columbus Circle, the two tried to board a northbound IRT. It was packed with drunken GI’s and young women kissing them or fending them off or both.

“Come on, Irwin. We’re as useful as tits on a boar hog down here. Let’s amble north. See if we can prevent some mayhem, not just watch it through a window.”

At 120th Street they veered off Broadway and trotted down a hundred crumbling brownstone steps into the heart of Harlem. Now they were surrounded by black faces.

“Folks not carrying on so much up here, Irwin.”

“That surprise you?”

“It does not.”

As they walked up St. Nicholas Avenue, Irwin was taken by Otis’s attempts to make conversation with people sitting on doorsteps. Most ignored him or stared disdainfully. Some didn’t.

“And how are you this warm and sticky evening, ma’am?”

“I’m just fine, young man. You wouldn’t be from Alabama, would you?”

“Right next door. Tupelo, Mississippi. Got plenty of kin over in Alabama. They tend to look down on us.”

“Well,” the old woman chuckled, “that’s not very nice, now is it?”

For the next few minutes, they talked of baking peach cobblers, thumping watermelons to test for ripeness, and whether folks up north could ever develop a taste for possum. Neither was optimistic about that.

“I suspect me and old Irwin here should keep moving, ma’am. Thank you so much for the chance to talk about back home. Miss it something awful. Other hand, looking good that I might make it down there for Thanksgiving.”

“Let’s see if Jesus and I can do something about that, child.”

———-

As the two drifted off, three couples in their twenties came skipping towards them. The men were sailors; the women looked like college girls. All were black. Their arms were linked and they were laughing uproariously. When they reached Otis and Irwin, they stumbled to a stop and panted, “Sorry, gentlemen. Very sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, folks. Was up to me, I’d be skipping right along with y’all. But my partner here is sort of reserved so …”

“I’ll show you reserved,” yelled Irwin. “Join hands, everybody. Make a circle. I’ll do the singing, all you have to do is step to the right. Let’s go a’ready.”

In less than thirty seconds the eight of them were holding hands, circling to the right and doing a bad job of mimicking Irwin’s words to Hava Nageela. Meantime, a crowd had surrounded their circle, clapping in time with the ancient song.

After about ten minutes, the August air had taken its toll on the dancers. As they slumped over, hands resting on their knees, he appeared. His voice was thunderous. The biggest man Irwin had ever seen. His three piece suit and fedora were spotless white. So were the teeth that filled his broad smile.

“Pastor Ezekiel Jackson at your service, ladies and gentlemen. It is truly an honor for me to welcome so many of our dedicated men in uniform to my parish. Especially on this historic day. A day that marks an end to the horrible conflict that has marred us all.”

A loud speaker somewhere on the front of a dilapidated church crackled. Out came a female voice singing the first verse of “Amazing Grace.” By the time she got to “… a wretch like me … ” Otis had joined in as had two of the sailors. All the while Pastor Jackson strode about humming and gesturing for anyone in the street to share in the song. A song written by a ship’s captain whose conscience demanded he free his cargo of African slaves.

———-

Horatio stretched both arms over the back of the Adirondack. “That really happened? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Well, was good for me to hear it. ‘Cause what I’m about to tell, Irwin, is not pretty. It is not up lifting. It is not filled with hope and optimism.”

“Go ahead. I want to hear it. We’re both over 90. Hell, one of us could drop dead in the next half hour.

“I’ll talk fast.”