In 1934 when I entered the harbor of New York I wasn’t smart enough to believe what I saw. Tar paper shacks, wood pallets and oil barrels all lined up for people with their families to live; make-shift shanties for the poverty ridden who picked through garbage dumps for scrapes of food and clothing for their children and themselves.
I didn’t realize how close I was to being just like them, the faceless and nameless of Riverside Drive. What made me think it would be better for me stepping off a ship from Europe jobless with a cheap college degree? A worthless piece of paper I thought I could start my life over with.
I remember the feeling of loneliness and the fear of having to eat just on the change I had in the bottom of my purse. I was always taking extra care of my hose so they wouldn’t snag or get a hole. I may have been hard up without a job and cash, but I couldn’t look like it or I would never get a job.
I began to doubt all the time I had spent in academics thinking I could came back to America and walk into a teaching position. I drank more than I ate; it seemed cheaper at the time and then reality began to sink in. I had to do something so I turned to what I knew academics.
This time I took a more practical approach I went to Columbia Business School. I moved closer to the university because it was cheaper to live. Little did I know I would make my future at Columbia. My future was going to become bigger than the harsh reality of having to go to business school, bigger than not teaching at Columbia University. Bigger than anything anyone who knew me believed my life would be. Bigger than I thought my life would be.
“Miss. Bentley! Are you ok? Miss. Bentley?”
“Yes. Yes. I’m ok, I’m ok. What do you need? Do I have to sign something?”
“Yes. This is a consent form for your surgery. Just read and sign her.”
The clipboard passed from hand to shaky hand and the pen passed too, but from fingertips to trembling fingers. An unreadable signature was handed back nervously to the nurse.
“Do you need anything Miss Bentley before I leave? My shift is ending.”
“Water. How about some water you old New England girl?”
“Just a bit. Your surgery is scheduled first thing in the morning.”
“Yes. Ok. Just a little water. Thank you.
Maybe the nurse cared, really cared. Not just that I was a patient, but cared because I was a person. Maybe her kindness was more than just her job . . . maybe . . . just maybe . . . she had some sympathy . . . .
I was forty-four years old then and I had lived more than one life. I wondered if other people had more than one life. There was Vassar and Columbia, Italy and Florence, Mussolini and the Fascists and then the Communists and the FBI. They all wanted me. But what did I want? I can’t really remember anymore.
I was famous for a while. My picture was in the paper. People read about my life in newspapers. I was escorted from place to place in chauffeur driven cars. I was called a spy extraordinaire. A spy who became a lecturer, who told stories from memory so often I became unaware of what was real and what was fiction. I lived a life, but was it my life? And if it wasn’t my life whose life was it
?
I didn’t realize how close I was to being just like them, the faceless and nameless of Riverside Drive. What made me think it would be better for me stepping off a ship from Europe jobless with a cheap college degree? A worthless piece of paper I thought I could start my life over with.
I remember the feeling of loneliness and the fear of having to eat just on the change I had in the bottom of my purse. I was always taking extra care of my hose so they wouldn’t snag or get a hole. I may have been hard up without a job and cash, but I couldn’t look like it or I would never get a job.
I began to doubt all the time I had spent in academics thinking I could came back to America and walk into a teaching position. I drank more than I ate; it seemed cheaper at the time and then reality began to sink in. I had to do something so I turned to what I knew academics.
This time I took a more practical approach I went to Columbia Business School. I moved closer to the university because it was cheaper to live. Little did I know I would make my future at Columbia. My future was going to become bigger than the harsh reality of having to go to business school, bigger than not teaching at Columbia University. Bigger than anything anyone who knew me believed my life would be. Bigger than I thought my life would be.
“Miss. Bentley! Are you ok? Miss. Bentley?”
“Yes. Yes. I’m ok, I’m ok. What do you need? Do I have to sign something?”
“Yes. This is a consent form for your surgery. Just read and sign her.”
The clipboard passed from hand to shaky hand and the pen passed too, but from fingertips to trembling fingers. An unreadable signature was handed back nervously to the nurse.
“Do you need anything Miss Bentley before I leave? My shift is ending.”
“Water. How about some water you old New England girl?”
“Just a bit. Your surgery is scheduled first thing in the morning.”
“Yes. Ok. Just a little water. Thank you.
Maybe the nurse cared, really cared. Not just that I was a patient, but cared because I was a person. Maybe her kindness was more than just her job . . . maybe . . . just maybe . . . she had some sympathy . . . .
I was forty-four years old then and I had lived more than one life. I wondered if other people had more than one life. There was Vassar and Columbia, Italy and Florence, Mussolini and the Fascists and then the Communists and the FBI. They all wanted me. But what did I want? I can’t really remember anymore.
I was famous for a while. My picture was in the paper. People read about my life in newspapers. I was escorted from place to place in chauffeur driven cars. I was called a spy extraordinaire. A spy who became a lecturer, who told stories from memory so often I became unaware of what was real and what was fiction. I lived a life, but was it my life? And if it wasn’t my life whose life was it
? 
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