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The Fashion Plates of Schulman’s The Fashion Plates of Schulman’s
(1 day later)
I was in a daze as I meandered up Columbus Avenue a few weeks ago — politics, the country, the world, you name it — when a pair of pants, a silly dazzling pair of silver-sequined flares that I couldn’t afford and had no cause to wear, called to me from the window. I wondered, as I stared longingly: Why do I, a woman of a certain age, still have a penchant for glitter, decades after I should have outgrown a 7-year-old’s yearnings for sparkly dress-up clothes?I was in a daze as I meandered up Columbus Avenue a few weeks ago — politics, the country, the world, you name it — when a pair of pants, a silly dazzling pair of silver-sequined flares that I couldn’t afford and had no cause to wear, called to me from the window. I wondered, as I stared longingly: Why do I, a woman of a certain age, still have a penchant for glitter, decades after I should have outgrown a 7-year-old’s yearnings for sparkly dress-up clothes?
In truth, it’s not much of a mystery. I grew up in Manhattan, but about once a month we’d make the trip across the Hudson and through the polluted industrial parts of the Garden State to Elizabeth, where my father’s family lived above their namesake ladies’ dress store, Schulman’s, later renamed Schulman’s Village East.In truth, it’s not much of a mystery. I grew up in Manhattan, but about once a month we’d make the trip across the Hudson and through the polluted industrial parts of the Garden State to Elizabeth, where my father’s family lived above their namesake ladies’ dress store, Schulman’s, later renamed Schulman’s Village East.
Elizabeth was a small port city then, and it had no village east or west as far as any of us knew. It was a bit of a geographic slight of hand, a fantasy, but that was also the product. Saturday-night dreams of Hollywood glamour were nurtured and maybe sometimes came true in those aisles, just as they still do sometimes in my own closet — my passing on the silver-sequined flares notwithstanding. Elizabeth was a small port city then, and it had no village east or west as far as any of us knew. It was a bit of a geographic sleight of hand, a fantasy, but that was also the product. Saturday-night dreams of Hollywood glamour were nurtured and maybe sometimes came true in those aisles, just as they still do sometimes in my own closet — my passing on the silver-sequined flares notwithstanding.
A whole way of life seemed to revolve around Schulman’s. In the ’20s, when my father was born, and well into the ’60s and early ’70s, when I was a child visiting, Elizabeth had been a haven for Jews who had fled the sweeping tragedies of Europe. Schulman’s was a place where the dispossessed and frightened gathered to work and browse and shop.A whole way of life seemed to revolve around Schulman’s. In the ’20s, when my father was born, and well into the ’60s and early ’70s, when I was a child visiting, Elizabeth had been a haven for Jews who had fled the sweeping tragedies of Europe. Schulman’s was a place where the dispossessed and frightened gathered to work and browse and shop.
The men of this immigrant Jewish community had the synagogue — my grandfather and his friends went every day — and the women had the store. A lot of gossip took place there, among the salesladies and the customers: the affairs, the separations, the matches. I remember the hustle and bustle of working women scoping the racks for office attire, mothers and grandmothers hunting for bar mitzvah wear — the fancy stuff. I remember homemakers searching for outfits appropriate for shul, and single girls and teenagers shopping for date nights.The men of this immigrant Jewish community had the synagogue — my grandfather and his friends went every day — and the women had the store. A lot of gossip took place there, among the salesladies and the customers: the affairs, the separations, the matches. I remember the hustle and bustle of working women scoping the racks for office attire, mothers and grandmothers hunting for bar mitzvah wear — the fancy stuff. I remember homemakers searching for outfits appropriate for shul, and single girls and teenagers shopping for date nights.
My brother and sister and I used to play hide-and-seek-among the racks of clothes. I was a shy child and thought myself invisible. I loved to eavesdrop (and still do). I’d watch quietly as customers tried on gowns in front of the store’s mirrors and the salesladies would gather to ooh and aah.My brother and sister and I used to play hide-and-seek-among the racks of clothes. I was a shy child and thought myself invisible. I loved to eavesdrop (and still do). I’d watch quietly as customers tried on gowns in front of the store’s mirrors and the salesladies would gather to ooh and aah.
“She looks like a fashion plate,” they said, no matter what the woman looked like or how badly the dress fit. A seamstress would get on her knees and measure. With the pins still in her mouth, she’d say, “Right out of the pages of Vogue magazine.”“She looks like a fashion plate,” they said, no matter what the woman looked like or how badly the dress fit. A seamstress would get on her knees and measure. With the pins still in her mouth, she’d say, “Right out of the pages of Vogue magazine.”
Not exactly: The dresses my grandmother sold were often showy, long, filmy, shiny concoctions, with sequined necklines and lace sleeves. They were priced for working-class people with fairy-tale aspirations, and they came in nylon and sateen and other cheaper fabrics; the skirts often swirled, and the waists had big stiff bows. It seemed as though the dresses themselves were enough to lift these women out of their daily grind, away from their painful memories, their threadbare lives, into what I imagined as clouds of fun — dances, parties; I had no idea.Not exactly: The dresses my grandmother sold were often showy, long, filmy, shiny concoctions, with sequined necklines and lace sleeves. They were priced for working-class people with fairy-tale aspirations, and they came in nylon and sateen and other cheaper fabrics; the skirts often swirled, and the waists had big stiff bows. It seemed as though the dresses themselves were enough to lift these women out of their daily grind, away from their painful memories, their threadbare lives, into what I imagined as clouds of fun — dances, parties; I had no idea.
My grandparents were Russian refugees. They had met around 1915, on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where first they had a vegetable cart, and then a clothing pushcart. Several years later, they moved to Elizabeth, their small neighborhood an American version of a shtetl, where they eventually opened Schulman’s.My grandparents were Russian refugees. They had met around 1915, on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where first they had a vegetable cart, and then a clothing pushcart. Several years later, they moved to Elizabeth, their small neighborhood an American version of a shtetl, where they eventually opened Schulman’s.
My grandmother was the genius behind the business. Malnourished as a child, she was just 4 feet 11 inches tall and weighed 90 pounds, and she was basically illiterate in all three languages she spoke (Russian, Yiddish and English). She was no clothes horse — she wore “house dresses,” soft cotton button-downs that were easy to take off and on, wash-and-wear, with a simple slip underneath, unadorned but presentable — but she was an excellent businesswoman. Her strategy was to sell off-the-rack dresses to her clientele and have seamstresses on hand to alter the clothes to fit at no charge.My grandmother was the genius behind the business. Malnourished as a child, she was just 4 feet 11 inches tall and weighed 90 pounds, and she was basically illiterate in all three languages she spoke (Russian, Yiddish and English). She was no clothes horse — she wore “house dresses,” soft cotton button-downs that were easy to take off and on, wash-and-wear, with a simple slip underneath, unadorned but presentable — but she was an excellent businesswoman. Her strategy was to sell off-the-rack dresses to her clientele and have seamstresses on hand to alter the clothes to fit at no charge.
When my father was a boy, one of the seamstresses took him under her wing — after he tore his pants and broke his eyeglasses playing ball she mended them so he wouldn’t get in trouble with his father, who counted his pennies and had a temper. Her name was Sherrie. She was still working in the back room when I was a girl, and I always made sure to say hi to her at her sewing machine when we visited.When my father was a boy, one of the seamstresses took him under her wing — after he tore his pants and broke his eyeglasses playing ball she mended them so he wouldn’t get in trouble with his father, who counted his pennies and had a temper. Her name was Sherrie. She was still working in the back room when I was a girl, and I always made sure to say hi to her at her sewing machine when we visited.
There was a cardboard box filled with scraps of fabric that she kept below her machine. I loved to rummage through them, and Sherrie would let me take these schmattas home — green velvets, orange tulle, red lace. Alone in my room before my mirror I played dress-up, tying the lace around my head like a kerchief, wrapping the velvet around my body; sometimes I would stitch them together. I wish I could say I had a knack for making clothing, but I didn’t. What I had a knack for was daydreaming, and I couldn’t wait to be old enough to wear dresses like the ones my grandmother sold, to twirl in front of a mirror and have Sherrie tailor something sublime to my body so that I, too, could float around like a lady in a movie at a ball. Sadly, I never had the temerity to ask.There was a cardboard box filled with scraps of fabric that she kept below her machine. I loved to rummage through them, and Sherrie would let me take these schmattas home — green velvets, orange tulle, red lace. Alone in my room before my mirror I played dress-up, tying the lace around my head like a kerchief, wrapping the velvet around my body; sometimes I would stitch them together. I wish I could say I had a knack for making clothing, but I didn’t. What I had a knack for was daydreaming, and I couldn’t wait to be old enough to wear dresses like the ones my grandmother sold, to twirl in front of a mirror and have Sherrie tailor something sublime to my body so that I, too, could float around like a lady in a movie at a ball. Sadly, I never had the temerity to ask.
I last visited Schulman’s when my grandmother died in the early ’70s, when I was in junior high school, and we sat shiva. My uncle and aunt owned and ran it after that, but the neighborhood was filling now with a new generation of immigrants from Latin America; many of Schulman’s original clientele and their children had by this point moved on to the suburbs. By the time the store officially closed, I think in the early ’80s — so much time has passed, I’m not sure — I had not been there in years, and I’d long stopped thinking about it.I last visited Schulman’s when my grandmother died in the early ’70s, when I was in junior high school, and we sat shiva. My uncle and aunt owned and ran it after that, but the neighborhood was filling now with a new generation of immigrants from Latin America; many of Schulman’s original clientele and their children had by this point moved on to the suburbs. By the time the store officially closed, I think in the early ’80s — so much time has passed, I’m not sure — I had not been there in years, and I’d long stopped thinking about it.
My father has been gone a long time now, along with his siblings and, of course, Sherrie, who was older than any of them. I have a chunky pale purple crystal necklace of hers that my father’s sister gave me when I first got married and that I still wear. I pair it with a black velvet top I got in Paris during the soldes — the crazy, state-sanctioned rock-bottom sales that occur twice a year in France. The shirt was a find, and whenever I wear it I dress it up with that necklace. I discovered when I was young that the flashes of light that come from a little sparkle seem to brighten anything, even as the lift itself is weightless and ephemeral.My father has been gone a long time now, along with his siblings and, of course, Sherrie, who was older than any of them. I have a chunky pale purple crystal necklace of hers that my father’s sister gave me when I first got married and that I still wear. I pair it with a black velvet top I got in Paris during the soldes — the crazy, state-sanctioned rock-bottom sales that occur twice a year in France. The shirt was a find, and whenever I wear it I dress it up with that necklace. I discovered when I was young that the flashes of light that come from a little sparkle seem to brighten anything, even as the lift itself is weightless and ephemeral.
Helen Schulman is the author of, most recently, the novel “Come With Me.”Helen Schulman is the author of, most recently, the novel “Come With Me.”
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