By Charlotte “Blu” Berman

Others may have a “crush” on movie and TV stars. I’ve always been enamored by authors. Way back in 1975, when I would visit relatives in Manhattan, I’d purposely take a walk near 79th and Broadway, because that’s where internationally known author Isaac Bashevis Singer lived.

A couple of times I was lucky enough to spy the “fabled one” emerging from a local luncheonette with his wife, Alma. I caught my breath and followed them down Broadway for a few blocks, anyway. I took in his outfit, dark trousers, a light jacket and a jaunty Panama hat and studied his walk and demeanor. I wanted to shout to passersby, “Hey, look at that man – he’s the famous Nobel Prize author, Isaac B. Singer!” But after Alma Singer looked over her shoulder a couple of times, I ceased my sleuthing.

Some years later, my late husband, Benton, and I were looking for a place to stay in Surfside, Miami, a tiny enclave near the fashionable Bal Harbor, and came upon a wide avenue named after the author. We found a tiny hotel on the corner of Isaac Bashevis Singer (IBS) Boulevard and booked our stay for two weeks during the Christmas holidays.

Isaac Bashevis Singer and his wife, Alma.

I was thrilled to hear from the owner of our hotel that Singer and his wife lived in the condo right next door to us. (Be still my heart!) Mr. and Mrs. Berman became Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I remember going into the local drug store down the street and asking our waitress in their luncheonette, if she had ever seen “the great one” dine there. Absolutely, she answered, he’s in here almost every morning with his wife. He’s really a love, she explained. I eagerly asked her what he orders. “Oh, my goodness,” was her answer, “always hot oatmeal.” I scribbled “hot oatmeal” on my little pad. But, the waitress added, Alma Singer was very demanding.

This was our first entry about Mr. Singer, whom we called between ourselves, familiarly, “Isaac.” We saw the Singers from time to time in the Surfside neighborhood, where the local library had named part of their reading room after him.

A narrow path from the main street led up to IBS Boulevard. We passed them frequently, but became “tongue-tied” and just kept walking.

On New Year’s Day, however, we looked up and there they were, almost abreast of us. I began to stammer softly, while Benton addressed Isaac. “Mr. Singer, happy New Year to you and your wife. Thank you for giving us so much pleasure with your books. Our American Jewish Congress book club has read all of your books. You are our favorite author.”

The elderly man, under the Panama hat, paused and thanked us. With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “You know, this is not my wife, but she could be if she tried.” They walked on, and we just stood there in shock. He still had the ‘naughty boy’ within him.

It was the same day, January 1. I received a beautiful bouquet from a good friend in Hartford for my upcoming birthday, which was the next day.  I “oohed and aahed” over the lovely flowers. But, I thought, what to do with them? We were returning home on my birthday and I certainly couldn’t take that large bouquet on the plane. An idea hit me. I wrote a small note to go with the flowers and delivered them to the doorman in Singer’s condo. In the note, I said the flowers were from two ardent fans, and left our names and Bloomfield address.

In a few days we received a note from Alma Singer, saying that when we returned to Florida the following year we should contact them and have tea with them. I could hardly believe it.

The next year I eagerly sent the Singers a note before we returned to our tiny hotel next to their elegant condo. I mentioned that we’d be in the hotel next to them. Despite checking with the desk in our humble hotel, we never received a message from the Singers. That was the end of “L’affaire Singer.”

But, we thought, even a literary cat can look at a literary king.

Charlotte “Blu” Berman is a freelance writer living in West Hartford.

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