munger

Tuesday Jan 15

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Reading all evening

Man . by Sir John Davis

I know my soul hath power to know all things,
Yet she is blind and ignorant in all:
I know I’m one of Nature’s little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life’s a pain and but a span;
I know my sense is mock’d in everything;
And, to conclude, I know myself a Man –
Which is proud and yet a wretched thing.

Matt’s Note:

This poem is by John Davies. (I originally transcribed it as Davis, but on closer inspection it looks like Papa wrote it correctly.)

Wednesday Jan 16

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Living in board it is really
so hard to get an appointment to
make my entries, just when I
feel like doing it, I am somehow
prevented.

Received invitation to
attend a party at the
Kessler Zion Club Saturday.

—————-

The next time I want to complain about not having enough time to myself, I’ll have to remember to say something classy like “it is really so hard to get an appointment to watch my Netflix.”

Papa’s complaint is far less petty, of course. His living situation is more comfortable than when he first arrived in America and slept head-by-toe with his two sisters in a cousin’s bed, but he’s still boarding in a tenement apartment where privacy is precious. What prevents his “appointments” with his diary, other than tubercular neighbors wandering in for help? How many hours does he lose in line for the hallway bathroom, how many times must he hastily hide his diary when his hosts suddenly arrive home, how often do the lights fail? When he says he listens to his radio and reads by himself, is he really by himself, or does he just stick on his headphones and tune out the noise and activity around him?

I wonder, too if Papa is apologizing to future readers for the day’s short, furtive entry, as if he feels a responsibility to, say, his unborn grandchildren to keep a complete journal. (I feel a little guilty when I don’t get to spend as much time on this blog as a like. A family trait?) Then again, I’m doing this project in part because I wish I’d known him longer, spent more time in his presence, shared more words with him. Maybe I want to think he’s apologizing to me for his short entry because I just want him to talk to me in any way.

Hmmm. This post is, ironically, turning into a bigger subject than I have time to write about now. I’ll make an “appointment” to revisit it.

—

Updates

I guess some bigger questions about my grandfather are: Who did he feel most responsible to when he wrote this? His parents? His sisters? Zionism? Posterity, as I initially thought? What underlies his need to explain why he can’t write in his diary to his satisfaction? What standards has he set for himself? I know his father was a hero to him. Is that who he’s talking to, whose standards he wants to meet?

Thursday Jan 17

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Home & Radio as usual

Earlier in the evening I
was rather busy arranging
the Massmeeting for the
Z.O.A. for Mon. Jan 28. I have
secured Ab. Goldberg and Maurice
Samuel as the principal speakers
but I am not yet through
the worst part is yet to come

This is my last effort to
revive the first Zionist dist.
If I should fail here I give
up. I told it to Blitz and
my conscience will not bother
me as I have tried my best,
but I do hope the meeting
will turn out a success.

—————————-

Once again, Papa shows heavy involvement in the early development of what would become a prominent Zionist group. Though the Zionist Organization of America (Z.O.A.) was relatively more established than the Sons of Zion in 1924 (it had been around since 1897) Papa’s chapter was clearly in trouble. His choice of words (“If I should fail here I give up”) and the presence of a mysterious supervisor named “Blitz” remind me of a cold-war spy novel, though I assume Papa was meeting with Blitz in the open and not passing envelopes to him in a darkened alleyway or whispering to him from behind a copy of the Forward at a kosher lunch counter (he did, however, wear a fedora). Still, with the future of the Zionist movement in doubt and anti-Semitism growing in Europe by the moment, Papa must have felt like the stakes were urgently high for the Z.O.A’s success.

I’m not clear on what his frustrations with the progress of the first “district” were but he certainly secured a couple of good speakers for the January 28 mass meeting. Abraham Goldberg was the primary face of the Z.O.A. in 1924, and remained a key figure as it evolved. I won’t even think about tackling the enormous history of Zionist factions, feuds and alliances in the early 20th century, but Goldberg figures prominently throughout (he was so identified with Zionism that he was listed in the phone book at “Goldberg Abraham Zionist“1). Alas, the helpful people at the Z.O.A. don’t think many of their records from the 20’s have survived, so more details on Papa’s district may be a long time coming.

Maurice Samuel, the other speaker Papa booked, would make a splash later that year with the publication of his book You Gentiles, which characterized the social, emotional and cultural differences between Jews and Gentiles as fundamental, irreconcilable obstacles to mutual understanding. Admired in its day for its frankness and still admired by some for certain well-articulated sentiments, it has, perhaps not surprisingly, become a minor touchstone for anti-Semites of all stripes who like to quote its more resolute passages as proof of Jewish otherness and general nastiness. In any event, Samuel continued as a prominent writer, speaker and Yiddish literature scholar and would be noted for many other accomplishments; You Gentiles is absent from Irving Howe’s 1972 New York Times obituary of Samuel, which cites The World of Sholom Aleichem as his best work.

————–

References for this post

1 – Howe, Irving “Maurice Samuel, 1895-1972“, The New York Times, May 21, 1972

Adams, J. Donald, “Jew And Gentile“, The New York Times, September 7, 1924

“A. Goldberg Dead; Leader in Zionism“, The New York Times, June 6, 1942

Also, thanks to the Zionist Organization of America for their help.

Friday Jan 18

by


Same as yesterday
in my company were Sister
Clara & husband.

I.M.W.
again writes me to help him
I shall give the letter to Budiener

———-

Matt’s Notes

I can’t quite figure out what the second section of this entry says. I.M.W. (if I’m reading that right) might be a reference to Papa’s brother, Isaac, over in Europe (Papa has started to write something that looks like “Isaac” and crossed it out, though it’s mostly illegible). I’m also having trouble with the last word of the entry (Budinier? Badinez?) so I don’t know to whom or what Papa plans to give “I.M.W’s” letter.

My other theory is that this is a reference to the tubercular acquaintance “I. Marlanoff” from Papa’s January 2nd entry, and “Budiener” is a doctor or representative of a landsmanshaft, or mutual aid society. Supported by dues, such groups served as ready-made social networks for new arrivals, formed religious congregations, and provided medical care, loans and burial services to landsman (people from the same place).

Papa’s charitable fraternal order, B’nai Zion, probably qualifies as such an organization. Many of his old friends are buried in Sons of Zion cemetery plots and I know they ran a credit union and resold life insurance. But while many of the old landsmanshaftn were geared toward people from the same town, I don’t think B’nai Zion was. Such narrow regional focus might even have been on the wane by the 20’s as Jews stitched themselves into a broader community and as formal support became more available from government agencies and organizations like labor unions. This would be consistent with the overall evolution of fraternal organizations, which, as noted earlier, grew less chauvinistic as the path to Americanization grew clearer.

By the way, I learned a lot about the landsmanshaftn during a visit to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum yesterday (they have a link to some good information here) and I also got a much clearer idea of what Papa’s living situation must have been like in early 1924. I’ll add more about that later.

Saturday Jan 19

by

Visited Rifke and then attended
the Kessler Club Installation
of Officers (offices?) party.

Again pretty girls but ridiculous
stupid, I saw girls falling for
strange boys whom they never
met before allowing them to
get too familiar with them
and let them take them home.

Those boys who were not members
of the club just visitors for the
evening took advantage of
some stupid girls weaknesses
and even in public did not
act gentlemanlike.

Where is that perfect girl
I dream so much of finding?

———-

Matt’s Notes

Ever since co-ed parties were invented, sensitive young men have found themselves at the edges of the room, puzzled by the body language and easy laughter of those who make sport of sex. And so, piqued and frustrated, unable to penetrate the flirtatious fray, they have retreated to their journals, picked up their pens and issued some variation of the eternal lament: “why do the assholes get all the girls?”

At least that’s part of what’s happening here. Against his usually formal prose, Papa’s use of the word “stupid” to describe the women at the Kessler Zion club feels especially acidic; a less discrete writer (okay, I) might have ranged to the saltier side of the dictionary. Papa’s instinct for forgiveness, his reflexive ability to make the most gentle assessment of the least gentle people would become nearly legendary in my family, but here we see it shakier, nascent; only after twice calling the women “stupid” does he find the generosity to say they’re merely naive.

He makes no apologies for the men, though, who offend his sensibilities from too many angles. First, they are merely crude, and Papa is conscious of his distaste for their behavior (“even in public [they] did not act gentlemanlike”). Perhaps more deeply offensive, though, is the fact that they ply their crudeness at a club to which they don’t belong. As I’ve mentioned before, such clubs were crucial for the well-being and comfort of uprooted people like Papa, so party crashers at the Kessler Zion Club would have struck him like burglars in his family’s house.

Fueling his frustration from still farther beneath the surface is the way this party makes Papa question his footing. At 29, he was certainly among the older people there. Those cavalier boys and giggling girls might have been ten years his junior or even American-born. They may have had no use for his Edwardian sense of propriety, his grown-up politeness. Make no mistake, he would have been happy to take (or at least walk) a woman home, but such a possibility must have seemed urgently unlikely that night.

But perhaps, at the deepest root, his dismay is a just symptom of his resilient, baffling, beautiful romanticism. The boys and girls chatter in crass, ugly cadences, not in the poetic strains Papa would prefer. Yet notice how he asks “Where is that perfect girl I dream of finding?” rather than questioning whether such a girl could possibly exist; his belief in poetry is absolute. His anger, then, is not so much a bitter reaction as it is a necessary response to those who would shake what he knows to be unshakable. We see the strain such principles put on my grandfather as a young man, but to the end of his life he would remain capable of feeling only surprise when the world tried to disappoint him.

Update 1/20

My mother confirms that, even later in life, Papa was not a “hail-fellow-well-met,” as they would have said back in the day — that is, he remained gentle and somewhat serious-minded and never felt at ease with more jovial, back-slapping types. This is consistent with his disapproval of the the un-“gentlemanlike” men described above.

Sunday Jan 20

by

Visited Rose Sherman,
she and her sister Tillie and
myself then visited my
cousins Lena & Jean who are
also known to them.

May it be known that
although not entered
regularly in this book or
not at all, every day includes
a visit to my sister Nettie
and my little darling niece
Rosie (Ruchale)

——————
Matt’s Notes:

The cast of characters expands. Looks like Papa’s cousins and sisters must have all lived close by on the Lower East Side, or at least within walking distance since the January cold didn’t keep them from strolling around and visiting each other. (Then again, I imagine the New York cold didn’t impress Papa too much since he grew up in an Eastern European ghetto where they probably ate bowls of hail for breakfast).

————–

Updates

2/4 – Via e-mail, my mother adds:

Did you know that niece “Rosie” called Ruthie by my cousin Jeanie is the one that died of spinal mennengitis at about 11 yrs of age? My middle name Ruchle or Ruth is after her. Aunt Nettie never recovered from her death. I can barely imagine Papa’s sorrow.

Monday Jan 21

by

My birthday today according
the Jewish calendar, celebrated
in bitter disappointments of
the past, blasted hopes etc.
but with a hope for a brighter
future.

Attended Dr. Thon’s reception
meeting at Cooper Union enjoyed
speeches of Weitzman Lipsky and
others. Some more mental food.

The picture of my niece
Tabale with her husband in
bridal dress which first
arrived today, brought a tear
from my eyes. I recalled old
happy memories when we were
all together, and I left her a
small child.

How everything has changed.

—————————–

Matt’s Notes

Sometimes what Papa writes is so sad that I don’t know whether to comment on it or just let it stand on its own, but a few things really get me about this entry.

It’s bitterly ironic for him to rattle off “the bitter disappointments of the past, blasted hopes etc.” going through his head on his birthday, as if those things are de rigueur for birthdays (he would have turned 29 this day by the Hebrew calendar, which in my book is as good as, or even worse, than turning 30 for prompting soul-searing soul searching). He adds a typical dose of optimism in noting his “better hopes for the future,” but I’m not sure he believes it at this moment. (He’s so low that he barely touches on the event he attended, in which the true heavyweights of Zionism gathered at Cooper Union, one of the most storied intellectual venues of the day.)

The wistfulness keeps piling on, as often seems to happen when you’re having a depressing day, with the arrival of his niece’s wedding photo. The distance and years separating him from Tabale, and by extension his parents and other siblings, must strike him on this day even harder than it might have. Even thoughts about the sister and niece who live right around the corner don’t help. And, since his self-reflection no doubt centers on what his life is coming to, whether he’s running out of time to make his mark, and whether he’ll ever have a family of his own, the image of his young niece already on her way to building a life for herself must feel all the more bittersweet.

Again, though, maybe this analysis is not necessary. It’s enough to think of him as he arrives home from his lecture and there’s an envelope from the old country waiting for him on the kitchen table, he’s excited for news from home, so he opens it by gas light, or maybe his hosts are asleep or he can’t spare a coin for the gas meter so instead he sits up on his rented cot in the corner of the parlor, and it’s too dark to read the letter so he pulls out the photo instead and angles it toward the window, and so by the street light he squints and turns his head and turns the photo and finally he makes out the image of his niece, all but unrecognizable as the little girl he last saw, standing in her wedding gown, standing with a man he doesn’t recognize, by now his eyes have adjusted to the low light and he would like to see the picture more clearly but he can’t blink away his tears, so he stretches out on his cot and looks around the room at the candles and cups and bowls and books, all of them belong to another family, everything he owns fits under his cot in a trunk and he has no one, no one but his diary to share his thoughts with on his birthday.

——————————-

I don’t have any pictures of Tabale from 1924, but she’s in this picture sent from Snyatyn in 1938. Tabale is second from the left, her husband is the tall guy in the middle rear, and her kids are up front.

Here are their faces:

Oh, and by the way — Papa, this is you: