munger

Tuesday Sept 16

by

the children Yosef and Rahel
are still ill

Oh, Creator of worlds, bring
them back to health

Avraham Zvi bar-Yosef, the Cohen

——————-

Matt’s Notes

Another day, another prayer for the health of Papa’s terribly ill niece and nephew. He’s written both of their names in Hebrew, and concluded this passage with the same Hebrew phrase he used yesterday. Thanks to our friend Inbar, we now know it’s a formal signature of sorts that reads “Avraham Zvi bar-Yosef, the Cohen,” or Abraham Zvi, son of Joseph, the Cohen. (Papa was a Cohen, or member of Judaism’s high priest caste, so perhaps he used this signature as a matter of course.)

Wednesday Sept 17

by


Ruchale is feeling
a little better, but
Josale is still coughing
much.

May the Allmighty speed
p boths recovery

———

Matt’s Notes

This is the third day Papa has discussed the illnesses of his sister Nettie’s children, Ruchale and Josale, and prayed for their recovery. He doesn’t mention what they had, but a 1924 New York Times article on childhood mortality rates cites measles, scarlet fever, whooping cough and diptheria among the most fearsome (it also credits “Schick testing and the injections of toxin-antitoxin to approximately 500,000 children” with a sharp drop-off in diptheria-related deaths).

I expect Papa was most worried about whooping cough or tuberculosis, but if you know more about this subject please drop a comment.

Thursday Sept 18

by


A reception to Leibel
Tcubes a legendarie
figure of the old country

———

Matt’s Notes

Papa’s schedule of banquets and Zionist meetings slowed down over the summer, but it looks like a new social season is starting to kick in. While the previous Spring did not, as he wished, “renew hopes” for better days — in fact, it ushered in one of the most difficult periods of his life thus far — perhaps a busy, purposeful Fall will help him to be happier.

————

Meanwhile, this entry contains the name of the honoree at the reception Papa attended, but I absolutely can’t read it. His first name is clearly Leibel, but what’s his last? It’s obviously Eastern European and I assume Papa has either spelled it correctly or transcribed it phonetically. It looks like “Tceiebes” or “Keubes,” but I really can’t tell. Any ideas?

————

Update 10/18/07

Looks like Shiri at the Museum of Jewish Heritage has nailed it:

..here is my best guess for the “legendary figure”…Could the last name be Taubisz, possibly spelled without the z? I found a listing for a Leibel Taubisz who ran a newspaper that, among other things, printed the first songs of Nachum Sternheim, who later became pretty famous…

The name of the paper was the “Wachenblatt”. More research is pending, but I think we have our man.

Friday Sept 19

by


A pleasant evening
at Jack Z’s house

—————

“Jack Z.” is, as my legions of readers know, none other than Jack Zichlinsky, Papa’s lifelong friend whose name was legendary in my family. I’m not sure where Papa visited him on this day; the 1924 and 1925 New York City Directories list a Jacob Zichlinsky at 24 Hart Street in Brooklyn’s Bed-Stuy neighborhood, but I don’t think that’s our man. (Jacob was a leather worker and likely owned his home, as indicated by the lower-case “h” in front of his address in the Directory. Papa’s address, 94 Attorney Street, in the same book is preceded by a lower case “r” to signify that he merely resided there. Anyway, I’ll add Jacob’s address to our map of Where Papa’s Been just in case.)

———–

Update

Since writing this post I’ve deduced that Jacob Zichlisky was, in fact, Jack Zichliskly. The October 10th post has the thrilling blow-by-blow account of my investigation.

Saturday Sept 20

by


Passed day with almost
nothing visiting some
relatives

1.P.M.

Just came back from
1st Slichoth, the first is
always very impressive to me

Even now in my house
I can hear the echoes of
the worshippers in the
synagogues surrounding
my house, they’re still
at it.

It brings back old memories
when I and my father (olam haba)
went after midnight to
worship.

Those never to be forgotten
days.

————-

I think Papa meant to say he came back from the synagogue at 1 A.M. rather than 1 P.M., because the first Slichot — that is, the first in a series of penitent prayer services leading into the Jewish New Year — traditionally begins around midnight on the Saturday before Rosh Hashana and goes well into the wee hours. I’ve never participated in nor even known until now about this ritual (in fact, last Saturday night I spent first Slichot in a karaoke bar singing “Cracklin’ Rose” and “Gin and Juice” after a friend’s wedding reception) but I understand it to be one of the more moving, compelling services of the year due to its incongruously late schedule and the introspective, mournful nature of its prayers and chants.

Papa, of course, would have found the first Slichot especially wistful this year, his memories of attending services in the old country all the more bittersweet due to his father’s recent death. His lovely account of the Lower East Side’s atmosphere on this night, with sounds of prayer issuing from its myriad synagogues into the cool night air, the murmurs and chants cascading over its sidewalks and surrounding its lampposts and street signs and motionless carriages, leads me to question if, in fact, such a thing ever really occurred in New York City. Did those sounds really accompany him as he wrote this entry at his little table, or were the echoes he heard those of of his lost childhood, his father’s voice, the world he was only just now realizing he would never know again?

————

Update 9/24/07

Cantor Robert Applestone, a friend of this site who has been in the business of singing Jewish prayers for 50 years, has been kind enough to let us record him singing a slichot prayer. Perhaps the echoes Papa heard sounded something like it:

[2024 note: Unfortunately, this audio has disappeared and I’ve been unable to recover it. Here’s some Selichot audio from Archive.org to tide you over.]

——————–

References:

There are a couple of informative summaries of Selichot at Wikipedia and Judaism 101.

Sunday Sept 21

by

[no entry today]

———————–

In my dream I have a beard and I can see it while I look down to read. I read out loud from the prayer in the book before me. I can read the words but they are not Hebrew or any language I understand.

I see now my father is watching me. His beard is gray. He asks me if I’ve lost my book. I look down and my book is gone and my beard has grown to the floor. It is attached to the floor by something. My father asks me to find my book and I see now I am in the schul in Sniatyn, but unlike the schul too because it is a round room and so dark I cannot see across it. I see only the curved wall disappearing into the blackness.

The voices of the congregation echo in the air as I walk to find my book. My beard is attached to the floor but still I walk and the eyes of the congregation follow me. They sit and look at me and stay very still like the photograph of my brother and sisters. My father stands and watches me as I walk around the edge of the room but I cannot see him well and soon he is but a shadow.

I follow the walls of the room and continue to circle but I see no congregation nothing but the walls. A few more steps and there are chairs and beds in little alcoves in the wall, and I want to sit or rest but I must find my book and bring it back to my father. I hope he has not moved because the only way I can find him is if I follow the walls back to where I was.

Monday Sept 22

by

[no entry]

————-

Matt’s Notes

In my dream I study with my father (olam haba) in his classroom at the Talmud Torah. I feel privileged to be with him as I always do when we are alone together. “Today I would like to try something different,” he tells me, and now I see a girl sits on the bench beside me. We sit at a table in the kitchen of a stranger’s house. My father tells me we are still in his classroom and we have been here before and he asks me to read out loud. I read carefully and try not to make any mistakes, I read for hours and I want to know my part perfectly because the girl is listening.

When I am done he asks the girl to read, instead she talks about the neighbor’s wedding and the cold weather and she gets up and stirs a pot of soup on the stove. She tells me the name of the soup but I cannot pronounce it. Now I see another girl is in the room and my father is angry with her because she was not supposed to be there but he invites her to sit down and have some soup anyway. She fills a bowl with soup and takes it out of the house and tells him she is going to share it with the whole village. I stand up and watch her leave and realize I cannot remember her face or the name of the village. I turn and sit back down to eat but my father is already walking away from the table. “New York is still outside,” I tell him. He feels his empty pockets and looks for something on the floor.