sniatyn

Sunday Jan 6

by


6:30P.M. This was certainly a mo-
notonous day so far what will happen later. –

9:45
I met at Breindel’s Clara the
daughter of Cousin Leizer, and
others, we went to Eva where
we had a most enjoyable eve.
Incl in the company were
Mr. and Mrs. Mendel, C, and her
friends.

I was glad indeed to receive
personal greetings from my parents
and other dear ones on the other
side, and that they are in good
health, which makes me
happier

The above mentioned
Clara Leizers arrived from Europe
recently.

—————–

Matt’s Notes

Papa has time-stamped this entry as he did on New Year’s eve, which makes me think he does this when he’s excited about what the evening has in store. In this case, when he penned his 6:30 paragraph he was getting ready to meet a recent arrival from “the other side.” With only the mails to keep him in touch with his large circle of family and friends in Snyatyn, this must have been a rare treat indeed. (The last paragraph of the entry is written in a light, straight hand, very different from his usual strong, slanted style. Perhaps he added this late at night, unable to sleep with news from home running through his head.)

Still, at the end of the evening he describes himself as “happier”, but not “happy,” which makes me sad. His English is too strong for him not to know the difference between the words. At best he’s trying not to tempt the keyn aynhoreh by seeming too cheerful. More likely though, it betrays how deep and indefatigable his sadness must have been.

Sadder still: The “dear ones” he was so happy to hear about would almost all be killed by German soldiers a few years later. (Forgive me for laying it on so thick, but any mention of Snyatyn carries with it this cloud.) All the more remarkable, then, that when I knew him at the end of his life he radiated such personal joy and satisfaction. My mother has a photograph of him, sitting on our back lawn lawn, surrounded by his grandchildren in the sunshine, beaming kvelling with total contentment. In the end, he had all he wanted, and all the sadness of his youth, sadness so deep he wouldn’t allow himself the use of the word “happy”, was obliterated. It makes me want to send him a packet from the future with that photograph and a note saying “Papa, this is you.”

————-

Updates

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:

Saturday Feb 23

by

Visited the Goldsteins
(Eve) family in the Bronx
in the afternoon. —

In the evening went to the
Sniatyner ball.

Just once a year this annual
dance affords me the opportunity
to meet my country people my
schoolmates etc. —

How everything has changed
between the old and new worlds,
Like a miracle I’ve seen
almost the whole town of my
early youth before me, —
Men, women old and young
are eager to meet again and
talk of days gone by.

A real renunion. —

——————-

Matt’s Notes

I’m often amazed at how Papa conveys so much emotion in so few words. Even his cheerful account of the Sniatyner ball quietly hums with wistfulness and homesickness, each bright note enfolded in a low, minor chord. He may be sentimental, but his prose style can be a real study in economy.

The Sniatyner Ball was most likely organized by a Sniatyn-oriented landsmanshaft, or mutual aid society geared toward immigrants from the same place (I wrote a bit about landsmanshaftn, and the ways they provided health care, burial services and credit to their members, in an earlier post). I think Papa relied mostly on his fraternal order, B’nai Zion, for these kinds of services, but the Sniatyn landsmanshaft obviously played a part in his life.

Interestingly, the landsmanshaft appears to have survived in the form of the United Sniatyner Sick and Benevolent Society, which still provides benefits and holds regular gatherings for descendants of Sniatyn Jews. (If you want to know more you can write to its president, Michael Steinhorn, at msteinhorn ‘at’ comcast.net.) I’m grateful to them for recently pointing me toward a copy of Papa’s 1917 draft registration form at ancestry.com. Check it out:

photo of Papa's Draft Registration

Some highlights include Papa’s 1917 address (136 Rivington Street) and his workplace (Majestic Neckwear at 44 Walker Street, no doubt where Papa met Tillie, the woman who declared her love for him on the trolley a few weeks back). The form is hard to read so I’m inferring a bit, but it looks like Papa, who was a pacifist, may have courted a bid for ineligibility by pointing out that he had “bad feet” and was the sole supporter of his sister Clara. One family story even has him losing lots of weight before his draft examination so he’d appear sickly and weak, but it’s hard to confirm. Stay tuned.

Sunday Feb 24

by


4 am
The dream is over, yes it was
like a dream to meet all my
old home folks, Perhaps in the
pursuit of action yesterdays
dream will be forgotten before
the day is over,

Spent the Eve. at the
Zaer Zion and Youth
of Palestine Clubs.

————-

Matt’s Notes

Those of us who are inclined to feel can understand why Papa needed to grab his diary at 4:AM to write about the Sniatyner ball. The ease and sense of belonging he knew among his landsman must have been a rare commodity for Papa, who longed so keenly for his family back home, for a family of his own, for something other than the loneliness of his little apartment. Even the happiness he felt during the ball had a bittersweet edge because he knew it would be short-lived; perhaps that’s why his previous day’s account is so wistful.

By 4:00 AM, though, as the approaching day brought with it the usual “pursuit of action,” Papa knew his good feeling would end, knew even his sweet melancholy wouldn’t persist against the bustle and struggle of the Lower East Side. “Yes, it was like a dream” he writes, and like all practiced dreamers he did what he could to keep it going a few moments longer, denying the dawn, scratching into his journal whatever he remembered of his dissipating comfort.

Comfort, of course, was what Papa provided so readily for others. I think even his Zionist activism stemmed from his pursuit of others’ comfort, a need to build a place where Jews like him could finally feel they belonged. For his whole life he had lived in ghettos by the grace of fickle governments, settled for fleeting moments of security among friendly clubs and organizations and reunions. For Papa, Zionism stemmed from a real, visceral desire to make sure his descendants wouldn’t need to sit awake at four in the morning, wondering if they’d ever feel safe again.

Wait: as I picture Papa in bed, wishing away the dawn, I remember why I think I’m so familiar with his bittersweet feeling.

When I was a kid I used to experience something I thought of as “the summer feeling,” a sudden rush of warmth, unpredictable and intense — but I know it always washed over me when I was especially comfortable with my surroundings or the people I was with. This feeling, though, was equal parts joy and melancholoy, because I knew it would not last. Even as I felt it I mourned its inevitable passing. I thought it happened to everyone once in a while; I think it happened to Papa after the Snyatin Ball.

But why did I invent the “summer feeling?” Why would I pine for it?

This picture was taken in the summer of 1971. Papa died two months later. I can’t be wrong about this, can I?

Monday Feb 25

by

Received a letter from
home, My dear father
had a serious accident, he
slipped and fell and is
confined to bed.

I am greatly worried
I pray for his speedy
recovery

—————-

Matt’s Notes

Here are Papa’s parents, in the only photo I have of them. The photo is mounted on an oval ceramic base with a gold border, hence the curved edges of the picture:

photo of Papa's parents

Papa was the youngest of six children, so his father must have been over thirty years his senior, or at least in his sixties, by 1924. He also had a paralyzed arm, so while he may not have been old enough for falls to be really worrisome (then again, he may have — I don’t yet know when he was born, and life expectancy for Eastern European men of his age was in the low 50’s at best1) any accident may been that much more dangerous for him.

Remember, too, that Papa could only communicate with his parents and siblings on the other side through mail (and not airmail, which was in its early stages in the 1920s) and the occasional telegram. While Papa obviously had no other expectations, we have to remember that an undercurrent of anxiety over his father’s condition, attenuated by separation and slow communication, will run through Papa’s life from this point on.

photo of Papa's parents

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References for this post:

1 – This is average, so it’s skewed by high infant mortality rates. From “A New Estimate of Ukrainian Population Losses during the Crises of the 1930s and 1940s by Jacques Vallin; France Meslé; Serguei Adamets; Serhii Pyrozhkov. Population Studies, Vol. 56, No. 3. (Nov., 2002), pp. 249-264.

Wednesday Mar 19

by

On my way from work I was
instinctively walked into a
synagogue to listen to the
Megilath Esther (The Book of Esther)

The house was crowded, everything
went along mechanically, without
any enthusiasm. —

In my mind is a picture
of the same scene in the old
world in my early childhood,
at sunset all stores are closed
All work has stopped, All streets
are full of young & old go on their
way to the synagogues dressed in
their Sabbath’s best, At the places of
worship, everybody seems so happy
as if they would live there with Esther
her adventure. Thus they welcomed
the eve. of the happ merry fiesta of
Purim. — Sweet memories.

——————

Matt’s Notes:

Purim is one of the more cheerful Jewish holidays, a celebration of how ancient Jews of the Persian Empire saved themselves from an evil royal minister who hoped to destroy them. The celebration involves dressing up like characters from the story, putting on plays, having parties and giving to charity. Papa grew up in a Jewish ghetto where Purim was probably the biggest festival of the year and gave everyone a breather from the trials of their daily lives, so it’s no wonder it meant so much to him.

When I read about his disappointment, I’m reminded of the scene in Midnight Cowboy in which John Voight arrives in New York, sure his cowboy look will make him a standout gigolo, only to see dozens of other cowboy gigolos wandering around. This might seem like an odd association, but I bring it up because New York can be unforgiving that way — huge, busy and hungry, the city is indifferent even to the things we find most significant. New York has never needed help from any holiday to feel colorful and hectic; perhaps that’s why, in Papa’s eyes, Purim felt less important when imported.

I should note that my wife, Stephanie, who spent her early childhood in an insular Orthodox community, remembers Purim as a big deal and has many happy memories of it. Perhaps the dilution of Purim Papa sensed was due to the diversity of his neighborhood (yes, it was very Jewish, but not entirely so, while my wife’s neighborhood was probably as culturally homogeneous as Papa’s home town). He might have enjoyed Purim more, too, if he’d had children to dress up and regale with the old stories; surely such holidays intensified his longing for a family of his own and contributed to his sense of disappointment.

In any event, the Yivo Institute for Jewish Research has a great Web site called “People of a Thousand Towns” with images of Eastern European Purim celebrations in the early 20th Century. I’ve written to Yivo with a request to use some of these images. Alas, I’m not sure I’m ever going to hear back from them The above and below photos of early 20th Century Eastern European Purim celebrations come from this collection and are published with their permission. Check out the site when you get a chance (registration required) but beware — you may lose a few hours paging through all the images.

—————

Update 3/19 –

My mother writes:

When I was growing up in Brooklyn, Purim was also a big deal. I remember one play in Hebrew school where I played Queen Vashti, the king’s petulant wife. Papa thought I was wonderful and raved about the way I tossed my head, but I’m sure he believed I should have been chosen for the part of Esther.

—————-

Additional references:

Here’s more on the story of Purim from jewfaq.org and Wikipedia .

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Update 3/22 –

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–

Wednesday May 28

by

My Fathers Farewell to me

A beautiful Spring night at the
foot of the hill where my hometown
Sniatyn lies, at the Railroad station
early in June 1913, my father went
to bid me farewell on my long Journey
to America.

The train is waiting, a long
embrace a kiss, tears streaming
down from his eyes,

Did he have a premonition that
we would see each other no more?

The train is moving out slowly
and by the light of the moon I
could see through the window in the
distance my father [olam haba] weeping
and wiping his tears.

———-

Matt’s Notes

I hesitate to intrude on Papa right now, but if you’re interested to know, here’s what comes to mind when I read this passage:

Somewhere around 1977 or 1978, my fifth grade teacher assigned my class a project called “Where Are My Roots?” for which we all had to write a report on our family histories. (The T.V. miniseries Roots, about an African-American family’s enslaved ancestors, was all the rage back then and had touched off a bit of a genealogy craze.) My report was about Papa’s emigration from Sniatyn, and though I don’t remember much about it, I know the centerpiece was a photocopy of the above entry. (My mother picked it out and my father “Xeroxed” it at his office, whatever that meant).

This sad, sweet passage was my first introduction to Papa’s diary, and though I didn’t quite understand its context (I hadn’t read the whole diary and didn’t know Papa wrote it in the wake of his father’s death) I was fascinated with its structure and scope: It seemed soaring, lyrical, surprisingly literary in the way it switched tenses, familiarly cinematic in its description of Papa’s last, dwindling look at his weeping father from the window of a moving train. From my young perspective, these words felt epic in scale, like they opened onto infinity, and until I transcribed them last year I thought they went on for pages.

When I was a child I used to imagine that Papa’s ghost was looking out for me, hovering just out of sight over my shoulder. I was, in fact, terribly afraid of ghosts and spent many nights awake, under my covers, hiding from them. But to fear something is also to acknowledge its existence; was I willing, I ask rhetorically, to believe the world was full of ghosts just to convince myself Papa’s could still be with me? (It occurs to me now that I also used to think the ghosts in my house lived in a chair my grandmother gave us, a chair that for years occupied the apartment she shared with Papa.)

I mention this because I think it helps explain why, at eleven, this passage felt so important to me. I would not have been able to articulate how much I missed Papa or how much I longed for the lost feelings I associated with him. But to read his words was to hear the gentle murmur of his voice; to become lost in his prose was to feel his warmth; to see him wonder at his father’s “premonition that we would see each other no more” was to experience his idealistic optimism (anyone else would have known that he was saying goodbye to his father for good that night in Sniatyn, yet even eleven years later he chose to interpret the inevitable as a sign of his father’s wisdom).

Though it is, in reality, just one small page of an old pocket diary, this entry has indeed kept Papa with me for the last thirty years. I have hoped to revisit it, I have hoped to understand it more fully, I have hoped it might hold something more for me. I have hoped, each time I sit down to write, that I might one day compose something as spare and perfect and beautiful. But mostly I have hoped to be like Papa because I will never see him again. I will never see him again, even if he is just behind me, over my shoulder.