Friday Oct 3

by

Philip my brother in law
had a serious accident
his hands are wounded
and his children are not well,

Oh God help them get well
again

————–

As I’ve mentioned before, Papa’s sister Nettie seemed to suffer far more from the day-to-day indignities of Jewish immigrant life in New York’s tenements than Papa did, at least in 1924. Her children were sick and wracked with coughing fits; the joy of her son’s birth was compromised by a telegram from overseas announcing her father’s death; her husband, Philip, got pushed around by an opportunistic shyster posing as a teacher of English; and now Philip, already in and out of work, suffered an accident from which, I’ve been told, he never quite recovered.

Unfortunately, even as Papa constructed a more uplifting story for himself in subsequent years, Nettie’s life continued to describe a tragic arc. Her daughter, Ruchale, would die of meningitis and Nettie would eventually conclude a long struggle with mental illness by taking her own life. Her sadness was of a very different sort than Papa’s, incurable, bleak; I wonder if, in subsequent years, Papa contrasted his own life to hers and felt, through his empathetic sadness, somehow thankful.

Saturday Oct 4

by


3rd dist

—————

“3rd dist” refers to the Third District, or chapter, of the Zionist Organization of America, which at the time encompassed Haddassah (the famed Jewish womens’ organization) and B’nai Zion (the fraternal order and mutual support society to which Papa belonged).

Papa worked hard for the Z.O.A., especially earlier in the year when he attempted to revive its moribund First District at the behest of a mysterious supervisor named “Blitz.” I don’t think these efforts were successful, though; in recent months he’s attended a few Third District meetings and one Second District meeting, but he hasn’t mentioned the First at all.

Meanwhile, Papa continues to write short, abbreviated passages in a spidery hand, as if some long struggle left him unable to do more than scratch out a few letters. I think this is because the anticipation of Yom Kippur, during which Papa will have to mourn his recently-departed father for the first time, weighs heavily on him. Whether he knows it or not, he is embroiled in a dramatic internal struggle to understand his place in a world without his father and all his father represented. It is probably too much for him to write or think clearly about, but it dwarfs his other concerns.

Sunday Oct 5

by

3rd dist & Cafe Royal

————

I watched as Blitz engaged in a tremendous argument with Goldstein about Jabotinsky. Goldstein has grown impatient with Weizmann and upon learning of the Third District meeting commenced to insult our efforts. Blitz is passionate and slapped his palms on the table and my coffee danced and splashed in its saucer from one side to the other.

Just a small turn of my head and instead of the Blitz and Goldstein argument I could watch three actors from one of the theaters down the street, chairs pressed together on one side of their table, they leaned against each other and sang and smiled. They still had makeup on their faces and had the appearance of movie actors. One of them looked my way as he sang, his beard was black and his hand lay on a newspaper in front of him. He had small eyes, black and shiny, he did not seem to notice me but he sang the old song and knew every word and continued to sing even has his friends faltered and laughed and toasted with glasses of tea. I urgently wanted to join him at his table and also to get up and leave the restaurant, nervous now as if I’d just remembered something, or remembered I’d forgotten to do something like turn off the gas at home or bring Josele his medicine.

Blitz tugged on my arm and asked me to add my opinion to his discussion with Goldstein but I had forgotten what it was about and the man with the beard stopped singing and I knew if I tried to talk I would have choked on my words and wept. My coffee was half spilled now from Blitz’s exertions but I drank it all the same and happily I was able to swallow.

Monday October 6

by

Am so worried, Philip is
unable to work, and Josale
is sick. Oh God speed their
recovery

————-

I know I must help Nettie and Philip but where will I find the means? So many want so much from me. My father olam haba faced these burdens each day. Oh God give me his strength so I may help others, it should never upset me so.

Let those who come after me never know such thoughts.

————–

I can only speculate on what Papa decided not to write down at this time. We know he helped his sister Nettie and her husband Philip negotiate life in America, and this included financial support. We know he felt bursts of resentment when his family in the old country unceremoniously demanded money of him, but he went into debt to accommodate them. We know he admired his father and hoped to live by his example, but he also feared he inherited his father’s life of unyielding poverty and endless worry over how to provide for his family.

Did Papa ever wish for everything to stop, for all his troubles and all the people around him and all their demands to disappear? He never said it, yet in this, his most difficult year of change and self-reflection, he surely felt his generous character tested. And so I ask again: how did he cast such thoughts aside and finally become the effortlessly selfless person we all knew? What would I be if I knew the answer?

Wednesday Oct 8

by


Right after the prayers this
evening, I called the Dr. to
examine Yosale, and according
to him he is seriously ill,

—————

Matt’s Notes

As my mother noted a while back, Papa’s whole family depended on him for support even though he was the second-youngest of seven children. This entry gives us a small but matter-of-fact demonstration of his caretaker’s role: though he has been fasting and attending services all day for Yom Kippur, it still falls to him to call a doctor for Yosale, his sister Nettie’s infant son. It’s certainly understandable because Nettie’s husband, Philip, spoke little English and had recently suffered a debilitating injury to his hands, Nettie probably didn’t want to leave her son’s side for a moment, and Papa likely had the best line in to a decent doctor. (I would guess the doctor he called was associated with one of the landsmanshaftn, or mutual support societies, that immigrant Jews like Papa depended on for various essential services.)

I wonder, too, if Nettie asked Papa to call the doctor of if he acted on his own in this instance. Yosele was, after all, named for Papa’s father Joseph, who had died just a few months before. Since much of Yom Kippur involves intensive mourning for the dead (fasting and non-stop prayer ratchets up the emotion) Papa may well have emerged from services feeling especially compelled to protect his father’s namesake.

Thursday Oct 9

by


Yosale is a little better today
and gradually improving
Received 2 letters from home

———–

Matt’s Notes

Back in May, in one of the more dramatic episodes in Papa’s year thus far, Papa received notice of his beloved father’s death just hours after his nephew Yosele was born. I’ve always wondered if this confluence of events, along with the fact that Yosele was named a variation of “Joseph” after Papa’s father, made Papa especially attached to Yosele.

For example, the first thing Papa did yesterday after Yom Kippur services ended was call a doctor for Yosele, who’d been sick for a while. Is it possible, as we discussed yesterday, that having spent the day fasting, praying and mourning his father, Papa felt overly concerned for Yosele and called a doctor when it might not have been entirely necessary? Could it be that Yosele’s not really any better today at all, but, with Yom Kippur over, Papa’s perspective on Yosele’s condition is a little less exaggerated?

In that vein, I imagine Papa’s Yom Kippur prayers, so focused on his father, also made him think at length about his childhood, and the childhood home he missed so much. If that was the case, the two letters he received from the old country on this day must have felt especially welcome, as if, perhaps, a higher authority than the U.S. Postal Service had a hand in their arrival.

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