Monday Aug 4

by


Evening at Sisters
and home.

The privacy of having
my own little home is all right
but it is terrible lonesome.
I wish I could find some
man to suit me to live with
me that I may have
someone to talk to.

The many girls I’ve met
in the last weeks have
not inspired me to be entered
in this book.

————–

Matt’s Notes (Posted from Mexico)

Papa’s entries have been so sad lately, so focused on his loneliness and boredom, that it’s hard to believe he’s been socially active over the last few weeks and hasn’t been telling us about it. Has he met a bunch of unispiring women through his marriage broker, through friends, or at social events? Maybe one of his sisters invited someone over to meet him this evening, and his disappointment with her prompted him to speculate on whether it might just be better to find a roommate to keep him company. (Once in a while it seems like Papa is missing an English word from his vocabulary, and the way he writes “some man to suit me to live with” leads me to think he didn´t know the expression “roommate.” Then again, maybe it wasn’t commonly used in the 20’s. Please write or comment if you know anything about such things.)

Papa intensely disliked being alone, yet yesterday he described some romantic feelings about his ongoing solitude and today he makes a cursory nod toward the advantages of privacy. Maybe this means he´s trying to talk himself out of the deep, absorbing depression he´s felt for the last few weeks, to find a less pessimistic take on his isolation. Is he starting to feel a bit better?

Tuesday Aug 5

by


When I’m alone I’m in
spirit with my father (olam habah)
who shall always stand
as an example of everything
that is good and pure
honest and sincere (shalom l’efro)

This was some hot day
I wish I’d get rid of the
machine work and start
successfully a business of my
own, May that day be near
at hand.

—————-

The phrase “this was some hot day” stands out a little to me because I’m so uncaccustomed to seeing Papa use any kind of casual vernacular in his diary. It also strikes me as a distinctly New York Jewish kind of phrase, to be read as “Oy, this was some hot day.” (In this case, Papa used the oft-employed silent “oy.”)

A while back I cited an article about the way native Yiddish speakers write English, how they seem to “shrug” between words and create an “enforced intimacy” with the reader. I think something like that is going on here, too. The word “some” stands in for every superlative adjective about a hot day imaginable, takes an implied inventory of why the heat was so difficult, inconvenient, remarkable, disorienting, baffling or otherwise emblematic of God’s mysterious priorities. Papa has made eye contact with us and shared a collaborative head shake. (Note that the word “such” can also be used for the same sort of purpose; back when Lundy’s, the venerable Brooklyn over-eatery, was in its near-death throes a few years back, my grandmother looked at it as we drove by and sighed, “Such a restaurant.” Need more be said?)

It was, in fact, very hot that day, with temperatures topping off at 91 degrees (it would climb to 99 two days later). How did Papa stay cool? Did he strip to his underwear and sit in front of his electric fan, frozen by the heat, and meditate over his father’s memory? Was it enough to purge from his mind thoughts of his sewing machine, the broiling, clattering factory, the monotony of his work? Did he imagine, in his stillness, that he would never have his own business but would, one day, have someone like me remember him “as an example of everything that is good and pure honest and sincere?”

Wednesday Aug 6

by

Home (above date)

Thursday
Maccabean Meeting at
Pennsylvania Hotel, I delighted
in meeting Nat Eisenberg, a
friend.

A few talks I’ve heard
informed me.

————–

Looks like Papa originally left this page blank on Wednesday the 5th and accidentally wrote Thursday’s entry on it. Once he realized his mistake, he squeezed in the word “Thursday” over the entry and wrote a quick word at the top of the page to show how he spent Wednesday: “Home.”

I’m posting from Mexico with a slow connection, so I’ll just quickly note that “The Maccabean” refers to Papa’s chapter of the Zionist fraternal order, B’nai Zion (check out previous entries about B’nai Zion here.) The Pennsylvania Hotel has also shown up in Papa’s diary a few times because it seems to have been a location of choice for Zionist events (here’s a bit more on the Pennsylvania Hotel.)

Thursday Aug 7

by

[no entry]
—————

Matt’s Notes

As noted yesterday, Papa accidentally wrote his August 7th entry on his diary’s August 6th page, so that’s where you’ll find the latest.

Meanwhile, here are the New York Times headlines that might have caught Papa’s eye on the 7th:

GOMPERS DISPUTES DAVIS LABOR RECORD; Denies, in Reply to Wilson, That Nominee Appeared in Clayton Act Fight.

EXPERT SAYS LOEB ADMITTED HE WAS THE ACTUAL SLAYER; ” He Told Me He Struck the Blow” That Killed Boy, Dr. Glueck Testifies. [I happen to be reading a book about Leopold and Loeb while I’m on vacation in Mexico, where I’m posting from.]

Carnegie Gift to Jerusalem Library.

Candidates Must Be ‘Polite’ Over Radio in Massachusetts

Friday Aug 8

by


After supper at Netties
& services at the Synagogue
spend the rest of the eve.
promenading on Bridge
with friends.

———

Matt’s Notes

Below are a couple of Library of Congress photos depicting early 20th Century Brooklyn Bridge promenading. They’re not really from Papa’s era (the top is from 1903 and the lower is undated) but they’re fun to look at anyway.

[posted from Mexico]


“Types of Life on the Promenade, Brooklyn Bridge, N.Y.” Brooklyn Bridge library of congress # LC-USZ62-56629. Around 1903. No known restrictions on publication.


“New York City. Brooklyn Bridge on left and subway on right.” Library of Congress #LC-H823-1701-012. Publication restrictions not indicated.

Saturday Aug 9

by


During the day in the cool
ocean waves of C.I. In evening
I deserted my many friends
in whose company I’d spent the
day, to go the Prayer services to
say Kadish.

Tisha B’ab Eve

Thousands of years after the
destruction of Jerusalem a big synagogue
on the gay seashore of C.I. on a hot
summer night is crowded to capacity
bewailing the greatest disaster in
Israels history. Many removed
their shoes sitting on the floor,
Slowly the familiar mournful melody
of “Aichu” is read. Among them
I sat with eyes moist bewailing a
land which neither I nor my parents
or my great great parents ever saw
but still no near to me.

That is the miracle of Israels eternal life

—————–

Matt’s Notes

In a religious tradition with its fair share of sad holidays, Tisha B’Av is the saddest Jewish holiday of all. It commemorates the destruction of First Temple and the Second Temple, both of which occurred on the same date, as did a number of other subsequent tragedies. I’ve never personally worshiped during Tisha B’Av, though I know the mournful “Aichu” Papa refers to is usually written as “Eicha” and means “Lamentations.”

Religious faith is, as I’ve mentioned before, one facet of Papa’s character I cannot locate in my own — I am simply not a person of faith. Still, I’m touched by the intensity of Papa’s devotion, the image of tears in his eyes as a sad prayer is read, the sense of eternal connection he shares with past and future generations of Jews through the mournful ritual of Tisha B’Av. The sadness is a miracle to him because it makes the long-lost land of Israel almost tangible, and no doubt sustains his faith in the eventual success of his Zionist efforts.

This year, though, I’m sure deep spiritual contemplation of destruction and recovery is even more important to Papa since he is in the throes of his own violent personal change. His father’s death has, I think, wrenched away any thought he ever entertained of recovering the sense of belonging he felt with his family in the old country. As Papa himself has written, his father represented to him everything good in the world, and his death triggered a feeling in Papa akin to “lost paradise.”

In short: Papa had experienced, with the death of his father, the destruction of his own temple. His tearful awe over “the miracle of Israels eternal life,” maintained through mourning, must have touched him profoundly as he sought a way to maintain his father’s legacy. Perhaps Papa’s own efforts to help reinvent and rebuild a new, modern Israel inspired by ancient faith helped him realize that he, too, could build a new life for himself inspired by his father’s example. Was that understanding, not yet consciously realized, partly responsible for the tears in Papa’s eyes on this hot August night?

[posted from Mexico]

——————–

The guy who sold me the photo below claims they’re of a Coney Island synagogue, and while I don’t necessarily believe him, I am relatively sure they were taken in Brooklyn in the late 1920’s:

Here’s a closer look at the synagogue:

I wish I knew what the guy with the pushcart was selling. Looks like it might be ices of some sort:

Sunday Aug 10

by


Baseball game with friend
Julius just a poor way of
killing a beautiful day.

———-

I’m not sure of a better way to spend a beautiful day than at a baseball game with your good friend Julius, but Papa had been to a lot of games lately. More importantly, this entry is in keeping with a recently-emerged theme in Papa’s diary in which he describes his disappointment with his life through expressions of boredom, monotony, and stasis. Another day at the ball park is another day without significant change.

I would also wager he had a particularly “poor” day because he saw the Giants lose a double-header to the Reds, 4-2 and 5-1, at the Polo Grounds. At least, I assume Papa saw the Giants game — the Yankees were out of town and the Robins, a.k.a. Dodgers, took a double header from the Cardinals, 6-5 and 8-4, and I figure Papa couldn’t have seen their performance at Ebbets Field and felt his day was a total loss.

Then again, those of us so inclined know that when you tap a vein of dissatisfaction, it’s often difficult to keep away from it no matter where you are (ask my wife about my recent behavior on the pristine, perfect beaches of Tulum — I brought the cliche of the unrelaxable New Yorker to a new, glorious standard) but Papa’s eventual victory over the demons of stasis and his creation of a a new, ever-changing life remains an example of a lode worth digging for.

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