Monday June 16

by


After seeing the baseball game
at Ebbets Field, I went to
Harry Eisenkraft and sat
there until late in the night
conversing.

Ms. Eisenkraft was so kind
to give me a picture of Hymie
Eisencraft (Olam Haba) whom the whole
family has grown to love, because
of his love and kindness for
all, but the unavoidable death
robbed him from us at the
prime of his youth.

Five years after his death
I still find find myself under
the shock because of his early
death.

Blessed be his memory
Shalom [?]

Matt’s Notes

Not a bad day to be at Ebbet’s Field, where the Robins (a.k.a. Dodgers) beat the Cincinnati Reds, 5-2.

I’m not sure who the beloved Hymie Eisencraft was, but Papa must have really felt strongly for him to honor him with the term “Olama Haba” (“I’ll see him in the afterlife”) that he has previously used only in relation to his recently-departed father.

Papa also concludes the entry with another Hebrew tribute, though it’s a bit hard to read. My Hebrew-reading wife, Stephanie, can tell it starts with the word “Shalom,” but the second word is harder to make out. Any ideas?

Update: My friend Inbar, a native Hebrew speaker, thinks this is Shalom Lefro, literally “Goodbye to his ashes.”
—————

Update 10/17/07 – I now have a photo of Hymie Eisenkraft:

This photo comes to me through the grandson of the above-mentioned Harry Eisenkraft, who read about this blog in the October 14th New York Times City section. Papa’s father was likely the brother of Harry’s mother, Sara, who spelled her last name Seuerman (making Papa and Harry cousins). Though Hymie fought in World War I, his untimely death did not come in the trenches; he was killed by an auto in Brooklyn on June 26, 1919, an ironic fate too good for the front page editors of the Brooklyn Eagle to pass up.

The woman Hymie appears with in the photo above is his sister-in-law, Jennie. She was married to Harry and appears with him in the photo below.

Harry had one other brother, Issac Mendel, who Papa mentions in his May 15th entry.

—————

Update 1/11/08

Here’s another picture of Hymie Eisenkraft in the form of a custom-made Rosh Hashanah card:

I’ve written a bit more about this card in a separate post.

—————

References for this post:

ROBINS BEAT RIXEY AND THE REDS, 5-2; Brooklyn Batters Rout Western Invaders With Four-Run Rally in the Eighth. The New York Times, June 17, 1924.

Image Source: Outside Ebbet’s Field, 1920. Library of Congress # LC-B2- 5311-1 .

Tuesday June 17

by

Yesterday and today I
did not work so I went
again to a ball game at
the Polo Grounds.

I am so worried that Netties
baby son is ill, he
is coughing so.

May the Allmighty speed
his recovery.

He is named after beloved
father, May he grow up and
be as good as his Grand-
father, for he and Ruchale
are the only bright spots in
the life of their parents.

—————–

Matt’s Notes

Papa saw the Dodgers (a.k.a. Robins) take another game from the Cincinnati Reds on this day, a 5-4 decision in which Tiny Osborne pitching a complete game for Brooklyn.

Wednesday June 18

by

Nothing important

I am listening in to
sad melodies on the radio
no other music will appeal
to me during my mourning

These classic melodies by
great masters are matched
to my thoughts, something
like lost paradise, the
loss of my father, and my other
many disappointments, –

I am not yet old, and oh God
what I have been trough. (sic)

Vanished dreams, etc.
Does the future hold a little happiness
in store for me?

—————–

Matt’s Notes

I don’t know if the words “lost paradise” are a direct reference to “Paradise Lost,” but I think it’s appropriate here. Despite all he has been through to this point, including his emigration from Eastern Europe at 18 and the struggles he went through to establish a life in New York, Papa sustained himself in part by believing he would one day return to “Paradise” — that is, he would reunite with his family and recapture some of the carefree sense of belonging he once enjoyed. The death of his father put an end to that illusion.

Still, when he asks if the future holds a little happiness for him, I can answer with this picture of his own “Heaven on Earth,” or Paradise found:

And Papa, this is you:

My own version of Paradise lost.

Thursday June 19

by


Just received a distressing
letter from Sister Gitel, she is
actually starving with her family,
I will help her.

At the same time she states,
that the funeral of my late father
was the biggest ever held in
Sniatyn all ! old and young
alike went to pay the last honors
to my beloved father. I am
the saddest orphan alive
and I was deprived by fate of
the privilege to say Kadish
at his grave.

I feel now that his memory
is inspiring me to uphold
the dignity that was my his
fathers.

Shalom Le-nafsho

——————–

Matt’s Notes

I’m not sure why, but Papa’s description of his father’s funeral seems almost like something out of a fairy tale: the hillside of a European hamlet, covered with milling families, all gathered together to pay tribute to one of their leading citizens. This is consistent with Papa’s previous diary entry in which he described his adult melancholy as a feeling of “lost paradise,” as if the existence he knew in Sniatyn before coming to New York was somehow enchanted or blessed. Why, then, wouldn’t we expect him to romanticize his father’s funeral and the lost world it represented?

At the same time, Papa knows Sniatyn is anything but Paradise.* It’s a place where Jews — even Jews like his sister Gitel, the daughter of a beloved Talmud Torah teacher whose funeral was the largest the town ever saw — could go starving with their families. Papa had a couple of moments over the last few weeks when he felt overwhelmed by the responsibilities of supporting his family in Europe and even expressed some resentment over his siblings’ frequent requests for money, but thoughts of his father’s example have clearly relieved him of those feelings for the moment.

Papa concludes this passage with a Hebrew phrase similar to the one he used a few days ago in reference to a departed family friend. In that case, Papa seemed to write Shalom Le-efro, or “Goodbye to His Ashes.” Today’s phrase appears to be slightly different: Shalom Le-nafsho, or “Goodbye to His Soul.” Maybe he wrote the same thing in both entries, but they certainly look different:


Shalom Le-efro?


Shalom Le-nafsho?

Feel free to write or comment if you read these phrases any differently.

—————

* Sniatyn would become the very opposite of Paradise during the Nazi occupation. This article from the Guardian, pointed out by our friend Aviva, shows a photo that seems to depict the murder of several Jews in the Sniatyner woods during the massacre of 1942. The article goes on to question whether the photo is actually from Sniatyn, but it’s an interesting and touching read.

Friday June 20

by


That shadchan again bothers me
he called up, and I had
to promise him that I would
make appointments with girls

——–

Matt’s Notes

This is Papa’s third mention of a “shadchan,” or marriage broker, and it’s also the third time he’s been rather dismissive toward the matchmaking profession. I’m not sure why Papa felt he “had to promise him to make appointments with girls” (I wonder if Papa had a stack of photos and phone numbers in his apartment from the shadchan’s previous visits). Was the shadchan an old family friend? Did Papa’s attachment to old world traditions make it hard for him to reject his solicitations outright?

In any event, Papa’s thoroughly modern belief that romantic, self-made love was superior to arranged marriage demonstrates the sort of evolution in thinking that many Jews of his background and generation experienced in America. I suppose his very insistence on writing in English when he was probably more comfortable in Yiddish similarly reflects the tendency of Diaspora Jews to adapt to their surroundings, though he did write certain words in Yiddish when nothing else would do. To wit, here’s how he wrote shadchan in this entry:

Saturday June 21

by


Oh how I’m out of luck
I failed in a certain
undertaking again, which
means no more that under-
taking.

I went to the Ball game
at the Yankee Stadium
this afternoon.

Met Shapiro Zichlinsky
& Friedman in the evening
who spent the remainder
of the eve, at my home.

—————–

Matt’s Notes

Papa really seems out of sorts in this entry — his handwriting looks messy and hurried, he mistakenly wrote his friend Shapiro’s name when he meant to write his friend Zichlinsky’s, and he fails to mention that the Yankees played a double-header at the Stadium, the second game of which ended in a rare tie on account of rain.

I can only assume that Papa’s agitation was due to the “certain undertaking” he failed in that day, though I’m afraid to imagine what he was talking about. Did he place a bet on the second Yankee game, only to see it get rained out? Did he try to pick up a woman? Get turned away while scoring some prohibition hooch? His evasive and embarrassed language makes me think he must have tried something sexual, something sinful, Something That Dare Not Speak Its Name. Of course, someone of Papa’s moral character would have been ashamed to admit to jaywalking, so maybe he was just up to Something That Preferred To Speak Its Name in a Quiet Voice.

Did he talk about whatever he had tried when he had his friends over that night? Or did he save his semi-confession for his diary, preferring to discuss safer subjects like Zionism, the upcoming Democratic Convention, or the home run he saw Babe Ruth hit against the Red Sox earlier in the afternoon?

——————

The Red Sox, by the way, were not much of a draw in 1924. They were on their way to a seventh-place finish (an improvement over 1923, when they finished eight and last as they would in 1925). The Yankees were much stronger, though they would end the season in second place behind the Washington Senators, who would go on to beat the New York Giants in the World Series (the Giants and Yankees had met in the previous three Series, by the way).

Here are how the Red Sox and Yankees lineups looked that day:

Game 1

Yankees

Johnson, 2b
Witt, cf
Ruth, rf
Hendrick, lf
Pipp, 1b
Schang, c
Dugan, 3b
Scott, ss
Shawkey, p

Red Sox

Flagstead, cf
Wambsganss, 2b
Veach, lf
Todt, 1b
Boone, rf
Clark, 3b
O’Neill, c
Lee, ss
Quinn, p
Collins
Ross, p
Heving

Game 2

Yankees

Johnson, 2b
Witt, cf
Ruth, rf
Hendrick, lf
Pipp, 1b
Hofmann, c
Dugan, 3b
Scott, ss
Pennock, p

Red Sox

Flagstead, cf
Wambsganss, 2b
Veach, lf
Collins, 1b
Boone, rf
Ezzell, 3b
O’Neill, c
Lee, ss
Ferguson, p
————-

References

Image Source: “Babe Ruth crossing the plate after making his first home run of the season today,” April 21, 1924. Library of Congress # LC-USZ62-97945. No known restrictions on publication.

Sunday Jun 22

by

The heat chased me out
to Coney Island, where I
took the first dive in the
cool ocean. Lonely I spent
there several hours and
in the evening I certainly
was refreshed by the cool
ocean breezes on the boat
ride back to town.

I could have stayed on the
island later, but I escaped
the gay throngs on the boardwalk
there was no place for a lone
sad man, to get that boat, but
on the boat again were gay couples
which in my loneliness tended to
make me sadder.

————————–

Matt’s Notes

Papa’s description of his lonely trip to Coney Island reminds me of his New Year’s Eve entry, when he used similar words to describe the sense of isolation and longing he felt among the “gay throngs.” It’s a cinematic, melodramatic scenario in which the fine weather and ocean vista remain nearly unseen as we maintain tight focus on a single, sad man; in which happy couples materialize and whirl toward him from every angle like leering funhouse ogres; in which his only moment of respite comes when he makes his way to the bow of the Coney Island ferry, turns away from his fellow passengers and their contentment, faces lower Manhattan, and closes his eyes against the “cool ocean breezes.”

Of course, to cut from Papa, lonely in Times Square on New Year’s Eve to Papa, lonely in Coney Island on the cusp of summer, is to mislead the audience. A casual viewer might see only a montage of a man boxed in by melancholy, a man who wanders, unmoved, from throng to throng without allowing anything to intrude upon his detachment. Yet the pages of his diary attest to six months of unrelenting personal change: a new job, a new apartment, two new nephews, a new title in a new Zionist organization. And, more importantly, a new world: a world without his father; a world without the illusion of an untouched, unchanged childhood home; a world without the prospect, long-treasured, of returning to what he once knew.

Six months earlier, he pushed through the crush of Times Square and wondered why he felt so melancholy. He need not wonder anymore. Instead, the question brewing on his boat ride to Manhattan is how he will find something new now that his old life, an ocean away and eleven years gone, is finally, truly lost.

————————-

Image Source: View of the Boardwalk and Beach from Steeplechase Pier, 1923. Courtesy of Brooklynpix.com.

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