Thursday Jan 3

by


After work, at the Zionist Central
office I’ve been approached by the well
known poet, Imber to do something
for him, I promised to be on a comittee
to arrange an evening.

Attended afterward a meeting
of the E.S. Keren Haysod Comittee
and later in the evening
a banquet at Garfeins in honor
of Mr. Angrist, who is leaving for Pal.
I was happy indeed to do honor
to such a worthy Man as Mr.
Angrist, whom I count as one of
the best Zionists.

I was greatly impressed by
the speeches of the guests.
I reached home again at 2 am
but surely I don’t regret staying
out late at such gatherings.

—————–

Matt’s Notes

Like many Jews who had grown up in the repressive, sequestered environments of European shtetls, Papa passionately believed in the idea of Jewish statehood and spent much of his free time raising funds, “arranging an evening” here or there and “staying out late at such gatherings” as Zionist meetings and receptions. His mention of the “Keren Haysod Comittee” is historically interesting because Keren Hayesod (as its name is typically written in English) is now a large international organization, but it was only four years old when my grandfather and his colleagues gathered at the East Side chapter meeting described here. Were they in unheated rooms, wrapped in overcoats and sucking on cigarettes while they laid their plans? Or were they already well-established, pulling ahead of other organizations that hatched in the wake of the Balfour Declaration? Did they pursue their Zionist dreams in the very Lower East Side spaces where New Yorkers now pursue candied sea urchin cocktails and chocolate mojitos? I’ll write Keren Hayesod for more information and see what they have to say.

If you’re familiar with Israel’s history, you might have felt a little jolt at the mention of “the well known poet, Imber”, but settle down — Naftali Herz Imber, who wrote the lyrics to Hatik vah (the Israeli national anthem) died in 1909. Papa is probably talking about Samuel Jacob Imber, a Galician poet who spent a few years in America. With only the Internets at my disposal I can’t find out much about him at the moment other than that he wrote in Yiddish and was killed by Nazis in 1942, but please drop a comment below if you know more.

I’m also not sure who Mr. Angrist is or what Garfein’s is — perhaps it’s the home of a man named Garfein, or maybe it’s a long-lost, schmaltz-soaked eatery like Sammy’s Roumanian Steakhouse. I again picture my Papa and his cohorts crammed together, toasting the august Mr. Augrist with bread and salt, shouting over one another to pay proper tribute (and for some reason I also picture them seated Last Supper-style, which tells you more about my high regard for my grandfather than my knowledge of Zionist banquets.) Anyone out there have a picture of a 20’s era Zionist gathering, or any information on who Mr. Augrist might be?

Update:

A Jewish friend from South Africa, asked if she’s heard of Keren Hayesod, writes:

…of course I’ve heard of Keren Hayesod. The [South African] Jewish community was so homogenous and so Zionist that when I was growing up all tzedokkah went to United Israel Appeal and we had the blue and white ‘pushkas’ (charity boxes) from Keren Hayesod. I used to get mad because we were giving old clothing, etc to people in Israel rather than the poor of South Africa. I even did ‘bob-a-jobs’, as we called them, for KH. You’d go round to old Jewish people’s homes to help them with some small task in return for a donation to Israel.

Interesting. I just didn’t know about KH until I read about them in Papa’s diary.

Friday Jan 4

by

After working hours
Spent entire eve. at home enjoying
the radio The part played by the
N.Y. Symphony Orch, Beethovens 5th Sy.
was most impressive. –

It touched my heart to read the
story of a Jewish girl of Romania arriving
in this country, was sentenced to be sent
back because the quota for that country was full.
She being a violinist took a chance
to try as an artiste, as such are
exempted from the draft quota, and in
the presence of the immigration
authorities she played Shuberts
Serenade while tears were streaming
from her eyes, this won her the
freedom of these shores.

What a dramatic climax for
a Jewish girl after years of suffering
finally winning the freedom of a
new Land with renewed hopes
for a better future.

———–

Geez.

As melodramatic as this story is, I get choked up when I view it through my grandfather’s eyes. His own emigration was only eleven years prior, and the sensations of the experience — from leaving his family and home of 18 years to the sea voyage itself to the stresses of his arrival at Ellis Island — must have remained as fresh in his mind as when he first felt them.

And so, aided by Papa’s capacity for empathy (so pronounced that I picked up on it when I was four and he was 75) his deep belief in the promise of his own American life, and his attachment to classical music, this tear-jerker about a Jewish girl winning her freedom with a sentimental classical tune earns immortality in his diary.

Updates

The more I think about it, the more I feel like I’ve seen something about a girl earning entry to America with a tearful violin solo in an old movie. Am I just mixing it up with the image of the violinist on the deck of the Titanic?

———-

Update 3/19

Here’s another way to listen to Schubert’s Serenade:

Saturday Jan 5

by


The day was dull as usual,
and in the evening I was rather
busy, I attended two balls,
The first one was the Zionist Ball
at Webster Hall, by the Tikvath
Yehuda Club, the 2nd the
Jewish Authors Ball, at 71st Reg.
Armory, I enjoyed both as
I met numerous friends, I
had only one dance at each and
of course walzes My favorite.
As usual I wore my tuxedo,
The many girls I saw were
really beautiful very beautiful
but none of them appealed to me,
Jazz-babies, wild women, and
none of that good type which
appeals to me and so rare among
women.

—————-

Matt’s Notes

Since I’ve started this blog I’ve thought a lot about what I do and don’t share with my grandfather. This entry’s got a few easy ones: I’ve seen the inside of Webster Hall (which is still at its original 11th Street location) but not the long-demolished 71st Regiment Armory (though a piece of it adorns the subway stop under its former location). I own a tuxedo, but I can’t waltz. I can’t imagine that I’d ever find the women at something called The Jewish Authors’ ball to be too “wild”, but I didn’t grow up in the old country.

A more challenging thing to think about is how the Jewish orientation of his social and spiritual life did not find its way to me. Though I rocked a brown Pierre Cardin three-piecer at my Bar Mitvah, I had decided long before that I was an atheist (I’m Jewish, all right, but God just doesn’t compute). I’ve known a few more religious Jews who, like my grandfather, spent their weekends going around to Jewish events and kept their social lives within sometimes large but always well-established Jewish circles; the parameters appealed to me in the abstract but I couldn’t imagine myself inside them. If know if I were single I’d never use jdate.com, though I get giddy over their “why is this site different from all other sites” billboard (this may sum up where my head’s at more than anything). Then again, while I never went out looking for nice Jewish girls when I was single, I wound up marrying one and I’m very glad to have her. In fact, she’s probably exactly the kind of woman Papa would have liked — pretty, but a “good type” as well.

Hmmm. I’m not sure where I’m going with this and it’s time to wrap up this post (I write these in the morning before work and revisit them at the end of the day, in case you’re wondering) but in reading over the above paragraph I realize I’m triangulating to find whatever kernel of my Papa still survives in me. I get the feeling it won’t be the last time.

Update 1/14

Here’s a photo of my grandfather in the tuxedo he mentions above (at least I assume so; this photo is signed and dated 1919 and I imagine he didn’t get another tuxedo in the intervening five years).

Interestingly, this photo is printed on a postcard, and it’s not the only postcard we have featuring a studio shot of my grandfather. I’ll have to learn more, but I assume it was typical to have these kinds of postcards made up as calling cards. This particular card was made, according to the raised stamp, at photo studio “L. Borressoff, 365 Grand St, N.Y.”

The note on the on the front reads “Sincerely yours Harry Scheurman New York July 1919.” I think it was Papa’s favorite shot of himself, too, because in 1925 he wrote a note on the back and sent it to a woman he was courting named Jean. That was my grandmother. This card came from a box of her memorabilia.

Update 1/17

“Cabinet cards” like the one above were indeed common back then. Descended from smaller cartes de visite (visiting cards) popularized by military officers in the early 1800’s, they had evolved into the larger style pictured here by the 1860’s.

For more, check out Wikipedia’s carte-de-visite entry and City Gallery’s Cabinet Card entry. (Thanks to Durya at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum for the pointers.)

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 7

by


On my way from work Rabi
Davedel Horowitz from Meletz escorted
my home all the way from the
K.H. office.

Heard Mr. Bock the donor
of the $100.000 peace prize
explain the theory, I do not fully
agree with him as I believe in
Americas full participation in
the league of Nations.
I heard the above talk on the radio.
Universal peace in my
opinion is possible only
when the U.S. will officially
enroll as a member of the
League and exert its influence
upon the nations

—————

Matt’s Notes

The “Bock” Papa refers to is Edward William Bok, famed both for transforming Ladies Home Journal from an obscure publication into a national powerhouse and for transforming himself from an unknown Dutch immigrant into a wealthy and prominent Progressivist. Some time after retiring from publishing, Bok funded a $100,000 open competition to find a plan for world peace, and promised to push the winning plan through Congress. This caused quite a stir. Over 22,000 Americans submitted plans, and the winner, Charles Herbert Levermore, achieved some degree of fame, but in the end the whole effort never amounted to much.

When Papa tuned into WEAF on January 7, he heard Bok outline the winning plan, which called for greater U.S. participation in the World Court but fell short of endorsing U.S. membership in the League of Nations. Papa would have favored an active U.S. foreign policy — America’s “influence upon the nations” was essential to world peace, as he notes, but his beloved Zionist cause needed it even more. America’s navel-gazing in the 1920’s must have frustrated him, hence his ultimate disappointment with Bok’s suggestions.

One thing I like about Papa’s diary is what it reveals about the popular culture of the day, or at least what someone of his background and tastes would have picked up on. With only a small page available to record the day’s events he chose to write about Bok’s radio address, so the Bok Peace Prize must have been as widely discussed as a typical Britney underwear incident is today. By 1930, Time magazine would describe it in Bok’s obituary merely as a “prize of $100,000 for the best essay on how to achieve International peace” — a kind understatement of what a high profile disappointment the Peace Plan really was. But, Bok’s life story was an inspiration to many, his autobiography won a Pulitzer Prize and he was a legend in the publishing industry, so I’ll avoid knocking his Peace Prize just because I’d never heard of him.

I’d also never heard of Rabbi Davidel Horowitz, which attests more to my ignorance of the Zionist movement (not for the last time, I’m sure) than his actual degree of notoriety. There’s a good chance Papa is talking about David Horowitz, a prominent young Zionist of his day who went on to found a scholarly organization called United Israel World Union. If so, Papa must have been thrilled as they walked the lower East Side, perhaps wrapped in long coats but certainly oblivious to the cold as they talked, young and insistent, of changing the world.

——————-

Updates

WEAF was the American Telephone and Telegraph radio station in New York. An innovator in technical, programming and advertising operations, it would become part of NBC in 1926.

——————-

Additional references for this post:

– “Peace Plan“, Time, 1/14/24 (and search the Time archive for more on Edward Bok).
– “The Peace Plan” (editorial) The New York Times, 1/7/24 (subscription required; PDF).
– “BOK PEACE PLAN STIRS WIDE INTEREST; FIGHT OVER IT BEGINS; Founder and Many Others Appeal by Radio for Approval“, The New York Times, 1/8/24 (subscription required; PDF; search The New York Times archive for more on Edward Bok).
– Edward Bok biography on Wikipedia
– David Horowitz obituary at United Israel World Union Web site
– WEAF history at Answers.com

Tuesday Jan 8

by


As by impulse I remained at
home tonight saddened for hours
as Herman Dunast suddenly entered
I knew that not being in my
house for quite a long time he
did not bring me any pleasant
news.

I am shocked into helplessness
My most devoted relative
my beloved cousin Freida
Kurtzberg is dead, what a
tremendous loss to me a loss
that can never be replaced,
I am too dazed to make
an Eulogy now.

I went around with Herman
to wake up and call up
some relatives telling them
the distressing news and
asking them to give to our
beloved departed the last honors
in the morning.

Wednesday Jan 9

by

10:30 a.m. Outside Montefiore Home
What thoughts go tru my mind, the una-
voidable death claimed another one
who was so near and dear to me, I am
waiting here for the removal of the remains

1:20 at South Ferry waiting for a boat
to take us across

7:00 P.M Finita la Comedia
The curtain has fallen marking
the end of a drama, the end of a
tragic life, the life of a beloved person, –
Only a handful of relatives and
friends attended the last rites of the
burial. Her memory will ever be
enshrined in My heart.

I pray to the Allmighty that I should
not have to make such entries
in this my diary.

————

Matt’s Notes

Once again Papa time-stamps his entry, as I am beginning to think he does in times of excitement or stress. And once again he gives us more evocative images of New York life in 1924:

– In the morning, he stands outside the Montefiore Home and Hospital for Chronic Diseases on Gun Hill Road in the Bronx, a grand, gray building with a facade as ornate as its name. Perhaps he’s alone, perhaps he pulls his hat tight over his head against the cold, perhaps he watches a motorcar chug by, perhaps he wonders for a moment where the horses have gone.

– He pulls his journal from his pocket — does he always carry it? — and scribbles, concentrates intensely. Perhaps an orderly, on his way into the building, mistakes him for a reporter.

– The next snapshot finds him on the tip of Manhattan, again waiting, again fishing for his journal, a pen, a thought. Were there gulls? Is the sky overcast, or is it clear enough to see whitecaps all the way to Ellis Island? Does Ellis Island make him think of the Other Side, his cousins there, does he suddenly realize he is no more likely to speak to them again than to the one he’s about to bury?

Mourning makes us feel like the stars of our own tragic operas, and Papa, buffeted and exhausted, feels it keenly this day. It emerges in his reversion to nearly Victorian language, in his resigned tribute to “the inevitable death” and in the quote he scribbles from “Pagliacci.” He seems to struggle with anger over the depressing dearth of mourners for the woman who has been the center of his day. At last, though (and here I again look for lessons in how to be a human being from young Papa) he closes not on a note of frustration, but with a promise to mourn his cousin on behalf of those who have already forgotten her.

———————-

Updates

2/6 – I just realized something — Papa was a Cohen, or a member of Judaism’s priest caste believed to be directly descended from Aaron. Cohens are forbidden from touching the dead or entering the houses of the dead (except for immediate family) which explains why he stood outside Montefiore and waited for his cousin’s body to be brought out.

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