ONE

    Everyone was Jewish in my neighborhood. The neighbors, the doctors, the elderly folks sitting on folding chairs near the entrance to the building, the storekeepers, the telephone guy, the seltzer delivery man, were all Jewish. There were a few exceptions, of course, like the superintendents of some of the neighborhood’s apartment buildings, who were African-American. We didn’t use that term then; it wasn’t yet invented. Then, they were schvartzes, literally 'blacks'. Nowadays, you will rarely hear this term used, but if you do hear it, it’s usually in reference to a non-religious Jew coming from the lips of a religious one.

This is not to say that there wasn’t any diversity in my neighborhood. There were the Torah-observant Jews in their black uniforms and peyes (side-burn curls); and there were “conservative”, synagogue-attending, Ten Commandments-keeping traditionalist Jews. There were also “cultural” Jews who weren’t religious, although they might attend shul once a year during the New Year holidays. In between the religious Hasidim and the compromising conservatives, you might find a few so-called 'Orthodox' Jews, who believed in the Torah but not so much the Talmud, who kept kosher homes but might eat traif (non-kosher food) in a restaurant. The latter is the group that included my family. Presumably you’ve heard of another classification of Jews, the least observant, belonging to the Reformed movement. We had none of those. The synagogues in my old ‘hood were Hasidic, Orthodox or Conservative; nowadays even the Conservative ones are gone and you’d have to travel to the old Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem to find as religious a district.

My mother envied the conservative Jews who were allowed to attend synagogue co-ed style, men and women sitting together. Perhaps for this reason, we rarely attended shul altogether. We might even have slipped down that notch and become conservative Jews except for the fact that my father’s parents were Orthodox, and that somehow extended to us as well. My zaydeh (grandfather), on my father’s side, was certainly a religious man; attending services the requisite three times daily. He davened (prayed) in Hebrew, and spoke very little English. Christians often wonder in amazement that Jews even try to keep those 613 impossible precepts of the Law of Moses. But impossible or not, my grandparents were of the school of belief that G-d would not ask them to do anything if it was impossible, and obeyed the commandments to the best of their ability.

Zaydie, as we affectionately called him, owned a butcher shop specializing in chickens that he slaughtered according to the rules of kashruth, the Jewish kosher laws. Each morning he would select the best live birds from the wholesale market and would thus eke out a living in his small shop on the lower east side of Manhattan. Eventually, a competitor opened up shop, advertising their chickens as being glatt kosher, or even more kosher than regular kosher, if that were possible. You’ve no doubt heard that if you have two Jews in a room you’ll have three different opinions, or some similarly worded adage. This is especially prevalent concerning kashruth. 

Have you ever noticed products in the supermarket marked with a letter “K” or a letter “U” in a circle? These are from two competing organizations that will certify your product to be kosher for a fee. Some Jews might not eat one or the others products. The most religious Jews might not eat from either group. The bottom line to this little story, however, is that these religiously sanctified guys ran my poor grandpa out of business with their holier-than-thou chickens, which led to a family resentment of the Hasidim (ultra-orthodox Jews) and their false asceticism. One of my Hasidic cousins and his friend once rode their bikes by my house and upon seeing me yelled out “there’s my unkosher cousin”. This was not mere name-calling. When his father died, my dad wasn’t allowed onto the cemetery grounds, which were too holy for him, although my father has kept kosher all of his life. The other repercussion of Zaydie’s poor poultry store is my dad’s life-long hatred of chicken stemming from the years of helping to flick the darn things and then having to eat the unsold birds almost every night.

My family also had a very successful cousin named Schmulka Bernstein with a butcher shop on the lower east side. He sold his own hot dogs (in New York we called them frankfurters, franks, or frankies, however), and other kosher meats. I only remember being in his shop once; we bought some whitefish. He was also the originator of kosher Chinese food. Out here in the Oregon diaspora one can buy Hebrew National, Sinai 48 and Nathan’s hot dogs, but in New York Schmulka Bernstein is every bit as famous a brand name as any of those. I had a couple of other relatives that owned stores of one sort or another, and this was going to be my destiny as well.

I imagine that a Jew or two may get hold of this blog and read my little summation of the variety of Jewish belief and say that I’m worse than any of them, believing in Jesus Christ as my Messiah. In fact, as I said my own father has offered words to this effect. And so we come to another group of Yid’n (Jews), the meshumed, traitors that worship Yeshua (Jesus). We are universally shunned by most other Jews, who may even believe that it is a mitzvah (good deed) to do so. They refer to Him as “Yeshu”, actually a contraction of Hebrew words that mean “may his name be blotted out”. Nor do they believe that such as myself is indeed any longer a Jew, having converted to the religion of their historic enemy, the Church. In all fairness, the Church has persecuted and killed Jews during much of its existence, and its seeming belief in three G-d’s along with its panoply of popes and priests is bewildering to Jews, to say the least. 

But there is a point of open ground where the Messianic (Christian) Jew and at least the Hasidic Jew can meet and sometimes even dialogue. We each agree with the command to love G-d with all of our heart, mind and strength. The modern day hasid ('pious one') or haredi ('fearful one'), as in fear of the L-rd) may have the ‘detested’ Pharisee as his spiritual ancestor, but nevertheless here is a person that loves G-d, the very same G-d of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob that the Church worships. Jews believe that modern anti-Semitism began with the apparent New Testament accusation that the Pharisees killed Jesus. But had Yeshua not gone to Calvary to die no one would be saved, neither Jew nor gentile. Jesus, of course, died a Roman style death as prophesied in Hebrew Scripture. But if it should turn out that 'the Jews' indeed killed Jesus, then every Christian surely owes a debt of thanks to this most persecuted minority. I’ll talk a little more about 'who killed Jesus' later, but if you’re a Christian you probably already know that it isn’t 'the Jews', or the Romans. So who killed Him? Later, I’ll tell you later; and it’ll be the truth.

From my youth I have been intrigued by cultures other than my own, and even in grade school went out of my way to befriend those whom my parents or society may have proclaimed 'not our people'. My home turf of Borough Park may have been a Jewish island, but it was surrounded on all sides by gentiles, mainly Roman Catholics of Italian descent. Both my grade school, P.S. 164, and my high school, New Utrecht (the one pictured on the “Welcome Back Kotter” TV show) were located in Italian neighborhoods, and it was by school chums that I was first matter-of-factly asked why I had killed G-d. Like the makeup of my school, my early friends were about half Italian and half Jewish. I think I enjoyed going to the neighborhood church bazaar’s more than attending synagogue. Who am I kidding, going to shul was boring. I didn’t understand much Hebrew, and the services were long and tedious. How many pages left to go, I’d ask? The prayer book was heavy and contained hundreds of pages.

My favorite part of growing up Jewish was the holidays, especially Passover. The pastries at Purim were fantastic, and the Chanukah gifts equally fantastic, but Passover or pesach was the time that the whole family got together, one night at my paternal grandparents and one night at my maternal grandparents. The latter was an intimate affair; with Rabbi Shlomo and family being “too religious” to attend there was just my parents, Grandma Rose doing all the cooking and Grandpa Shaya reading the haggadah in English with no qualms about skipping things here and there, myself and Rochelle while she was still alive. There was never any doubt that I would find the hidden afikoman (matzoh) and get a reward.

On the other hand, Zaydie and Grandma Minnie’s seder was a boisterous affair. My dad’s three sisters and their husbands and my numerous cousins were all there, laughing, yelling, fighting, and eating. This was the not-to-be-missed event of the year. Minnie did all the cooking for this crowd, including her “famous” kosher for Passover cupcakes. Many have tried to duplicate these amazing treats, but I guess she never told anyone exactly how to prepare them. There was the potatonik, the egg soup, and of course, chicken. Zaydie chanted the entire hagaddah in Hebrew, leaving nothing out. When it came time for the youngest male child to chant the feir kashes, the Four Questions (actually one question, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” with four answers) every unmarried kid present had to do it in turn. Most of us couldn’t understand Hebrew and were constantly asking what page he was on. And most years, no one could get the afikomen, the hidden half of the center matzoh which represented the sacrificed Passover lamb, because he protected it in the folds of his clothing. While this seder may have seemed long to some of us, it was shorter than the gala affairs the Chasidim throw, which can last in the wee hours. And occasionally ours was cut short by Zaydie if boxing was on TV.

I suppose that the highlight of Passover for me though was the wine. Not only were we allowed to drink it, we were commanded to drink four cups. If the rules are followed exactly, no one will get very intoxicated. Each glass must be drank at a particular time during the reading of the haggadah, the 'telling' of the story of our redemption from slavery in Egypt. The amount of wine need only be the volume of the size of an olive. Four of those wouldn’t even cause a buzz. Plus the special Passover wine was 30% sugar to make sure kids did not get high. In our family, however, there was a tradition to also have on the seder table, 100 proof fire-water known as Slivovitz. Why? Because we could. All grain alcohol was forbidden on Pesach, but brandy, made from fruit, was allowed. Before the midway point of the seder, when the meal was served, and some years even before the seder began, certain relatives already had red noses. It was as fun to watch them as to drink the wine ourselves. I still try to host or attend a seder every year, trying to recreate the atmosphere of those early ones. Of course most of our attendees are Christians so we try to reach a balance of temperance and freedom. One year, though, while leading a seder at church, someone substituted real wine for my cup of grape juice. I don’t think anyone found out. Except you just did.

An important component of the Passover seder, although it’s delicious all year so why have it only once a year, is gefilte fish. It’s basically just chopped fish, usually whitefish and carp but any fish can be used, shaped into balls or oblongs. We always ate it with beet red colored horseradish. The hottest horseradish is the freshly shredded variety, available at Pesach time in Jewish neighborhoods. At first I wondered why the seller had a fan on his counter aimed away from him, but as we got closer to him it was obvious that he was blowing the fumes away. Everyone waiting their turn on line was crying. You can’t find horseradish like that out here. One year folks in New Jersey tried to change the state fish to the Gefilte Fish. It didn’t make it to the ballot box, unfortunately, after the gentiles found out it wasn’t an actual fish. This past Passover, my daughter shredded a raw horseradish root, and while she may have cried tears of joy, by the time it reached the seder plate it was no longer strong enough to my abused taste buds, so she quickly whipped up some wasabi and that did the trick. This has become the great Japanese contribution to the seder meal, at least at our house.

I was more a child of 1950s culture than of the synagogue. Yes, I believed in, and feared G-d. And I feared my dad, too. Mostly he was the liberal product of Dr. Spock’s book, but when it came to ‘religious’ matters, he was to be feared. One time when I was hanging out with friends on Yom Kippur eve on the steps of the shul across the street from our apartment building (O.K. you know now that shul and synagogue are the same thing, so let’s consider it an English term, like bagel, I wouldn’t italicize bagel, and I’ll save the italics for more unfamiliar words), and I was dressed inappropriately in my usual street garb; he came over there and dragged me all the way home by my ear in front of the other kids. If I put on my suit, could I go back downstairs? No, he said, it was too late. I argued that I did have my sneakers on (observant Jews don’t wear leather on this day), but he said I wasn’t wearing sneakers out of piety, which was of course true.

And eating unkosher food was something that had to be done in secret. And if it was done outside the home, it could certainly not be done inside. Oy, that day my mom and I were “busted” was a day to remember; she was caught with shrimp cocktails, and I with sliced ham in our otherwise kosher refrigerator. I was actually not home when the said bust occurred, but I understand the wrath of Dad was poured out. I was a very poor eater; I’d take white bread and jam sandwiches for school lunch because I didn’t like much else. Add some potato chips and soda and it was a meal. But during a school field trip to the Brooklyn Museum, I discovered ham. It was so pink and pretty, and I’d never seen it before. I asked my teacher, “what is it?”. What is this heretofore unseen yet delectable appearing sandwich meat? She told me it was similar to bologna, a meat I was familiar with the kosher variety of. Once I’d tasted it, I couldn’t wait to get home and tell my mom about my exciting discovery; I’d found a new food that I liked! And that’s how ham wound up in the fridge. I don’t know about the shrimp cocktails; I guess mom & I forgave the hapless pig for not chewing his cud, and the scavenger who’d eat anything found on the ocean floor, kosher or not. All we knew was that they tasted good. Later on, my dad did allow me to eat the pork in Chinese restaurants. He wouldn’t eat it, but he confessed to perhaps not-so-fond memories of having consumed Spam while in the army.

                          Mom & Pop

    Please don’t get the impression that either of my parents were strict or undesirable in any way; they were fantastic, loving parents. Within reason, they gave me my heart’s desire. Yes, they spoiled me due to my having a heart murmur. They didn’t know if I would live to puberty or not. Whether it was toys, games, records, comic books, or hip clothing; they were very generous, although we were barely middle class. Our apartment rented for $50. a month, under New York’s rent control program, and our furniture was old. After my sister was born, we shared the only bedroom. Are you picturing The Honeymooners? No, we almost lived in luxury compared to Ralph and Alice, but I’m sure my parents could totally relate to that sitcom. I guess we fell somewhere in between the Kramden’s and the Norton’s. 

We did have a washing machine and a black & white TV. I remember when the first color show was broadcast; I waited with rapt anticipation while the network switched to color, but it didn’t change on our TV! My dad gave me the bad news; we would need a separate color TV, and he swore never to get one. Between the cost of it and the dangerous rays coming from it, it’d be literally decades before he’d give in. By then the color sets were purported to be safer than the monochromatic ones, dangerous ray-wise, and I was long out of the house. Another modern invention we did without was the air-conditioner. We had an electric fan. Many were the nights I suffered with hay fever, enduring the brutal New York summer humidity. Oh those difficult days before the invention of Claritin (r).

I’ll bet that apartment is a desirable one today, if it’s been kept up at all. It had high ceilings with crown molding and large rooms other than the kitchen. I loved the closet in the bedroom with its many shelves and would climb up to the tallest shelf if I needed to hide for any reason, for instance if the doctor made a house call to give me a shot. Once I heard the doctor say as he left, “if he can hide that well he’s probably not really too sick”. Most of the shelves held my collection of games and my clothing, but the highest ones had miscellaneous old stuff. One time I found my dad’s old pay stubs from after he got out of the army. I was shocked to see that he only made thirty-five cents an hour then and began to fear that he really couldn’t afford to spoil me in the accustomed way. I suppose they really couldn’t afford it, but they were great parents and felt sorry for me.

           At Nelly Bly Kiddie Land, Coney Island

    
I was on the sickly side, in general. Having been born blue-faced and feet first, I visited the doctor often in my early years. My heart murmur was exaggerated by our physician as being life-threatening, and so I was subjected to endless blood work, x-rays and barium-swallowing. My parents were told to discourage physical exercise on my part. Eventually a heart operation was suggested, so finally at the age of 13 a second opinion was sought. My new doctor revealed the minimalism of my condition, and told me, “Lenny, you will die someday but it won’t be anytime soon, and not caused by anything wrong with your heart”. He noted my condition as “A-1”, which years later worried me when I brought my doctor’s note to the army physical; “A-1” sounded too close to “1-A”, the classification for receiving the famous “Greetings” letter from the draft board. The night before the physical, my girlfriend and I were beginning a game of Scrabble. The first seven letters I drew from the bag spelled out V-I-E-T-N-A-M! I spent the rest of that evening worrying about my impending death. I didn’t think of myself as combat material, and neither did the armed forces, sending me home after the physical with a “1-Y” classification. At 111 pounds, I turned out to be too sickly for them even with my “A-1” heart. Of course, these days, as a church-going, conservative-voting, talk-radio listening guy, I’m ashamed at not having served my country. But in those ancient times, the fear of death consumed me, like a character in a Woody Allen film. But I’m getting way ahead of myself.