A PROSPECTIVE FORTUNE

That reminds me of an incident which gave cause for silent hushing as there was a treasure at stake. And the story runs thus: One stuffy evening, upon returning from work, mother handed us an English letter postmarked from Sunny Spain, written in an attractive hand and intriguing us into high suspense. The writer pretends is our near relation and its a matter of life and fortune saving. He cannot divulge his name but upon receipt of a cablegram to Madrid, acknowledging our receipt of his letter, he will write us everything in particular and signed his missive V.C.

It took us days athinking, trying to decipher who those initials belonged to. We took to account every cousin to its seventh generation; any possible relative bearing a resemblance to those letters but couldn't trace any connection. After quite some hesitation I went with father 50-50 on that proposition and dispatched a cablegram to some "unknown" in the land of the Torquemados.

Soon enough we received a long missive that read more like a romantic chapter than an account of life. The essence of which was that this relative of ours V.C. who for certain reasons, cannot identify himself fully to us, is a victim of fate and we must come to his rescue. He is in prison on a political charge but that doesn't bother him so much as the trunk he left at a certain hotel within its built-in bottom he has concealed $50,000 and valuable documents. He wants us to come down to that city and gain access to his property by his instructions and hold same in custody for him. But aside from the material property he has a beautiful 16 year old daughter in an asylum whom he wants us to take to America and take care of her. If father was interested in the monetary side of the story, my heart jumped several extra leaps at the introduction of a romantic maiden in the picture.

That tale from a foreign land brought a whispering air in the house as if we were participating in some conspiracy and for days we went around pondering and hesitating as to what course to pursue. Finally father decided to hop across the ocean and give a helping hand to a prosperous kin. He was just starting preparations for a business voyage when casually I glanced at a news caption: --Police Stops Millionaire from following swindlers ruse. He was just about to sail on the same fool mission inspired by the very romanticism and exact figures when police advised him of the danger of an international band of swindlers. Needless to say father stayed put and saved his life, perhaps, but surely spared himself a lot of trouble. Moral: Read your newspaper and be posted.

Father stuck to the roofing game and piled dollar upon dollar while I rode daily in the subway piled year upon year and whiled my time in aesthetic loftiness such as reading, lectures, meetings, occasionally stepping on the boards with a recitation, declamation and so forth.

ANOTHER INCIDENT

It was on a springy night. Some friends came to see me. The moon was in full view and the air inviting for a stroll. There were a couple of young men and several ladies. We took a walk to Prospect Park, engaged in romantic conversation casting glances at the moon and at the profiles of the charming girls when suddenly a band of hoodlums, half-drunk, jumped on us and began to fight and pursue the ladies who fled screaming in all directions. It was a lonely block with no police around and a bunch of ruffians lurking from behind, that made their attack and escaped.

At that time we had Mayor Gaynor holding the reins of the city and he indulged in the exchange of letters. I straight-way penned my grievance to his lordship, the Mayor, complaining of the lack of protection for peaceful citizens and soon the police force was at my command. One sleuth was anxious whether I'd recognize the ruffians. Another one wished to know whether I'd make a case of it; a third one was sore for going over their heads instead of reporting to the police first. All I cared for was more protection and no recurrence of any hoodlinism. And when I passed that spot a second time and found a policeman playfully strutting on that corner, I mutely spoke into him--I put you here--and was content.

3

PASTIME

THE HOUSE OF BROOKS

On Saturdays or Sundays I often spent my time in the friendly home of the Brooks. We have some sort of relationship, but it has to be figured out: My grandmother, may she rest in peace, upon the demise of grandpa took unto herself their grandfather as second husband who was left bereft after the death of their grandmother, with a houseful of children and a yearning heart for a young wife suitable for his station. That union was blessed with two sons that turned uncle in all directions and that was the link that kept us loosely bound with the brooks. Their's was a most congenial house where youth of both sexes enjoyed their company enjoying improvisation and games intermingled with convivial refreshments. It was a little Mecca for an youth spending its at a social shrine.

MUSIC IN MY FINGERS

I always dallied with music. Melody through me, especially when it emanated from string instruments. One day I read an article by Prof. Piroshnikoff on the merits of the concertina--how well it covers other instruments; how easy it is to learn to play and master it also to orchestrize. Prof. P. was an accomplished musician, teacher and concertist on that little instrument. So upon reading that article it struck my fancy and I soon came in touch with that maestro and before long I was riding to his home in the Bronx, twice a week, for my lessons at twelve shillings a piece. We lived in a big railroad flat with six rooms so I kept one room for practicing having bought an old concertina for that purpose. The flat was steamless but my enthusiasm kept me warm and I sat for hours practicing harpeggios and straining harmonies from Beyers violin book. After scaling a score of C's, I considered myself a partial maestro so I honored myself with a new instrument in the amount of sixty-five dollars made in England. That little tune-maker was to me, like a Stradovarius to the big violin ticklers. I felt the world of harmony is opening up to me and I am drifting in its charm. Mr. P. arranged meets of his various pupils and began forming an orchestra with the intention of appearing in public. After a day's work in the shop I'd seat tirelessly in seclusion and practice with my finger tips, while my eyes were eating gluttonously printed and improvising notes. I was, via fancy, on the road to fame, artistic contentment and so forth.

4

THE WILD CALL FOR MATING

Like thousands of others I was not on a sound financial footing and so did not contemplate marriage. I was well entrenched in my semi-bachelorhood and left time run its course. But the old folks were anxious and worried. Here I was past my boyhood days and the Heifech clan is short of perpetration. If not for my hunger of the species it was for their sake that I broke my shyness and became a prospect for some female to vamp me.

IN THE HANDS OF A MATCHMAKER

My mother's cousin, Mr. R., a chicken slaughterer by profession but a "shadchen" as a side-line--he took me into his hands and vouched for my wedlock.

RIVKE

He introduced me to a fellow slaughterer which is, by the way, an honorable profession among the pious, and he, in turn introduced me to his eldest daughter while I introduced myself to the younger one. Rivka was a little below height, with a sympathetic face, rather reserved and of a type that make a good wife. But I seemed to cleave more to Sonia, the younger one who was more conversant and smiled more readily. I went out with Rivke, adored her bright face (beauty seemed to appeal to me most appallingly) sang sonnets to her black eyes which Sonia enjoyed immensely and while her family tip-tongues a mozzle-tov,- I quietly retreated in time not to render broken hearts irrepairable and so the efforts of our good cousin went to naught.

ESTHER-KE

A full-bosomed, short chubby (it seemed that all girls I palled with were short except Jennie, who was a six-footer but she was out of my fancy as she had a smallpoxed face and was a very lean support) with a round face, benignantly smiling. Estherke struck a light chord in my veins and I eagerly sought to be in her company until my friend J.W. intervened. The good hound must have been a better run-up so he made a short-cut to her heart and cut me short of my romantic frills, and captivated her time and attention for a stretch of years at the end of which he left her flat and disappointed. Good for her, the squat chubby! She shouldn't have given me such a chance to forget her so soon.

MY POOR GOLOSHES

Good Cousin Reb Benjamin did not cease in his efforts to slaughter by bachelorhood. So he introduced me to a young damsel in the early thirties or thereabouts. She was a robust child with slanting smile and graces all her own that made her immune to any sex appeal. I was so engrossed with the nuts and jelly served on my introduction that I forgot my rubbers on my hurried leave and "das Viedersehen" was translated into a French Adieau, which meant total forgetfullness. And I didn't have the nerve to call for my galoshes.

On another attempt at matching me up I encountered a sympathetic fraulein in the late twenties who quit impessed me but for a wrinkle on her forehead which threw me into a nervous fear lest she wouldn't bear me a child and thus curtail the growth of the House of Heifech which would naturally be a terrible calamity--. So I retreated once again into comatic celibacy and played with verse and musical finger-tinkling on my little tune-maker and let romance and beastly nature stand by.

THE PREDESTINED MATCH

As it says in the Scriptures we are clay in the potters hand; our destinies are shaped more or less by some power without us. And so the Gods decreed that my affinity be born in the very town I came to light and they also guided her way across the waves to reach my fold.

The historic event took shape in 1914 (along with the other historic World War) when her father wrote to his nephew Joseph H. Esq. begging some aid and care for his daughter Rachel Lea, whom he would like to send to our shores. Father instantly conceived of the idea of arranging a suitable match for his only son. The first prerequisite necessary for such thought was--as a matter of logic to have a photo from the lass. And after procuring same with a passing judgement on its looks, father persuaded me to go on an expense ticket which I reluctantly entered upon as I was rather skeptical of the adaptation of two extremities so why invest a farthing on a slim chance. If our meet would come to naught I'd be a sure loser of hard-earned dollars. It was a case of strict practicality. But father induced me to enter the hazard.

And so it came about that on an Easter Morn I found my future wife fresh with the breath of the salt sea before me. Father took her under his care from Ellis Island I was to make up my mind as to further cares.

Well, by gorry,--the gal did entrance me. A maiden, kind o'youngish, with red cheeks, nature's own with jet black wavy hair entwined in long braids and yes-a beauty mark near her left eye (I tried to pick it off--no sirree, baked right in). A pair of dark brown eyes emphasizing resolution, a gypsy type of beauty with Jewish grace and provincial naivete unspoiled by the lures of a big city. Such was the virgin to throw a spell over me. I tried to make music with my fingers but the music was within my heart and it only expressed itself on the banks of Prospect Park Lake where the moon ogled furtive smiles reflecting in the mirrored ripples and a humming and a buzzing of bird and insect was a sort of accompaniment. Little wonder we indulged in nightly walks to P.P. and I consecrated one back to our idyllic syances.

It seemed my little investment was not futile for before the week was over a diamond ring was glistening from my fiances finger and at the turn of Spring we contemplated marriage. It was a quick procedure ala American hurry-up fashion for I knew how to grasp a "chana" when I saw one.

III

MARKETING

I was a novice and green at the game and to acquire experience is costly in one form or another. Upon acquisition of the new business I learned that I had to go to market every so often at four in the morning--a thing I did not cherish greatly but there was no alternative. I had to be initiated. It was a chilly autumn morn and to leave a warm bed in pitch darkness with my object of love behind me, was quite an effort. Mr. Karp, an old fox or rather a stinking fish and the father of my forerunner was my guide and introducer to the ways of the mart. He brought me to Washup Bros. whose welcome how-do-do as a new customer and sold me an inticing barrel of long-necked fancy pears with the approval of my trusting guide. But upon delivery I found them all overripe with just the top layer attractively laid out. It was a big-bellied vat with so many pears of which each one was rotten to the core and every time a finger went into a sliding rotted hole it made a hole in our trusting innocent hearts. That experience was worth the lesson it taught us; not to be overtrusting and always look down deeper, below the surface.

Upon complaint, the gyp merchants promise you to make good on your next purchase any of your losses but later I learned the tricky emptiness of that promise. They boost the price on one package and then pretend to give you an allowance as the prices on food stuffs change every day and its impossible to follow it up closely. That’s why you must have confidence in a trustworthy dealer which I tried to find in one later. Besides, we learned (how) to take stoically those market tragedies which happen so often.

And so I was in the grind for coming years, going to market on summer days, trudging morning and winter every other day, trudging the pavement with pack on shoulder, from farmer to farmer picking up here a dozen bunches of horse radish roots--making sure to get 13 bunches (a farmers dozen)--there, bunches of beets or heads of cabbage and greens then assemble it all for the truckman for delivery. Especially in the summertime when everything had to be brought home bright and early and in a big variety I had to rummage the entire Wallabout from point to point.

And while I was buying and hustling to send the stuff home with greatest possible dispatch, wifey toiled to build a stand every day, lifting heavy bushels and sacks and taking care of the store (not mentioning the house and being in other circumstances) which is no mean task. To sell vegetables you have to give service: When you sell a bunch of beets you have to pluck the leaves off; a lady buys a dozen ears of corn you have to clean the husks off it and for one reason or another we skimped on help--all by ourselves. Coming from market I had to deliver orders and help arrange things. Little wonder we always kept frail, no overweight but we were contented having been our own masters and shapers of our tribal destiny.

BUSHWICK YARDS

During the autumnal and winter seasons our expressman (like he was converted into a truckman) would take a group of our spud-handlers to B,Y. every other week where we'd buy our potatoes in bulk. We would climb and jump from one freight car to another, study the different grades of spuds in the market like: State potatoes, Maine potatoes and the cream of all-Long Island potatoes. Those in the know, would take out a pocket knife, cut a potato in two, rub both parts and paste it together. If it holds for a while without falling apart it had starch in it so its a good product. And then its looks and the little eyes on it count.

After selecting a lot we'd have to come to terms and have it scooped up at 180 lbs to a sack, sewed up and trucked ready for delivery. Often a load of onions went along with it or yellow turnips and cabbages. You have to "feel" the onions it shouldn't be spongy or wet. And so gradually I learned the tricks and vagaries of the game and became and inveterate fruitier.

BARE AND BEARING FRUIT

Alongside of fruit and vegetables we handled dry-groceries and canned goods and little by little our stock began to increase and by the lapse of nine months after our marriage our union was also blessed with an increase in the form of a baby-girl with a crop of black hair which tickled my fatherhood with a curious ecstasy and from then on and henceforth she is called Minnie in honor of our good Aunt Minnie who was sterile and charming and little Min gave us many an anxious moment. Living in the rear of the store, which kept our overhead lower did not seem to suit the authorities so we had to rent a flat above the store and that staircase walking up and down with babe in hand for countless times a day did not seem to improve our gait.

However, we were engrossed in our pursuits and personal charms and before the lapse of eighteen months another tiny babe was born to us, this time a curly blond which was almost lost betwixt the bushels and the sacks of potatoes. When the doctor arrived with his satchel, he found the stork preceded him and he just had to give his O.K. to an established fact. And we called her Florence in memory of my grandmother Frieda (never mind the slight metamorphosis) the good soul who is holding a front pew in paradise for her long suffering from her obstinate son.

And as if two babes and a line of foodstuffs were not enough for our feeble shoulders, a lame salesman who was stuck with some job lot, straightway led us into a line of housewares and as prices were soaring higher and higher during those war years, every piece of merchandise was an asset. And so we had potatoes, oranges, and pineapples on one side of the store, canned goods and spices on the other side. Eggs, barrels of herring and pickles in the center while overhead were hanging pots and pans and cat-o-9-tails-a conglomeration of wealth when converted into dollars but a pile of junk jumbles up in disorder in that narrow crevice. Having the back-rooms vacated and partitions lifted, it gave us more room for storing imaginary wealth. In reality it was piling more bills to our credit but it was all in the illusion of the game. And so another year passed by, the war nearing our shores and people making riches over nite. While we kept plodding around shelves and barrels, piling cans and pans in every spare corner. But we were supposedly masters of our own destiny and contentment was our companion.

V

THE TRAGIC AND THE COMICAL

Our store was sandwiched in between two butcher shops. Mr. Falick, a wolfish octogenarian with his foxy mate on one side and Mrs. Top, a shrewd schemer on the other side. She had a large family and always in need. Her husband was just the kosher sign of the business and every day she borrowed from a different customer to pay for a chalk of meat which was delivered to her C.O.D. She fabricated a car "accident" and with the grace of God she made a little of it, though not enough. Her next venture was a framing on one of the owners of a slaughter house claiming that he feeled her up (hence the name Top which the competitor gave her which means to feel or pat in Jewish). She expected a lot from her last enterprise and possibly she materialized it later for suddenly, the entire family was newly dressed up and wearing smiles of contentment.

The two competitors often engaged in a brawl from their doorsteps which consisted of 50% verbal tongue slapping and the rest in mimicry--one sticking her tongue out and twitching her face, the other thumbing her nose and raising her skirt slightly forwarding her rear end in a taunting manner. Only, the soothing aroma from our vegetables pacified their heated tempers and peace reigned once more after such bloodless war. Our benefit between the shambles was the first pick of the poultry and a favored chunk of meat which wifey learned to distinguish among the varieties.

PATSEY

Following our stores were a line of private houses down the block with a set of personalities all their own. There lived for instance Mr. Essner, a one-armed gentleman with his undersized second wife who compared a second marriage to an artificial leg; a wrong stroke, she averred, and you get a splinter in your hand. Mr. W. was the owner of our house and of the one he lived in next door. He was a one time day carpenter that went through different stages from bag-on-shoulder to master builder. He was well-liked and after prospering, built his own home in an up-and-coming section and sold his house to Patsey, the iceman from around the corner. The neighbors grumbled for mixing the block but they all had an eye for a change from the wooden dwellings. Patsey was a young father of eight Mussolinites ranging in all sizes and ages. He kept his Coal and Ice Establishment under the corner grocery and whether by the heat of one or the cold of the other, he prospered and his house was a busy hive in all seasons. During the summer his yard was bedecked with pans of tomato-paste exposed to the sun thereby inviting flies and insects. During autumn the entire block smelled of sour wine emanating from his cellar and the smell of boiled oils, parched dough and steamed vegetables struck your nostrils from his very threshold all year round.

*********************

To be continued