At eleven years of age I was the average Jewish kid: go to school for the day, come home and do my homework, then go to Hebrew classes, back home for supper and then practice the violin for half an hour. It was Hebrew school that caused concern. I detested Mr. Shapiro, the teacher. He walked around during class with a ruler in his hand and was quick to rap a student on the knuckles. I fortunately escaped his punishment until, one day, I did make a mistake and WHOP! He hit me over the knuckles. In my anger I got up and punched him in the belly, then turned to the window where the fire escape was and jumped out and ran home.
Needless to say, Shapiro talked to my father, who was mortified that his son could do that to a teacher, and I expected severe punishment. When I explained the problem, I ended up telling my father I'd never go back to that school again. His concern was that I'd soon need to be studying for my Bar Mitzvah, and the next Hebrew school was not only too far away for convenience but was also too expensive.
As a last resort, he engaged a learned man from the congregation, Mr. Block, who was to instruct me for Bar Mitzvah, and also to teach me to read and write Yiddish. The Yiddish lessons were interesting because it was a household language, used in my father's kosher meat market and all through the neighborhood. Little did I know that my father had a reason for having me learn Yiddish. At that time, he was writing to his father in Lithuania, and was sending him a monthly stipend of $5.00 -- this in 1929, when money had value. As soon as I mastered the Yiddish writing, it became my job to write the monthly letter to my Zadie.
I had a passion for reading and writing. My library card was my magic entry into the world of fantasy and adventure. As all youngsters did, I dreamed of being a cowboy. Books brought the world to me through my imagination and delight. My father noticed my love for writing, and said to me one day, "How would you like to write to a cousin in Africa?" I couldn't believe my ears: "Who do you know in Africa, the other side of the world?" He explained how other members of the family in Lithuania were unable to enter the United States, but looked to South Africa, which was a rapidly developing country. He then explained that my uncle Harry, my mother's youngest brother, came to the States from South Africa and became a permanent resident of the country.
I asked how Harry got here. It seems that Mother had another brother named Morris, who lived in Boston, and he married a nice lady. A week after the wedding, he fell off a ladder while working, and was killed. Because he left no children, according to Jewish law, the next single brother must marry the widow. Uncle Harry wasn't about to marry the widow and I assume he stalled for time. Meanwhile, the widow met another man and wanted to marry him instead. This couldn't happen unless Harry gave permission, in person, for her to do so, but he still wasn't going to spend his own money to come by boat and release her, so all the relatives here in the United States contributed money for his round trip, and he came to release her to marry her new man. Being single, he liked it so much in the United States, he decided to stay and become a citizen. It was he who gave my father the address for writing to my unknown cousin. Thus began my writing to my "pen pal" in 1929, that continues to this very day.