The Interview

It was a lovely spring day, the birds sang their songs, tree branches waved flirtatiously, children played and I walked on, at peace with the world.
I was on my way to the Golden Age Jewish Center to try and interview a few of the elder members.

A few days earlier, my wife, Marcia, had what I thought was an excellent idea, “Oscar,” she started, “I think it would be a good idea to do a series on senior citizens. They are like a forgotten species, continually overlooked.”
“And I bet,” I interrupted eagerly, “Many of them may have lived extraordinary lives, anxious to have their stories heard.”

As I came abreast of the Center, I saw an elderly man seated on a stone ledge just outside the front door. There was something about him that intrigued me.
There he sat, the past intruding on the present. He was short and frail, but his back was military straight. His hands were the size of a child’s and he rested them on a cane with a gold handle. He looked like he might be 85 or possibly older although his face was free of noticeable lines.

What really placed him apart, were his clothes. They smacked of another era, another time. His head was adorned with a broad brimmed felt hat. A velvet jacket that had seen better days, lay draped, European style over narrow shoulders. A size fourteen neck displayed a detachable shirt collar from which a string tie dangled saucily. His trousers were a mite too short and exposed a pair of shiny, patent leather button-up boots.

I sat down beside him. “Do you mind if I sit near you,” I asked. “First you sit, then you ask?” His voice seemed to be saying, go away. Contriteness was in order. “I’m awfully sorry, please, please accept my apology, “ I said, while hitting my brow with my open palm.

“You can call me Israel.”
“Israel what?”
“Israel nothing, One name is plenty?
“Okay I accept that. The thing is Mr. Israel, I’m a writer and I want to talk to you about your past”.
“Who needs my past, it’s the future I need, “ he said rubbing his hands together as if scoring a point. “What is with this past business anyway?”

"I’m trying to get people of mature age to tell me a little of their history and possibly put those histories into a book."

He looked me up and down and even a little sideways. He’d made up his mind to trust me up to a point. “How old is like mature?” he asked. “Maybe I’m not yet mature or maybe I’m too old. So how old do you think I’m being already?” He was prepared to go on but I held out my hand.

“ I would say you’re about seventy or less.” A compliment couldn’t hurt I thought.
“Sonny,” the old man said, “From lying you couldn’t make a living -- but a compliment I accept. For you now, a surprise, I’m ninety years in the business of staying alive, is that too old?”

I laughed, “Too old? Are you kidding, You’re my man and I want your story.”
“You want my story?” “Yes, yes, and double yes,” I said.

“Okay, but first my braces you should see,” as he spoke he swept his jacket to one side exposing a stained and frayed pair of suspenders.
"Second but really first, you can buy me a pair new braces.”
“Will you give me your story if I buy you a pair of new braces”
He raised his eyes, “For one pair braces, my life story you want? For even two pair braces, it don’t pay.” With that he sat back, satisfied he’d won the round.

I was beginning to see it wouldn’t be a piece of cake.
“Let me explain”, I began again patiently. “I just want to be able to talk to you awhile, it would be an enjoyment for me.”
"For you maybe an enjoyment, for me one pair braces and raking up my coals and sonny, you’ll forgive me, but you look like a kid from sixty years. You should know it's not easy to shovel up the past.”

“No coals and no shovels” I hastened to explain. “Just a few comfortable easy questions. We’ll go inside, we’ll sit down in the cafeteria, we’ll order some coffee and maybe a sandwich or two, and we’ll talk like civilized men.” I could see he wasn’t really listening, seemingly lost in another world. I bore down.
“I’m not wet behind the ears Mr. Israel with no second name. I’m a junior senior citizen who has put in almost sixty two years on this planet and you are astute enough to almost guess my right age.” I stopped for breath before continuing. “You’re not only astute, but a man of deep wisdom, insight and maturity—a man who has gone through a lot, a man of the world.” Now caught up in my own rhetoric, I raised my voice to a near shout. “So why not” I shouted, “make a contribution of this to the world?”

The old man removed his hands covering his ears. “Mr. Colman, you’ll be so kind, I may be old, but not yet deaf. Please to lower the voice.” He extended his right arm. It seemed to say, ‘your turn now.’
I opened my mouth just enough to whisper, “I’m sorry, I’m a little hard of hearing--the war--sometimes I don’t realize how loud I’m talking.”

The man’s face softened as he asked, “For whom you are writing, a magazine, a paper maybe, what is it?”
“I’m free-lance. That means I write for any newspaper, magazine or publisher.”

‘With my braces,” the old man had gone back to his original theme, “With my braces,” he repeated, “ You can buy me also some fruit—a half dozen nice red MacIntosh apples, a dozen Sunkist oranges, and from the light green grapes without the seeds, a pound.”
He stopped to inquire, “Are you married?”
“Yes,” I replied weakly. What next, I thought.

“So for your wife you can also buy a pound grapes, but remember, light green grapes--the best kind,” he emphasized, smacking his lips.
There was still no commitment. I was beginning to feel there never would be a story, that Israel would never reveal his past and the world would never know what it missed. Nevertheless, I had to try again.

“I’ll get you all the fruit you want—I’ll get you the nicest pair of braces in the whole world—I’ll buy you a cup of tea—I’ll buy you lunch—I’ll take you driving to Belmont Park, but please, please at your convenience, Sir Israel, sit down with me and let me ask you some questions about your life, OK?”
Israel rubbed his hands gleefully. He was enjoying himself to the hilt. It wasn’t often that so much attention was bestowed upon him. He was playing it for all its worth, ringing out the last drop of pleasure.

“Tomorrow you’ll buy the whole thing like I already told. You’ll come to my apartment, number 617 at twelve o’clock.” He pointed to a low rental senior citizen apartment building directly across from the Center. “I’ll serve you a glass tea with lemon yet and a cube sugar. Pictures from my wife, my children, my grandchildren, my great grandchildren, I’ll show you. Comfortable we’ll sit, balbatish, like two menschen, and questions by the thousands you can ask. OK boychick?”

My face lit up for a minute until I remembered that I would be out of town for at least three days. “I can’t tomorrow, I’ll be out of town for a few days, but how about we make it for Thursday at the same time?”
“A date it is,” Israel said, tipping his hat.
I beamed, I felt closer to the man, began to even like him, this small, frail, eccentric man with the old country European look. We shook hands.

As I got up to leave I idly asked, “Are you by chance a member of the Golden Age Center?”
Israel’s face reddened, he shook with agitation, “Am I a member, am I a member,” he repeated, “I’m a member from over thirty years,” his words were starting to come together now in his excitement, “Such a member all members should be.” He paused, smiling bitterly, “But you know here they don’t appreciate, no appreciation for how long I’m serving and coming and going and listening.”

Oh boy, another story, I enthused silently. Out loud I asked, “How come?”
“How come, how come? I’m glad you asked, this is a story from last week yet,” he shook his head, he’d already gone back in time, his eyes had a strange look.

He leaned forward, his face inches away from mine. “In the cafeteria I’m ordering a cheese sandwich. Always when I’m ordering a sandwich, inside I look first. What I’m seeing is making me feel sick to my stomach. It looks like, the expression you’ll excuse, like a dried piece of drek. I said to the lady behind the counter very kindly, “Lady I want you should look at this sandwich from the outside and the inside.” She gives a look and in two seconds this expert is finished to inspect and by her, everthing is coming out like roses. She says, giving me a dirty look, “ Mister, this sandwich I’m making myself personal and by me is no bad sandwich.”

“By you is one thing,” I said, “But by me the insides is no cheese but drekola and I want for you to make me a real sanitary cheese sandwich, like a gentleman could eat.”
I was near bursting and just managed to blurt, “So what happened?” without dying of laughter.

“What happened? It’s a good question. She gave me such a look, I could be dead from such a look and she said from lips together so tight that I don’t know how words came out. “Mr. Nudnik,” Nudnik she called me, “Mr. Nudnik, this perfect sandwich you will now take to the cashier, and seventy cents from your pocket you will take and goodbye and good riddance.”

He stopped, a grim look on his face. He took a couple of deep breaths and continued the story. “To the cashier I paid the money and then on the floor I threw the sandwich, and then on the sandwich I jumped and the whole while I was jumping, I was yelling, “This is a drek sandwich, not a cheese sandwich.” "You can’t believe boychickle how much pleasure it gave me. It was such a good feeling, from stopping I didn’t know. After a couple minutes came two members from the high staff that they are working there in the building to see what’s all about it and without one question even they asked me to leave and then they told me, a member of thirty years, not to come back."

He waited for signs of sympathy.
I bit down hard on my tongue, “It’s,” I cleared my throat, “An unfortunate situation, a misunderstanding.” I slyly added, “It was a moving experience.”

Israel was mollified. “By the way Mr. Colman, could be from your stories you’re making some money? Maybe even from my story?” He looked at me, his eyes dancing.
“If and when a story is sold there is some money.”
“So would you say from this, a living you’re making?”
“A modest living only.” It was evident that an additional bite was coming.

It came. “So now kindly add to the braces and the fruit, ten dollars, cash money it should be". ”You’ve got a deal, but remember that it is possible that your story may not be published. One can only hope.”
“Hope,” he grabbed the word as if with calipers, ‘Everybody hopes. I hope to live to a hundred at least. The Mohel hopes a good cut to make. The tailor hopes a fine suit to make. A young woman hopes to marry a man with a future.”

I held up my hands to stop him. Laughingly I said, “It’s all true, we must work, we must hope and I hope to have a nice long talk with you on my return.”
We eyed each other fondly. We shook hands. As I was leaving, Israel called out, “Don’t forget the green grapes with the seeds they shouldn’t have.”

At the appointed time I stood reading the legend in the lobby of the apartment building. It read Dr. Israel Cohen.
Wow, wow and double-wow, I thought. This guy has got a story to beat all stories.
I pressed the buzzer and waited. There was no answer. I consulted my watch, it read 12:01 exactly. I prided myself on my punctuality. I pressed the buzzer again and again with no response. As I was about to leave, a little old lady entered the lobby. “You must be Mr. Colman, the famous writer,” she said looking me up and down.

I was puzzled. “How did you know my name?”
“Ha, how do I know? Didn’t Dr. Cohen tell everybody about how you were begging for an interview to have with him. Day and night, night and day, he talked about the visit.”
“So how come he’s not answering the door for the famous writer?”

“It’s a very simple reason, Dr. Cohen, poor man, passed away yesterday and before dying he called me in and said, ‘Rachel, I want you to tell Mr. Colman, the famous author, my apologies to accept that I can’t keep the appointment on account of I’ll be boxed in.’ He died laughing.”

“He was a great guy, I’ll miss him. Did he say anything else?”
“By the way, he did, come to think of it. He also said, ‘On the other side we’ll have a nice long talk. I’ll be waiting patiently, tell him to look me up.’

I brought the new braces down to Papermans’ Funeral Home and instructed the mortician to replace Israel’s old braces with the new ones.

On the day of the funeral, I got up early, I put on my best suit, I purchased the MacIntosh apples, a dozen Sunkist Oranges, and a pound of light green seedless grapes. I arranged it all carefully in a wicker basket, covered it lightly with cellophane, tied a ribbon in a bow and went off to the funeral parlor.

There may have been some two dozen people present. I walked up to the coffin, opened the casket and satisfied myself that the new braces were on.
‘Wear them in good health,” I whispered.
I placed a ten dollar bill (cash money) in his pocket and said, “I also didn’t forget the fruit--I have here some nice MacIntosh apples, some Sunkist oranges and a pound of delicious seedless green grapes. I put the basket beside him, closed the casket and left. I was close to tears.

ASSISTANT TO THE MOHEL

The year was 1935. I was 12 and growing
fast while everything else had seemed to stop growing.

It was six years after the financial walls came tumbling down
and the echoes of that blast were still being heard and felt.
The good old depression was still hanging around but at that
time I was not really aware of it.

Suburbs was not a word in our vocabulary. There were not
too many of those around either at the time. Any dwelling,
other than two or three story flats glued together, was a mansion
surely owned by a millionaire. The only thing there was a lot of
was horses and horseshit. Birds grew fat on the seeds and
we, who used the roads as our playground, grew adept at side-stepping
the hot piles. Cars were obviously toys designed for the very rich.

We oohed and aahed over these magnificent machines the
odd time we managed to glimpse one. It was the day of
the luxurious Packard, seating some nine passengers,
the Pierce Arrow, the Whippet, the Lasalle, the Studebaker
and the common Ford. It was fine furniture on wheels. In
our wildest imaginings none of our gang dreamed of ever
having enough money to own a car, any car.
That summer I took a job working for Rabbi Colton, the mohel, who lived
up the street in a house very much like all the other ghetto
houses in the area.

I remember standing nervously in front of this red bearded
giant while he briefed me regarding my phone duties. his voice
was deep and resonant. "You will take down all the phone messages
from 10 o'clock in the morning to 3 o'clock in the afternoon.
Here is a paper and pencil near the phone. You will listen carefully
boychik, you hear!" I nodded, tongue tied.

"Tomorrow you start and I will pay you $2 a week. Nu, say something,"
he urged as I stood there awestruck at this unheard of sum. I managed a weak
"Thank you Rabbi", and shot out of there as if catapulted.

I dashed back to my house, carefully and expertly avoiding the line divisions
on the sidewalk for good luck. That night, as I lay sleeping in the old brass bed
beside my older brother, I dreamed that Rabbi Colton's six foot frame was bending
over me, his red beard massaging my face, and in his Polish/Jewish accent, was saying,
"The phone, it's ringing, answer already." But I couldn't move an inch. I awoke in a sweat.
It was morning.

My mother insisted, over my protests, that I take a bath. I got into a tub that was perched
on four legs ending in lion claws. I lazed in the hot steaming water composing appropriate
answers to the calls that would be coming in that day. I began to feel a little nervous.
Could I do it properly, would I hear all the words.
"Come out already Shika, breakfast is ready," my mother insisted. As I toweled down,
I admired myself in the bathroom mirror -- " not a bad looking boychick", I said to the mirror.
The mirror said nothing.

Ma had breakfast ready when I got out. I cracked open the raw egg, closed my eyes, pinched
my nostrils shut, and swallowed. There was no point protesting, it was a ritual that was enforced.
Then I sat down to a heaping bowl of hot porridge, two slices of pumpernickle toast,
and washed it down with a glass of milk.

I started the day all a'tremble, waiting for the first call. Most phones in our area were blessed
with party lines, and it was very seldom that I got to use the thing. You might say that this was
my baptism. Don't think too hard Oscar, I said out loud to reassure myself.

The phone rang once, twice --- I forced myself to answer; "Rabbi Colton's personal secretary here,
may I help you," I said with my best Bell Telephone voice. I took the message down easily, I felt
triumphant, I had conquered my fear, I was ten feet tall and growing every second. I waited eagerly
for the next call but the minutes ticked by and there were no other calls. I had to do something
to pass the time.

I had several options. I could read, explore the house, raid the ice box, or look out the window to
see what my friends were up to. I oped for the latter. They were playing touch football with a stuffed
stocking, I yearned to join them but I was a paid employee -- I could not leave my post.

I saw"Petska", his real name was Israel but real guys were known by aliases. Mine was "Windy" because
of my speed. "Jersey" was there zig-zagging with the football and "Moisha" was killing himself trying
to tag him. " Benjy" was yelling for "Jersey" to pass the ball. I reluctantly tore myself away and went
back to my post near the phone.

I had command of the phone, I had command of the house and was not worried about making any
noise. The Rabbi's wife and children, a boy of eleven and a girl of fifteen, were away for the summer and
the house was mine, mine. I could do anything I wanted within reason and I reasoned that I was getting
very hungry. I could never be too far or too long away from food.

I walked into the large kitchen which led off from the dining room, out the back door, along the gallery,
into the shed and there was the icebox laden with goodies. I helped myself to some chopped liver, a store
bought kasha knish and a leg ofchicken, making sure nothing was overly disturbed. I didn't feel too guilty,
after all, the Rabbi did not expressly say that the icebox was out of bounds. Besides, a growing boy,
a working boy, needs nourishment. This was beginning to be fun. Satiated, I sat down on my secretarial chair
and snoozed off.

There was a ringing in my ear -- it seemed to become more and more insistent. I got up with a start.
The phone was a living thing, would not let up. I picked up the receiver and stifling a yawn, said,
"Good morning, Rabbi Colton's residence" I had done it again. I waited, a seasoned professional,
my pencil at the ready.

"Who is this?" a woman's voice asked, actually questioning my authority. "I am Rabbi Colton's personal
telephone receptionist at your service" I announced with a descending scale of bravado. Unable to further
question the authenticity of my position, she left her name and phone number without further ado.

I had been under fire twice and had come out without being wounded. A veteran of the phone wars.

It was time for a little action. I dug up a small two wheeled bike I'd noticed in the shed and pedaled
furiously through the house, narrowly missing a glass cabinet in the dining room. I was the boy avenger
tracking down Al Capone and his gang. I made three complete circuits of the house. It was down the hall
in and out of the two bedrooms, a bathroom, back through the dining room, on to the kitchen, and into
the small back bedroom. Nothing could stop the "Avenger" except the sturdy kitchen table. After the
collision, I decided to leave Al Capone alone for the time being.

I'd been in this house once before and was one of four chosen to hold the Chuppah (wedding canopy)
aloft. The canopy was made of silk, was white in color, and supported by poles at the four corners.
The bride and groom stood under this canopy and I, at age 12, found myself towering over the couple
who were obviously lilliputians. They were immaculately attired in all the right clothes and there they
stood, level with each other, holding hands while Rabbi stood towering above, the end of his long red beard
just inches above the heads of the wedded couple to be, and began intoning the marriage ceremony. It was
too much, the giant, the little people, the red beard almost touching the wee couple, and I began to feel
the beginnings of an uncontrollable laugh bubbling up, waiting to be released. I put a finger to my mouth and bit down hard. I released a couple of muffled snorts and became serious when the holy giant brought his eyes boring down on me. When the ceremony ended, I ran outside and howled, tears streaming down my face, my hands clutching
my sides.

Now here I was, a paid employee, a working man, I began with the kitchen -- nothing much there,
just four wooden kitchen table chairs, surrounding an oblong table topped with enamel. On the other
side stood a huge wood stove, almost a duplicate of the one we owned. There was a small room at the
rear of the house boasting a wrought iron single bed and a plain dresser. In going through the drawers
I discovered it was the son's room and I soon lost interest. I tackled the walk-in pantry off the kitchen
and found shelves laden with jars of fruit and vegetable preserves, boxes of dry cereals, bags of sugar
and flour and a host of other miscellaneous food items. It was time for the next room.

I struck gold in the Rabbi's bedroom. Among his belongings I unearthed treasures galore. A pair of red
flannel "gatkas" (drawers), a long night shirt, a black skull cap, a talith
(prayer shawl), and a marvelous pair of shiny patent leather boots with button up hooks.

I couldn't resist this splendor. I slipped his red flannels over my clothes, laboriously buttoned up the boots,
wrapped the huge prayer shawl over my shoulders and donned the skull cap. I admired this masquerade
in the hall mirror. What a Purim outfit it would make, I thought. I paraded up and down the long hallway,
stepping frequently in front of a mirror. It's not every day that a pre-teen can be a Rabbi.

The phone rang and startled me. I felt guilty wearing the Rabbi's clothes. Surely it was a sin of the first
magnitude. I answered the phone contritely. "Hello', I said meekly and religiously took down the message
in print letters.

Back to the bedroom I marched, a nightmare on parade. I carefully replaced everything and stumbled
into the next bedroom. It was obviously the girl's room. Her picture smiled down at me from her dresser ---
every part of
her in the right place and every place was right. Goldie with the curly red hair,
and curves she probably was not even aware of. The body of a woman with breasts that stuck out like
pineapples.

Here I was again, committing another sin, allowing myself to think this way in the Rabbi's house yet.
I rationalized my guilt away. God was surely a man and I was nearly one. He would surely understand
that men just naturally have dirty minds.

As I looked at her photograph, my dirty mind got busy. I slowly removed her blouse and dress and admired
her bare shoulders and arms. I hesitated before taking her slip off, "but why be half dirty", I said out loud.
I removed the garment and stared awe struck at Goldie in a bra and panties and nothing else. Her shoes
and stockings had mysteriously vanished, unbidden by me.

I stopped and began looking through her dresser drawers, keeping her undressed image in my mind as
I searched. I knew what I was looking for and I found the items in a bottom drawer -- a bra and a pair
of white silk panties.

I fingered and sniffed them, and proceeded to stroke my face with the silky softness of the panties.
As I threw the bra aside, Goldie, who was standing demurely before me now, reached back and
unsnapped her bra. Her breasts poured out, exposing two pointed cones staring at me shyly. I almost
passed out. My mouth had become very dry.

I put her panties back in the drawer. Goldie blushed crimson as she looked into my eyes. Suddenly, her
arms reached for mine. "My God, she's asking me to take them off", I squeaked triumphantly. I rolled them
down with shaking hands and there she stood completely naked, her head turned to one side. Her slim
body was as perfect as I had envisioned the odd time I was fortunate enough to see her walking down the
street. Her breasts jiggled slightly, and her puckered navel stared saucily at me. My eyes admired the dip
of her waist and the flare of her hips. Could I go further? I could.

There was the bush, the burning bush covering the thing. I couldn't make it out. There was kind of a
swelling there but I didn't see any entrance. I knew there was one. I had four older sisters and had caught
glimpses here and there. I also knew that guys put their peckers in there and babies came out from the
very same place nine months later. I was no dummy, I was street-wise.

Could it be that the cut or some sort of entrance was not in front but actually in back. I turned Goldie
around and saw her tussy, parted just like mine -- nothing new there. I gave up "mind" searching.
Girls were strange creatures. I put a completely dressed Goldie back in her picture frame and left the
room kind of reluctantly.

As I sat down near my post, the phone rang. I let it ring four times before picking it up. I said smartly,
"Hello, pardon me for keeping you waiting, but we're very busy today, can the Rabbi's secretary help you?"

"You're the Rabbi's secretary?" a woman's voice inquired mockingly. "Certainly", I answered promptly.
"So tell me how old are you that you should have such an important position?" she persisted. My mind
raced, I blurted, "I'll be eighteen in July." "What year in July?" She wouldn't let go. Under my breath I said,
'God will punish you." I evaded the question by saying, "How may I help you?" She relented, gave me the
message and hung up. I wiped the sweat off my brow and decided to be a good, innocent, virginal twelve
year old for a while.

An hour or so later the phone rang again, I picked it up quickly and said, "This is the home, office, and study
of Rabbi Colton, the Mohel," I said with a broad English accent. There was a long pause at the other end.
I waited, I had time on my hands. The voice found it's tongue. It asked, "This is the home, office and study
of Rabbi Colton, all three?" I shuddered, I had recognized the Rabbi's voice. I needn't have worried. The Rabbi
had a sense of humor. "Tell me boychikal, why didn't you add also Esplanade street, between Villeneuve and
St.Joseph in the City of Montreal?" I laughed nervously but said nothing. The Rabbi continued, "So now give me
the messages and I'll tell you a little secret. It's enough to say hello, then take the message. I could almost
see the smile on his face. I decided that I loved him.

I dozed off for a while, a man needs his rest. I got up with a start, the grand-father clock registered 3pm.
It would not do for the Rabbi to find me asleep on the job.