Texas Jewish Post (Fort Worth, Tex.), Vol. 47, No. 51, Ed. 1 Thursday, December 23, 1993 Page: 3 of 24
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IN OUR 47TH YEAR I- THURSDA Y, DECEMBER 23, 1993, TEXAS JEWISH POST
Feature
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n st nonexistent? What went through a child’s mind as her family’s Berlin home was destroyed
jj young to have the kind of wisdom that comes with age. But, for millions of American seniors,
mall window into these lives, providing insight that ranges from the amusing to the dramatic,
e some important part of who they are. The book, representing the best of this collective
isure that is America’s older citizens and the value of a resource too often ignored,
o mij This story is the first. If you have a “Legacy” of your own please submit it. We’d be honored
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street into Seward Park.
It was a pleasant afternoon in June, and along with
many women and baby carriages and small children,
there were a goodly number of middle-aged men, obvi-
ously out of work, relaxing and sunning themselves on
park benches. Most of the conversations in the park were
in Yiddish or Italian. It was that kind of a neighborhood.
I strolled through the park and furtively scrutinized
the occupants of the benches. The second time around,
I stopped at a bench where several men were sharing a
Jewish Daily Forward, a widely circulated Yiddisb-
language newspaper.
“Gentlemen,” I said in fluent Yiddish, “please excuse
me for disturbing you. I’m in trouble and I need a bit of
help.” They looked apprehensive, probably expecting
that I would ask for “carfare home to Newark” or
something like that.
“And I’m willing to pay for it,” I added. At that they
relaxed and got interested.
“He speaks a fine Yiddish,” one of them said. “Per-
fect,” agreed another. I knew that things were going my
way.
‘Today was my last day in high school,” I said,
“except for the Regents examinations we have to take
next week. And today, for the first time in four years, a
teacher got mad at me and told me that unless I bring my
father to school on Monday, he won’t let me take the
exam and he’ll give me a failing mark.”
“So bring your father,” said one of the three.
“I can’t,” 1 said, almost in tears by now.
"Why?” he asked.
“Because my father is a sick man with a weak heart
and I’m afraid that the aggravation might give him a
heart attack.”
“A good son,” he said.
“Qo u/hat dn vnu want from us?” asked another. “We
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should kill the teacher, maybe?”
“I want one of you to come to school with me
for ten or fifteen minutes on Monday and
make believe you’re my father.” ^ ‘ ;
“We don’t speak good English,” he said.
“All the better. I’ll tell the teacher, ’This is
my father. He understands English but he
doesn’t speak it.’ Then all you need to do
is stand there and let him tell you what a
loafer I am. If you just look unhappy, he’ll
be satisfied.” ^
“How much?” asked the first fellow. A (r
“A quarter,” I suggested. It was 1927, and a
quarter was not to be sneezed at.
“Not enough,” he said.
“Do you have a suit jacket?” I asked.
“For fifty cents I wear a suit jacket and I do the job.”
“It’s a deal,” I said, extending my hand. We shook.
“When do I get paid?”
“A good question,” I replied. “You meet me in front
of the main entrance at ten o’clock on Monday, wearing
your jacket. I’ll give you a quarter when we go in and
another quarter when we leave, if you don’t do anything
to spoil my story.”
“A pleasure to do business with you, young man,” he
said. “What’s my name, my son?”
“Max Josowitz. J-o-s-o-w-i-t-z. See you Monday at
ten sharp.” Wishing them all a good Sabbath, I said
goodbye and left.
Monday morning at ten my fifty-cent father was
waiting at the main entrance to the school. He was
dressed as if for a bar mitzvah: not only a suit jacket but
a clean white shirt and a carefully knotted tie. I gave him
a quarter and we entered. After 1 introduced him and
explained his problem with speaking English, my teacher
let him have it, both barrels. He made me out to be a
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or,,. totally
disin-
terested
lout who
was wast-
ing his time
in school.
‘He’ll wind
up a bum un-
less you put
your foot down
and see that he
gets a job, Mr.
fosowitz.”
f >om actor. He
glowered at me. For
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My man was a *
shook his head sadly and
a moment 1 thought he might get carried away and strike
me. Toward the end, he had tears in his eyes. When it
was time to leave, he gripped my arm and led me toward
the door, still shaking his head.
As my teacher opened the door to let us out, my
wonderful fifty-cent father grabbed his hand and pumped
it warmly as he muttered, ‘Tank you.”
At the school exit I handed him the second quarter,
complimented him on his performance, and thanked
him profusely in Yiddish.
“A pleasure,” he said in better-than-average-sound-
ing English. “That man is a lunatic! And,” he added with
a chuckle, “I’ll bet fifty cents that your father’s not
sick!”
Edward L Justin was born in New York City in 1912.
A graduate of New York University and the NYU School
of Law, he served in the U.S. Army from 1942 to 1945.
He now lives in San Diego.
Story reprinted with permission of HarperCollins.
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Wisch, J. A. & Wisch, Rene. Texas Jewish Post (Fort Worth, Tex.), Vol. 47, No. 51, Ed. 1 Thursday, December 23, 1993, newspaper, December 23, 1993; Fort Worth, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth755302/m1/3/: accessed July 11, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; .