My Passionate Parents
By Florence Stadlen
He was crazy in love with her always. By time I came along, their ninth child, she was certainly not beautiful in any conventional way. She had smallish, deeply set brown eyes, thin lips, and rather scanty brown hair pulled back in a tight little knot; and she was somewhat dumpy after
many pregnancies, and more than a little pigeon
toed. But to Papa she was heart catchingly beautiful - beautiful. She knew he believed this and she revelled in it; and we knew how he felt and we basked in it.
She was enormously attracted to Papa but suspicious
of her sexuality, embarrassed by it, perhaps because she really believed she had married beneath her; and more often than not she looked down her nose at him and, after the children came, sometimes demeaned him in our presence. Still I knew she loved him, and their love warmed me.
Papa took slowly to life’s demands. He was a dreamer and immature when he married at twenty two, and it took him much suffering and much suffer the loss of three children before he finally grew up.
She was a pragmatist, orphaned at sixteen by the death of her
mother, weighted down with respon¬sibilities she took upon
herself, making her six younger siblings her wards.
For a
For a long time after they married, Mama struggled to keep Papa steadily at
work in the face of many distractions: the theatre, the opera, and pinochle.
Their marriage had been arranged, its roots in the old country. Bubba and Zaida were prosperous butchers on the Lower East Side, acutely aware of Papa's "immaturity," which
they perceived as simplemindedness. Eager to get him off their hands, Bessie Cederbaum seemed made-to-order; a good girl from a respected family - a learned father, a Tzaddik; but she was motherless, a penniless girl, at 23 well past her prime.
The courtship took place when the twentieth century was very young; and although the match was arranged by their parents, in some ways Mama and Papa were part of a newly liberated gen¬eration that had left behind them in the old country at least
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some of the old ways. Papa continued to practice
some of the rituals of his religion; but only as they suited his sense of the dramatic, always arranging the setting, and always with appropriate, high quality props. For example, in casting off our sins on Rosh Hashana (?) to our proxy, the
live squawking chicken he swung round and round over our heads while we children cringed and screeched, was a large, fat chicken
appeared to have a five-foot wing spread. And on Succoth, when we followed behind Papa and Mama in a parade through our Borough Park apartment , the exquisitely scented Esrog had been ever-so-carefully selected for quality and pungency, and the Lilluf he shook forcefully produced the whoosh of a half dozen palm trees.
Mama was proud of what she considered her rebellion; but
it paled besides those of Papa. To Papa life was - Enjoy: and he easily threw off religious practices, including food taboos. Mama’s big and sole rebellion was her refusal ever to don a sheitl -and she was proud of this, although no one ever protested, least of all Papa,who didn’t give a damn, so proud of her looks he wanted the whole world to see.
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They married in 1902, at a wedding celebration with 500 guests. That was the year the Queensborough Bridge was completed, still another span over the East River, following on the heels of three other recently opened gateways to
Brooklyn. What these bridges portended, Mama and Papa in their
small way pioneered in their lifetime, extending the frontiers of New York City by settling in the other boroughs.
In their time together they went from from Manhattan and Brooklyn to Queens, from coal stoves to central heating, from gas jets to electricity, and Papa went from the Second Avenue Theatre to radio and television. They lived to watch moon landings on T.V. Papa, more than Mama welcomed new technology. He looked forward to vacations, and was always ready for anything new.
When it came to progress he had guts.
He bought truck before he could drive, to supercede the horse and wagon he had used to deliver garments. The truck salesman showed him how to shift gears and off Papa went. When he stalled on making left turn, he left the truck in the middle of the street and ran back to the salesman for another lesson.
Papa never walked if he could drive, although his sense of direction was totally nil and he got us lost on every Sunday’s 'family expedition.
He never took the train if he could get to,where he was going by plane. Mama quaking at his side but right there beside him; and on their return she offered up prayers of thanks for their deliverance.
They were to come a long, way from their courting days when Papa used to go out walking with Mama, his
"affinity," on a Wednesday evening or Saturday night date,
They went to the foot of Delancey Street for a ferry ride to Brooklyn and
back at the cost of a penny,,round-trip. If by some piece of
good fortune Papa had an extra penny, he offered to buy Mama a drink of plain seltzer on the walk back to her tenement; he, himself, was never thirsty because although he might sometimes have one penny for a drink for her, he never had two to rub together.
Once married, they set up business in a small butcher shop of their own, only a few blocks from his parents' store, and down the street from where the young couple now lived.
Mama became pregnant almost at once. "He didn't have to do more than look at me, it seemed, and I was pregnant." They worked side by side, closely if not peaceablY, her charm and what she termed her "teck” (tact) augmenting Papa’s failings.
He had little patience with housewifely shenanigans (“that piece of flanken is too fat” or weighed 2 3/8 not 2 ¼ lbs) and easily lost his temper. Mama smiled at the customers as she poked and pushed Papa out of the way, and Papa realized that he needed Mama to be at his side if they were to make a living.
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Still, after awhile one afternoon each week Papa began to in¬sist that Mama go to their flat to rest. "'You're tired, Bashale go rest." Mama, in advanced pregnancy, was pleased he was so thoughtful; but before long she began to smell a rat. Once a week rest? And always on Wednesday? What is going on!
So one Wednesday afternoon, when he again bade her go, she left the shop . but instead of going straight home, she stopped, waiting unseen, behind some grillwork up the street. She hadn't long to wait. Out the door comes Papa, butcher coat off, suit jacket on. Holding himself close to the door as he locked up shop, Papa looked furtively up and down the street and seeing noone he knew took off at a trot in the direction of the Second Avenue Theatre District. His last matinee.
Thenceforth the performances were of his own creation, and as the family grew, and grew up, the children were Papa's audience for Shakespearean monologues and soliloquies which he had not learned during his four years in elementary school
but in darkened theatres he had frequented in stolen hours over many years.
The synagogue, too, was Papa's theatre. Whenever his work life permitted, Papa accompanied Mama to shule. In their Sabbath best they walked proudly up the streets arm-in-arm, parting at the temple door, Mama climbing up the stairs to the women's balcony, Papa, head held high, marching to his reserved seat, almost always costing more than he could afford, as close as possible to the Beema and the eastern wall. Once there, he unfolded his huge, billowing body-length tallis (which as
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every Jew knew would in time be his shroud), wrapped it around his shoulders and torso, at proper intervals even covering his head with it. Rocking on his heels and bowing to and fro, now he muttered his prayers, or at proper intervals raised his voice for all to hear, and at appropriate times kissed the fringes of the tallis with a dry, resounding smack. Phil¬acteries wound around his head and right arm, he appeared and doubtless felt himself kin to ancient priests of the Great Temple, or perhaps the hero in a classic Yiddish play.
Mama, in contrast, was a simple, true believer who practiced the rituals by rote , out of deepest conviction, always in unquestioning faith and trust in God. She kept the faith every way she knew, secure in the knowledge that God was Just.
The differences between them were enormous, or so we children thought, and we couldn't fathom either why they had married or what kept them together. It seemed a miracle to me that they had so far not slaughtered each other, so graphic and terrifying were their battles; and although they had already been married twenty years or more by time
I was born, I would have given odds when I was twelve or so, that this marriage was doomed. What we children saw was not what held them fast in what was to be a fifty-odd year marriage; but only their differences and noisy conflicts. Besides, we girls in particular, accepted Papa on Mama's evaluation and the world's, and perhaps his own as well, only later, with the wisdom of years learning to give Papa his due.
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We took for granted, for example, that Mama was the infinitely superior of the two, more intelligent, more morally upright. Hence the causes were clear of the constant friction and what we perceived as bitter battles. Oddly, their battles were never over their moral or religious differ¬ences. How was it possible for Mama not to smell the smoke from Papa's cigarettes as it curled under the closed bathroom door? How come, after we children had married, that Mama never heard the radio on which Papa listened to Saturday’s baseball games locked in his bedroom, or later the T.V.or both at the same time? Mama turned a :deaf ear and went or praying. They seemed to have an unspoken accord - live and let live.
But let him buy a spotted or soft tomato on one of his shopping expeditions to the teeming markets of Hell's Kitchen not far from Papa's small trucking terminal, or buy her not one, not two, but three fancy dresses to wear to shule or on a vacation, and all hell broke loose, the scene repeating it-self over and over and over again, the scenario wholly predictable, its climax always the same.
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Papa staggers into the kitchen carrying two well-packed
While he carefully undoes the string, meticulously re-winding it, already preparing for his next shopping expedition, she sets up the percolator on the stove with the coffee to revive him.
It is a late summer's afternoon, it is hot, and he is exhausted from his walk from the subway after a long trip home. He looks worn out and seeing this, Mama is already irritated. Must you unpack right away? You can't stop for a drink first, a cup of coffee?
Yes, yes; but first I want you to see. What a day I had! What a trip home! But it was worth it. Wait until you see what I got here. Just wait till you see this merchandise! And so cheap, you wouldn't believe it. Fifteen cents a pound for Beef-steaks. (Out comes a tomato, lovingly wrapped in an orange tissue, wrapped by Papa while the storekeeper stood cursing the time he took. One by careful one, Papa gently unwraps each tomato, setting them out in a row like priceless jewels in Tiffany's Fifth Avenue window.
Oops, one tomato is damaged. Mama's hands rise spontaneously to her hips. Pap unwraps another. This one shows a blemish or two. Her eyes narrow.
She: This is your bargain? Look, half of the tomatoes are
soft, bruised, spoiled. I can't put them to the table. What's the matter with you - don't you know merchandise? You! You used to own a fruit and vegetable store. It goes to show you, how good you knew then is how good you know now. Tell me something, are you blind. Can't you see? (Pointing contemptuously at the display) These tomatoes are spoiled.
He: Spoiled? You’re the one who has to spoil my pleasure. I do it for you. And it was such a bargain, how could I resist. I swear to you, Bessie, when I wrapped up the tomatoes one by one (or peaches, or bananas, or pears), they were perfect, or tahkeh (really), would I buy them? And shlepp them? How could I resist, tell me? I got three pounds for the price of three pieces.
She: Better I should buy one pound from Izzie on the corner -- there I know% it's perfect. (Flicking her hand in a gesture of rejection.) Who needs these. You call this merchandize? You can't tell perfect from ge-speckte, ge-spotted, spoiled?
(Papa palms a tomato, smooths it softly, rolls it lovingly in his hand, turning a nearly perfect surface to-wards her.)
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He: You're talking perfect? Here is perfect. (Beginning to whine.) How I dragged myself with my old, broken back to Ninth Avenue. And in such a heat! My regular man didn't have, so I walked three extra blocks, with my tired feet, and I looked and there I found a new stand, with such merchandise, and I picked out by hand even though the man hollered at me to leave his fruit alone. And then I shlepped it back to the office, dragged it with my last strength, with six pounds yet of apples and five pounds ge-spekte peaches and plums you should make a compote, and a dozenpieces of corn for the children - you know how Elka loves corn. So what if it's a little old, the corn - Deli-cious. And the fish, the fish I bought for you for Friday, you shouldn;t have to go yourself in the heat. Then I had to find ,a box - two boxes. Look how I packed it all up, and tied it. See how I tied it? You always appreciate my pack-ages, my knots, and how I make it so I can save the cord for the next time. WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO MEEEEAN?
She: Mean? I'm mean? You want me to appreciate if you're stupid? Such a package you carry home? To the train and from the train. Such a trip! Look at what you look like. You want to drop dead from carrying? From being so good to me? And just look at what you bring me@ You are a fool, stupid. You'll drop dead from your bargains.
Hw: I'm a fool? Stupid? You're a fine one. Some day will you be sorry. 1 bring I carry,, I shlepp. For who do I do it? For me? No, For you. For the chldren. So you shouldn't have to go and shlepp from the store. Mean. You're a mean thing, that's what you are. Some day you'll be sorry. I'll drop dead from aggravation, that's what, not from shiepping.
The climax is closing in . Even when we were little my younger sister and I, we saw the approaching moment of truth, and we fled to the opposite end of the apartment.
I burying my head in a book, fingers in my ears, Edith on the
Sun porch boucing a rubber ball, hard, with for once no protest from the parents.
She: Ahh (in disgust)! Into the earth with your bargains!
He: Wha.aa.t? You paskutvah-miserable wretch. May you burn up. May a fire kindle itself and burn you up!
She: hould burn? You should live to see that happen. May the cholera grab hold of you, fool.
He: Mean, mean. Miserable wretch. You should sink into the ground you should sink. A hole should open underneath you and you should drop into it. A deep hole should swallow you.
She: Sink yourself, you wretch.
Papa's imagination is more fertile, his curses more graphic.
He: May the worms peel off your skin. May they crawl
over your crumbling skin, so no one can tell the diff¬erence between the worms and you. Sink, sink down into the earth, you wretch.
She: Your mother should have miscarried before you even saw the light of day
That does it. Papa breaks.
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Papa: How could you say such a thing to me? You know how I hate cursing. In my parents' home there was only cursing. You know how much I hate it! How could you say such a thing to me - my mother should have aborted.
Filled with misery, too broken even to light his Lord Salisbury turkish cigarette, Papa slumps out of the kitchen, staggers into their bedroom, falls creakily onto his bed. Minutes pass. Mama is muttering in the kitchen as she sorts and arranges and puts awav the "merchandise." Three minutes pass.. .four. .another. Then, from the bedroom: Papa: Bessie, Behsssieee, give me a little alcohol, please.
Ah-hah. We know what's coming now, Edith and I. I stop pressing my fingers against my ears and close my book. Edith bounces the ball more and more slowly. The alcohol—a drink of schapps? Of course not.
Papa: Bessie, my back. Get the rubbing alcohol. My back is killing me. Give me a little rubdown...please.
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Down the hall we hear mama open the medicine cabinet: now her hand turns the knob on the bedroom door. Edith and I run down the stairs and rush into the street, I with my book, Edith with her ball
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