Forty Years In America

Translator’s Forward

Z

evi Scharfstein was born in 1884 in Dunaivtsi (also known as Dunovitz), a small town in what is now Ukraine, then part of the Russian Empire. He grew up in the Haskalah (Jewish Enlightenment) movement, which had dual aims of integrating Jewish communities with surrounding societies while simultaneously reviving Hebrew as a spoken rather than strictly liturgical language. Its adherents and activists, the Jewish intellectuals, were collectively known as maskilim (singular: maskil), and ZS was very much one of them. ZS was also exposed to and participated in the nascent Zionist movement, which had several streams of thought but the common goal of a revival of a Jewish homeland in what was then Palestine. At an early age, ZS decided to devote his career to teaching Hebrew as a secular language.  After escaping conscripted military service in Russia, he worked in Galicia as a Hebrew teacher, principal of a Hebrew school, and an author of a textbook on Hebrew pedagogy. There he met his future bride, Shoshana Goldfarb, who had been one of his students.  At the outbreak of the first World War, he and his bride were on their honeymoon in Switzerland, where they made the fateful decision to emigrate to the United States. Settling in New York City after a brief stay in Stamford, CT, ZS had a long and distinguished career as an educator, author of numerous textbooks, dictionaries, and historical works (more than one hundred), and as the founder of the Shilo Publishing Company in New York City, among the largest producers of Hebrew textbooks and dictionaries in the United States.

Towards the end of his career, in the 1950s, he began work on an autobiography (in Hebrew, naturally), which eventually became two volumes.  The first, Haya Aviv BaAretz (There was Spring in the Land), describes his upbringing in Russia, his development as a maskil and Zionist, and his early professional career, ending as he and his wife board ship to the United States in 1914.  The second, the book you are reading in translation, covers his first forty years in the United States, a time of great political and social upheaval, including World War One, Prohibition, the Roaring Twenties, the Depression, World War Two and the Holocaust, and the founding of the State of Israel.

While primarily autobiographical, the book provides a sweeping view of the history of immigrant Jews in the United States in the first part of the twentieth century. It describes the manner in which immigrants climbed the ladder of prosperity in the United States, how they were uniquely affected by economic and political events, and how they became involved in the Zionist movement.  The book also includes nine chapter-long biographical sketches of Jews, famous and not-so-famous, whom ZS had occasion to work with or observe directly, weaving their stories into the chronology of the strictly autobiographical sections. Why these nine and not others? That is not for me to say, but they can be divided into famous Zionists (Brandeis, Szold, and Bialik) that ZS had the opportunity to meet or observe at length, and fellow workers in the building of Jewish communities and the Hebrew revival and education movements.  The writing is often mordantly funny, filled with personal anecdotes about family, friends and the famous alike.

In the sixty-seven years since its publication, Forty Years in America has not been published in English, save for a partial translation by Rabbi Uri Barnea as his rabbinical thesis for Hebrew Union College¹ (June 2007).  My goal in undertaking a complete translation is to make the book more accessible to descendants of ZS and to non-Hebrew speakers, Jewish or non-Jewish, who are interested in knowing more about the history of Hebrew education and Jewish currents in America in the first half of the twentieth century. 

In translating Forty Years in America, I have attempted to strike a balance between retaining the original form of the text, including rather long sentence structure and many biblical and rabbinical phrases (which would be well-known to his presumed target audience of other maskilim, but somewhat obscure for the modern reader), and rendering it into an English vernacular that would be appropriate for the time of publication.  There are no hard and fast rules on how this can be accomplished, therefore I let personal taste be my guide. 

Note to readers:

Most of the events in the book take place prior to the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948. Various instances of Israel, Israeli, Hebrews, Children of Israel and the like in the text are meant as references to Jewish people or communities in general, unless otherwise noted.  Eretz Yisrael (the Land of Israel) similarly refers to Mandate Palestine as it existed prior to 1948, not to the State of Israel.

Most of the footnotes of the original book have been retained, to which many more have been added.  In order to distinguish between original and added footnotes, those added have been italicized.

Dedication

T

his book is dedicated to my grandfather, Zevi Scharfstein, and to his daughter, my mother Shulamith Scharfstein Chernoff, who intended to assist with translation of her father’s autobiographical works, but who passed away at age 98 in 2021.

I could not have completed the work of translation, and identification of the many biblical and Talmudic references in the text, without the help of several people, including my cousin Doreet Scharfstein, her friend Ayala Odenheimer, and Hillel Maximon, the grandson of SB Maximon, the subject of chapter 14. Doreet Scharfstein also assisted in adapting the original cover art.

I am grateful for the support of my wife Lorraine, who patiently heard me out whenever the subject (frequently) turned to the contents of this book.

Daniel M Chernoff

Saratoga Springs, NY

Our Guide in New York

A

W

hat are the factors that motivated my wife and I to leave Europe and go afar, to the United States – a land we did not aspire to come to?

The causes were blood and fire and smoking ruins.  We left Europe in 1914, as World War I erupted.

We sailed from Genoa on an Italian ship, small in size and light in weight and dignified by a romantic name: Duca degli Abruzzi (Duke of Abruzzi), which swayed on the surface of the sea waves as the strong autumn winds blew.

Were we happy on this trip?  – I cannot define the essence of happiness.  Humboldt said: I realized that happiness does not depend on events in and of themselves, but in our response to them. The events themselves – it was not in them to make our hearts happy.  The luminous lights of European life deteriorated and cities collapsed and the conflagration spread.  I did not know the fate of my father and brother in Russia, and my wife's parents fled Galicia and sought refuge in the city of Gentiles, Vienna, the capital of Austria. And we – we went to the land of the Gentiles, and mammon and lucre we did not bring with us. In my pocket there were forty dollars, and maybe forty less one – the one I gave as a tip to a waiter on the ship. And what other property did we bring? One suitcase of summer clothes and one paper box containing several books and postcards, landscape cards from Switzerland and Italy, in memory of the places where we spent our honeymoon. We had no family or relatives in the new country, except for a distant relative of my wife, who informed him of our arrival and we were not sure if our letter had arrived, and if he was keeping the teachings of our sages of blessed memory: great hospitality.  In short: we walked towards the fog.  And yet our spirits did not fall.  We were young and didn’t have to repeat Bialik's question: They say there is love in the world, how do we know love’s name?²

The atmosphere in the ship also distracted us from tomorrow's worries.  The Holy One blessed us and we met a famous Italian singer invited to San Francisco for a concert cycle.  She became friends with my wife, and because of that the days of the journey were like one long holiday.  Every day, first- and second-class passengers gathered in the music room, and when Adaberto³, the singer, appeared, they begged her to give a performance.  She refused a little and then she accepted their request.  Macira, an Italian newspaper editor, sat down to the piano to accompany her, opening with an aria.  Italian passengers proficient in singing became a chorus and sang with enthusiasm from the classical repertoire, drowning out the noise of the engines.  Yes, we passed the days and evenings in pleasure.  The waves crashed and the engines churned and the sea water foamed – and the choir sang beautifully and our past and future were forgotten.

But sometimes, when I was sitting alone on the deck, or at night, as I fell asleep, there was concern in my heart.  Where am I going?  What is hidden from us in this new country? Then the contents of letters from America published in Russian newspapers crossed my mind. I also remembered, from the works of Yiddish poets, that majesty is there. I read Morris Rosenfeld's Ghetto Songs in the German translation by Berthold Feivel, published in Berlin with Ephraim Lilien's illustrations and decorations. In my ears rang more verses on the crushing work of the laborers in the sweat shops:

The machines in the factory hum with persistence,

Sometimes in the noise I forget my existence.

In the tumult I wander, at what cost,

I become a machine – and my soul will be lost.

I labor and toil without account

Products are made, accumulate and mount;

For what and for whom? – I neither know nor ask,

Can a machine meditate and carry a task?

No feelings, no purpose, no insight

Brutal work crushes with might

All that is tender, noble and deep

All that is holy one wishes to keep.

The moments pass, the hours flee,

The sailing ships speed through the night, the sea;

I chase after engines and machines as in flight,

I chase – without avail, I row – no shore in sight.

Lilien's illustrations were a sad accompaniment to the poems.  In his illustration, The Stitcher, we see a worn and fallen worker sitting at the sewing machine working constantly.  This worker will not see his young son in his home and play with him, and he laments:

Seldom will I see awake,

My small sweet boy, my love’s sake;

Always to see you only at night

Always, always in slumber’s bight.

Rising early to my worker’s fate,

And forever returning late,

Woe, how strange is my offspring’s glare,

How foreign is my son’s stare...

Will his destiny be our destiny?

In truth, I hoped to practice my beloved profession there.  Up until this day, teaching had brought me pleasure, well-being and good standing in society.  What will be the fate of the Hebrew teacher in the new land?

In this matter, too, grief had come to my attention. I remembered letters published in HaOlam⁴ by my townsman Akiva Fleischmann, who traveled to New York, about the schools and the state of the teacher in this city.  Parents – he reported – idolize American education and belittle the past. The Jewish mother dresses up her sons as they go to the general school, and when it comes time to go to the Torah Talmud, they strip off their nice clothes and wear patched and torn clothes, and sometimes the children will come there barefoot, with no shoes on their feet.

Barefoot? Will I teach barefoot children?

The image was strange to me and my heart wouldn’t let me believe it.

And the New York Jewish woman traveling with us on the ship told me that New York's instructors and teachers are poor, because their wages are meager, and to make up for their livelihoods they also become peddlers: they stand at doorways to sell Wissotzky tea boxes or brandy.

I heard this, but in my heart I didn’t believe it. I had been a teacher in Europe for more than ten years, a favorite of the students and respected by the parents. Even there, in those poor cities, I did not see the children of Israel coming barefoot to the school. It's just an exaggeration. In my heart, I felt secure in my future.

And this confidence was based on trust.

In my pocket was a written recommendation letter in Russian from Zvi Aberson, one of the leading Zionist leaders in Switzerland, to his friend, the Zionist movement's leader in the United States, Abraham Goldberg. In my wife's purse, a letter was kept from Dr. Robinson, a professor of history and political economy at the University of Minnesota, to his friend Professor Seligman of Columbia College. In it, he asked his colleague to be helpful to her.

And in a Hebrew journal, if I am not mistaken, HaMe’orer⁵, edited by J. H. Brenner and published in London, I found Daniel Persky's address. Probably – I thought to myself – a patron of Hebrew. I sent a letter from Geneva, Switzerland, informing him that I was coming to New York in the early autumn and asked him to try and find me a position respectful to me and my work in the field thus far. Although I was a foreigner and unknown to him, I testified to two faithful witnesses, Jewish residents of America, whom I interviewed while teaching at school.

One witness was Professor Gotthard Deutsch of Cincinnati. During his travels in Russia, he came to Berdichev to investigate the life of Israel in this Jewish city, and the town’s most distinguished citizens brought him to the Reformed Heder, their institute of glory. The arrival of Deutsch made an impression in the city. He was tall, broad-shouldered and had a full face. His glory was his beard – a long beard, split in the middle and thrown back. This old-fashioned man had a look of glorious ancient times, a majestic patriarch. He walked confidently, as a free man, with no fear before him, and his head raised proudly. On his right hip was a camera placed in a yellow leather case, which hung from a strap on his shoulder. As I walked with him on the streets of Berdichev, the passersby looked at him in awe and made way for him. A handsome and beautiful Jew, such a sight, both patriarchal and modern, is rarely seen there. And the camera indicated that he had come from afar.

When he entered the classroom in the Reformed Heder⁶ I was teaching, he spoke to me in Hebrew with a Sephardic accent:

– I come from America – he told me – and I want to become acquainted with Jewish life in Russia. Will you allow me to examine the children?

– I would be honored.

– Are they studying the history of Israel?

– Yes.

– From what period?

– From the Middle Ages.

He asked the children about Yehuda Halevi and Maimonides. Despite his Sephardic accent, the children understood and answered his questions correctly.

– May we have such schools in America – he said out of excitement.

The other witness was Reuven Brainin. During his trip to Galicia in 1908, I invited him to Brezhin, where I ran the Safah Berurah⁷ school, to lecture on the revival of Hebrew language and literature. He, too, examined my students and praised them.

And if these great men recommend me – I said in my heart – I will probably find a job. And why should I worry?

B

The festive feeling on the ship was waning. When you are in the middle of the ocean, you are cut off from the world and its worries. Baked bread and roast fish are served, wine is poured, servants hurry to fulfill your wishes, and every day, in the afternoon and evening, will delight you by playing classical music. The life on board ship resembles a hilulah⁸. But as you approach land, you are reminded of the responsibilities of life and its struggles. Tomorrow you will awaken from your slumber and you will be asked to see a living in a foreign land.

The first- and second-class passengers had already taken out their binoculars to look at the ships, visible from afar, and to seek the outline of the coast. The fourth-class Italian immigrants, who, throughout their journey, were unfailingly smiling and pulled on their long mustaches good-naturedly – now became serious, their harsh, sun-burnt and wind-beaten faces grimacing. Parents and their children congregated on the crowded deck and there was a gurgle of voices – a very big commotion. Men carried their trunks, trunks of wood with iron straps, and gathered in one spot. Their low stature wives in wide dresses – looked after pots and pottery in heavy sacks, and their sons and daughters stood by to assist them.

The ship slowed down. There was a large American flag boat. The captain and his deputy stood on the railing and saluted. The boat approached and the sailors let down a rope ladder and the officials climbed aboard.

The officials sat in the hall to check the passengers – the American citizens. Meanwhile, tugboats came to pull the ship to port – and brought it. The passenger compartments began to empty. Couples walked, husband and wife, man and friend, quiet and confident and smiling towards their country and their countrymen. In front of them the ship's porters carried the fancy leather suitcases and heavy trunks, the trunks of clothing. On the port railing stood crowds of people who came to greet their relatives. They rose and craned their necks to catch a glimpse and waved their handkerchiefs.

Adaberto said goodbye to my wife with hugs and kisses and requests to exchange letters with her.

Slowly the ship was emptied of its privileged passengers. Now we remain, we, the immigrants. Off-loaded into a steamboat to take us to Ellis Island for testing – according to the law for immigrants. Autumn winds were blowing. We felt ourselves as strangers, dependent on others and disadvantaged.

This unpleasant feeling grew in us as we approached the green grassy island. The island was beautiful and pleasant, but the foliage did not catch our eye or bring joy to our hearts. Sadness enveloped us. We were under surveillance – officials in front of us and behind us. Like a herd, they led us and directed our steps. We entered a large gray-walled building. We lined up before doctors with our heads uncovered. A first doctor looked at every head, and sometimes he would put his hand on the immigrant's hair. A second doctor looked into the eyes, to check for trachoma or other defects. Not only was the testing degrading, but also the method of doing so, the wholesale way. We were as a herd – the flock of Bnei Maron⁹. The doctor did not treat you as a person – he looked at a place that needed examination, and the rest – he turned a blind eye to. A saying of the sages that comes to mind: A bride whose eyes are beautiful is exempt from a total body examination was not acceptable here. Only my wife remained positive. She smiled at everyone and everyone smiled at her.

We were called before the commissioner and his entourage – they were seated in front of a long table. A middle-aged Jewish woman spoke to me in German and asked me what language I would speak. After a few answers to routine questions, the head of the committee looked at us with a worn face and set us free. Good luck, said the head in German, and we felt relieved.

C

A policeman opened the door to the hall in front of us, and out of the diverse crowd came the uncle¹⁰ from Delancey Street.

– Are you Mendel's daughter? And is this your husband? Welcome!

In front of us stood a man of sixty, whose pale face and hands, and his slightly crooked fingers, testified that he was a laborer who has worked hard since his days of green-ness. But despite all that, there was dignity in his looks and speech. His clothes were clean and ironed – though they were made of cheap fabric and coarse stitching, like those for sale to the masses. His beard was broad and combed and nicely groomed. His speech was unhurried, his words measured. Only his cross-eyed gaze slightly diminished his deliberate importance.

– Shalom Aleichem! – he said, and met my gaze – you must be exhausted from your journey.

– No, my uncle, – my wife exclaimed – we traveled in second class and we enjoyed good food and beautiful singing and interesting companions. It was a pleasurable trip.

– So, so, – my uncle answered coolly, almost carefully – you enjoyed yourselves. Times have changed. It wasn’t so when we came here.  Anyhow, let’s go home and have a cup of tea. Don't worry. You have a guide in this country.

I picked up the light suitcase and my wife took the stationery box with her, the one containing the illustrated cards, and followed our guide to sit in a small ferry that would bring us to New York.

We sat on the long bench, I to the right of the uncle and my wife to his left, and our patron began by asking questions about my wife's family, and then humbly told me he was a laborer when he came, but now he is a contractor – an employer of workers in a sewing factory, and on the occasion of our arrival he declared this morning a holiday to come to meet us. And in his conversation, he quoted poetic verses correctly, as they were written. His words sounded pleasant and important. And I admit to a feeling of respect.

When we got to Battery Park, we boarded the Broadway tram. Out of curiosity, I looked at the tall, large buildings and the fast traffic on the streets. I felt the fiery breath of a city. Passers-by rushed around out of nervous impulse, and their faces signaled concern of being late.

—A few days later, and I'll be among those chased and harassed too — I said to myself, and a wave of joy rose in my heart.

In the meantime, I saw my uncle quarrel with the conductor. He chose his English words with effort, and the conductor looked at him crossly. I wanted to help my uncle and because I didn't understand anything from the conversation, I asked the conductor:

– Sprechen sie Deutsch? (Do you speak German?)

– Jawohl (yes).

And the conductor told me with annoyance that this person stutters in English and doesn't know exactly what he wants.

– An anti-Semite – my uncle told me – pretending not to understand the language.  We must travel to the Delancey station and switch to another tram, and he can’t answer me as a human being.

And my cousin was changed. His two eyes, the normal and the cross-eyed, cast resentment. His thick eyebrows knitted.

I explained to the conductor where we were going and he gave us transit tickets and told me:

– When you get to Delancey, you will cross over to the streetcar on that street and ride to your place of residence. I proffered my ticket to my guide and promised that we would bring him to his place. He took the ticket from my hand, turned to the windows and did not speak.

D

As the streetcar started down Delancey Street, I saw that I was sitting among my people. These are my brothers, – those whose beards are trimmed or shaved or overgrown. Most of them were modern – a cheap modernity: short, threadbare clothes, crushed and dusty hats whose brims are bent down or are worn, and their robes were not the cleanest. And the main thing: wrinkled faces, furrowed with pain and suffering. In the street, it was a commotion. People were bumping into each other and getting annoyed. From time to time, I noticed glowing signs with Hebrew letters, Kosher and even Very Strictly Kosher.  I saw plenty of shops, even stalls full of goods. It was an atmosphere familiar to me – the atmosphere of the market. It was neither beautiful nor splendid nor good tidings, though it attested to life and lessened the feeling of alienation.

It was neither beautiful nor splendid – even in the cities of Galicia that I came from, Brezhin and Tarnow, I did not dwell in the crowded slums of Jews, there in the outdoors. I lived in quiet, spacious streets near parks. Now I see the old poverty of the towns, only enlarged in the form of a city.

As the streetcar approached his street, the poverty and filth increased. Here, self-assuredness returned to the uncle. Here was his place of security, his familiar territory. On Broadway, his status diminished. That’s where wealth and American manners and the English language reigned. In this neighborhood was the place of his livelihood and dignity, his seat of authority in the factory and as gabbai¹¹ in the Beit Midrash¹².

We arrived at a high bridge that rises in the middle of the street, this was the Williamsburg Bridge, below which were stands of fish and vegetables and fruits. In the same place, our cousin stood up and said in a voice of self-esteem again:

– Here we get off.

On a stone staircase in front of a dusty tenement, whose walls were scratched and scribbled on by boys, stood two women, one small and thin, with a nose as long as a stork, and so her face looked like the bird. And her friend – a stout woman with broad thighs, her head covered in a handkerchief.

– Sarahka – our uncle said to the smaller one – here are our guests. We went up to our apartment, the woman directed her eyes to us, measured us and surveyed my wife's fancy clothes and hat, and grumbled:

– Why are you so overdressed? Have you come for a holiday? Here in America, one wears work clothes. Here, people work.

Something stirred in my heart. Should we leave our relatives and go to a hotel? The inner voice said: Leave them, and the practical voice whispered: We are OK for the time being.

The uncle shot an angry look at his wife. She fell silent and went before us.

At home, they sat down to the table for tea. Our cousin covered his head with a kippah, a high silk kippah, pulled off his shoes for house slippers, smoothed his beard in his hand and looked like the town rabbi. His failure and insults in the streetcar were forgotten. Here he was in his home and here we were having a conversation of many experiences, in which America and its ways are familiar and well known to him, and he was ready to guide us on the road to success in this new environment.

In the Language of Advertisement

O

ur conversation with the uncle rolled on for an hour, and after lunch he turned to us and said:

– I must go to my place of business, and you can rest.

– And Sarah – he said to his wife – buy today's newspapers and let them read them to know what's going on in America.

The woman narrowed her eyes and pricked up her unique nose. It seemed that this purchase was not to her liking. After some consideration she told me:

– There is a large bundle of old newspapers here. Read them.  For you it will be the same. The papers do nothing but repeat old things from day to day.

She handed me a large package of the Tageblatt sheets — an Orthodox daily published in New York. I looked at the date – some weeks had passed by already. Most of them were from before Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

I pounced upon the papers with immense passion. I yearned to read a newspaper – because throughout my journey I knew nothing of what was happening in the world, especially in our own world, the world of Israel. And secondly: I was eager to understand the nature of the new world we entered, and what can reveal the ways of life as well as a newspaper?

And I wasn’t mistaken.

After an hour or two, I was convinced that I had arrived in the land of miracles. Wonders that I had never imagined were revealed to me. Wonderful miracles!

In the newspaper issues from the prior days to the High Holy Days, I found many advertisements about chazanim¹³. I had heard, in the cities of Russia and Galicia, chazans and prayer leaders of various types, some of them plain and pleasing, some of them inexperienced and ba’al momim¹⁴, some of whom play the Shvarim¹⁵ in great voice and emotion and pull the heartstrings, and some shouters and screamers, which would grate on one’s ears and irritate one’s nerves – but I had never heard playing and singing as described in the newspaper ads.

I read about a famous chazan who was assisted by a huge choir and his voice a Giant Voice (a huge musical tenor voice); One chazan did the Lord's Blessing in The Lion’s Voice and his prayer is a Wonderful Red Song, and the sighs that he sighs! Each one is a true Jewish sigh and any who hear his prayer will not forget it until he descends to the grave; One chazan enchants his listeners and his fame has spread throughout the world. And one of them is not only unique in his generation, but in all generations, as he sings in the original melody of the Temple. And from whom has he received this melody? Presumably from Heman, Asaph and Jeduthun, the guardians of the music of the Temple¹⁶, and He is the standard-bearer of Jewish sweetness. But all those wonderful chazanim are nothing compared to one chazan named Carniol¹⁷. Because his choir includes New York's Most Select Singers and all great chazanim kneel before him and when they hear his singing, they say the blessing: we are fortunate to have experienced this. And why would they not kneel before him, he who plays with G-d’s grace, who draws out the soul, and at the sounds of his prayer the stone walls cry out.

In addition to this advertisement, a special article about this extraordinary chazan was printed in the paper. The article was lengthy and took up an entire column, from the top of the sheet to the bottom – for its entire length. The praise of the chazan there reached a peak that no mere mortal is allowed. When the chazan prayed – it claimed – the stones of the theater cried out. His voice was inside the hearts of the listeners; At times, the chazan burst into a huge roar that reached the throne of the Lord¹⁸; When he sang, those sitting in the lower seats would ascend to heaven, and at the same time the angels of Merom would come down to listen to his singing, the like of which was never heard even in the assembly of heaven. The writer of the advertisement humbly admits that he lacks ability. He wanted to convey in the newspaper the power of excitement at prayer time – and the power of his pen fails him. There were moments – the writer admits – that the assembled gentlemen and ladies began to tremble all over, crying like babies, and could not stop the stream of tears that left their eyes unabated. They felt – exactly like – the pleasure of the righteous in heaven – according to the depiction of this writer. You should come from great distances, thousands of miles away, right into the Bronx neighborhood, to hear Naim Zemirut Israel¹⁹.

My head grew dizzy with the hustle and bustle of these superlatives. I grew weary of the great things and the secrets. What else can this writer add – I said in my heart – why is he piling more stuff on? Is he intent on killing me with his prose? But I see that I was mistaken. He had not yet removed all the arrows from his quiver – but could no longer fill my cup. Indeed, the strength of exaggeration was spent. He had already thrown away all the stones of the catapult, with only gravel and shards left. At this point he started to compose out of emotionality, almost tearfully – and even that sentimentality would not contain a feeble human heart.

And for the sake of history, I'll give you a brief example:

"If you happen to be in a terrible, horrible, tremendous storm in a dark night of terror, in a storm of lightning and thunder and currents and rains, and you seem to see the whole world return to chaos - and if you happen to see that after the storm, through the thick gloom, the warm, scattered sun the, healing sun, prop up and revive every soul and reed -

You will feel all this – if you listen to that chazan's voice.

There seems to have crept into the writer's heart some fear that people would doubt the veracity of his remarks – surely so, for the generation of doubters in which he lived – so he brought facts to reinforce his remarks:

When the chazan’s Shma Kuleno" (Hear Our Voices) erupted into an awe-inspiring keening, it seemed as if the entire Knesset of Israel, from all countries, is demanding the ruddy resonant mercy from the Blessed One.

And this wonderful article concluded with an intimate tone:

"This columnist heard his melodies yesterday and said in his heart:

"This chazan is the Jewish music, he and no other! And blessed is he who was fortunate to hear his melodies, since the chazan is a man of G-d (A Gotlicher Mann) ".

The writer had no more to say, and his breath ceased.

*

When I took leave of this atrocious storm, which had passed by, and recovered a bit, I started to observe the decorative advertisements of the chazanim.

I was amazed at the places the chazanim selected to worship at. I knew by then about a chapel, a synagogue, which is by far the largest in the city, a beit midrash, and the Temple or Choral Synagogue, for the enlightened and the rich, and even for Kleyzil (a chapel in a small room), but in the ads we were greeted with new names that I did not know and could not believe is customary in Europe. One prays at the Millers Theater, the other at the Pabst Coliseum and the third at the Tammany Hall. Theater I knew, after all, it was a theater in which plays were made about intimate relationships between man and woman, and love will celebrate its triumph there or cry at its failure, they even set out there in battles with swords and sometimes the victims of love fell on the stage; In the Jewish theater, I knew, the wars were very few but there would be dancers dancing and singing of songs there, with hints thinner than silk. A Coliseum I knew meant a Roman theater – and certainly not a holy place, and Tammany Hall²⁰ – its meaning was completely unknown to me. If the first ones are theaters – I said – it's probably a circus. In those they pray? A miracle it is to my eyes!

In our time, they say this you must see with your own eyes and adds illustrations to the explanations. To the ads of the chazans too, illustrations have been added, and these showed the truth as it is. In one of the issues, I found one cartoonist, Loeb by name, who showed me where is the place of worship of joy and prayer in New York. I saw part of a bustling street, where commercial buildings are crowded. One gate – above it a large sign: Dansig Hall (Dance Hall). On both sides are the signs of the neighboring buildings: a tavern sign, and topped with a glass of foamy beer, and next to it the price – five cents; On the other side, an ad about a banquet held on Yom Kippur by a company of heretics. And on the entrance gate – to the dance hall – a big advertisement:

LISHMOA EL HARINAH V’EL HATEFILAH

Weltbehrumter Konig fun Alle Hazanim

Reverend Kemelie

Mit Choir

Vot da Farbeten Diese Yamim Nora’im

Ticket 50 cents

And I translated these things into our language:

The world-renowned chazan, the king of all chazanim, Reverend Kemalie²¹, will pray, accompanied by choir, for the Days of Awe, entrance fee 50 cents.

This announcement sheet was littered with chazan photos, clear and blurry images of a serious face and a frivolous face, a humble face and a cocky face, a face of innocence or silliness – in short faces of all kinds. On their heads – a miter in the form of an inverted pyramid, narrow below and wide above, with their robes black and with narrower tallits (prayer shawls), and chazans wearing white neckties with their wings spread to their right and left.

Entering this new world made me dizzy. My thoughts got confused and I felt drained.

My wife sat with the aunt in the kitchen talking about her family. And here she went into the parlor.

An idea suddenly flashed in my mind. I got on the chair and gave a speech:

– To America came a Hebrew teacher named Zevi Scharfstein. He is the king of all teachers, before whom all the scholars in the world will kneel. When he teaches his mouth produces gemstones, and the gemstones enter the students' hearts and shine in the light of the seven days of creation. Students whom G-d has given wisdom in their hearts – their wisdom will be multiplied seven-fold and will conquer lands with their insights, and naive disciples, whom G-d will make wise, wisdom will penetrate and the world will be astonished at their intrigues and cleverness? Mute ones will open their mouths and see visions like Isaiah and Jeremiah and Hezekiah ben Buzi, deaf ones –they will hear the words of holiness and purity, as the words of the holy angels, the heralds from the heavens. Parents of Israel – send your sons to learn a lesson from him. Bless your fortune that enables you to deliver the destiny of your descendants and be spectators to this genius, unique in his generation and in all generations. And tuition a quarter dollar per month!

My wife heard my initial words in amusement – because she was accustomed to my antics. But as I continued, there seemed to be a worry on her face. Suddenly a shout erupted from her mouth:

– What is with you, Zevi?

I jumped down from the chair and announced:

– Don't worry, my wife, I speak the language of advertisement, I speak Judeo-American!

*

In addition to the chazans' ads, whose well-worn tassels and wide ties attracted my eyes, I was interested in the many news articles about the Jewish candidates in Jewish neighborhoods in New York who wanted to be elected to Congress. I arrived in New York at a fateful hour in politics, at election time. The walls were covered with huge posters accompanied by candidate photos and the name of the party; In the street corners, speakers stood on carriages or freight cars and shrieked their shrieks in praise of their party candidates and in condemning the candidates of the other parties. The Tageblatt sheets were packed with articles and ads and banter with their opposite number, the Forvaerts workers' journal.

The candidate supported by the Tageblatt – his name was Henry M. Goldfogle. The opposing Socialist Party candidate Meir London – he is the moral angel of the Forvaerts. Both candidates were Jewish.

The Tageblatt’s strongest argument was on immigration. The Workers’ Party objected to free immigration – because it was afraid of the competition from newcomers, lest their power be undercut and wages lowered. The Tageblatt has shown that there are elected congressmen who dislike Israel and are concerned about Pen Yraba²², so they go from official to official with proposals to restrict immigration. If such a proposal is brought before Congress, Meir London – according to his party’s order – will have to support it. Goldfogel, who has been in Congress for several years, will properly defend freedom of immigration. In his speeches, he tried to prove that in downtown New York, the place of Jewish immigrants, there was more intelligence, more love of work, more talent for action and more patriotism than in the settled neighborhoods of America. He, too, was a native of downtown and could serve as a living, cutting-edge model. And on the question of immigration – the newspaper reporter – is the most important these days, when the war destroyed many Eastern European cities and displaced thousands of Jews from their homes, who dispersed, with no hope of a peaceful life but in America.

These poignant issues were accompanied by scorn and contempt, which I never saw before in print. He called the Forvaerts a reckless, rude and hypocritical gang, corrupt anti-Semites who bring a curse with them, People spitting bile and mud on the Jewish yarmulka and coughing their dying coughs, and the newspaper was called a red yellow prostitution rag– a black dark power lying under a yellow red cloak. The Forvaerts, for its part, announced that it would not be cowed by its opponent’ terrorism and would fight them to the end.

From the words of the conduct, I learned that the Forvaerts did not differ from the Tageblatt in reproach, denunciation and cursing, and its writers did not find it difficult to use insults. They called the Tageblatt The Black Kippah (Dei Schvartze Yarmulka) that hated the Jewish worker with an unbridled hate and was prepared to drown him in the water.

On Saturday afternoon, about an hour before nightfall, I took a stroll around and came to the main street in the neighborhood, East Broadway, and saw an interesting sight. On the busy street, big buses full of school-aged boys and girls passed by and waved American and red flags, and shrieking loudly;

– Vote for London! Choose London!

This is the first time I have seen a Sabbath desecration in public, and I was amazed that the passers-by – and among them bearded Jews wearing Sabbath clothes and Jewish women wrapped in headscarves – look at this sight indifferently and do not protest.

This lone phenomenon revealed to me, the stranger, the great change that has come in Jewish life. There are masses of Jews here, more so than in a small European country, and the laws of Judaism are broken!

*

A few days later, the election was over and Meir London was elected.

I had to buy the Tageblatt. I looked forward to reading a eulogy and lamentation about the disaster that was happening, about the calamity to come and advice on how to save the situation. Under this I read, in the main editorial, blessings of happiness and success to the new congressman.

This too gave me a good lesson on democratic life in the New World.

*

The tremendous exaggerations in the newspaper language brought about uncertainty as to exactly what is actually occurring, and yet I found that it was very difficult for me to let go of the trust embedded in me by the sacred printed word. Doubts faded and something of the exaggeration stuck with me.

At the time of the congressional elections, there were also elections for the courts. And here I was reading an article, or an advertisement in the form of an article, about one Jewish candidate for court, District 12, named Gustave Hartman. I learned from the article that the candidate was a lawyer, an excellent speaker, a man of kindness and a great philanthropist. He was president of the Chesed Shel Emet²³ company, and through his work a large orphanage was built in the east side of the city, on Second Street. All day long he does nothing but deal with the needs of the public. Also in District 31, a Jewish candidate for judge was advanced, named Isidor Hershfield. Next to the article, his picture was published. Truly his facial expression met the requirement for a justice in preparation for this position. Imagine: a handsome Jew with refined and aristocratic portrait, beard rounded and beautiful, properly trimmed at the end, and his mustache ends pointed upwards. His clothes proved he is meticulous. An activist in the Haknasat Orchim²⁴, none other than the HIAS²⁵ organization that helps immigrants; He was a member of the Montefiore House; Gabbai in the Hesed shel Emet²⁶ and Downtown Talmud Torah. And if you thought that’s where his participation in institutions ends, you would be wrong. The article lists hospitals and charities and organizations, one of which he serves as president, the other – the treasurer, the third – the honorary secretary, the fourth, community leader and the fifth, member of the executive committee, and more, and there is not one of them to which he does not dedicate his strength, his fortune, his time and his pen. And in one thing he excelled: he was a member of the Union of Orthodox Congregations. In short: he was everything, a man of vast accomplishments who could lend his honor and work to dozens of institutions and companies and associations and organizations.

Similar praise was also given to other Jewish candidates. Here, for example, Leon Sanders was appointed to the position of Municipal Court Justice, who was also extraordinarily involved in community business and for whom was enumerated a long list of institutions he served and good deeds he did during his lifetime. From these descriptions, I concluded that the inhabitants of America were giants of spirit, possessed of unlimited possibilities, since even if a man lived in Europe as long as Methuselah, he would not achieve even a tenth part of these men of wonder.

Since I read about these events, forty years have passed. Now I am no longer surprised at how it is possible for a person to join dozens of organizations – if only to purchase some publicity. Joining an organization with an idyllic purpose does not prove that the heart of the joiner desires to help another – his purpose is simpler, a material purpose, and its motive is profit or honor or advertising for the sake of his livelihood. A foothold in the society for achieving a selfish purpose. And he need not lift a finger– if there is some publicity, let others do the work and everything that is done will be to his credit.

I was naive and innocent then.

*

The notices in the Jewish newspapers pulled at my heartstrings. In them the new lifestyle was nakedly revealed to me. The boisterousness, the pursuit of material wealth and the act of trading in the holiness of Israel for livelihood were everyday acts. The contempt for