Page 25 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Living with the Binshtocks

age, but his step was firm. Handling that boat must have kept him
working outdoors all his life. Like many Jews of that era he was
religious, a very quiet and gentle man, not well-educated by today’s
standards, but he could read and understand the Bible and the Jewish
liturgy, and he observed all Jewish holidays and Jewish laws.
From the time my parents were married until I was about five
years old they lived in the same house with my grandparents. Since
my oldest sister Chaia was four or five years older than I was, the
whole family must have lived there together about twelve years,
peacefully and contented, united into one family working for the
mutual benefit. It was really a marvelous situation for family life. My
grandfather and grandmother dedicated themselves to their son-in-
law and daughter and grandchildren. Their other child, Leiser, was
married and lived somewhere else. My grandparents were poor
people; my grandfather eked out a living, helping all he could with
the rent and other expenses.
My grandmother Beula was a very respectable lady, the grand
dame who took care of the household and managed the
grandchildren. She was a quiet, gentle, and lovely person, who
dressed neatly and kept the house clean—she did most of the work
since my mother was often pregnant, nursing, or caring for a sick
child. She cared for the older ones, and we did not know the
difference between mother and grandmother, as we were surrounded
by both of them all the time. Life in that country in those days was
different from today. Socks and shirts and underwear and dresses
were not bought at shops; everything had to be made by hand at
home. Sewing was done by hand, not machine. Socks had to be
knitted, and feathers for pillows and coverlets cleaned of their quills,
during long winter nights by candlelight. Most of that tedious work
was done by my grandmother, without a murmur.
I liked her very much, and she used to say I was the apple of her
eye. I was only seven years old, and very attached to this grand old
lady, when she died. I remember well when she passed away. We
were living in a different part of the city at the time, so we came to
her house where the funeral procession began. Crying all the way, I
followed the cortege on foot for miles across the whole city to the
suburbs. I was holding my mother’s hand—or her skirt when the
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