Page 252 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Reminiscences

He would come over on Sunday afternoons for dinner, and arrive
around four o’clock when I was cooking. Then he would lean in the
doorway and talk to me. He’d watch me very suspiciously, and if I
added something, say Worcestershire Sauce or some wine, to one of
the pots, he would say, “What are you putting in the food from those
bottles?” We had never eaten desserts at home, and he wouldn’t eat
things out of cans. He had always brought home fresh fruits and
vegetables, and was very suspicious of “fancy” cooking.
He thought clothes were the least important thing in the world.
Mama used to have to fight with him to change his underwear and
put on clean clothes. And he only liked sort of paramilitary stuff—he
went to the army-navy stores. He liked to look like a regular fellow,
tough. And those clothes never wore out: the khaki shirts and green
serge drill pants, and the hats. He finally had one suit, from the
Salvation Army, a brown one which248he wore with a tan shirt. He
never wore a white shirt. He actively disliked new things. He wore
the same green felt hat, the kind with a crease in the crown, for about
forty years.
Those old photographs of him in costume were probably taken
before I was born. I think at least once he had been an extra,
someone who stood around in mob scenes, but after a while he
didn’t even speak about it anymore. Some of those pictures,
obviously taken at home, were not for a serious attempt at
employment in the movies, but were taken out of sheer playfulness.
He did have a playful side. I have no idea where he got the costumes.
Papa had owned an open touring car, probably a Chevrolet rather
than a Ford, since Jewish people at that time would not buy Fords
because Henry Ford was so anti-Semitic, publishing the inflammatory
Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Mama didn’t drive until the cars were
made with electric starters. I can still remember Papa cranking an old
car to get it started. Everyone had to stand back, because the crank
handle could go flying. It was not uncommon for a man to break his
arm starting the car. And there would be a steady flow of expletives
when Papa was trying to start one of those cars with a crank. He
would get red in the face, and shout “Goddamned son of a bitch!”
Nevertheless, the car was a “she.”

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