Page 259 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text
P. 259

Reminiscences

           Papa told me, “I don’t have a lot of money to leave you, but I
        have  something  better  than  that:  my  carvings  and  the  papers  I’m
        writing.” So he had a set of values that were very specially his own:
        you should know your history; a people shouldn’t fade away. He’d
        had emphysema, but what carried him off was his stroke. We noticed
        that he’d fall asleep a lot, but he managed to keep on going. Rudy and
        I had gone to Arrowhead for the weekend, and when we got back my
        sister was frantic. She said, “Papa’s very sick, and I can’t get him to
        do anything about it. You do it.” I think she was afraid of him.
           So  I  went  over  to  his  place.  He  was  at  the  table  and  falling
        forward, with his head on the table. I told him, “Papa, if you don’t let
        us take you to the hospital, I will call an ambulance and you’ll have
        the  embarrassment  of  being  carried  out  in  front  of  all  your
        neighbors.”  So  he  agreed  to  go.  We  went  to  Midway.  He  had  a
        wonderful doctor, Simeon Marcus. But he would never tell a doctor
        anything.  It  was  the  doctor’s  job  to  find  out  what  was  wrong,  he
        would say, and he wasn’t going to help him. Marcus told us it was a
        stroke, and he would do what he could, but it got worse and worse.
           Papa  was  transferred  to  a  convalescent  hospital,  but  his  mind
        wandered. We went to see him one day and he gave me a lecture, that
        I  should  obey  my  husband.  Then  he  gave  Rudy  one  of  his  shoes,
        asking  to  have  it  fixed.  And  that  was  a  shock,  because  Papa  had
        always done his own cobbling. Finally, he no longer knew me. The
        doctor finally said to us that there was no more hope, and that he
        would no longer “give orders.” And that was a great kindness on his
        part.
           By that time we knew about the urn, and now I’m sorry I obeyed
        his orders—which were to place his ashes in it. It was a magnificent
        piece of work. It conformed to state laws regarding thickness and the
        lead  lining.  He  covered  it  with  copper,  chased  with  images  of  the
        twelve  tribes  all  around  it,  and  his  name  and  date  of  birth.  It  was
        always wrapped in a towel up in a closet in that little apartment. He
        wanted  to  be  cremated,  but  I  wish  I’d  kept  it,  because  it  was  so
        beautiful. So there it is, in the columbarium. Quite unorthodox, of
        course.



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