Page 45 - The Legacy of Abraham Rothstein - text

Father and Mother

The driver of the wagon and horses was a Polish peasant off the
farm named Adam. He could not read or write, but he stuck to that
job for years, sleeping in the stable with the horses, getting up at four
in the morning summer and winter, serving faithfully. Once a
committee from the synagogue came to my father right at a store
where he delivered bread, bringing the bad news that the sexton had
been arrested for selling a little schnapps, and his family was starving.
So Mr. David left the rest of the route to Adam and ran off to the
chief of police, bribed the little fellow, and saved the shamos from
eating treyf meat in jail.
Adam delivered the bread and reported to my father the next
morning—orally. He only knew the shopkeepers by first name or
some characteristic like a wide beard, short legs, or their wives’
appearance. He could not remember how many two-pound, three-
pound, six-pound loaves or loaves of pumpernickel each had taken.
My father asked the shopkeepers how many they had taken; of
course, they were nice pious Jews like Reb David, and talked Torah
with him often. Many had bribed Adam with some stale bread, and
my father was short-changed again. Mama and we little ones suffered.
He never had enough for the house, for a dress or some shoes, and
the debt at the bakery was swelling. In these mercy cases, the friends
appreciated his kindness, of course, and to show it they treated him
to a drink in a restaurant. One drink brings on another in a friendly
gathering, so he ended by forgetting to collect from his customers
and we at home lived on tea and old bread.
Then there was Uncle Berl, my father’s brother, who made a
living slaughtering cattle and selling the meat retail, but always
complained that he hadn’t a pair of socks or an undershirt; afraid that
you might desire his help, he stalemated you. When Berl met my
father on his bakery route, they of course stopped for a drink and
began to talk and talk. Berl would tell him of his poverty, and after
another drink began to cry, a habit repeated whenever he came to our
house in a good humor: after a couple of drinks he would begin to
cry for no reason in the world. My father was easily affected by his
tears and would slip him a few rubles.
Another problem in the family was Yankel, a cousin by marriage
on my mother’s side. He was a very nice man, very learned in
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