Mistah Jolson

By Harry Jolson

A biography of one of the greatest stage performers of his time Harry Jolson. Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: Jan 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781447485551

Book preview

1951

I

When newspaper headlines screamed of the sudden death of Al Jolson, there were few people in the civilized world who did not feel a tug at the heartstrings, as well as a sense of personal loss.

A few days later the headlines screamed again. A funeral had been held of a nature that is accorded only to the great. Thousands of sorrowing people remained silently in the streets before a huge temple that was full and overcrowded. It was a fitting tribute to one whose love for people of every race, color and creed overshadowed any regard for himself. In failing health, with one lung cut away, he had paid a final measure of devotion to the boys fighting in Korea. It was an effort that was too great for his failing strength and advancing years.

The funeral oration was given by one who was neither rabbi, minister nor priest. He was an actor who had been a friend for many years.

What would the father of Al and myself—the scholarly, orthodox Rabbi and Cantor Moses Reuben Yoelson—have thought about that funeral? Perhaps he would have shaken his head and murmured: Could it be that I was wrong when I carefully trained the voices of my sons, hoping that they might become cantors? Was the theater an evil thing, as I believed? Was I mistaken when I accused my son, Harry, of ruining his smaller brother, Al, by inducing him to run away from home for a career of tinsel? I warned them that those who go to theaters are not sincere. They are loafers; seekers after pleasure. They applaud and worship the actors one day, only to forget and turn to new idols on the morrow.

Millions adored Al Jolson as a fabulous figure in the theatrical world. Many knew and loved him as a generous, loyal, enthusiastic friend. I alone knew him as a baby, a small boy and as a loved brother through the years. He clung to my hand when we came as immigrant boys to a new land. He trusted me and followed me when I ran away from home to seek adventures in a great world.

More headlines! Al Jolson left a fortune of millions. He had provided generously for loved ones, and divided the remainder among three widely-different religious organizations: Jewish, Catholic and Protestant. I believe my father would have liked that. While devoutly true to his own faith, he held the deepest respect for other religions.

It is not religion that has failed the people, he would say. The troubles of the world come because people have failed to live up to the faith of their fathers.

I remember asking him the meaning of the word sacred. He thought for a moment and then answered, Whatever one believes about religion and God is sacred to those who learned of such things at a mother’s knee.

That was my first lesson in respect for the beliefs of others, and it is one I never forgot. There are people today who ask for tolerance, but no one cares to be tolerated. To tolerate is to assume a position of superiority. We must learn to have respect for the beliefs that have been acquired at a mother’s knee.

If nothing more remained in memory than the estate my brother left to others, or even the much greater sums that he squandered, lent to friends and frittered away in this or that, there would be no reason for this book. I never think of Al in terms of the treasures of this earth. His memory is dear to me because of the treasures that he took with him; the immortal wealth of the spirit that is eternal and never can be lost.

It was a beautiful day, the 26th of May, 1885, when my story begins. I have a faint recollection of my father taking me by the hand and leading me to my mother’s room. She was lying in the bed, which was strange because it was midday. By her side was a small bundle. She smiled at me, and turned back the corner of a soft blanket. Beneath it was a tiny face.

Hirsch, my father said, here is a little brother for you to play with and care for and protect.

What is his name? I asked wonderingly, for it was all strange to me. I didn’t know how this small person had come to our home, and why my mother should be sick when he arrived.

His name is Asa, my father answered. Little Asa Yoelson! Because of his lusty voice, I am sure he will be a great cantor.

He laughed joyously, for the valued treasures of people in those days consisted of their children. They prayed for large families, and never doubted their ability to rear many sons and daughters so that they would become strong, healthy, upright men and women.

Our name in the little village of Srednike was Yoelson, but the name of my father’s father was Hesselson. The change came about from a cause that is even stranger than the one responsible for Hirsch and Asa Yoelson becoming Harry and Al Jolson in the new world.

It was because of the hatred for the army of the Czar that was held by the common people under Russian domination. They could not understand why all the sons except one in every family should be drafted into the largest army in the world. Whether it was during a time of peace or war, many of the young men did not return, and it was never known what became of them. Service in the army was especially repugant to the Jewish people, who beheld the paradox of training men in the art of war for the purpose of violating the sixth commandment, Thou Shalt Not Kill.

Methods of protecting sons from the hated service reached a high degree of efficiency. A few hundred rubles, slipped into the pockets of officials, were capable of performing miracles. The family of Hesselson had five sons. Only one was exempt. With officials bribed, two changed their name to Yoelson. Fictitious parents were provided, and certificates were issued to the effect that both these young men were the only sons in two different families.

Thus my father became Moses Reuben Yoelson, the only son of parents who would have been hard to find if an official search had been made. It was fortunate for him that such methods were provided. If ever there was a man unfitted for army life, it was my father. Studious, religious and devout, he would have died willingly rather than take a human life, unless his deed had been in defense of his home or his faith.

Srednike was a small village. Boundaries have changed since then, and the region is now part of the state of Lithuania. When it was my home, it lay on the border between Russia and Poland. It was a village of not more than a hundred houses. There were the usual shops, a tavern where wine and vodka were served, and a tiny chapel for those of Greek Orthdox faith. The population was largely Jewish, and there were two synagogues. One was in daily use. The other was opened on feast days and special occasions.

The entire village was owned by a nobleman. I don’t remember his name or title, but his manor was not far away. It was a thrilling event for us children when his carriage passed through the one village street Not many years prior to that time an ancestor of his owned most of the people. They were serfs, and title to them went with the ownership of the land.

My father was rabbi and cantor of the synogogue. He and my mother, Naomi, had five children. One of them died in infancy, leaving two girls and two boys. The girls were named Rose and Etta. Next in line came Hirsch—myself—and Asa who was the baby of our little family.

A brother of my father also took the name Yoelson, although different parents were created for them in order to carry out the fiction that they were only sons. Two younger brothers of my father escaped from Russia when they were still in their teens, probably because my grandfather had not the means for further bribing the officials.

Then, as now, America was the haven that all poor or oppressed people of the earth desired to reach. They heard many wonderful tales of this fabulous country where there was neither czar, king nor nobleman; where the government was in the hands of the people, and they were permitted the right of free speech, peaceable assembly, and the right to worship God, each in his own way.

Eventually my two uncles reached America. One adopted the name of Hessel. The other still further shortened the name of Hesselson into Hess. This explains how I had an uncle named Hess, who was a well-known Rabbi. For a time he was located in Chicago; later in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He was one of the best known and most learned Jewish scholars in the Northwest.

The adoption of these names was not the result of mere fancy. There was always a fear that if they should return to Russia, even for a visit, they might be arrested and compelled to serve in the Army.

My father was gifted with a voice of exceptional beauty and power. He studied music and singing when he was a youth. His ambition was to sing in grand opera, which seems strange in view of his prejudice against the stage in later years. In his home were books of old, Jewish music, which he learned because he had no operatic scores. Finally he became qualified as a cantor, as we call it in this country. The ancient Jewish name is chazan.

One summer he visited an uncle in Keidani, a town not many versts from Kovno. There he applied for the privilege of singing and praying some of the services in the synagogue. He hoped to earn enough rubles to continue fitting himself for an operatic career.

Application was made to the President of the Synagogue, Asa Cantor, a man who stood high in his community, and whose influence expended far beyond his own village. He thought my father was too young to take part in such important services, but finally surrendered when faced with persistent, sincere pleading, and unusual talent.

My father performed the duties capably and reverently. Asa Cantor was so impressed that he invited the young man to his home for dinner that evening, and also for breakfast the next morning.

It was a wonderful event for my father, for he met lovely Naomi, the daughter of the host. It was love at first sight. My father must have been an exceptionally fast worker, for two weeks later a marriage was celebrated with great ceremony and feasting.

According to custom a marriage contract was signed that provided many things beyond the actual legal marriage relations. Among them was the stipulation that they were to live in Asa Cantor’s home for one year. Free board was guaranteed during that time for both bride and groom. There, a year later, my eldest sister, Rose, was born.

With the responsibility of supporting a wife and family, my father abandoned his ambition of singing in the Russian opera. He decided to become a rabbi, and soon obtained his rabbinical degree, the semichah.

Positions were not easily obtained by such a young man, and considerable influence was exerted by his father-in-law before he obtained a position in the synagogue of Srednike, where there was a vacancy. Even more powerful than the recommendation, was a donation of a hundred rubles, which Asa Cantor made to the community bathhouse. This was a building that had a religious significance, as well as being a place for cleanliness. Jewish women bathed at specified times under the eagle eyes of strict, older ladies who were versed in all the ceremonies of purification. Cleanliness was combined with godliness.

Life was not easy for the young couple in Srednike. The only house available was one of three rooms built of logs. It had a thatched roof and a floor of hard-packed dirt. It was swept daily with a coarse broom. For the Sabbath, it was sprinkled with white sand mixed with needles of fragrant hemlock.

In that humble dwelling my sister, Etta, was born, then I, the first boy, then a little sister who died, and finally another son who was named Asa for his grandfather, Asa Cantor.

In America we love the rags to riches tradition, and one of the blessings of this free land is the fact that many of our greatest people have been born to poor families in humble homes. Little Asa, who was born in a log hut in a foreign land, later became Al Jolson. He actually was born in a cabin similar to those of which he sang in his Mammy song.

The earnings of a village cantor provided no more than the bare necessities of life for a family as large as ours, but my father found other ways of adding to his income. He became shochet, the killer of kosher meat. Among orthodox Jews, meat is prepared under the strictest rules and religious observances.

The killing of animals and fowls is exceptionally fascinating for a small boy, and sometimes I would watch my father as he carried out his duties as shochet. I remember a woman who brought a goose to be killed. Wanting to be helpful, she picked up a knife and cut off one of the feet before the ceremony was finished. My father stopped, and explained to her gently that she had rendered her goose unfit for use as kosher food. The loss was a serious one for her, but the law is inexorable, and never can it be treated lightly.

Passover time brought wonderful days to us, for it meant an abundance of food. It was the custom of the people to give many eggs to the cantor. As the Passover approached, two minor officials in the synagogue went from door to door with baskets, accepting the gifts of eggs. The Srednike butcher also sent gifts in appreciation of my father’s services in preparing kosher meat.

When I was three years of age, and Al was still a baby, a wonderful change came into our family life. The finest house in town was owned by Haym Yossi, a lumberman. It was a frame, double house, the only one in the village, and it had a wooden floor. Haym Yossi lived in one side of this magnificent house. The other side became vacant, and he offered it to my father for thirty-five rubles a year, and he agreed to furnish the kindling for our fires.

Most of the landlords today do not want to rent to people with children, but I believe that Haym Yossi let my father live in this house because of us children. He was childless. Never will I forget him. He was a huge, powerful man with a heavy, black beard, and long hair that usually came down over his forehead. The fierceness of his bewhiskered face was modified by the smiles when his teeth would flash white from out of the blackness, and his kindly, great eyes would twinkle with merriment and good-nature. He always had a pleasant word for us children, and we were devoted to him and his good wife.

During the spring of one year the single unpaved, ungraded street of Srednike was a foot deep in soft mud. My sister, Etta, was making her way across it, when one shoe came off in the sticky muck. She tried to find it, but it was lost beyond recovery. Weeping bitterly, she made her way toward home with one foot in a shoe and the other clad only in a wet, muddy stocking. Haym Yossi met her on the way. He carried her to his house where she received both washing and comforting. When she returned home her tears had turned to smiles, and she was wearing a new pair of shoes, a gift from Haym Yossi and his gentle wife.

Most vivid of all my memories of my twelve years in Srednike are those of the winter time when the ground was covered with snow and the droshkies and sleighs sped through the village street accompanied by the merry music of bells. One of the greatest moments in my career was when a coachman from the manor gave me a ride in a beautiful sleigh pulled by three prancing horses. It was my first ride in any vehicle other than our small, homemade sled which had wooden runners and was gay with red paint.

After we moved into the house of Haym Yossi, we were considered to be both aristocratic and wealthy by other children. This was principally because of the wooden floor. Most people had flagstones or merely the hard-packed earth. The floor was a special source of pride to our mother, and she kept it white with constant scrubbing.

There was only one well in the village, and all the water came either from it or from the Niemen River which flowed close by. The well was between the synogogue and the home of the village doctor. Never can I forget that doctor. He cured me of a severe stomachache from eating too many cherries, that I am sure would have been fatal without his ministration. He was not a graduate of a medical school, but started practicing because he liked the idea. He had a medical book, but I doubt if he ever used more than three or four different medicines, either singly or mixed together, as the spirit moved. It was his presence in the sickroom that effected a cure. When he came into the room smiling and confident, rubbing his hands and examining a patient’s tongue, one was far on the road to recovery even before taking the foul-tasting medicine that he prescribed. We had unlimited faith in our doctor, and we believed him to be an exceptionally learned man.

Water from the well was delivered to our home by a man and wife. Each carried two buckets suspended from a yoke which fitted over their shoulders. We paid two kopecks for one bucket of water. A large barrel in our home was filled every day except the Sabbath. While we did not bathe each day, there was a high degree of cleanliness maintained by the people of that time. There was the public bathhouse, which was in constant use. In orthodox Jewish homes there was much washing of hands in connection with eating and religious observance.

Our life, even to the smallest details, was governed by The Law. There were many duties required by our religion, and no part of the daily routine could be omitted.

We made three trips each day to the synagogue. For Al and myself, young as we were, there was an hour a day in the Chayder, the Hebrew school. Here we were taught the Talmud, as well as tribal history and lore. In addition to our religious education, an instructor in secular studies came to the house. He taught us Russian grammar, German and English. We would have become great linguists under his exacting teachings, but when we came to America all this was discontinued, and we soon forgot what we had learned. In this country, the learning of foreign languages never has been considered important.

It is possible that elaborate, religious customs and ceremonies are developed by people who have nothing to interest them outside of a simple, routine home life. With no public schools or amusement places, the services in the synagogue provided a welcomed change from the monotony of village life, as well as giving us the satisfaction of knowing that we were faithful to our religion.

In our home the customs and dictations of our religion were carried out to the smallest degree. Many spanks did little Al and I receive for failing to put on tzitzis, the small, fringed ceremonial garment which it was our sacred duty to wear under our blouses. Never could I enter the house through the front