The Five Books of [Abraham] Moses: An Autobiographical Narrative

By Abraham M. Mann

The Five Books of [Abraham] Moses: An Autobiographical Narrative gives voice to the honest and unpretentious recollections of Abraham M. Mann, born into a rabbinic family, educated at distinguished institutions, and seasoned by years of service as an Orthodox rabbi. In five books the author reveals his origins, shares the adventures of growing up, and takes stock of his adult years.

As he tells his lifes story, he muses about his options: computer scientist or rabbi. He reasons that the former requires great labor and some luck to achieve respectability, but, he concludes, As a rabbi, I would begin my professional life on a high. I would be top banana, king of the mountain, master of my domain. I would enjoy immediate respect. Decisions made might be challenged periodically, but in the end, I would win out. God was on my side. Why start at the bottom, when I could start at the top? The decision was simple enough. Practicality ruled the day.

From that pivotal moment, the direction of his life changes, bringing challenges and joys. The Five Books of [Abraham] Moses: An Autobiographical Narrative reveals the contoursthe bumps and the vistas alikeof the terrain through which the author journeys. If you appreciate the details of a well told story, the honesty of an individual who shares willingly, and the humor that arises to make the difficulties in life surmountable, then this autobiography will reward you for reading its story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491789179

Abraham M. Mann

Abraham M. Mann, graduated from Yeshiva University and Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary. A former U.S. Army chaplain, he served as a rabbi in the Midwest and Long Beach, New York. He earned a PhD at New York University and was Special Assistant to YU’s Vice President for University Affairs.

Book preview

THE

FIVE BOOKS

OF

[ABRAHAM] MOSES

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NARRATIVE

ABRAHAM M. MANN

THE RABBI’S YOUNGER SON

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THE FIVE BOOKS OF [ABRAHAM] MOSES

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NARRATIVE

Copyright © 2016 Abraham M. Mann.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of nonfiction. The events are as they happened. In some cases, names and locations have been altered to protect the innocent and the guilty.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-8916-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-9120-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8917-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016904505

iUniverse rev. date: 09/23/2016

TABLE OF VIGNETTES

Acknowledgments

But First, Seduction

BOOK 1

CHAPTER 1

In The Beginning

Two Plus Two Equals One

Tenement Life

CHAPTER 2

Getting Here From There

Daddy Never Went Back

CHAPTER 3

Torrington, Connecticut

Time To Move On

The Haunting House

Fun With An Older Brother

Crank Up The Engine

Blood, Blood Everywhere

BOOK 2

Quincy, Massachusetts

CHAPTER 1

The Quincy (Not Quite) Mansion

Let It Rain, Let It Rain

CHAPTER 2

The Daniel Webster School Years

Here’s To You, Miss Robinson

My Special Angel

Age Of Awareness

Mommy’s Wish

Cooking School

A Jewish Jock

Here’s Johnny

Cupid’s Arrow Finds Its Mark

Humiliation

Miss Larkin Strikes Again

Then Moses Sang His Song

CHAPTER 3

Sweet December

Wondrous Winter

Snow, Snow Everywhere And Nary A Place To Put It

Parting The Sea

CHAPTER 4

The Institute

The Worst Day Of My Young Life

I Grieved

The Worst Moments Of The Worst Day

House Of Horrors

Something Good

I Hated Latin

Just Daddy And Me

CHAPTER 5

The Rabbi’s Son

How Do Simple Folk Live?

The Rabbi’s Younger Son

You Killed My God

Took One To The Jaw

Dirty Jews

There’s No Business Like Shul Business

The Death Of A Synagogue

Rabbi Mann’s Last Days

BOOK 3

Yeshiva University Years

CHAPTER 1

Her Name Was Donna

Decision, Decision, Decision

To Be Or What Not To Be

Lots Of Lots

CHAPTER 2

Life in the Dorm

Undercover And Under Covers

Charlie’s Here

Water, Water Everywhere: Part 1

Water, Water Everywhere: Part 2

Fta

Failed By One Point

BOOK 4

It’s A Rabbi’s Life For Me

CHAPTER 1

You’re in the Army Now

A Nice Jewish Boy In The Army?

Road Warriors

O Beautiful For Spacious Skies

A Red-Eyed Monster

Welcome To Fort Lewis

The Likeable And The Lamentable

You Want What?

The Old Man And Me

On-The-Job Training

And Now For The Rest Of The Stories

CHAPTER 2

The Wichita Years

Four In Number: Choose One

Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho, To Wichita I Go

The Playbill

Vox Populi

My Synagogue

Daddy Comes Visiting

My Wichita Father

Declaration Of War

The Man Among Men

It Was A Sad Day

CHAPTER 3

Long Beach, New York

By The Beautiful Sea

The Second Coming

If It Looks Like And Smells Like, It Must Be

If You Don’t Like It, Rabbi, Do Something About It

She Was A Vixen, Good. She Was A Shrew, Better. She Was A Bitch, Best!

BOOK 5

CHAPTER 1

Bashert

Things Don’t Just Happen

CHAPTER 2

Coda

In memory of

my mother, Leah, who died far too young, and

my father, Rabbi Jacob Mann, whose life shaped my life.

With love to my wife, Joan,

who laughed and cried as she read what I wrote

as I laughed and cried as I wrote what she read,

and to my children,

Jordan Isaac, Ranon Ephraim, and Miriam Lea

Life is a series of vignettes.

—M. L. Wallach

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to:

my wife, Joan Ehrlich, who knew I could write the book;

my daughter, Miriam L. Wallach, who posited, Life is a series of vignettes; and

Avi Dresner for his curiosity-inducing opening salvo, This is not the kind of book that should be written by a nice Jewish boy, much less by an Orthodox rabbi.

BUT FIRST, SEDUCTION

I didn’t date in my freshman year at Yeshiva College. Hormones were flying. I had sex on the mind and pulsations all over. I didn’t date. The guys talked about their trysts heatedly. Whether exploits were true, false, or imaginary, no matter. They were going out, a chance to be with a warm, curvaceous woman.

I was a campus recluse. The dorm and study halls were my playgrounds. It was no problem during the school week. There were bookworms who shared my space and disposition. That was not the case on Saturday nights. Dorm showers were jammed after Shabbos. Everyone pushed and shoved. A spritz here and there—just enough to get by. Dry off. Shave. Clean suit, shirt, and tie. Check those shoes. It was not long before the campus was virtually deserted. With the exception of security personnel, no one was around. Where was everyone? My mates were on the prowl—cherchez la femme.

It was embarrassing to be seen hanging out while the tongues of my schoolmates were hanging out in anticipation. I joined in the frenzy and feigned exhilaration. Kibitzed with the lot. Wished my friends good luck, then hustled down the hallway and hid in the security of my Mann cave, until the girl-hungry masses left. When the coast was clear, I slithered away to the movie theater on the corner of Broadway and West 181st Street, my Saturday night asylum. Occasionally, my ruse was uncovered by other date-deprived denizens of the dorm who shared my social oblivion. After a few months of that kind of Saturday night, I’d had enough. I decided to do what I really didn’t want to do: swallow my pride, suck it up, and ask for help.

____________

There was a guy, a chemistry major, whom I felt I could trust. Ephy was an honorable chap. I could talk with him. He would hold my confidence and not think me a schmuck. I feared that anyone else would jump at the opportunity to hear my plight, gossip ad nauseam, and make me the butt of his jokes. I sought my guy out and revealed my soul. I wanted to date. Fix me up. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, observant, secular—it made no difference. I wanted to be with a girl. What a mistake.

Ephy listened empathetically and then tore into me, and I mean tore. Freshmen don’t date. It was stupid to get emotionally involved in one’s first year of college. No distractions. The date-and-mate process could wait. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. Freshmen’s heads are in the books. Eyes on one’s notes. Ears on the professors’ voices. Work was the operative word, not wine, women, or whatever else. There would be a surfeit of time for adventure with the opposite sex.

Enough already, I thought. Ephy did not let up.

College was competitive. I’d be judged by my exam scores, not by my dating scores; I should study, study, study. An industrious work ethic would garner the favor of my instructors. He was fierce. He was persuasive. I toed the line. I stayed emotionally and physically put, straying nary an inch off the hallowed scholarship’s yellow brick road. I tempered my enthusiasm.

With my Saturday night fever under control, post-Shabbos hours became just another night of the week, dedicated to study and more study. There was one bright side to my monastic lifestyle: I built a reputation. I was a no-nonsense student, the go-to-guy when one needed to know. I was a fount of knowledge, the answer man. Jews are the People of the Book. I was the Mann of the Book.

____________

Freshman year at Yeshiva College drew to a close. I took stock of my academic achievements and remembered Ephy’s remonstrations months earlier. He had been correct in telling me to work hard, stay the course, and reap the rewards. I had made Dean’s List, was respected by my classmates and was a recognizable name to my professors. I owed him.

Perfidy! One day in May, I heard that Ephy was getting married. That (expletive) freshman chemistry major had punishingly blasted me months earlier: do not date, do not joust with fate. It was books now; I would find my mate later on. He, my drill sergeant, had been secretly dating his entire freshman year. No wonder Ephy was never around on Saturday nights. I assumed that he had a secure hiding place—out of sight, out of mind. He could read, think, write, and type undisturbed. Jerk that I was.

I spent the next three years razzing Ephy, reminding him of his duplicity. I laughed, reminiscing about the whole affair, but it was not laughable at the time. I can say this about him: he was a darn good actor. He mixed a potent psychological brew. Ephy is an accomplished chemist today. I think he could have made an even more accomplished con man.

____________

It was September, the fall semester of my sophomore year. I received a phone call from an uncle, one of my mother’s four brothers. He had friends who were parents of an attractive woman. Would I like to meet her? I jumped at the opportunity.

Asking around is an inviolate dating principle. You do not make a date without due diligence. You do not want to make a regrettable, beat-yourself-up mistake. I was aware of the mantra, but my uncle was the shadkhan, the matchmaker. Surely, I could trust my uncle. What could be bad? (Classic Jewish attitude.) I called. This is Diane. The conversation was easy and pleasant: no slip-ups, no mistakes. The congenial banter segued into the what, when, and where; all was set. Looking forward to meeting you, Diane said. At last I had a date, Sunday at 6:30pm.

I took the subway to the New York’s Lower East Side. It was a short walk from the train station to Diane’s neighborhood. The area had a unique, distinctive name—Alphabet City. The enclave was comprised of four avenues: A, B, C, and D, the only thoroughfares in Manhattan to sport single-letter names.

I was nervous as I paced my way to Diane’s address. Was it the reaction of an ingénue anticipating his first date? Yes, to some degree, but the anticipation was only a minor player. The surroundings raced my pulse. Alphabet City did not have a good reputation; roving gangs, turf wars, intimidation, and muggings were common. My steps were cautious. My eyes were forward but peripherally surveying the surroundings. Shoulders back. Head erect. Mind alert. Security level high.

Dressed to the nines, I attracted the attention of the locals—both the women and the men. I had no idea how to respond to the whistles, catcalls, and hoo-hahs. Smile, maybe not. Ignore, no good either. Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact, my friends at YU had warned. Never make eye contact. Great. Everyone told me what not to do. No one told me what to do. I decided to go with a friendly, non-provocative wave of the hand. That too was fraught with danger. I executed the move nervously. Heaven forefend a misconstrued gesture: a misaligned middle finger might be regarded as a classic Bronx Cheer. Tempting, yes. Prudent, no. Perspiration slid down the nape of my neck. I walked in a controlled manner but with gasped breaths. What a way to begin a date. Heart racing, I approached the stoop to Diane’s home. Thank God, I whispered. There are no atheists in a foxhole.

I arrived at Diane’s apartment building at exactly 6:30 p.m. I climbed the stairs, then located and pressed the buzzer to her flat. Moments later, Hi, Abe. Come on up while I get my things together, was voiced over the intercom. I did as invited; I walked up three flights and tapped on the door. Diane opened it. My uncle had said that the date was pretty. His assessment hadn’t come close to imaging the woman who stood there.

Diane was hot; shoulder-length, lustrous brown hair vivified her hazel eyes. A big chest accentuated her slim waist; her hips were a little wide but sexy. Her walk was mesmerizing; her full, sensuous lips were awesome. I suppressed a hard swallow and smiled. Diane responded in kind. With her shawl on and apartment locked, off we went. Game on.

As if we had known one another for some time, Diane and I chatted congenially. The most obvious topic was the atypical street names in the neighborhood. New York boasted famous avenues: Fifth, Lexington, Madison, Park; and streets: Delancey, Houston, Essex. It owned classy districts—Murray Hill, Central Park, Chelsea, Sutton Place, and Greenwich Village. Then there was Alphabet City.

Topic to topic, laugh to laugh, we walked and talked. It was amazing how well things were going. Diane suggested we stop at a café. That was exactly what I had had in mind. It was a perfect venue. The stay could be long or short, depending on how things played out: a short stay if the date did not go well, a longer stay if possibilities were good for another date. An even longer stay if we really liked each other. We were at the café just shy of two hours. Subjects varied. We agreed and disagreed freely. Occasionally, we caught each other’s eye. You know that look—warm and romantic.

We left the café as shadows grew long. A small park lay across was the street. Diane suggested we walk there. It seemed innocent enough. Arms interlocked, we strolled down an arbor-lined lane. It was peaceful and secluded. Slowly, she guided me from the path to a copse of trees. Casually, she leaned against the trunk of one and linked her arms around my neck. Diane pulled me close, pressing her luxurious, supple breasts to my chest. Her head rested on my shoulder. She whispered in my ear.

Diane lowered her left arm. Her hand cupped my right and took it to places that it never had been before. We circumnavigated her body; little was left uncharted. Her breathing slowly intensified then quickened and deepened. It was incomprehensible. Our relationship was not merely moving along. It was spiraling blazingly toward disaster.

I was inexperienced but not naïve. Again, she linked her arms around my neck and drew me close; her hips moved rhythmically, gracefully. Her eyes closed. She gasped, and then there was silence. Her head lay on my shoulder. I stood there bewildered. I stood there shivering, but it wasn’t from the cold.

Moments passed. Wearing a coquettish smile, Diane slowly lifted her head, smoothed her dress, swept her shawl over her shoulders, and said we should get going. We walked from the trees to the path to the sidewalk that led to her apartment building. We were with each other but not together. We walked as if alone. Neither of us spoke. There was no hand holding or intertwining of arms—nothing. Except for the clatter of Diane’s high heels, silence reigned.

Our destination reached, we stood at the stoop of Diane’s home. There were eight stairs from the sidewalk to the frosted-glass front doors. A La Gioconda smile crossed her face, veiling her emotion. Happiness or sadness, pity or satisfaction—I had no clue. Home again, home again, Diane said playfully. I added the jiggety-jig.

The mood changed quickly. Diane lipped, I like you, but I don’t think that we should date again. Our eyes met and held. After a gentle kiss on my cheek, she pulled away. Hips in motion, she turned to the eight steps, slowly climbed four, paused, turned, and returned. I used you. I am sorry, she said. I shrugged. There were no words to express my confusion and anger. Gently caressing my cheek, she added that I was, nice—much too nice.

Diane retraced her steps. I watched her ascent and again counted the stairs as she took them. She climbed to the frosted-glass entrance door, unlocked it, let herself in. She didn’t look back. The door closed and locked. I heard the click of the bolt. I saw Diane’s image through the frosted glass—a ghostly silhouette. Her scent lingered. The window darkened. Diane disappeared from my life forever.

I stood motionless at the foot of the stairs, waiting and watching, overwhelmed with fears, doubts, and certainties. One thing was clear: I was angry. And, I had good reason to be angry. Was I angry with Diane for the seduction? Yes. Angry for being used? Yes. Angry with her for scripting innocence and weaving a web of deception? Yes again.

Three questions. Three yeses. I may be taken to task and asked: how so? Was I cold, detached, dead as a stone in this matter? Was I but an observer? Obviously, I was a compliant party. I must have enjoyed the sensuous moment. I had gone with the flow. Well, as legendary newscaster Paul Harvey was wont to say, And now for the rest of the story.

Remember act 1 of the encounter in the city park. Diane led me down a quiet path. She veered off to a secluded cluster of trees, leaned against one, and linked her arms around my neck. We stood closer than close. Diane whispered in my ear. Just what did she say? Are you curious? Some endearment? Something sexual and earthy? What did she say? She said this: "Make me come, or I’ll yell rape." Welcome to Dating 101.

[BOOK 1]

CHAPTER 1

IN THE BEGINNING

May 3, 1938

7:50 a.m.

Torrington, Litchfield County, Connecticut

The attractive woman lay on her back, makeup smeared, hair drenched with sweat. Her dress, or what was left of it, was scrunched above her waist. Her assailant was unknown. She had never laid eyes on him. She was defenseless; the assault was merciless. She had no option but to lay back and endure. Her body shook with waves of gut-wrenching pain.

A God-fearing woman, her arms extended heavenward, hands beckoningly open; tears ran down her cheeks as she prayed for divine intervention. She shouted for her Creator to hear, listen, and respond. After all, she was a good woman. Entreaties fell on deaf-ears.

The woman was not alone. All the while, three people were standing nearby. They were doing absolutely nothing, just looking and watching. What the hell? Was she the morning’s entertainment, a misanthropic diversion? She cursed them heavily in Yiddish, her native tongue.

The three were dressed in white. Everyone knows that good guys wore white, but the trio wasn’t helping despite her being ravaged. Finally, two of the three closed in. With military cadence, they chimed and rhymed words of encouragement, like fans at a baseball game. The third, not wanting to be left out of the action, added his supportive voice.

The woman was angry—angry with the bystanders and with her husband, who was not at her side. Where was he, enjoying a cup of coffee at her expense? Lucidity and confusion ran uncontrollably through her mind. Torturous spasms mounted; anguish was unbearable.

Suddenly, with a loud slap on bare skin, a voice filled the room: a shrieking infant ached and pained. "Nu, the woman gasped. Then, Nu, again. The three in white—the obstetrician and the two nurses—gleefully shouted, Mazel tov! Mazel tov! It’s a boy." The threesome congratulated Leah and Rabbi Jacob Mann. Eight days later, at his bris milah, circumcision, the infant was named for his parents’ forbears: Abraham for his maternal great-grandfather and Moses for his paternal great-grandfather. In Hebrew, Avraham Moshe.

Sounds of a discomforted child rose above the chanting of celebrative prayers. With that, the rabbi’s younger son announced his presence, to be seen and heard, to know and watch grow. And, to be a source of nachas, pride and pleasure, to his parents, his family, and all Israel.

TWO PLUS TWO EQUALS ONE

My parents, Jacob and Leah (née Balban), were born in Jerusalem in the early 1900s. They grew up in Mea Shearim, an ultra-Orthodox enclave of the city. Meeting and mixing with the opposite sex were strictly verboten, super no-nos. Life was insular and suffocating. Marriage by arrangement was the norm. Roving eyes was met with scorn. Eye contact? Are you kidding!

Nevertheless, wanton, stealthy glances between men and women were common. Hormones were hormones, attractions were attractions, and sexuality was sexuality. Woe unto the poor soul caught in the act of looking. The violator, man or woman, was subject to scathing reprimand—and, of course, to the classic Jewish guilt trip: "Think of the shame that you have brought upon the family. Oy, ah shandeh," disgraceful. My mother and father were raised in that environment. They resided just a few blocks from each other, but it was only after their respective immigration to America, the goldeneh medinah, the golden country, that they met. The year was 1930. The place was New York City.

Neither my father nor my mother had a formal secular education. Schooling beyond the Jewish realm was goyish, profane, for the gentile but not for the Jew. The Jewish mind and intellect, with analytical power and reason, had a specific purpose. A Jew’s focus was on the study of the holy and pure: the eternal Torah, sacred biblical writings, the Talmud and its commentaries, and Jewish law and lore.

Having studied these sacred and revered literatures, my father was ordained. His teachers and mentors included a number of Jerusalem’s most renowned rabbinic scholars. Daddy also mastered the fine art of ritual slaughter of cattle and fowl. He was conversant with the plethora of rules and regulations appertaining to the procedure and earned the title, shoḥet.

With these tools of the trade in hand, Daddy believed he was well equipped to earn a living in America. He was degreed and confirmed to address religious issues and matters attendant to daily Jewish life and practice. Daddy was trilingual. In addition to Hebrew and Yiddish, he was proficient in English—a real anomaly for a greenhorn. (He had learned English from his mother, a native Jerusalemite. A story unto itself and for another time.) By professional standards, Daddy had what it took. He was ready for life in America—well, almost ready. One important something was missing from his profile: a wife.

____________

My parents left the shackling restrictions of dating, courtship, and marriage on the wharfs of Ellis Island. What once had been was no longer. For them, engrained societal proscriptions and inhibitions had ossified. They were fossils from a happy-to-get-rid-of way of life. Leah and Jacob set out to find the right one, the American way.

I never asked my parents what features and attributes each sought in a mate. Over the years, I gleaned from discrete conversations that, hey, those Jerusalemites were just like everyone else. Even the super frum, the very observant, wanted the usual essentials: someone with good looks, a fertile body, a respected family and, with God’s help, a peckel mit gelt, a bundle of money. Neither parent shared their dating experiences with me. Actually, I never asked, and they never volunteered. There are secrets that remain secrets, things that adults do not share with their children—archival moments that bring veiled smiles to their lips. I didn’t learn a thing about the dating game from my father or my mother but I did learn how it all began.

How to tell the tale? Once upon a time, something whimsical, fanciful and dreamy? Forget about it! I don’t know how long my parents had been dating before they met, the number of dates each had, or how long they dated each other before the matrimonial ask. Relatives that could have shed light on Leah and Jacob’s courtship are long gone. I share with you that which my father warmly and smilingly shared with me.

Daddy was asked to blind double date. His friend met a woman who had a friend who was looking to date. Arrangements made, the four met. Daddy was paired with the other woman. Introductions made, arms intertwined, off they went. With Mea Shearim’s restrictive courting-behavior a thing of the past, it took but seconds. Eyes met. Jacob and Leah’s eyes, that is. It was a Romeo and Juliet moment. It’s not clear when the transition took place but by the end of the evening, Leah and Jacob were a pair. It was love at first sight. A bobbeh meiseh—a grandmother’s tale, folklore, something unreal? Well, say what ye may, thus said my father and that’s good enough for me.

TENEMENT LIFE

The overwhelming majority of immigrants living on New York’s Lower East Side had little money to spare. Few lived in luxury, and that is an understatement. Normatively, three generations resided in—or better said, occupied—a small apartment, commonly known as a flat. Grandparents, their children, and their children’s children squeezed into space barely adequate for one generation. For two, it was uncomfortable. For three, it was a challenge.

Beds were reserved for the elders. Senior siblings had dibs on the couches, and most everyone else slept on the floor. Lucky ones at least had a mattress or something like it. Brothers bedded with brothers, and sisters with sisters, in multiples irrespective of age and size. An infant enjoyed choice accommodations. A crib next to the parental bed was good. Nestled between parents was better. Then there was the best of all: lying on mother’s comfortable chest with easy access to her breast and its warm succulence.

Apartment houses on the Lower East Side were primarily walkups. Residing on the lower floors was a blessing, affordable solely to wealthy Lower East Side families. The home was maintained by the lady of the house with her retinue of helpers: maids, cleaning ladies, and washerwomen.

The lady strolled with an air about her—an unspoken but palpable demand to be recognized as the lady, treated as such, and accorded the respect that becomes a woman of rank. Her husband, the breadwinner, was lord of the domain.

____________

Women of position did not work outside the home. To do so would have been embarrassing and insulting to her family, especially to her husband. Wayward thoughts may have crossed a woman’s mind. She may have conjured what it would be like to take a paying job, make new friends, or enter a bar for an after-work drink. Peering out the window of her home at the close of the workday, the lady may have admired the common folk—the smiles and laughter of people having a good time, the occasional flirtation, the frisson of a dalliance. Contemplating the unknown was tantalizing.

There were women who let their imaginations run wild, sacrificed comfort and prestige in pursuit of frivolous dreams, just to know what it was really like. But in the main, vicarious pleasure was fleeting, characterized as lunacy, and relegated to the realm of make-believe. Consequences could be hellish. In some circles, physical punishment accompanied verbal abuse. In extreme cases, it was not uncommon for the lord to do away with his woman—literally. Why play with fire? Contemplation gave way to reality. A lady has to act like a lady.

____________

Floors three and four were the domain of the middle socio-economic community—budding entrepreneurs; storekeepers; the butcher, baker, and candlestick maker. Then there was the group that always had money in their pockets. Their professions were imagination-driven. Kids admired this clique. They were likeable, seemed worry free, and frequently doled out candy. Parents didn’t like that group at all, repeatedly warning their children to stay far away from them. Don’t hang around them. Don’t take candy from them. They’re up to no good.

Rampant rumors continuously swirled about the business interests of the fraternity. Residents on all floors watched the surreptitious comings and goings of a broad spectrum of men and women: some well attired and some slovenly dressed, apparently all in need of something. Kids wondered why their parents thought ill of the cabal. Why they were branded as shkotzim—vermin, abominations. Kids may have been devilishly curious but they knew better than to ask.

The upper floors of the tenements were the province of most other denizens of the Lower East Side: the recently arrived in America—people of diverse backgrounds and cultures, with foreign tongues and facial makeup; aspiring wannabes—the running from and the running to; victims of cruelties and persecution; those looking for a new life, for love, and for a place to call home. With all their distinctive differences and inclinations, tens of thousands of souls shared a common faith: America was the place where dreams could come true. They knew to work hard, stay out of trouble, spend carefully, save judiciously, and be good. My mother and father belonged to this group.

There was nothing grandiose about life on the upper floors of tenement housing. Residents of New York City certainly enjoyed boasting rights, but upstairs was no fun. Most flats had a toilet, but some had none. There was a hall bathroom for the unfortunate. Residents who woke early were first in line for the best seats on the floor. Hot water? You wish. The upper floors were cold-water flats—not too shabby on warm days, but watch out in the winter.

A bulky gray hot-water meter hung on the wall of every upper floor flat. A prominent dial glared down from its