My Zayde

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Dr. James Fairhall, DePaul University; Dr. Albert Erlebacher, DePaul University; Abbott Chrisman; Alex Satin; Mary and Bernard Lurie; Terri Morris; Miriam Mayer; Aviva Sorkin; Cantor Phil Lind; Bina Nadler; Davis Scott; and Dan Poynter

˜

Text Copyright 1994, 2011 by R.M. Usatinsky

Illustrations Copyright 1994 by Judith Sol-Dyess

Satin Sky Press

8809 Golf Road 3A

Niles, IL 60714

(USA)

All Rights Reserved

Except for appropriate use in critical reviews or works of scholarship, the reproduction or use of this work in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, and in any information storage and retrieval system is forbidden without written permission of the author or publisher.

ISBN 1-884341-00-4 (paper)

ISBN 1-884341-01-2 (cloth)

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 93-86375

Original book designed by Richard G. Smith (manymachines@gmail.com)

˜

Contents

The Fifth Candle of Chanukah

My Pavlysh

The Road to Krasilov

The Grain Merchant

The Dung Heap

Scars

The Marriage of Yehoshua and Razel

First Born

Warsaw

Four Hundred Hours

Ellis Island

Mayn Zunim

The West Side

The Installment Dealer

Razel, A Rose

Dr. Max Dolnick

The L.Z.A.

The United Pavolotcher’s Society

Maplewood

The Center

Friends and Rivals

The Shvits and other Haiku

Chaver Satin

Prelude to Waldheim

Yellow Jaundice

I’ll Take You Home Now Zayde

Witness

Pesach in Acapulco

When Time Shattered Dreams

My Zayde

Obituary

˜

Dedicated to the memory of one man:

Yehoshua Usatinsky

Owsiej Usiatynski

Sheika Satin

Sam Satin

…My Zayde

(1890-1980)

And for my family

˜

˜

The Fifth Candle of Chanukah

In the cold grayness of a winter’s day,

where solitude and wind part the clouds

long enough for a ray of sunlight to shine in

through the dirty window

and warm the cold, damp room—

long enough to etch a smile upon faces

where frowns are usually worn.

Sunlight.

Like the drop of oil that burned

for eight days and eight nights,

that lit the temple

and branded life and salvation upon the

souls of the Macabees.

Behold, a miracle of light

for a miracle of life.

˜

The family gathers round the bed.

Water on the boil, the kettle smoking steam.

Sundown.

We light the fifth candle of Chanukah.

˜

Baruch atah Adonai,

Elohaynu Melech Ha’Olam,

Asher lidyshanu b’mitsvo-tov

V’etzy-vanu, l’had lik nair,

Shel Chanukah.

˜

The candle is lit and burning bright,

a child is born unto the night.

He does not cry nor sing aloud,

his pale blue eyes with destiny endowed.

His supple skin already holds

the scars of a life yet to unfold.

˜

His triumphant arrival into a changing world,

a life before our eyes unfurled.

Though challenges before him soon await,

the hands that hold him are hands of fate.

When the candles have melted

and their flames flickered out,

the sixth candle of Chanukah will burn, no doubt.

˜

And so will the seventh as will the eighth,

for eighty-nine years through love and through faith.

The days will pass quickly, so will the years,

good times, bad times, laughter and tears.

Come let us celebrate this wondrous night,

as the fifth candle of Chanukah burns ever so bright.

˜

˜

My Pavlysh

In a hollow valley.

On hallowed soil.

In a little stone house

swept neat and tidy by a little straw broom,

a baby is born in my Pavlysh.

˜

Restless birds

singing at the dawn of life.

A child,

sucks in vain on a crust of bread,

on his mother’s withered bosom.

˜

Dust rises from the earth,

in my Pavlysh.

Old men take the sun, smoking what they’ve rolled.

Tired women hang themselves out on the lines.

This, too, is my Pavlysh.

˜

In my Pavlysh people sing and people dance.

There is dirt on the old men’s shoes.

The women laugh so hard, so hard they cry.

Everyone stinks of celebration—

in my Pavlysh.

˜

And sons of fathers go off to big cities.

They go off and they never return.

Sons of mothers who shall win great bounties.

But the fathers know what the mothers know not—

their sons will never return to their Pavlysh.

˜

An old man dies beside a dung heap,

an old man, a pious man,

on his way to a better place.

No cold dwellings, no damp shirt or fraying talis.

His body will freeze with the night and thaw with the dawn.

There is death, too, in my Pavlysh.

˜

But with every death comes a new life,

and a baby is born in my Pavlysh.

And like the restless birds

that sing at the dawn of life,

a baby sings out in the silence of a new day.

˜

And when he is grown to be a fine man,

a fine of Pavlysh he will be.

He will leave the place where he was born,

he will go forth out into the world with his dreams,

and he will remember

his Pavlysh.

The Road To Krasilov

On the road to another town.

One hoof beat—two.

A rattling cart shakes bags of grain.

˜

On a dusty road to another town.

The next town,

and the next town—

the next town after that.

trying to persuade the sun to shine but one more

lonely hour.

˜

The road to Krasilov.

Dark in day as is at night.

Wily crows watching every move,

awaiting even a modest spill.

And old oak telling lies to the wind.

How could its branches bend any lower?

˜

“Where do you take your grain today, young man?”

“To Krasilov,” the young man tells the tree.

“To see that young girl again?”

“I could easily earn more in Kiev,” replies the young man.

“Yes, I suppose you very well could.”

˜

Another lonely mile and another lonely sunset.

Day escapes beneath an elastic horizon.

The young man has been fooled again.

But his purpose is clear his will intact.

He will endure the shameless elements:

the biting wind, the stony ground,

and the raindrops,

falling hard like needles piercing his supple skin.

˜

He carries on upon the road to Krasilov.

To sell his grain and to pick his flower—

a budding rose.

Thunderbursts awaken him from a restless daydream.

The crows have stolen his grain but love awaits him still,

on the road to Krasilov.

The Grain Merchant

From shtetl to shteltl.

The grain merchant

bag in hand

packs a little case

collects a few old marigolds

has a sip of whiskey

sweet taste on his tongue.

˜

The grain merchant.

Sets off on his daily journey

sometimes takes a week

often takes its toll

collects a little money

has a sip of whiskey

bitter taste on his tongue.

˜

The grain merchant comes into town.

Weary and tired and hungry

grain to sell

stories to tell

collects a few new clients

a toast of whiskey—

l’chaim!, l’chaim!

˜

And the grain merchant sets out for home.

Weary and tired and hungry

his family awaits him

with anticipation

for he’s collected a little money.

So they boast and they toast a taste of whiskey

sweet taste on the tongue

of the grain merchant.

The Dung Heap

He dare not breathe,

the young man beneath the dung heap.

Footsteps drawing near.

Soldiers ready long, smoky rifles.

Noxious vapors squeeze swollen temples like a

python gripping its prey.

˜

A muffled sound screams out.

Something jerks wild beneath the dung heap.

An inner quake sends an invisible jolt

to the surface of his skin.

The dung heap atop him rumbles like a volcano

about to burst, spewing its molten filling,

its red, acidic excrement flowing;

cascades of sweat and saliva gushing

from bloated pores.

Night falls and the young man sleeps

beneath the dung heap.

˜

Morning comes.

The dew sleeps cool upon the dung heap.

Blood clotted dry, crusted on broken skin.

The young man, nostrils burdened by the residue,

awakens, pushing his swollen finger

through the soggy mound

until it reaches the crisp morning air.

˜

Slowly moving his head he plunges his lips

into the small hole he has made.

Swallowing air,

kneading his way out of the clutches

of the womb-like dregs

that births him anew

spitting him out onto the cold, wet ground.

˜

A warm hand touches his thawing arm

but he is not afraid.

It is Moshe, a familiar and trusted friend,

Extending a welcomed grasp.

The soldiers have gone, there is work to be done;

bodies to bury and tears to dry,

that lie beside

the dung heap.

Scars

Scars.

Have been seen;

though not too often.

By uncle: the one upon his back;

By me: the one upon his hand—

flesh that never healed,

that bled for days

unattended to.

˜

Scars.

Open wounds mended by

earth and prayer;

ripped flesh torn open by unmerciful shrapnel.

Skin, parted, vulnerable to contamination.

He looked at the gash,

saw bubbling blood oozing froth from the void

like a rotting eruption.

Shaking the blood from his hand

trying to free his mind from disgust

but the vision remained;

blood streaming a lake of fear,

tears falling

happy to fall

happy to flow

from seeing

living eyes.

˜

Scars.

Narrow rivers of elongated flesh.

Raised mounds of crippled skin.

A ridge of oil painted upon a canvas

Of supple dermis.

A sealed fissure,

a broken promise mended.

Trying to smooth them out,

flattening them over the damaged

landscape, spoiled by madness

and war;

a place where winds no longer rage,

where tears no longer sting.

Gun shots ring out silent in the night air,

flesh binding flesh upon nature’s masterpiece

of flawed perfection.

˜

Scars?

Tiny reminders left upon his body;

remembrance eternal.

A permanent memoir

that never lies for it never could.

A photograph that will never fade,

a truth that can never be questioned.

A reality of what once was—

what might have been:

A poem,

a novel,

a song…

A story told with only one, solitary,

superfluous mass of pale gray skin.

No need to know how the story ends,

never curious about the circumstances

or messages hidden deep within.

And where are those scars now?

Buried with his memory

Deep within my soul.

The Marriage of Yehoshua and Razel

A handsome couple.

Yehoshua and Razel.

He shtetl swells with pride.

Mama Fegeh and papa Moshe make final preparations;

Young girls run from house to house collecting needed things.

Even grey clouds make way for festive rays of sunshine,

Mandelbroyt and honey cakes baking themselves extra sweet

It is, of course, the sweetest of all occasions.

˜

He rebbe is late,

His carriage null by the roadside,

He rides his old mare bareback the rest of the way.

He has memorized his bruchas,

Penned a magniloquent sermon,

The shtetl will stand in awe as he proclaims a

Union under God.

˜

The rebbe arrives, is hurried inside.

He brushes the journey from his suit,

Scrubs his hands clean,

Wipes the road from his face—

His white talis looks like a floating angel

As it is removed from its dusty bag.

˜

The ceremony begins.

Premature tears fall from wrinkled eyes

That have known too much suffering,

Yet can still shed sweet water.

Yehoshua is nervous, more than he anticipated,

He wants everything should go just right.

He remembers Nathonson’s wedding,

Such mishugaas!

The screaming children,

Machetunim bickering

(The geese—vey is mir!)…

Yehoshua wants a nice wedding.

˜

The bride and groom beneath the chuppah stand,

The rebbe puffing out his chest,

Shoulders high, chin angling upwards

(What a showman!),

A perfect blend of sentiment and schmaltz.

It will be a most beautiful wedding indeed.

˜

The rituals completed,

The ketubah endorsed.

A modest kiss

And a hand for life.

Mazel tov.

Your love should last a lifetime.

First Born (Part One: Razel’s Poem)

Married life,

husband and wife.

Clothes on the line

scrawny chickens boil

Sipping cherry wine.

˜

Summer brings a baby

linen clean and white,

the first born child,

a baby girl,

cries gently in the night.

˜

Baby Manya, first teeth, first steps,

precious eyes so true;

the most wondrous gift that God has given,

a baby girl for you.

˜

Shana Manyaleh, the rebbe comes to name you

and to say his bruchas;

celebrations soon begin

for luck everyone pinches your tuchus!

˜

A parent’s pride in creating life

Is equaled by their joy,

they have made a girl, a beautiful girl,

soon they’ll be blessed with a bouncing baby boy.

˜

At night when all is quiet and still

and baby is soundly asleep,

Razel and Yehoshua lie awake in their bed

praying to God for their Manya to keep.

Part Two: Yehoshua’s Poem

How does it feel to hold

Life in your arms?

Looking deep into her eyes,

seeing your own eyes,

deep, blue, serene, shtark.

Hold her tiny hand in yours;

The Earth holding the moon in its safe orbit.

˜

Touch her soft face with yours,

unshaven and course.

So fatherly and proud

Kissing the layers of her supple neck

as she sleeps peacefully upon your moving chest.

˜

What do you feel when her soft hair

touches your lips?

What do you hear in her

coos and giggles?

What is like to hold life?

The life of your first born child…

May she bring you all the joy in the world.

Warsaw

Where the streets move below your feet,

vendors and thieves crowd bustling squares,

tongues fly—rapid fire—

tongues that have already tasted freedom:

Taste it! Rejoice in its sweetness.

˜

Settle in to a dark and narrow flat,

arrange your documents and official papers,

you now have a country to call your own,

one that will care for and protect you and yours.

You are now Owsiej Usiatynski.

You have rights, freedom and civic duties.

But your time here is only fleeting for

real freedom awaits upon distant shores.

˜

So you’ve heard about America.

The land of plenty,

outstretched arms,

the place where dreams come true,

where handshakes lead to fortunes,

where a landsman—even though a stranger—

is a brother and friend.

˜

Say goodbye to cold and friendly Warsaw,

be grateful for her sanctuary,

for giving you a son.

But now you must move on,

destiny awaits.

Don’t look back,

Warsaw was but a transitory dream.

Four Hundred Hours

Thirty hours.

On a ship of steel, steam and hope.

Wind tosses the massive boat

salty spray blinding its human cargo

bound for new frontiers.

˜

Fifty hours.

And old man dies triumphantly,

While only part of his purpose is fulfilled

it is still a triumph;

his family will carry on his name

and his dream.

˜

Eighty hours.

Brittle bones creak in the

icy sea air;

the bread is stale,

tins of sardines impossible to open

with frostbitten fingers.

Luckily the whiskey still

tastes sweet.

Gulls, curious passersby,

rest a while upon the ship’s

frowning bow.

˜

One hundred hours.

A celebration below a

cloudy night sky,

singing, laughter

drenched in gaiety

quickly transforming into

tears of jubilation

drowning every ounce

of fear.

˜

One hundred and fifty hours.

The baby catches a cold,

already making trouble

little Jakey;

give him a few drops of

whiskey, he’ll sleep the

night away.

˜

Two hundred hours.

This is becoming an endless journey;

perhaps it is really death

disguised in a bittersweet ruse.

Mouths are salty and dry,

tempers short and flaring,

but only when strength briefly returns.

˜

Two hundred and fifty hours.

Pallid, drawn faces pleading to

heaven, praying to God for redemption;

let the waters part bringing us land,

let the heavens comfort us in soft white down.

˜

Three hundred hours.

Silence drifting upon the sea

like a baby’s whisper;

pitiless waves heartlessly

toss the ship about

obeying nature’s violent behest.

˜

Three hundred and fifty hours.

The once strong and unyielding

reduced to grievous despairing souls;

expressionless faces staring into others,

each one pitying the other more.

How the human condition prevails

is a mystery, how they’ve survived

this far, beyond explanation,

transcending reason; if only

for faith they shall survive

to suffer another day.

˜

Four hundred hours.

Cheers crying out at daybreak;

those who found refuge in unsettling

dreams awaken, sharing in the jollity

raising their voices amongst the

thousands of jubilant voices—rejoicing.

Land drawing nearer, the journey

transforming into a distant, fading

memory; time for preparing cases and

wetting down unruly cowlicks.

The ships whistle blows, time for

wellwishing, hugging, kissing , handshaking.

Four hundred hours are now but a memory,

a little taste of hell for an abundant serving

of heaven; may God bless them all in their

new lives, journeys and destinies.

Ellis Island

Disembarkation

Ellis Island

New York City

America

Processed

Examined

Lungs

Teeth

Eyes

Inoculated

Poked

Prodded

Name changed

New identity

New world

New opportunities

Family

Friends

Freedom

Money

Dreams

Hope

Prosperity

All things new

Port of entry

Passport stamped

Immigrant status

Uncertainties

The future

Awaits.

Mein Zunim (My Sons)

Settled into America.

Working long hard days

earning hard cash,

paid by the piece.

Chicago town;

stony roads and

dirty rain that stains

little boys’ tattered trousers

as they play in the muddy yard.

˜

Jakie and Alec,

Mein zunim.

Watching their childish games,

like boys they play

rough and tumble, smiling faces,

milk moustaches and chocolate teeth.

Help mama set the table;

the napkin goes on that side,

the fork on top, two spoons

go there, one for borsht

another for tea; knife?

Who needs a knife in America?

˜

Such good boys mein zunim.

Time for school, to learn,

make friends and grow.

Don’t come home too late,

tomorrow is Shabbos.

Sleep, sleep you mischievous boys,

shluf mein zunim, shluf.

Wake up it’s time for shul,

wash your faces and make your beds,

put your Shabbos suits on and comb your hair.

˜

Jake, Jake, the trouble you make!

Threw another stone through the

neighbor’s window—glass shatters

Mrs. Perlstein screams:

“Jakie, I’m going to come downstairs

and pull your hair!”

Jakie pulls a face and in a mocking retort screams:

Jakie, I’m going to come downstairs and

pull your hair!”

Razel makes a stern face, Jakie’s head bows low;

Razel swats him a good one on the tuches

as he waddles past, giggling his way through

the house and to his room.

˜

Alec, mein Alekel.

Such a quiet and nice boy.

Sits on papa’s knee tickling

Papa’s moustache;

Listens to the radio,

fixed with purpose, swallowing

every word, every sound.

A curious boy,

observing motion, stillness

nature and people.

Plays nice games with the

neighborhood children,

shares his mandlbroyt with

Sammy Soroka.

˜

And how I watched mein zunim grow.

From small, frail boys—yinglekh—

to young men in tailored suits with

thick hair, strong hands and

thick fingers…And such wondrous things

mein zunim know; about the world and

life and the whole universe.

˜

How proud you make me.

How proud any father would be

to have zunim

like mein zunim.

˜

More revisions from the original book coming soon.