Zayde was both bemused and gratified by American abundance. At the beginning of each month he greeted his Social Security check with an incredulous laugh. Free money, what a country! Then he scribbled his endorsement on the back and handed it over to Uncle Morris for deposit with the business receipts. His personal needs were modest.
He liked to watch old Hopalong Cassidy movies on television
for the moments when a herd of healthy cattle thundered across the Plains. Such
bounty was so different from the time and land from which he had come.
In Poland at the turn of the twentieth century, "a
butcher was not like a butcher here." This is what Uncle Harry said when I
interviewed him. "There he would do everything, from start to finish. He
would go out to the farm, buy a piece of cattle - one, not more than one.
That's all they could deal with was one. Buy it, bring a truck or rent one,
bring it to Bialystok to a slaughterhouse. It was by hand, everything by hand.
He would oversee the maschgiach, whatever, the ritual slaughterer. I don' think
he did the skinning. But had to do the rest of it. We don't know who paid it,
who had the money to buy it. There must've been an entrepreneur involved. Had
to be. There was a lot of money involved."
A wrinkled, brown paper bag of birdseed was always tucked
beneath the cash register in the store.
Once a day Zayde drew this bag out and went onto the street. This was an
activity we, the grandchildren, could share with him.
On the sidewalk, right in front of the store, he gave a
shrill, moist whistle that we could never imitate, no matter how many times he
showed us how to do it. In a few
seconds there were ten, twenty, fifty pigeons fluttering to the pavement, as if
they had just been waiting for his call. Clucking struts and manic pecking as
Zayde tossed grain in a circle. On
the perimeter, sparrows and starlings hopped up and down hopefully. With the wide arc of his arm, he made
sure that each small outlier got a share. Everybody eats.
In New York City feeding pigeons is illegal. Sometimes a passing
patrolman gave him a ticket. This happened once while I was there. The
policeman was towering, large-headed, matter-of-fact; he had done this before;
he knew it was futile. From beneath the brim of his grey fedora, Zayde peered up at the
guardian of law and order and gave a small, crooked smile: Feeding the hungry is a problem? Later
one of the uncles walked over to the police station and paid the fee. This happened many times. Fine after
fine. Every penalty was paid. Everybody eats.
