The World of Jeffery Eisenmesser
A Storied Life
Pt. 2
XII. The Family Lumerman
XIII. The Making of an Atheistic Jew
XIV. Such a Speech!
XV. Ring Around Der Collar
Not All Wine is Manischewitz
______________________________________________________________________________________
The Family Lumerman
America
This is what I know about two people I loved very much. How I miss them. How I loved them. Froim Lumerman and Rivka Lumerman were the grandparents of my child. They had survived the Nazi/German War against the Jews - barely. The Family lived in Tarnogrod, a small village in southwestern Poland. How long had they and their ancestral mishpucha lived there? I don’t know. (I do know that the synagogue service revealed Sephardic influences. They were undoubtedly Askenazi but perhaps some of their ancestors had fled Spain hundreds of years before , fled fanatical Ferdinand & Isabella and the bloodthirsty Holy Inquisition of the Church. Perhaps.) Ironically, after the War, they were compelled to flee Poland and live in a Displaced Persons camp run by the U.N. for about six years. Finally, the family, Froim/Rivka and the children, were granted permission to leave for Israel. Papers were in order, the crates packed. A day before departure, however, visas arrived from the United States. Amerika! They had mishpucha in New York and had had enough of war. They changed plans and came by ship to Jew York. I have always wondered what their thoughts & feelings were as they passed the Statue of Liberty, with the iconic poem written by a fellow Jew on its pedestal.
Froim worked for a nephew who owned a chain of grocery stores. Riwka worked as a seamstress. Somehow - I do not know or understand how -within less than ten years, they had provided for themselves and their four kinder, moved from an apartment on 2nd Avenue in a Manhattan neighborhood of Jews & Ukranians and purchased a private house in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. These were extraordinary people. I was always aware of that.
I married their daughter. I was attracted to her and to the story of The Family Lumerman, a family of Jewish heroes. I knew they were Holocaust survivors, but not much more. Every Shabbat, a vivacious group of Old Jews (younger than I, at 78, am now) would walk over, sit around the kitchen table and talk. Their talk was full of life, hand gestures, laughter and conversational sighs & pauses (lots of ”oys & oy veys!”). I was fascinated, but they spoke in Yiddish . I had only a little knowledge about their village life and their experiences. Froim, handsome and imposing, was a tall man even though he was bent by German lead still in his legs. I loved watching him and the others drink tea in a glass with a cube of sugar held between their teeth. They could have sat at the large dining room table, but they chose to sit huddled around a small kitchen table.
I remember sitting in the living room. The TV was on, but Froim wasn’t paying attention. He was engaged in conversation with someone. The film, A Knife in the Water, came on PBS. I happened to be looking at Froim, and was taken aback by what I saw. With the first sounds of Polish his large hands gripped the side of his chair, turning knuckles white! It didn’t have anything to do with what was being said. It was the unexpected sounds of Polish that had suddenly filled the room. Froim said nothing. He got up and left the room.
The story that follows is mainly based on an interview of Rivka. I was taking an article-writing course at The New School. It was 1979. Her husband was dead six years. Their daughter and I had been seperated for three. But Rivka the Beautiful, as she was called in Tarnogrod, had called me as soon as she had learned of our Split, and told me that nothing was to change between us. She cared for me and I for her. And we both loved the addition to the Family, he of tight blond curls & moxie, Elan Zohar Eisenmesser. Elan and I would go over on Friday night, Shabbat. She would make the Blessing, we would sing zemirot , eat the challah & the chicken, play tile-rummy and watch “Dallas”, Rivka’s favorite show. (It was understood that when “Dallas” came on everything else stopped.) How I miss those Friday nights! Oy . . .
Froim died in 1973, Rivka twelve years later. [Blessed be their memory.]
Tarnogrod
The Germans attacked and invaded Poland on September 1,1939. Soon enough, they came to Tarnegrod. Their diabolical and lethal modus operandi was to first identify the Juden. They set up a Judenrat ( Jewish Council). Froim came from a well-known/prominent family in the community, so he was appointed president of the Judenrat and charged with making up a List. Life got harder - and harder. The yellow badges were donned. Then - then - Froim was ordered to fill a Quota. He had to, based on the List, deliver a set number of Jews for transport by train at regular intervals. This was a turning point for Froim, a religious Jew. There is, I believe in the Talmud, an admonition that though the People are to obey the civil authorities/the community’s laws & regulations, there is one Exception: if an edict is intended to harm Jews, it is to be disobeyed. The Word had gotten back to Tarnegrod about the Camps. So Froim ran. He ran into the surrounding forest. Riwka and his two children were alone by themselves.
The Germans were not pleased. They came to the house several times in search of Froim. They beat Rivka repeatedly. The leather-bound religious books infuriated them. They ripped them to shreds. But they didn’t find Froim. One night, Riwka heard screaming outside. She smelled smoke. Running outside she saw her gentile neighbors on either side of her house. They were yelling at each other from their doorways. There was fire throughout the village. Initially, she couldn’t make sense of what was happening or what was being said by two women she had known all her life.
“We have to tell her!”
“No, we don’t.”
“We . . .”
“No!”
“Yes!” Turning to Rivka: “Judenrein!”
Rivaka understood. The Germans had had enough. No more incremental/lethal steps. No more escalating restrictions. No more need for badges. And no more need for Quotas. (The time had come for the final cleansing, the Final Solution. All Juden were to be killed or rounded up, packed on trains and transported. The End.) Rivka, who I had always known in many ways as the quintessential Jewish Mother, froze/panicked. She ran towards the forest in the dark of night.She ran and ran. Then she stopped and turned around. When she reached her house, she grabbed the sleeping girl and boy. Tucking each under an arm, she ran. Behind her the screaming got louder, the flames higher. There were gunshots. But she had to stop. The now fully awakened and frightened children had grown too heavy. She could run with both no more. She had to make a choice, Sophie's Choice. At that moment, Froim appeared. He had come running as soon as he saw and heard. In the dark of night he could have easily missed them, but he didn’t. He picked up a child and they ran together. They ran into the forest. There they stayed for about three (3!) years. Initially, hiding and on-the-run, hiding and on-the-run. Slowly/cautiously they came across and connected with other Jews. They transformed into Partisans.
Froim went out on raids. He was captured twice. He escaped twice. Once, with German shepherds placed on the perimeter of a transit camp, he covertly took a piece of a flat board and spent days honing an end into a point. When the time for escape came and a dog, mouth agape, jumped at him, he took the board, now a stake, and thrust it into the animal's mouth. I'm not certain. It may have been during this escape that he was shot at and wounded. (Bullet fragments were embedded and irretrievable. They were the source of chronic blood poisoning and probably shortened his life.)
During most of the time they were in hiding and fighting and surviving, the children were with them. Sometimes, however, the boy was taken in by a Polish family. Irving was blond and blue-eyed. He easily passed, but his sister, Fran, was brown-eyed, of a darker complexion - obviously a Jew. She stayed with her parents.
The most frightening time, and there were so many, was near the end of the German occupation. The Russians were approaching from the East. In the distant West the Allies were advancing. The end was in sight, but Rivka was pregnant. She went into labor. Froim had to get a skilled midwife. There was one, a Polish woman, nearby in a village. He had to leave the relative safety of the forest and go into the village. He had no choice. So he did, knowing that there was a good chance he would not return. Poles were killing Jews, finishing the Germans’ unfinished business. It turned out, however, that the midwife was a good woman. She followed Froim into the forest.
The baby became my wife/my son’s mother. It could so easily have gone the another way. It often did.
The War ended. The Germans were gone and the family came out of the forest. They returned to Tarnegrod and found that most Jews were gone. Gone. Their houses had been occupied by Poles. It was a bold and dangerous act for a Jew to knock on the door and claim rightful possession to his house. Some had the door slammed in their face. Others were killed at- their -threshold. One day during Easter Time, the family again heard screaming in the village. A man was running outside screaming that his son was missing. Kidnapped! The Blood Libel. (Recipe for this ancient accusation: Hide a Christian child. Claim that the child has been kidnapped by the Jews who have cut the child’s throat, drained and collected the blood - the secret ingredient of Passover matzah. Of course, the Goyim, already historically angered/deluded and eternally unforgiving about the Crucifixion, respond. A pogrom follows. Jews are attacked, many are killed. After, the child appears. Things go back to normal.) Froim knew he didn’t have much time. Fortunately, a nephew who had fled to the Soviet Union and become an Intelligence officer, was stationed in a Soviet garrison nearby. Froim again found himself running for his and his family’s life. He found his nephew. They got into a truck with soldiers and sped to Tarnogrod. It didn’t take long for the father and others to disclose the whereabouts of the hidden child. The soldiers were persuasive. The accusers were packed into the truck and driven away.
The Family Lumerman had had enough, enough of the killing field of Poland, enough of Europe. Ironically, they traveled to a United Nations camp in Germany. There was barbed wire around the camp. For a while, starving Germans would come to the wire begging for food.Historical Irony - you cannot make History up! I wish I knew more to tell. I wish I had continued asking questions. Truth-to- tell, I tried. I asked some relatives, fellow landsmen. They didn’t want to talk. Enough!
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The Making of An Atheistic Jew
My earliest religious memories go back to my early childhood. I was three, maybe four. I was with my uncle and brother. We were sitting in a large crowded orthodox synagogue on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn. Everything was new and interesting/fascinating to me. Every seat was filled - no women, just men in suits. We would stand, sit, then stand and sit . . ., over and over again. I had no idea what was going on, but that didn't matter. It was all new. Suddenly, a man was going round. He ran over to us, looked down at me, and asked a question in Yiddish. I nervously asked my Uncle what was going on. He said they were looking for the youngest child. When the man learned how young I was, he called out to the men in black clothes standing on a raised platform (the bima) in the front. I think he called out my age. The men gestured for him to bring me up. He took me by the hand. I was surprised and nervous. As he led me towards them, I looked back anxiously at my Uncle. He seemed surprised, but smiled reassuringly.
I found my small self surrounded by bearded men in black clothing. They - if Memory serves - were chanting. Then they extinguished the flame of a large twisted candle in wine they had poured into a bowl. One of the men gave me some wine in a cup. I sipped cautiously and made a face. “Nu, how did it taste?” “Bitter.” They laughed. I laughed. I felt loved and protected by these men. My first (remembered) Jewish religious experience.
Shortly after, my brother and I were separated and I was alone with my aunt & uncle. They were not observant, but they tried - sort of. We lived in a Bensonhurst apartment house peopled by Jews, except for the McCauley’s, Irish Catholics. Of course, I stayed home on the High Holy Days. Early on, I would run to Synagogue to hear the strange sounds of the Shofar, the ram’s horn, in the evening. I almost always made it, but I was sometimes late. You see, we had a routine. On a High Holy Day, the three of us would don our best clothes, and in the morning, pass our neighbors. We looked very much like the model of a Nice Jewish Family. We weren't, however, on our way to Synagogue. Instead, we walked to the distant subway entrance. We boarded the train. I loved going over the Brooklyn Bridge. We got off at 50th Street in Manhattan. Radio City! My Uncle paid for the tickets and we joined a long line. The wait was worth it. A movie & its famous stage show, including the famous Rockettes. I didn’t think too much about the annual ruse. That’s just the way it was. And truth-to-tell, I loved Radio City, its cavernous art-deco space, the huge screen, the huge stage - and the acts. Theatre! I was, however, confused by one act. A man was introduced as a cantor. He sang Kol Nidre. I didn’t know much, but I knew enough to know that you didn’t fool around with this song. It had such meaning, such power. I knew that you didn’t have to be Jewish to sing it. (Perry Como tried.) But why introduce the singer as a cantor? Shouldn’t he have been in synagogue? And how could he have a gig on the holiest of days? (Of course, this led to, “What was I doing here?” But I repressed the troubling thought.)
We left Radio City happy. We ate at a coffee shop and returned via the subway. Sometimes, we got back late. The evening service was about to begin. My aunt and uncle went home and I ran. Usually, I made it in time to hear the sounding of the shofar! Magical/primitive! Jewish!
That about covers my connection to Judaism, the religion. I knew I was Jewish, felt good about it. I do remember a theological discussion with my uncle and brother in front of 715 St. Marks Avenue. My brother was asking questions. My uncle was responding - clumsily and with difficulty. He was trying, I think, to do a very unJewish thing - describe G-d. I can’t recollect specifically what he said, but my takeaway was that G-d was up above, in the sky, looking down on us. I envisioned him as a kindly smiling farmer working a piece of straw between his teeth. (Huh?! Ich veiss?! I know where this came from? I was a kid.)
In September, 1954, I was nine, time to enroll me in Talmud Torah at B’nai Isaac/Sons of Isaac Synagogue. I was gleeful and enthusiastic. I remember, the night before starting, singing as loudly as I could the tuneful popular song, “On the Street Where You Live” from My Fair Lady over and over again. (Ich veiss?!) It meant three years of Hebrew & religious instruction, twice a week after public school, culminating with my Bar Mitzvah. I had such joyful expectations! *
Still, I tried. I really did. I attended the Junior Congregation’s Shabbat service upstairs, held while the adults were praying downstairs. Initially, I was, again, happy & enthusiastic. I loved the service, especially the small cup of sweet Manischewitz wine served with a small slice of sponge cake at service’s end. (Jewish ambrosia!) I was even elected President of the Junior Congregation. (The election was close, but I skillfully outmaneuvered my rival.)
But then came Mr. K.
He was a rabbi-in-training. ( B’nai Isaac’s did have a well-known rabbi. He even had a radio show. He often had a cigar in his mouth. He was impressive, in a pretentious way. More than once, he asked me to present to the adult congregation. I played King Achaverus for Purim - “I need a queen to sit beside me on the throne. Oh, Esther, if you will be my queen, I'll give you half the lands I own!” I made a speech, etc. But our learned Rabbi had no time for children of those who were not well-off contributors. If you were, you were encouraged to continue with your Talmud Torah studies. Coming from a disinterested/unwealthy family, I wasn’t. The great Rabbi seldom appeared before the Junior Congregation.)
We were left with Mr. K.
So he taught about the Exodus. I followed what he said closely. In my Mind’s Eye I saw our personification of redemption & salvation - Moses. (He was/is such a wonderfully complex, heroic, flawed, human character - so Jewish. Even as a child I understood he wasn’t, couldn’t possibly be, a god because he was visible, and the (Jewish) god is ONE/invisible.) I followed Moses up the mountain, became more anxious as the Hebrews lost patience/faith and built their golden calf. When he came down, I was not surprised that he raged against the ungrateful idolaters, but was upset when Mr. K gleefully described Moses using his staff to open up the Earth beneath the idol and the idolaters, sending them to their deserved hellish deaths. Though I later read that it’s estimated about 3,000 died, I am pretty sure he said the number was about 20,000. After, he stopped, seemed spent (orgasm?), and was about to end the service.
I tentatively raised my hand. Oy . . .
(surprised & annoyed) “You have a question, Yaakov?” **
(nervously) “Did G-d have to kill them?”
(disbelievingly) “Did you hear me tell you what they had done?”
(confused) But couldn't He just have punished them, not killed them?”
(Angrily) “You’re questioning G-d?”
(more nervous/more confused) “I . . . I . . .”
(enraged, spittle flying) “Who are you to question G-d?”
I didn’t know how to answer Mr. K. What could I say? I still partly thought of G-d as that kindly farmer-in-the-sky. But: Why kill? Why open the earth to kill? People make mistakes. I distinctly recollect Mr. K’s protruding neck veins, the harshness and shrillness of his voice, and the spittle coming out of his mouth. I had upset Mr. K. But I, too, was upset. Very. There was absolute quiet in the room. No one else was going to say anything. I was very much alone. Alone. I closed down. But I was never the same. Something profound had happened. Slowly, over the years, I began to realize that the Mr. K’s of the world use “religion” as a cudgel, a weapon. They are, actually are, eager to beat you down with it. G-d/God/god had nothing to do with it. They are twisted/unhappy/angry people. Religion serves them well. Religion serves them well.
I could write that I gradually became an agnostic. For a time, I sort of did. But over time even that boat sailed. I have come to have absolute faith in my Atheism, albeit Jewish atheism. I am very proud of my flawed, argumentative and eternally questioning People, der Juden. Although we were not the first, we made quantum intellectual & spiritual leaps for Humanity by envisioning an invisible/indivisible national deity. One of the great & tragic Turning Points in human history, was the concretization of belief. Moses was our leader, but he was flawed because he was human. He was human. (He wasn’t even allowed to cross over into the Promised Land. That was his punishment for a transgression by an unforgiving god capable of pettiness and meanness.) But once you divide god, once you render god visible, you are talking pagan. You are regressing. Red Regression Alert! Red Regression Alert! The consequences have been, and continue to be historically cataclysmic.
Und zo, I am a Jewish Atheist. I have come to believe that our lives are represented by the hyphen on the gravestone, that we only have each other, that there is no divine intervention & forgiveness. There is no Divine. And this road to Atheism began with Mr. K more than 65 years ago.
*I had such joyful expectations, but The People of the Book had been thoughtless/careless when it came to educating American-Jewish kinder. This wasn’t the Europe of the Shtetl, of Tevye and Tradition, of the Given. The Fifties was a time of critical American-Jewish transition. And I believe that my negative experience was similar to that of a large cohort of young Jews. Talmud Torah was essentially oppressive. We were taught to read & write Hebrew, but only enough to read prayers. Seldom were we taught about the meaning of the prayers, their words.You were graded with the teacher checking your speed with a stop-watch. (I am not making this up!) There was very little cultural & historical discussion. (Israel was hardly mentioned.The Holocaust? Never!) It is my belief there was a moment, a very brief moment, where Things could have gone in such a different way. It is my belief that Talmud Torah “education”, at least the kind that I and others experienced, did lethal lifelong harm to the sense of Jewish identity among the kinder. A shonda, a sad shonda.
**“You have a question, Yaakov?” More than sixty years ago, I had no immediate answer to this question.Who was I to stand up to a rabbi-in-training?! I wasn’t even sure of my Hebrew name. I knew it might not be be Yaakov. It was given to me by Mrs. Wald, my first Talmud Torah teacher. Seems that when my second brother, Jay Erich Eisenmesser, was born in ’42, an incompetent doctor had examined my mother, Anne Eisenmesser/nee Moskowitz, shortly before the birth. When he inserted an instrument, the head had been damaged. In about two weeks, my brother was dead. So two years later, I was named after him. Life . . .
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Such a Speech!
June 21, 1957
I suddenly lost my voice on June 21, 1957, a Friday. Things had been going along well. My aunt and Uncle had taken me to Buddy’s, a clothing store in downtown Brooklyn. The suit was in the closet. Guests had been invited. The backroom of Cooky’s on Avenue M,, a popular Brooklyn diner, had been reserved and about forty chicken-in-the basket lunches had been ordered. I went to school, Seth Low, JHS. After supper, I began to rehearse my Haftorah, the week’s Torah portion, and my speech. I felt good, perhaps a bit anxious, but good. The Haftorah lessons had gone well. Although I didn’t understand the ancient Hebrew, I had learned how to sing/chant the complicated melody. Even my tutor,the synagogue’s sullen gabbai, had praised my voice and delivery. My speech was written well. I had confidence in my writing.
All was well.
So it came as a shock when I looked in a large mirror, smiled a knowing smile, and began the final rehearsal of the Haftorah. I had done it many times before. I opened my mouth. No sound. None. Huh? Initially, I didn’t panic. After a few more tries, I panicked. I kept trying, finally managing a few croaking sounds. I switched to my speech. I had croaked in Hebrew. Now I croaked in English. It all sounded the same. I managed to tell my aunt what was happening. She made me a cup of tea with lemon & honey. Didn’t help. I had two more cups. No effect. I went to sleep upset and anxious.
June 22, 1957
I awoke. It was a beautiful summer morning. The sun was streaming in. The air smelled sweet. But all was not well; I had no voice. I donned my Bar Mitzvah clothes, had another cup of tea, and left early for B’nai Isaac on West 9th Street and Avenue O. On the way I passed Jim McCauley who was washing his car. He congratulated me and wished me well. I croaked out a thank you.
The congregation and the invited guests entered and sat. The Shabat services began. Soon (too soon!) came the time for me to do my Haftorah. It did not go well. I was embarrassed, especially in front of my mishpucha and friends. I thought I could see some suppressed laughter. Somehow I carried on and finished. Oy. But then came the time (too soon!) for my speech. My voice had come back a little. I croaked, “Dear parents, honored Rabbi . . .” (Lilly & Irv were not my parents; they were my aunt & uncle. My mother had died nine years before and my father had disappeared. And the rabbi was not honorable.) Yet the speech, full of Bar Mitzvah cliches of thanks and faux awareness of the event’s significance, went well. And the moment - the moment! - I finished, my voice came back - completely back! People were kind, said nice things. My cousin, Alan Nydick of Jersey City, was particularly kind. He said my speech was great. Great! So alles drove, or were driven, to Cooky’s. The food was served, a cake appeared and I cut the first slice. People came over and gave me envelopes. (Not one contained the legendary/iconic fountain pen!)
I remember going home, continuing to wear my Bar Mitzvah clothes and trying to impress a girl with my box- ball skills. The traumatic memory of my loss of voice was already fading.
June 29, 1957
A week later, I again donned my Bar Mitzvah garb and walked to a synagogue near my 7th Grade classmate’s, Charlie Zussman’s, house. There were a lot of guests. Afterwards, we went to his house. It was a lovely summer day, a lovely house. Tables with umbrellas had been placed on the very large and well cared for green lawn. Waiters served food & drink. Wow! A long table had been placed in the front. Charlie insisted I sit next to him. He called me a guest-of-honor. Huh? O.K.! The father made the blessing over the challah and announced that his son was going to make his Bar Mitzvah speech. Charlie got up from his chair and announced, “I’m not good at making speeches, but last week I heard a great speech by Jeffrey Eisenmesser.” He pointed at me. “So he will now make my speech for me.” There had been some chatting among the guests. Now there was absolute silence - stunned silence. All eyes were on me.
I . . . I . . . I got up. Charlie had sat down. I was dumbfounded. I looked down at Charlie, looked at his parents, the guests, the waiters. Slowly, very slowly, I repeated my speech. I think I improvised the necessary corrections, but I’m not sure. It was an out-of-the- body experience. When I finished, there was silence, then some mutterings, and then some ambiguous applause. But Charlie, strange/laughing Charlie, looked happy.
September ___?___, 1957
A Saturday morning found us in Jersey City. It was my cousin’s turn to become-a-man. I was impressed with the synagogue. It was crowded; all seats taken, all full. It seemed the world was full of Jews - everywhere! I was sitting next to my brother whom I had always hero-worshiped. Again with the service, including the Haftorah (Alan did well) followed by the Bar Mitzvah Boy’s Speech. The first sentence was formula. “Honored . . .” The second sentence rang a bell. But by the third sentence I knew - my speech was being delivered for a third time. Enough already! Too much already! I stage-whispered in my 20-year-old brother’s ear, “That’s my speech! He asked me for a copy and I mailed it to him. He can’t give my speech. Nobody can give my speech again. Nobody!” I started to get up and . . . What? Address the congregation?! “Honored Rabbi, parents of a larcenous son . . .” I don’t know what I would have done/said, but my rise was arrested by a very hard kick to my shin. I doubled over, fell back into my seat in great pain. When I had found my breath & voice and begun to whimper a protest, my Uncle - who may or may not have witnessed the kick, said, “Shhh . . . !” My cousin, the ganif, on the bima recited the rest of my speech flawlessly. He was hugged by his proud parents, congratulated by congregants and guests. I don’t recollect much of what happened after. My brother,who stopped being my hero that day, refused to apologize. [Brooklyn accent] “I could see where ya were goin’ and I did what I hadda do.”] My cousin? He said nothing to me. He avoided me. I closed up and said nothing on the trip back through the Holland Tunnel.
April, 2023
I vividly recollect my sudden laryngitis, Charlie’s chutzpah, my cousin’s plagiarism and my brother’s well-placed kick - the angst, verklemptness & anger. 65+ years later, I laugh. I laugh at myself. And I miss those times, those people.
Wish I had a copy of that historic speech.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Ring Around Der Collar
Once upon a time, I was almost lynched on Broadway. (FULL DISCLOSURE: It wasn't on Broadway, but it was adjacent to the Longacre Theater on West 48th Street. And it wasn’t in a theater, but it was in a room in a small building one flight upstairs.
Ah!:
1980. I was a member of the Script Development Workshop, there as a writer, a writer of comedy skits. I had submitted my latest skit, “Ring Around Der Collar.” It was based on a popular television commercial advertising a laundry detergent. The skit was accepted, roles were assigned. Showtime! At first, alles went well, very well. The actors, who had had minimal rehearsal time, aced it with great timing & farcical acting, milking every line for wonderful/rolling laughs. (When you write Comedy, you don’t have to wait for the reviews. The good reviews arrive at the speed of sound - or not!)
[Ring Around Der Collar - by Jeffrey Eisenmesser: Your typical incestuous NaziGerman family during the War. There is Papa und Mama, Hanzel und Gretyl. An irate Papa comes out of the bedroom. He is holding his Brown Shirt. He points to the shirt, a visible brown stain around the brown collar. Papa scowls at Mama.
Hanzel, visibly upset, exits. Mama freezes, Greta observes. Papa returns to the bedroom. Greta approaches her mother and in a stage- whisper contemptuously and accusingly informs her that she has long been aware she has a Jewish great-grandfather. Mama stays frozen. Papa comes back onstage, gives his daughter a very warm hug, announces he’s off to the Rally, and throws the stained shirt at Mama. He abruptly exits. Greta begins to exit, obviously is halted by a Second Thought, turns and warns Mama not to get in-between father & (und) daughter. Mama is left alone onstage. She slowly unfreezes, takes a box out of the cupboard, returns to center-stage. She opens the box, and before she pours the contents down her throat, holds it aloft so the Audience can clearly see the brand name, Blitzkrieg Bleach. Curtain.]
After the bows and the loud applause, I ascended the stairs. Trent Gough, the “everything" of the SDW, sat next to me center-stage. Good feeling filled the crowded room. I was so happy. So happy.
I looked out at the audience. Actors, directors and writers. Some with years in the “business,” some little to none - like me. Their laughter filled the crowded room. The critique began. “Ya nailed it! “Don’t make changes!” “Thought-provoking!” Thoughts of moving on to “Saturday Nite Live,” then Broadway (having been relocated from off-Broadway), then to . . . I looked at the clock on the side of the wall. Plenty of time to go, then on to a wonderful nearby theatre -pub, Jimmy Ray’s. Great burgers ‘n fries served by young Irishmen with brogues (unemployed actors), endless pitchers of cold beer & ale, large circular tables seating lifeful people talking the talk about Theatre, hopefully/mainly my skit. My skit.
A young woman raised her hand. She had recently joined. I had had a few brief conversations with her, liked her moxie & intelligence. I looked at the large clock on the wall. 10:45, fifteen minutes to go. I looked forward to her remarks. What a nice way to end the evening!
Oy!:
She was sitting in the back row, but she had no need for a mike. From the gitgo, focused and intense, she commanded absolute attention. First, she announced that she was a Canadian-Jew, that her parents had survived the Camps, the rest of her family had not. She paused. And then - and then - said that there are some things that should not be used for an indecent laugh and/or a vulgar joke. (A vulgar laugh and/or an indecent joke?)
Silence, absolute silence.
To paraphrase Faulkner, I knew before knowing. The audience was angry with me. But, more tellingly, it was also ashamed of itself. I had lost the audience. Indeed, the audience had begun to transform from audience to crowd to . . . mob.
Trent tried, albeit weakly. He was shouted down. I tried to explain how I intended, via comedy, to show how Sexism & Racism are linked. Fugetaboutit! Finally, Milt Hershenov, one of the two best comedy writers in the workshop, tried. He already had a plane ticket to L.A., leaving for a coveted gig with Norman Lear. He explained how nothing - nothing - is comically taboo. You can be aware of Intention & judge Execution. (Be aware of Execution & judge Intention?) Finally, he gave up, too.
I kept looking at the clock. Trent did, too. People were no longer raising their hands. They were calling out. “J’accuse!” filled the air. At exactly 11:00, Trent abruptly put an end to it. I descended the stairs, waved goodbye to Milt (a smile, a shrug), and hurriedly exited. On the way back to Brooklyn on the F-train, I thought about my favorite idiom, l’esprit d’escalier, (spirit of the staircase). What could I have said, what should I have said? Should I have said that before coming to the Workshop I had, per official instructions, stood on a corner in the Diamond Exchange asking passersby, “Are you Jewish?” If the answer was yes, I gave them a flyer about an emergency meeting at Madison Square Garden called by the Conference for Soviet Jewry, an organization working to get the Soviet Union to let-my- people go. I concluded it wouldn’t have made a difference.
I walked home through empty dark streets. Entered my empty apartment. Made a potent drink and put myself to sleep.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Not All Wine is Manischewitz
My uncle worked in a dry cleaning plant. The work was hard, dangerous and didn’t pay well. To make extra money he rented a small truck and collected clothes to clean. One day, I went with him. He stopped in an old Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn, locked up the truck and told me to come with him; there was a man he wanted me to meet. We entered a house. Seated in the center of the living room was an old man surrounded and attended by the women of the family. My uncle introduced me. The old man looked at me, slowly smiled, and asked,”Sonny, would you like some wine?” I was nine and the question surprised but pleased me. Thinking of the only wine I had ever had, heavy sweet Manischewitz , and only at services and on holidays, and only served in small amounts, I happily said yes. A woman left and returned with a bottle wrapped in what looked like straw. She poured the wine into a brightly colored aluminum tumbler, circa 1950’s, and gave it to me. I sipped. Wow! This was not Manischewitz, it was something else. I thought about stopping but had the feeling that would have been rude, an insult. I forced myself to finish. It was bitter, I suspect a chianti, and truth to tell, tasted better with each sip. I finally put the empty tumbler down. “How was it?” asked the old man, now smiling broadly. “It was good. Thank you.” A few minutes later, my uncle and I Ieft. I walked beside him - at a slant.