THE THIEF AND THE CANDLESTICKS

My shtetel, like all other small townships throughout Eastern Europe, was a microcosm of big cities.  We had everything they did, except on a reduced scale.  We had our rich Jew (Mordechai Fleisher), our own resident whore, and our own thief, Yoshke Canaric.

Yoshke was then a boy of about 15, slim, with long hands and very thin fingers.

Everyone in town, including the Gentiles, knew of his daring deeds. And yet no one did anything to stop him, or turn him over to the authorities.

He was a thief by necessity.

In the courtyard next to ours lived a widow with about eight small children, mostly girls. Yoshke was one of these children.  This woman had no means of income.

True, the Jewish community sent in a few zlotys, folding money, every week. Neighbors brought in pots of soup, and Mordechai Fleisher made sure that every Friday a cooked chicken with potatoes was delivered to the widow and her children.  But surely this alone it was not enough to sustain the large family.

It became Yoshke’s duty to supply more food.  He became very adept at snatching edibles - a cake that was put out to cool off, or a pot of soup left unguarded.  People came to the widow’s house to look for their "lost" items.  They never found them.

The best day for Yoshke was Tuesday, market day.  The peasants drove in and parked their wagons in the market square.  These wagons were filled with merchandise held for sale.  The Jewish merchants would haggle with the peasants for the best prices.

While the process of bidding, rejecting the initial bids, new bids, more rejections went on, Yoshke was usually able to snatch a sack of potatoes, a sack of flour, or even some live chickens.  Everything disappeared fast.  With all these things, the family managed to survive.

Our home was safe from theft because every Friday when the family baked bread and challahs, my mother discretely delivered a challah, a big round black bread, two candles, and occasionally even a small bottle of raisin wine.

Without a word being said, Yoshke Canaric assured us that he would never steal anything from us, although he could have done this easily. Our shop had many items for sale... cradles, hope chests, small tables and even windows. Yet they remained untouched.

Yoshke hung around our woodworking shop and hoped that when he was more grown up he could learn a trade here; perhaps as a cabinet maker.

In the meantime, he tried his best to keep his mother and siblings from starving.

Every Jewish home prided itself on having at least one pair of brass candlesticks.  Every Friday these proud possessions were polished and shined and put in front of the covered challah and the bottle of raisin wine.  The candles were securely inserted, and when sunset came, the lady of the house, with her face covered, raised her hands, and blessed the candles, God, her family, the Shabbat, and all the Jews.

It was a beautiful ceremony.  The candlesticks also served a second purpose.  If in the beginning of the week a family ran out of money for food, they took their candlesticks to a neighbor who might be in a better financial position, and borrowed some money, leaving the candlesticks for security, and to be redeemed before the next Shabbat.

This happened to Yoshke’s family almost every week.  Many, many weeks passed, and the family candlesticks could not be redeemed, so when Friday came they were "borrowed" and returned on Sunday.

After this had transpired for many months, and this "borrowing" had become habit, the owners of the security refused to let them take the hocked merchandise back for the Shabbat.

That Friday night Yoshke’s mother was forced to insert her candles in a raw potato cut in half. She cried, and was ashamed.

The following Friday night we saw a set of lit candlesticks on her table!  As we looked closer, we noticed that these were different.  They  must be someone else’s possession.  It was prohibited to move or even touch the sanctified holders.

Right after sunset, Saturday night, a neighbor came looking for their family's missing candlesticks.  Nobody could find them.  Yoshke just smiled.  Why accuse him? They must have misplaced them.  He told them to go look in a drawer or a closet.  They must have been put there by mistake.  And sure enough, they found them.

The following Shabbat the same scenario repeated itself.  And so it went on for weeks.

Finally, my grandfather, with the help of some other compassionate Jews, gathered enough money to rescue and redeem the widow’s candlesticks.  They remained in our home permanently.  Every Friday, when my mother delivered the usual Friday provisions to Yoshke’s home, she also brought the candleholders, which were duly returned to us on Sunday.

I came to the United.States in 1927, following the great immigration to the new world.  Two years later there was the big stock market crash, and the depression started in earnest.

Even here, life was very hard.  There were no jobs available.  Bassya and I married and decided to go back East to New York.

I had an uncle who had a cabinet shop.  Maybe I could work there.  Unfortunately, it did not work out.  We finally each managed some employment - employment that paid very little; just enough for rent.  Twice a week we ate with our respective families.  Bassya had an aunt living in New York.  The Galagorskis had two children and a small laundry shop.  We generally stayed overnight after sharing a filling meal.  My only good white shirt was laundered, and Bassya’s uniform was cleaned (she was a dental assistant for awhile).

My family connection and benefactors were the Tulkop tribe.  They stuffed us with gefilte fish, chicken soup with "eyes" - big oily spots, and much bread.  The two families helped us to survive these hard times.

The Tulkops lived on Rivington Street, in the East side of Manhattan, near Canal Street.  This was a real Jewish neighborhood.  Everyone knew each other.  They all only spoke Yiddish.  The street, from end to end, held pushcarts.  They were brought out to the same spot every morning, and remained until late at night.

These pushcarts contained many different items.  You could buy one pickle, or one corn on the cob, used clothes, shoes, underwear, sewing machines, tools, or used pots and pans.

I called it inside and outside living.  Some of the sellers were from the same shtetel as were the buyers.

We only stayed in New York for one year.  We decided to go back to San Francisco where we had our families.

I wanted to say goodbye to the Tulkops.  I knew that my wife was already there.  I decided to walk to their home all the way from Second Avenue, including the long Rivington Street full of pushcarts. This would allow me to say adieu to some of the people from my youth in the shtetel.  As I walked down the row of pushcarts I heard someone call my name.   As I turned to look, I saw the smiling face of the long forgotten Yoshke Canaric.

He was behind a heavily loaded pushcart.  I saw new shirts, new sweaters, socks, underwear, and many many brand new items of apparel.

Yoshke laughed. "So we meet again."

"Not for long," I said. "I‘m leaving tomorrow."

Yoshke told me that some relatives in America had collected enough money to bring the widow’s oldest three children to New York so they could go to work and earn money to bring the rest of the family over here too.  Now they are all here, and America is proving very good for them.  His mother lived in a nicely furnished walk up apartment with a view of the street below.  The girls were now all married.

As I observed the merchandise, he begged me to buy something.  I told him I had no money, and pleaded that 60 cents was all I had in my pocket, but I would buy a handkerchief.  I wanted to pick out one.  Yoshke insisted that I take a full pack of about two dozen for just 25 cents.  He pushed the hankies into my pocket, and took a quarter. ( Later I found the 25 cents in one of my pockets.)  I protested that he was losing money with such business transactions.  He laughed and said:

"You don’t know how good it is in America.  It is all pure profit.  They deliver all these nice things to the big department stores, and leave them outside.  I take what I want.  It is so easy.  America is rich, and I am happy, and my family is happy."

I reminded him of the comedy of the disappearing candlesticks, and we both had a good laugh.

He told me that here in America he had acquired solid silver ones for his mother, but she prefers the old brass ones from the shtetel days. He said that she still polishes and uses them every Friday.

I raised my eyebrows. He looked at me and said: