FOUR GIRLS - A COLLECTION OF FOUR SHORT STORIES
FOR FOUR GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN

HOW I FAILED THE "HOME SCHOOLING" SYSTEM

A story for Bethany, Age 13

At the time of my birth, Poland was still occupied by Russia. In fact, my birth certificate is written in Russian. The Russians, as occupiers, established a very primitive Polish school system.

I was never sent to "chaider" for Jewish schooling. This was a place where boys from the age of 3 on up sat in a crowded, smelly room and learned the Torah and other Hebrew text.

When I was six, I was enrolled into a Polish School – one of the few Jewish boys to be admitted.

They didn’t teach me much. At seven, I was promoted to the second grade. I was bored. I already knew everything that they tried to convey at that level. How many times must I repeat 3 + 3 is 6, 5 + 1 is 6, 4 + 2 is 6? Furthermore, I was already able to read and write in Polish.

My progressive father was not satisfied with the slow way that I was being educated, and so he took me out of school when I was promoted to the third grade. He wanted me to get a more worldly education, and he really tried to do so, not only by acting as my teacher, but also hiring a tutor/teacher at great expense.

And so we started "home schooling". My tutor/teacher’s name was Rozsa Bronnstein, the only daughter of the "Kazione Rabbi". He was a secular, assimilated Jew living in our town who was given the title Rabbi so that he could be a liaison between the Jews in our shtetel, who spoke mainly in Yiddish, and the authorities who spoke mostly in Russian, or sometimes Polish. He also collected the taxes from the Jews for the city and the governmental regime.

This "Rabbi" was not religiously observant. He was never seen to go to a prayer house or to keep kosher. The authorities made the Jewish community pay for his big modern home, and also to pay him a yearly stipend. This Rabbi also had two sons aside from the daughter who was to tutor me. The sons were educated in far away schools. One became a dentist.

I was to be tutored for three hours a day, five days a week. The goal was to train me to learn faster and to skip grades.

This beautiful young woman was highly educated by our standards. She was a high school graduate and even had some college experience. While she was well informed and connected with the educated world, alas, she didn’t know how to teach, nor to convey her knowledge to this very shy, young boy.

It became a disaster for me because when the two of us went into her library to study, I began to sneeze and sneeze. I couldn’t stop. Maybe it was the fragrance on her face and body, or maybe some other reaction to her, but my sneezing just would not stop.

Many times, I couldn’t even hear the lessons she gave to me. It was a most embarrassing situation. I am sure that my teacher felt the same way, and that she was disgusted with me.

I pinched my nostrils, yawned, tried to stretch, nothing helped – hours of repeated sneezing would continue.

After the hours with Miss Bronnstein, I would rush home to where my father was already waiting. He would leave work early and conduct a class for me and my cousins.

He taught us to speak and write in Yiddish and Hebrew, and to memorize very long Hebrew poems by the poet Bialik.

I hated memorizing poems about a pogrom in Kinishev, Russia, but Papa pushed.

The only relief came at night, but not every night. I remember the nights when my Zaida told us stories. He could spin and spin tales about long departed, friendly, helpful ghosts – about his father who was a Polish patriot who helped the peasants in their revolt against the Kossacks – about his travels to far countries and strange cities like Berlin, Leipzig and even Moscow, Austria and Vienna. I absorbed all his stories and made them mine.

Finally after two years of private schooling, my good grandfather took me down to the new, free Polish school to be enrolled and to see how many grades I could skip.

I appeared in front of the examination board. They were the old priest, the city mayor, the principal, and a few more---very serious, very sour old men.

I was nervous being alone in front of such a board. I was standing up; my legs were shivering although it was a warm September day. Questions were thrown at me. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"Come on, speak up!" They wanted to know how much I had learned. I could not speak.

Rozsa was called in, and the minute she came near me I started to sneeze. She explained my situation.

Paper and pencil were put in front of me. I cannot remember what I wrote down, but I recall that the handwriting was terrible and that my hand was shaking.

Grandpa was pleading, and since everyone liked him, they assigned me to the 5th grade with the promise that I would be a good scholar. My Zaida took them all into the nearby bar and bought them drinks.

I did well in this school. I learned to get along with the other children, and the elders too.

At the end of my 6th year in school, I was among the most popular students. I played soccer, center forward, and kicked in many goals. This also made me popular with the girls. I knew geography, and was able to draw and paint maps that gave me high marks from the women teachers.

At the end of the school year, we were asked to write a story on any subject we wanted.

I wrote a long narrative, and even illustrated it. A few days later I was called into the principal’s office. The principal, a few teachers, and the mayor were sitting around a long table. As I approached them I wondered what I had done wrong.

"No one" I muttered. "I write all the time."

They looked at each other, smiled, and the principal wanted to know if he could keep my story about traveling in strange countries, describing how trains, streetcars, and even telephones worked. (Although I never used a phone) There was only one phone in the police station.

"Keep on writing," someone suggested. "You will someday be a famous author and a pride to us."

They also gave me my report card. All A’s except for story telling. That was an A+.

"And you didn’t even sneeze once," chimed in the mayor, with a big smile on his face.

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A story for Bethany – to make her smile, and the only one I will allow to call me "sneezy".

THE CHERRY TREES

A story for Nicole, Age 11

Spring came early and magically when I was a young child living in central Poland.

Where yesterday, the sky was overcast and the mud was ankle deep, (we sometimes lost our galoshes, and even our shoes in the sticky, clay like earth, never to be found again), the sky suddenly turned blue, the sun benevolently shinned, and the sky became full of chattering birds looking for mates.

All the fruit trees that endured the cold winter with their naked dry skeletons covered with snow started to turn green, with new leaves and blossoms.

It was unbelievable to me. The two apple trees my family planted in front of our little white house started blooming very early. I looked out with wonder one morning and thought that snow was covering them. But it was not snow; the tree was covered with fragrant flowers that would soon turn into little apples.

The whole neighborhood turned into a glorious show of pink and white blossoms on the long dormant fruit trees of many varieties. I waited for my favorites to ripen first - cherries. I had dreamed of them all winter – to fill myself up with them.

Our neighbors, the Talandas, had a sunny orchard, and were the first to bring in a basket full of big ripe, juicy cherries.

We all took handfuls and gorged ourselves, all except my grandfather, who according to his tradition, refused to eat the new fruit until the eve of the Jewish New Year. (I was suspicious of this, and long speculated that he probably cheated sometimes.)

The cherries in our province were not of the kind that we now buy in grocery stores. Here they all look alike, taste the same, and are picked when they are not quite ripe so they will have a long shelf life.

Our cherries were of many sizes and tastes, and of many colors. They ranged from the very tiny, fragrant, almost black cherries to the very large, (almost the size of a small plum, almost white), - what heavenly taste!

I could never stop eating them. Our neighbors had an abundance of ripening fruit, and they let me pick my fill, as well as letting me pick full baskets for my family.

I tried to grow my own cherry tree, but there was no more space in our garden. Besides, when I had to choose between a gift of a lilac tree and a cherry tree – I chose the lilac tree.

As I have already recounted, my uncles were cabinetmakers, and sometimes they went to the nearby villages to work in home construction for well to do peasants.

Sometimes, if the village was nearby, they came home at night, and sometime they stayed and worked from Monday to Friday afternoon.

They made and installed windows, front doors, closets, and even built in furniture.

After much begging, my uncles would sometimes take me along for day trips. I loved the farms, and I drank the fresh milk direct from the milking – no one knew about pasteurizing then. The milk was still warm and it tasted great.

They also had fruit trees and, of course, my beloved cherry trees.

I was young, had no fear, and often climbed up the trees.

"There goes the monkey", I heard my uncles calling out.

Yet, one day when I tried to reach the topmost branches I slipped and started to fall. A large limb held me for a second, but I panicked and fell down with a thud, landing flat on my back on the hard ground.

I was knocked out. My uncles came running, picked me up, and examined this frightened, scared, dizzy little boy. There were no broken bones, but my back was sore for a very long time.

I was absolutely forbidden to climb on any trees. They fashioned a long pole for me with a split on the top so I could catch a limb, shake it, and retrieve the fruit. I could even break a small branch or two with this tool, and that was okay, because new fruit would grow on the young replacement branches.

Although I have grown older and developed new passions – I can still remember this childhood so many years later.

Monique, who is my wife, and is French born, lived her childhood in a Parisian suburb called Meriel. She lived in a nice home with a garden. When the Nazis occupied most of France, she and her family fled to place near Vichy (a free zone which was part of the country) in order to save their lives. This was necessary because they were considered to be Jewish, and her father was known as a communist.

When they returned to their home after the war ended, and the Germans retreated, they found their home in ruins and their possessions scattered. There was much sadness and chaos. They finally found a small house where the family tried to put their lives back together again.

It took a long time. Jacob Plassmann, Monique’s father, reestablished his connection as a salesman with his former bosses and customers. He didn’t like his small home in Meriel, or his neighbors. During his travels through France he found his ideal house in central France, a town called Migennes, not far from Dijon, and only 6 km from the town of Chablis in the wine country, for which the famous wine is named.

It was a large stone home with many rooms, and a huge garden with fruit trees, some of which were espaliered, laying close to the ground where it was easy to pick up the ripe apples. The garden even had vegetables that grew practically all year long, enough to feed the whole family.

Jacob Plassmann was delighted with his beautiful home, and Aunt Jeanne came to live in this home with the family. I loved this older woman. She was already old when I met her about 20 years ago. She never married and was still a maiden.

When she was young her father died and she had to take care of her mother. Soon, a group of young relatives also became her responsibility.

She had no time for men, or romance, and devoted she her whole youth and life to the others in her family.

She was the busiest and cleanest person that I ever met. We liked each other, and even though I didn’t speak French, and she didn’t speak English, we still managed to communicate.

She used to get up early with her sister Marilou, very early – about 6 in the morning, and after taking care of the family’s two dogs she took her brushes and rags and started to clean and dust all the walls and furnishings. She started in the kitchen and never really stopped. She prepared the vegetables for cooking, made sure that Jacob got the biggest and best portions, and that everyone had great meals and drank good wine.

She would nap a little on a chair, but at about 3 PM. we would communicate with our sign language that it was time for our private few minutes of relaxation, along with her famous hors d’oeuvres. She would have a glass of red wine, and I would have my vodka, straight. She liked to pour it for me. It was so civilized.

I visited the family for 16 years, almost every year, and this ritual remained in place for that entire time period.

The first time we visited it was in the month of June. We arrived at night and when I looked out of our bedroom window, I saw a large tree covered with cherries. I had never seen such an abundance of ripe fruit.

I ran down, took a stepladder, and climbed up the tree. I had forgotten about the time I had fallen down and promised my family to never climb again.

I started eating the sweet fruit. Aunt Jeanne stuck her head out from a window on the top floor. She pointed to the tall, top branches,

"There, there is the best fruit," she said.

It had been raining the night before, but the sun was shinning now, and the freshly washed big cherries at the very top were glistening.

She indicated that she wanted these cherries. Aunt Jeanne gave me a small bucket. I put the handle in my mouth and started climbing, higher and higher. I had forgotten my aching back and the danger I felt about heights. I must please this lovely woman.

No, I didn’t trip or fall down. Slowly I lowered the bucket with the big cherries. She examined each cherry and slowly started to eat the fruit extracting the pits and depositing them on a napkin. She then offered me the half full bucket to taste and share with the family.

I watched her. She took the pits and planted them in a quiet, shady part of the garden near the fence. She also put some pits in a flowerpot with fresh earth, and placed the pot in a protected spot.

I returned to France many times therafter; mostly in winter. We often had many small problems to consider, and I didn’t pay too much attention to the back garden. I always admired the front, however, with all the flowers, especially roses, that Jacob Plassmann grew so well.

On one of our European trips, while in Israel, we received a disturbing call.

We rushed, but it was too late. She died in her sleep. We attended the funeral and said goodbye to this dear person.

Before leaving I went down to visit the beloved garden. It was neglected. My father-in-law was ailing, and no one could do what was so natural to him.

It was early autumn. The old cherry tree was going to sleep, but still had some late ripening fruit. Then I saw it! Near the fence, a young, straight tree was growing with an abundance of glistening fruit.

I don’t know if this was a result of the pit plantings, or it was bought in a nursery, but I embraced the straight trunk and kissed it.

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This is written for Nikki Bibel, who likes to grow things, with the hope that she too will someday grow a cherry tree, and I hope that she will call it "The Zaida" tree.

A Story For Kaitlyn, Age 11

The need to express oneself through painting and art runs deep in our family. I don’t know how far back this feeling goes, but I watched with great fascination my Uncle Myer (the whole family were woodworkers) building lovely large, deep "hope chests" where parents accumulated the dowry for the young girls that were growing up in their families.

After he applied a basic background of a neutral color, usually an off white or light pink, Myer would start to decorate them. He had no formal art training, but he liked colors and he learned how to mix them. He filled his brushes with a wide variety of colors. He used to say, "Let the brushes talk for themselves."

He painted very realistic tulips, daffodils, and pansies. They actually looked quite natural and he would cover the top and all four sides of the chests with these flowers.

He then signed his creations, not with his signature, but in the bottom of the right corner he always painted a small, very crushed dead fly. This was so realistic that people seeing this for the first time took a rag, or a napkin, and would try to wipe it off – much to the laughter and delight of all.

There must be many such trunks still existent in the countryside of Poland.

I, too, tried to paint, but my early paintings were sad and dull. I delayed my efforts for later, and when I started to paint seriously I had several exhibitions, and I was able to build up a name for myself.

But the real artist was my brother, Leon. He lived for art, creating important works. His paintings and constructions are in the collections of several Museums, including the Metropolitan Museum in New York. His road, driven by compulsion, was not easy. It was all consuming.

While in high school he still found enough time to paint. He was in an unhappy love relationship, and with his sensitivity he perceived a great deal of unhappiness and injustice in the world. At the beginning of one summer vacation he locked himself in the front room, and in a long non-stop session of painting he covered his canvases with somber art. When he ran out of canvases, he painted on the inner side, or painted over finished work. He seldom came out, even to eat, to the desperation of my mother who almost made me break the door down so she could talk to him.

"I must paint! I must get the demons out of my system," he pleaded.

At the beginning of the new school year, my brother went back to finish his education, and he did very well scholastically.

He then enrolled in the San Francisco Academy of Art, where a teacher discovered his talent. Leon received a full scholarship, including paints, canvases and brushes. He started with the basic academics of realistic portraits using live models, nudes, ballet dancers, and people with interesting faces. Some of these paintings are still around in the family, and among friends.

He also met a well established artist, Bernard Zakheim, and together they painted some murals in the Jewish Center, and in the University of California’s Parnassus campus.

This work has endured and is still visible. It was in the middle of the 1930’s, during the great depression. Roosevelt became president, and the government tried to put people to work.

The artists were not forgotten and they were organized in units. My brother was among them. He was also a teacher of art in New York Harlem where he was now living, having followed his lady love there.

Some of his early efforts on paper were sold for about one or two dollars each. Within recent years the Metropolitan Museum bought two of these creations, paying 120 thousand dollars each!

Leon was involved in art all his life. In later years he created a great amount of work in wood. The last piece before he died was a wooden depiction of a clock, completely finished except for its assembly. It was to be called "And Time Ran Out."

My own destiny took a different turn. Over time life became a little easier and a bit less demanding. I too started to paint again, and to create some works of wood.

The Magnus Museum in Berkeley gave me a one man show that turned out to be very successful. And this was followed with a bigger show in the gallery of the Temple Sherith Israel. I sold several works for about one thousand dollars each.

My grandchildren came to our home to visit on weekends and to stay longer on vacations. They watched me paint, and they all expressed a desire to try painting themselves.

I got out the easels and acrylic paints and told them to express themselves with paint anyway they could.

Steve painted some pastoral scenes. Lisa, with her sweetness, painted very pleasant canvases that are still hanging in Lila’s home. Jeffrey painted with a strong hand, while Mandi painted larger canvases of flowers with happy colors. One painting of hers was displayed for many years on the central wall of my parent’s home. It brought smiles and pleasure to all who saw it.

It became ritual like that every Sunday Jeffrey and I would go out for our very private Sunday brunch. We each had two hot dogs, with everything on them, at our favorite place, the Noble Frankfurter, and afterwards we returned to the house and we painted together.

One Sunday, while we were away, Bassya took a canvas board and made her first painting. When I looked at it, I stupidly started to laugh, "What is it?"

Bassya was dismayed and surprised by my question. "Can’t you see? It’s a cityscape. Look at the streets and buildings."

I saw horizontal and vertical lines. "What drawing did you copy it from?"

I was still laughing. It was Bassya’s first effort in painting and I was rude. She took a rag, dipped it in a solvent and wiped out the painting.

I felt guilty, begged her to paint it again, and after many sessions of long begging, she obliged me.

Later, much later, I realized that is was the purest, naïve expression of abstract art. Only a child, not yet spoiled with copying, could do such a pure rendering of the vision of a city.

Bassya put away her painting. I hope that someday someone in the family will find it. Bassya went back to her life’s work of writing and publishing fine poetry. The kids seemed to have inherited some of her many talents.

The next generation is now here, and they too are full of talent. Bethany, Kaitlyn, Nikki, and Brianna are all good inventive writers. These four will periodically create a book with stories and illustrations for their Zaida (me) that makes me very proud.

All four have outstanding acting talents, and they are in many plays. Some have excellent voices and are in choruses. They are good swimmers and good in other sports as well.

They bring pleasure to the family and to all who know them.

Last week Kaitlyn phoned me. "Zaida, now that I am older I know what I really want to do. I want to be an artist. You know that separate little house in our garden, the one that we used as a playhouse, and as a very private retreat to play in and to pretend and decorate. Well, I am turning it into an artist’s studio. We set out an easel with canvases and paints and brushes and frames. I will paint and paint and try to be a very good artist. Maybe I will become famous sometimes."

Tears of joy and happiness filled my face. The fifth generation from Uncle Myer in old Poland to Kaitlyn Friedel in the Delta region of California. A straight line of people that have a need to create new artistic works to bring joy to all.

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This long narrative is written just for you my dearest lovely Kaitlyn. I hope that all your dreams and desires will come true.

Zaida

SPORTS ACTIVITIES IN THE FAMILY

For Brianna Bibel, Age 8

As a young child in old Poland, where I grew up, there was no time or inclination to indulge in sports. We had more serious things to deal with, like staying away from harm, getting enough to eat, and trying to grow our own food.

It was a time of war, of invading and retreating armies and gangs of various types. They all took away the livestock, the cows, sheep, goats, and chickens.

There was no meat, milk, eggs or butter. All our effort was spent in finding enough food to live on.

I hope that none of you shall ever have this experience or feeling.

As times changed stability came back to our little town. Many people returned from exile to strange, far away areas. One thing they brought back with them, and introduced to us, was the movement for young people called "The Boy Scouts." Oh we loved this. We had uniforms, hand signals, and merit badges. We learned about Badden Powel and the big brotherhood.

Our little town had a few such clubs. I didn’t want to be with the little boys. I wanted to belong to the group where the big boys were. They said that I was too young, and I was. so I lied, and gave my age as being five years older than I really was. I even falsified my birth certificate and added 5 years! They let me into the group, and we did a lot of hiking, and even held some of our meetings in the forest more than a few miles away.

A little later "football" (soccer) was introduced to us, and every young boy wanted to play. Outside of the town was a large empty meadow. We marked out the playing field, installed the poles with the nets, and since there were many clubs, we competed with each other. This brought out the best and the worst in us. It also brought out the elders to watch us.

I played with the bigger boys. I was not outstanding. Oh, I could run fast, but my passing was poor. I usually was put into the game only as a substitute, when someone got injured, or did not show up for the game.

Yet, once and only once, did I become a hero! We were playing a Polish team. We were deadly competitive, but the Poles, being older and stronger, beat us most of the time.

At one tournament, during the second half, the Poles had 6 goals to our 2 goals. We almost gave up. Then someone kicked the ball; it hit my head and bounced off me and hit the goal net – giving us the point. It was 6 to 3 now. As I watched, bewildered, someone hit me in the back, and without any conscious effort on my part, my foot kicked the ball, and it scored another point for us. Now it was 6 to 4! I was carried off the field as a hero! Some other boy, being inspired, also scored, and we finished 6 to 5 goals. As the Polish team was known to be so good, we called this a big victory.

I never repeated this feat.

My younger brother, Leon, was always better than I could be. He beat me in every endeavor.

When my family bought me a violin and hired a tutor for me, my little brother was prohibited from even touching my violin. But he listened in when I was being given instructions, and in spite of the warnings, he did touch it often, and he taught himself to play the fiddle.

When I discovered that he could play better and more pleasantly than I, my interest in becoming a violinist ended. I gave the instrument to Leon and he played it for many years.

He also became a good soccer player – to the extent that all the clubs wanted him. He chose the big boys (my club) and became the star. It became unpleasant for me to be in the same unit with Leon, who was the best player, when I was the worst, so I gave up soccer. Leon continued playing when we came to San Francisco. He belonged to a very prestigious group. They played in the old Seals Stadium, the Ewing Field (long gone), and other places as well.

My father came to watch his son play, and he became a great fan of the game. When his favorite team won, he was happy all week long, and when they lost, he was cranky for days. Papa’s love for the game lasted long into his old age.

Later came Bennett. As an infant, he loved to ride in our car. He sat in my lap and put his little hands on the wheel and pretended that he was driving. Later when he grew a bit taller and his feet could just touch the pedals, I took him out to some isolated places and indeed let him drive our car. (He was probably one of the youngest drivers of a vehicle.)

Bennett’s love affair with cars never stopped. In high school days he worked in gas stations, saved his money, and bought his own car. Several old cars later, he bought a little English sports car. He used to take much of it apart almost every weekend, inspect and clean parts, and put it all back together, better than new.

He didn’t stop with cars. Model airplanes were also an obsession, from fragile rubber band driven models to powerful gasoline engined models that he designed himself. I’ll always remember a super model that started on the ground by remote control, took off and flew a long time, landing safely by itself. Eventually he had his own real airplane and I went flying with him a few times. Oh, and he loved boats too, from rowing boats (one of which I built for him before he was in high school) to his own sailboats, and even motorboats.

Mandi and Jeffrey grew up sailing. I watched with fear how Jeff, as a very young boy, was able to climb up the tall mast to inspect and adjust the rigging.

This is a sportive family. We also watched Jeffrey, while he was in high school; participate in many sports, especially wrestling. He was very good but his grandma Bassya was always fearful that he would get hurt. He didn’t. Later he indulged in other activities such as windsurfing – water and land.

And now we have the "Next Generation." The four girls – Bethany, Nicole, Kaitlyn, and Brianna.

There is no end to their sport activities, from bike riding, swimming, all kinds of acrobatics, water skiing, winter sports on the snow, every one of these four is trying to excel – but the youngest, Brianna (Bri Bri) being the smallest and the youngest, is the most competitive.

She has to prove, not "me too" but "Watch me! I can do better than you." And she does it with pleasure and smiles. She has shown this trend from infancy, and we started to call her "the clown."

Twice a year the families get to play in the snow in Yosemite and Lake Tahoe. The first one ice skates, on sleds, and on skis is usually Bri Bri.

Of course there is always some degree of danger, and fear on the part of the elders. The family is lucky. There have been very few accidents.

Jeffrey, as a child broke his arm, Stephen had a collision on a bicycle and broke a leg, and Brianna has also been a victim. Jumping from a 4 foot high beam she fell, landed on one arm, and broke it.

The family was packed and ready for a vacation to Hawaii. Everyone looked forward to swimming in the ocean. Brianna had plans, but she was in a cast now. She didn’t give up. Jeff fashioned a cover for the cast, and Brianna swam in the Pacific. She snorkeled and didn’t let a broken arm stop her.

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Please be safe my dear Brianna. With my love, Zaida.