Saturday, January 14, 2012

Split and Recycle Genes--Part Two

Part Two--Split Genes



My grandmother’s father, Jacob Chassid, was born in a now forgotten shtetl in Russia, a place that might have served as a backdrop for Fiddler on the Roof. He was a lonely, late-in-life child to a couple that, some eighteen years prior, had lost their only son, Saul.   Saul had been conscripted into the Red Army, left home, and was never seen again.


Some years later, Jacob became engaged to Sadie Paris, my great-grandmother, one of ten children in a “yours, mine, and ours” marriage. The family, originally Perez at the time of the Spanish Inquisition, later Peretsky after fleeing north, and then finally Paris, decided it was once again time to don their hats and make haste.  It was decided they would relocate to America, but Sadie was reluctant to go, not wanting to leave her Jacob behind. To keep the family together, Sadie's father welcomed Jacob along on their adventure: “So, you’ll come, too," he said.  "I’ll have eleven children!”


Thus, my great-grandparents came to this country. They were married in New York at the turn of the century and began their lives together in a modest apartment in The Bronx, eventually expanding the family to include four daughters (the second of whom was my grandmother) and a younger son. Jacob worked as a painter and wallpaper hanger; his greatest source of pride was his place in the local Union. He liked to boast that he was a “Union Man.” This sense of belonging to a voluntary and self-governing organization was what he liked best about being in America. Despite his lack of wealth or education, as a Union Man he was a big shot.
To make ends meet, the young Chassid family piled their four daughters into one bedroom and took in a boarder, Dora. Dora took her meals outside the house, frequently eating in a small milchig restaurant downstairs. There in that dairy eatery, Dora waived to a man she thought was Jacob Chassid, her landlord, only the man did not recognize her. It turned out not to be Jacob after all. 

Back at the Chassid’s apartment, Dora asked Jacob whether he had any family in the neighborhood. “I have no family,” he said. “They all died back in Russia years ago.” She tried to explain about the man downstairs who resembled him so closely they could pass as twins, but Jacob had no interest. That was that.

 

Discretely, Dora inquired about this mysterious man who came in regularly to eat dairy. She discovered that his name was Saul Chassid and he lived  only a few blocks down. Putting all the pieces together, Dora tried again to get Jacob to meet the man who she believed was his brother—not dead after all.  Jacob couldn’t be bothered with such nonsense.


Dora did not give up; she would have to trick Jacob into facing this man. She invited him downstairs for a “glezel tai”—a glass of tea. In those days, hot tea was served in a clear glass; you held a sugar cube between your teeth and sipped the hot liquid through it.   Jacob accepted her generous invitation—after all, the tea cost a penny—and agreed to come downstairs with Dora.   Preoccupied, Jacob did not notice the people mulling around outside the window, word having spread quickly through the neighborhood about what was to occur. Once in the restaurant Jacob realized he had been duped, but he was too busy fixating on the stranger with the familiar face to be annoyed. He knew at once that this man was the brother he had believed dead his entire life.
Jacob approached the table where Saul was eating his soup in solitude, his head buried in the daily paper. Jacob asked if the seat across from him was taken but didn’t wait for an answer; Saul grunted, not wanting to be disturbed. Jacob attempted to engage him.

“So where are you from?” Jacob was not surprised by his answer—it was the same shtetl. Then Jacob replied, “That’s where my family is from.” Saul never lifted his eyes or put his paper down.

 

“Do you have any family?”   Saul mumbled that he had a young brother once, but the last time he had seen him he was a baby. He remained behind his paper, trying to not to encourage this annoying stranger who was intent on disturbing his meal.

“What was that brother’s name?”   He didn’t remember exactly, Saul said, but thought that the family called him Guppel. “My name is Jacob; my family called me Guppel,” Jacob said, a little more assertive this time. Saul would not take the bait, oblivious to where this conversation was leading, unaware of the dozens of people who were now gathering.
“What is your name, if I may ask?” Saul then murmured his name, not interested in making new acquaintances. “Ah, that was my brother’s name,” Jacob said.
By this time, Jacob could barely contain himself. He grabbed the table with both hands and rattled it, spilling Saul's soup. “Mr. Chassid, look at me,” he commanded. “I am your brother.”

The melting pot, like the gene pool, can surprise us when stirred up. Be nice to that stranger down the street, or in the airport, or on line at the movies. That person could be your own flesh and blood.

Tomorrow's blog:   My Trip to Mars

No comments:

Post a Comment