The Accidental Anarchist (44 page)

She nodded, frowning. Had I made her angry?

“I was that prisoner! I wrote that letter! I am the one whose life you saved!” I shouted, alarming the other customer. “I would have thanked you sooner, but I got back only this week.”

Unthinkingly, I tried to seize her hand. She drew firmly out of my reach. And, as though to spare me further embarrassment, she nodded and exited, leaving me to berate myself as the prince of fools.

The gift in my hand turned to lead. Why could I not, like any normal bachelor, have brought flowers or a box of chocolates? And what evil demon had prompted me to identify myself, at once, as the convict in chains?

Despairing, I was ready to take the next train back to Warsaw, but Hana-Tova persuaded me to stay at least until Sunday. I accepted. But, to avoid the torment of false hopes, I went to the station and bought my return ticket to Warsaw for Sunday morning.

Upon the conclusion of
Shabbos
, my married cousin Zena, considered the most “worldly” of Hana-Tova’s children because she covered only part of her hair, left on an errand while Laizer, her husband, shyly asked me to walk with him in the park because he was curious to learn how it was possible to survive for even a day in a place like Siberia, that is, in a place without Jews.

But, even as I tried to describe how the Almighty had arranged our dispersion so that one may stumble upon Jews in the most unlikely places, I recalled the chill of impermanence I had felt in Irkutsk, the sense that, while we lived in Exile at the sufferance of men in high boots, no matter how much blood, money and sweat we poured into alien soil, neither the dead nor the living could ever rest easily.

From out of a labyrinth of leafy darkness, we came suddenly face-to-face with Zena, out for a stroll with another young lady, whose name you will already have guessed.

Once again, my voice betrayed me, while Laizer and Zena suddenly remembered that they had small children at home, leaving me no choice but to offer myself as an escort to the girl who already owned my heart.

Chapter 37: A Reformed Revolutionary

What more is there to tell? In the course of what became an almost night-long conversation, I felt able, for the first time, to bare every corner of my heart. I also assured her that, despite the burden of chains in which she had seen me being marched through Warsaw, I was not a hoodlum, nor a terrorist or a thrower of bombs, although in my younger years, perhaps foolishly, perhaps not, I had been prepared to give my life to help bring about the birth of a more just society.

Then I asked what prompted her to pick up a note dropped by a filthy convict.

Crimson-cheeked, she said that, to this day, she herself couldn’t understand what made her do it; it was as though some Higher Power had guided her steps.

I claim this proved we were truly a zivug, a pairing of souls whom Heaven had pre-ordained for one another before we were born, and that it was surely to fulfill this destiny that my life had been spared.

Overwhelmed by a rush of emotions I could not control, I kissed her cheek. I saw at once that it was the first kiss any man had ever come close enough to attempt, and she drew back as though from a blazing furnace – abruptly, yet without anger.

But the punishment for my rashness was immediate. A frail spell of magical harmony had arisen between us, and I, in my crude haste, had shattered it.

Too ashamed to apologize, all I could say was, “If you don’t want my kiss, then please be good enough to give it back.”

She laughed. Her face was radiant, again. I was forgiven.

That is not to say we had forgotten her parents. What, after all, is a love story without some towering obstacle to test the young couple’s dedication – be it jealousy, a misunderstanding, or the collision of heedless youth and immoveable old age – those essential staples of Yiddish melodrama?

As I should have known, my beloved’s father and stepmother were neither tyrants nor fools. From the instant they saw our glowing faces, having been daringly awakened by my future bride, they understood it was not for them to fly in the face of Prophecy, and that the Almighty had wrought one of those feats more miraculous than cleaving the Red Sea, namely matching their cherished daughter to the very lunatic with whom she had been fated to dwell all her days in loving friendship.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I had been looking forward to writing the Acknowledgements page, not only because it would give me the opportunity to thank a number of people who were instrumental in helping me complete this book, but more importantly because it would mean that I was finally done with a process that began over 100 years ago.

But now that I have the opportunity to do so, I find that it’s more difficult than I had expected. No matter how effusive I am with my thanks, or how many people I acknowledge, my words will be inadequate to express my heartfelt appreciation for their contributions, and I will, inevitably but unintentionally, leave someone out. The following, then, is my humble attempt to recognize certain people who helped me in ways beyond what they may realize, and to thank those whom I neglect to mention by name.

For their friendship, encouragement, literary and spiritual support, my sincerest thanks go to my dear friends and colleagues: Arlene Pollard and Don Lipkis, Barbara Field, Cissy Wolfe, Josh Hugo, Patrick McMahon and Zoe Ghahremani, each of whom I will also thank in my own way. There were also other individuals who read advance copies of the book and pointed out typos or identified areas that required clarification to whom I also owe my thanks.

I would like to thank my brother, Rabbi Yakov (named for Jacob Marateck) Wincelberg, who corrected and expanded on my footnotes describing matters of Jewish Law,  and also told me about some Marateck relatives of whose existence I had previously been unaware. And my son, Mike Kranzler, revealed a previously unrecognized talent when he did more than listen to me describe plot problems I was struggling with, but came up with creative solutions. He also helped me revise the book jacket description until it was concise and appropriately descriptive, and designed promotional and other materials to help me market the book. A special thanks, too, to Anton Khodakovsky, the brilliant and talented designer of this book.

Working on The Accidental Anarchist has given me the opportunity to learn about my grandfather in a way that might not have been possible had he lived. In the process, I also learned about myself, and developed an even greater appreciation for the value of friendship.

Epilogue

When my father returned from Siberia, he met and married the girl who became my mother.  And although he had been urged to abandon Poland for his own safety, he found it difficult to leave the family that he loved.

But it soon became clear that there was no future for Jews in Poland (especially for those individuals with a record of revolutionary activities). And at risk of being conscripted again, my father left for America to join two of his brothers who had a haberdashery store in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania. As was typical in those days, my parents decided that my father would go on ahead and get established, and then send for my mother and their two young children.

In the “goldeneh medina” (the country where ‘the streets were paved with gold’), my father started out as a peddler, going door-to-door with what he hoped was useful merchandise. Just off the boat and not yet familiar with his new language, he was advised that, if asked a question, he should reply with the only English sentence he knew: “Look in the basket.” Resourceful and optimistic, it would not take very long before he could send for his wife and children.

Once he had saved enough money, he sent steamship tickets, which my mother never received. It turned out that someone in the post office had stolen them. Undeterred, my father worked even harder to earn the money for replacements. Before the tickets arrived, the Great War had suddenly broken out, and my mother and the children were trapped in Poland until it ended. They suffered great deprivation during those years. My oldest sister, Edith, remembered not being able to play in the snow with her friends one winter because she had outgrown her shoes, and my mother’s health was greatly damaged.

Somehow, they survived, but then a terrible blow struck. My brother, Chaim Mordechai, became ill. As there was no doctor in Vishogrod, my mother took the children to the train station to travel to a town that she knew had one. Despite her pleas, the railway guards refused to let them board. One of them said, in a phrase that was too prophetic, “We will get rid of all of you Jews. And if we don’t finish the job, our sons and grandsons will.”

Eventually, probably as a result of scraping together enough money for bribes, they were finally permitted to travel to the next town, but it was too late. My brother died of tuberculosis. He was four-and-a-half years old.

It took some time before my mother and sister, the surviving child, were finally able to travel to America. By the time they arrived at Ellis Island, my sister no longer recognized the man she was told was her father, and initially would have nothing to do with him. And my mother, who had been robust and healthy, had developed a serious heart condition. And every Friday before sundown, when she lit the
Shabbos
candles, she cried for the little son she had lost, the brother I never knew.

I was two years old when my family moved to New York. There was a high rate of intermarriage in Shenandoah, and, as my sister Edith was a teenager, they were concerned about her opportunity to meet young Jewish men. Also, the mines in the Shenandoah Valley had failed, and my parents’ general store lost many of its paying customers, although they gave people credit for as long as they could. (Many years later, during World War II, there was a knock on our apartment door. A young soldier who had somehow tracked us down thanked my parents for keeping his family from starvation in Shenandoah as they had done for many other families, too.)

In spite of being unable to keep his store in Shenandoah, my father’s cheerful personality never wavered. He made the best of his circumstances, whatever they were. Arriving in New York just in time for the Depression, he got a temporary job with the Work Progress Administration (WPA) shoveling snow. It was hard work, yet when the men took a break, Poppa would dance the kazatzka to entertain them, as he had once done for the Czar. The men stomped their feet, and clapped their hands to keep warm. When we attended weddings, the highlight was always my father’s incredible dancing. People would get off the dance floor to watch him.

The Depression also gave my father time to finish writing about his activities during the war, and life as a Jew in Russian-occupied Poland. Over the course of twenty years, Ultimately, he filled 28 handwritten, marbleized, black-and-white composition notebooks with the adventures he had begun recording in 1904, and retold during all the years since then. On Sunday mornings, he used to read us what he had written during the week, including such tales as how the conscripts needed to pretend fierce loyalty to the Czar, even kiss the portrait of Czarina Alexandra that hung in the barracks. Hearing these stories remains one of my fondest memories of childhood.

One evening in 1950, my father asked me if I would help him translate his diaries from Yiddish into English. I was delighted; we were to begin the next evening. But at one o’clock in the morning, he woke me and said, “Don’t wake Momma. I don’t want to upset her, but there’s pressure in my chest.” He was more concerned about her heart condition that about what might be happening to his own.

As there was no 911 to call at the time, I phoned the hospital and begged them to send an ambulance. It took many repeated calls until one was dispatched. When my mother heard us and ran into my room, he said to her: “Calm yourself.” Those were his last words, because by the time the ambulance showed up, my father had already passed away.

I suppose we all forgot about the diaries until 1953 when I brought my then-future husband, Shimon Wincelberg, to meet my mother towards the end of her life. Knowing that he was a writer (he was the first Orthodox writer in Hollywood), she whispered to me, “Show him Poppa’s diaries.”

The diaries had been handwritten in Yiddish, but as a labor of love, the late Rebbetzin Faigy Wasserman typed the manuscript. My sister, Edith, of blessed memory, translated a rough, first draft, and then Shimon and I translated them in greater detail. Then we divided up the sections of the first twelve notebooks, compared what we had written and then chose the best. Each of us took special care to preserve my father’s unique voice and reflect his humorous outlook on even the most horrendous circumstances. It was my father’s sense of humor and unique perspective that helped him survive, and what make his stories so compelling.

We set to work organizing my father’s accounts of his experiences, and in 1976, the Jewish Publication Society published stories from the first twelve of the 28 notebooks as The Samurai of Vishogrod. Between jobs writing for television and the stage, Shimon continued working on the remaining sixteen diaries, intending to publish them too, but he passed away before he could complete the job. Before his death, I promised him that the diaries would be published.

How appropriate it was that, when I worried that I might not be able to fulfill my father’s, my mother’s, and my husband’s dreams, that the job was taken on by my daughter, Bryna, who was named after the young girl who had saved my father’s life so many years ago.