of Oberlin College who had been fielding calls for us as an assistant in the education department at the Workmen’s Circle, graciously agreed to serve as host. The Workmen’s Circle—or Arbeter Ring, as it’s known in Yiddish—is a fraternal organization deeply committed to Yiddish culture, and the use of their conference room lent a
hekhsher,
an imprimatur, a sense of historical connection, to the proceedings. The meeting took place at 7:30 on a Tuesday evening in early February of 1981.The weather was windy and bitter cold, but that didn’t stop a dozen people from showing up. Several were in their early twenties: Stuart; Roger Mummert; Danny Soyer, another Oberlin graduate, who was now doing research on the Jewish labor movement; and one or two others. The rest were in their seventies and eighties. There was no one in between.
We started out with coffee and cookies, and then I called the meeting to order. “Since many of you will be working together here in New York, I’d like to go around the room and ask each of you to introduce yourselves.”
That was a mistake. Not for nothing are Jews called “a nation of priests.” Everyone had something to say. I was looking for names, and instead ended up with life stories. The most memorable was Mr. Berger, a dapper octogenarian who, in defiance of the howling weather outside, sported a dazzling suntan (as though he had just spent the day playing pinochle on Miami Beach), carried a pearl-handled walking stick, and wore a cream-colored linen suit, a silk shirt open at the neck, a straw cap, and shiny white loafers. Alas, for a man who positively radiated good health, he was utterly preoccupied with death.
“I’m here tonight,” he began when it was his turn to speak, “because my friends, the ones who really care about Yiddish, couldn’t make it. Do you know where my friends are tonight? They’re
toyt, geshtorbn, nayn eylen in drerd
(dead, deceased, nine cubits under the ground)! I’m here tonight to do the work they can no longer do themselves.”
It was an hour and a half before all twelve people at the table had had their chance to
davenen baym omed,
to take the floor and speak. I then stood up, told a bit about the Yiddish Book Center, outlined my plans for a network of volunteers in New York, and passed around Zamler’s Packets with freshly printed instructions, posters, and press releases.
“Now just one minute!” interrupted Mr. Berger. “I can see from these packets that you know all about marketing. If I ever need a goodpublic relations man I’ll be sure to call you. But let’s face facts, PR isn’t going to help us collect Yiddish books. The people with Yiddish books don’t read PR. In fact, they don’t read anything anymore! Do you know where the people with Yiddish books are now?”
“Florida?” ventured Roger.
“Dead!” shouted Mr. Berger, with a whap of his walking stick on the table.
“Toyt! Geshtorbn! Nayn eyln in—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Berger,” I broke in, “but if you’ll just let me finish I think you’ll see we’ve made adequate arrangements to pick up books after people have passed on.”
“
After
they’ve passed on? Let me tell you something, yungerman, you may run an organization but by me you’re still a
pisher,
wet behind the ears. You don’t know the first thing about how the world works, you haven’t seen what I’ve seen, you don’t walk around with death breathing down your neck every day like I do. Take it from me: You don’t go to people
after
they die, you go
before
they die!”
“And how do you propose doing that?” asked Stuart, who, working with older Jews every day at the Workmen’s Circle, was having trouble hiding his annoyance.
“Simple!” shouted Mr. Berger, whapping his walking sticking again against the Formica tabletop; “You go to the hospitals! You set up shop in the Intensive Care Unit.”—
Whap!—
“When it looks like some old Jew is about to breathe his
hekhsher,
an imprimatur, a sense of historical connection, to the proceedings. The meeting took place at 7:30 on a Tuesday evening in early February of 1981.The weather was windy and bitter cold, but that didn’t stop a dozen people from showing up. Several were in their early twenties: Stuart; Roger Mummert; Danny Soyer, another Oberlin graduate, who was now doing research on the Jewish labor movement; and one or two others. The rest were in their seventies and eighties. There was no one in between.
We started out with coffee and cookies, and then I called the meeting to order. “Since many of you will be working together here in New York, I’d like to go around the room and ask each of you to introduce yourselves.”
That was a mistake. Not for nothing are Jews called “a nation of priests.” Everyone had something to say. I was looking for names, and instead ended up with life stories. The most memorable was Mr. Berger, a dapper octogenarian who, in defiance of the howling weather outside, sported a dazzling suntan (as though he had just spent the day playing pinochle on Miami Beach), carried a pearl-handled walking stick, and wore a cream-colored linen suit, a silk shirt open at the neck, a straw cap, and shiny white loafers. Alas, for a man who positively radiated good health, he was utterly preoccupied with death.
“I’m here tonight,” he began when it was his turn to speak, “because my friends, the ones who really care about Yiddish, couldn’t make it. Do you know where my friends are tonight? They’re
toyt, geshtorbn, nayn eylen in drerd
(dead, deceased, nine cubits under the ground)! I’m here tonight to do the work they can no longer do themselves.”
It was an hour and a half before all twelve people at the table had had their chance to
davenen baym omed,
to take the floor and speak. I then stood up, told a bit about the Yiddish Book Center, outlined my plans for a network of volunteers in New York, and passed around Zamler’s Packets with freshly printed instructions, posters, and press releases.
“Now just one minute!” interrupted Mr. Berger. “I can see from these packets that you know all about marketing. If I ever need a goodpublic relations man I’ll be sure to call you. But let’s face facts, PR isn’t going to help us collect Yiddish books. The people with Yiddish books don’t read PR. In fact, they don’t read anything anymore! Do you know where the people with Yiddish books are now?”
“Florida?” ventured Roger.
“Dead!” shouted Mr. Berger, with a whap of his walking stick on the table.
“Toyt! Geshtorbn! Nayn eyln in—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Berger,” I broke in, “but if you’ll just let me finish I think you’ll see we’ve made adequate arrangements to pick up books after people have passed on.”
“
After
they’ve passed on? Let me tell you something, yungerman, you may run an organization but by me you’re still a
pisher,
wet behind the ears. You don’t know the first thing about how the world works, you haven’t seen what I’ve seen, you don’t walk around with death breathing down your neck every day like I do. Take it from me: You don’t go to people
after
they die, you go
before
they die!”
“And how do you propose doing that?” asked Stuart, who, working with older Jews every day at the Workmen’s Circle, was having trouble hiding his annoyance.
“Simple!” shouted Mr. Berger, whapping his walking sticking again against the Formica tabletop; “You go to the hospitals! You set up shop in the Intensive Care Unit.”—
Whap!—
“When it looks like some old Jew is about to breathe his
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