window, she’d stop in the street, take out her address book, and see who she could send it to.
Eventually Ethel won the lawsuit. She kept her three children then gave two away. The eldest, Aunt Helen, was raised by Ethel’s parents in Princeton. And even though Jake wanted my father to be a rabbi, Dad was plucked out of Yeshiva and shipped off to military school so he could “learn to be a man.” At twenty-nine, Ethel was a rich and beautiful widow encumbered by only one little girl.
Jake’s executors made sure his wishes were honored. My grandmother couldn’t remarry before all three children married, or she’d forfeit her trust. The will also specified that the children could not get the balance of their trusts until they married. If a child married out of the faith, that child would forfeit his or her inheritance to be divided among the other children. It was a will that encouraged Jacob’s progeny to find someone Jewish, fast. Aunt Helen fell in love with a Catholic named Vance, but she married a Jew. Aunt Harriet dropped out of high school and married four days after she turned eighteen. When my father married at twenty, he was Ethel’s last child to wed. That’s what she was waiting for. Seven days later she married her boyfriend, Charles Wolf. The name Volk means people, or folk, in German. But in Russian, Volk means wolf. Ethel Volk Volk. Ethel Wolf Wolf. Ethel Volk Wolf. Ethel Wolf Volk.
Jake was no stranger to control-from-the-grave wills. Reb Sussel’s was a tontine, a system of money dispersal introduced by a Neapolitan banker named Lorenzo Tonti to France in the seventeenth century. In a tontine money is shared equally among a group of people, but as each person dies, what’s left of his or her share is divided among the survivors. When Sussman died, he left equal shares in the deli to his six remaining children. But as each Volk child died, they could not leave their shares to their own families. Their shares reverted to their siblings. I don’t know who Reb Sussel’s last surviving child was. But a few years ago I wrote an essay that mentioned the deli, and the phone rang. A woman I’d never heard of introduced herself. “I’m Cecil Joseph’s daughter,” she said.
“Oh!” I said. “You must be Annie Volk Joseph’s granddaughter!”
We talked for a few minutes about the family. Then she said, “Listen. You know the key money from the deli? It’s still in escrow, but my father’s mother was the last remaining child from that generation, so I hope you’re not going to give me a hard time about it.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No,” she said.
“How much?” I asked.
Softly she hung up the phone.
My grandmother tried to run the Jacob Volk Wrecking and Shoring Company herself. It went under fast. Meanwhile, Jake’s brother prospered with the Albert A. Volk House Wrecking & Excavating Company and the Albert A. Volk Building Materials Corporation. In his spare time, Albert A. (for Abba) wrote letters to the
New York Times
about Churchill and Roosevelt, letters urging the amendment of the Wagner Act, increased tree planting on city streets, prolonged war on Germany, and fear of black cats. The
Times
published dozens of letters. Then they published the rebuttals. Then they published Albert’s rebuttals to the rebuttals. Heated letters went back and forth. Eventually a
Times
reporter knocked on Albert’s door.
HERE’S ONE READER WHO LIKES WRITING—ALBERT VOLK’S LETTERS TO EDITORS ON PROBLEMS OF THE DAY ARE HIS MAIN PLEASURE, the headline read.
“You think I’m a crackpot?” Albert asked the reporter. “Well, maybe I am. But what is a crackpot? It is anyone who is cracked about different things than you are cracked on.”
The interview appeared on October 4, 1948, but part of my copy has been excised. I go to the microfilm room at the New York Public Library. Someone in the family has neatly removed the following: “He was ousted from two public schools and
Eventually Ethel won the lawsuit. She kept her three children then gave two away. The eldest, Aunt Helen, was raised by Ethel’s parents in Princeton. And even though Jake wanted my father to be a rabbi, Dad was plucked out of Yeshiva and shipped off to military school so he could “learn to be a man.” At twenty-nine, Ethel was a rich and beautiful widow encumbered by only one little girl.
Jake’s executors made sure his wishes were honored. My grandmother couldn’t remarry before all three children married, or she’d forfeit her trust. The will also specified that the children could not get the balance of their trusts until they married. If a child married out of the faith, that child would forfeit his or her inheritance to be divided among the other children. It was a will that encouraged Jacob’s progeny to find someone Jewish, fast. Aunt Helen fell in love with a Catholic named Vance, but she married a Jew. Aunt Harriet dropped out of high school and married four days after she turned eighteen. When my father married at twenty, he was Ethel’s last child to wed. That’s what she was waiting for. Seven days later she married her boyfriend, Charles Wolf. The name Volk means people, or folk, in German. But in Russian, Volk means wolf. Ethel Volk Volk. Ethel Wolf Wolf. Ethel Volk Wolf. Ethel Wolf Volk.
Jake was no stranger to control-from-the-grave wills. Reb Sussel’s was a tontine, a system of money dispersal introduced by a Neapolitan banker named Lorenzo Tonti to France in the seventeenth century. In a tontine money is shared equally among a group of people, but as each person dies, what’s left of his or her share is divided among the survivors. When Sussman died, he left equal shares in the deli to his six remaining children. But as each Volk child died, they could not leave their shares to their own families. Their shares reverted to their siblings. I don’t know who Reb Sussel’s last surviving child was. But a few years ago I wrote an essay that mentioned the deli, and the phone rang. A woman I’d never heard of introduced herself. “I’m Cecil Joseph’s daughter,” she said.
“Oh!” I said. “You must be Annie Volk Joseph’s granddaughter!”
We talked for a few minutes about the family. Then she said, “Listen. You know the key money from the deli? It’s still in escrow, but my father’s mother was the last remaining child from that generation, so I hope you’re not going to give me a hard time about it.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No,” she said.
“How much?” I asked.
Softly she hung up the phone.
My grandmother tried to run the Jacob Volk Wrecking and Shoring Company herself. It went under fast. Meanwhile, Jake’s brother prospered with the Albert A. Volk House Wrecking & Excavating Company and the Albert A. Volk Building Materials Corporation. In his spare time, Albert A. (for Abba) wrote letters to the
New York Times
about Churchill and Roosevelt, letters urging the amendment of the Wagner Act, increased tree planting on city streets, prolonged war on Germany, and fear of black cats. The
Times
published dozens of letters. Then they published the rebuttals. Then they published Albert’s rebuttals to the rebuttals. Heated letters went back and forth. Eventually a
Times
reporter knocked on Albert’s door.
HERE’S ONE READER WHO LIKES WRITING—ALBERT VOLK’S LETTERS TO EDITORS ON PROBLEMS OF THE DAY ARE HIS MAIN PLEASURE, the headline read.
“You think I’m a crackpot?” Albert asked the reporter. “Well, maybe I am. But what is a crackpot? It is anyone who is cracked about different things than you are cracked on.”
The interview appeared on October 4, 1948, but part of my copy has been excised. I go to the microfilm room at the New York Public Library. Someone in the family has neatly removed the following: “He was ousted from two public schools and
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