LOOKING BACK
ROBERT WEINSTEIN
Special to The Jewish News
How I Almo
Became
The M ssiah
The year was 1922. The place the tenements of the
East Bronx. I was ten years old the third of four
sons of a young immigrant couple whose Papa had
ambitions that one of us would become a rabbi
48
FRIDAY, AUG. 7, 1987
t's absolutely true. For
about fifteen glorious
minutes I was He who
was destined to lead the Jews
to the promised heights, the
King of the Jews, the long-
awaited Messiah, the miracle
in the Bronx.
The year was 1922. The
place was the slum tenements
of the East Bronx. In de-
lirium and joy my father car-
ried me on his broad shoul-
ders as he half-walked, half-
ran to the corner synagogue.
A half dozen neighbors, in-
fected by Papa's enthusiasm,
milled and danced around in
joyous abandon and yelled
that the Messiah — at last, at
last! — had been sent by the
Almighty to deliver His
people.
I was ten years old, the
third of four sons born to the
young immigrant couple. Ma-
ma and Papa were typical
Jews of that era. They kept a
kosher home, went to shul
regularly, and were fanatics in
their observance of Jewish
customs and laws.
Papa had ambitions that
the oldest son would become
a rabbi. The boy cooperated
for awhile, davening all over
the place, wearing fringed
garments, rocking back and
forth as he prayed. Unfor-
tunately, the basic idea of
America got to him. He an-
nounced one day that he was
abandoning religion and in
the future would concentrate
on getting rich. Papa bowed
to the inevitable.
The second son was like-
wise a lost cause. The culprit
had no interest in life except
ball playing. Basketball,
baseball, football, handball —
whatever was in season. His
place of worship was the
schoolyard or any vacant lot.
The boy was bright, but he
didn't care for anything but
sports. He spent three years
in the sixth grade, proud of
the fact that he never once
opened a book or did any
homework. From there he
went on to an irresolute but
long and happy life.
Papa's hopes descended on
me. I was ten years old —
maybe . . . There was still
another son but he was only
five, too soon to know which
way that bough would bend.
So one day Papa took me for
a walk, and delivered me to
the rabbi in the synagogue
down the block.
Ah, that rabbi! He was at
least ninety years old. His
body was thin; his eyes were
black, sunken caverns; and
his white beard was long and
unkempt. He always spoke in
a low voice so that the pupil
had to be alert to his in-
frequent words.
The rabbi had an effective
teaching method — one on
one, the rabbi versus the
hapless pupil. The rabbi
spoke no English, but he did
have a strap which he used at
the slightest dereliction or in-
attention, thus maintaining a
state of strict discipline
among his pupils.
The rabbi's school was run
on a simple system. The
pupils reluctantly gathered
after the regular school day,
sat on wooden benches and
waited. The rabbi's place of
instruction was a tiny study
room, separated by a thin
plasterboard partition from
the waiting room. Every
word, every slash of the strap,
every moan of the trapped
pupils could be heard by the
waiting pupils.
After a student had recited
his lesson to the rabbi's
satisfaction — sometimes a
lesson took five minutes,
sometimes a half-hour — he
would be released from bond-
age to the outer world. The
next dejected pupil would
timidly enter the torture den.
The kid would sit on a plain
wooden kitchen chair in front
of the rabbi and recite from
the book. The rabbi used a
sharpened lollypop stick to
point to each letter of each
word. If the recitation wasn't
perfect, the whirr of the strap
was heard, followed promptly
by a muffled yelp.
The bigger and older boys,
who were approaching thir-
teen and Bar Mitzvah, were
the best students. Several
years of intense concentration
and letter-perfect recitations,
with one eye on the book and
one eye on the strap had
sharpened their intellects.
They were always the first to
sit with the rabbi for their
lessons. The newcomers like
myself were at the bottom of