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LOOKING BACK
Remembering Father
LORIA L. CHARNES
pecial to The Jewish News
ow does one gauge the
true character of a
man — evaluate his
complishments, assess his
orth, applaud his strengths,
fend his weaknesses?
specially if he is your father.
Like notable stalwarts of
is generation, my father, of
lessed memory, made no at-
mpt to conceal an ardent af-
tion for his country. He was
onest and straightforward in
• 1 expressions.
His love for America was
werful — a passionate
ison, binding and sincere,
n the very beginning. An
'ir of the heart that span-
_ over half a century, never
dined in devotion, waned
fervency, or became jaded
y disinterest or more
vorable glances elsewhere.
It was an immigrant's
doration of his country and
11 that America so valiantly
ood for. He held glorious
opes for this nation — his by
doption — and displayed
corn and contempt for de-
actors who would discredit
r malign his beloved land.
For him, patriotism was an
nsophisticated, spontaneous
motion. Yet he knew you
ouldn't prove it by buying
chlock with the great seal of
he USA embroidered on a
ofa pillow qr collecting
lastic bowls with scenes of
ashington crossing the
elaware.
His was a simple reverence
r what he profoundly believ-
d were valid symbols: the
tatue of Liberty, Congress,
ur court system, the
residency, an unfettered
ess.
a youth, he had lived
3r a harsh, oppressive
'me, endured the tyranny
e Czar, suffered the hor-
(tnd savagery of pogroms.
lad witnessed the murder
is older brother, when
Charnes is a freelance
,.er in Oak Park, Ill.
-
they were gunning down
Jews. He was spared.
He had the features and col-
oring of a typical muzik — a
Ukrainian peasant. Instinc-
tively, ingeniously, he had
overcome frightening, for-
midable foes. He had out-
witted Cossacks, Bolsheviks,
border guards.
There was the grim remem-
brance of mounting panic
while alone with his 15-year-
old sister. Word had raced
through the village that
troops were approaching. He
knew what happened to
young Jewish girls. It was too
late to run.
Commanding her to crawl
under the quilts, he grabbed
a wet rag for her head.
Moments later, when the
soldiers broke through the
door, he faced them mournful-
ly. "She has typhus. She will
die soon," he cried. This time
it was the soldiers who fled in
terror.
He was familiar with the
repressive demands of a dic-
tatorship, the corrosive effect
of power by those who wield
it: And so it was only natural
that he nurtured a sense of
reverential mission about our
country.
Democracy to him was not
dead or dormant. He had
breathed the air in this pro-
mised land — this goldene
medina — and it was true.
The American Dream lived.
He had arrived as an im-
migrant with no tangible
assets, merely ambition, self-
discipline and boundless
determination to forge ahead.
Within two decades of being
processed at Ellis Island, he
sent his firstborn to the state
university. He didn't
speculate that maybe his
children would go to college.
It was a foregone conclusion;
they all went, and the
youngest received a Ph.D.
When his family was grow-
ing up, conversation at the
dinner table rarely contained
trivial gossip. Employing
astute insight, he would ex-
pound on national and world
affairs.
In between cabbage
borscht, potato latkes and
political pronouncements, his
children learned that liberty
is too delicate, too easily
damaged, to tinker with. He
instilled in his offspring a
fierce sense of the fitness of
things — what was right,
what was wrong, what was
beyond question, inappro-
priate.
He was an affirmative Jew,
in harmony with his religion.
'lb be a Jew in a big city is one
thing; to be a Jew in a small
town was frequently an un-
common experience. Each
week he drove miles for
kosher meat. Often the
chickens he brought to the
shochet suffocated in the
trunk of the car before they
could be slaughtered.
Called at final, frantic
moments to complete a min-
yan, he drove without com-
plaint. Who paid attention to
the weather?
When he had business in
the city, he would return with
an ethnic feast: pungent bags
of pumpernickel, corned beef,
salami, halvah, lox, herring
and dill pickles.
He served as his own
ecumenical league for the
Christian community. One
Christmas, he presented the
Lutheran pastor with a gift,
accompanied by the admoni-
tion: "Remember, Reverend,
when you preach your ser-
mon, be careful what you say.
You're wearing a Jewish tie
around your neck."
On the High Holidays, even
during the Depression, his
store was locked, with a pro-
minent sign announcing:
"Closed Because of the
Jewish Holidays." Observing
tradition, preserving his
heritage and passing his
precious legacy on to his
children assumed paramount
importance.
He could never understand
the cavalier attitude, the on-
going indifference countless
Americans displayed toward
civic affairs. Why do they read
the stock market reports and
sports section before the
editorial page? Why did they
skip the editorials altogether?
He was puzzled by a neigh-
bor's statement: "I don't get
the papers."
Repeatedly, he would pro-
test in despair, "If only I could
spell, I would write a letter to
the editor."
It may sound like an exag-
geration of filial esteem, an
overblown notion of the im-
THE DETROIT JEWISH NEWS
79
ENERATION
He had his faults, but there were basic truths that we
recall and try to duplicate.