A Jewish Refugee in New York by Kadya Molodovsky

Author:Kadya Molodovsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780253040770
Publisher: Indiana University Press
Published: 2019-01-30T00:00:00+00:00

Yitzhak Fish

Director, Aid Society

1900

“Forty years ago, we built this institution for humanitarian reasons, in order to help people.” And he pulled another business card out of his pocket:

Yitzhak Fishman

President, Aid Society

1906

“I sat here day and night. I made these chairs myself. I painted the walls myself. I underwrote the Association’s tsharter myself.”

I told him about Sheinfeld. He was a teacher, a good, gentle man. Now he was a sick man, a refugee, all alone here. He needed fifteen dollars for rent. He was working in a fektoree of secondhand spoons, but now he was sick, without family . . .

“What a pity,” the old man said. “Truly a pity. Whatever happened to humaneness? What are you to him? A relative?”

“No, I was his student. He taught me math.”

“Come,” he said. “Come with me.” He went up to the second floor. I wasn’t sure that he would do anything for me, but I went upstairs with him. What did I have to lose?

The old man walked into every door without knocking. “Where is Mr. Kahn?” he asked.

We came to Mr. Kahn, the president. At a nearby table, two secretaries sat working at their typewriters. When they saw the old man, they looked at one another as if to say, “Here he comes again; there’s bound to be some to-do now.”

Mr. Kahn gave him a friendly greeting. “Halo, halo, halo, Mr. Fish! Vat nyus?”

“Trubl, trubl. We need to give her fifteen dollars.”

“It’s not for me,” I explained. “It’s for a sick man, for Mr. Sheinfeld.”

“Fifteen dollars. A sick man. A refugee. All alone. Oy, oy, oy. A little humanity.”

“Mr. Fish,” said Mr. Kahn, interrupting him. “I don’t need to tell you how things are. You were here when we decided that we wouldn’t pay anyone’s household expenses. We don’t have enough for that. You know that, Mr. Fish.”

“Decided. Decided. Vey, vey, vey. Humanity. A man sick in bed. All alone. Not everyone comes to us. But, look, she came. What if someone were to fall down in the middle of the street? People would help.”

Mr. Kahn stood up and said, “But we can’t overturn a decision. We just can’t.”

The old man waved him away as if he were a fly: “Vey, vey, vey. What are you telling me? I built this institushun. I carried the boards myself. I painted it myself. Why? For humanitarian reasons. Vey, vey. . . . Where is the table? I don’t see it here. It was a strong table, made of oak, with nails to make it last a hundred years. Why do we need fornitsher here? Who needs that? We need mentshlekhkeyt—kindness, common decency. We must give her fifteen dollars.”

When Mr. Kahn heard about the oak table, he put his hand on his forehead and said, “But, Mr. Fish, I don’t have it. I’m not the one in charge here. Dat’s imposibl.”

“Possible. Impossible,” the old man mocked. With a loud, shaking voice he said, “I’m the one in charge. I painted every wall. I’ll give two dollars out of my pocket.

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