Excerpted from
Rockaway Memories and Other Short Stories
© 2010 by Ed Vlahov
My friend Ed Vlahov has led a very interesting life. Much of it has been lived outside the confines of the United States. During his business career as a top executive with Canada's leading drug store chain, Ed lived in Toronto. About 24 years ago Ed and his beautiful wife Lois decided to retire in Mexico. On a visit there they discovered and fell in love with a town on the banks of Lake Chapala (Mexico's largest lake) about 40 minutes from Guadalajara (Mexico's second largest city) called Ajijic (pronounced Ah Hee Heek). Many of the residents of Ajijic are expatriates from Canada, Europe and the United States who are fulfilling their dreams of writing, painting, acting, philanthropy (to name just a few pursuits) in this very supportive and idylic community.
Ed may have physically left New York but he is still psychically and spiritually connected to his hometown of Rockaway where he grew up and attended FRHS. His published writings to date (4 novels and his just published book of short stories) are imbued and inspired from his very rich childhood and family experiences.
When my wife Barbara and I visited Ed and Lois in Ajijic this past summer, Ed recounted to us a wonderful true story. I was delighted to find it in Ed's latest book of short stories aptly titled Rockaway Memories.
Marty Nislick
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Ed Vlahov and Marty Nislick in Ajijic,
Mexico, June, 2010 |
Bar-Mitzvah Or Stickball
I was twelve years old and the only Catholic kid who played stickball with my Jewish classmates in the schoolyard after school. Sammy Weisman was my best friend and we always played till dark. One day, nobody showed up. Left by myself with my broomstick, I batted my Spaulding ball against the brick wall until the light faded.
The next day, I met Sammy in class. "Hey Sammy. Where were you guys yesterday? You never showed up for stickball."
"Yeah, yeah. I know."
"Ain't you guys gunna play stickball anymore?"
"Nah, Willie. We can't. We gotta go to Hebrew school. We gotta study for our Bar-Mitzvah."
Bar-Mitzvah, as I understood it then, was something like Confirmation in the Church when you had to memorize the entire catechism.
"So, what does that mean, Sammy?" I asked. "Does that mean I gotta play stickball all by myself from now on?"
"Well yeah, I guess so. Unless you wanna go to Hebrew school with us."
"Hebrew school? But I ain't Jewish, Sammy."
"Don't matter, Willie. I'll get you ayarmulke, a skullcap. My father's the teacher, but he'll never know the difference."
Actually, Sammy was right. His father, Mr. Solomon Weisman, was the cantor in the synagogue, but perpetually in a fog. In his top hat and black silk suit, he could be seen walking to shul every day oblivious to his surroundings and mumbling constantly as he practiced his liturgical chants for the Sabbath. For all intense purposes, he was out of touch with reality.
In addition to leading the congregation in prayers at
services with his strong bass voice, he instructed twelve year old boys
in preparation for their upcoming Bar-Mitzvahs.
The next day as promised, Sammy supplied me with a black paper skullcap
and I took a back seat in the classroom at Hebrew school. My fears were
unfounded. Mr. Weisman never looked at me directly or at any of the other
boys for that matter. With his back to us, he stood with a chalk in his
hand and scrolled Hebrew letters on the blackboard. That's when we all
blew spitballs and threw erasers at each other.
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With a pointer, Cantor Weisman pronounced each letter, waited for an echoing response and then proceeded to the next letter. Of course, in Hebrew, you read from the bottom up and always from right to left. The pointer showed us the way. Mr. Weisman never spoke English in class, only Hebrew and Yiddish which I quickly picked up.
After two weeks of this repetitive format, we all became quite proficient in the alphabet, visually and vocally. From there, we graduated to numbers, words and sentences. Within three months, I was able to decipher most of the news in the 'Freiheit' or the 'Jewish Daily Forward'. On occasion after Hebrew school, I would go to Sammy's house for a nosh or tidbit. There I developed my lifelong love of latke or potato pancakes, kosher dill pickles and the twisted challah bread which was spread with salted schmaltz or chicken fat.
On Saturday mornings, everyone attended Shabbes or Sabbath services in the synagogue. I didn't go for fear of being discovered and kicked out of Hebrew school. Instead, I played one-man stickball against the brick wall in the schoolyard all by myself. But on Sunday afternoon, weather permitting, we all gathered for a weekly pickup game of regular stickball.
One afternoon in Hebrew school, not long afterwards, the Rabbi walked into our classroom. We all immediately quit clowning around and folded our hands on our desks like good rabbinical students. The Rabbi chatted with Cantor Weisman for a couple of minutes, smiled as he glanced around the room and then left.
Now Rabbi Moskowitz was a big man. He wasn't tall, maybe only five feet, but still very big. He was big around the middle, especially the rump. His rear end was probably three feet wide. Sammy gave him the nickname, Rabbi Schukatuchis, which translated means Rabbi Shake your Ass.
Well, after class, the Rabbi was waiting for me in the hall.
"Good afternoon," he said.
And I said, "good afternoon, Rabbi."
And he said, "Somehow I don't remember your name."
And I said, "It's William. William Cypress."
"Aha," he said. "William Cypress. Do I know your father, William?" he asked.
And I said, "I'm not sure, Rabbi."
And he said, "Tell me William, what is your father's name?"
And I answered, "Its John. John Cypress."
And he said, "Aha. I would like very much to meet your father, William. Would you ask him to come see me this week?"
And I said, "Sure, Rabbi. I'll tell him."
Well, when I escaped into the street, it occurred to me that John wasn't a Jewish name. No Jewish family would ever name their son John. Maybe Seymour, Marvin or Irving,. . . but never John.
So, since it was useless, I never asked my father to go see the Rabbi. Instead, I simply dropped out of Hebrew school and that's the reason why I never got my Bar-Mitzvah. But it is the reason why I'm entered in the 'Guinness Book of Records', as the inventor of the game of 'One-Man Stickball'.