Each issue is in perfect bound book form for
your library shelves.
Some are scholarly articles, complete with endnotes.
Others are memory pieces; personal memories of
childhood, of grandparents, and historical places and incidents.
One
sample of this is below.
Publisher's Note: Western States Jewish
History continually looks for memories from which to construct
pictures of times and places in the American West. This "Memory" of
Sterling Rachootin shows a wonderful picture of part of Los Angeles in
the early 1930s.
It was Christmas Week, 1933, and I had just returned
from school to get the shock of my life at the young age of seven.
There, standing in the corner of our living room, was a beautiful
Christmas tree, a full seven feet tall, decked out in tinsel, with
lights glistening, and Christmas ornaments, including glass balls of
many colors, draped with strings of popcorn. We never had a Christmas
tree before, and the sight of all this just stunned me. And I must say,
it was beautiful!
My parents were immigrants. Mother, Henrietta, "Henri," arriving
from London some 25 years earlier as a baby, was able to get a fine
education. On the other hand, my father, Isadore "Izzy," came directly
from Russia at age 14. He was all alone, knowing no English, and had to
earn a living right away. He never learned to read and write English, so
all his activities were conducted in Yiddish.
"Izzy" and "Henri" were orthodox Jews, doing the
normal practices of keeping kosher, never serving milk with meat, etc.
We lived on a street with just four Jewish households—Lakeshore Avenue,
just north of Effie St. Only one other Jewish family in the area had a
son my age.
At this time my father was a peddler of fruits and
vegetables. He served the Jewish section of Los Angeles, called Boyle
Heights. His work week was from Monday through Friday because most Jews
in Boyle Heights were frum, and honored the Sabbath. He was very
ambitious. This being the depression years, and my father lacking in an
English schooling and trying to survive in desperate times, was forced
to run a concession in Lincoln Park on Saturdays and Sundays. There, he
sold popcorn, candy, and soda pop, and according to him, he owned the
greatest capitalistic invention of all time, the cotton candy machine.
For a few cents worth of sugar and food coloring you could make a whole
slew of cotton candy cones which sold for ten cents each. This was a
miracle of miracles, since he was working for just pennies all this
time.
Many fruits and vegetables are fragile and spoil if
not sold within a short time. When kept unrefrigerated in an open truck,
it makes matters worse. My father had worked out a wonderful arrangement
with the Lying In Hospital on Morton Avenue which was on a street that
today leads up to Elison Park and the Dodger Stadium. All the leftover
produce that would have spoiled if not sold, was sold to the owner of
the hospital, Mr. Isoff, for a very insignificant sum. My father could
start off the next day with all fresh merchandise. We could not consume
everything that did not sell, and Mr. Isoff could feed all his
hospitalized patients for an insignificant sum of money. I was born at
this hospital, but it no longer stands.
Mr. Isoff became so friendly and enamored of my
father for this mutually beneficial arrangement, that he wanted to do
something special for our family. When he learned that we would not have
a Christmas tree in our home, he decided he would bring the Christmas
spirit and good cheer to us. He personally came over to our house while
my father was peddling his produce, set up and decorated the tree,
sparing no expense.
My mother did not have the heart to tell him not to
set up the tree nor to take the tree back, and burst his bubble of
sincere pleasure, as he certainly meant well. When my grandmother walked
over to our home, as she usually did, and saw the tree, she slammed the
front door, stalked out, rushing back to her home just two blocks away
on Echo Park Avenue, and for some time did not speak to my mother or
father, nor visit us. Time did finally heal this rift when the
explanation sunk in. This was "Izzy’s" and my first and last Christmas
tree.
"Izzy" the Bookie
My father had a Superman’s philosophy. "If a human
being can do it, so can I." He tackled any task before him. He was
strong as an ox. He had a fine mind and could figure out how to solve
all kinds of problems. One might question the manner in which he
operated, but let it suffice to say he feared nothing and he would
tackle any problem that confronted him. As he would say, "I have nothing
to lose. I came here with nothing and I can only go up, so let’s give it
a try."
The one thing "Izzy" could not do was read and
write English. In a way that was not much of a hindrance, because the
woman he married, my mother, had a fantastic education for the times,
graduating high school plus two years of business school where she
learned Gregg short hand, typing, etc. which landed her a job in a major
company as a private secretary. After marriage, she became my father’s
private secretary besides a wife, so why was it necessary for him to
learn English? He got by with his broken English and a warm empathetic
social manner, which won the hearts of all who crossed his path.
In 1936, my father gave up peddling fruits and
vegetables, and opened a small neighborhood grocery/market. His tiny
store, which rented for $17 a month, contained anything and everything a
supermarket would have even though it was no larger than a small living
room in a tract house. Besides fresh fruits and vegetables, which had to
be set out on the sidewalk, it had fresh meats, beer and wine plus bulk
wine in barrels, cosmetics, etc.
After paying for goodwill to the previous owner and
buying the stock, "Izzy" discovered that there was a local bookie who
used the premises as a base of operations. My father liked gambling and
soon he saw that the bookie was making more money than he was, just by
holding bets. So my father decided he would take the bets and become a
bookie. He did quite well, so the original bookie reported my father to
the police.
The radio in his new store was tuned to the horse
racing results which followed after the sound of the bugle announcing
the winners. At this point my father would shout out to any customers
who may be present in broken English, "Everybody shut up!" Then in
Yiddish, he jotted down the race number, track, winners and what the
odds were. It was at this moment that two burly policemen in plain
clothes walked in from an unmarked police car parked across the street
and gathered up all my father’s papers, and took him down to the Hall of
Justice. My mother was called in to attend the store.
As my father related the experience to me, he was
called before a judge who told him that he was being arrested for
gambling. Then the judge asked about the records the police had as
evidence. My father explained that those pieces of paper were orders
that customers called in. The judge then asked if anyone present could
read Yiddish. No one responded, so the judge dismissed the case. Upon
his return home my mother convinced my father that being a bookie was
not for him. He agreed. Not knowing English had saved the day.
After retiring, my father became a banker and
developer of real estate. This came about when my Aunt Henya and Uncle
Orlick moved to Los Angeles from Winnipeg bringing with them $100,000.
Not knowing the financial situation in a foreign country they asked my
father what to do. He told them to buy real estate, rental units. They
said they would wait and deposit the money in the bank. My father told
them that banks only gave 2% interest on their money. If they would give
him the money, he would pay them 4% interest and he would give them back
all their money with a three month notice. For one year my father bought
and sold vacant land, buildings, in places like Artesia, Norco, Corona,
and Perris. In a year’s time he made himself a nice bundle and all
involved were happy. All this occured just after World War II, when the
economy here exploded.
My father had a real work ethic and no job was
beneath his dignity. After retiring he looked forward to Junk Day, when
people threw out broken clocks, toasters that did not work, or mirrors
whose frames lost their appearance. As he put it, "Any fool with money
can walk into a store and buy anything. But who can take a thrown out
clock apart and make it keep time again?" You don’t have to leap tall
buildings in one jump to be a Superman! Have the right attitude. Use
your head. Be a mensch.
•
Western States Jewish History is interested
in your memories and recollections of earlier days in the American
West. Send your typewritten memories with a picture or two to us at:
Western States Jewish History
Editorial Office
22711 Cass Avenue, Woodland Hills, CA 91364
Be sure to include your name, address and phone
number.
We will scan and return your photos immediately.
