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(Continued from Page 37)
began calling him Uncle
Barney.
My mother did not try to
contain her gratitude. Din
ners, veritable love-feasts, she
lavished on him. Shirts and
ties from Marshall Fields for
his birthday she. gave him.
And two modest raises in his
salary within the first two
months of his arrival. Grati
tude was in her voice when
she spoke to him. And once J
saw her kissing his hands and
saying in a reverential tone, as
though she were praying over
Sabbath candles, “Bless these
hands for helping Herman’s
wife and his children.”
Even Jim succumbed t o
Uncle. For the first few days
he was standoffish and surly,
as though to indicate with his
every gesture . . . Who does
this old Jewish bastard think
he is? What does he know a-
bout running a store? I’m still
head man here . . . But Uncle
steadily kept a cordial face
turned toward him, as though
unaware of Jim’s hostility. By
the end of the second week,
Jim confided to me, as though
surprised to hear himself
making the admission, “Ydur
uncle’s a pretty good guy.”
From then on I would occas
ionally see them standing to
gether, exchanging dirty jokes
and also, as I suspected, apo
cryphal and true accounts of
their respective sexual adven
tures. Not that they had be
come truly fraternal. Uncle
told me that he had plenty of
reservations about J i m. “He
is not someone to trust with
the register.” Similarly, I am
sure, despite the congenial ve
neer of their relationship, Jim
never forgot that Uncle was
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CARWOOD
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Division Chadbourn, Gotham, Inc.
WINDER, GEORGIA
Sales Offices
Chicago
New York
San Francisco
Winder
Georgia Shoe Manufacturing Co., Inc.
Flowery Branch, Georgia
Code: 404 967-6111
i
there to watch him, to coerce
him, if diplomatically, into
putting in a full day’s work.
I once asked Uncle why he
seemingly went out of the
way to get along with J i m.
Was he worth the effort? And
he answered, “If we give back
to people the way they treat
us, we don’t help them. But if
w e encourage them to be
menschen, then maybe we
help them to become a little
more of what they should be.
We have to believe they can
change.”
It was the first time he had
ever talked to me like that,
and the seriousness of his re
ply overwhelmed me. Then
he said, smiling, “Hey, no sil
ence, no seriousness, please!”
I value also the memory of
some moments when he spoke
to me about F. D. R., Marx,
the proletariat, capitalism. He
tried to teach me what was
wrong with the System, and
one afternoon, after I had re
marked to him, with all the
feeling that an acne-faced a-
dolescent can muster, “It’s
wrong for Ford to have so
much money and for other
people to have so little.” He
made me feel ten feet tall by
pounding my back and saying.
“I’m proud of you, very
proud. You come from my
college.”
From these talks I came
to see that part of him which
probably no one else, not even
my mother, saw. Behind the
happy-go-lucky exterior h e
was a bitter man. He felt that
if not for the System he would
not have twice gone into the
grocery business and twice
lost his shirt. “And now I
don’t have a pot to piss in. Not.
that I’m money hungry. But
to pinch pennies all your life
is not good either. It’s nice to
have an extra dollar in your
pocket for a good meal, a
cigar, a tie and pair of shoes.”
Still, he hardly seemed to
deprive himself of the plea
sures of the flesh. He was al
ways dressed like a prince.
Once a week he ate in a rather
expensive Jewish restaurant
on the West Side. And my
mother suspected that on
weekends he went to some
shiksa’s apartment.
However, the moments when
he was doleful about the Sys
tem in my presence were rare.
So what I most readily re
member is the world of Sun-
•" day soccer games (a sport my
father used to say was for
loafers) he introduced me to.
And his jokes, kibitzing, mar
velous laughter. The time in
the back o f the store after
working hours when neither
Babs or Mary could keep up
with him in a fast whirling
polka. The good Jewish deli
catessen downtown he took
me to for gargantuan cornbeef
on rye sandwiches and potato
. pancakes. And yes, even for
his unkept promises to take
me to a house of prostitution -
though whenever I reminded
him, he would say, ‘You’re not
ready yet.’ My greatest plea
sure was to see him all dress
ed up, the cane slung over his
shoulder, the white spats but
toned down over polished
shoes, and ready to step out on
ihe town. A real sport.
And yet, with all his joie de
vivre, he could not bring a-
bout one transformation. He
could not do anything to keep
the store from continuing to
lose money. For the first
month after his arrival, we
broke even. Business picked
up a little, but the important
thing is that the register
checked out each night. So we
assumed that Jim knew Uncle
was keeping an eagle eye on
him. But when the register
deficits began showing up a-
gain, at first negligible a-
mounts and then increasingly
greater sums until our aver
age daily loss was even
greater than before Uncle’s
arrival, we despaired. Mother,
Uncle and I would sit around
the store after closing time
working out strategies for
catching the thief, whom we
continued to assume was Jim.
At one point we forced our
selves to consider Babs and
Mary as possible suspects. But
so convinced were we that the
girls were scrupulously hon
est, this possibility was quick
ly dropped.
It had to be Jim. But though
we watched his every move,
it was to no avail. The regis
ter would check out one day,
sometimes for several days at
a stretch, followed by a day
with a shortage of anywhere
between ten and twenty-five
dollars. Literally tearing at
her hair, Mother didn’t see
how the store could remain
open much longer.
I found it. difficult merely to
look at Jim, so much did I de
spise h i m for what,; in m y
mind, he typified, and, as
much as possible within the
confining circumstancecs o f
the store, gave him a wide
berth.
So one afternoon I was
taken aback when he came up
to me, saying that he wanted
to talk about something. At
the time Mother and Uncle
were out front waiting on
trade, and I was unpacking
can goods in a corner of the
stockroom.
“Yea, what’s up?” I said
gruffly, because the sight of
his shifty-eyed face was offen
sive.
“You and your mother are
worried about money missing
from the register. Right?” he
said, almost in a whisper, as
though he were on guard a-
gainst the possibility of being
overheard. My heart started
pounding fast, for I wondered
whether he was about to con
fess, to admit to his thefts.
(Continued on Page 57)
44
The Southern Israelite