Chapter 5, Paragraphs 1 to 11 - 101 North Washington Street

"Princess Alice", 1902

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101 North Washington Street.
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Chapter 5, Paragraphs 1 -7

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I could easily use a rather weak metaphor, but I would just as soon not implicate the innocent flatware. Let’s just say Ophelia was raised atypically. Take a look at her nursery at age 5. It wouldn’t be common for a child to have this abundance of space and goods until 100 years later. There were many confluent factors; an only child, 12 room house, wealthy parents, and a mother terribly happy to have a little girl to mold to her ideal of girlhood. She had three full rooms. Abraham’s “den” was removed to the downstairs library to give her three adjoining rooms, facing east, overlooking Washington Street. Sara was most excited about the corner room, now called Ophelia’s Studio. Side by side easels, one for the master, Sara, and a tiny replica for the apprentice, Ophelia, took full advantage of the Northern exposure. The middle room was the playroom fully stocked with hobbyhorse and fancy dollhouse and most certainly Teddy Bears. The suite was completed by a quite frilly bedroom done in the shade of blue made so popular by “Princess Alice”, the very popular and lovely daughter of the President.
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Sara admired Alice Roosevelt tremendously. What a marvelous modern woman! Alice damn well did what she pleased: smoking cigarettes, zooming about in automobiles alone with men, and partying all night long, all this while living in the White House. Alice was not just a party animal. She was a skilled diplomat as well, helping end the Russo-Japanese War that won her father the Nobel peace Prize. The repressed wives of America loved Alice. Their husbands were less enthusiastic. Sara Weiss wanted Ophelia to be just like Alice but with an added artistic bent. It would be wonderful to have such a daughter. Abraham “guessed” he agreed.

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That isn’t to say that Abraham didn’t love his daughter. He adored her. Some afternoons Abraham would take Ophelia to the store. His wonderful 5-year old would happily skip along the sidewalk. She had to stare awhile at the fascinating barber’s pole and say hello to the men in the barbershop, where they knew her well enough to consider her a sort of mascot. Just a few steps from the Weiss Department Store, her daddy had to pick her up for a sip of water at the public fountain on the corner of Main Street. Ophelia loved the store. She could explore the mysteries of her daddy’s office, spinning the dial on the safe and then jumping on his chair making it swing wildly on its springs. Out on the sales floor, the sales ladies would let her try on hats and crank the cash register when they rang up a sale for an indulgent customer. Sometimes her daddy took her upstairs to explore the Opera House or downstairs to explore the dark corners of the stock room. Abraham took good care of her.

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Abe worried a little about the lack of Jewish influence in her life. Occasional visits from her Grandparents weren’t really sufficient. It was about this time that Abe suggested that Sara and Ophelia should make some visits to the other two Jewish families and invite them over to the house more often. Abraham thought that getting to know the Weinstein and Moszkowski children would be good for Ophelia’s “Jewishness”. It is a cause for concern for Jews living in small towns. It easily could happen that their children won’t grow up to be Jewish, that they won’t absorb their ancient and holy traditions, that they will perhaps convert and marry a Christian. This is something that Abraham most sincerely did not want to happen to Ophelia. It troubled him that Sara seemed more interested in introducing Ophelia to art, music and Alice Roosevelt. But Sara seemed quite good-natured about his suggestion and said that she and Ophelia could certainly make some social calls in the near future.

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Sara understood Abe’s concern but didn’t fully share it. She did feel a little guilty because she hadn’t been properly looking after Ophelia’s religious upbringing as was expected of a Jewish mother. But thus far that little feeling of guilt hadn’t caused her act. So Sara sighed. Israel and Esther Moszkowski lived in the village of Rye, 7 miles out of town. Their youngest, Naftali, was Sara’s age. A quick round of letters resulted in a warn invitation for Sara and Ophelia to lunch with Esther and Naftali.

The Weisses and Moszkowskies had traveled together on the train to religious services in Valparaiso. On one occasion the Mr. and Mrs. Moszkowski stayed overnight in the Weiss home after arriving back in Knox after sunset. Sara thought Israel rough and ill mannered and Esther seemed rather downtrodden. They both spoke with heavy accents and Esther, especially, seemed more comfortable speaking Yiddish than English. As Sara was not fluent in Yiddish it made conversation difficult. Although she was apprehensive about lunch, Sara enjoyed the adventure of driving out to Rye. It was the furthest she had ever gone afield at the helm of the Oldsmobile. (Abe’s store janitor rode in the back seat in case of breakdown).

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The lunch was surprisingly pleasant. Esther had already fed her husband and 5 boys and shooed them out of the modest house. Naftali and Ophelia played grown-up and managed a tea party with some Teddy bears. After lunch the four ladies strolled past the busy packinghouse along the tracks. There was the not entirely unpleasant smell of pickles being soaked in huge oak vats. Cartloads of potatoes pulled by horses or mules were lined up waiting to be weighed, graded, and unloaded. Just past the packinghouse they stopped at the tiny post office where Esther checked for mail and introduced Sara to the postmaster. Behind the building, next to the railroad tracks, grew wild plums. There Naftali introduced Ophelia to that little wonder of nature.

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The two girls became friends and were happy spend some time together that summer, including an overnighter at each others house. Ophelia was shocked to learn that all fathers weren’t so gentle as her own. Israel Moszkowski was the lord of his household. He was 50, fat, slovenly and arrogant. There were 4 boys living at home ages 9 to 17. Israel more or less ignored Naphtali, preferring to browbeat the boys. That is how Ophelia learned some Yiddish: putz, shlemiel, eisl, nebbish, faygeleh, pisher, meshuggina. So Abraham’s plan was certainly a success.

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---------Pardon me. Excuse me. Remember me, Ophelia’s daughter, the hard soul narrating this story. Well I’ve noticed that something odd is happening. As I extract from my memory these fragments of my family’s history and commit them to paper the story that I thought I knew is changing. Every family has private happy tales, sort of inside jokes, where all that needs to be said is a key word or phrase. Then the mind of the family is one, is communal. These are the stories that, although entirely true, are now myths, more true than truth. Do you need an example? Probably not. Your family, I’m sure has their own stories that have come to define you, you in the plural. At least for your sake I hope so. In our family the stories are what you are reading. The glorious department store, the opera house, the strange family in Rye, these are the family myths handed down to me.
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Also included in these myths are the other family stories. The ones not told at the dinner table: the grievances, the hurts, the grudges. These are told in confidentially, secretly. A mother may recruit a daughter to share a grudge. A mother may nurse a wound for many years, just waiting for a daughter to be old enough. These family tales, I also have begun to share with you.

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As I just said, I’ve noticed that something odd is happening. I thought I knew the story I was to tell. The memories are coming together in an unexpected way. It is like gluing together the shattered pottery shards dug from the sands of Illium. The pieces are all there, spread out on the archeologist’s table, but you can’t be sure what the thing will look like until you get it put together. Well I’m starting to put the pieces together and, for now, Abraham seems like a pretty good father. This is not exactly the story I expected. I, the archeologist of my family’s myths, am surprised at the emerging shape of the urn.
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Again, sorry for the interruption. Just keeping you up on things.---------