Thursday Dec 18

[no entry today - Papa accidentally wrote his December 20th entry on this page]

----------

"Oh no Harry I think I'm going to upchuck" H. says and she is right, thank goodness for the private bath. Our dance ends she runs and kneels and she is like a sick child and it worries me so until she is finished, with a washcloth I clean the front of her dress her chin and nose and I help her to the bed. I lay a wet cloth on her head and I watch her and she falls asleep, safe. I don't know if I should return the liquor to Thomas but I decide instead to pour it down the drain, I rinse the pitcher and glasses in the sink. I check on H. again, she is still. I hear the radio now, it is too loud and so H. should sleep better I decide to turn it off, then I see the ghost is there, the ghost is there by the radio.

Like a dancer a poor dancer she moves, not in time to the radio music, slowly not like the people in New York she must have lived in a slower time like the old barons in the old country, they moved with such ease such stillness while all around we hurried in the streets. I watch her she reminds me of the dress patterns in the factory, a picture of something to come but not yet there, a shape of a woman. I see her face but I see the radio behind her still, like a trick photograph come to life. I see only her torso, it rises from the floor as if she stands on a floor below, and now I remember what Thomas told me, after the fire the builders remade the hotel remade it with larger rooms, higher rooms and it must be true she must stand where the old floor once was.

I want to be sure H. does not see this does not become frightened, yet I cannot turn to check on her for I feel I must watch the apparition, I must watch her every moment. She holds her arms out, her hands down near her waist, she has a tender smile perhaps she strokes the head of a child and then in a moment just as Thomas described she looks up, she is afraid, her mouth opens she holds one arm above her forehead, she appears to sing a silent aria. Now something Thomas did not tell me, she turns, turns her face to me, for a moment our eyes meet and then she is gone and then I know the room is burning burned by the man who took her life.

I switch off the radio, I take the chair from the desk and sit and watch H., I watch her sleep for a time and she is silent and pale and I think of the forest, in the forest around the little town where I was born it must be snowing, and every snowflake tumbles and every snowflake whispers and I am so far from them, so far I will never see them gather, never see the wet ground after they melt.

Wednesday Dec 17

[no entry today]

----------

We arrive at the room, Thomas finally speaks and he he warns us the door opens on its own sometimes, we must lock it to keep it closed. Inside now H. sits on the bed she leans back on her elbows and I think for some reason I want to sit at the desk, there is a stack of paper on the desk and a pen and I think I might write to my sisters on Rivington Street, or to my brother in Sniatyn that he might read my letter out loud to my mother. How it would puzzle them, a letter from a hotel in my own city, a letter written from a room with a private bathroom. In the corner is a "cabinet" radio of the newer type, built of wood and cloth and shaped like a spire. There will be an opera tonight I tell H. and I switch the radio on, it is so unlike my own radio, its dials are large, raised numbers on the cabinet mark the stations. The controls are stiff and I wonder if I am the first to use it.

Can the ghost hear the radio, does it confuse her because she lived at a time before such inventions? Do the voices and music from this strange pointed box seem to her phantom emanations, sudden and soft from a source unknown? I would certainly relieve her of this fear if I could, if I could I would end the frustration of her eternal wait, stop the terrible drama she performs at night, the repetition of her life's most frightening most disappointing most regrettable moment. Why does she remain in this moment, remain where she no longer belongs, does the very instant of her death, her terrible death, does she prefer it to what unknown future awaits her soul?

Thomas is again at the door, H. lets him in and he enters he bears pitcher and glasses on a tray. Refreshments he calls them and H. claps her hands and says now we can have a party and I am briefly relieved, I am thirsty and then I remember H. and her secret meeting with the clerk. My suspicion proves correct the pitcher conceals not water but instead some kind of clear hooch I have heard hotels do this but I never have seen it myself.

Thomas leaves a moment later the door swings open just as he said it would, I lock it to conceal the little secret the secret H. and I share. H. takes a drink and she pours some more and she holds out a glass to me. I tell her if she drinks much more she won't see the ghost, that's the idea Harry she says. Her face looks strange, shadows across her cheeks and eyes, I did not think it possible but I prefer not to look at her.

Just a few blocks away I might find Blitz at headquarters and we might discuss the ball and I might ask him to assist in the preparation of my speech. I know now what the speech will be, a treatise on patience on hard work I will urge all to remember how long we have wandered how close we are now how some of us, at least some of us may live to see all of Israel come home at last. Like a letter to my beloved father it will be and I would like to sit at the desk and begin but H. of course stands there and she holds a glass out to me.

I take a tiny sip so as not to disappoint her, it is sharp with a poisonous taste and I mention the ghost again, aren't we here to see the ghost I ask surely we will see her if we watch carefully. "Oh Harry what's the difference" she says, and glass still in hand puts her arms on my shoulders, drapes them around my neck. It is what I have wanted yet so unlike what I want, all the same the music on the radio is a sweet sweet song and she smiles, a small smile but full of intention she moves only the corners of her mouth and her eyes darken and she melts against me. Dance with me Harry she says and we sway, I drift with her in a tiny waltz I waltz in miniature with small steps and she notices the steps and follows and then giggles and she smiles the smile again and tilts her head to the side like she has a question, a question for which there is but one answer and I kiss her now I kiss her at last.

Tuesday Dec 16

[no entry today]

----------

Thomas operates the elevator for me and H. but she does not speak to him or look at him, she looks at me instead and holds my arm with both hands and she looks and looks. Such attention she gives me and I am honored and I am sure I cannot help but kiss her, she wears a hat tight around her head the hat sparkles and it is the same color of her dress, she is slight of figure and her eyes are dark. She is the picture of flaming youth, the very picture of flaming youth and what then does that make me? Months ago she accompanied me to the opera, a poor performance and macabre as well but still enchanted she wept and told me she dreamed of the day she would sit in the boxes. We walked a long while and still she wept, there were tears in her eyes all the way home and they sparkled, lit by the store windows and signs and street lights. "I'm so ashamed Harry" she told me and I asked her why and she said it won't matter will it and that night I sat and I composed a letter and I sent it to her.

Our friendship ended I think that night I don't know what to call the rest.

-------------

[Note: This post is a continuation of group started on Dec. 7]

Sunday Dec 15

[no entry today]

----------

The hotel is up town not far from headquarters. A Christmas decoration, a wreath of green leaves hangs from its eaves, three flags hang there too one the American flag and two I do not recognize. A young man dressed like a soldier opens the door. Another youth dressed the same stands in the lobby, it is a small hotel and the lobby also is small, but I admire the workmanship of the bar, a wood bar with brass rails and behind it empty shelves backed by curved panes of frosted glass. Atop the bar is a brass sign, "No Liquor Served" it says.

The train ride here was quiet, H. stared at the straps, spoke little but outside the train her mood brightened, now she speaks to the clerk with great cheer, I am relieved and I remember again how beautiful how lively she is. The clerk knows her it seems he smiles and says welcome young lady, I'm young but maybe not a lady she says and the clerk laughs. His laugh is not real I don't believe he liked her joke. I approach and I stand next to her and offer to speak to him instead and she says don't worry Harry I'll take care of this.

I speak to the boy in the lobby, I introduce myself and learn his name is Thomas. He looks worried, looks over to the clerk, I am not supposed to speak to guests he says and I tell him it is all right I am not a guest, not really. I learn he lives near me in the Irish neighborhood and I say he must think well of Governor Smith, and I ask about his union, if he goes to meetings. I'm not supposed to speak about the union he tells me and we look again to the clerk, but he does not see us, he listens to H. who whispers in his ear. Now H. walks behind the counter, together she and the clerk walk through a curtain to what must be a room beyond.

No one can see you speaking to me I tell Thomas and I remind him of the union I remind him of its advantages. He might have a brother or sister down on his luck, mistreated in the workplace if that happened to you I ask would you not want your brother or sister to come to your aid? If you do not have a brother then the union is your brother I tell him. "My brother cut off his thumb" is his only answer and I see now he is saddened and I am saddened too. There is so much sadness in each life but joy too, great joy he must have, I imagine him at home with his family, his mother his father, his injured brother is no burden for they are all together, together in their warm rooms.

H. does not return for a moment, but I know she does not want me to disturb her so I ask Thomas about the ghost. He tells me he is not supposed to speak about the ghost, this does not surprise me but he tells me more anyway tells me she appears in room 602, people say she kneels in the corner, looks up and holds an arm over her forehead as if to stop a blow but she disappears before the blow arrives and then she is gone. It is not unusual Thomas says, when it happens we move the guests to a suite, we used to give them champagne too but now we only give them chocolate.

Saturday Dec 14

[no entry today]

----------

6:00 AM

Have just returned from evening with H. I expect she is still there. I will attempt to recall the events.

On the train to Williamsburg, I think of the tragedy in the hotel, whether it is true. Could a fire kill two people and not more? If it was a murder instead would it not be a famous scandal? Earlier in the day I visited Henry E., he sells linens to hotels but he said he never heard of the fire or murder, with so many hotels in town he said he could not be sure if it was true, every hotel has a murder, a fire, a story of a ghost.

I do not know why a man takes a mistress. The pledge of marriage is a blessing, the marital life a love made real by the exercise of self-sacrifice and the advantage of lasting friendship. Is not the true joy of such a union to experience the partnership, how it remains even when the youthful urgency of love is no longer?

It was a curious day, on the train to Williamsburg I remember I did not eat.

I call on H. and I offer to sit with her aunt in the front room but H. rushes out, impatient. Her cheeks are rouged even so I see her face is red and flushed and I ask her is she sick and she replies "no Harry but I am drunk." I laugh but it's true I think and I wonder if her aunt joined her. I object to prohibition, but Coolidge is a dry and other causes mean so much more to me. Her uncle perhaps purchased some liquor before his death and it must be there in the house still.

H. leads me to an auto and tells me it is her aunt's and we can take it but I cannot drive I say, I only know how to ride. I tell her Rothblum has offered to teach me but she is disappointed and says I suppose a taxi is too much for a girl to dream of and walks quickly away, and I think of autos and the lesson Rothblum gave me in the Coney Island parking lot and how the brake stops the wheels and even occasionally the engine kicks and goes quiet when I use the brake improperly, a habit Rothblum says everyone has and everyone loses, don't worry Harry but I don't worry, I'm not worried I simply find the brake appealing.

Then I remember there were some days my father would not eat either, he was sick some days and could not eat but now I wonder was he sick or did he not eat so we might have more? I would sit on his lap at dinner, he would not eat but he would stroke my hair and sing me the songs. How I stared at the edge of the table, and I would count the lines in the wood and nibble on my bread and hear my fathers song and feel his hand and there was nothing, there was nothing but the table and his voice and his touch.

H. and I walk to the train and it arrives and she takes my arm as we get on, leans on me for balance I suppose. The train pulls away and we start our ride to Manhattan I think all this is impossible, all this is endless.

Friday Dec 13

[no entry today]

----------

8:00 AM

Spoke to Breitbart last night, he agreed gladly to postpone our dinner. To think about my upcoming evening in H's company fills me with contentment, after all these months perhaps there glows within her a spark of affection for me. I must endeavor to earn the honor of her company so her affection might grow, I must erase the memory of my past mistakes for I believe I am so much more.

I think about the ghost in the hotel H. says it is the ghost of the man who built it killed in a fire with his mistress or perhaps killed by the husband of his mistress. I don't think there is a ghost but H says it is seen every year at this time, I wonder am I permitted to be among ghosts if I am not permitted to be among the dead?

Thursday Dec 11

[no entry today]

----------

H's plan is for Saturday evening, I must call Jack to discuss it. If he expects to see me of course I will go with him instead and also I have doubts about what H. has proposed, a folly is it not? Let Houdini be Houdini in my opinion. Can she truly want this, such a clever lively woman full of thoughts on every subject, on movies and literature and music, does she really believe we will see a ghost? Perhaps she has another thought in mind but I do not know if I should ask.

-------------

[Note: This post is a continuation of group started on Dec. 7]

Wednesday Dec 10

[no entry today]

----------

H. smiles, she sings my name as I enter the Dist office, a song with only one word sung just for me. At her feet are boxes of circulars ready to distribute, her sleeves are rolled to the elbows like a cutter's and she wears a hat I suppose to keep her "bob" out of her eyes, at her temple a tiny smudge where she brushed at a stray hair with inky fingers. Henry G. sits at the corner table with the pledge committee, they examine a ledger bent over to see the rows of numbers but he looks at me over their heads, his back straight, somehow more a part of my chat with H. than with the work of his companions.

The girl from the hat shop is here and she hands me a note, a message from Blitz about Goldberg, I must ring him immediately. Blitz is worried about Goldberg and his German trip, some at headquarters agree with him others think we should not ask him to speak, he tells me things are changing, the moment is delicate we must tread carefully.

After the call I return to the room and H. sits by the printing machine, she sits and reads Photoplay and does not look up as I examine the boxes of circulars, only another box or two to go and we will have enough. I commend H. on her efforts, we have just a little more to do, and now she closes her magazine, her face a lovely pout, she is joking I think when she asks "Is that all you can say?" She tells me she has been there all afternoon perspiring and getting dirty for me. "And you walk in and make a telephone call and then that's all you can say."

I hold out my hand to help her to her feet but she gets up and drops Photoplay on the chair. She tells me if not for Henry G.'s help she might not have done as much as she did, really he was a great help, such a gentleman. Henry must not have worked today, we are in a slack season many of us are off here and there.

"I forgive you Harry if you promise to be good from now on," H. says. "Now let me tell you my idea."

----------------

[Note: This post is a continuation of group started on Dec. 7]

Tuesday Dec 9

[no entry today]

----------

Rothstein on the telephone, he tells me H. now lives in Williamsburg and I tell him I know because I have met her at the Dist. He says he knows about the Dist. He tells me again H. is now in Williamsburg with her aunt, an American. I touch the head set for my radio and remember Gigli is in Philadelphia with Serafin and the rest, I must check to see if they are on the air.

And now I picture my father olam haba and how he stood over the row of desks, his crippled arm tucked into his pocket his other arm holding open a book, he turned pages with his thumb and read the lessons and my heart would fill with pride and sadness both, how he struggled yet was the equal to other men, superior in so many ways to other men. I long for his advice, but what he would say I think I know, I am sure I know. Did he ever use a telephone? Did he ever see one?

The father of H's aunt was from Frankfurt or possibly Strasbourg, Rothstein says, and he owned a factory, blouses and dresses and he owned part of a newspaper also. I own a whole newspaper I tell him, I bought it from the boy just this evening, it is a joke but Rothstein has other things to discuss. I agree to have dinner with him at the Parkway on Saturday. We say goodbye and as if by some unseen hand I lift out of my chair all at once and rush out and down the stairs, careful only not to slip on the shiny lip of the last step, the lip of the last step worn smooth, worn shiny. Then I am on the street, no hat, no coat, but others are without coats too, it is so warm it could be May or September but for the naked trees.

I decide to see a movie at the Clinton and I go back upstairs for my hat and the telephone rings. It is H., I breathe hard from my speedy trip up and down the stairs yes it is H. on the telephone, is it not like a girl of her type to ring me up? It is a perfect gesture, just a perfect gesture her voice a sweet trill, a string of notes more lovely than any song the radio affords me. She asks me if I will be at the Dist tomorrow and of course the answer is yes, I remind her of her promise to help me with the circulars and the program in the evening and she laughs and says of course, oh of course, she has just returned from a drive with someone, I do not know him, and she claims she had so much fun she forgot momentarily. "He gave me a nifty tip and now I have an idea," she says in a whisper and says she cannot wait to tell me.

She hangs up and I collect coins and I look at a buffalo, his face down his head pointed forward and I cannot decide does he want to break through the edge of the nickel or is he at rest? I have a few coins only but enough for a movie ticket, yes more than enough for a movie ticket.

Monday Dec 8

[no entry today]

----------

H. promises to print the first round of circulars while I attend to other business. I find her by the window upon my return, she smokes and blows smoke out the window into the alley and jokes with Henry G. She cuts a fine figure. She glows with life as always, it is as if she stands under a streetlight and the rest of us are cloaked in dusk, the color of pavement.

I see just a few circulars on the table next to the printing machine, some smudged and crumpled and I look for boxes of others but find none, I ask her where are the others and she tells me the machine broke hours before. It is an old machine a donation from the Z.O.A. but it works and I ask her why she didn't ask someone for help and for her reply she tells me you work in a factory so shouldn't you be the one to fix it? She smiles at me and then talks to Henry some more. I fix the machine and when I am done she prints some more flyers, not nearly enough but she goes home tired.

I know she has no use for me because she is elegant and graceful and I am what I am but what am I to do? Our work is for the betterment of our lot, it is my honor to work among my colleagues but I am unsure why she visits the Dist and why she offers her help. Jack tells me she is not interested but why is she there? Do I dare to dream I am the reason?

At home I find her telephone number in my book and I see I left one number off. The last number, I never wrote it down. I don't remember what it was. It doesn't matter any more, she doesn't live in the same place but how did I call her when I did when I had only part of the number? I stare at it and I think for some reason of a box too heavy to lift.

I hear the familiar grinding screech from across the street, the projectionist at the Clinton pushes open the door of his booth at the back of the second floor. He does this three or four times at night, there are two doors but he opens the one on the right each time and I can see the glow of the machinery behind him. He stands out on the fire escape and lets the door close, it looks to me like an eye, a wink from a face of brick. He smokes a cigarette and drinks from a bottle and I watch him from my window across the street and I wonder again if he would like me to wave to him.

Sunday Dec 7

[no entry today]

--------------

At the Dist. I was surprised to find H. in the meeting room when I arrived. Jack brought her a chair explaining the committee meeting and as she began to sit she saw me enter. She stood back up and she smiled and took my hand and I thought, could this be the same girl? She told me she had moved from the Bronx where some new arrivals some cousins from the old country had filled every last chair and pillow and now stayed with her aunt in Williamsburg where she had her own room. That is what she said, "filled every last chair and pillow." Jack made a joke and said her cousins might be more comfortable back in steerage and H. turned and thanked him for the chair and sat and invited me to sit next to her.

My days of machine work are etched into my hands, I thought of this as she held a cigarette with her soft fine fingers. I am head of the publicity subcommittee for the Dist. winter ball, this means I must see to the printing of our handbook and circulars and also to secure a speaker for the dedication. I thought of Ab. Goldberg, it would be interesting to hear him explain his latest activities in Germany so I will approach him when he returns. H. volunteered for my subcommittee.

Thursday Nov 20

home

------------

In my dream I lose count of my fingers and I am sure I've lost one. I look down at the ground and I tilt forward and my feet rise into the air and I float head first through the crowd on the sidewalk. My hair is long and reaches to the ground, I can make it move as it sweeps along. I cannot make a rope of it, I can only make the end curl and turn and dance, my hair cannot feel the pavement as a frozen fingertip cannot feel a key.

"Your pal Esther will help" says the strange woman. She stands in front of me and her face is gray and beautiful, I can only see her if I look from the corner of my eye, if I look at her she turns, her face becomes jagged. I have not met her but I know her voice, high and fast, the night voice of the lady downstairs.

I must tell her I have no friend named Esther but I see now the ground is covered in coins. I try to put my feet on the ground so I can pick them up but I float still, I try to grab the coins with my hair but I can only touch them lightly and the coins do not move. "Perhaps your pal can help you grow coins" says the lady downstairs and I know she is right and I also know she does not know how.

Friday Oct 17

[no entry]

------------

Today I shaved my face and watching the soap and water flow down the drain the blues came over me. The blues hide and wait and find me at the most unexpected times, when I wash and when see the book man with his stack of books and when I see someone alone at a counter with a plate of eggs.

Even this afternoon as I left the factory I felt a sadness, of course I will be there on Monday but I wished to embrace each worker as if they were never to return.

Thought again of dear H. Eisenkraft taken from us so young and remembered him during evening prayers.

Monday Oct 13

[no October 13 entry; Papa accidentally wrote his October 20 entry on this page]

--------------

It was long ago when I joined Jack and Julius and Nathan on Broome street, we dipped black bread in salt and sipped tea and talked late into the night of girls and our plans and of days to come. They kept leather everywhere, strips on chairs, bolts on their bed and the floor, it was a factory of their own. Jack and Julius always at work at the table, they passed each other tools and dropped rivets into cans and tea cups. Nathan joked would they give us a job when we got back from the war, he said the men at the registration office meant to send us right back to the old country to our old homes.

So much has happened since those endless days can it be I am still the same? What are these days then? They do not seem to me like memories to come.

----------------

For those of you just joining us, the above passage was not written by my grandfather; on days when he hasn't written in his diary, I often write fictionalized interpretations of what I think might have been on his mind. Try the links below to see what he has to say about some of the major subjects he's covered:

- "The 20th Century Girl"

- The New York Academy of Music

- B'nai zion, a.k.a. Order Sons of Zion, the fraternal order my grandfather belonged to

- Baseball

- The Capitol Theatre, one of New York's great movie palaces

- Cars of the 1920's

- Coney Island

- Calvin Coolidge

- The 1924 Democratic Convention, the longest and most contentious in history and the first to be broadcast live on the radio

- The Brooklyn Dodgers and Ebbets Field

- Fraternal organizations and mutual support societies, a.k.a. landsmanshaftn

- The New York Giants, 1924 pennant winners

- Keren Hayesod

- Silent Movies (1924 was a great year for movie lovers like my grandfather; several monumental films including The Thief of Badgad, The Ten Commandments, Sherlock, Jr., and D.W. Griffith's America were out that year. I'm not sure if he saw any of those, but I do know he saw at least The Song of Love, The Unknown Purple, The White Sister with Lillian Gish, and A Woman of Paris, Charlie Chaplin's first serious directorial effort.)

- The Metropolitan Opera

- Papa's Father's Injury and Death

- Prohibition

- Prospect Park

- Early radio (Papa was an early radio adopter and frequently wrote about what he heard on New York stations like WEAF and WNYC)

- Sniatyn, Papa's Ukrainian home town (part of Austro-Hungary when he left in 1913)

- The New York Subway

- Telephones in 1924

- Tenement life

- Woodrow Wilson

- The New York Yankees

- Yom Kippur

- Zionist Organization of America

Sunday October 12

[no entry]

-------------

In my dream I am in Prospect Park and I sit on the ground beneath a tree. In front of me I see an electric fan much like the one I own. It has no plug or wire yet still it turns, the grass in front of it blows and bends. To my delight a rabbit turns up and stands in front of the fan. It is a curious creature, it does not look like a real rabbit it is more like something from the humorous cartoons I see at the movies. It hops up and down in front of the fan and smiles. It makes no sound and I am so happy just to watch. "This is what it's like to have a rabbit of your own," I tell it. I have a book in my hand and I open it and point to a page, I hold it out to the rabbit but of course it is too young to read.

------------


----------------

Note: Papa accidentally wrote his entry for October 19 on the October 12 page of his diary; this is why the thumbnail image for this post shows handwriting even though there is no entry from Papa.

Sunday Oct 5

3rd dist & Cafe Royal

------------

I watched as Blitz engaged in a tremendous argument with Goldstein about Jabotinsky. Goldstein has grown impatient with Weizmann and upon learning of the Third District meeting commenced to insult our efforts. Blitz is passionate and slapped his palms on the table and my coffee danced and splashed in its saucer from one side to the other.

Just a small turn of my head and instead of the Blitz and Goldstein argument I could watch three actors from one of the theaters down the street, chairs pressed together on one side of their table, they leaned against each other and sang and smiled. They still had makeup on their faces and had the appearance of movie actors. One of them looked my way as he sang, his beard was black and his hand lay on a newspaper in front of him. He had small eyes, black and shiny, he did not seem to notice me but he sang the old song and knew every word and continued to sing even has his friends faltered and laughed and toasted with glasses of tea. I urgently wanted to join him at his table and also to get up and leave the restaurant, nervous now as if I'd just remembered something, or remembered I'd forgotten to do something like turn off the gas at home or bring Josele his medicine.

Blitz tugged on my arm and asked me to add my opinion to his discussion with Goldstein but I had forgotten what it was about and the man with the beard stopped singing and I knew if I tried to talk I would have choked on my words and wept. My coffee was half spilled now from Blitz's exertions but I drank it all the same and happily I was able to swallow.

Thursday Oct 2

-----------------

In my dream I am in the round schul and it is old and dark. The chairs and benches are bolted to the floor. Dirt and balls of dust gather around the bolts. I realize I have discussed the chairs before with my father. He told me they came from a subway car of an experimental type never used by the owners.

I walk along the wall some more and I see in the dark the figure of a woman. I imagine it is my mother but it doesn't look like her. This woman is old and tiny and seems unwell. She tells me there is mud in her stomach. I tell her I will get my beloved father olam haba to help her and she tells me he is no longer inside the synagogue. I remember where the door is and then I am upon it, a small wooden door like the door to a house not very like the door to a synagogue at all.

Outside it is a bright spring day. I can't see for the sun is in my eyes.

Soon I am walking the street in my town of Sniatyn. I know somehow my mother no longer lives in our house, she lives in one of the neighbors houses now. I remember the house but I have never been through the door. It is ordinary and painted white and I wonder how it will feel to be inside. As I walk to it my feet leave the ground, I float and drift in the air and soon I am above the roof tops. I know it will be easy to find my father if I fly and so I learn to move my arms and feet to turn this way and that, the houses pass beneath me faster and faster. I am beset by sadness because I never knew I could fly and I think about how different my life would be if only I had known.

Now I am afraid because I am going higher and I cannot stop myself. I see a big city now, across the river. I don't why its there because Sniatyn is a small town with nothing around it but hills and the river. I feel a lurch and I begin to fall. It takes a long time but I am calm, I spin and tumble like I am under water. I wonder why I am not worried. I drift toward the city on my way down but I think I am going to fall into the river instead. This is a relief because if I land on the ground I might get hurt but the river is just water and will break my fall. I think I will be safe if I hold my breath.



Image Source: "Sniatyn. Rooftop view. Circa 1910." from Zwierzanski Website. Original source unknown.

Wednesday Sept 24

[no entry today]

-----------

In my dream I am in the bed I shared with Isaac when I was a boy. It is bigger than it really was, even if I stretch my arms out I cannot touch the sides. Gittel and Ettel are there and they pull the blanket tight over my body. It is warm but I cannot move. They smile and coo and they walk around the bed and with pins they fasten the blanket to the mattress. I try to tell them to remove the pins to let me
stand up. They smile at me and laugh because no words come out of my mouth, only ridiculous sounds.

They stand beside Isaac and I see now he wears a military uniform with a tall hat and bright colors like those they had before the war. I ask him why he is dressed this way and he understands my question. He answers "I am able and I will fight without you." I ask him what will happen to our mother but now the bed is floating above the water and drifting out to sea and Gittel and Ettel are crying for our father. Isaac says he must continue his work. He stands in front of a radio bigger than a cabinet and he tunes its dials and knobs.

The bed spins and drifts on the water. The pins hold fast and the blanket feels safe but it keeps me from moving it keeps me from paddling or looking around. There is no wind. I now remember someone told me there is a flotilla nearby and I ask if the Aquitania will be there.





Image source:

Aquitania - Library of Congress #LC-D4-22833

Sunday Sept 21

[no entry today]

-----------------------

In my dream I have a beard and I can see it while I look down to read. I read out loud from the prayer in the book before me. I can read the words but they are not Hebrew or any language I understand.

I see now my father is watching me. His beard is gray. He asks me if I've lost my book. I look down and my book is gone and my beard has grown to the floor. It is attached to the floor by something. My father asks me to find my book and I see now I am in the schul in Sniatyn, but unlike the schul too because it is a round room and so dark I cannot see across it. I see only the curved wall disappearing into the blackness.

The voices of the congregation echo in the air as I walk to find my book. My beard is attached to the floor but still I walk and the eyes of the congregation follow me. They sit and look at me and stay very still like the photograph of my brother and sisters. My father stands and watches me as I walk around the edge of the room but I cannot see him well and soon he is but a shadow.

I follow the walls of the room and continue to circle but I see no congregation nothing but the walls. A few more steps and there are chairs and beds in little alcoves in the wall, and I want to sit or rest but I must find my book and bring it back to my father. I hope he has not moved because the only way I can find him is if I follow the walls back to where I was.