The Oppressed and the Oppressors

I learned more as a child growing up in this building at 1310 Avenue R in Brooklyn than anywhere else since. As in this tale of the Oppressed and the Oppressors.

I lived in apartment 2H across from Mr.and Mrs. Gold; two Orthodox Jews who left Germany just in the nick of time. The rest of their respective families were not so lucky. They did not survive.

Down the hall from us both lived the building's Superintendent and his wife; Mr. And Mrs. John Bucholtz. What makes this even more remarkable is that he was an ex Nazi soldier who was captured and imprisoned in North Carolina. At the end of the war he was allowed to stay, and bought his wife over. He became Superintendent of 1310 Avenue R. in 1961 when the building was just completed.

Every year at Rosh Hashanah the building, with it's 7 floors and 72 apartments, was filled with the smells of all the holiday cooking, which was all Kosher, as most of the building, with few exceptions, was Jewish.

Mrs. Bucholtz was an excellent cook herself, but not being Jewish was not involved in the preparations for any of the holidays. This story concerns the preparations for Rosh Hashanah when I was about 11 years old.

Mr. Gold was a wise man. He frequently took me on walks to the western side of Coney Island Avenue, which, even then, was heavily Orthodox. He did this for a reason. He would bring things, mostly envelopes containing cash, and point to a particular brick home and instruct me to ring the bell, hand the envelopes to whoever answered, and never divulge his name.

He explained to me that this was a Mitzvah, something his religion required him to perform. Charity without vanity if you will. At 11 years old this made no sense, but I enjoyed the walks, the talks, and of course the $1 he always gave me for my help. I now know better and should never have taken the money, but $1 back then went a long way at the candy store, where it was invariably squandered.

These Mitzvah's continued until I turned 13. After my Bar Mitzvah the walks, talks and deliveries continued, but without recompense. As an adult it was now expected of me to help perform these deeds, which were not very difficult. Besides, if you knew Mr. Gold, it was a pleasure just to be with him, walking and talking.

Now, back to Rosh Hashanah 1965 when I was about 11. The mercurial nature of the Hebrew calendar and the shifting dates of the holidays, make it impossible for me to tell you if it was before or after my birthday, which is also in the fall.

Mrs. Bucholtz was driven that year, more than ever, to help Mrs.Gold with the holiday preparations for the Rosh Hashanah feast. But Mrs. Gold was rigidly Kosher, and Mrs. Bucholtz was not. And so the wisdom of Mr. Gold entered the picture.

Taking Mrs. Gold aside he explained to her the torment that Mrs. Bucholtz endured from the exclusion she surely felt at each holiday of the year. He also explained that it was his duty, as a Jew, to relieve her suffering. What could Mrs. Gold do except to go along with her husband's plan?

He went down the hall and explained to Mrs. Bucholtz that, while she could not provide anything to help, she could use her hands as an instrument in helping Mrs. Gold in the kitchen. And so the miracle was performed. Cooked up might be a better way of saying it; pun intended.

And then it came to pass that Mrs. Bucholtz proudly entered the Gold's apartment, and Mrs. Gold's kitchen, an invisible barrier which even Mr. Gold respected, and he performed what I now know to be a "miracle" Mitzvah.

Lovingly taking Mrs. Bucholtz by the hands, the twinkle in his eyes in direct contrast to the aphrehension in Mrs. Gold's eyes, he lead her to the sink and washed her hands with that red and blue Kosher soap, which was used for the meat or dairy dishes, and recited a blessing in Hebrew. He explained to both women that Mrs. Bucholtz' hands were now as Kosher as Mrs. Gold's kitchen, thus allowing her to assist in the preparation of the holiday meal.

And so it came to pass, that on the first night of Rosh Hashanah 1965, the Oppressed and the Oppressor, became one. And to a boy of 11 the miracle of forgiveness was imparted.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation - 1965

This is the story of a summer adventure I had at the age of 10 and a half years old.  It has nothing to do with rowboats.  I was on the roof of 1310 Avenue R., in Brooklyn, New York, where my family lived in an apartment on the 2nd floor.

It was not unusual to go up and sit on the roof; or “tar beach”, as it was known back then; to get some sun without going actually going to the beach, which was less than 1 mile from our apartment. But there was something about the roof that drew me. Maybe it was the privacy, or the smell of the roof itself, with its tar seams emanating that special odor familiar to all who have lived in large apartment buildings.

The radio reception, 7 stories above ground, was excellent; as was the view. You could look North and see the skyline of Manhattan, or Southwest to see Coney Island. It was a fantastic place to be young on a hot summer day; and with the music from my 6 transistor radio; life was complete. And, that’s when I noticed the planes.

We lived about  20 miles from Idewild Airport, now JFK, in Queens. As I lay there I noticed; seemingly for the first time; that all the planes were headed towards one place to the Southeast of us. And that place was JFK. This caused my 10 and a half year old brain to light up like one of those idea bulbs in the cartoons! So, with the Beatles singing "Ticket To Ride" playing on my radio, I knew what my mission was. I would ride my bicycle to the airport.

My bicycle, at that time, was an old single speed, foot braked Huffy with balloon tires. Not the best conveyance for the journey I was about to undertake;  but as the sailor said, “Any port in a storm.” And so, with that bit of reasoning in my head I gathered up my things, radio included, and headed down to the first floor where my bicycle was stored in what was called the “carriage room.” The carriage room was a place where the building’s residents stored their baby buggies, bicycles, and just about anything else that you didn’t want to lug up and down to your apartment.

Unchaining my bicycle I wheeled it out into the bright sunlit day, hopped aboard, and pedaled South down East 14th Street towards Sheepshead Bay. From there I knew that I could access the Belt Parkway and head towards the airport. When I got to the Parkway I realized, seemingly for the first time, that I would have to ride on the thin shoulder of the Parkway to accomplish my goal. It seemed a bit risky, with cars flying past me at 60 miles an hour; several even honked; but I was determined.

More than that; I was committed; as only a10 and a half year old can be, to ride that bike to the airport. It would be a major component of my summer vacation. This would be the subject for the ubiquitous “What I Did with My Summer” composition required of all students each year when school resumed in September. In short;  I was on a mission.

Getting to the Parkway was easy enough; I knew the streets of my neighborhood like the back of my hand. It was only when I had ridden a few miles on the Parkway that I began to realize the journey which lay ahead  of me was not going to be as easy as I thought. There were actually parts of the road which had no shoulder at all;  and I found myself dangerously squeezed between the high speed traffic and a chain link fence! At other points I was forced to ride my bike in the grassy, and also sandy, strips which ran alongside of the highway. This was hard going on a bicycle with balloon tires and no gears. But I pushed on.

By the time I got to Plum Beach; where my family used to go for cookouts in the summer; I knew I was going to make it. And, within about 45 more minutes I was there! The planes were coming in low and loud as I arrived. The noise was deafening, but my pulse was pounding with excitement at what I had accomplished. In my mind, not even Marco Polo had ever faced the challenges which I had overcome on my journey, and I wanted to share that joy.

So, I called home, using the  dime which my parents always insisted my brother and I carry in case of emergency. It was taped to the back of one of my Dad’s business cards and only to be removed for that one important phone call; presumably to be made only if I had been kidnapped or killed.

But this was big; and I mean big! I had traveled almost 20 miles on a balloon tired, one speed Huffy, with only a transistor radio for company, and no money, except for that dime. I could have bought a soda, or a candy bar. But I didn’t. I called home to share my accomplishment with my folks. As they were both home, I assume this was on a weekend.

I dialed our home number with the greatest of expectations. Surely my journey would be lauded as the greatest achievement since Columbus had discovered America. My Mom answered the phone, and unable to contain myself I blurted out, “Guess where I am?” Mom didn’t want to play this game, instead insisting that I tell her where I was,  and what all that noise was. I told her, with great pride, that I was at the airport, and moreover, that I had made the journey by bicycle on the Belt Parkway.

I think she shrieked. At any rate, the next voice I heard was that of my father. He was furious with me, taking me to task for going further than I was allowed to go on my bicycle. He then proceeded to dress me down as being the most stupid human being alive for taking such a dangerous journey, fraught, as it was with peril. It was "a miracle that I had not been killed" making the journey.

I was then instructed to "get back on my bicycle and come home immediately." And to make matters worse, I now owed my parents the dime, which I had misused by calling them for a non-emergency. That dime would be taken out of my next week's allowance and replaced. It was years before I realized the idiocy of their reaction.  But, I’m still real proud of that bike ride.