This is a photo of my dad probably taken in the 1920s. How amazing for me to see him having a moment of leisure. When I knew him, he stood behind the counter of his grocery store fourteen hours a day, six-and-a-half days a week.
This was lovingly restored, as best it could be, by my cousin, Irwin. My father must have been in his early twenties then. He came over from Russia in steerage with his mother and five sisters, the only siblings who survived a pogrom. His father had come to the Bronx ten years ahead to save […]
Like spirits, they haunt me from this old photo–the suffering that had been through during a pogrom, hiding in a forest, making their way to Germany, traveling in steerage to America to be reunited with a father they barely remembered, the father they hadn’t seen in ten years. The shock on my father’s face. The […]