MY FATHER THE COOK

By Beckie Shopnick

My Father was a great scholar. He graduated from the Yeshiva of Vilno in Russian Poland with a degree of Rabbi. He never used it because he felt that a Rabbi had to depend on charity. At twenty-three years of age he went to learn a trade as a mechanic. At that time he was already engaged to my Mother, and after two years of his apprentice they were married. Then he opened a shop of his own in Vilno to make new scales and fix old ones.

Papa was very handsome as well as intelligent. He had a high forehead and beautiful dark brown wavy hair. He also had hazel eyes and wore a small goatee.

Babies arrived every two years. While we were still small, Saturday was the only day we had the pleasure of his company. Most of the evenings during the week he went to the synagogue to meet with friends of his educational caliber to discuss the Torah.

When we moved to the city of Vilno there was a small synagogue in the building where we lived. The "shamus" called for my Father every morning to form a "minion". To papa, it was always an obligation.

I remember many Saturday afternoons, watching my Father walking from room to room humming liturgical melodies with a glass of tea in his hand. At such times he was deeply absorbed in thought and totally unaware of us. Of course, we were too young to ask questions.

In later years, in America, he was more outspoken, expressing his philosophy and radical interpretation of religion. We were then mature enough to comprehend his meaning. He observed all the rituals punctually, however, with all the details involved.

Suddenly, after my Mother had been in Boston for thirteen months, her condition worsened and she died.

My oldest brother, my sister and I became the family providers. Now, there was no alternative but for our Father to remain at home. My sister and I taught him how to cook and he shortly became the best chef imaginable. He built-up a free clientele of all our friends who came to sample his dishes. We had a couple of extras at our table every evening. Sunday, I took over and papa took off. My specialties were cabbage soup and pot roast.

My Father not only became a good cook, but also our pal and our source of information. We even enrolled him in the private school we attended so that he could learn proper English. He read continually between his chores, mostly historical literature, and he shared his knowledge with us.

That's how it went for several years until my sister married and my three oldest brothers joined the Army to fight for their adopted country in World War I.

A short time afterwards my father got a job and remarried--a very nice woman but, unfortunately, a very poor cook.