At some point, truth - which is fact - becomes all blurry and vague and dissembles into bits and pieces. I don’t know exactly when that happens, but I do know that at that moment, truth – which is legend – is drawn out of the blur and the vagary – like sky-writing. The truth – which is legend – is not an embellishment. On the contrary, it is a paring down; it is the essence; it is the way it should have happened. It’s the screenplay. And no two people see the same movie. Or hear the same morning. Or love the same person. So I can only give you the Jennie I loved; the legend she wove for herself and gave to me. And that’s as close to her truth as we’re going to get.
My grandmother, Jennie Prizant, should have been an actress, a star. In her mind she was; misplaced aristocracy; someone special and unrecognized. At least once a month the phrase “…in a past life, I must have been...” would be heard. Her energy didn’t go unnoticed; men were nuts about her. Women either loved her or feared her,
but no one ignored her. Her journey would make a heck of a movie. Born Genya Prizant in the Bessarabian city of Kishinev, and raised in Odessa, Russia, she was the oldest sibling of six brothers. Possibly, the family immigrated to Odessa because of the pogroms in Kishinev. She told me several times that her mother had another baby girl, too, but Rosie hadn’t survived. She told it sadly. She talked about the pogroms as well. She told me about running an errand for her mother and not being able to get home because of angry mobs creating havoc in the streets. She said she hid in a sewer and stayed there through the night into the next day because she was so frightened; she couldn’t tell how long she’d been there. Her mother came out the next day in panic looking for her, and walked up and down the streets calling her name. Genya heard her mother, and came out of the sewer. It was a vivid memory for her. She told it with humor actually – can you imagine such a stupid kid staying all night in the sewer!?
My grandmother, Jennie Prizant, should have been an actress, a star. In her mind she was; misplaced aristocracy; someone special and unrecognized. At least once a month the phrase “…in a past life, I must have been...” would be heard. Her energy didn’t go unnoticed; men were nuts about her. Women either loved her or feared her,
but no one ignored her. Her journey would make a heck of a movie. Born Genya Prizant in the Bessarabian city of Kishinev, and raised in Odessa, Russia, she was the oldest sibling of six brothers. Possibly, the family immigrated to Odessa because of the pogroms in Kishinev. She told me several times that her mother had another baby girl, too, but Rosie hadn’t survived. She told it sadly. She talked about the pogroms as well. She told me about running an errand for her mother and not being able to get home because of angry mobs creating havoc in the streets. She said she hid in a sewer and stayed there through the night into the next day because she was so frightened; she couldn’t tell how long she’d been there. Her mother came out the next day in panic looking for her, and walked up and down the streets calling her name. Genya heard her mother, and came out of the sewer. It was a vivid memory for her. She told it with humor actually – can you imagine such a stupid kid staying all night in the sewer!? Jennie’s family history is somewhat vague. There’s no one left to confirm or deny the stories. I do know that her father Isop Prizant (the family called him Mordecai, but Jennie always referred to him by his secular name) was an artist. Grandma insisted that he studied at the Sorbonne in Paris. An improbable but not impossible fact. Years after, I spoke to a “Prizant” I looked up while visiting in Pittsburgh – he owned a carpet company there – and he said he recalled his father referring to a cousin who was an artist and who studied in France. There was no way to validate his information. No one in the family has any of Isop’s artwork – none that I’m aware of anyway. He earned his living as a house painter. But Grandma also insisted that he owned land. (Was he the bastard son of a Greek aristocrat? Jews did not own land in those days. Another improbability.) He came to the States in the early 1900’s with plans to relocate his family, and brought their oldest son, Chayim (Hyman), with him. Anti-Semitism was pretty much out of control in Roumania and Russia; so the emigration had serious basis. Chayim would have been about 12 years old when they arrived in New York. Isop died of a heart attack soon after coming to America. The relatives in New York put Chayim back on a ship to return him to his mother.
The story Jennie told was that Chayim jumped ship in England, having attached himself to a troupe of actors on board. Legend has it that he didn’t turn up again until maybe six years later, when he arrived unannounced in her mother’s garden. (The timing works with the history of Yiddish Arts Theatre and premieres occurring in Odessa at that time.) Always the actor, Jennie said he came up to his mother and asked – in excellent diction – “where may I find Madame Prizant?” Grandma insisted her mother fainted dead away. But that’s doubtless an embellishment. I can’t imagine that tough old broad fainting for any reason.
Marya Prizant was left with a newborn son, four grown sons and her daughter, Genya, when Isop died (not counting the vanished Chayim). To support the family, she apparently trained domestics and placed them in wealthy homes. My mother always wondered how her grandmother knew how to do the things she was teaching. Where did she learn this stuff? Perhaps she was trained and worked as a domestic herself. We can only speculate on all of that. From all she taught my mother, I am certain she knew her business. Marya supported her family and was intent on relocating them to America. Plan B was to send Genya to Marya’s sister, Esther, who was married to Alek Miller, and living in New York. Esther had a son, Frank, who was a few years older than Genya. A match was arranged, and Genya was sent to the States to marry her first cousin. She was probably 15 years old.
Genya was a stunning girl; tall for her time, blonde, with gray eyes, and very slim.
She married Frank Miller and by her 17th birthday, she gave birth to her daughter. She named her Mae (for the month she was born), but the family called the baby Minela and she was actually dubbed Minnie all of her life. In later years, she called herself Mina. (When she was in her fifties, she sent for her birth certificate and found out her name was recorded as Mame. Probably Jennie’s foreign accent led to the incorrect spelling on the birth certificate. Minnie was really upset, however, and always felt as though she never had a name.)
Genya's grandparents in Odessa sent her a ticket to come home with the baby – their first great grandchild. Given the time it took to get there and back, the visit itself, which was almost a year long, the separation from her new husband was damaging. And, as it turned out, Aunt Esther was not a very nice lady. She convinced Frank that Genya was not coming back, and hooked him up with a much older woman
who had money. So when Genya and Minela returned, home and husband no longer existed. Esther (so we were told) kicked them out, and Genya was on her own with a baby to support. She ostensibly went from sweatshop to sweatshop looking for a job with her child in her arms,. (The way she told this, I think Jennie had movies in her head, too! She insisted she’d wander in draped in a silk kimono, with her hair hanging loose over one shoulder.) The fact that she couldn’t sew a stitch and was lumbered with a baby would explain why no one wanted to hire her. Until she came to Harry Ginsburg’s factory.
Harry Ginsburg- our Grandpa Pal - was an interesting character in his own right. He was born in Russia and was one of twins. This was supposed to be bad luck as he told it, and so they kept his brother Max and sent him to America with an aunt. I rather suspect the bad luck was having two more mouths to feed instead of one. Harry grew up on the streets of the Lower East Side and told marvelously picturesque stories about his troubled childhood. He was called Fatso and was apparently very tough. He insisted that as a kid he played with the likes of Eddie Cantor and others who grew up to be big stars. His favorite story was how he and his companions would roll the drunks out of the bars on Sunday mornings and be paid by proprietors at so much a head! He was apprenticed into the men’s wear business and by the time Harry was 17 or 18 years old, he owned his own factory. He married very young and his wife died in childbirth. Left with his son, Ted, he married again hoping his new wife would be a mother to his child. I understand that he had many children with his second wife who was reputed to be quite a slob and not much of a wife or mother.
So Harry,11 years older than Jennie and unhappily married -- Harry who drank hard, smoked cigars, played cards, fancied himself a man’s man --took one look at Jennie and was besotted for the rest of his life. (My mom told me however, that Harry returned to visit his actual wife occasionally, made another baby and then left. Ah, men!) Not only did he teach her to sew and set her up with places to live and became a surrogate father to her child, he brought her family over. He bought them a house in Philadelphia on Norris Street (were other relatives in Philadelphia?) and brought Marya, and young son Morris (later known as Ed – this being the generation that assimilated), and three of the other brothers, Joe, Jules and Abe. Jennie’s brother Grisha (later called Harry) stayed behind to travel with an elderly aunt at a later date. Morris was at least four years older than Minnie. Harry Ginsburg paid the bills and gave the family a new start in the States. Marya readily accepted the considerable endowment, and then informed Jennie that she was not welcome in the house as long as she was in a clandestine relationship with the married Ginsburg. Harry’s wife wouldn't give him a divorce.
So for the next 15 plus years, until her mother’s death, Jennie would go with Harry, give up Harry and come home, then take off again. Sometimes she’d take Minnie with her. Most of the time, she left Minnie with Marya. There are photos of Jennie and Minnie in front of a grocery in Cleveland that Harry had bought for her.
That didn't last; Jennie missed her mother. Minnie was raised essentially by her grandmother with five uncles who – like brothers – tormented and teased her and protected her and loved her. There are photos of Minnie with her uncles and Frank Miller. This is our only way of knowing that Frank came to see Minnie. All the rest is blank. My mom often told me she preferred to stay with Marya. Jennie was volatile -- she beat Minnie up one night because Minnie was sleep walking. The child was six or seven.
Minnie adored her grandmother, albeit she was very strict and intolerant. But when Marya remarried (Minnie was a young teenager) and Mr. Schwartz’s young daughter, Rose, moved into the house, Minnie was forced to give up her room and transfer to smaller quarters. She was displaced and felt replaced in her grandmother’s affections. I don’t think she ever got over that. And albeit the yo-yo existence Jennie inflicted on her, Minnie stayed with her when Marya - in her fifties - died of a heart attack. Jennie had a nervous breakdown, and Minnie spent the next 10 years of her life taking care of her mother who was suicidal and probably manic-depressive. She also had a hysterectomy, so instant menopause no doubt had much to do with her symptoms. Jennie and Harry moved in together for keeps, and the three became a family.
Minnie, who never graduated from high school because of all the moving around and transferring back and forth between Jennie and Marya, wanted to be a fashion designer. Harry, pretty much wiped out by the stock market crash, still was able to support her ambitions; he worked as a finisher (stitcher) for a top-of-the-line men’s clothing manufacturer. But the demands of Jennie’s condition were such that Minnie was not able to complete her course of study. (I have her small portfolio). She went to work in the office of Joe Cooke, who, along with his wife Margaret, became life-long friends and a source of emotional support for Minnie.
When Jennie’s doctor (Dr. Basso) prescribed a summer at the beach, the family went to Rockaway Beach, New York, where Minnie was wooed by the son of the boarding house owner. The latter, Golda, was a dynamite businesswoman and a fabulous baker. She taught Jennie how to bake; the doctor – who probably was in love with her – taught Jennie how to swim. And how to drive a car. All this was therapeutic, and as Jennie began to heal, Minnie took advantage of what was probably her best chance to have her own life. She married Ben Coburn in June of 1935 in a wedding held in Howard’s Beach. She was twenty-six years old.
About seven years after Minnie and Ben were married, they bought a house in Brooklyn with Jennie and Harry. Jennie couldn't quite get past my dad to rule the house, but she ruled Minnie. When my younger brother was born, Jennie took over raising him until he was perhaps four years old and not fun anymore. She was always importing relatives to stay in the house - always in my room. Pal's daughter-in-law, Edith, came with her son Teddy and a German Police Dog named Rex. They stayed a year. Miryam Legris, daughter of Jennie's cousin, came from Paris for what was supposed to be an emigration but turned out to be a holiday paid for by Jennie and unwillingly my dad. Pal's niece, Annette Bull, came from London, and spent over a year in the house becoming a beloved addition to the family.
The story Jennie told was that Chayim jumped ship in England, having attached himself to a troupe of actors on board. Legend has it that he didn’t turn up again until maybe six years later, when he arrived unannounced in her mother’s garden. (The timing works with the history of Yiddish Arts Theatre and premieres occurring in Odessa at that time.) Always the actor, Jennie said he came up to his mother and asked – in excellent diction – “where may I find Madame Prizant?” Grandma insisted her mother fainted dead away. But that’s doubtless an embellishment. I can’t imagine that tough old broad fainting for any reason.
Marya Prizant was left with a newborn son, four grown sons and her daughter, Genya, when Isop died (not counting the vanished Chayim). To support the family, she apparently trained domestics and placed them in wealthy homes. My mother always wondered how her grandmother knew how to do the things she was teaching. Where did she learn this stuff? Perhaps she was trained and worked as a domestic herself. We can only speculate on all of that. From all she taught my mother, I am certain she knew her business. Marya supported her family and was intent on relocating them to America. Plan B was to send Genya to Marya’s sister, Esther, who was married to Alek Miller, and living in New York. Esther had a son, Frank, who was a few years older than Genya. A match was arranged, and Genya was sent to the States to marry her first cousin. She was probably 15 years old.
Genya was a stunning girl; tall for her time, blonde, with gray eyes, and very slim.
She married Frank Miller and by her 17th birthday, she gave birth to her daughter. She named her Mae (for the month she was born), but the family called the baby Minela and she was actually dubbed Minnie all of her life. In later years, she called herself Mina. (When she was in her fifties, she sent for her birth certificate and found out her name was recorded as Mame. Probably Jennie’s foreign accent led to the incorrect spelling on the birth certificate. Minnie was really upset, however, and always felt as though she never had a name.)Genya's grandparents in Odessa sent her a ticket to come home with the baby – their first great grandchild. Given the time it took to get there and back, the visit itself, which was almost a year long, the separation from her new husband was damaging. And, as it turned out, Aunt Esther was not a very nice lady. She convinced Frank that Genya was not coming back, and hooked him up with a much older woman
who had money. So when Genya and Minela returned, home and husband no longer existed. Esther (so we were told) kicked them out, and Genya was on her own with a baby to support. She ostensibly went from sweatshop to sweatshop looking for a job with her child in her arms,. (The way she told this, I think Jennie had movies in her head, too! She insisted she’d wander in draped in a silk kimono, with her hair hanging loose over one shoulder.) The fact that she couldn’t sew a stitch and was lumbered with a baby would explain why no one wanted to hire her. Until she came to Harry Ginsburg’s factory.Harry Ginsburg- our Grandpa Pal - was an interesting character in his own right. He was born in Russia and was one of twins. This was supposed to be bad luck as he told it, and so they kept his brother Max and sent him to America with an aunt. I rather suspect the bad luck was having two more mouths to feed instead of one. Harry grew up on the streets of the Lower East Side and told marvelously picturesque stories about his troubled childhood. He was called Fatso and was apparently very tough. He insisted that as a kid he played with the likes of Eddie Cantor and others who grew up to be big stars. His favorite story was how he and his companions would roll the drunks out of the bars on Sunday mornings and be paid by proprietors at so much a head! He was apprenticed into the men’s wear business and by the time Harry was 17 or 18 years old, he owned his own factory. He married very young and his wife died in childbirth. Left with his son, Ted, he married again hoping his new wife would be a mother to his child. I understand that he had many children with his second wife who was reputed to be quite a slob and not much of a wife or mother.
So Harry,11 years older than Jennie and unhappily married -- Harry who drank hard, smoked cigars, played cards, fancied himself a man’s man --took one look at Jennie and was besotted for the rest of his life. (My mom told me however, that Harry returned to visit his actual wife occasionally, made another baby and then left. Ah, men!) Not only did he teach her to sew and set her up with places to live and became a surrogate father to her child, he brought her family over. He bought them a house in Philadelphia on Norris Street (were other relatives in Philadelphia?) and brought Marya, and young son Morris (later known as Ed – this being the generation that assimilated), and three of the other brothers, Joe, Jules and Abe. Jennie’s brother Grisha (later called Harry) stayed behind to travel with an elderly aunt at a later date. Morris was at least four years older than Minnie. Harry Ginsburg paid the bills and gave the family a new start in the States. Marya readily accepted the considerable endowment, and then informed Jennie that she was not welcome in the house as long as she was in a clandestine relationship with the married Ginsburg. Harry’s wife wouldn't give him a divorce.
So for the next 15 plus years, until her mother’s death, Jennie would go with Harry, give up Harry and come home, then take off again. Sometimes she’d take Minnie with her. Most of the time, she left Minnie with Marya. There are photos of Jennie and Minnie in front of a grocery in Cleveland that Harry had bought for her.
That didn't last; Jennie missed her mother. Minnie was raised essentially by her grandmother with five uncles who – like brothers – tormented and teased her and protected her and loved her. There are photos of Minnie with her uncles and Frank Miller. This is our only way of knowing that Frank came to see Minnie. All the rest is blank. My mom often told me she preferred to stay with Marya. Jennie was volatile -- she beat Minnie up one night because Minnie was sleep walking. The child was six or seven.
Minnie adored her grandmother, albeit she was very strict and intolerant. But when Marya remarried (Minnie was a young teenager) and Mr. Schwartz’s young daughter, Rose, moved into the house, Minnie was forced to give up her room and transfer to smaller quarters. She was displaced and felt replaced in her grandmother’s affections. I don’t think she ever got over that. And albeit the yo-yo existence Jennie inflicted on her, Minnie stayed with her when Marya - in her fifties - died of a heart attack. Jennie had a nervous breakdown, and Minnie spent the next 10 years of her life taking care of her mother who was suicidal and probably manic-depressive. She also had a hysterectomy, so instant menopause no doubt had much to do with her symptoms. Jennie and Harry moved in together for keeps, and the three became a family.
Minnie, who never graduated from high school because of all the moving around and transferring back and forth between Jennie and Marya, wanted to be a fashion designer. Harry, pretty much wiped out by the stock market crash, still was able to support her ambitions; he worked as a finisher (stitcher) for a top-of-the-line men’s clothing manufacturer. But the demands of Jennie’s condition were such that Minnie was not able to complete her course of study. (I have her small portfolio). She went to work in the office of Joe Cooke, who, along with his wife Margaret, became life-long friends and a source of emotional support for Minnie.
When Jennie’s doctor (Dr. Basso) prescribed a summer at the beach, the family went to Rockaway Beach, New York, where Minnie was wooed by the son of the boarding house owner. The latter, Golda, was a dynamite businesswoman and a fabulous baker. She taught Jennie how to bake; the doctor – who probably was in love with her – taught Jennie how to swim. And how to drive a car. All this was therapeutic, and as Jennie began to heal, Minnie took advantage of what was probably her best chance to have her own life. She married Ben Coburn in June of 1935 in a wedding held in Howard’s Beach. She was twenty-six years old.
About seven years after Minnie and Ben were married, they bought a house in Brooklyn with Jennie and Harry. Jennie couldn't quite get past my dad to rule the house, but she ruled Minnie. When my younger brother was born, Jennie took over raising him until he was perhaps four years old and not fun anymore. She was always importing relatives to stay in the house - always in my room. Pal's daughter-in-law, Edith, came with her son Teddy and a German Police Dog named Rex. They stayed a year. Miryam Legris, daughter of Jennie's cousin, came from Paris for what was supposed to be an emigration but turned out to be a holiday paid for by Jennie and unwillingly my dad. Pal's niece, Annette Bull, came from London, and spent over a year in the house becoming a beloved addition to the family.
Jennie and Minnie were best friends all of Jennie’s life. I don’t think Jennie had any other real female friends. Minnie’s friends drifted away – Jennie took up too much space. When I was a kid and Jennie’s friends came over, I always 
assumed that she was friends with the women and the husbands just tagged along. In retrospect, I know differently. Sonya Bloom was Avram Bloom’s wife, and Avram had been in love with Genya in Odessa when they were growing up. He never got over her entirely. So they all hung out together. Avram was a Yiddish poet, well known in literary circles and very talented. He had translated all of Edgar Allan Poe into Yiddish and without hesitation would break into verse. For a day job, he captained a tugboat up and down the Hudson River. Is this a movie, or what??? Sonya and Avram had gorgeous sons; I remember Hyman Bloom who dated one of Jennie’s nieces for a while. And Monty Bloom who was my earliest heartthrob. Murray Bloom was in the Merchant Marines in the Second World War and died a hero. Grandma helped Sonya and others form a chapter of an organization called The Pioneer Women and the chapter was named The Lt. Murray Bloom. (Eventually there was also a ship named after him.) The organization was part of the Zionist movement raising money to relocate Jewish refugees to what was then Palestine, and supporting the creation of a Jewish homeland. There were others. Lots of names I can’t quite remember although I see their faces clearly. Grandma called them “the mad Russians,” and they came to play cards: the men played Pinochle in the dining room, and the women played Poker on card tables in the living room; some played Canasta. Occasionally, the women came to play Mah-jongg; the men always played Pinochle. There was lots of food and lots of drink and cigars; and Jennie was the pivotal figure. They were there for all her life. When Jennie died in 1957 at the age of 66, they vanished. I never saw any of them again.
In an earlier blog, I wrote about my special times with Jennie. Forgive me if I repeat myself a bit. We went to the art cinema to see foreign films. She gave me Marlene Dietrich and Edith Piaf. And Russian and Yiddish songs. She loved to sing. She didn’t have much of a voice, but that didn’t stop her. I believe I mentioned the remarkable summer evenings when we'd walk the boardwalk in Brighten Beach until Jennie heard the Balalaikas from one of the little gazebos on the boardwalk. People gathered nightly to sing and dance and laugh together. I'd disappear while the real Jennie joined her landsmen, winning them over with her joie de vivre, her energy, her passion.
assumed that she was friends with the women and the husbands just tagged along. In retrospect, I know differently. Sonya Bloom was Avram Bloom’s wife, and Avram had been in love with Genya in Odessa when they were growing up. He never got over her entirely. So they all hung out together. Avram was a Yiddish poet, well known in literary circles and very talented. He had translated all of Edgar Allan Poe into Yiddish and without hesitation would break into verse. For a day job, he captained a tugboat up and down the Hudson River. Is this a movie, or what??? Sonya and Avram had gorgeous sons; I remember Hyman Bloom who dated one of Jennie’s nieces for a while. And Monty Bloom who was my earliest heartthrob. Murray Bloom was in the Merchant Marines in the Second World War and died a hero. Grandma helped Sonya and others form a chapter of an organization called The Pioneer Women and the chapter was named The Lt. Murray Bloom. (Eventually there was also a ship named after him.) The organization was part of the Zionist movement raising money to relocate Jewish refugees to what was then Palestine, and supporting the creation of a Jewish homeland. There were others. Lots of names I can’t quite remember although I see their faces clearly. Grandma called them “the mad Russians,” and they came to play cards: the men played Pinochle in the dining room, and the women played Poker on card tables in the living room; some played Canasta. Occasionally, the women came to play Mah-jongg; the men always played Pinochle. There was lots of food and lots of drink and cigars; and Jennie was the pivotal figure. They were there for all her life. When Jennie died in 1957 at the age of 66, they vanished. I never saw any of them again.
In an earlier blog, I wrote about my special times with Jennie. Forgive me if I repeat myself a bit. We went to the art cinema to see foreign films. She gave me Marlene Dietrich and Edith Piaf. And Russian and Yiddish songs. She loved to sing. She didn’t have much of a voice, but that didn’t stop her. I believe I mentioned the remarkable summer evenings when we'd walk the boardwalk in Brighten Beach until Jennie heard the Balalaikas from one of the little gazebos on the boardwalk. People gathered nightly to sing and dance and laugh together. I'd disappear while the real Jennie joined her landsmen, winning them over with her joie de vivre, her energy, her passion.
I don’t think Jennie was good alone. She liked society. But only if she was the central figure. Nothing else worked for her. She was close to Sarah Filler who was her brother Chayim's wife. She liked being with Sarah, because Sarah was an actress in Yiddish Theatre and kept Jennie in touch with that world. She cooked and baked vaguely admitting that Bubbe Golda had taught her how. She sewed clothes for my mother and me (bringing the work to Pal frequently because he could make it perfect.) She’d knit and crochet and make quilts. (I still have the Sunbonnet Babies quilt she made for me.) She and Minnie took up all kinds of crafts together. They made beaded purses and equally difficult projects. If Jennie was sitting with folks who began to steer a discussion in a direction she couldn't follow, she'd find a way to distract them. Many times, silly ways. For example, seated at the dining room table, Jennie might quietly take some cherries or grapes and drape them over her ears; then sit there until someone noticed and laughed and the distraction would be accomplished. Or she'd get up and put on some music and do a little dance that would cancel out whatever was going on without her. She drove a car (a Tin Lizzie) with a running board; on rainy days she’d drive my older brother and me to school, and all the kids in the neighborhood would jump onto the running board for the ride. The old Ford was put to pasture when one of her brothers helped her buy his used Lincoln. She drove that one for a long time. A couple of years before she died, she bought a white Chevy Bel-Air with red upholstery. She stitched up a wardrobe of red and white dresses to wear when she went cruising in it. Jennie cursed in several languages, so driving with her was educational. Whenever we’d drive out to Rockaway Beach, she’d slow up passing Floyd Bennett Airfield and give rides to hitchhiking military men. (When I was still little, I remember Jennie driving me out to Rockaway once to see Bubbe Golda. On the way back, she picked up two hitchhiking sailors and actually brought them home for something to eat and a good long chat. Then she drove them to the subway.)
But this great flirt was an awful prude with little respect for men. The only men she truly respected were the ones she couldn’t control and my dad was top of the list. They fought all of the time. Loudly and violently. I was too much influenced by Jennie’s opinions about men, and I’m sure that influence has never quite left me. When I was about 15 or 16 years old I met a boy named Ricky Smith. He was a tall, skinny kid; probably 18 or 19 years old. I had a big crush on him. He had gone away; something about horses someplace in the west. Upon his return, he got together. My folks were in Ithaca visiting my older brother at Cornell and my younger brother and I were under Jennie’s eagle eye. That night he gave me his “ring” to wear on a chain around my neck. His mom, who was pretty cool, took us to supper and gave me a ride home. Ricky walked me up to the front steps and kissed me goodnight. My grandmother stepped out of the shadows with great drama. Ricky got back in the car with his mom and took off. Jennie began a tirade, calling me every name she could think of: corva, whore and slut and tramp and anything else she thought was appropriate to a teenager who kissed a boy goodnight on the front steps while his mother watched from the car. I remember it so clearly. I walked past her into the house, and while she screamed I made my lunch for school the next day (a Swiss cheese sandwich – God, why do I remember that?) I turned to her and said, “ Are you done now, Grandma?” She just looked at me. I said, “Goodnight,” and I went up to bed. I spoke to my mom who gratefully returned the next day. Jennie had already gotten to her. But my mom was content that I had behaved the way I did. She said someday you’ll understand, blah-blah-blah. I don’t think I ever have understood. I’m sure there were facts about Jennie that my mom never told anyone. Ricky showed up a few days later for his ring. Grandma had done her best work. He wasn’t about to deal with that situation. I don’t remember caring very much; I think it was just sort of nice to have a cute guy give me his ring.
Jennie and Harry Ginsburg were finally married, probably around 1949 or 1950. Harry received news that his estranged wife had died. No one knew about the marriage in our house except my folks. Jennie was utterly devoted to Pal and drove to the train station to pick him up from work every day. She skimmed the fat off his soup and never sat down until he’d been served and was happy with his meal. The fact that he was not our biological grandfather was kept a
total secret until after Jennie’s death in 1957, and even then. They moved out of the house on East 10th street into an apartment in lower Manhattan, a building constructed by Pal's union. Grandma made many friends there. Her special friend was the editor of the Jewish Forward; he was also the father of Lee J. Cobb. Jennie loved celebrity! The building was near the East Side Amphi-theatre where Joe Papp began his Shakespeare In The Park project in New York. This was my excuse for visiting Jennie as often as possible when, in her mid-sixties she was diagnosed with hardening of the arteries of the heart– as it was called back then. The procedures to clear out those arteries didn’t exist. Jennie was put on a strict diet and told that she had to change her life style; “take it easy.” This was not acceptable to Jennie. In the fall of 1957, several of her brothers were coming to visit her, knowing how ill she was. In preparation for their visit, Jennie cooked up a storm. Minnie traveled out to Grand Street to help her. After she left one day, Jennie decided to scrub her carpets. On her hands and knees. That night Minnie had to return to Grand Street, call an ambulance and travel with Jennie to the hospital. Jennie did not survive.
It was probably Minnie’s hope that the secret of Harry and Jennie would be buried with Jennie. However, I discovered the secret although my brothers didn’t know for years. The family loved to have skeletons rattling around in every closet. The week after Jennie died, my mother who was shattered and inconsolable, stayed up late looking at photographs. I sat with her having come home to Brooklyn from college in Pittsburgh. Wonderful old photos. One of them was of my grandmother, very young, standing behind a man seated in a chair. Remembering an old joke about old wedding photographs – “the man sits because he’s too tired to stand and the woman stands because she’s too sore to sit” – I was suddenly struck by the “typical” pose and teased my mom that it was obviously a wedding picture. I was kidding. Mom cried out – “who told you??” She was distressed and relieved at the same time. She was able to tell me the Frank Miller story. We sat up all night. We pulled the skeletons out of all the closets one by one.
Alek Miller, Frank Miller’s father, who came to visit and whom we’d visit in Philadelphia was an enigma. We had photos of him and portraits we took with him as a
family. My mother never told us that he was her grandfather. I loved him enough to name my first-born son for him and probably would have done even if I’d never unearthed the secret. I never met Frank Miller. My mother would make secretive phone calls to a hospital/nursing home in Coney Island to check up on his well being. How peculiar all this seems now but how typical back then. Alek Miller was murdered for a little diamond pinky ring he wore. He was awfully poor in his old age and lived in one room with a hot plate for a kitchen. But he wore a straw skimmer and a stickpin and a little diamond pinky ring and smelled of talc and used a walking stick. He was murdered for his sense of style and his dignity.
Pal outlived Jennie by many years. He lived with Minnie in the house on East 10th Street. He was retired by then and certainly not the large, strong man who fought the influenza epidemic by drinking whiskey (while playing cards) non-stop for a week. At the same time, he tended to the very young Minnie and (as she always told it) saved her life by giving her alcohol rubs and fresh water and juice to drink. If I remember correctly, Jennie was hospitalized with the illness. So at the end of his life, my mother took care of him. They shared a history. They shared Jennie.
But this great flirt was an awful prude with little respect for men. The only men she truly respected were the ones she couldn’t control and my dad was top of the list. They fought all of the time. Loudly and violently. I was too much influenced by Jennie’s opinions about men, and I’m sure that influence has never quite left me. When I was about 15 or 16 years old I met a boy named Ricky Smith. He was a tall, skinny kid; probably 18 or 19 years old. I had a big crush on him. He had gone away; something about horses someplace in the west. Upon his return, he got together. My folks were in Ithaca visiting my older brother at Cornell and my younger brother and I were under Jennie’s eagle eye. That night he gave me his “ring” to wear on a chain around my neck. His mom, who was pretty cool, took us to supper and gave me a ride home. Ricky walked me up to the front steps and kissed me goodnight. My grandmother stepped out of the shadows with great drama. Ricky got back in the car with his mom and took off. Jennie began a tirade, calling me every name she could think of: corva, whore and slut and tramp and anything else she thought was appropriate to a teenager who kissed a boy goodnight on the front steps while his mother watched from the car. I remember it so clearly. I walked past her into the house, and while she screamed I made my lunch for school the next day (a Swiss cheese sandwich – God, why do I remember that?) I turned to her and said, “ Are you done now, Grandma?” She just looked at me. I said, “Goodnight,” and I went up to bed. I spoke to my mom who gratefully returned the next day. Jennie had already gotten to her. But my mom was content that I had behaved the way I did. She said someday you’ll understand, blah-blah-blah. I don’t think I ever have understood. I’m sure there were facts about Jennie that my mom never told anyone. Ricky showed up a few days later for his ring. Grandma had done her best work. He wasn’t about to deal with that situation. I don’t remember caring very much; I think it was just sort of nice to have a cute guy give me his ring.
Jennie and Harry Ginsburg were finally married, probably around 1949 or 1950. Harry received news that his estranged wife had died. No one knew about the marriage in our house except my folks. Jennie was utterly devoted to Pal and drove to the train station to pick him up from work every day. She skimmed the fat off his soup and never sat down until he’d been served and was happy with his meal. The fact that he was not our biological grandfather was kept a
total secret until after Jennie’s death in 1957, and even then. They moved out of the house on East 10th street into an apartment in lower Manhattan, a building constructed by Pal's union. Grandma made many friends there. Her special friend was the editor of the Jewish Forward; he was also the father of Lee J. Cobb. Jennie loved celebrity! The building was near the East Side Amphi-theatre where Joe Papp began his Shakespeare In The Park project in New York. This was my excuse for visiting Jennie as often as possible when, in her mid-sixties she was diagnosed with hardening of the arteries of the heart– as it was called back then. The procedures to clear out those arteries didn’t exist. Jennie was put on a strict diet and told that she had to change her life style; “take it easy.” This was not acceptable to Jennie. In the fall of 1957, several of her brothers were coming to visit her, knowing how ill she was. In preparation for their visit, Jennie cooked up a storm. Minnie traveled out to Grand Street to help her. After she left one day, Jennie decided to scrub her carpets. On her hands and knees. That night Minnie had to return to Grand Street, call an ambulance and travel with Jennie to the hospital. Jennie did not survive.It was probably Minnie’s hope that the secret of Harry and Jennie would be buried with Jennie. However, I discovered the secret although my brothers didn’t know for years. The family loved to have skeletons rattling around in every closet. The week after Jennie died, my mother who was shattered and inconsolable, stayed up late looking at photographs. I sat with her having come home to Brooklyn from college in Pittsburgh. Wonderful old photos. One of them was of my grandmother, very young, standing behind a man seated in a chair. Remembering an old joke about old wedding photographs – “the man sits because he’s too tired to stand and the woman stands because she’s too sore to sit” – I was suddenly struck by the “typical” pose and teased my mom that it was obviously a wedding picture. I was kidding. Mom cried out – “who told you??” She was distressed and relieved at the same time. She was able to tell me the Frank Miller story. We sat up all night. We pulled the skeletons out of all the closets one by one.
Alek Miller, Frank Miller’s father, who came to visit and whom we’d visit in Philadelphia was an enigma. We had photos of him and portraits we took with him as a
family. My mother never told us that he was her grandfather. I loved him enough to name my first-born son for him and probably would have done even if I’d never unearthed the secret. I never met Frank Miller. My mother would make secretive phone calls to a hospital/nursing home in Coney Island to check up on his well being. How peculiar all this seems now but how typical back then. Alek Miller was murdered for a little diamond pinky ring he wore. He was awfully poor in his old age and lived in one room with a hot plate for a kitchen. But he wore a straw skimmer and a stickpin and a little diamond pinky ring and smelled of talc and used a walking stick. He was murdered for his sense of style and his dignity.
Pal outlived Jennie by many years. He lived with Minnie in the house on East 10th Street. He was retired by then and certainly not the large, strong man who fought the influenza epidemic by drinking whiskey (while playing cards) non-stop for a week. At the same time, he tended to the very young Minnie and (as she always told it) saved her life by giving her alcohol rubs and fresh water and juice to drink. If I remember correctly, Jennie was hospitalized with the illness. So at the end of his life, my mother took care of him. They shared a history. They shared Jennie.
