BEL KAUFMAN ORAL HISTORY

CHRISTA WHITNEY:This is Christa Whitney, and today is April 1st, 2014. I'm here --

BEL KAUFMAN:No April Fool jokes! (laughs)

CW:Well? You can tell some if you want. And, I'm here in New York City with Bel Kaufman. We're going to record an interview as part of the Yiddish Book Center's Wexler Oral History Project. Bel, do I have your permission to record? Do I have your permission to record?

BK:You have my warm, affectionate permission to record.

CW:Thank you. So, today we're going to be mostly talking about your grandfather. Can you tell me his name and when he was born?

BK:My grandfather's name was Sholem Rabinowitz. His penname, under which he wrote, was "Sholem Aleichem," which in Hebrew means, "Peace, be with you." It's a sort of a warm greeting, like, "Hi, how are you?" And he wrote under the name of Sholem Aleichem. You must not call him "Mr. Aleichem." That is not his name. 2:00Like, you must not call Mark Twain "Mr. Twain." "Mark Twain" is a saying. "Sholem Aleichem" is a saying.

CW:And, do you remember when he was born?

BK:I don't remember because I wasn't born yet! (laughs) I think in eighteen fifty--

CW:Nine.

BKNine.

CW:And, what do you know about his family background, his parents?

BK:I don't really know them. I met his father only a few times when I was very, very little. His father was a very religious Jew. I remember his father 3:00davening, which means praying, and cutting off his nails, and putting the scraps of nail into a cup. I never found out what the tradition meant. But, I was very little, and it impressed me.

CW:Do you have a sense of the world he grew up in? Can you describe the environment he grew up in, your grandfather?

BK:I missed most of what you said. When I was only 102 I wouldn't have missed it. I'm 103, I don't hear it too well.

CW:That's fine. Can you describe the world your grandfather grew up in?

BK:How could I describe it? I've never seen it.

CW:Do you have a sense?

BK:From reading. And it's Sholem Aleichem who preserved that world, which no longer exists. You read him and you see the little shtetls -- the little towns -- the people, the characters. It's great writing.

CW:Yeah. Do you know when he first started writing?

BK:Yes. He was fourteen years old, (laughs) and he wrote out a glossary of his step-mother's curses. His father remarried after his mother died of cholera. And he married a shrew. Instead of complaining about it, Sholem Aleichem sat down and copied alphabetically, A-B-C (laughs) -- all the curses she lavished upon him. That is the way his humor worked. Because instead of saying, "What a nasty 6:00woman" -- no. He copied her curse words. His style. It's one of the funniest alphabetical papers.

CW:You -- your life overlapped with his, a few years.

BK:I was five years old when he died. I was still in Odessa.

CW:Careful not to touch your microphone.

BK:I was in Odessa. He died in New York. I knew him only when I was very little. 7:00The first three years of my life, I lived in Berlin. Why? Because my father studied medicine in Berlin. I thought it would be polite to be born near him. (laughs) And then, when he got his medical license -- I was about three -- we went to Russia, where our home was. I remember our house in Odessa. I remember --

CW:Can you describe the house?

BK:Well, yes, I can. It was on Rishelyevskaya Street. Number fifty-seven. I went back when I was already grown-up, and well-known, and the house was being demolished, as were all the houses on that street. But, at that time we had a balcony on the second floor. Over the balcony was a tree of -- oh, what are those wonderful flowers? They're white. I think in Russian it's called "landysh 9:00[Russian: lily of the valley]." In English, I don't know. I get mixed up with languages. Russian is really my language. English has been acquired, as is French.

CW:So, what about the inside of the house?

BK:A balcony -- "Acacia!" That's the word! Wonderful scent of acacia overhanging the balcony. Stairs, going up. A courtyard, which played an important role in my 10:00life. In the courtyard -- apartment for the janitor, a huge iron gate leading to the courtyard. The courtyard is very vivid in my mind, because during the Revolution -- I lived in Russia through the Revolution -- people were shot on the street. They lay in frozen positions until they were taken away. But, to a 11:00child, that is not frightening. A child had no experience. So, doesn't every little girl step over a dead body on the street? Only when the Communists -- there were different -- different governments every other day, Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, Whites, Reds. During the Bolshevik regime, I was wheeling my brother 12:00-- whom you will hear in a moment -- in his carriage. He was only a few months old. I was seven. No, I was nine? I'm nine years older? I stole two years to look younger (laughs). Well, two young Communist women in leather jackets approached me when I was wheeling him in front of our house. He was just born. They picked him up, thrust him into my skinny, nine-year-old arms, and said, U 13:00nas tozhe deti, "We also have babies," and took the carriage away. I was left with the infant, my tears falling on his blanket. I went upstairs. My mother said, "Belochka, what happened?" I said, "They have babies too!" (laughs) That was my introduction to Communism. [BREAK IN RECORDING]

CW:Can you tell me more about what you remember from Odessa? What do you remember of your house? The rooms in the house, the people?

BK:Well, I mentioned the huge, black iron gate, because it was hard for me to 14:00push it into the courtyard. I mention it, because years later, when I was an adult and revisited Odessa, I went to Rishelyevskaya Street. It had in the meantime -- the street was now called Lenin Street -- it was changed back to Rishelyevskaya Street (laughs) -- Well, they were demolishing the houses. And where was the huge, black iron gate? -- It looked -- small. I -- grew. It was 15:00half-broken off its hinge. I remember the courtyard, because during the worst days of the shooting -- shooting on the street -- a man ran into the courtyard to escape the bullets, but he was shot. And he lay on the ground -- it was very cold, it was winter -- in a peculiar position. His arm froze stiff as if he were 16:00saluting. My parents didn't want me to look out of the window into the courtyard. "Don't look, Belochka." Of course, I looked. Who wouldn't? And after a while someone removed his boots, someone removed his jacket, someone finally removed him. That was a daily occurrence during the worst. And yet, we did not live like besieged, frightened people. No. We lived our normal lives. Although, 17:00we had many shortages -- not enough wood for the fire, not enough coal, not enough food, famine. Famine -- oh, I remember the taste of hunger. I remember the taste of chocolate. I must have been very little. My grandmother -- Sholem Aleichem's widow, in New York -- sent us a care package. They called it a "Hoover Package" -- maybe Hoover was president. And among them was a bar of 18:00chocolate. We'd nibble on it every day, like mice, to make it last. And my mother said, "If we ever get to America, the first thing I'll buy will be this chocolate. I'll recognize it by the cover." It lasted a long time. We did get to America. My mother and I were in a grocery store. And, on the shelf -- she recognized the wrapping. "Oy!" She said, "Belochka, that's the chocolate that is better than any I had in Switzerland!" The man said, "Lady, you can't eat it, 19:00it's cooking chocolate!" We ate it. We really ate it little by little, and it tasted much better than any brand name chocolate. You have to be hungry to appreciate food. And since in my childhood I must have been hungry, I appreciate food today very much. I like good food. And, even at almost 103, I enjoy the taste of good food.

CW:And chocolate?

BK:Well, not particularly chocolate, but anything good. Anything that tastes good.

CW:So, what was Jewish about your home? What was Jewish -- in your home?

BK:It was not a Jewish home. Of course, we were Jews, we appreciated our Jewishness -- culturally, spiritually -- but, we were not observant Jews. We went to synagogue on High Holy Days -- not for religious reasons, but cultural 21:00ones. I did not --believe -- in any -- well, I wasn't taught the religious -- the religious tricks. As a child, I thought there was a God. I did not see Him 22:00-- it was a "He." "She" did not become divine until much later (laughs). Probably had a long white beard -- like in the books -- and thundered advice from the sky (laughs). I remember one anguished, tormented night. I must've been six or seven. The adults were talking about a friend of theirs who was very sick, and might die during the night. I heard them. I decided to test -- see if 23:00there is a God. So, I gave a long talk to the ceiling. I explained, I was testing Him -- I explained that if He did what I asked, I would know He exists. And, I kept asking him to make the man whom I did not know -- whom they talked about -- to be well in the morning. If he is well in the morning, God exists. If he dies, there is no God. That was my way of ascertaining His existence. Well, 24:00all night, little Belochka did not sleep. She tossed in her bed, talking to the ceiling. In the morning, she learned the man died. Ah! Then there is no God. That was my way of handling religion.

CW:Do you -- can you -- do you remember what the synagogue looked like, in Odessa?

BK:I don't think so.

CW:Now, do you have any memories of your grandfather?

BK:I have many memories. My childhood is nothing but a whole sea of memories of him. He played an enormously important role in my very young years. He was the source of fun, of laughter, of love. Love and laughter -- that's my inheritance.

CW:What do you remember him looking like?

BK:I remember his clothes, because he was very elegant, and quite a fashion 26:00maven. He wore velvet vests with exciting buttons, interesting cravats. He liked to dress up. He was not tall. He was slight, with dark-blonde hair worn in the fashion of the day, down to his shoulders. A pince-nez, and a black ribbon. He liked to appear as attractively as he could. And he was -- I thought he was 27:00beautiful. He was not like any grandfather I knew. There was no other grandfather like him. He used to tell us -- I say "us," because I was growing up with my cousin, little Tamara -- Tamara Kahana. He had the two granddaughters while he lived. We were the only ones -- others came later. And he adored us. He would walk with us in Switzerland, where he lived for a while. He would point to 28:00a tall mountain. He would say, "You see that mountain? I just gave it to Tomarushke. You see this wood? I'm making a present of it to Belochka." So, we were delighted. He gave us these wonderful presents. He used to tell us funny stories. He was a great mimic. He would mimic people -- I don't know how his four daughters got married. When young men used to come to woo them, if he did 29:00not care for a certain young man, when the young man left, he would mimic him. (laughs) It was very funny. Some of the young men survived, and became the husbands of his four daughters.

CW:So, you would go for walks with him?

F:Can we take the -- (UNCLEAR)

CW:(speaking quietly) I don't think so. Sorry. Um, your bangles are a little noisy, so we'll just try to --

BK:I can't take them off.

CW:No, that's okay. We'll just --

BK:I'll try to keep my arm paralyzed. (laughter)

CW:Or, just off of the wood. Um, can you tell me more about the walks you would 30:00take with him? You would take walks with your grandfather.

BK:Yes. I told you of the presents he gave us. He liked for me to hold on to his hand as we walked. "Tightly," he said. "The tighter you squeeze my hand, the better I write." So, I take upon myself the credit if you enjoy his works, because I held on very tightly. And actually, the hand played an important role 31:00in his life. "Sholem Aleichem. How do you do?" He had a tie pin, which must be in the Sholem Aleichem Museum now, of two hands clasping. I never knew he was a world-known humorist, who took an ordinary language like Yiddish -- a kitchen 32:00language, that illiterate women spoke -- and turned it into literature. He loved the Yiddish language. And, even though he knew Russian perfectly, and even though he wrote Russian letters to Chekhov and to Tolstoy, he chose to write his creations in Yiddish, and that was an enormous, enormous gift to the culture of 33:00the world. Not only did Yiddish become acceptable, it has become a language of creativity. That was his great contribution to world literature. And, he wrote constantly. He never stopped writing. Even when he died, people who kept watch around his bed said his hand kept moving on the sheets. And, he never finished a 34:00story -- my favorite -- about Motl the cantor's son, the little boy Motl, whom I loved -- I first read in Russian. I understood Yiddish, we all did, but we spoke Russian. We lived in Russia. Little Motl the cantor's son.

CW:Do you remember him writing?

BK:I do not really know whether this is a real memory -- sometimes it's hard to distinguish -- or something told me by my mother -- or something I've read about 35:00-- I don't remember seeing him write, but I know he wrote standing up over a kind-of lectern, looking off into the distance, as if listening to what his characters were saying, and writing. Beautiful handwriting. Calligraphy. Both in Russian, in Yiddish, in Hebrew. Beautiful. I have copies, of course, of his letters to Belochka. "Belochka in Odessa. From Papa Sholem Aleichem, in 36:00America." Odessa was Russian. It is now Ukraine, but it was very Russian. A beautiful city, with a lovely privorskaya [Russian: riverbank] -- trying to translate a Russian word -- uh, boarding the river --

CW:"Boardwalk," maybe? "Boardwalk" type? "Boardwalk," is that what you mean?

BK:"Park?" Well, there was a long -- oh, this was in Kiev -- a long, long 37:00staircase. The famous staircase that was filled -- the man's name escapes me -- it will pop up suddenly. My memory has been limping. All memory's selective, of course, but mine has become very peculiar as I get older.

CW:Did you -- what language did you speak at home? What languages did you hear 38:00at home?

BK:At home, we spoke -- wherever we were -- only Russian. We were Russians. Russian Jews, but Russians. We understood Yiddish. We knew the language of the country, but in Berlin, we did not speak German. We spoke our language -- Russian.

CW:Who did you hear speaking Yiddish?

BK:My parents' friends, Sholem Aleichem's admirers, who used to visit us in Odessa Friday nights at our teas -- we served tea. People used to come. Poets, 39:00writers, artists. A man by the name of Elman came with his little son, whose name was Mischa. His little son was a violin prodigy. Gave concerts, Mischa Elman. Poets came, authors came, to pay respects to my grand-- after Sholem Aleichem died. My mother kept a diary -- which I came upon the other day -- in 40:00Russian. A famous author was coming to visit. She would have to serve tea. You must. Tea was rationed. Sugar was rationed. She served tea, and she put whatever was left of the little cubes of sugar into a dish, covered it with a flower pot. Maybe he won't see the sugar. He saw the sugar. (laughs) I was sent for a couple 41:00of weeks -- no, I think it was only one week -- I don't remember -- to a special camp -- Camp for the Children of the Proletariat. Because, at that camp they gave the children one square-inch of meat at lunch. For the meat, I went to the 42:00camp. The children separated the cooked meat into strings to make it last. So, I did too. And a terrible, terrible thing happened -- my father brought me a present. Half an orange. Orange? A whole half? Not just one leaf, a half. I hid it under my pillow to eat later. Another child stole it. Ah! What a terrible feeling. A child stole it. And I remember something unusual -- I don't know if 43:00it happens to many children -- a sense -- of empathy. Not sympathy -- empathy. I heard a child crying, and instead of just thinking, Well, a child is crying. A child is crying, why? Because the child is hurting. The way I am hurting. That 44:00was the first time I realized others had feelings like me. It was a very important, important moment. I have a lot of empathy now, which makes me a good writer. I feel what others feel. I could describe a feeling. But, that was the first time it occurred to me. Other children also have feelings, ah!

CW:Are there any other famous stories about Sholem Aleichem that were passed 45:00down through the family?

BK:Of course. There were many. It is difficult to know how many really happened, how many became family legend by being repeated, each time with a little change. There's the famous story of Sholem Aleichem and Mark Twain. You are probably familiar with it. I think the story may be apocryphal. It goes like this: Sholem 46:00Aleichem and Mark Twain met at some big European function, and Mark Twain and Sholem Aleichem -- introduced to each other -- Sholem Aleichem said, "I am known as the Jewish Mark Twain." Mark Twain said, "I am known as the American Sholem Aleichem." I don't see any evidence this happened, but legends grow and change, 47:00and become, sometimes, cultural laws. (laughs) But, if they did meet, I do not think they were very much alike as writers. The humor is quite different. The language is quite different. The philosophy is close. But in order to survive, we Jews had to learn to laugh. Laughter is survival.

CW:Do you remember your grandfather's laugh?

BK:Yes! It was peculiar. It was like a cackle. High-pitched. In fact, I believe there is a tape that was broken off, where he's reading "If I Were a Rothschild," I think -- where you hear his laugh. Maybe Lansky has it. -- You 49:00know, he had a beautiful reading -- speaking voice. He used to say, "If not a writer, I could have been an actor." And, he was -- he read his stories to audiences -- standing ovation. He loved the theater. He used to dream that one day in America there may be a Jewish theater. He said, "My eyes won't see it." He told my mother, "Maybe, yours will." Well, ours did, didn't they? We have 50:00Jewish theater. He loved the stage. He could have been an actor. Well, all good readers are actors! I am an actress -- I should say "actor," but I can't call myself "actor." It's more correct.

CW:Now, Sholem Aleichem was pretty sick at the end of his life. Do you remember that? Do you know what sicknesses?

BK:I was not with him, I was in Russia. My cousin Tamara was. He suffered 51:00agonies. Agonies. He had diabetes, before they knew the cure. Even about that he joked. He said, "Now, I know I'll never die of hunger. I'll die of thirst!" -- diabetes makes you thirsty. He suffered physical anguish, but he kept writing. Even in bed he wrote constantly, chuckling -- as if hearing what his characters were saying. And yet, he was a very careful -- a very specifically careful 52:00writer. He would send a note to his publisher to change a word. -- A remarkable man. Remarkable. As a child, I never knew that. He was "Papa!" "Papa Sholem Aleichem." Our own fathers were "papochka [Russian: daddy]," which is a diminutive.

CW:Now, you said your favorite story, or favorite character, is Motl?

BK:Motl, the cantor's son.

CW:And, why is that your favorite?

BK:I identified so completely with him. It was the first Sholem Aleichem book I read, in Russian -- I understood Yiddish, but did not read it -- my mother's translation. Then, later Tamara Kahana's translation of Motl. Motl was my childhood friend. I spent my days with Motl and his adventures.

CW:Can you describe Motl to someone who hasn't read the story?

BK:How can anyone describe an imaginary character? Motl was very real to me, but 54:00he was imagined by Sholem Aleichem. A typical mischievous boy. All his adventures -- and his brother Eli, and his friend Pidya -- they are funny. They are such funny characters. And real. They spring from the page. And you say, Ah! Hello! I know you! Remarkable.

CW:Yeah. Have there been different favorites of Sholem Aleichem over your life? Do you go back to read -- do you read at different times?

BK:Yes, I re-read -- you know, when one is old, and loses some memory, a remarkable thing is to reread your old favorite books. They become new. Much 56:00becomes new with loss of memory. Very interesting. I'm observing my seniority the way a scientist looks under a microscope. "Oh, so this is how old people -- oh, this is what happens." I have all my faculties, except two: memory -- I remember exactly my childhood, everything, but with whom I had lunch yesterday, I cannot tell you -- and a sense of time. Time -- is very important. It's life. 57:00Living is time. And for old people, time becomes another dimension. I find it interesting to observe myself.

CW:So, I have just a couple questions, and then I'd like to bring Sherwin over 58:00-- we can take a little break, but--

BK:I would like to be with him.

CW:Yes. But, first, do you remember your first impression of America?

BK:Yes, I remember my first impression of New York. Noise. Sound. Too many images at once coalescing into one big confusion. Very confusing. The language. Somebody on the ship, when we came here, taught me one English sentence, "I am a 59:00large girl." I was not large. Besides, it's ungrammatical. But that was my first sentence. -- I learnt it pretty quickly, I'm good at languages. I love words. I'm thrilled by ordinary words. I read words as if they were paintings. They 60:00mean so many different things. But, that's another subject.

[END OF INTERVIEW]