The Yiddish version of Sholom Secunda's autobiography first appeared in serial form in the "Yiddish Forward (Forverts)," beginning on May 4, 1969, and appearing most every Sunday in its supplement. Here you may read the English version of his autobiography, which was first edited by Yiddish actress Miriam Kressyn, then given a final editing by Museum of the Yiddish Theatre Director Steven Lasky.

MAY 4, 1969, ch. 1

Lemeshke. That's what they called me. And Lemeshke, I thought, was my name. What is "Lemeshke"? I never stopped to think that it might not be my name, that it was only a nickname -- not a flattering one, I might add, although I didn't know it then. Later, I did learn that Lemeshke was sort of a nebekhel, and that a nebekhel probably meant "poor thing; he is weak." But for nebekh there is no other word; no other language has its equivalent.

So you should think of Lemeshke as the nebekhel. And that's what they called me, and I acted the part as if born to it. As a matter of fact, I was …

I learned from my parents some time later that I really wasn't apt at anything. I'd sit in a corner. My eyes would focus on an object that only I saw. I didn't cry much though, and easy on tears. I didn't laugh that much either. Nothing evidently struck me as very funny. I didn't holler. Nothing excited me. And I didn't speak much. I had nothing much to say to anybody. "What is there to say?" I'd ask myself. Until they'd extricate me from my little corner, I'd stay there indefinitely and probably meditate …

My parents didn't get aggravated. I overheard them speak, and Papa was saying that all my older brothers were endowed with ale meiles (all attributes.) They take to things naturally; they're lively at work and lively at play -- not so Lemeshke. (That's me, I knew.) Well, were it fashionable at that time, they'd very likely have taken me to a psychiatrist and had me analyzed. No one had heard of such things in those days. No one in Alexandria (Russia), that's for sure. So they swallowed their sorrow and tolerated this sixth son of theirs. One out of seven, I imagine, is pretty good odds, I'd say.

So I have come to the conclusion that no other name suited this unhappy little boy. So Lemeshke was all right with them, and with me I suppose as well …

Mama was the only one who didn't refer to me as Lemeshke. To her I was mayn orime kind, nebekh, i.e. "my poor child."

My father had one question: "Why did God punish us?" And Mama piously had her answer: "Who can question the ways of the Lord???"

They thought back to the day of my birth. My father, Avruhom, and my mother, Henya Rivka, were then living in Russia, in a small town in the province of Kherson, the town of Alexandria. It happened on the Sabbath Mevarchim, i.e. the Sabbath of the blessing of the month of Elul, in the year 1894. My father and older brothers went to synagogue, while Mama stayed at home being readied by the heybam (midwife) for Mama's delivery of her sixth child.

The second to the eldest son, Berele by name, was eight years old. He sneaked out of the synagogue, and he and several friends of his -- shkotzimlekh (non-Jewish boys) -- went to the river to swim, thinking no doubt that until the special services of the blessing of the month, he'll be back and Papa won't even have missed him. Between Papa's presence in shul and Berele's absence from shul, playing at the river, I made my inauspicious entrance. As the midwife was imparting the very glad tidings of the arrival of yet another son, the shkotzimlekh brought the sad tidings that Berele had drowned. She sent a messenger to shul to my father to tell him the sad news. My father and his little ones -- all sons -- ran to the river to recover the tiny Berele (little bear). And the next day, on Sunday, Berele was laid to rest.

It wasn't my fault. It is not at all likely that if Mama had not been with child, she would have been with Berele watching over him at the river. But what made my arrival even sadder -- in addition to the great loss -- Mama had already brought five sons into this Secunda household, and if another child is to come, why not a girl? Why not? But would you say that was my doing? Or my undoing??? Considering all the strikes against me, is it any wonder that I felt out of place anywhere and everywhere, except in a quiet corner out of everyone's way …?

Later confessions were not of much help to me. My father used to tell in later years of his frequent conversations with Mama. And Mama piously would say: "God shouldn't punish me, Avruhom. I, Henya Rivka, tried to dictate to our Creator, who knows all. I asked him for girl, And take, why not a girl?"

My father continued his thought: "Our Berele, a likhtikn gan eydn zol er hobn (he should dwell in Paradise.) He had ale meiles, sang and danced, and in the masterskaya, in the workshop, he helped his father at the age of eight." My mother found an answer to that too: "And God saw that this child is too good for this unworthy world, and He called our little Berele to His kingdom. And instead of him, He sent us one who is nebekh, not so ay-ay-ay …"

In spite of its lofty name, Alexandria, it was a shtetele (town) that was sparsely populated, and very few people in Russia knew of its existence. There was no trace of commerce or culture. Its inhabitants dwelled in small and unattractive single-story houses. Business had not even been given a chance to develop. The Jewish inhabitants were mostly craftsmen: tailors, shoemakers, small-time merchants with little to buy and less to sell.

My father was a blekher (tinsmith). He patched up old, caved-in roofs and was seldom called upon to lay a new one. No sooner did he patch up one leak, it would drip from another. That's how my father made his living, from drip to drip, drop by drop. A milkhiger (dairyman) might sometimes bring an old milk can to be fixed, and my father would be paid either with a quart of milk, or with a half pound of butter, or with something edible that could be found around the farm. Each day he would look at the sky and hope for either a rainstorm, a hailstorm or a snowstorm. These catastrophic elements were his friends. Then he would get called from all sides: "Avruhom, ratevet, es kapet fun dakh!" (Help, it's raining in!, i.e. the roof is leaking …)

The sons helped. This one with the hammer, the other with nails; two held the ladder, another would pick up what the first one dropped, and all together they made "vasser af kasha (enough water to cook kasha in)." Papa could barely reach the roof of a one-story house. He could only go down. And if, kholile (God forbid) he slipped, it would be head first.

Still, in all likelihood, my parents would have continued living in that shtetele Alexandria, but fear pervaded our houses of worship. Ugly rumors reached out ears. After Mincha (evening prayers) some travelers would come back with tales about bilbulim (blood libels) in other Russian cities. There were rampant rumors about pravozshitelstvo for Jews (the right to live in certain towns). It was prohibited for them under the penalty of Simbir (Siberia). Lest you think my father was a coward, that -- I can attest to -- he was not. My father was a man who was strong of will and character, with muscles to back them up. Mama often loved telling stories about Papa's gvure (might). One episode especially Mama never tired of telling and retelling.

It happened one Friday night. Papa, as you must have guessed by now, was a shomer shabes (a Sabbath observer). We were just about to finish bentshn (blessing after the meal, finishing piously with the sentence, matnas bosor v'dom (and do not put us in need of charity ...), when suddenly there was a knocking at the door. Papa went to open it. A gardevoy (the equivalent of a policeman) with a samovar under his arm put his booted foot in the door.

"Tchto chotches?" (What do you want?) Papa asked in Russian. The gardevoy handed Papa the samovar, saying, "Na, faricht es."

"Here, fix it," he said, in a heavy, accented Yiddish. (Most of the peasants living in close proximity with their Jewish neighbors spoke Yiddish quite well.) "Nyet, galubchik" (No, my dear one), Papa answered. "You know it's shabes (Sabbath), and we are not permitted to do any work as of Friday night."

The gardevoy persisted: "What do I care about your Sobota (Sabbath)? I need a samovar. Es kapet un es kapet (It drips and drips.) It won't take long, Abraham," he insisted, pushing the samovar at my father. My father gently pushed it back, saying, "Idi s’bohom." (Go with God.) After the Sabbath, the first thing after Havdalah (the prayer for the end of the Sabbath), I'll gladly fix it for you."

This time the gardevoy, as if to strike my father, raised his hand, followed with one of the Russians’ favorite names for Jews, "Zhid prokliaty (accursed Jew)." You fix it now or else ..."

Papa did not let him finish. He picked up the heavily built peasant who towered over my father, and with all of his might carried him out to the middle of the dirt road, saying: "Idi k"chtortu matereh …" My father "blessed" him in his own language, going back as far as three generations … and shut the door. Bloody and beat up, the gardevoy beat at the door, cursing the "unclean Jews," the "Christ killers."

Papa returned to the table to finish the blessing, thanking God for all that He had done to him and for him …"

The gardevoy staggered back to where he came from, dragging the leaking samovar after him …

Yes, these were the signs of that time. Papa started talking about moving to Nikolaev. It's a busy, industrial city far from this accursed derfl (village). He had corresponded with friends in Nikolaev. "Come to Nikolaev," was their advice. "God is a father everywhere. He nourishes an insignificant little worm; he certainly can't neglect you. You have five sons …"

Sons. The eldest, Velvl, was ten years old, but my parents had high hopes for him. He was a good talmudim, a student of Torah in cheder. He could chant the weekly portion from the Torah fluently, like running water. He performed this honorable task with a dignity befitting many an older man. It was my father's hope that in the metropolis of Nikolaev, with its many synagogues, maybe Velvl could even become a choir leader, or why not a cantor? He turned to my mother, seeking her advice, "Henele (Henericke), vos shveigstu? Zog epes." (Why the silence? Say something.)

"Avruhom," Mama said, "all these years you were the balebos (the head of the house). You are the bread winner. If you think you can make a living for your family, I am willing to go wherever you want. And the good Lord will protect us no matter where."

"So be it," Papa said. So we sold what could be sold. We took with us the betgevant (bedding), a wedding gift from the bobe (grandmother), of blessed memory, and some of my father's tools, and one luxury, our samovar, an inheritance from Mama's home, a pillow for our heads, a featherbed to guard us against the Russian winters -- and a samovar too --we'll be the envy of all our friends. "Auf ale gute fraynt gezogt gevorn (Such god fortunes for all our dear ones, Father in heaven)," Mama smiled through tears. While no one was looking, Mama smuggled inside the perene (the feather quilt) the Sabbath candlesticks, and the Kiddush cup of ... "Oh, dear," she stopped suddenly, "whose Kiddush cup is it?" She knew it was a wedding present, but was it from the khosn's (bridegroom's) side, or the kale's (bride's) side of the family. "Well, no matter," thought Mama and finished packing. "Abi gezunt" (As long as we have our health.)

Parting from Alexandria should not be too difficult, and yet one lives among people -- Jews and non-Jews -- and you think they become your friends. There were some advocates "in the town"; there were some doctors and dentists. Now and then we had to use them. But very few, if any, were Jewish professionals. Most of them were Russians, as they were allowed to study in the universities. For Jews, the doors were "sealed with seven seals." How some did manage to attain status in the professional world is still a mystery to me and to many others. The townspeople were, or so I think as I look back, quite religious according to the many synagogues and lehavdil (if it may be said in the same breath) churches. At the end of the nineteenth century, at the time of my birth and my growing up, people seemed to be content with their lot, both Jews and non-Jews. They had little and accepted less ...

The beginning of the twentieth century saw it changing. There was unrest and grumblings against the Czar, and even daring demonstrations at times.

Among those unhappy with their lot were my parents. I remember well that when we had already been in America, Papa used to sit at the Sabbath table -- the only hour of rest -- and tell of the past, especially about Alexandria -- how he climbed (my own ambitions in America had already surpassed his by then) and clambered up roofs six days a week from sunrise to sunset and hardly earned his daily bread. But go away from a town, run ... Where to? Leave everything in search of what? When at home there was a wife and six sons, each year another waiting to be fed? Struggling with these questions, seeking the right answers, wasn't easy. But once they decided to make the change, we were on our way to Nikolaev. Piled high upon the wagon with our meager belongings, the children on top of the baggage, Papa and Mama in front with the balagula (wagon master), and off we went, crying unashamedly, the townspeople following, waving and blessing: "Hannah, Avruhom, leave in good health and arrive at your destination in peace, and let's hear from you good news!" And Mama, in her own fashion, "Oy, futer in himl (Oh, God in heaven), halevei (be it so.)" 

At last the train arrived at the station. Looking at that long and dirt-covered bandura (clumsy thing) called a ban (train), I started to whimper. My oldest brother, Velvl, on the verge of tears himself, yanked my hand, saying: "Kum, Lemeshke, vest shpeter vaynen" (Come, Lemeshke, you'll cry later.) The shrill whistle settled that argument, and off we went.

European trains had "four" classes of travel: first, second, third, and those who traveled "under the seats," i.e. without a ticket. I sat near Papa, facing Mama. When the train started moving, I began to squirm in my seat. "Avruhom," Mama said, "The child cannot sit backwards. He'll brekh (vomit)!" "So, he'll vomit," Papa said, "he'll feel better afterwards." He thought awhile and then said, kindly: "So let Lemeshke sit near Mama." Mama stretched out her hand to help her nebekhdik child, so I shouldn't fall.

The train rattled on. I looked out the dust-covered window. Trees and telephone poles raced by, and peasants harvesting hay waved. "Mama," I asked, "To whom are they waving?" "Glat in der velt arein, mayn kind" (To the world at large, my child), was her patient answer.

My eyes were closing against my will. Mama looked at me and tucked me closer to her side, enveloping me within her large coat. I snuggled against her warmth and ... dreamed of the cheder, the rebbe, his talis and tefillin (prayer shawl and phylacteries), and I, Lemeshke, singing: "Mah tovah aylekho Yaakov" (How good is thy God, O Yaakov.)

The whistle of the train changed its sound. The wheels against the steel bed changed their monotonous rhythm from "trotta, trotta, trotta," to "tratata, tratata, tratata, tratata ..." It puffed, it hissed, it p-u-u-u-f-f-f-e-d, and with a sudden jerk it stopped.

So did my "Mah tovah." Mama was shaking me gently, saying: "Wake up, Shololmul." I rubbed the sand out of my sleepy eyes and stared through the opaque window. The grey dawn stared back at me. My father was busy directing: "This is it, Henya-Rivka, get the children ready! Children, help Mama with the bebekhes (old bedding and such)!" Papa continues speaking: "Hurry! Hurry! Der poyezd vart nit (The train waits for no one.) Velvl, step down! Aronchik, help Solomonchik! Now, careful! Careful, mitn rekhtn fus (right foot forward)! Now help Mama and Yankele." After the older boys came, Papa helped Mama who was helping a sleepy Yankele. The acrid smell of hissing steam, and the puffing smoke, irritated my eyes. They burned. And my stomach turned. "Is this Nikolaev? I asked myself, the city my father was talking about?" The noise and so many people coming and going, people shouting, crying, laughing; Mamas warning their small fry in Russish (Russian): "Ostorozshno!" (Careful, be careful.)

Mama followed her brood, fearful that zay zoln nit farblonjet vern (they shouldn't get lost.) Out of the vagzal (depot) my father looked in all directions. Spying two men standing alongside a horse and large wagon, he beckoned them with his hand. Those were Papa's kroyvim (friends and family). They did not disappoint him. One tall, dark and not so handsome bearded man hugged my father and gave him a warm "Sholem Aleichem." The other, a horbate (hunchback), took our "hob and gutes" (wealth and precious possessions) and piled them high onto the wagon.

We were in Nikolaev. "Nu, Henele?" Papa asked, "How do you like my shtetele Nikolaev? Somewhat bigger than Alexandria, huh?" he boasted. The tall, bearded man laughed, and the other grinned showing his gold teeth. "Pish, pish, pish, shto, tam tutzich," (My, what goes on here), Mama agreed. "Where are all these nefashes (souls) running to?"

My brothers, too, were excited, jumping up and down. I "meditated." My father's stern look calmed my brothers, saying: "Look at Lemeshke, how nice and quiet he is." Again, "Get ready, we're almost there!" A few restless minutes, and with a command from the driver to the horses: "Prrrrrrrrr, stoy!" the gold-toothed man brought his horses to a stop. The other ones jumped down, helping Mama and the small fry off the wagon. I must have remained on the wagon to "meditate." My brother Velvl took my hand and tersely said, "Nu, rir zikh, Lemeshke" (Get moving.) My brother Velvl teased me: "Lemeshke." For the first time, I heard my mother admonish my brother by saying: "Nu, enough with Lemeshke, this is not Alexandria." My brother sheepishly said: "I don't mean anything, Mama, but you know Solomonchik, he is always the last one."

My father's friends had rented an apartment for us. It was sort of a group of buildings surrounding a large courtyard. The apartment consisted of three rooms. "That room," my father pointing to the largest, "that will be the masterskaya (work room)." He did not know what he was going to do, but he was sure he was going to do something. Papa had made up his mind even before he left Alexandria, that he would not be a tinsmith in Nikolaev, nor would he work for another man. "Alayn iz zi neshume rayn" (Alone you are a free soul.) He put down the case with some of his remaining tools: "With these tools," he said, "and with my arms," flexing his sinewy muscles, "I will always make a living for my family. " "Of course," Papa continued. "Hopefully my sons will take after me. They will help. They love to work, and Got iz a tate (God is a father.) He'll give us a hand, too. Just don't worry," he said to us.

Instructing us younger ones to help Mama with the unpacking, he announced, "I am going down to look around ..." He looked and saw. In the far end of the courtyard he saw a pile of scrap iron. "A guter simen" (A good omen). No sooner did Papa begin sorting out the larger pieces of iron, when an idea formed in his fertile mind. He picked up an armful of those iron rods, brought it into the masterskaya. We stood speechless ...

"Don't you want to know what this is?" he asked. "These pieces of iron rods are going to be beds ... iron bedsteads." He immediately started improvising, bending, and twisting the iron rods with his mighty hands at his will. "Before you will be ready to "say your krishme" (go to bed) and say your prayers, these will be bedsteads ... The older boys will manufacture them, and I'll go out in search of koynim (customers)." Papa, having settled the large room as the masterskaya, directed us to what will happen in the other rooms. "The smaller of the two will be our spalna (bedroom). The larger one will be for the seven boys to share. By then we were seven. What with all the bedding that Mama took with her to Nikolaev, they'll be none the worse for it, sleeping on the floor." Looking at Mama and smiling sadly, he asked: "Henele, did they have anything better in Alexandria? Don't worry, it's good for their backs. They'll grow up to be as strong as their father." Mama looked at him and said, "Zog, at least, ken eine hore. "(Ward off the evil eye, at least) ...

Papa was right. Before we sat down to vetchere (evening meal), he had the first bed ready. Oh, it wasn't perfect yet. He spent the next few days improving it. By the week's end, he had a bed "fit for a king," he said. My father was in good spirits, humming as he worked, putting the finishing touches on his brand-new product. Mama was preparing for the first Sabbath in Nikolaev. We repeated the "bath" ritual for the first time in the big city. Here they even had bathtubs in the public bathhouse. We luxuriated ...

After shul we entered our home. Yes, it really was in good shape. Mama had hung shining white half-curtains on the windows, the brass candlesticks reflected the tiny flames that danced gaily. My father entered proudly, followed by his bonimlekh (little sons), greeting Mama with a "Gut shabes." My mother's hair was washed and combed neatly. Papa chanted his greetings to his bas malke shabes (princess Sabbath), smiling approvingly at his very own Malka ...

Kiddush was made with flourish. Then he handed Mama the silver goblet, saying: "Na, Henele, banets di lipn" (Wet your lips.) Mama's lips touched the brim of the goblet. She passed it to the youngest, from the youngest to the oldest, and back to Papa.

"Nu, Henele," Papa said, "Geloibt iz Got" (Praised be the Lord.) Our first Sabbath in Nikolaev."

"Halevei veiter nisht erger (The future should not be worse), God forbid."

When we had gone to sleep, my parents were still whispering, Papa saying: "You know, Henele, what the saying is: "Meshane makom, meshane mazl "(A change of place is a change of luck.) Maybe for our children Nikolaev will be better."

I could not make up my mind then what Nikolaev would do for me, but looking back I can say that life for "Lemeshke" did begin in Nikolaev.
 

MAY 11, 1969, ch. 2

Among my first recollections are the days at cheder in Alexandria. Those were beautiful days for me. Crossing the threshold of the cheder for the very first time was my first step towards breaking out of my "cocoon," the lethargic cobweb that sheltered me from my hostile surroundings ...

Children playing was no inducement for me to join them. Children playing, that seemed to fascinate me. Their "sing-songy" veidaber Moshe, Moshe hot geredt (Moses spoke) filled me with awe. "How wonderful that these boys -- and I saw myself in them -- they understand what Moshe 'spoke' to the Lord."

I had thought only that my mother knows Him well enough and speaks to Him in mameloshn (mother tongue, i.e. Yiddish), and so intimately, in such intimate terms. She calls Him tate, just as I do my father. But she adds: "tate in himl." She knows where he "dwelleth" ...

My other brothers, as they approached the ripe age of five, attended the same cheder. The cheder in those days was not a schoolhouse as we know it. It was a small room containing one long, narrow table, with benches on either side. The rebbe (instructor) was at one table, and whatever he was instructing at that time, that book was in front of him. He never had to look inside the book; he knew it by heart. He never "graduated." Most likely he began instructing when he was a young man himself and never advanced much; neither did his pupils. If they learned epes (something), well and good. If not ... as long as the father paid skhar limed (tuition), they boy could stay on and on and on, until at least his bar mitzvah. Then, either he or the father, or both, had enough. "If one hadn't learned anything by the age of thirteen, there isn't much hope," the rebbe said, "that he will." With a kantchik (cat o'nine tails) or without ..."

My brothers had sharfe kepelekh (receptive minds), but none of them were born to become a lerner, a yid a lamdn (an eternal student -- a man of great erudition).

Papa had managed to pay the rebbe. "That is a holy obligation," Papa said. "Teach your sons God's Torah. Not all of it. Only Rabbi Hillel could quote the Torah standing on one foot."

Now, Rabbi Hillel was a young man who studied a great deal, until he became a member of the beit din (house of judges), and on account of his learning and piety, enjoyed the title of zaken (elder). When a heathen came to Hillel and mockingly asked him to teach him Torah while standing on one foot, Hillel replied: "What is hateful to thyself, do not unto others." This is the concept of whole Torah.

My brothers, having learned that much, joined my father on the tin roof ...

It was exactly seven o'clock in the morning when my father ushered me into the cheder. I see it so vividly now. Were I a painter as are my two sons, Sheldon and Eugene, I would paint it from memory.

"Good morning, rebbe," my father would say. "This is my son Sholom, your new talmud (student). I'm hoping he'll be better at learning ivrit (Hebrew), than he is at anything else ..."

The rebbe was standing while my eyes were studying the floor ...

My father explained further, as if I were not present: "I don't know after whom he takes, but at home he is a lemele (little lamb). Not much good at anything." As young as I was, I remember that moment very well. His words ingrained themselves on my mind. I must have resented it, for I had reminded my father of that episode many times ... too many times, I'm afraid. Now I am a father. Was I ever guilty of such indiscretions against my sons? If so, I hope they forgive me, as I forgive my father.

When the rebbe was busy teaching the advanced boys Chumash (Pentateuch) and Rashi (acronym for "Rabbi Shlomo Itzhak," referring to his commentary), I used to "meditate." I'd think to myself: "What does my father mean by, 'He is not much good at anything?'" It bothered me, although the "hurt" did heal with time.

The rebbe sat me on the side with some of the other children of my age, and I could observe what was going on all around me in cheder. The bar mitzvah bokhirimlekh (teenage boys) were winding their phylacteries. That I liked. It's so grown up, I thought. I admired how they wound the retzuot (narrow straps of leather) around their left hands, and the shel rosh (headpiece) on the forehead. The rebbe did the same thing. "Does that mean that the rebbe is as young as the talmidim (students), or are the teenagers as old as the rebbe? Also, why don't they have beards? Will I ever have a beard on my face? I suppose not. Only rebbes have such things."

These questions were never asked, of course. Those were my thoughts in cheder. Then the rebbe covered his head with a yarmulke (skullcap), and on top of that a long tallis (prayer shawl). It impressed me so, that I envied them because they were old enough to do that ...

After that ceremony one of the bar mitzvah boys stood at the place of honor, at the head of the table, and began singing his prayers. And all the other boys who could read their siddurs (prayer books) sang along or hummed, some louder, some softer. Aside from the five-year-olds, all participated. The ceremony of davenen (praying) wasn't strange to me. I had observed my father practically every morning do the same. But seeing the boys do it just as they do it in shul, made a deep impression on me.

It was a long day, that first day in cheder. I missed Mama. I missed my quiet little corner at home where I could meditate ... But this remained with me: my homecoming. It was early evening, and I was anxiously telling Mama everything that happened at cheder. I tried to imitate the boys, how they had gorgled (trilling emanating from the gorgle, or windpipe, in cantorial chanting). I imitated the rebbe, how he swayed in his big tallis, back and forth, and the children at the long table swaying in the same manner.

"Did you do the same, mayn kind?" Mama asked.

And I, for the first time in my five years, answered as excitedly as this poor little Lemeshke could: "Yo, Mama. Ikh khob zikh oikh geshokelt" (Yes, I too swayed) ...

Daily I'd wait impatiently for the tefillin ceremony and listen to the cantillations. Mincha (evening prayers) didn't intrigue me much, the phylactery ceremony was missing. Why shouldn't they do it in the evening as well? I didn't ask, and no one ever explained to me why not.

Before I could even read my prayer book, I could remember the prayers just by listening to the nigunim (tunes), especially the pretty tunes going to and coming from cheder. I sang them walking and swaying simultaneously to the cantorial rhythm. When the nigun did not synchronize with my gait and/or singing, I'd improvise my own way, altering it somewhat. It became a game with me, and I enjoyed it. At home I was playing at laygn tefillin (winding the phylacteries around my left arm), putting a towel on my head or shoulders as one does a prayer shawl, and chanting and reciting. I simply could not stop myself from playing at it. My brothers, too, thought I'd never stop. They'd ridicule me: "Aha, he's here already. Already he is a Chazan ... Oy gevalt!!!"
 

MAY 18, 1969, ch. 3

My father apparently was right. I had shown no interest in any of the games that children played, not in any other activities to which my older brothers took to so eagerly. "Lemeshke" is what they called me, and my poor father, willingly or not, had to nod his head in silent consent.

No sooner had I crossed the threshold of the cheder, that the entire little "me" became engulfed in the mystery of every letter on the yellowed pages of the tattered books, in the sing-song of their prattle ... each day I looked forward to my new world. Every new word that I learned, in every combination of letters, opened new wells of deepest satisfaction for us. I gained enough confidence to read the printed word in my very own siddur (prayer book). I'd follow the older boys who would stand at the altar and pray. Silently the soul with me sang along with the "Chazanlakh" (little cantor) -- dreaming, hoping, wishing, one day to be as grown up as the Bar Mitzvah boys, or those nearing that age.

During the weekdays the family ate separately. My father and my brothers, who worked, used to eat on the run -- run into the kitchen, and then help themselves to a slice of bread and then run back to work. The younger ones would take their bread with them, run to cheder and between reading, swaying, or singing, manage to munch on a morsel of bread, garnished sometimes, just to enjoy the aroma of schmaltz (chicken fat).

On Friday the atmosphere changed. In the afternoon Papa gathered his clan and marched proudly to the public baths. He would scrub each one until we would turn pink and started squirming under the soapy sponge -- he would guide each one separately to the highest bench in this hot steam room and use "gezemlekh" (leafy twig) generously ... It made up for the entire week. One pail of water in the kitchen served just enough for each one to wet his hands and face. Friday was the day we cleaned ourselves. Papa saw to that ...

After that ritual, we would walk home leisurely, all the way. No one thought it was necessary to hire a droshke (horse-drawn carriage), though it was quite a distance. Money was hard to come by.

Then Mama took over -- a change of underwear and outerwear. Again the Secunda parade started, Papa with his six sons to the synagogue. For this I waited a whole week. Go to shul, hear the Cantor. Though my father's shul did not boast of any renowned cantors -- certainly no choir -- none but the poor frequented this house of worship. ... "God is everywhere," they consoled themselves. Even the Tailor's Shul considered itself among the more affluent, although they didn't have a choir -- but they had a fine cantor. We attended the "Shoemaker's Shul." I thought our Chazan was great. He sang, and I loved him. One week out of every month my father splurged; the Sabbath of the blessing of the new month was holiday-like. We would attend the services at the "Grosse Shul," or at the "Chor Shul." I could hardly wait for these events. Little did I know then that only two years later, I, Lemeshke, would not only be a member of their choir, but first soloist …

No matter which shul we attended -- home with Papa and Mama and their six sons around the Sabbath table -- it was Oneg Shabes (The Joy of the Sabbath). Mama had blessed the Sabbath candles -- a white tablecloth covered the table, amd chairs and benches for the entire family were arranged around the table. A bottle of wine for Kiddush (blessing) -- only tiny glasses for the little ones, larger ones for my older brothers, and still a larger one for the head of the household. Mama just moistened her lips with the ... Mama's khallah in the center of the table, covered with an embroidered serviette, Mama's "hand-work." Fit for a king.

Friday's supper differed from any other day of the week of bread and tea. That was not only our breakfast, lunch, but supper as well, not simply eating the bread and washing it down, but soaking it in the sweetened tea -- not merely dunking. That was a luxury! Came the Sabbath, my father's poor home was a castle -- ritually, as if we were the richest -- who could wish for more than wine for Kiddush? Papa's voice was sweet and he would sing out the Kiddush just like the Chazan, to my ear even sweeter than anyone else. All my brothers had sweet voices. Velvl, the oldest, had lost his "boy voice," but it had returned even more beautiful. He already sang in the choir when still in Alexandria and later in Nikolaev. When Papa sang out "Baruch Atto Ha'shem" (Blessed art thou O" Lord), we in chorus answered: "Baruch Hoo Ubaruch Shmoy" (Blessed is He and blessed is His name), and after the "Borei Pri Hagofen" (blessing of the wine) -- Papa's own choir ... including Mama's sweet soprano ... rang "almost" with professional perfection ...

After my father's Kiddush every one of the older boys was called upon to repeat the same. That finished, my father called on the two younger ones -- Shololmul and Yankele, and he allowed us to taste the Kiddush wine. Then the banquet began: gefilte fish, chicken soup with "lokshen" (thin homemade noodles), even chicken once a week -- no more than a mere taste of chicken, but let the world know that the poor are entitled to a good tasty morsel. The feast ended with "lokshen kugel" (noodle pudding), tea and Mama's own baked kikhalakh (biscuits)." Between courses father and songs sang zemiros (Jewish hymns). Between courses we relaxed ... The Friday night "feast" gave one enough strength to endure the rest of the hard workdays, just in anticipation of the coming of the next Sabbath  ....

We, however, did not end the feat with mere food. There was "food for the soul." After zemiros (the singing) came the exams. My father called upon each son separately. To those who still attended cheder, he would listen to what each one of us had learned that past week, and how well he did. Each one opened the prayer book and read part of the weekly portion and translated it verbatim into Yiddish. Whenever my father would call on me, all my brothers as one would explode in peals of laughter, shouting: "Let's hear Lemeshke," "Let's hear Lemeshke, whether he had learned anything."

On one unforgettable Friday night, my father repeated the procedure, "Anu Zinenu" (little son), let's hear something!" A chorus of "Lemeshke," as usual, greeted my attempt. I went over to my father, siddur in hand, opened to the first page and began in a clear, unfaltering voice: "Ma Tovo Ehelekh Yakov" (How good are thy tents, O' Israel), as the older boys performed in cheder at the altar every day. My brothers, at last, were silenced, as if dumb struck. Is this truly their "Lemeshke"? How? When did it happen? I am not quite sure whether I read the printed word in the book, or whether I had learned it by heart, hearing it daily at cheder. Papa's "knip in bekl" (pinched my cheek) lovingly, for the first time I could remember. He turned, and with a proud look enveloped the entire dumbfounded family: "Well, what do you say now?" Do you think that he's a "Lemeshke"? Mama took my head between her soft warm hands and kissed me tenderly, saying in wonderment: "Akh, what a sweet little voice our child possesses ... tpu, Tpu, Tpu ... he'll surprise you all one day."

Slightly embarrassed, but with all the dignity I could muster, I returned to my seat. After that Friday night, my father "treated" me to read and sing a portion, each Friday, with great confidence ... not only in my reading, but singing. That did it. My "Lemeshke" cocoon was broken. It was Solomonchik, my brother, who patted my head, "Hey Solomonchik" and I chorused the rest. I remained with my Russian name, Solomonchik, except when my brothers were displeased with me for one reason or another, and the times were many  ... they referred back to "Lemeshke."

What I remember mostly about my cheder days was the joy I found there. All other boys used to wait impatiently for the day to end, to rush out as if released from chains --  screaming, fighting, leap-frogging, jostling. For me, the day in cheder seemed too short. I had no patience for their horseplay.

Out of cheder I would cross the street to where we lived, finding a quiet corner in the house, and with siddur in hand I would sit there quietly and read or sing the prayers out loud --unashamed, undaunted, undisturbed by anyone. Singing the prayers I remembered improvising those I was not as yet familiar with. The house was quiet. My brothers with my father in the masterskaya, the younger one, Yankele, playing out-of-doors. Mama's quiet steps were heard. Now and then she would leave whatever she was doing at that moment -- at the oven, peeling potatoes, sewing, knitting, patching garments. Papa said, "No one, but no one, could patch a pair of 'elbows' like his Henya-Rivka." Only Mama heard my ardent praying ... my pious interpretations of the words ... my improvisations. ... She would look in, smile at me, and off she would go. She could not afford to sit idle, what with a household to hold together. What her thoughts were, she did not say. Some years later, when I showed more than the usual interest in my "singing," I was already a choirboy and soloist at the shul, listening to the praises of her "Shololmul." She would smile and say with pride: "I always knew my treasure." It was a "treasure" only a mother could see.
 

MAY 25, 1969, ch. 4
 

What is a pogrom really like?

What was it like to be a Jew at the turn of the twentieth century? What was it like in the eighteenth, in the seventeenth, in the sixteenth centuries? And, what is it, at this writing, in 1974 or 1975?

This persecution of Jews has been going on, and I'm afraid, it will go on ad infinitum.

This pogrom takes me back to the year 1900 or 1901, in the city of Nikolaev. Was I too young then to give an accurate account of the pogrom? No, a pogrom one does not forget. And this one was not an isolated case, except that this one was well organized. It had started in all the cities of Russia simultaneously, and it spilled over into every town and hamlet, the only difference being in the amount of damage inflicted. Some got off, as my father would have said -- mit chesed -- they were spared somewhat. In most cases nothing was left ...

We had found an apartment in Nikolaev. It was in a large, two-story building, resembling today's projects, though none were higher than two floors. The building surrounded a large, uncluttered courtyard. The upper floors of those buildings the proprietor had turned into a gostinize (hotel). The first floor, the windows facing the street -- there were small shops and window displays. In the back, two or three rooms for the family to occupy. Our apartment had three rooms. The larger one was for the masterskaya (workshop), where my father was still manufacturing iron bedsteads. Two more rooms facing the courtyard -- that's where we dwelled. One room, smaller, for my parents, and the room in between the workshop and the bedroom -- that one served, in the morning, as the kitchen; in the afternoon it served as a dining room; at night, it was converted into sleeping quarters. All the furniture -- furniture?  -- the table, the chairs, were pushed to one side. Mama spread all the bedding we had over the entire floor, and there the six sons slept. There was another addition to the Secunda family. My mother had given birth, with mazl (luck), to that first little girl in the family, "Tybela." The proprietor of that hotel-apartment house was a "goy mit a golden hartz" (a Gentile who possessed a heart of gold).

When he got wind of the oncoming disaster, the pogrom, he fell upon a scheme that actually saved our lives. He hung large wooden crosses in all the windows, facing front, and he allowed all Jewish tenants to go to the upper floors -- the hotel. Knowing the habits of the Cossacks and wild hordes, he was sure they would not go upstairs where the crosses were prominently displayed, in search of the hiding Jews. When the sounds of the marauders reached our city, my father took command of our household. The four oldest sons were to run up the back staircase to the top of the top floor -- they'll be first. Papa will carry "Yankele," who was too young to be trusted climbing up the dark staircase. Mama will shield "Tybela" in her arms, and I, Lemeshke, must hold on tightly to Mama's skirt, that I should not get lost. There were other people besides us who were running for shelter. The back stairs were congested until everyone had clambered up the narrow staircase to the top. I had lost my grip on Mama's skirt. The door was shut in my face. All I could hear were the cries of children and the muffled sounds of Jews reciting their psalms, coming from the inside, as we heard the murderous screams of the Cossacks who were nearing our courtyard. I huddle in the dark corner, on the upper landing. ... frozen with fear, I heard the shattering of window panes ... I saw them carting copper and silver "samovars," objects of value and of no value ... guzzling "Yiddish" wine -- dancing wildly and falling to the cobblestones in a drunken stupor.

White feathers, out of torn pillow cases, flying innocently as high and light as virgin snowflakes, covering the senseless bodies of the perpetrators. Suddenly I heard Mama's shriek above the Psalmists -- "Shololmul, Avruhom, Shololmul is missing." The door flew open. My father, unaccustomed to the dark, did not see me at first, and I meekly said: "Do bin ikh tate" (Here I am, Papa), more scared of Papa's wrath than of the "pogromchek." He yanked me from the corner, ran with me inside, and he shut the door. First, I got my just dessert. That was the first time in my memory that my father had slapped me. "Wait -- just you wait -- if you will remain alive, I'll -- I'll -- I'll -- "Avruhom!" Mama interrupted his rage. "Hob Gott inhartzn" (Keep God in your heart). Leave our poor child be -- woe is me." With one hand she was shaking "Tybela" to silence her whining. "Yankele" was hiding in the corner; the other children were watching with mixed emotions -- happy I was found, unhappy over the commotion I was causing, endangering everyone's lives.

For three days we were holed up in the upper corridors and rooms, while the Cossacks turned the Jewish Quarter into shambles. The "Gentile with the golden heart" had proven himself to be just that. He had managed to get some food to us -- some water, although, on the third day, we ran out of both.

On the fourth day he came and told us that "It is safe to leave our shelter." The looters were gone with Jewish treasures and Jewish heirlooms. That which they could not take with them they ground into dust. Miraculously our home was one of the few that were left intact, except for the broken windows and overturned tables and chairs. What was there to take? Iron bedsteads? We all gathered in the middle room, kitchen, dining room, bedroom, which was now converted into a room of worship. Papa gathered us about him and "Bensht Goimel" (the prayer of thanksgiving for escaping death). That's what a pogrom is like!

That's what life was like for Jews in "Matushka Russiya" -- Mother Russia ...

Life went back to normal. Papa and the older boys went back to work in the masterskaya. Mama minded the children, scraping together for the table, making ends meet, tired yet smiling. I lost myself in the hubbub of the cheder, praying, studying and singing. Mine was a happy life for a "Lemeshke." It wasn't my "sharf kapele" (my keen mind) that had won the attention of the rebbe. It was my gorgle (windpipe) -- at least the Rabbi's wife thought it was my gorgle, because one day she stopped me on the way out and said, "Shololmul, "A gezunt dir in der gorgle." "Velvl," I asked my big brother, "what's a gorgle?" "Lemeshke," he answered, "a gorgle is a -- well, my brother "Willie" couldn't find a word for "gorgle," so he showed me what a gorgle was, and then I knew. It's the Adam's apple, or if you will, the windpipe.

One day the rebbe announced: "I am crossing the street with you, Shololmul. (Our house was across from the cheder.) I had paid no attention as to why. Curiosity, too, wasn't one of my virtues.

 "Reb Abraham," he asked my father, pointing to me, "Do you have more treasures?"

"I have keyn ein hore (no evil eye) -- six sons," my father answered. "May they live and be well. Ale geretene (all clever). Except my Shololmul nebikh ..." 

"Nebikh?" asked the rabbi -- "Your Shololmul is pish, pish, pish. His Ivri, his Hebrew reading is, for his age, better you couldn't ask for. And my ploinaste (my spouse), she said she has to stop peeling the potatoes every time Shololmul chants his prayers. "Honey, honey is in his gorgle."

"Henya Rifka," Papa said to Mama, "Do you hear what the Rabbi said? Our Shololmul has honey in his gorgle. I know that, Velvl, my eldest -- he has a voice, and he reads music --you know, Rebbe, reading music is not like reading Ivri ... Dus darf men kenen (This is even a greater accomplishment.) Of course, Velvl, he is the prince of the family."

"My son, Berele, of blessed memory," my father continued, "he would have been something, but He that dwelleth in heaven had other plans for him. Now my son Aaron, may he live long, he is altogether different than the others. He has a good voice and a good ear, but he doesn't like to sing. He has a good head. He could be a lerner (a scholar). So he doesn't like to go to cheder. Just let him work and he is happy!"

"So I let him. He helps me in the masterskaya. My Yosele, he is a retenish (puzzlement). He likes to sing; that's good. Ha! So it's not good! He has no ear, and he doesn't want to go to cheder. And he hates work. With him, Rebbe, I'm afraid we'll have tsores (trouble). He has one excuse -- no one understands him. We have two or three chickens -- you know, a family needs an egg some times, and we have a rooster to keep the chickens happy, and to tell the time to wake us up in the morning, to get to work. My Yosele talks to them, to the oyfus, to the poultry. 'They understand me," so says Yosele. And as soon as he comes home from cheder, he teaches them, kulo toivah (all that he learned). Yosele calls the rooster "Petka," and he tells Petka the story of Samson and Delilah. Nu, Rebbe? I ask you -- I am his father, and he is my child, so what should I do -- give him back?"

Years later Mama used to like to tell this story about Yosele. He was no more than twelve years old. My father got very angry, and one day when he caught Yosele wasting time with Petka the rooster, instead of giving him a hand at the masterskaya. So Yosele picked himself up with no more than two kopikes (eight pennies) in his pocket, and he left home. He was gone for over a week. We turned the town upside down. Then "Vayovoy" Yosele returned of his own volition. He told us that he had been as far as the city of Sevastopol. How he got there, and what did he live on? That secret remained a secret for the rest of our lives. What's more, the two kopikes were still intact in his pocket.

Now, Rebbe, you want to hear about my Meyerle? He, too, is different. He is an athlete. He never practiced, but he's an athlete and does all sorts of tricks, entertaining his brothers, and all the children in the neighborhood. He could be singing with the meshorim and make money. No and no. He likes public school, but homework? He doesn't want to do homework. And he could be found doing acrobatic tricks on a velocipede (bicycle). He is the smallest of his friends, and yet they all fear him because, if my Meyerle were to beat one up, he'd stay down ...

My Yankele, the youngest -- well, he is too young to show any preference. Whatever God will give, that's what he'll be. Maybe he'll be a tentzer (dancer). When we start singing, he starts dancing ...

My Mezinkala, the youngest one is called Tybela, as quiet as a dove, our only daughter. Before we left Nikolaev, Mama gave birth to a second daughter, Saretchka. My sisters, too, were different from one another. Tybela was indeed dovelike. Quiet and reserved. Saretchka loved to sing and dance. So you see, Rebbe, 'kein ein hora" ...

"And well, you may say, 'kein ein hora," the Rabbi agreed, "Your children are a blessing. But to get back to your Shololmul -- it is my khoyv (duty) to tell you that he will be "epes azoins unazelchs" (an exception). You'll see. Mark my words, you will have lots of nakhes (joy). God willing!!!"

"Nu, Rebbe Avrohom," said the Rebbe, "Now I must go. Have a good day."

"And have me a good year!" answered my father ....

That evening my father retold the lengthy conversation with the Rebbe in my presence. Something happened in Lemeshke's favor. My brothers listened, my brothers listened half with envy, half in wonderment, and little by little my name "Lemeshke" broke its cocoon, and from its silken web emerged a "Sholomonchik." "Sholomonchik" the boys called me --"Shololmul," my father and mother.
 

JUNE 1, 1969, ch. 5

The next morning my father was in his workshop as usual, working, designing, supervising his assistants, Velvl and Aaron, diligently, absorbed in the craft, absorbed in the intricacies of making iron bedsteads. Papa sprang the question: "Nu, mayn "bkhor" (my eldest son), what say you? Do you agree with the Rebbe that "Der kleiner" (our little one) can amount to something?"

"You mean, Lem ... Solomonchik? Why do you ask me? You are a pretty good maven (connoisseur) yourself …"

"I am as surprised as you and everyone else in the family," Papa said. "Mama and I had become reconciled to the fact that our Sholom nebekh was born in an unlucky hour, when your brother, Berele, a "guter beiten zol er …(sp) (He should plead in heaven for our well-being), lost his life by drowning, just when Shololmul was born. If I were a practicing Chasid, I'd say that it is only with the rebbe's koyekh (with the Rabbi's might). What can we lose?

My brother, Velvl, spoke up. "We all heard him sing with our own ears, and not only a shtikele -- not only a prayer, but popular songs that Mama sings around the house. We all know it, but Lemeshke never sang. Next time I go to choir practice, I'll take him along with me and let Cantor Moshe Lev listen to him." Cantor Lev's wife was a cousin of my mother (Years later Cantor Lev came to America with a second wife. His first wife had died during a pogrom in Russia, and they had two children -- the younger daughter, Raye Lev became a concert pianist.) It was agreed that, after the Sabbath meal, the entire Secunda family will go visiting Mama's cousins, the Levs.

In the meantime, Papa and Mama and the children rehearsed this new song with me. It was a Goldfaden ditty. At the Levs the two families conversed on every subject -- about their favorite subject -- the children, all seven; pogroms, how is parnose; how is the bedstead business going?

I couldn't wait any longer and piped up: "Ven vel ikh shoyn zingen?" (When am I going to sing?) They all laughed heartily. "Look, look, how he's blushing up to his kheyngribelekh (dimples)."

Taking my hand, Cantor Lev pulled me nearer to him and said: "Azoy, azoy" (so, so) -- Solomonchik, you want to sing? "Sha"? Perhaps be an aktyorshtshik? (a belittling name for an actor). You know, don't you, children (Cantor Lev addressed us all), that your father and mother almost became aktyorshtshikes."

"Really, Mama, really?" We cried in unison. Mama blushingly excused herself of the folly.

"Ikh veys? (What did I know?) I was young. I sang. I was pretty -- wasn't I pretty, Abraham? "

"Weren't you? Of course you were. You still are," Papa said.

Yes, my mother was beautiful. Cantor Lev repeated the question in Russian …

"Nu, Shololmul, spi chto nie bit" (Sing something). (At the Cantor's home and all those of all the so-called Yiddish aristocracy, only Russian and sometimes a smattering of French was spoken.) I didn't want to lose the opportunity and asked: "What shall I sing first?" Hoping they'll ask for a second one ... Should I sing a folk song? Or should I sing "Ashtikele" (meaning a cantorial)?

"Sing both," Papa said, and so I did. "Ochen Harosho (Be very good)," said Cantor Lev. After that, both families were speaking softly, carrying on a conversation. I did not understand much of it. Before we took leave, Cantor Lev promised to take me to the synagogue and introduce me to a Mr. Kuritch, his choirmaster. That same week Cantor Lev, accompanied by Kuritch, came to our home and listened to me once more. Mr. Kuritch propositioned my father: "I will take your 'Solomonchik' under my wing. Let him get the feel of what it means to sing with a professional choir. Of course he won't be paid, but I will not charge him for my instructions. And during that period, we will be able to judge whether he has musical talents or not." Papa agreed.

My seventh birthday was a milestone in my life. I sang with a choir for the first time in the "Groise Shul." Choir practice became a daily event. On Fridays and Saturdays boys who were also studying "solfeggio" were to come one hour earlier. It was quite a distance from my home to the synagogue, especially for a little boy of seven. Right after cheder, Mama served me my daily portion of bread and tea, and merrily off I went to "practice." On the way back, the same trip was less pleasant. It was dark. Half of the way home I was in the company of other boys. Slowly each one took his leave, each going in another direction. The rest of the way I ran. I never told anyone of my fear of the dark, lest I'd be proving myself deserving of the name Lemeshke. Fortunately I outgrew both the name Lemeshke and my fear of the dark. Singing and sight-reading came easily to me. Before the year was up, Mr. Kuritch had promoted me from the tenth place in the outer section to the first.

Artistically there was a marked change in little Lemeshke. Physically I still looked like the same seven-year-old youngster. My family did not seem worried about my height. No one in my family was a giant. I certainly wasn't aware of my retarded growth. As a matter-of-fact, Mr. Kuritch considered it an asset. Whenever I sang solo, people in the back rows used to search with their eyes to find out "where does that sweet sound come from?" After prayers, people would flock to the bimah (platform), inquiring of Mr. Kuritch, "Where is the child that sang like a little malachl (angel)?

The city of Nikolaev boasted of several synagogues. The largest of them was the "Chor Shul," which was the one that had the finest choir. Cantor Rabinovich sang like an opera star, which was the consensus of his followers. His choirmaster, Bezalel Brown, was not only a fine conductor, but a reputed musicologist. (As a matter-of-fact, his entire family was musicians. His sister sang in the opera; his brother-in-law, Kaminski, was a baritone at the opera; and Bezalel Brown himself was a composer of some note. His liturgical compositions were being sung in Russia, in Poland, and even to this day in the United States. Whenever traditional liturgies are being sung, it is most likely that of Bezalel Brown.)

One evening, during the first year of my emergence, we had an uninvited caller to our home. Mr. Brown presented himself to my father. My father felt very humble in his presence, and he inquired: "How do I come to such an honor that you, Gospodin Brown, should come to my house?"

"I'll come to the point, Gospodin Secunda," he said, "I have heard about your boy, Solomonchik. How old is he?" "Im tsu lange yoren (He should live long)," my father said.

 "I thought he was younger. But no matter, young enough to learn. Could I perhaps listen to him?"

"With the greatest of pleasure, Gospodin Brown ... Henya Rivka," my father turned to my mother, "Zie a zoy got" (Be so kindly) and fetch our Solomonchik."

Mama knew where to "fetch" her Solomonchik. I was sitting in the usual corner, praying, singing, studying, and improvising.

"Here I am, Papa." I announced the obvious. No sooner said than done, I took out the tuning fork as I had seen Gospodin Kuritch do. I held it to my ear, waited a split-second and commenced.

"Zamecateolno (Excellent)" was the earnest comment of Brown. "I could do much with this youngster. A child of this caliber must be entrusted in good hands. He could easily be spoiled. Give him to me, Gospodin Secunda. He'll sing in my choir. No one sings in Bezalel's choir without being paid. I shall pay him dreisig (thirty) rubles for the year. Ponimaitye (You understand) that it's quite a difference singing with Mr. Kuritch and singing with Bezalel Brown. I teach him music ..."

My parents were very much impressed, not just because of the thirty rubles, although such money does not grow on trees. They certainly could use it, but their child being sought after by such a person as the one and only Bezalel Brown -- his reputation was miles ahead of Kuritch's. Papa looked at Mama for her approval. Mama smiled her consent. Bowing slightly, she asked: "Perhaps a glass of sweet tea, Gospodin Brown? It's good for the shtim bender (vocal cords)!"

"Hene Rivke, God be with you. Why tea?" Papa interrupted. "A glazale Mashka."

"That's right," agreed Gospodin Brown. "Let us drink. Le Chaim! To good health and to the success of your son."

"Na, Mamala, .... (here little mother) -- "Pamelekh (slowly) taste it. It's good for luck and lots of nakhes (joy)."

How could they foretell how much and how much sorrow they'll be having from their Lemeshke, Solomonchik, Shololmul -- till they'll be hearing the name "Maestro Sholom Secunda, composer of "Bie Mir Bistu Shein" fame ...
 

JUNE 8, 1969, ch. 6

My first year under the guidance of Mr. Brown started with great promise. At the end of that one year I was a choir boy par excellence and being sought out by the one and only Gospodin Brown. Well, my father's expectations were even higher. At the end of this year, "Solomonchik" will be thirty rubles richer and miles ahead in his studies. While everyone was singing my praises, I was happy just singing. My shyness had changed to confidence. I had that feeling of being epes (something), and I measured that epes by the number of times my cheeks were pinched -- a knip in bekl -- a sign of approval.

Oh yes, there was a marked difference in the behavior of my brothers towards little me. No more Lemeshke, and I was excused from lending a hand at the masterskaya. Of course, the thirty rubles did help.

In all my innocence, I caused bad blood between the two renowned choir masters. They were "af messershtekh" (at sword's end), and my success was the cause of it. One morning we were surprised by the two most unexpected guests -- Cantor Lev with Mr. Kuritch. Rumors were flying high. It was known that Monsieur Brown had offered thirty rubles for Solomonchik's services

"That's very unfair, cousin Abraham," said Cantor Lev to my father, acknowledging the cousinship. "Why? We ... monsieur Kuritch and I gave our Solomonchik his first opportunity to sing in our choir, taught him solfeggio, and after all," Lev persisted … "A shtikl mishpokhe oykh" (a family in the bargain), doesn't that count for anything? Of course this year is out; you have already given the hand to Monsieur Brown, but as soon as the contract ends with Monsieur Brown, Solomonchik returns to us. Now what is thirty rubles that Brown had offered you? With thirty rubles, all you can buy are semitchkes (sunflower seeds). Kuritch will double that, won't you?" He turned to Kuritch. And besides, Kuritch will tutor him privately."

Cantor Lev stopped for a breath and Kuritch took over. "I'll coach him in the Sabbath services. I will teach him all there is to know to davenen, and when he will daven vet zayn gedovant. There will be something to listen to ..."

"What is there to talk about," Cantor Lev interrupted, "when it comes to recitative and prayer, Monsieur Kuritch is the best. This, I tell you," Cousin Lev concluded. Papa reflected. "Daven Shabbes," not as a choir boy, but as a chazan (cantor). What is thirty rubles a year? Even twice thirty -- it's only money. Papa even forgot the expert tutoring of Monsieur Brown, thinking: "If one has as keen a mind as my Shololmul, anybody can teach him." A "L"Chaim" was made, a tekias kaf (binding handshake) given, and the deal was consummated. "Leshoneh hafoh (sp) (the coming year)" at the "Groise Shul," with Monsieur Kuritch.

As it turned out, the third year with Kuritch was really the pivotal point. Solfeggio was like mamaloshn to me. They handed me the most difficult complicated sheet of music. I read it off -- music and text, at sight. And Kuritch kept his word, concentrating on cantillations. That was most gratifying to me. My third year ended. Not only had I performed a Sabbath service "Shacharis and Musof, Maariv," even the blessing of the new month. New tachlis (end result) -- money was no more a matter of importance. "We want what is best for the child. After all, we must think of the future." I was still attending cheder and enjoying my studies, but more than that, I used to look forward every morning to be called to the omud (altar), but there were other boys in cheder, too. The Rabbi was obliged to call on a different boy each morning, especially the twelve-year-olds, nearing their thirteenth year, mostly of Bar Mitzvah age.

One incident stands out very vividly in my mind. It was Rosh Chodesh (The blessing of the month), and the Halal was called for. I knew it so well. Had I not been studying Chumash and Neviem, even as the older boys did -- I was full of anticipation, and suddenly I heard the Rebbe call on one of the other boys, and not only couldn't the boy sing, he didn't even have an ear for music. Not a smattering of cantillation, of Nusach, and here I was, left sitting on the bench with the rest of the boys. That boy's voice was as if it were a shriek of agony. All the other boys covered their mouths to keep from giggling. I burst into tears. I ran out of the cheder hysterically, reaching my home. ""Vey iz mir" (Woe is me), what's happened to our child?" Through my sobs, barely audible, I told them of the great catastrophe, the injustice. How could the Rebbe commit such an insult? I was waiting and ready to be called, and he picked on that drong (broomstick).

Mama wrung her hands, and Papa too didn't take it sitting down. He went to the Rebbe. "Nepomnashti" and asked, "Haitonch?" (Wherefore). The Rebbe explained and pacified my father. "This month we honor two days of the month instead of the customary one. Tomorrow, God willing, your son Solomonchik will officiate."

I thought tomorrow would never come. Tomorrow did come. For the first time I was called up to stand at the altar without my phylacteries, just my tallis. This time it was no "mere prayer," it was a recital. Not as if I were singing for "cheder yingelekh" (for schoolboys), but as if I were standing for the Creator. Even Mr. Kuritch would have been proud of me. After that suspicious recital, not only did the Rebbe approve ... but the Talmudic students clamored for, "Solomonchik! Solomonchik! Solomonchik!" How sweet it was ....

There came the time of the season when contracts for the following year were being negotiated. The race for my services began in earnest. Which of the two will be lucky enough to snare this metsie (bargain)? The "Groishe Shul" where Chazan Lev had reigned for these many years had been going through some changes. "Moshe Lev" left Nikolaev and went to fill a post in the city of Rostov-on-Don (a city prominent in Russian literature). Lev's vacated place was filled by a much younger Chazan who was a proud possessor of a splendid voice, by the name of Cantor Lakhman. He had a fantastic tenor voice. The town was agog with its new cantor who stemmed from the city of Jitomir.

I evidently wasn't awed at the news. As a matter-of-fact, when both choir masters made their bids, I said to Papa: "Why do I have to be a soloist in a choir, assisting any other cantor? No matter how great he is, I too can do the same. My father tried to reason with me. "Nein zinen" -- a boy of ten cannot take the position as a cantor at a house of worship. Not even a bar mitzvah bokher. I would not listen and stuck to my decision. "I want to be a Chazan. I will be a Chazan."

Solomonchik's wish was my father's command ...

Each trade had its own house of worship. My father went to the "Shuster (Shoemaker) Shul," and he arranged for me to "daven a shabes" -- not "kholile" for money, God forbid, by no means just to satisfy Solomonchik, just to prove that he could do it.

That week I practiced for hours on end, in anticipation of the coming Sabbath. And Friday night the entire Secunda ménage marched off to shul, as if they were entering Noah's Ark.

Mama and Papa, Velvl and Solomonchik, Aaron and Meyerl, Yosele and Yankel -- did I leave anyone out? Yes, Tybela of course, followed by all the relatives, with their offspring and friends and neighbors, just to see this -- their wonder boy.
 

Our home that Sabbath was filled with coming-and-going guests. Everybody was saying: "Gospodin" Secunda, your Solomonchik is emerging as a second "Ruzumni" (who had the reputation as the most famous cantor of his time in Russia). Everybody was happy, Solomonchik happier than everybody.

My father had said, "He will take no money for my services" -- he kept his word, but the "Schuster" congregation showed its appreciation. A gift of shoes for the entire family -- big and small. "Solomonchik" had no need of shoes. He walked on air.
 

JUNE 15, 1969, ch. 7
 

My reputation had grown by leaps and bounds -- the Shnayder Shul and the Shuster Shul (the tailor's and shoemaker's houses of worship) sung my praises. The Kirshner's and Furrier's Shul followed suit, hailing me as the "wunderkind" of the century, but even a wunderkind could not change the fact that I was just that, a mere child, as a "sholiach tzibur" (the intermediary between the flock and the Almighty), which had no precedent and could not be changed. But now both choir masters, Kuritch and Brown, were bargaining for my services for the coming year, and my father found it difficult to decide which of the two could be more advantageous for his newly discovered "oytser," his treasure.

Granted, Mr. Brown had the reputation as an authority, he knew his music, and Cantor "Rabinovich" truly had an operatic voice. However, that's the fly in the ointment, my father mused. Opera is opera, but "chazanish" is "chazanish" is "chazanish." Without that little "tiochke" (heart tug) -- that "rozinke" (raisin), one cannot be a great cantor. Ay, the sweetness of a Razumni! Razumni was Papa's idol, even though Razumni did not possess the tenor voice of Lakhman. And that was the deciding factor. "Kuritch needs Shololmul, Lakhman wants him -- he worships him. Why change?" My brother Velvl agreed with Papa. Papa came to respect Velvl's opinion. After all, Velvl was no mean musician himself. (Velvl was approaching the age of military conscription to the Czar, and to a Jewish child, it was a fate worse than death, "Rachmone Litzion" (May God help him). Papa was planning to smuggle my brother, Velvl, across the Russian border, and from there to America. Before the year was up, Velvl had escaped to America. "Haklal" (in short), Shololmul remained with Lakhman ...

There is a saying, "A mensch trakht, un Got lakht" (Man proposes and God disposes.) As luck would have it, the chazan of one of the synagogues in Ekaterinoslav had passed on. When the time came to fill that coveted post, their first and last choice was Chazan Lakhman. He had performed there on numerous occasions. The community was a prosperous one, and it was clear that at the end of this sojourn in our town, he will go to Ekaterinoslav. One month after his departure for Ekaterinoslav, he was back in Nikolaev. Speculation ran rampant. Why? Was Lakhman dissatisfied there and wanted his position back in Nikolaev? The mystery was cleared up with an unexpected visit to our home. Sitting at the table over a glass of tea, Lakhman made known his plans.

"My most honored Mr. Secunda," he said to my father, "To make a long story short, I came to Nikolaev with the sole purpose to speak about your talented child. He will be lost here in Nikolaev. Ekaterinoslav is a world. My kor shul (choir synagogue) is renowned, and I am held in high esteem. My choir master is none other than Shargorotski. You've heard of him, no doubt," he added. "I spoke about your son, your Solomonchik, how good he is; he wants him. I am ready to take him with me to Ekaterinoslav, that is, with your consent, Gospodin Secunda."

My father looked at my mother. My mother's eyes were filled with tears; she was speechless. Lakhman, seeing their predicament, added: "You must understand, my dear Secunda, that I don't want him kholile (God forbid), for nothing. We are ready to pay him eighteen rubles a month; this is an unheard of sum. And there will be additional earnings, such as "khasenes" and 'levayes" (weddings and funerals). And you understand that he will live with us at home. My wife will love him as if he were one of our own children. I have a son his age. It won't cost him a tzebrokhne groshn (broken penny). Think of what an opportunity it is for the child and you."

Mama was the first to speak. "Eighteen rubles a month would be a Godsend to us, Cantor Lakhman, but three times eighteen could not persuade me to send my child away from tate Mama. What do you say, Abraham?"

"You took the words right out of my mouth, Hene Rivke," Papa answered.

"Well, don't be hasty, Gospodin Secunda." The cantor tried again, not unsympathetically. Talk it over with your older son. He understands the difference between Nikolaev and Ekaterinoslav. Sleep on it. I'll come back tomorrow for your answer." No sooner did the door close than my mother burst into tears.

"Abraham, one must possess the heart of a gazln (murderer). How can we even think of sending our Shololmul with strangers?"

The children, seeing Mama's tears, joined in her lamentations. They too have come to love and admire this "wunderkind" brother in their midst. Just then I walked in. I had been attending the uchilishche (Russian public school) in the morning and cheder in the afternoon. I caught Papa's last words. He was thinking out loud. "The oldest playing ... in America, away from tate Mama's tish (away from home) -- and now, Solomonchik? Why was Mama crying at the very mention of my name? Am I about to "tfu, tfu" -- God forbid. To even think such thoughts. "Why, Mama, why are you crying?"

"Who is crying, mayn kind?" She hastened to wipe away her tears with a corner of her apron.

My brother, Aaron, became the spokesman. "Chazan Lakhman just left," he said.

"What was he doing here? And is that why you're crying?"

Papa retold, in detail, their dilemma, ending with: "So you understand, Shololmul, that we only want what is good for you, and how we can find it in our hearts to send you away, the apple of our eye?"

"The apple of our eye," Mama repeated.

"So when am I going?" I ventured to ask.

"You are not going," Papa answered.

Now it was my turn to burst into tears. My only ammunition, I cried, as though my heart would break. Since no one stopped me -- how long can a young boy cry? Mama sensing --now is the time, handed me a slice of bread and tea. I shrugged my shoulders, protesting tearfully. "I don't want to eat. I'll never want to eat again. I want to go to Ekaterinoslav."

However, the slice of bread was so tempting; I smelled the aroma of chicken schmaltz. It was too difficult to resist. With great reluctance I condescended. Mama considered it a great favor. That night, nothing more was said, not in my presence, although soft voices were emanating from the tiny bedroom of my parents ... "Solomonchik" ...

My younger brother nudged me. "Solomonchik," he whispered, "do you really want to leave us for the big city? Have you no fear?"

"What is there to fear?" I answered. "God is with us everywhere. The rebbe said so." I took in God as a partner. The older boys put a stop to our loud whispers: "Enough! Get to sleep!" they said. "The rooster will wake us soon enough."

The next day, as Cantor Lakhman promised, he came again.

"Nu, Gospodin Secunda -- say the good word. Say yes. Don't rob your son of this opportunity. Shall I tell you what? Come with him to Ekaterinoslav. Stay a day or more and see for yourself. As my name is Cantor Lakhman, you will never regret it."

He took my father's calloused hand into his lily-white hands and shook it.

"Nu, Hene Rivke," Papa said. Efsher (perhaps)?

 "Perhaps Cantor Lakhman is right," Mama said hesitantly. "Go and see for yourself," he says. "It's not the end of the world. It's not America, kholile (God forbid). The same train that takes our Shololmul from us can bring him safely back, if it is not to his or our liking."

Cantor Lakhman pumped Papa's hand vigorously. "In a "mazeldiker sho" ...

Lakhman left with a happy thought of his accomplishment. His parting words being, "I am leaving Nikolaev tomorrow morning. I'll spread the good news to my dear wife, and to the choir master Shargrodski," he said to my father, "and you and Solomonchik will follow in a few days."

The following week was full of excitement. Mama was busy packing my luggage: two pairs of black stockings, long ones; two shirts, one to wear and one to wash -- "a child" ...

Yom Kippur came early to our household. Come the day of departure, everybody cried. Papa was blowing his nose noisily; the children tearfully taking leave. "We'll miss you, Solomonchik. Say you will miss us too!"

"Of course I'll miss you, but I'll write every day."

Going to the vagzal, to the depot, Papa became the Pied Piper. Myself after Papa, Mama after me. The rest of the Secunda brood followed.

At the first train whistle, Papa commented: "Nu, Shololmul, tsekush zikh (Kiss everyone once more)." The scene was repeated tearfully. Papa lifted me onto the train, the step being too high for me to reach.

The train started with a stutter. It unlocked my hidden well of tears. They blinded my vision. When I looked again, I waved my handkerchief that Mama had carefully had prepared for me. The train was moving, and the children and Mama were growing smaller, smaller, and smaller ... in the distance.

The ride was uneventful. Papa dozed, his head resting on his chest, waking now and then, patting my head. "Drimmel ein, mayn kind (Why don't you catch a few winks, my child). We're not there yet."

The next morning we arrived in Ekaterinoslav. The Cantor met us with a droshka (a horse-drawn carriage). We proceeded to the akhsanye (small inn), nearby, where the Cantor had reserved a room for my father and myself, for as long as farther chose to stay in town. We left our luggage at the inn, and we continued on to the Cantor's home. The Chazante (Cantor's wife) greeted us warmly, hugging me, cooing. "My, my, Solomonchik -- Chazan Lakhman has told me so much about you."  

"Gospodin Secunda," she turned to my father, "it will be a great joy to include your son as one of the family." She introduced the children. One was my age, taller -- it seemed that everyone was taller than me. A little girl, two years younger, taller -- and two more youngsters, much younger. We were led into a dining room. The table was set for the entire family -- two extra chairs for my father and me. We ate well. The Cantor's wife prodded me. "Es" (Eat), Solomonchik, don't be ashamed. To sing well, one must eat well." "In Ein Kemach, Ein Torah (Where there is no food, there is no Torah)," the Cantor quoted.

Everyone laughed heartily and that made me feel more at home. After bentshn (meal blessings), Mrs. Lakhman explained to my father where I was going to sleep. "In this very room," she pointed to a huge flat truck, "this contains clean bedding. Here I will make Solomonchik's bed. It will be soft and clean." An improvement, I thought, of my own sleeping quarters, sharing one floor and two quilts with six brothers.

Papa was conversing quietly with the Cantor. I was looking through the window. I saw a large open-spaced courtyard surrounded by dingy-looking buildings fashioned somewhat as those in Nikolaev. As I found out years later, many European cities were built in that fashion. I was anxious to explore the outdoors, perhaps even taking a walk through the city streets, looking forward to my sudden freedom. In the meantime, Papa will be staying for a few days till I will become oriented to this new surroundings. Papa and I walked back to the inn.

"Nu, Solomonchik," he asked, "it's not too late to change your mind. Do you still want to stay here with Cantor Lakhman, or would you rather come back with me?" "Mit dem tatn?"

I reassured my father that my mind was made up. "I am not going back."

For two days my father and I stayed at the inn. We slept there and ate there. In the evening, Cantor Lakhman took us to the synagogue. He introduced us to Sharagrodski. He asked to hear my voice. I obliged, he shook his head approvingly. "Haroshow" (Good), handing me a sheet of script music, he raised his hand and commanded, "Let's commence! Coming Friday, Solomonchik, you will be singing your first solo in one of the most important synagogues of Ekaterinoslav."

All the choir boys seemed much older than me. They eyed me curiously. My reputation had preceded me. I am the new soloist, this little -- competition! I looked at the sheet of music. It had been used before by the previous soloist. I had never seen this composition before. What the choir thought of me, or of my sight-reading and singing, I was too busy to notice. I only remember the look of approval Sharagrodski gave me. He paid me a great compliment. He, too, pinched my cheek. He turned to my father and said, "Coh Vah, Gospodin Secunda, your son is a notn presser (He devours the music as if it were a tasty morsel.), or words to that effect.

We shook hands all around, each with a "Yasher koakh," thanking me profusely. My father and I, returning to our inn, in a somewhat happier mood.

"Well done, my son," Papa said proudly.
 

JUNE 22, 1969, ch. 8
 

That night my father and I went to sleep at the inn for the last time before his departure the next day, leaving me along, a stranger in a strange city. Suddenly, I had misgivings. I couldn't sleep. I hard Papa's uneven breathing, sighing in his sleep. I lay motionless at his side, crying silently. At dawn, when Papa got out of bed, he did not have to wake me. I was sitting on the edge of the "topchan" (cot). My feet, refusing to grow fast enough for me, dangling patiently for my father to open his eyes. Silently we washed in the one and only bowl -- a small pitcher providing water for negel vaser (a ritual for washing your hands). We breakfasted on a slice of bread that was left over from Mama's provisions, and we washed it down with a glass of hot pale tea. Papa was all packed.

"Well, my child, you know, I must go." Warning me, lovingly with his finger he said: "Don't forget, mayn kind, you promised "a brivele der mamen" (a letter to Mama)."

We went out into the gray morning, stopped the first droshka, and we went to the vokzal (station). He bought one ticket -- for himself. We proceeded to the train. It stood there, waiting, menacingly, to take my father away from me.

How do I say goodbye to my father? Papa enveloped me in his strong loving arms and kissed me. He wanted to leave. I clung to him, not wanting to let go. People stopped to watch, asking themselves, "Why does this heartless man push the little boy away from him??? This man must have a 'hartz fun shtol" (heart of steel)."

Yes, my father must have "steeled" his loving heart to allow me to tear myself out of his grip and jump on the train, as the first and last "puff" announced its departure ...

I remained standing as if turned into a lump of salt. Tears blinded my eyes, trying to catch one glimpse of the fast disappearing monster, carrying my father away ...

How long was I to stand there? Finally, realizing I am alone, I started walking dejectedly. Hands in my pockets, my fingers touched some hard coins, reminding me that Papa said, "Nu, Solomonchik, enough small change for a droshka to take you to the Chazan's house." I didn't take the droshka. I walked -- aimlessly, instinctively -- in the right direction. It was a long, wide street -- it was the main street.

I suddenly noticed a horseless tramway. In Nikolaev the tramway was driven, or was it shlepped by horses? "Look, Mama, no horses, and faster than with."

The few days that Papa was with me, I hadn't noticed anything. Now I had time to see everything. The street was much more impressive than in Nikolaev, with a boulevard in the middle. That's where I was shpatsirin (walking leisurely). Tramways on both sides of me, each traveling in opposite directions. The shops on both sides, show windows displaying their wares. "Look, tate," but no one was there. Now I was alone, no one to hear me or see my tears. What am I doing here?

I followed the tracks till I reached ulica (street) Ayordunskaya. That's where Chazan Lakhman dwelled. The Cantor's family was preparing for the midday meal. A place was waiting for me. The Chazante kindly sat me next to their oldest son. For the first time I my ten years I have eaten such a sumptuous meal -- soup, meat and khalah, in the middle of the week, except before Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (High Holidays). I was treated to second helpings, just as were the Cantor's children. I began to feel less sorry for myself. After the "moltsayt" (noon meal) the Cantor, his son and myself benched (after meal blessings in communion). I said the customary words, "Azeirim bedimo berino yiktzrenu" (Those who plant with tears shall reap with joy.) Those words comforted me.

Then it was siesta time. The Lakhmans observed it as if it were a ritual. The Chazan and his wife repaired to their bedroom -- time to catch a drimmel (forty winks). The Chazante suggested to her oldest boy: "Why don't you take Solomonchik for a shpatsir? We did. Each time the konka (tramway) appeared, I stopped to admire them. "No horses! Wonder of wonders!"

"How would you like to take a ride on the tramway," the Cantor's son suggested, "without money?" He let me in on a secret. "Watch. When the conductor walks to the other end of the konka to collect the fare, we will "jump on" and ride as long and until he, the conductor, will come toward us. Then I will give you the signal -- "Hop" -- and I'll jump off and you after me! ... There is a Russian saying: "Nie skazhi hop -- poka nie preskochis" (Don't say "Hop" before you jump.) I was too embarrassed to express fear and agreed. We got on, proceeded a short while, and the conductor was nearing. It was menacing ... I heard the word "Hop" and my friends "hopped." I was petrified. The conductor got a hold of my ear, saying, "Pay or else." I was holding on to those few groshn (pennies) in my pocket my father left me in case of an "emergency."  And this was it! I was fumbling in my pocket as the tramway was slowing down. Those around me were teasing the conductor laughingly -- "Let the "malchik" (boy) go!" By then the tram had stopped, and the conductor who was embarrassed, forcefully pushed me off. I came rolling down onto the middle of ulica Ayordunskaya. I hurt nothing but my dignity. I picked myself up, brushed myself off, and, "Another thing you must learn, Solomonchik," I said to myself as I was nursing my hurt, "Pay or else" and learn how to jump.

We arrived home flushed. The Lakhmans had their forty winks, and the Cantor was ready to start on me. "Now let's hear your solos once more. Tomorrow is Friday. Tonight is "gheneral repetitzie." (general rehearsal)

The boys of the choir had their "strategies" all planned out. They are going to make it so tough on me that I'll be forced to go back to where I came from (this was related to me much later). They had not taken kindly to this idea of an "imported soloist." "Nisht gepokt, nisht gemozlt" (No measles, no chicken pox). Still wet behind the years, I had done nothing to deserve that. If they were good enough for the previous Cantor -- Moshe Ber -- they should be just as good for Cantor Lakhman. The aging choir master, Sharagodski, hadn't shown too much enthusiasm for this new "import" either. He had gotten used to the "old choir boys" and did not place me prominently up front, as is customarily accorded a first soloist. He stuck me in the middle ...

"This week," Sharagodski announced, looking in my direction, "the solos will be sung by our soloist, till you will learn the new music. This is Ekaterinoslav, you know ... you will take home the music and learn it!"

I don't know where I found my courage, but I answered quite innocently, "You need not fear, Mr. Sharagodski. I ready music fluently. If you like, I can sing the solos even now."

He was speechless. He handed me the much worn written music sheet. That was that!

We walked home along the ulica Ayordunskaya. The weather was cool; it was quite late in the evening. The Synagogue was in the same section of town. As a matter-of-fact, some of the Yiddish theatres were at one time or another on that same boulevard. The famous Yiddish musical comedy star, Clara Young, had appeared there. The renowned Isa Kramer, a folk singer of great repute, had made her debut there, as well as others.

At this time of the evening the streets were rather deserted. Cantor Lakhman was humming softly one of my solos. "You"ve done very well, Solomonchik," he spoke first. I was thinking: "I wish my father was here ... and Mama, and Velvl, and ...." We entered the Chazan's home. The children were all asleep and the Chazante was waiting up for us. Dressed in a peignoir (a woman's light dressing gown), she looked rather attractive. I wished my mother dressed like that. Mama would even be prettier, I thought. Mrs. Lakhman was very pleased at what the Chazan had told her.

"Well, Solomonchik, for that you deserve a reward." She did not wait for my reply. She returned a second later, handing me a tall glass of warm milk -- "for the voice" -- and a slice of bread and butter. The Chazan bid me a "good night." The Chazante waited discretely till I undressed and climbed onto my "trunk bed." She covered me and tucked me in motherly, turned off the kerosene lamp, and with a "good night" closed the door to her splanie (bedroom). The room was thrown into darkness. There were no windows in my room. "There must be stars in the heaven," I thought, "and a moon, just as in Nikolaev."

Nikolaev was on my mind. I missed the crowded sleeping quarters, the pillow fights with my brothers. I tossed and turned. I sighed, and tears, hot tears fell upon a strange pillow. I buried my face and drew the koldre (blanket) over my head to stifle my sobs. What would the family think of me, a grown "bokhur" (a young man), crying for his mother?" What a day! Did all this happen to me in one day? Bidding my father "good-bye," falling off a tramway, rehearsal in that hostile atmosphere ... are these just memories? Will they ever be friendly to me? Maybe they, too, will call me "Lemeshke" behind my back? I must have fallen asleep. I awoke with a start! I had the need of a lavatory. In Nikolaev that problem was no problem. Mama had thought of everything, so why not this, a menshlekhe zakh (human need)? The Chazante hadn't thought of it, and neither did I. I knew the "place" was somewhere out in the courtyard, but where? How does one wake a Chazante? I clambered off the high trunk, feeling my way in the dark. I found the outer door that led to the courtyard. I had no idea in what direction I had to explore. In desperation I turned to the nearest wall and relieved myself. I had no idea how late or early it was. It was still dark and now I was confused of my whereabouts. Which door led to my new quarters? I was too frightened to cry, and to what purpose? No one hears or sees your cries. I was wearing my long underwear, the kind that all little boys, and even grownups, wore. Was there any other kind? Except, perhaps, some with patches, some your brothers had outgrown. Hugging myself with both hands to keep warm, I sat on the cobblestones, and in utter exhaustion fell asleep. When I opened my eyes, I saw two strange blue eyes staring at me through bushy gray eyebrows, a face under a long straggly moustache. He crossed himself piously. "Yey bogu chto ya vizshu?" (Russian -- Dear Lord, what am I seeing?)

I spoke Russian. I explained who I was, where I was, and would he be lubiezny (kindly) and show me how to get back to the Cantor's home. He very kindly helped me up and brought me to the very door of the Chazan's house. When I returned, the family was still asleep. I went back on my trunk. Shivering, I wrapped myself in the soft warm coverlet. This time, I slept. I heard footsteps -- the family getting up -- preparing for breakfast. The Chazante patted my head gently, so as not to scare me. "Yo, Mama," I said, thinking it was Mama waking me ...

"Solomoncik," the Chazante said, "We, here, don't sleep this late. You'll have to get accustomed to rise a little earlier."

"Zeit moikhl (Please forgive), Chazante." I assured her that it would never happen again. I was dressed and washed in no time and sat at the table to my first breakfast with the kindly Lakhman family.
 

JUNE 29, 1969, ch. 9
 

What happened to me on that first night at my new abode, the home of the Cantor Lakhman, "I'll not tell a living soul --ever!" That's what I told myself. Circumstances changed that too.

The dvornik (keeper of the courtyard) came to the Cantor with a strange tale.

"Rabin," he said, "Ten malienke (the little one), I found him sleeping in the courtyard on the bare stones."

"Tell me, Solomonchick, is it true what the dvornik was telling me? You slept in the courtyard? It can't be true."

"True," I admitted sheepishly.

"I'm waiting for an explanation, you are my responsibility." The Chazan called to his wife. "Did you hear what happened to the new addition to our family?"

Blushingly I told them my tale of woe.

"Why didn't you wake me, you foolish child," Mrs. Lakhman scolded me. "You could have caught your death of cold. Tonight you are auditioning for the trustees of the synagogue. They're coming to hear whom my husband has imported from Nikolaev. Besides, that kholile (God forbid), if you would become ill, how could I ever face your parents? Oy, Barukh Hashem (Blessed be his name), you're fine. You are, aren't you?" Putting her arm around my shoulders, she led me gently into the courtyard and showed me where the "kisay-hakoved" (outhouse) was located. "Don't you get lost again," she smiled at me. I felt my ears burning. "Don't be ashamed, child. "Siz a menshlekhe bader-fenish" (only human). But don't dismay, Shololmul, I will supply you with your own tepelee (potty), as I do for my own children. Didn't I promise your father that I would treat you as if you were my own child?" That concluded, the incident was closed.

That day she made me stay indoors and rest. "Remember! Tonight is the day of judgment!"

More than anything in the world, I didn't want to let the Chazante down. I obeyed her orders "to a tee." I even laid down on my bed (trunk) for a midday rest (That was observed at the Chazan's household, as if it were a ritual.)

Evening came and we all went to shul. The Chazan and Chazante led the way. His oldest boy took charge of me. We followed, then came the "small fry." At the Synagogue, I was ushered in into the vestibule, where choir boys were getting into their robe. As I entered the vestibule, Sharagodski picked out the smallest size robe and the largest in height, the yarmulke to "elongate" me.

Dressed in my official garb (The robe I got to love and respect. It was the symbol of my "having arrived.") Impatiently, I waited. For the first time in my singing career, I felt butterflies in my stomach. Finally we filed in single file; Sharagodski came last, leading me by the hand.

The House of Prayer was packed. There the worshipers attended Friday night prayers regularly. I couldn't tell whether everyone came at this time to pray, to listen to the Chazan with his choir, or to look me over? They came!

Ekaterinoslav was considered a large city, but the news that their Cantor had brought with him a new find was tzepoikt (made known among the congregation as if by beating the drum). I will be "unveiled."

The choir sang, the Chazan said his "recitatives." My first solo came when they started to sing "Veshamru." I started to sing "Ki Sheishen Yomim." I forgot my butterflies ...

As I was singing I noticed that several worshipers stood up in the back, craning their necks, searching out the new soloist (I was practically lost to the onlooker, being wedged between the choir in back of the Cantor.) When I ended, Cantor Lakhman's eyes found me and awarded me with a smile of approval. So did the faces of the bass and the tenors. They all turned to me smilingly after I sang my next solo, "Mogen Ovois."

When the prayers were over we left the bimah for the dressing room to change into our "civilian" clothes. A funny thing happened to me on the way. I was surrounded by the worshippers, and each one pinched my cheek, "Yasher Koakhed me" (thanked me), exclaiming: "Look at the boy! All that and dimples too?"

I waited for Cantor Lakhman to discharge his duties, change his robe for his Prince Albert and tzelinder (stove pipe, the mode of the times). His children surrounded me, the girls petting my robe. The Cantor and his wife soon joined us. At home, the table was set ahead of time. The Sabbath delicacies made my nostrils tingle and my stomach rumble. I felt a healthy hunger pain. The Cantor made Kiddush. After him, his sons, and then I. The Friday night meal began. The Chazante complimented her husband first, that he was in excellent voice, his "Hashkiveinu hot pretchmelist," the worshippers (knocked them for a goal). Then both of them complimented me on the impression I made on the gabaim (trustees) and mispalim (worshippers) alike, and he added so that I shouldn't get too big for my breeches, of course, you have much to learn yet ... you'll get better as we go along." We ate, we sang zemiros, and all was sweet with the world.

After the feast, each retired to his sleeping quarter. The Chazante made by "bed" ready. "And now, young man, " she said in her matter-of-fact way, "be so kindly ... come with me to the courtyard to the "lavatory" (she gave it the more delicate name.) Let me see if you are perfectly sure of its location in case you have need of it -- no more getting lost and sleeping on the cobblestones."

Discreetly she waited for me near the entrance to the house, and "Pission accomplished" (mission accomplished -- couldn't resist the pun), I returned to the house. My trunk bed looked inviting. I dozed off happily, hugging my pillow ...

I grew accustomed to my new life in Ekaterinoslav. I wrote daily to my parents, as I had promised I would. I sent them my wages regularly -- eighteen rubles a month. Often I would add a few extra kopikes -- my income from other functions, time permitting, and naturally if God had seen fit to send me more weddings and more funerals, my income would be doubled. My expenses were nil. Life in the Big City was much more fun. No school, no cheder (I didn't miss it much.) Life in Ekaterinoslav seemed orderly. The household -- under the delicate yet firm hand of the Chazante, the meals on time, "siesta" on time," choir practice on time ...

In the mornings, I went with the Cantor for morning prayers. Afternoons, I discovered a new amusement -- jumping on and off tramways. I enjoyed that -- no charge -- just for the challenge. In the evenings I attended choir practice. The days passed fast. Best of all I liked Shacharis (morning prayers). Almost daily, there were one or two "aveilim" (widowers). Someone observed "yahrzeit" (commemorate the anniversary of one's death by lighting a candle, reciting the Kaddish, the prayer over the dead.) It was the custom that the bereaved bring a bottle or two of schnapps, a herring or two, black bread. After prayers, we "Lechayemmed" one another, remembered the dead and toasted the living, wishing the bereaved one not to know of any more sorrow and finished off with "a shtikele broit mit herring." (a piece of bread and herring). Little me, being one of the worshippers, became one of the crowd ...

They would laugh -- a l'chayim never harmed anyone; stunt his growth? God forbid, he is tiny by nature; taller he won't be.

At first I used to become drunk on my first "l'chayim"; my head would spin and I would giggle. I would dose off on a bench of the nearest pew, unnoticed by anyone. In time, I grew accustomed to a "l'chayim," and the pastime pleased me more and more. I'd no sooner end the first minyan, then I'd wait I line for my next, and when the others put down their glass to be refilled, I followed suit. The shamash (sexton) didn't stint. Before long I could take "l'chayim" in my stride. The elders used to marvel, "… Vi dus yingle gist a rein" (watch the boy imbibe), pushed another in my hand and watch me make it disappear. Soon it stopped being a sport.

The boys in the choir let me in on a secret. They had formed a dramatic club to emulate the grownups. They were rehearsing Goldfaden's "Bar kokhba," "Akeydes yitzkhok" and "Shulamis." I became enthralled with the idea. Goldfaden's repertory was not entirely strange to me. My brother, Velvl, who had organized a similar club in Nikolaev, used to rehearse in Papa's masterkaya. I was about eight at that time, and when their club performed the choir boys of both synagogues would participate. I, because of my big brother, would participate.

The first play I saw my brother produce and direct was "Bar kokhba." He played "Eliezer," one of the elders. Another member of that club was a handsome young man, about the same age as my brother, by the name of Michael Weisblatt. Later in Europe and years later in America, he appeared under the name of Michal Michalesko.

I was drawn to the Children's Dramatic Club in Ekaterinoslav, as if with a magnate. I applied and was accepted immediately. Being a leading soloist, I came into a godly share of leading parts: "Father Abraham" in the opera-drama, "Akeydes yitzhkhok (The Sacrifice of Isaac)," the female lead in "Shulamis" (Shulamis), and "Avisholem," in the light opera of the same name, all Goldfaden's plays. At the same time the club was rehearsing "Joseph and His Brethren." In the first two acts, Joseph is still a young boy. I was invited to play Joseph. It was performed in a large theatre in Ekaterinoslav. That performance was attended by many of the trustees from the synagogue. Recognizing their little "vunderkind" (wonder child) and hearing how their "darling" had handled those solos in the first two acts, my stock soared even higher. Our "soloistel" (little soloist) from Nikolaev is a genuine tsatske (rare toy).

I heard about their appraisal of my "feat" the next morning at our synagogue. I was treated with an extra "l'chayim." I handled my drink like a grownup, threw my head back and held on to my kapelushl (hat) with one hand -- and "Bottom's up"!!!

Yes, life in Ekaterinoslav as one great big holiday for this eleven-year-old, nearing the "milestone" of his thirteenth year.

My position at the synagogue was assured as an "actor." My prestige had no equal. On my frequent walks, on my trips, on and off the tramway. I was recognized, praised, complimented profusely. I liked it!!! "Hey, everybody, look at Lemeshke. I suddenly felt a little tug at my heart. I missed them, my brothers. I'd even love to hear them call me --lovingly, of course, "Lemeshke." If only they could see me now. And Papa and Mama ....

I continued sending my monthly wages home, adding each time, a little extra -- for my little sisters. Mama gave birth to our other little girl, "Saretchka" (little Sarah). Mama wrote: "Saretchka, lozt ikh gris" (She sends her regards.) Just as Teybele was the proverbial "little dove," quiet and reserved, so "Saretchka" (little Sarah) was lively and a real joy -- "Mit yorn zol tir mi ale zine" (May you all live to at least a hundred and twenty.)

I had managed to save a few extra kopikes of my income, for myself, and treated myself to a "chokolatke" and/or "marzshene" (ice cream). I can well afford it. I am sought after for weddings and funerals. Each funeral compensated with at least twenty-five kopikes, a well-to-do wedding thirty kopikes. A rich millionaire in town paid as high as thirty-five kopikes. May God send me more of same ...

In the letters I sent home, I included with the money some of the theatre programs that carried my name, featuring "dus 11-yorike vunder kind, Solomonchik Secunda." My family in Nikolaev rejoiced. I put Nikolaev on the map ....
 

JULY 6, 1969, ch. 10
 

It was a beautiful warm day in Spring, full of promises. "Ma Nishtana," how did this day differ from any other day? Well, a man of great means was called to his reward. The God-fearing man, a nogio (rich man), a charitable man, a man with an open hand and golden heart. Of course, his heart ceased to function the night before. We choir boys were promised a goodly sum if our choir would perform the usual funeral services unusually well. Needless to say, "We outdid ourselves." I cried bitter tears, thinking as to how much I would miss my father ... May years be added to his life.

The wife of the deceased was very much distraught and gave orders to her sons that the little boys should be well rewarded. He who lives in heaven would have liked it this way ...

The services were over. I had fifty kopeks, which was my share. On the way from the cemetery we celebrated as never before. Romping, running, jumping, leapfrogging, we treated ourselves to "sachara, morozhenoe" (Russian ice cream).

Because it was an unusually warm day in Spring -- or was it perhaps our youthful exuberance -- we were very hot, and one of the gang suggested: "Let's go bathing in the Dnieper." He who gets to the river first will be rewarded with an extra portion of ice cream. There was a good reason why I did not remember who was first. But when our race had started, I had no inkling as to what was to ensue. We reached the Dnieper, we shed our clothes and promising to keep an eye on each other, we plunged into the cold waters. They, up to their wastes, "pichininchikel" me (tiny Shololmul) up to my neck. After swimming some distance, one of the gang commanded: "Everybody turn back." Like obedient soldiers, we obeyed. I made the attempt to be among the first to reach shore, but, finding it more difficult soon fell behind. "Hey, Solomonchik," came the cry from those already on the shore. Come on ... it's getting late!"

"Lemeshke," I said to myself, pushing the water a little harder, "Why are you floundering?" But my arms refused to move, my legs too weak to propel me. Suddenly, I felt very cold. When finally with what seemed to be my very last breath, I came ashore. Feeling the grass under my feet, I collapsed. The boys, thinking that perhaps I was playing games with them, jeered me.

"Look at him, the znacher (know-it-all), shivering." "Solomonchik has kiduches," they chanted, to the tune of a Yiddish version of "Ring around a-rosy." "Solomonchik has kiduches," "Solomonchik has kiduches ..." (Kiduches at that time was an unidentifiable ailment that caused one to shiver uncontrollably.)

I tried to stand up and my knees buckled. First then they realized that something is not kosher with their Solomonchik. They picked me up, taking turns carrying me piggyback to the Cantor's home. Lest they were blamed for something they did not do and fearing the consequences, they fled.

It was the dinner hour. Annoyed and perturbed by my tardiness, the Cantor asked tersely: "Where in the world were you, and why are you shivering? Tomorrow you're singing. Get to the table, eat something hot. You'll warm up and you'll feel better. I'll talk to you later."

I attempted to answer. My teeth were chattering. I couldn't formulate. The Chazante came to my rescue. She touched my forehead with her lips and said, "Oy, Dos yingele brent" (The boy is burning up.) "Take your clothes off," she commanded. "I'll make your bed." I started to disrobe -- a thing I would never normally do in front of a Chazante. She led me to my bed, on the trunk, covered me with a perinnah, and after a while came back with a bottle of castor oil.

"That's smart," said the Chazzan, "Castor Oil will cure his ills. It'll make him feel better! Two spoonfuls, one for good measure, to be sure," she said. "Zol zine tzu refuah" (I hope you feel better.) I closed my eyes, and mercifully I fell asleep. Just as the Chazan had prophesied, I felt "something," but not better. I felt an urge -- it was very urgent -- in the middle of the night. I ran all the way to the courtyard where the privy was to relieve myself. I felt very cold -- high fever notwithstanding. I returned to my warm trunk bed. I slept some more. In the morning when the family awakened, all dressed and got ready for breakfast, I was still asleep. The children left for school, the Cantor for the synagogue without me, and the little one already was playing in the courtyard with the neighbor's children. Every once in a while, The Chazante came to my bed, checking my forehead and asked, "Shololmul, du shlofst? (Are you sleeping?) I opened my eyes and hearing the endearing name, "Shololmul," it reminded me of my mother, and I whimpered, "Mama, siz mir nisht gut" (I don't feel well.) That was putting it mildly.

The Cantor and his son had returned from the synagogue. The Chazante suggested, "Chazan, send for one of the choir men. We must get the child to the hospital; his fever is high. It may endanger our children." The Tenor was summoned ... my advice is to take him home, send for a private doctor immediately. Possibly, the doctor will be able to prescribe something that will reduce his fever, or ...."

The tenor realized that he cannot take me back to the Chazan in this condition. He deposited me on a bench and turned to a peasant woman who was standing nearby -- "Dushinka (little soul), -- keep an eye on the young child. I'll go to the admitting office and enlist their aid."

How long I was there on that bench I knew not. When next I opened my eyes, I recognized the familiar face of the choir man and another man -- a doctor. It was related to me that sometime later that on the order of the good doctor, I was isolated. The verdict was typhus. As you know, the nature of that dread illness was uncontrollable fever, and that left me practically in a constant coma. I had no idea to how long I had been there, or for that matter where I was. I only remember opening my eyes not knowing where I was. Not recognizing my surroundings, I began to scream, "Ra-te-vet, Ra-te-vet." (Help, help.) The nurses came running their faces masked against infection. It frightened me still more, and my screams increased, "Mama! Chazante! Tate!" I cried. It took some time to calm me. Explaining, "this is a hospital, have no fear." "Don't cry, little boy. We'll make you feel better soon. We'll send for your mother and she'll take you home to Nikolaev." I must have realized the seriousness of my condition. But being powerless, I sank into a deep sleep again.

The next time I opened my eyes, I found something quite unbelievable. On the outside, looking through the window, I saw a face. I rubbed my eyes -- it was my mother! Or was it? "Mama … bring my mother .... my mother ..." The nurse came running. Pointing to the window, she said, "Don't be frightened, child. It is your mother ..."

Mama came early every day in the morning and stayed until nightfall, stood on a ladder looking through the window, watching over me. Inside, not even Mama was allowed. Sometimes my poor mother would come, and I would sleep through her visits.

At the end of the third week they gave my mother permission to take me home to Alexandria. On the train she wrapped me in that old familiar coat that made me so comfortable on my very first train ride to Nikolaev. On the way home, Mama was telling me what had transpired while I was in Ekaterinoslav.

"You know, mayn kind, your brother, Velvl, in America, was writing letters to Papa how he misses everybody: Mama, the children, and of course, Father.

And he wrote: 'I wish, lieber foter (dear father), that you would be here with me in America. America is a land of opportunity. True, one does not find gold in the street as promised, but if one wants to work, one can make a living. So, dear father, I implore you, come for a while. "A guest for a while, sees for a mile." Your devoted son, Velvl.'"

"So," Mama continued, "Papa thought a little while and talked it over with me, and I said, "Avruhom," our Velvl, our son, has a good kepele (head) on his shoulder. If he thinks so, so maybe, God willing, in a little while you may even send for me and the children. So Shololmul, your father left for America, taking with him two of your brothers, Joseph and Meyer, and God willing he will maybe send for me, you and Yosele, and Teybele, and Sarachka ... Just you get well and grow big and strong .... Oy, the little ones. They'll be so happy to see you. To see their big brother. You are so very famous now."

Mama's voice was soothing and comforting. I closed my eyes. Thinking I was asleep, Mama ceased to tell the story. I nudge her: "Nu, Mama. Tell me some more."

"What shall I tell you, mayn kind? What I lived through that night. What I lived through, parting from Papa, from Yosele, from Meyerl, and suddenly a telegram from Nikolaev. And the moment I heard the word "telegram," my heart sank. I senses catastrophe. And so it was! Mind you, telling a mother "kum vi amshnelstn" (come as quick as you can), Shololmul is ill …" Nu, nu, if I lived through that night, mayn kind, I'll never suffer pangs in hell till a hundred and twenty years ..."

(This tale was one of my mother's favorites, and years later, even in America she never tired of telling and retelling that story to Papa and to the children and family, and to whomever would listen to her.)

Mama continued. "And there I was, your poor mother, standing on the ladder, climbing on the straight walls. And one morning I looked into the room. I see my Shololmul covered with a white sheet from head to foot. "Vey miz mir, vey iz mir," "Gevald!" I started screaming, "My child is dead, my Shololmul is dead. They'll be carrying him out soon. Vey iz mir. He passed away without even seeing me, his mother. I screamed so loud," Mama continued, "that the nurses came running and took me down from the ladder. Once down I fell in "khaloshes" (I fainted dead away.) The doctor and a nurse brought me to. Regaining consciousness, I first began all over again. "Vey iz mir, un vind is mir (Woe is me, unfortunate me), my dear child died without even seeing his mother. I'm going to k-i-l-l myself!" It dawned on the nurses that I, poor mother, had assumed that my child, my Shololmul was dead. They hastened to assure me that the krizes (crisis) had passed. And he is on his way to recovery. Come and see for yourself!"

"Again I climbed the ladder. I looked through the window, because you know, it was still prohibited to come close to you. Everybody was afraid of an epidemic. So the nurse turned your peneml (face) towards me. You smiled at me weakly, and I your mother cried for joy. And now my child, I am taking you home with me."

"I tell you, Shololmul, the wonders of our Father in Heaven. We cannot praise his name enough. If only He wants," she mused, "Oy Gotenu," Father in Heaven, may he continue to watch over you, and Velvele and Yankele, Yosele and Meyerl and Teybele, and all our dear ones forever and ever. "Zug Omein, mayn kind." Obediently, weakly, I said, "Omein. Ve"Omein" (So be it.)
 

JULY 13, 1969, ch. 11
 

Another episode that has remained in my memory is my leave-taking of the doctors and nurses, who, having little hope of saving this dying little soul watched and hovered over me like the "angels of mercy." Truly they were. The hour of my departure came, and one of the "Sisters" handed me a small square cardboard box. It jingled as she handed it to me, saying: "Open it, go ahead ..." I opened the little box and my eyes opened wide in wonderment. It contained large silver coins.

"What is that?" I asked in astonishment.

"These are silver coins your many friends brought each time they came to pay you a visit, climbing the ladder to catch a glimpse of you through the shuttered windows. They explained. "This is your share of the levayes (funerals) and chasenes (weddings) at which they sang while you were in the hospital."

That left an indelible impression on me, and I could never forget it. First then, I realized that they must have walked a great distance to come to the hospital, since the tram did not go that far, and certainly they did not have enough money for a droshka. I've often thought of them, those young friends of mine who were ready to battle with me when I first arrived in their midst as a competitive choir boy and showed so much compassion and devotion when I was sick. For after all, I was not entitled to a share. They gave it of their own free will. Had I the right to share their meager earnings? I didn't sing ... I did nothing to deserve it. Had I remained in Ekaterinoslav I would have returned their "sacrifice" with my heartfelt thanks. But Mama gathered me, her little oytser (treasure) and whisked me off, back to Nikolaev, never to see those dear young friends again.

I met one of the choir boys later in America. He had been somewhat older than the others. He was about to end his childhood career as a choir boy. That young choir boy was Itzchok Arko, who left Ekaterinoslav to join a Yiddish theatre company and toured with them throughout Europe. Later, as did most of the other Yiddish performers, he too came to America. I had invited Itzchok Arko to be with me on the staff every summer when I conducted the programs at "Workman's Circle Camp" and "Unzer Camp" of the Farband. He brought back those childhood memories. Through him I relived those precious never-to-be-forgotten days at Ekaterinoslav. When I thanked him, somewhat belatedly, for the box of silver coins the nurses had presented me in their names, of whom he was a part, If felt that I thanked them all for their unforgettable kindness ...

Ten or was it twelve hours Mama and I spent on that train. Between Mama's stories and my occasional dreml (dozing), I thought a lot, or were they dreams? I hugged that little box that contained the "treasure." Were those silver coins truly the gifts of my little "enemies" who would have gladly tripped me or gotten rid of me, their competitor against who they had revolted?

I also dreamed of the balebatim (member of the synagogue) who used to search me out with their eyes when I'd sing my solos. I suddenly remembered my "Dramatic Club," where I had played so "successfully" the one hundred-year-old "Father Abraham" in the Goldfaden opera, "Akeydes Yitzchak." "Shulamis in "Shulamis" and Marcus in the "Kishefmakherin" (Sorceress). I smiled as I saw myself again as Joseph in the first two acts of "Joseph and His Brethren."

Those pictures that I conjured up -- between dozing and daydreaming -- flew by faster than did the wayside through the dusty windows of the slowly moving train. Mama would feed me some of the sweets out of the little straw basket that Mrs. Lakhman had given her along on the long journey. It was the Chazante's way of bidding me farewell.

"I love him, Froy Secunda, as if he were my own dear child. He should be with you for many long and healthy years."

"Omein," said Mama, piously, and wiped a thankful tear.

That was the last time I saw that kindly Lakhman family, the town that I came to love, where at the age of eleven I became an independent "man," without the guidance of my parents. I had learned much in that one year. What a pity I could not relive that one year again ...

When we came home, I realized that I was not fully recuperated. The doctors had given along prescriptions. Mama had to make sure and give me the medicine several times a day. I stayed in bed more than outdoors.

A terrible shock for me was that one early morning when I finally got up and commenced to daven all by myself. (Mama saw to it that her sons observed that ritual three times a day. If not with a congregation, then alone if you must ...)

I wanted to daven. I wanted to hear myself pray out loud, chanting, reciting. Yes, even singing, improvising, as I had grown accustomed to before my illness. I opened my mouth. I expected to hear my voice, but nothing came out, no sound. It frightened me; this I had not expected.

I ran to Mama in the next room, and with tears told her my woe. She took my hands gently and said in a soothing voice: "This is just temporary," that the doctors had forewarned her that this may happen, and shortly I may even lose my beautiful curly blond hair. Such is the nature of my severe illness. They had even advised her to take me to a tzerulnik (barber) and shave off my hair. And said that it will probably grow back, just as my voice would most likely return, God willing ...

The doctors were right, but to my dismay my blond locks became sparser and sparser, my head shaven, a veritable apple (I had not as yet seen a billiard ball). I didn't mind that much, but having lost my voice, even temporarily, that was very painful. I wanted to believe Mama that my voice would return, but each day I tried -- nothing. It took ages, so it seemed. Then one day I looked and lo and behold! My hair started curling again, and my voice was clear, clearer, yes, even stronger than before. Choir Master Kuritch hearing of my returned "power" showed himself at our home. "Froy Secunda, your Solomonchik is ready to rejoin my choir. Yes???"

Mama was getting weekly letters from America. My father and my older brothers were staying in one room, worked together and making a living, thank God, and soon maybe they'll buy shifskarten (ship's passage) for all of us and be together again. They praised this "Golden Land," the synagogues, the cantors, and especially the theatres. So many Yiddish theatres, don't ask! But mostly you don't have to fear "fonye ganef" and his pogroms. In one word they like America. "Soon we'll be together and everything will be okay …"

Mama had written how sick I had been, but of course, I was improving daily with God's help. And Kuritch "wears away the threshold" every day for Solomonchik to come back into his fold. Besides, Kuritch prophesied, "No doubt, Froy Secunda, you'll be leaving for American soon. No one comes back from there, the land of gold ... Like fun yener velt, the dead never come back. Ha ha ha!!!" Solomonchik has much to learn till he becomes a "Polner" chazzan (full-fledged cantor) and sings at concerts. The more he learns under my tutelage, the better off he'll be there. America is not Nikolaev. There, even at the age of twelve, he can be a regular chazzan." My mother listened and agreed. I went back to sing under Kuritch once more.

There was a new cantor at the synagogue, Girshin, by name. He possessed a sweet voice and was a good musician as well. He was an outstanding violin cellist, and a graduate of the conservatory. When he heard me sing my solos, he invited me to his home for special instructions. When he heard that we will be going to America, he sent for my mother. Mama couldn't understand. Why? She soon heard. "Your son, Froy Secunda, has out-of-the-ordinary abilities -- a great musical talent. But you must remember, he is bound to lose his adolescent voice, and no one can guarantee that he will ever sing again as a grown man. With a child such as yours, one must think about a future. Who knows what may happen in America? I would advise you to leave him here with me. Firstly, I personally will tutor him, after a while I will send him to the conservatory. I'll care for him as if he were my own child."

Finally Mama spoke. "No, Gospodin Girshin, no matter what the consequences will be, I will never part with my child, "mayn oig in kop" (the apple of my eye) again!

Years later, on one of my European tours, I met Cantor Girshin in Warsaw and again in Paris. He, just as I, had never forgotten that incident. He sadly admitted: "Your mother was right ... "Halevai I wish too that I would have gone to America ...."

I was sitting, writing letters to my father, but suddenly I discovered a new talent in myself. I wrote my letters in rhymes, composed music to the words, and my brother Willie sang those letters to my father and brothers, and they kvelled (enjoyed).

Papa had made the acquaintance of the Yiddish composer and choir conductor Herman Wohl. Papa told him about his talented zindele (little son). "If he is in truth, as you say, Mrs. Secunda, your son should be here in New York; I would take him in hand and make something out of him. In America such treasures are not found on the streets ... Ay, you have no money for his passage. I will gladly see that you get the means to send for your son; not only for your son, but the entire family."

Mama had taken Papa's place at the head of the family in Nikolaev. My brother, Aaron, continued making iron beds. He'd go around trying to sell them.

I earned a few groshen as a choir boy. That's how Mama made ends meet -- almost, till Papa -- "Zol leben un gezunt zayn" (Live and be well), will send tickets that will take us to America.

Waiting for the "Miracle America" is one thing. Meanwhile my heart ached for my poor mother. How could I help out? I am no iron-bed maker, no roof climber, no nothing. "Mama, I'll beg the gabbais (trustees) of the smaller synagogues. Maybe they'll grant me the privilege of singing a 'Sabbath' for them. Mama didn't think enthusiastically about my idea. "You're too young, mayn kind, try but don't be too disappointed if you don't succeed."

"But, Mama, I'm twelve years old already, even though I look no more than eight ..."

The size of my voice triumphed over the size of my stature. I was given a "Sabbath." I did not bargain as to how much. Whatever they think I'm worth, I'll accept ...

The following Sabbath, I appeared at the Kirzshener (Furrier) Shul. After Musaf, the gabbai asked if I'd be able to "daven Maariv" (evening prayer) on Sunday as well. I agreed.

The entire town showed up. The tiny shul was packed, even the choir masters, Kuritch and Brown (both claimed me as theirs). All the cantors showed up. Needless to tell you, I passed with flying "solos" ...

After services, the shames stationed himself at the entrance of the synagogue, plate in hand, the worshippers, smilingly donated their spare coins. On my way out, the gabbai handed me a knipele (money tied in a handkerchief).

"Here child, take it and give it to your mother."

Mama, my brother Aaron and I walked home, Mama holding on to the knipele. When we arrived home we sat ourselves at the table, untied the knipele and counted "Twenty-five rubles!!!"

I repeated that for several weeks, each Sabbath at another small synagogue, until the novelty wore off, and I ran out of synagogues ....
 

JULY 20, 1969, ch. 12
 

I had sung in all the smaller synagogues in Nikolaev. It was out of the question that this little boy would be allowed to take the place of a seasoned cantor in any of the large synagogues. With my father and brother in America, I had to start fending for myself. I'll go to the nearby hamlets and tell them I was good enough for Nikolaev. I know I can satisfy them as well. After all, Nikolaev had heard some of the most renowned Cantors, Chazan Lev and Chazan Lakhman, and others. I'll tell them, but first of all I had to tell my mother. I must get her consent. I'll put it to her as succinctly as possible.

Just as I had feared, Mama started crying bitterly. "Why do you want to shorten my years? Father is away. Lord knows when we will see him again." (being afraid to utter the word, if we'll see him again). "I nearly lost you in Ekaterinoslav; now you are ready to leave me again. I will not hear of it." "Mama, the town Dobrinka is only twenty or thirty vyorst (sp) (1 mile=35006 English feet) from here. I'll leave on Thursday and be back on Sunday morning. I'm not a child any longer. I'm twelve!"

Mama had stopped crying, and I continued. "You'll see, Mama. I'll be so good. I will!"

"So, my child, when do you want to start?" she asked hesitantly. "I will start this Thursday, and my first stop will be the town of Dobrinka. It's not far ..."

Thursday morning I was at the vagzal (depot), waiting for the one-wagon train to arrive. I had heard some people whisper that they travel on the train without even buying a ticket. "All you have to do is hide under the bench till the conductor passes by, and when you arrive at your destination you jump off the train before it stops." Un shtel fiss (run). I did not dare tell Mama about that. She had given me carfare, and I decided to save that, add it to my wages and bring it back to her. The train arrived. The conductor called, "All aboard!" and the locomotive started puffing. I jumped on. I had practice. Light-footed I made it safely. I selected a safe place under a bench. Plenty of room, I was surprised not to find anyone else there. Evidently not many were as enterprising as I was. Passengers came on the train. They placed their valises and bundles on the floor in front of me. I was safely hidden from the conductor, although more often than not, my nose connected with one of their bundles.

Soon the conductor came for the tickets. Experience had taught him to look for "blind passengers," those in hiding. Automatically he prodded with the nose of his boot underneath the seat. Their bundles shielded me from the conductor's heavy boot. Just as I was about to make myself a bit more comfortable, I heard the conductor say: "Stantzia Dobrinka"! He turned away. I turned the other way, and maneuvering my way between the passengers, I jumped off and went running ....

Walking with my little straw suitcase that contained no more than a white yarmulke (skull cap), as tall as a stove pipe, and provisions -- a few slices of bread that Mama had given me t take along. I walked through the strange streets of Dobrinka looking for a "Jewish" face. It wasn't difficult to detect one. There was a nice kindly looking man standing -- beard and earlocks -- I was safe. "Rev Yid" (a form of salutation), "where is the Beis Hamedrash?" (House of Worship).

"It's pretty far from here, "yingele" (little boy), "Come along with me. I'm going in that direction. You have to say Kaddish?" (prayer for the dead). He asked why I was going so early.

The morning prayers were over when I arrived at that little shul. Several elderly men were sitting at a long table rocking back and forth over the sforim (books). I went over to the man who I thought was the sexton and asked: "Maybe you can tell me where I can locate the gabbai?" (trustee)

"And what will you do with the gabbai if I locate him for you?" he asked.

"I am a chazan," I explained. I'd like to daven this Sabbath here."

He looked at me and showered me with questions. "Who are you? Where do you come from? How did you get here? How can a yingele your size be a chazan? You're not even bar mitzvah, are you?

"God willing, next year, I will be a bar mitzvah," I said. And I have already davened in many synagogues in Nikolaev, and I named a few. He looked at me askance, that I really was telling him the truth. Most of all he doubted my age.

"You say, twelve? You look to me more like seven or eight." He walked over to the men at their table. "What do you say to this yingele?" he half-whispered. He says he is a chazan and wants to daven this coming Sabbath in our synagogue. Shall I show him to the gabbai?"

"A chazan?" one of the men asked. "Let's hear a shtikele."

"That's right!" the sexton replied, "Prove it!"

I walked up to the "omud," took out my kamerton (tuning fork), concentrating on the right key and started. When I finished the bearded gentle people nodded their heads approvingly.

"Come with me," said the shames (sexton). I'll take you to our gabbai. He is a very fine man. He's a man of means, and if he will like you as much as we did, he'll pay you well. He'll make it worth your while. You think we don't have a chazan here in Dobrinka? We have a chazan, but don't tell anybody. He is a nebakh khalike (cripple), 'artistically' a drong."

"We were nearing the gabbai's home. This is the gabbai's gesheft (his place of business), the largest in Dobrinka. Come inside."

"Who is this little boy?" the gabbai asked. The shames repeated the story, who I was and what I wanted.

"Is that so?" He looked at me. "Come into my bureau (office) ... You know how to daven. One does not take it lightly, you know. It is nothing to play around with. Let me hear you. Do you know something?"

I opened the siddur. I repeated the scene with the tuning fork and proceeded. He stopped me in the middle. My heart stopped. "Oy, he doesn't approve of me!" I thought. I had become accustomed to the "pinch of approval." It came. The gabbai was no exception. "Agreed, young man, you've got yourself a Sabbath" ....

He looked at me quizzically. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"Yes," I said," honestly. "My mother had given me a few slices of bread. I never eat more in the morning, honest."

"Take him to my house," he said to the shames and tell the gabbate (my wife) to feed him immediately," he ordered. "He'll stay at my home until Sunday morning, and then I shall take him to the train. I had feared that the gabbai will want to audition me, but she must have noticed my parched lips from the hot walk. She took me by the hand and showed me into a lavatory. "Here, child. Wash your hands. I'll set a place for you at the table."

It was a large, beautiful appointed dining room table: silver flatware at each place caught the sunrays and shone with blinding brightness. The aroma of food permeated the room. The gabbate entered, carrying a plate of steaming potato soup, the kind Mama used to make on a holiday.

"Eat," she said. "Eat. Shemikh nisht" (don't be ashamed). I ate the soup with home-baked khallah, savoring each morsel. It was good. I asked for permission to go out into the street.

"Of course, Shololmul, you may go, but be sure not to get lost." The shames had spread the good news over town, and people turned around and looked at me, recognizing the little stranger in their midst. "This must be the little cantor …"

On Friday the gabbai came home a little earlier than usual. "Come, it's merkhotz time (time to go to the baths)."

I found myself in familiar surroundings, a replica of the bathhouse in Nikolaev. Jews, like all other Jews and ... the bathhouse, just as aromatic. He took me with him up on the upper "plateau" -- the highest bench, just as my father used to do. After the bathhouse ritual, we came back to his house. He changed into his Sabbath attire and said: "Lomir gain in shul arein" (Let us go to Shul.)

The shamash had done his job well. "Yiden in shul pine (sp)," he called (Time to go to prayers!)

Dobrinka was a small town, just one shul for the entire Jewish community, and this time even the mothers came, carrying their little ones. All were ready to listen to the new boy chazan, who came to their shtetele just to brighten that Sabbath.

After Mincha (evening prayers), the gabbai said: "Now, youngerman!"

I put on my tall white yarmulke (skullcap), enveloped my body in the big tallis (prayer shawl), being careful not to trip over it, and I started to sing, "Lechu Neranena" (Come Let Us All Sing). I davened Friday night and Sabbath "Shacharis and Musaf" (morning and afternoon prayers). After the services came the "cheek-pinching." My cheeks were fiery red. My hands ached from the effusive congratulations. That night I slept soundly, till early Sunday morning. No one had mentioned anything about money. I was embarrassed and even scared to ask. "How does one ask for money, for something you love doing?" The surprise came much later. I packed my belongings and waited. "Come Shololmul," said the gabbai. "I'll take you to the station in my brikhke (in my hansom).

"Na," (here), put this in your pocket. He put his hand in my pocket, stuffing it. It crackled as if it were a fistful of paper. I knew not how much. I could not count it in his presence. His wife gave me a package, attractively tied in one of the gabbai's large white handkerchiefs.

"Take this with you, Shololmul." You'll eat it on the train.

Arriving at the station, the gabbai shook my hand. We said our goodbyes. "God willing, you'll come again." He left. I tried my luck again, hiding under the seat, and luck was with me.

I arrived in Nikolaev, safe and sound with my earnings intact ... plus my carfare, both ways. Mama had been waiting for me. She hugged me repeatedly, blessing my arrival. I still had no idea as to how much I had earned. Unable as I was to "count my blessings," lying on my back, under the seat. After the "kissing ceremony," I started emptying my pocket onto the table. Mama and the children counted ... How much? I don't remember! "Now, Mama," I begged, "Now will you allow me to go again to try another town? Till Papa sends us "shifskarten" (ship tickets)?"

Mama didn't answer, but my brother Aaron pleaded my case. "Why not, Mama? He is a big boy already. At his age I had been working for three years helping Papa, turning out iron beds. Isn't it even more difficult than just singing one Sabbath? Besides, if this keeps up, if Solomonchik will bring so much money each week, we might be in America before Papa sends us shifskarten. It was resolved that I should continue my good work, trying my mazl again, each weekend, in another town. I took good care of my "Got's matonele" (my God-given gift -- my voice), which served me well. Each little town, each little hamlet, contributed just a bit more towards my future in America, for which I shall always bless them ...
 

JULY 27, 1969, ch. 13
 

With my father and two brothers in America, Aaron was now the head of the house in Nikolaev. The masterskaya was resting on his shoulders. Turning out "Secunda's iron bedstead" single-handedly was no easy task. Mama was the saleswoman. The younger children were still at cheder. "They must learn at least to daven (pray)," Mama said. And out of the income she had to pay tuition. For the table, there was little left.

I had my work cut out for me. I looked forward to each Friday and the Sabbath to stand at the altar in my own tallis and tall yarmulke (a gift from Chazante Lakhman, blessed be her memory, who parted from me with tears in her eyes. "Like my child," she said. "You should live and be well with your own mother." I remember her well!)

But it was no easy matter for this undersized, often undernourished twelve-year-old, to shlep himself from hamlet to hamlet, hiding under the bench of the train to avoid buying a ticket, risking life and limb, jumping on and off trains to avoid being caught by the conductor. I had nightmares of being caught and sent to a tfise (jail), spending the rest of my years in Siberia as a slave-laborer, in chains yet.

The blessings bestowed on me by the worshipers of each little synagogue stood me in good stead. Each time they'd pinch my cheek and shake my hand, saying "Gay B'sholem, Shololmul" (Go in peace). I did!

With the hard-earned money that I brought back from Dobrinka and other towns, Mama brought in the Sabbath meal. "Once a week," Mama said. "Let the children have their fill." Who would have dared to dream. Az ot, ot ,ot (Any day now) the Messiah will come with the nes (miracle) and deliver us from our sonim (enemies). Our Messiah came in "disguise" as our postman. God performs his miracles in mysterious ways ...

One fine day -- it was around Chanukah (the Festival of Lights). The postman came with the unusual letter from America. It started with the "Teire Hochgeshtste Veib Hene-Rivkah and children should be well (Most worthy and most devoted wife). I am happy to impart to you that your tsores (troubles) are over. I'll make it kurtz un sharf (short and to the point). (You could tell that my father was well aware of Einstein's theory of relativity. It took him little time to accomplish a lot.)

And now to the point. "I met Mr. Herman Wohl in New York. He is a composer and choir master. And thanks to Mr. Wohl, I met the manager of the cantors and concert singers. You may rest assured, Hene Rivkah lebn, I didn't waste any time. I told him about our Shololmul -- how he is endowed kein ayin hara (no evil eyes) with all the meiles (fine qualities), and the manager told Wohl, and Wohl told me ... So I'm happy to tell you that our Shololmul, he said, the manager that is, "will be a sensation in America." Of such treasure -- no one ever dreamed (a little boy of ten, at the omud (altar), conducting Sabbath services!!! "If what you say is so," said Mr. Wohl, the manager said, "we'll be filling our keshenes (pockets) with gold. He is even willing to start working on our shifskartn (steamship tickets) for the entire family, to be deducted later from Shololmul's earnings. All I have to do is give the pipps (say the word).

As if there could be any question. I gave the pipps and he is going to spread the good news tzepoikn (He'll drum up business over the length and breadth of New York City, and line up "Sabbath dates" for our Shololmul "in a gute show" (happy hour) when he will be here in America.

Now, my dear wife, comes your difficult task to make ready. You must liquidate all the bebeches (household trivia), and that I assure you, that within a week or two, or maybe three, you'll be getting "dus gute qvitl" (lucky ticket). So be ready to embark on your long journey ..."

The letter was worth reading and rereading until Mama and the children and the neighbors knew it by heart. And the news spread like wildfire over the shtetele of Nikolaev. It takes a woman to make a home; it takes a woman to take it apart. Mama started ...

We had to get passports for the entire family. There would have been no complications. The Czar didn't cry or shed tears over Jews leaving his Matushka Russiya (his Mother Russia). But my brother Aaron was reaching the age of priziv (conscription). But, thank God. "'He' sends the prescription before he sends the boil" (we say). In Russia, at that time, for a little money, you could buy everything, including the Czar. So Mama "hot geshmirt deim pristav" (the sheriff), and he thanked her profusely for her most generous show of appreciation.

"Nye boysia dushinka (Don't worry, little soul)," the pristav said, "Have no fear. You'll cross the border without much trouble." Saying that, he hid his money in his cholieve (in the leg of his boot).

It took all my Shabbat earnings to pay for that "favor." But it was worth that and more, to leave "huckle-buckle" (everything) behind and be reunited with the family. Mama was shedding "heise trern" (smarting tears), fondling and kissing each item as she sold it to strangers. Everything was sold like khometz (the last crumb of leavened bread before Passover), leaving for ourselves the bedding, the brass candlesticks ... The good Lord only knows that you couldn't buy candlesticks in America, even af a refuah (on a prescription), and this samovar, a remembrance from her grandmother -- she should intervene for us in Paradise And grandfather's silver bekher (goblet) -- a Kiddush cup. And one more treasure -- a tzene v'rene (prayer book, in Yiddish) -- as against loshon koidesh (Hebrew, holy language), which men folk prayed.

What with all the modern improvements in America, Mama was sure she would find plenty of time to pray for much.

It is written in the Book of Proverbs (part of the wisdom literature of the Bible) that a wise woman builds, a foolish one tears it down. My mother, of blessed memory, she had to be both. Build the home with a pittance, and liquidate it for less. At the end of three weeks the postman brought a very important looking manila envelope will all the necessary papers, and a letter from Papa followed with instructions. Inside the manila envelope were the steamship tickets for the entire family. And Papa, in his instructions, said: "Mayn liebe Hene Rivkah, leave Nikolaev as promptly as possible."

So we left, wishing never to see it again. Ironically enough, years later, I begged for one glimpse of Nikolaev, and the "glimpse" was denied me.

"Because the tickets are for a specific date, and the itinerary is quite complicated, there may be many stumbling blocks in your way, God forbid. So follow instructions as I tell you --leave for the city of Lubava by train, from there by boat to Liverpool, and from Liverpool you will board the boat 'Carmania.'" Never heard of Carmania? Well, neither did we before that memorable voyage.

It was the month of December 1907. At the request of the trustees of the Kirzshner Shul (Furrier's Shul), I was invited by the entire congregation to daven for them on the last Sabbath. They promised my mother to pay me well, which they did, but the kindly worshippers collected a goodly sum to buy me a fine matone (gift) to remember them by. To that event the entire Jewish population of Nikolaev turned out. Kind un kait (kit and caboodle) came running to catch a last glimpse of their twelve-year-old wunderkind, whom they will never see again -- not as a child, anyway. But they reassured my mother that they would hear from afar that I have become the "world's greatest cantor." Or, of course, they expect nothing less, something as important as that. They prophesied, and my mother and I believed them.

All the synagogues and Bote Midrash (all houses of prayer) cut their services shorter so that choir boys, the Cantor, and the choir conductors could come to say their goodbyes to me. It turned out to be quite a ceremony. After prayers the townspeople walked home hittparadde (sp) (paraded with great pomp). The gabbai, the trustee and treasurer of the synagogue led the parade, holding his arm protectively around my shoulders.

We stopped at the threshold of my home, halting the paraders behind him, and in a booming voice the gabbai said to my mother, "God willing, right after Seudah Shlishit (the third Sabbath meal) govirim (sp) (men of means) will come into my home and say a 'proper' goodbye."

He kept his promise. They came, not empty-handed, God forbid ... They handed Mama twenty-five karbuntzes (rubels to indicate a goodly sum), and wishing her lots of nakhes (joy) and mazl and brokhes (blessings) and hutzlokheh (prosperity). Then the portly gabbai turned to me: "Give me your hand, Shololmul."

I stretched out my hand, and he laid a gift on my palm. "Take it. It is a silver pocket watch and chain. It is a gift from the entire congregation, so that you will never forget us. We thank you for your akhrais (deep respect for the omud), and your sweet voice."

It was decided. Tuesday, being considered a lucky day, we'll set out on our long journey. Our feelings were mixed. We were happy. Then why did Mama shed tears? And if Mama does, shouldn't we? So we did.

At sundown we will board the train at Nikolaev, and by early the next morning we will arrive at Karistofka (a hamlet), not far from Alexandria, where Mama's relatives lived. She had notified them in advance to meet us at the station, to say our last goodbyes. These last goodbyes were heart-rendering, as if they had a premonition that they will never see one another again. Through the years some of Mama's relatives were fortunate enough to migrate to America. Those left behind perished.

It is written in the Unetaneh Tokef (the prayer of the Day of Atonement), mi b"mayim (who will perish by water), mi b"aish (by fire), mi b"cherev (at the sword), or pestilence, or hunger, or plague. Their parents lost their lives through the edicts of the Czar, and those who survived the Czar, their children and their children's children through the pogroms in Russian Poland, Hitler, Arabs, etc.

Arriving at Lubava, a tour guide came to meet us. He was to supervise over all the passengers of the Carmania. We were housed in one akhsanya (inn), which was surely not the Grand Hotel. We stayed there for three days. It turned into a proverbial house arrest. We were not permitted to leave the premises from that day of our arrival, until the third day. When the same guide came, he placed us on droshkas (horse-drawn carriages) and took us to the small boat that was to take us to Liverpool.

The waters are comfortably calm, and the trip was nice. We enjoyed it. But in Liverpool we were treated in the same manner. We did not mind it too much. There was plenty of food. We did miss our freedom. Being cooped up for three days indoors made the adults irritable and the youngsters garrulous. Our little family, being closely knit, made the best of the situation. We never had it better before. And it so happened that Mama found a long lost girlfriend from Elisavetgrad, whom she had not seen in twenty-five years. This friend was going to America too. Her son, Abba Ostrovski, was known in later years in America as a very famous portrait painter. Even in America, we remained close neighbors and good friends for many, many years.

We weren't sorry to leave our jail-like quarters. The next day the same agent took our group to the Carmania, which was finally going to take us on our last lap -- to America.

The Atlantic Ocean, the second largest body of water in the world -- certainly the saltiest -- was like a cauldron, tossing the poor Carmania as if it were a toy. The Carmania certainly was no match for this earth's second largest body of water. The waves were cold and icy. Being tossed back and forth, the ship was groaning, as if in living pain. It's a wonder that we made it safely to shore. I guess our silent prayers did reach the great unknown. Most of the adult passengers were seasick, but the young ones, we had the run of the ship. We rolled with the waves ...

Most of the passengers were Jewish. They got word of my "skill." (It couldn't have been Mama's publicity, as she, was nebekh (ill) from the day of embarkment until the last day. It must have been my brothers and sisters who were singing my praises.)

Speaking of singing, I missed my singing at the omud. My repertory had greatly increased. Since  I had been part of a children's dramatic club, I had learned many songs that had reached the shores of Russia, even from America. The songs had become so popular that they were introduced as folk songs. "A brivele der mamen" (a letter to mother); "Isrulick kum aheim" (Come Home, Little Israel). Incidentally, both of these songs were written by the American Yiddish folks poet, Shlome Smulewitz, and another song that had reached its peak of popularity was "Gott un zayn mishpot Is gerekht" (God in his Judgment is True.) This song was the one and only song to have been introduced by the great Jacob P. Adler.

My brothers brought a verbal invitation from a group of third-class passengers. I should sing for them, and I did ... "Ikh hob zikh nisht gelost beitn" (I did not wait to be asked a second time), for fear that invitation might be withheld. I sang these songs, improvising a great deal with some cantorial dreidelakh, and my success was overwhelming. That brought an invitation from the Orthodox group. They asked me to honor them and daven a Friday and Saturday night at the altar. It was I who felt honored, and I gave it my all.

We were third-class passengers naturally, cheaper there wasn't. But we had a cabin all to ourselves since we were a family of six. Mind you, each one of us had his own bunk, and if they weren't the most comfortable beds in the world, we had no way of knowing. It certainly beat sleeping on the floor, sharing it with seven brothers and two sisters. Mama, ill, never left her bed the entire twelve days.

Those few who got over their seasickness used to gather in one spot on a roped-off section on the lower deck and tell stories. Most were happy stories. It was an opportunity to talk about themselves a little bit, about parents who were going to join the children in America, the happy ones: wives to join their spouses, happy to escape the ghettos, aliens in a country of their own birth. As young as I was, I felt sorry for those wives whose husbands went to America to find freedom. They found too much freedom, forgetting their wives and children, whom they left behind. "Oh dear, I thought, life was so complicated." I often wondered whether they ever found what they were looking for ..."

There were also those among them who complained about their children. "Imagine, we barely scraped together our last few groshens to send our sons to America to avoid serving the Czar, and there in the Golden Land they forgot their umgliklekhe tate, mama, not even a letter. "Nu," they complained, "Darf men hobn kinder (who needs children)?"

I was fascinated by these dramatic stories. They cried, and I cried along with them. I thanked God that we are going to our father, Avruhom Secunda, who loves us and sent for us, all of us. Soon we will be reunited.

With a head full of their stories, I went down into our cabin. I took some writing paper that had the picture of the Carmania in the corner and began writing. My very first drama. It was, indeed, a shtarke drama (very strong play) in rhymes no less and set to music to match the words. Rhyming it was easy. You open your mouth and anybody can write words.

"America" will be my subject. That's what I wrote in large letters on the page. I took "Isrulik kum aheim" and substituted instead of Palestine that every Jew should go to America, the "goldene medina" (golden land). I was so absorbed in my instant creation that I did not hear Mama calling me.

"Shololmul," she said weakly. "Shololmul, vuz shribstu dort (What are you writing)? Soon you will be with your father in America, and you will be able to talk to him personally, mayn kind."

"No, Mama," I said. "This is not a letter to Papa. I have just written a shtarke drama with music."

Then and there I placed myself in front of Mama and a capella I played and sang my drama for Mama. And Mama dabbed at her eyes. "Oy zindele mayn (my little son), I'm expecting a lot of 'nakhes' from you (I should only live to see it), Father in Heaven."

"You will, Mama. You will."
 

AUGUST 3, 1969, ch. 14
 

A wintry day in January 1907 cold and gray, our ship having reached the Hudson River was rocking dizzily on the choppy waters, inching her way closer to the busy New York Harbor. Passing us on her way out was a sparkling white ocean liner, with people gaily tossing ribbons of colorful confetti, waving greetings at us, as if we were their long-lost cousins. We waved back.

Sailors manipulated the complex machinery of the ship -- the prow of the ship, like an enormous nose, pointing and sniffing her way into a more comfortable position. Soon we heard the sound of the heavy anchor as it splashed its weight into the murky water. The aging bulk of our ship halted with a kvetch (a painful groan), and the vibrations of her pulsating engine ceased. Through a small opening in the side of the sickly looking ship, brown slush was gushing as if ridding itself of its nausea, cleansing her insides before entering the "Promised Land." Passengers, those strong enough, ran up the narrow iron staircases to the upper decks. The chain barriers that kept the upper decks from being "invaded" by the third and steerage class -- immigrants -- were down, as it should be, reaching this new democracy …

"Look, look, the Statue of Liberty," the man next to me said. "Look, yingele, the Statue of Liberty." He pointed to the colossus. Realizing that I did not understand his English, he broke into a perfect Yiddish. "This is the Statue of Liberty," he recited. "This is a gift from the French people to America. In her left hand she has a tablet bearing an inscription: July 4, 1886. It's a memorable date ... America's independence. In her right hand she has a lighted torch welcoming the newcomers. Yes, even you, little boy. What is your name?"

"Shololmul," I said. "Ah, Sholom, that means peace, does it not?"

Hugging the railing, we gaped at the New York skyline. There were no volkn-kratzers (skyscrapers) pushing their way to heaven, as we have at this writing, some seventy years later. They looked gigantic to this little boy, who was coming from Alexandria, Nikolaev and Ekaterinoslav.

"America is a land of opportunity," the man went on. Isn't that what my older brother, Velvl, wrote to us? "What do you want to be, yingele, when you grow up?"

"I don't know. Maybe a chazan, maybe."

"Maybe you'll be a writer, even a poet like the great Jewish poetess, Emma Lazarus. You know she has written a beautiful poem to this statue, and if you could read English, that is, you would see that it says right here on the statue: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free ..."

"Solomonchik," I heard my brothers calling me. "Come on down, we're at Ellis Island."

[Editor's note: The "Sekunda" family arrived at Ellis Island on January 13, 1908.]

I ran to join my brothers. The man's voice was left trailing ... "I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

The third-class immigrants were directed slowly down a steep ramp and led into a barn-like auditorium that contained little more than the long wooden benches ... for the "comfort" of the new arrivals. As the names were being called, passengers stood up. The clerk showed them to another room. We heard the name "Secunda"! Just as those before us, we too followed. An immigration inspector was sitting at the table, stamping a heap of passports. He kept asking questions, interrogating each one separately with the same questions. "To whom are you coming? Do you except them to come here? Who will be responsible for your well-being, so that you will not become a burden to the State?" The last question was more like a command. "Look -- do you see this person here?"

"Do you see him?" Of course, as soon as we entered the room, we noticed our father. He was sitting at the far end of the room, eagerly looking for Mama. Mama took one step in his direction, but the clerk pointed her back to her place at the other end of the auditorium. The inspector called the name, "Abraham Secunda"! Abraham Secunda, literally jumped up, clutching his hat. He ran towards the interrogating inspector. The inspector said something to my father. It must have been in English, for Papa shrugged his shoulders. The inspector called over an inspector. They conversed, then the inspector turned to my father, translating English into "American Yiddish."

"Zay velen dir nit  ... lozn -- B a k oz (?) -- became "one son, nit gut." (They will not release your family from Ellis Island today, because one of your sons must be reexamined.) So come back tomorrow. Tomorrow, farshtayst?" (Do you understand?)

"No tomorrow," my father raised his voice. "Today!"

"My good man," the interpreter interrupted. "Tomorrow the doctors will examine your son, and if all is kosher, then you can take them all home with you." "Kosher?" My father couldn't understand. What has kosher got to do with rescuing his family from Gehenom? (in Hebrew, it means a place of torment and punishment, Hell.) "What do I know?" the inspector defended himself. My family too escaped from "Fonia Ganef" (derogatory nickname for the Russian Czar).

My father was shown to one exit, and another hireling pushed us through another.

In the room we entered, there were many doctors. All were waiting for us, I presumed. My heart sank. It reminded me of the Bolnitza Hospital in Ekaterinoslav: white coats, rubber tubes, attached to such instruments hanging from their ears. And especially these peculiar looking mirrors on their foreheads that stuck out like an oversized "shel-rosh" (the forehead part of phylactery).

Now I was certain they were after me. My typhus followed me all the way to America, I thought. Evidently mother thought so too, because when one doctor looked at the card in his hand and called: "Aaron, Aaron Secunda ..."

"Aaron?" Mama asked, surprised. "Aaron?" My brother asked, perplexed. "Are you Aaron?" asked the doctor. My brother nodded in the affirmative.

"Me, Aaron." He pointed to himself. The doctor beckoned to him with his forefinger. Adjusting the mirror towards my brother's eyes, he looked and looked, then pushed Aaron to another doctor. The other one went through the same procedure. My mother wanted to ask, "Vus hot ihr nekbekh tzu orem kind?" (What do you want of my poor child?)"

Before she could open her mouth, they were leading us to a large overheated dormitory." That man said, "Sleep," resting his head, with his eyes closed, on his hands to illustrate sleep. He closed the door behind him.

The children slept fitfully. My mother sat up all night on the iron-meshed bed, her fragile body rocking to and fro, as if she were praying, staring at the single-lighted bulb, dangling like a pendulum from the ceiling.

I had nightmares. I dreamed that I was back in Ekaterinoslav, in the hospital, Mama looking through the window. I awoke with a start.  Recognizing my mother, I asked in a whimper so as not to awaken the others. "What will happen to us, Mama?"

"We're in God's hands, mayn kind," she said. "He who delivered our forefathers from mitsrayim (from Egypt) will have mercy on us too. There must be an end to this eternal goles (exile)."

The pale morning sun was streaming through the uncurtained opaque window. The children were walking. Hungry, they looked at Mama. Her red-rimmed eyes were void of promise. A bell rang harshly to call our attention.

"Breakfast!" Noticing everyone else move, we followed. The sour-tasting smell of tzikorye (chickory) made me forget my hunger. A woman carrying a basket with oranges handed everyone who had his hand out, a stale orange. Mama spread some rancid butter on a penetzl (slice of bread). I ate it with my orange, trying not to look at the elongated live-looking fish on a gray tin platter on the table. I still see in my mind's eye hands; it seemed like hundreds of hands rushing onto the table, hands pushing, grabbing, shoving food into their hungry mouths. Although there was plenty of bread -- stacks and stacks of white (goyishe, I thought), and even khallah (Jewish Sabbath twist), and potatoes with sholekhts (in their jackets), and huge platters of whole fish, steamed fish being eaten by the most religious people. The pungent odor of all that changed my complexion from sallow to yellow.

Mama put a morsel of black bread in her mouth, tears rolling down her pale sunken cheeks, settling on her upper lip. Absent-mindedly Mama licked at the salt tears, mixed it with the bread and swallowed with effort. That was, indeed, "bread of affliction ..."

A woman at my mother's elbow turned to her, asking in Yiddish, "Why are you held over in Kessel (Castle) Garden"? Mama shrugged her shoulders saying, "Who knows? The Doctor doesn't like the color of my son's eyes. So we're waiting for the verdict -- do we live or do we die …"

"See all these immigrants," the woman turned her glance over the vast dining room. "Some of them are here much, much longer. I am here almost two-and-one-half weeks. You want to know why?" Seeing Mama preoccupied with her own problems, she didn't answer.

The woman volunteered: "Mayn man (husband), y'mah shmoy (his name should be obliterated), he did not come to 'take me off the ship,' and if HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) won't be able to locate him, I will be sent back! Sent back, to where?" She asked herself this. "Vey is mir?" (Woe is me.)

Mama's eyes were overflowing, not only for her shifsshvester (co-sufferer), but for herself.  It was of little consolation that her own husband (her Avruhom) did come. But will he come again? Mama put a morsel of black bread in her mouth and ...

What happened to my father in the meantime? Once out of the Ellis Island waiting room, alone and without his family. Papa later told us. "I began to cry uncontrollably," he said. "My poor Shololmul, because of his typhus fever, they won't let him into America. And because of him they will send back my wife, my children, tearing us apart. "Vu is rakhomes (where is the pity?) A brokh tzu mir un tzu columbusn." (cursed me and curses on Columbus) My father had stayed on the other side of the door, waiting for the door to be reopened.

Finally it was "tomorrow." He was the first inside, taking the same place, on the same bench, still waiting ....

We finished our first "repast" as guests of America on Ellis Island. The clerk came in once more, looked at my mother and said, "Mrs. Secunda, I have good news for you.  Your son's eyes are okay."

"Oy geloibt iz got (Praise the Lord)." Mama hugged my brother Aaron. The clerk hurried us along.

"And now, Mrs. Secunda," he said, "Take all your children and belongings and follow me."

Once more we were in the same auditorium. It was past noon by that time, and the place was crowded. Names were being called. Names ending with "Berg." "That's Jewish," we tried to guess. "Or German," Mother corrected -- and names with a "ski." "Polish," I said. "Or Russian," corrected my mother.

"Secunda" was called. "Abraham Secunda."

"It's Papa, it's us. It's us, Mama. We, we ..."

"Yes children." I heard Mama trying to contain herself. "Now," she said orderly.

"Now, Aronchik," she said to my older brother. "Take our belongings, and don't leave anything behind. Yosele, take Shololmul. Shololmul, take Yankele, take Teybele, Teybele take Sarchka, and you Sarachka," Mama said to my younger sister. "Hold onto my skirt and follow me."

We pushed our way through bodies and bundles. Papa was standing practically on the tip of his toes, looking for us ...

Finally he spied us. He put his arms out and we came running, nearly throwing him off his balance. Tearfully he embraced us all.

"Mayne oytseres (my treasures)," he said. He looked down at me as if there was some doubt in his mind that it was me. "Is that you, Shololmul?" Not recognizing me, as he had not seen me for more than year, prior to his departure for America. I was at the hospital then.

Did I change that much? Or had he read in all of Mama's letters about my illness, even though Mama reassured him, time and time again, that Shololmul is on his way to recovery. "Maybe I'm dead," he thought.

I tugged at his coat sleeve. "It's me, Papa. It's Shololmul."

Convinced, he patted my head again. "Mit longe yor zolstu zayn" (May you be blessed with long life.) All the while Mama was standing, waiting patiently for her next. I took Mama's hand, pushed her towards my father. They embraced silently. (Mama was too modest. Her mother had taught her "that a nice Jewish woman doesn't display her emotions in public ...

"Iz vus makhstu?" (How are you husband mine?)" Mama asked.

"Now, Hene Rivkah, now, I'm alright. Now I'm okay." ("Okay" -- that means kosher in English; he translated for her.) And you, Hene Rivkah, my wife?"

"I too am kosher, vey yosher (kosher in the vernacular means that it is fit for use. The word yosher, rhyming with the word kosher, means righteous.)

He kissed Mama lightly, once on her lips. "My kosher ve yosherdik wife," He smiled in anticipation. He gathered all the bundles, fastened them together as best as he could, and slung them over his shoulder. My older brother, Velvl, took the smaller bundle, and off we went, happily following my father and mother. Once outside we became part of another group of people, all waiting for the small Coast Guard boat that was to take new arrivals to "Nev York." (giving it the "V" pronunciation). And there comes the shifele (There comes the little boat.)

The shifele was crowded, Mama sitting down and Papa close to her, their hands touching. The children stood, noses touching the window, we marveled at the wonders. "Look, look, that's a-a-a-a ..." Before we could find the proper name for the tall wonder that was belching with black smoke, our boat sped away. Before long we touched terra firma ....

Mama said, trying to smile endlekh (finally, we're here).

"Nu, Hene Rivkah," Papa said. "How do you like mine America?" "Abi men zet zikh gezunt" (As long as we see one another and have our health.)," Mama said, and thank God we're all together."

Once on shore my American brothers were waiting. Velvl and Meyerl came to greet us. Velvl looked at me, his eyes hidden in a broad grin, exclaimed, "Lemeshke, is that really you? Du lebst." (You're alive.) I hadn't heard the "endearing" name of Lemeshke in years.

Now we were truly a united family. My brothers relieved us of our bundles. We carried all our treasures with us: the bedding, the candlesticks, the silver Kiddish cup (that we saved from the pogromshchikes), and one more thing -- the tzena verena (prayer book).  No wonder the great Yiddish poet, Morris Rosenfeld, had written an ode, "Yiddishe Pekhklekh" (Jewish Treasure).

Papa led the way. We reached an iron structure, close to street level. Pointing with his finger up, he commanded: "Up the steps! Don't run! You'll fall."

These steps lead to the "elevator." An elevator, Papa explained, means a ban vus fli in der luftn (a train that flies through the air), an on this train Papa explained: "We'll ride and ride until we reach the 14th Street station and from there we'll have a short walk, like for instance from our house in Nikolaev to the Groishe Shul. We walked to 12th Street. "Street" means gasse, ulica. I thought, "Ken ikh shoin eneleish oykh" (Now we can speak English too.)

Sitting in an elevator, I kept looking out the window at each station. I tried to read the names of the streets, reading it according to the universal alphabet. I had gone to the public school in Nikolaev, where we learned to read and write Russian. At choir practice too, we had to read even the Hebrew prayers on the sheet music with the Latin alphabet.  It is universally accepted that the words under the music should be underscored in the universal alphabet.

When the elevator stopped at the station, 14th Street, Papa made a dash for the door. Mama, now second in command, brought up the rear. Papa showed off his strong muscles, holding both sides of the door that kept threatening to close and capture his brood half-inside, half out. This round my father won ...

We started walking again, following Papa. We came to Twelfth Street, between Avenue C and D. We entered a dark narrow hallway and started to climb the stairs. The youngsters were running up the stairs and counting -- one, two, three, slowing down on the fourth floor, and huffing and puffing it managed a congratulatory mazl tov on the fifth floor. Mama was still climbing the stairs, assisted by Papa. 

Imagine what I thought happened. "Such a short time in America and living on the fifth floor already. Wonder of wonders! What one father could accomplish in one short year."

We entered our sparsely furnished apartment. Papa's landslayt helped him find the metziah (bargain). A single ray of sunlight brightened the dark room. A ray that looked as though it had been lost in the narrow alley and ricocheted from the opposite wall of the tenement house into our window.

Papa lost no time extolling the virtues of his goldenem land. "See, in the winter you won't have to go out looking for the outhouse. See, pointing to a door with a white chipped-off knob. I read the large letters on the door: "T-oi-let." See, you have no need to go anywhere else. If you want to go pishn, you just go inside, of course, and you hold the door so that no one can come in. "When you are done, you pull this chain," Papa demonstrated, pulling a long string chain, substituting for the missing chain. Brown water came spouting out noisily, threatening to overflow. It stopped just in time. "And don't forget," he added. "Every floor has one of these things, these toilets. Only four families to one "water closet."

This water closet intrigued us the most. Each one of us wanted to be the first to try it. Compromising, we let our little sisters go first. Holding hands they entered giggling, holding the door. "Don't come in." They laughed shyly, toying with the chain, watching in wonderment how the water comes gushing noisily ...

Like children we tired of it soon! We reentered our house. My father was still boasting about the modern wonders of America. "In the morning, you won't have to shlep water in a bucket ... see ... watch me ... you just turn the krant (faucet), and here you have vaser (water). And if that isn't enough, try the other one! Go ahead and try it," he commanded. Even my youngest sister could reach it, standing on her toes. She turned the faucet. "Oy, Mama, heise vaser." (Look, Mama, hot water.)

"Now, what do you say to my America?" Papa asked. Dusk was approaching; the room fell into complete darkness.

"Avruhom," Mama asked. "Did you think of a kerosene lamp? Or candles?"

"What do you think your husband is? See this box?" He pointed to the ceiling. "That box here on the ceiling -- ceiling, oy, greenhorn!" Ceiling means "stelye."

"See, Mama, how fast we're learning to speak English," I said proudly: "elevator," "street," "toilet," "ceiling," "water," "greenhorn" ...

Out of his pocket he pulled out a coin. "This is a quarter," he said. "Repeat after me: "quarter." We repeated as if we were in cheder. "Quarter." "Now I take this quarter and put it into this kestl. This is a meter. And now get me a sirnikele (match; In Yiddish, shvebele). My brother, Velvl, produced the match.

"Look," said Papa. All I have to say is: "Yehi oyer" (Let there be light); "Vayhi oyr" and sure enough, as my father uttered those mysterious words, "Loshen kodesh" (Hebrew words), there was light …

Oh, much lighter than in Nikolaev, where we had a kerosene lamp. My father jumped off the table, showing off to his Hene Rivkah that he was as young -- well -- almost as young as ever ...

We formed a karahod (circle) around Papa and Mama, and we started singing and dancing as though it were Simchas Torah (the holiday that proclaims the joys of the Torah) … And it was indeed a joyous occasion, celebrating our reunion in Columbus' medina. Lebn zol Columbus! ...
 

AUGUST 10, 1969, ch. 15
 

My father and my three brothers were considered the "Americanized gelye" (sp) (yellow), and we, the new arrivals were still the greenia. They worked in one shop, making -- you guessed it -- iron beds. Each brought home six dollars at the end of the week. The hours were long, from sunrise to sundown. Their shop was on Christie Street, between Rivington and Stanton. Home they walked, and it was evening before they reached their fifth-floor apartment.

My father stayed home the next day after our arrival, to show my mother how to shop and where to shop. My father decided to treat the family with something they had never eaten before. He sent Meyer to the corner delicatessen to buy corned beef sandwiches and pastrami, sour pickles and other such tasty tidbits. Meanwhile, Hene Rivkah put the khainik (tea kettle) on the stove. "See, this is called a 'stove." He showed Mama the black iron stove. "Here you put in the coals. When the khainkik fayfs (tea kettle whistles), the water is ready." Papa explained everything to Mama in detail.

"When are we going to shtel dem samovar (put the samovar) that we saved from the Kozaken? (Cossacks)" Mama asked.

"Forget the Kozaken, you're in America. Here everybody is your brother. Here, when you come to shul, the gabbai addresses you as -- 'Brother Secunda.'"

Meyer returned with sandwiches. We had never seen ready-made food -- and in such abundance. We ate our fill. The geyle -- as Papa referred to himself, and my three American brothers, wanted us to tell them about the trip and what happened at "Kessel Garden" ...

Velvl, looking at me as though he had just discovered me, asked:

"Is that really you, Solomonchik? How's your 'gorgele'? We thought you lost it, kholile, with your typhus ..."

Mama heard "typhus," and she spit three times. Tpu, tpu, tpu. "Oy, don't even bring it to your lips. What I had with this typhus nebekh ... and she then proceeded to tell the story from A to Z, with the "ladder" ...

"For three weeks I walked up and down the ladder."

"Henie Rivke," Papa begged. Enough already. Forget all that. Solomonchik is well, thank God, hand we're together again. And this is America. "Morgen darf men arbetn" (Tomorrow we go to work.) Kum shlofn, Hene Rivkah. Let's go to sleep ...

Our three rooms on the first floor did not differ much from those in Nikolaev: a kitchen, one middle-room, such as a dining room and parlor, and the third, a small bedroom for my parents. At night Mama, as if by magic with a wand, changed the dining room parlor into a bedroom for eight. Just as in Nikolaev, all the bedding was spread out so that the six sons slept at one end of the room, and my two little sisters at the other end. We had been used to that arrangement, but somehow the fun had gone out of this "togetherness." The geyle working made them so grown up, so serious; no pillow fights and no whispering stories ...

Papa came in and reminded us, "In case you have need in the middle of the night, don't forget -- right out in the hall -- nice and clean, this is America ... all the conveniences. Remember, pull the chain, wash your hands, and don't forget to leiyen krishma (bedtime prayers). By then my working brothers were already fast asleep. I stared, El melekh ne'eman (God is a Faithful King). I dreamed that I was back -- was it in Nikolaev, Ekaterinoslav or -- Kessel Garden?

Early in the morning Papa came into the room to wake his eight children. He enjoyed calling them geyle -- "Get up, Geyle, we'll be late for work."

Mama had already prepared separate little peklekh (lunch bags) for each of the working skadron (squadron). They hurried off to work. Papa took Mama to the markets to shop. When they came back, the small fry was still having fun with the cold and hot water that "comes out of the wall ..."

My father and mother were emptying packages and laying them on the table, a large round table. It was then that we first had a real sude (feast), not at all like in Nikolaev -- just a slice of bread and tea, but eggs and another slice of bread for good measure.

Mama did manage to make the samovar. Papa bought special coal. With the samovar on the table, Mama truly felt at home ... in America.

The first few days were ... "Well, this is the way the Rothschilds live .... Were there any other rich millionaires? The pritzim (gentlemen of great wealth and prestige) couldn't have it better. Our home, on the fifth floor -- a palatz (palace), with Mama humming again as she did her chores. Papa gain was head of his one-man's entire family. They should all live and be well.

Friday night, around the Sabbath table, flickering candles just like in Europe, cut in half .... The heart was still in Russia, and the head in Nikolaev. A home divided is not a home. Mama's special Sabbath menu was praised by Papa and the boys, and the little girls looked so Shabesdik, like little "Hene-Rivkelakh" (replicas of Mama). Between courses, Papa and Willie, and Meyer and Yosl told about their experiences in America. Mama began again her favorite story about life in Russia, and how sick our Shololmul was ... "What can I tell you? If I didn't die in Ekaterinoslav, standing on that ladder, looking at my dead child, nebekh … "Oy, Father in Heaven, shrek mikh, nor shtrof mikh nisht" (frighten me, but don't punish me)!"

"Nu, shoin (enough already), lomir bentsh Goimel." Let's thank Him, who lives forever, for having wrested us from Fonye, and we are starting a new life in Columbus' Medina.

It was decided at the table that tomorrow, Sabbath morning, Papa and Willie and I should find some synagogue that might let me "daven a Sabbath," before my manager, Mr. Wolf, had ever heard of me. The truth is that neither my father nor Willie had heard me sing since they left for America, and maybe the typhus did rob me of my voice. Even though Mama had written that Shololmul is an "itinerant Chazan" -- after all, what may be good for a shtetele like Dobrinka -- may not be good for New York.

Early Sabbath morning Papa made sure I had a good breakfast. Willie went in quest of a synagogue. Not that there weren't an abundance of houses of worship, but which one was the question. On Sixth Street they had two, like "Siamese twins," they were joined together at one wall. They read the plaque on one: "Belchatover Shul." A weighty name and mighty impressive, a "Baal Tefillah" (a reader of prayer) was nearing the "Shmonah Esra" (Eighteenth Benediction). Willie and I found two seats in the back. My father went in search of the shamash (sexton), found him and whispered in his ear, indicating with his head in my direction. The sexton eyed me curiously. "Never heard of such a thing," he shrugged his shoulders ... A pitzl yingel (a mere boy), a cantor? If you insist, I'll tell the president and let him handle it." (Years later, that sexton's daughter, Frieda, married my brother Meyer.)

The sexton returned. "My name is Mr. Phillips," he said importantly. "I advised the President, and the President will ask the Baal Tefillah to please step down. Here is a tallis and a yarmulke." The tallis was too large, and the yarmulke too small ...

The President wrapped his gavel, to call everyone's attention. "Mayne brider," he said. "This young man will pick up where your Baal Tefillah left off."

I finished all of Shacharis as ascribed. When we entered the shul, there were no more than two minyanim (quorums). Twenty people were present till "Musaf" (additional prayer for the Sabbath and Holiday). It was packed. The worshippers from the other shul had heard that, next door at the Belchatover, a little boy appeared out of nowhere and is "doing like a chazan." All the Polish Jews left the Polish shul and came to the Belchatover to listen to the Russian Jews.

At the ceremony of the reading of the Torah -- the elite of the congregation was called on to the bimah -- among them Ruven Sadovski, the owner of a large cloak and suit factory. He had come to America as a young man and opened a little shop. He prospered in time. He sent for not only his family and kinsmen, but numerous townspeople from Belchatov. All worked for him, and as a gesture of benevolence and appreciation he built this House of Worship, for their convenience and comfort. When those "worthy" brothers were honored with a portion of the "reading," they in turn promised a donation to the Shul for the Baal Tefillah, the sexton, and for the "little Chazan" ...  Especially generous were the two Sadowski brothers. Their gift to me, "der greenier," equaled the week's wages of my father and the three Americanized "Geyle" brothers combined.

The services were over ... The same procedure of back-slapping, hand shaking and -- the international "pinch" (not as in Italy). Nathan, the elder Sadovski, invited the three of us for Kiddush (coalition) to his home on Fifth Street, between Avenues B and C. This was his private home. Expensively appointed, the table had been prepared fit for a king; drinks were plentiful. Here too, I excelled (never too much, I hasten to add.) I kept my poise. My "l'Chayims" went well ... Between "drinks" Nathan Sadovski had a little talk with my father about the possibilities of the future Sabbath engagements, and while talking he added: "Why not even on the Passover Holidays and Shavuos (Pentecost, Feast of Weeks) -- also celebrating the Acceptance of the Torah on Mt. Sinai. And "one more l'Chayim. Why not for the year-round???"

"You see, Mr. Sadovski," Papa let him down delicately. "We have certain obligations to a manager, Mr. Wolf, who helped me bring my family to America. But we will see. Believe me, Mr. Sadovski, Az mir veln lebn veln mir zen!" (If we live, we will see ... Only time will tell ...")
 

AUGUST 17, 1969, ch. 16

Sunday morning it started -- an endless stream of family and landslayt, climbing the five flights of stairs to look us over, sitting on folding chairs, folding beds, trunks, valises of every size and description. To keep out of the way of countless visitors, I sat on the floor in a corner. It reminded me of Alexandria, except there I was praying. Here I am absorbed in their adult conversation and kibbitzing. Listening had always been a great pastime of mine until I discovered speaking, talking -- then I became first a "lecturer," then a "eulogist" ... (The latter, not of my choosing, of course).

One gold-toothed landsman was holding forth. "We've got to give our landsman Avruhom credit. One year in America, a griner, and already he brought over from the old country eight children and a wife."

"Well," interrupted another, "he missed his wife. He was lonesome."

"So if you're lonesome ... It took me ten years to bring my wife ... So did I fast? You haven't got one of your own, you help yourself ... what are friends for?" This said, sotto voce (softly), so that the small fry shouldn't understand.

"Hene Rivkah," a corpulent lady said piously, "I see on your face that you still didn't get over your seasickness."

"Don't worry," was my father's retort in defense of Mama, "I'll take her in hand. She'll be all right in America. What say you, my Eisheschail (my woman of virtue)?"

Mama's modesty -- she could not find an answer. Papa introduced the children, one by one, and this one -- he showed the one sitting in the corner -- this one is my Solomonchik -- if not for him, who could have paid for all this?"

"So this is our Solomonchik, eh? Avruhom, you're not going to call him Solomonchik in America, are you? In school, the children will make fun of him. Why not call him Sam? Uncle Sam ..."

"I like Shololmul," Mama said, trying to get a word in edgewise. "Me too," I ventured. "Well, we've plenty of time to think about it," Papa said. "Es brent nisht!" (We've got plenty of time.) All children under fourteen have to go to school. It doesn't cost you a dime. Why not take advantage of it? Why not profit by it? Not to know a language is like being blind. You shouldn't know from it. See my son, Meyerl, one year in America -- he came with me -- already he speaks English like a native."

"You're exaggerating, Papa," Meyerl said modestly. "No, I'm not, son. You know the saying: "I'm not a cantor, but I know one when I hear one, and I tell you -- you already speak better than the oisigegrite di citizner (the citizens)."

It was getting late and the guests were showing no signs of leaving. Papa reluctantly hinted: "You know, tonight I'm taking Shololmul to Mr. Wall (Wohl), you know, the composer? I promised him that the first thing ..."

So between handshakes and blessings for all that is good, they took leave. That very evening we arrived at Mr. Wall's home, and he received us warmly. Congratulating my father upon his arrival: "And you," he turned to me with a condescending smile, "you don't look twelve -- more like seven -- but no matter. The smaller the child, the greater the appreciation from the listeners. Would you like to sing something for me, or must have you an accompanist?"

"My Solomonchik needs no one." (Papa was the spokesman). "You just give him a sheet of music." Mr. Wall handed me a sheet of script music, and I started "It was dos talizel." Mr. Wall was very pleased with my performance.

"Would you like my son to sing something cantorial, recitative?"

"Of course, I would, of course." I complied.

"Mr. Secunda," Wall said. "Nothing would please me more than having your little son in my choir. But I would be doing him an injustice. He can earn much more as a "soloist," or daven in Shul Shabosen (the Sabbath Services).

Wishing us great success in America, we left.

"Wait until Mr. Wolf, the manager, hears you, my child. He is the one that really counts, because he does the bookings, and he does the paying ..."

Monday morning, my brother Meyer, "who spoke English like a native," Papa said, took us children to the nearest school on Twelfth Street. "What are their ages and their names?" he was asked. My brother named us respectively: Shololmul, Yankele, Teybele, and Sharetchka. The registrar noted the information on a slip of paper, suggested new Americanized names, and assigned each one of us to his grade.

I was assigned to a class of older boys, all of whom were immigrants and did not speak any English. My brother Yankele and Teybele were sent to the first grade; Saretchka to kindergarten. The only difficulty I experience at first was speaking the language. Reading came much easier because I had knowledge of one foreign language (Russian) other than the mamaloshn and Hebrew. In the period of four weeks I was able to understand my teacher and was capable of carrying on a conversation, haltingly of course, substituting Russian words now and then. Still, after four weeks, I was transferred from that class of foreign children to the fourth grade. Those children were all younger than me, but needless to say, they all spoke English. Still they had to stay the entire semester, while I was "skipped," and every four weeks one grade higher.

In the meantime, Mr. Wolf had lined up a number of appearances each Friday and Saturday at another synagogue -- New York, Brooklyn, the Bronx. My brother "Willie" himself, now a fine choir leader, stopped his line of work and conducted my own choir. After some initial appearances at smaller synagogues for modest remuneration, Mr. Wolf upped my fees -- one hundred dollars for a Friday and Saturday morning services, for Maariv (evening service), and for a concert on Sunday he rewarded me with one extra fifty-dollar bill. "A little boy earns such money -- a fortune."

"If this keeps up," Papa said, handling the envelope to my mother, "Rothschild couldn't compare to me.  tpoo --tpoo --tpoo --tpoo." Mama made the motion, spitting three times to ward off the evil eye.

Mama's "tpoo-tpoo-tpoo" evidently did not prevent the evil eye from striking. My brother, Yankele, now Jack, was sent home from school with a note from the teacher. "Jack is not feeling well." Mama raising eight children did not need the teacher to tell her. After one look at the child, she cried: "Avruhom, run for the doctor!" Yankele was stricken with scarlet fever -- highly contagious, he had to be hospitalized. Two days later, both my little sisters were bedded with scarlet fever. I, Shololmul, diphtheria. This time Mother refused to hospitalize the children. They posted "danger" on the door, "Quarantined." The doctor, realizing our poverty, and perhaps climbing five flights of stairs every day, helped him decide. He suggested, "Mrs. Secunda, no nurse can compare to a mother's love and care. Just follow my instructions implicitly, and the children, with God's help, will be as good as new."

Our home was transformed into a hospital. My older brothers slept in the kitchen. I, with diphtheria, had the middle room for myself. My little sisters were with my parents -- four in one bed. After three weeks, I showed some improvement, but I was not yet ready to leave my home. I showed some improvement, but I was not yet ready to leave my home. Thelma and Shirley, my two sisters, were bedded for six weeks. But after that the doctor did come. He gave us a wholesale examination and was satisfied with the result. He said, "Tomorrow a member of the Board of Health will come and most likely remove the "Quarantine" sign from the door. The youngsters will "most likely" (He liked that expression.) be allowed to go out and even attend school."

The one who suffered the most from my confinement was poor Mr. Wolf. He had invested so much money, and Papa couldn't meet his weekly installments. Besides I couldn't fill my dates, and publicity costs money. When finally my father informed him that Shololmul is ready, able and willing, he was overjoyed. Mama was greatly relieved. What with caring for four children, Yankele was back from the hospital and feeding four healthy adults with no money coming in, "I don't even wish it my worst enemies," Mama said.

The High Holy Days were "around the corner," and meanwhile Shololmul had, as yet, not been engaged. "Avruhom," Mama said. "What will be?"

"What is there to say, Hene Rivkah, the congregations that were so happy to have our Shololmul as guest chazan for the Sabbath, they have no confidence in a little boy to be their sholiakh tzibur for the holidays their (messenger to God).

Papa was very enterprising. He selected a Yiddish theatre with the largest seating capacity, and that was the Thalia Theatre on the Bowery. He unfolded his plan to Mr. Max R. Wilner, a young and upcoming theatre manager. Mr. Wilner's knowledge of the High Holiday was negligible -- "What does that mean, sholiakh tzibur? Papa explained it as delicately as he could. Mr. Wilner liked the idea. A little kazen (cantor) -- he couldn't pronounce the "cha," and he said "kazen." Chewing on his cigar, he turned to Papa and said, "Wait till you meet Mr. David Kessler. He has the last word. He is the star and the director."

The three of us met -- my father, Mr. Kessler and I. Just seeing this great performer left me speechless, having heard so much about him. Kessler possessed a very beautiful voice. "Performers, as a rule, don't take kindly to "vunder-kinder" ... Kessler was no exception. "This is it?" he asked skeptically, measuring me from head to toe. He walked me to the stage. "Well, why not? Let's hear something. Don't be afraid," he said. "You may talk to me; I'm not God."

I sang my "Hineni" (Here I Stand Before Thee). When I finished, Kessler and my father joined me on the stage.

"Very good, young man," Mr. Kessler said. "Let me give you a few pointers. It may come in handy to be able to use your face, your hands, your eyes, properly. It is just as important as the voice. Now watch me!"

He took the first phrase of Hineni and repeating it expertly -- every trill, he demonstrated how it should be done. This is called shpielkunst (the art of playing). "Now you try it." I tried.

"Nu," he said. "A Kessler is er nokh nit" (A Kessler he is not).

"Not yet," my father said, "but he is not even thirteen."

Mr. Kessler gave his consent. "The child will be a sensation ... Thalia Theatre will be turned upside down. He'll stand them on their ears."

The business transaction was concluded. A few days passed. The front of the theatre was plastered with tremendous posters of the "most famous child cantor in the world to sing here for the High Holy Days." Similar posters and show cards flooded the store windows and shops. People flocked to buy tickets to look and to listen to the new "boy wonder" ... Shololmul Secunda."

No sooner did the Orthodoxy hear about me than I heard from them. "A little boy? A messenger to God? On Yom Kippur yet? On this Day of Judgment? It's sacrilege."

My father came up with an idea -- compromise. Not with God. "Kholile, we'll hire a Baal Tefillah" (a reader of prayers). He'll stand at the altar. He'll appease the protestors. But when they will have bought their tickets and the worshippers will be sitting inside, they will not protest. They'll forget all about protesting ...

Artistically "I was not to beat," so everyone said. Businesswise, Papa was not a match for the American Mr. Max R. Wilner. When I was through the Holidays, I had earned no more than I would have at a simple Sabbath, or a Maariv (Meirof) or a concert, but I had the honor of saying: "I know Mr. Kessler personally. He extended an invitation to me. 'Young man, you may come to my theatre anytime you want, admire me as often as you want ... learn something ---learn! There's more to acting than just singing, you know. One must be born with such talent -- just as you are, Shololmul, with talent for a chazan.'"

"Shabbes M'Vorchim was my bar mitzvah. It was celebrated in the second largest Romanian shul on Rivington, near Allen Street. There was a large choir to assist me. We had already moved from the fifth-floor walkup on Twelfth Street between Avenues C and D to Columbia Street near Houston. Fortune smiled on us. We had four large rooms with private bath and lavatory. After my Yehi Rotzoin (the blessing for the new month), and my speech that actually started with those words, "Today I am a man." Why today? I discovered later. But it must have been a fine way of ending that once-in-a-lifetime ceremony. The choir boys, joined by another group of youngsters, carried me all the way from the Romanian shul to my house on Columbia Street. Mama had prepared a table with sweets. We all drank L'Chayim, and we celebrated late, until early morning. My bar mitzvah had been publicized greatly to let the people know that wherever and whenever I shall officiate from now on, I will be eligible, because "today I am a man." At thirteen, I assume all responsibilities …

Another addition was prominently displayed at my home on Columbia Street. We had bought a piano on the installment plan. I was very anxious to learn how to play that instrument. After my thirteenth birthday, I began realizing that before long, I will have to give up Chazanish -- a year or two at the most. Once your voice starts changing, one is never quite sure as to what it will change. It is fine to be a noten presser (fluent sight reader), but there is so much more to music, to be able to be a musikant, as against a klezmer (an unskilled musician), and having a piano at home, it made sense to hire a piano professor. Every klezmer who played at a wedding had a sign in his window proclaiming himself, "Professor of the Piano and/or of the Fiddle" ...

Soon, even our apartment on Columbia Street, was not good enough, nor large enough to suit our status. My older brother discovered an apartment at 24 Attorney Street. Not only did it have electricity (as to gas), but it boasts of steam heat. And it's on the fourth floor. It will be so much easier on Mama's aching feet. That was some accomplishment. Now we could compare ourselves to "the Four Hundred" -- the rich and the elite. We were paying thirty-one dollars a month rent. My father and Willie had no time for work anymore. Papa was managing Mr. Wolf, while Mr. Wolf was managing Shololmul. My brother Willie was busy with the choir, preparing my new composition.

Thirteen-year-old Shololmul Secunda became the breadwinner for a family of ten ... "May his tribe increase."
 

AUGUST 24, 1969, ch. 17
 

Before I had reached my fourteenth birthday, I suspected that all was not well with my voice. I used the same tuning fork, but I pitched my voice at least one tone lower than was my custom. Each week my voice sank, and with it my hopes. My brother Willie was the first to speak about it. "Yes, Solomonchik, our 'pubescence' has caught up with you." (not in those words exactly) ... My unsophisticated parents whispered about it, not saying anything to anyone. They looked at me, listened and shook their heads and sighed. Physically too I was showing all signs of my rapid development -- all except in height.

Meanwhile, I was attending Public School 22 on Stanton Street. Two months before my fourteenth birthday. I graduated public school and registered immediately at De Witt Clinton High School. I held onto my "Sabbath Services" for dear life, up till the High Holidays. My last Service was after Sukkos (Feast of Tabernacles). That appearance wrote finis to my singing career. Now I am fourteen-and-a-half! The "half," that was my undoing. My income cut off -- the "geyle" and the "grine" had to look for some form of income other than managing the "boy wonder." Mama did her share. She hung a sign in the window, "Room to Let." In no time it was occupied by two sisters, new arrivals. That did not suffice. "So," Mama said. "We have no more rooms to rent out, we'll rent out space." Two male boarders showed up. They shared our sleeping quarters, also ate at our table -- that helped somewhat. "I am bound to hit on something," Papa hoped.

My father rented a cellar on Grand Street. He hung out a shingle -- in English -- "Baby Carriages Fixed." In Yiddish, "Ikh fix baby carriages." (That was the type of jargon that was spoken and understood by most East Side dwellers.)

Papa was the "fixer," and my brothers gave him a hand. Too much "fixin'" he didn't do, but every bit helped. Then Papa had a brilliant thought. "Why not manufacture iron beds, folding beds? They should not take up too much room and be tucked away in a corner; one would be none the wiser that you have them. As soon as one or two beds were completed, they'd put it on the pushcart and Papa pushed the pushcart to each and every furniture store to display his wares. That turned out to be a great idea. He could sell more than he could turn out. He hired another "hand," and a horse and wagon and drove over the length and breadth of town to look for more furniture stores. My father was a hard-working man, but to say that he was a "man of vision," to expand, that he wasn't. So he worked a little harder, longer hours ... He is paying rent for the cellar anyhow, so why not use it to the utmost? He was contented. As long as there was enough on the table, the rent was being paid by the boarders, the younger children still at school and the older boys -- they needed a few pennies for themselves too. The two female boarders added a little luxury, like tzimmes for the Sabbath.

I was not happy. I was attending school, was a good student, but I missed my music. Singing was out of the question.

The piano at home reminding me that "there must be more that I can do ..." Hands in my pockets, I walked about aimlessly. I found myself on Third Street. A shingle arrested my view: "Third Street Musical Settlement." I went in to make inquiries! Twenty-five cents a piano lesson, and in addition, if I should so desire, solfeggio and theory with a competent teacher. I registered. I gave it no thought as to how I would pay for it.

I came home with the good news. "I have embarked on a musical career." There were mixed emotions at my home. My parents, of course, were happy. Willie tried to hide his own disappointment, that dayges parnose (the constant worry of a livelihood) deprived him of his life's ambitions. He had the voice, the head, the desire, but not the opportunity. Yet, he encouraged me. "Go, Sam (I was 'Sam" at school), let at least one in the family see his ambition come true. For me it's too late ..."

I took my musical studies. I practiced. I begrudged myself every idle second. I did not know what it meant to stay in the streets and play with children, not in Nikolaev, nor here in America. I kept to myself and loved my privacy, never lost that, nor acquired it in later life. I spent my leisure time at home, reading, doing homework, practicing the piano. All that filled my days, and I was perfectly content. After a few months I became impatient with my lack of progress. I felt that perhaps by sharing and imparting that which I learn to others younger than myself, I could profit by it, not only moneywise, but put my acquired knowledge to practice, just as my piano teacher has been doing. Besides, I didn't have the heart to deprive Mama twenty-five cents a week for my lesson, plus ten cents for daily carfare from my house to De Witt Clinton High School.

The search for pupils began. There may not have been a car in every garage, nor a chicken in every pot, unless for Sabbath, but there was a piano in practically every Jewish home. Piano and children were in style, no one had as yet worried about the "population explosion." I had acquired eight pupils in seven days and made two dollars a week. That made me happy. Instead of depriving Mama of a dollar, she was trying so hard to stretch her money. I managed to contribute to my board. In time I had been recommended by my pupils to other children from "nice Jewish homes" and was proud to add even a greater share to Mama's needs.

At the end of the first high school semester, I still felt that I had not made too much headway. I felt capable of accomplishing more. I read an advertisement in the newspaper that the "Eron Preparatory School" on East Broadway prepares one for college without a high school diploma. I went to the office and had an interview with Mr. Eron himself. He explained his method. "All one has to do is to pass the Regency Exams in all subject that they prepare. It's quite simple. If you pass, you're accepted."

I liked the idea. I became a "high school dropout" (an expression that had not been coined as of yet). All I needed was to earn more money to enable me to pay for music lessons and tuition at the Eron School. I asked the parents of my piano students to recommend me to some of their "music-loving friends," i.e. if they are satisfied with me. In time I had acquired enough pupils to pay for music lessons at Eron School and contributed at home.

I had not let go to chazonish. I knocked on the door of every cantor and tried to convince them: "They can't possibly get along without me. How did they ever manage till I came?" I knew I didn't look "the part" for a steady job. I was still too young-looking, but I tried the positive approach. "For the High Holidays, I am their man."  "We'll have you in mind," was their answer. "All good things come to those who wait ... "I waited. I had no choice. 

They had asked around about me. "Oh -- that's -- that, that used to be ... Vunder kind … oh, he knows his chazonish. The fact that he's too young, "Chasoren di kale is tzu shein" (The only thing wrong is that the bride is too beautiful.) Finally their promises to have me in mind did materialize. I was paid nicely. My earnings were considerably augmented, and my economic position had improved.

I read about concerts and operas, about Paderewsky and Caruso. I was so anxious to hear them see them. What is an opera like? A concert? Especially Caruso, "Him I must hear!" His name, his voice was on everyone's lips, especially among singers. Cantors --  so many have secret ambitions, hopes. I decided to save even more. Caruso is worth every penny I have. I noticed in the paper that Caruso would appear in "Pagliacci" in a matinee performance. Tickets are going on sale at the Metropolitan. I counted my change, a dollar-and-a-half. I walked from my home to the Metropolitan Opera. I walked over to the box office and asked, "One ticket please, for $1.50."

"Sorry, young man, there are no tickets for $1.50, but if you are here the day of the performance and be among the first in line, you may be the lucky one to get a standing-room ticket."

Dejected I started for home. I walked down Broadway. Halfway I passed Macy's Department Store. I had heard about Macy's, but never having had the need to buy anything -- what with several older brothers -- I never ran out of anything. Out of curiosity I entered Macy's. I looked at everything. Such a wealth of things in one place I had not seen before, even in Ekaterinoslav. I walked up one flight of stairs. I saw little tables; there was writing paper on them. I sat down, first of all, to rest. Then I picked up a sheet of paper, looked to see if anyone will stop me. No one did. I stared at it. "Write a letter to Caruso." No, not to Caruso. He won't even read it. Such big opera stars probably have butlers and managers, and till it gets to them ... if ever? I'll write to Gatti-Casazza, the manager of the Metropolitan Opera.

        Honorable Gatti Casazza,

        Director

        Metropolitan Opera

        Dear Sir:

        I am a young immigrant boy of fifteen. I have never heard opera. I was once a singer myself. I think I would die if I thought I could never hear Mr. Caruso sing Pagliacci -- I have one dollar-and-a-half. I enclose all I possess -- Maybe you can please send me one ticket so that I may at least be assured of a "standing-room" seat.

        Thank you. I am,

        Respectfully yours,

        SHOLOM SECUNDA
                                                                             

        P.S. I am also a student of music, and I hope one day to become a composer.

I read it again and again. "If I would get a letter like that from a poor immigrant boy, and a music student," I thought to myself, "I would even cry." As a matter-of-fact I suddenly felt pity for all the fifteen-year-old poor immigrant boys who have to walk all the way from Attorney and Grand Street to the Opera and walk all the way back in vain, never having even heard one note, or even seen the great Caruso. With my last two cents, I bought a stamp and mailed the letter fast, in case I would lose my nerve and tear it up. I mailed the letter. I walked home one hundred and fifty-two cents poorer. But it was worth it. I got it off my chest. Every morning on my way to school I would run to the letter box. "Lemeshke" suddenly came to my mind. Why would Casazza, the Director of the Metropolitan Opera in America, write to a fifteen-year-old Jewish immigrant from Nikolaev? Papers were sticking out of all the old letter boxes (pilfering was not in vogue) ... I was the one to pick up whatever mail there was to be picked up every morning -- the younger children too young to bother, the older ones too busy running off to work before the whistle of the letter-carrier announced his arrival. Then, "No, it can't be!" My heart started to pound, my hands shook. I tore open the official-looking letter with the address of the Metropolitan printed in block raised letters.

         My Dear Young Friend:

         Come the day of the performance -- present this letter at the door ... you shall be admitted.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I ran up the five flights of stairs and dashed in breathlessly. I said: "Mama, Mama. Treff vus? (Guess what?) He answered me! He answered!

"Ver mayn kind? Ver Hot Ge Answered?"

"Gatti-Casazza!!!" Of course I had to tell Mama who Casazza was, and I added "nobody who is a nobody" can see him -- and me, Sholom Secunda, received an invite!!!

"Avade, mayn kind (of course), I could have told you right away he would invite you. He is a nice man. And maybe? Maybe he heard of you? After all, she said smilingly, it's not so long ago that your name and pitchele was all over. And you looked so beautiful in that tallis and yarmulke with the makhzar (prayer book). I still remember the tickets were oysgekhapt (sold out) like matze vasser (the equivalent to our 'hot cakes.')" Mama remembered every detail -- and the price was so that everyone, or nearly everyone, could afford to hear you "mayn kind" -- for mansbiln (menfolk) fifteen cents, froyn (women) in the balcony ten cents. Kinder frei (children free).

The next morning before breakfast I started walking to the Metropolitan. On the way I broke off pieces of bread Mama stuck in my pockets. The bread tasted good -- everything was good -- everybody was good -- the whole world was good. If I weren't ashamed, I'd stop everyone on the way and show them -- show my invitation to hear Caruso.

I arrived early. The doors were still closed. But there was already a line around the Opera House. Many young people, many elderly standing or leaning against the wall; some had little canvas folding chairs. Letter in hand, I wanted to go directly to the door. An elderly lady pulled my sleeve, inquiring -- "Where are you going, my dear boy? Can't you see there is a line? Get in line!"

"Excuse me, lady, I have a letter from Mr. Gatti-Casazza."

"Get back," as if rehearsed, they all pointed their thumbs backwards. Embarrassed I stepped back, back, back, back ... I thought the line would never end, and by the time I'd get to the end of the line, it will be the end of Pagliacci ...

The doors opened. A bell was ringing. The performance was about to start. If I don't get in now, they won't let me in till after the first scene. And Pagliacci sings in the prologue I read in the synopsis: "Step up, step up," prompted the doorman to the stragglers. I walked over with my letter. "Ticket please," the doorman asked. "Ticket?"

"I don't have a ticket. I have a letter."

"Letter? You need a ticket. Step aside, please, let the ladies in."

I saw a man in a red uniform with gold epaulets. He looked like a general. I knew he must be part of the opera. I said, "Excuse me, could you please tell me where I could find Mr. Casazza?"

"Who was I?" I showed him the letter. He believed me. He told me to wait a second I waited. It seemed much longer than a second ... a year.

A man with a high shiny stove pipe came to the door. He took my letter, glanced at it, called me inside and told me to wait. Again I waited. "Am I really standing in an Opera House? What will happen if Mr. Casazza forgot all about me?"

The man with the stove pipe came back. "Follow me," he said. I did. We walked up one flight of red carpet-covered stairs. He took out the key from his pocket and opened a door. It was a private lodge. "Sit on that chair." He indicated the red-velvet covered chair nearest the stage. I sat down. I was waiting for someone to come in, either to chase me out, or come in and sit down. A whole squadron of musicians was tuning their instruments. I was shivering with excitement. I kept searching with my eyes. Maybe the lady that told me to go back ... Maybe she couldn't come in ... There is so much room in the loge, such a waste. I saw ladies all dressed like princesses, but not that one. The crystal chandeliers were dimming. It was dark. The conductor made his entrance from under the stage. I don't know how everybody saw him -- it's so dark. They must have. They all applauded him. He hasn't done anything as yet. Why? He bowed. There was silence. The conductor raised his baton. The music began ...

Suddenly there is the payatz (clown) ... "This must be Caruso," I thought. If I didn't fear God, I'd make a shehecheyonu (He who has kept us alive.) The clown sings. I hear a baritone voice. I didn't know anything about opera, but voices I knew. Baritone is not a tenor, and not every tenor is a Caruso. This must be another clown. He sang very well. The applause subsided; he disappeared. The gold curtain was drawn, and a chorus started to sing. Then a wagon appeared on stage, drawn by a donkey. On the wagon there stood another "clown." Then he began. I still didn't know who it was, but I had a peculiar feeling envelop me. I couldn't define it. The more he sang, the more I lost myself in that sound. I wasn't sitting. Was I afloat? Was I? Where? I had not heard nor noticed that my loge had become occupied. Every chair was taken. One man with a gray beard leaned over and tapped me on the shoulder.

"This is Caruso," he said. I hadn't known who the bearded man with the heavy accent was, but "He must be Casazza," I thought.  I sat listening. I wanted to cry, but I was ashamed. I was, as if in a trance. The storm of "bravos" stirred me. It thundered all around me. "How can they scream? How can they make such a tumult? How can the laugh, when all I want to do is cry, cry, with overwhelming joy?"

That afternoon Caruso did not sing again. They played separate scenes and acts. I don't remember what else, who else. I only knew I heard Caruso, and I cried!
 

AUGUST 31, 1969, ch. 18
 

The "Eron Prep School" -- a challenge for this fifteen-year-old. I saw the challenge and conquered same. I did not neglect my music ... studying and teaching simultaneously.

I was spending more and more time away from home, except sleeping and practicing the piano. My commuting on elevated street cars to and from school, to or from pupil to pupil was not wasted completely. I did my homework crossing and crisscrossing the city -- pupils, living on the East Side Bronx and Harlem (Harlem is where the Jewish noveau riche lived. Next came Riverside Drive and West End Avenue.)

I had met one of my immigrant friends at the prep school. Our backgrounds differed, but our future plans were similar. There was only one deterrent -- money. To embark on any career meant a long stretch, and a costly one. My instructor advised me to go to Cooper Union; the "engineering" field is just as gratifying, and your best subject in school happens to be mathematics. To be admitted to Cooper Union we had to pass special exams in higher mathematics. My landsman and I put our "heads and minds" on mathematics. If we don't pass mathematics, we'll try for medicine. I passed it; he didn't. I continued at Cooper Union and did not become an "engineer." He had not passed the Cooper Union exams, and he turned to medicine as planned and did become a doctor ...

Wanamaker's stood in the way of my career in engineering. Wanamaker's Department Store was on Fourth Avenue and Eighth Street, a stone's throw from Cooper Union. Wanamaker's was an unusually interesting institution. Commercially it served its clientele, as did Macy's or any other department store, with one difference. It had a beautiful auditorium on its mezzanine, and an organ of great tonal magnificence was constantly playing its mournfully dulcet tones. I had discovered it one morning as I was rushing up the steps of the Eighth Street BMT subway, adjacent to Wanamaker's.  I heard music. I halted abruptly on the top step, almost causing a collision with the equally rushing subway riders behind me. Instead of turning left towards Cooper Union, I followed the sound of music through Wanamaker's, thinking that I'll exit thorough the back door from Wanamaker's, directly leading to Cooper Union. I followed the sound of the organ music. I found myself on the mezzanine, listening as if mesmerized, to the Morning Recital. It was Gounod's "Ave Maria" (I excused myself to "mayn Gott" (my father in heaven) for the sacrilege of listening to "Ave Maria." I, Sholom, boy cantor, tried to analyze our "relationship," and before I systematized our "kinship," "Ave Maria" was laid to rest, and the other members of the musical group were tuning up: pianist, violinist and cellist. I stayed to listen. That day Cooper Union was forgotten. I had a guilty feeling. A waste of my hard-earned money, listening to music when I should have been in mathematics class. I hadn't gotten one step closer in the direction of my engineering career.

That visit to Wanamaker's wasn't an isolated morning. It had become a habit with me. I was "hooked." I had not thought of that expression at that time. But I was "drugged" by the essence of music, and I could not shake it. Was I seduced? I fell "victim" to "Ave Maria."

At the end of the Cooper semester, I received a note from Professor Henderson of the Chemistry Department. I surmised why Professor Henderson had sent for me, and just as I had suspected ..." I'm afraid I have bad news for you, Samuel," the Professor said. (All my school diplomas and citations has the name Samuel Secunda on them.)

"Your work in class was excellent -- brilliant conversationalist -- concise in our observations, but ..."

"But?" I interrupted, smiling sadly…

"Your absenteeism will cost you another six months. Every time a student is absent, unless due to sickness, he is deducted two points."

I was heartsick. "Why did I play into the hands of Satan? Why, why?" I heard Professor Henderson ask, "Why were you absent?"

I found myself in a most embarrassing dilemma. How do you tell a professor, whose advice you valued, who knew what difficulty I had scraping the tuition money together? How do you tell him that you've spent that precious time in Wanamaker's Department Store listening to music, to "Ave Maria"? I couldn't lie to him.

I expected a lecture. I expected something. "So you went to Wanamaker's to listen to music… Well then, tell me something, Sammy Boy. Which do you like better, mathematics or music? What would you rather be, an engineer or a musician?"

Why there was no question in my mind as to what I'd rather be or do. I knew then that I loved music more than anything else in my life, and I answered him. "I would like to dedicate my entire life to music, but how?"

"It's quite simple, Sammy Boy," he answered. "First of all, forget Cooper Union. You'll never become an engineer -- mathematics is a very exacting business, but it is a down-to-earth science. It doesn't make your soul sing or your heart cry. I would advise you to go to Columbia University. They have a very good "music department." There you'll find your milieu, your proper musical surroundings."

I listened intently and thanked him for his deep understanding of me and for his honest opinion. I said "good-bye" to the many friends I had made in that short period of time. I ran down the subway station, feeling relieved, as though I had escaped from a cubicle, which held me against my will and stifled the flood of accumulated music struggling to burst its dam.

All I had to do was to state my great desire to the "authorities" at Columbia, and the door would open wide to my future as a composer, I thought as a fear gripped me, can I do all this at will?

I was determined. From the appointed hour I poured out my "passion" about my desires. It was also explained to me by the very sympathetic adviser that Columbia University has the highest standards, and in the music department a fine staff of experts, and if I pass the necessary examinations -- this is the proper place -- that my choice would be a wise one. I passed and was accepted.

At the end of six months at Columbia my anxiety returned. I was plagued by extra courses. Why must I be burdened with subjects that have not the least connection with my chosen profession of music? The Director of the Music Department, Professor Farnsworth, had shown a great liking to me. I spoke to him freely. I confessed, "I am not completely satisfied with my progress. I have no patience for anything else but music. I find all other subjects too pedantic. I have no intentions of becoming a teacher, or part of our public-school system. I study the piano not to become a piano virtuoso and invade the concert stage. I am interested mainly in theoretical studies and composition. That is my ultimate goal."

Professor Farnsworth listed to me. "My advice to you, my impatient young friend," he said, "is the 'Institute of Musical Art' (now the Julliard School of Music). Dr. Frank Damrosch, the director, is a very astute man. Talk to him.  I'm sure you'll find favor in his eyes. There the subject matter is music, and everything pertaining to that field: theory, solfeggio, composition, the history of music. There you will find many talented students who share your dreams and ambitions."

It was a short walk from Columbia to the "Institute of Musical Arts." I was only six months older, but years wiser. I was not "plunging" any more. Walk, don't run, Shololmul, I reasoned with my impatient self.

Dr. Frank Damrosch was an astute man, very methodical. He spoke to me at great length about my ambitions, about my past as a choirboy -- child cantor -- my experiences with choir conductors, my short stay at Cooper Union, why I dropped out, and why I left Columbia. He asked me to play something on the piano. He gave me an oral examination about harmony, solfeggio, and other subject matter pertaining to music.

"It's too bad, Mr. Secunda," Dr. Damrosch said, "this semester is practically over, it's too late for this year. Fill out this application for the coming year. Good luck!" I went back to Columbia University to finish my year there. I had paid in advance for the entire year and waited impatiently to start at the "Institute of Musical Arts."

"What will I tell them at home? Where will I get the money to pay for my future studies, and how can I help lighten the burden at home?" My parents didn't know that I was attending any school, that I had changed in midstream three times and am still 'swimming" … The shore seemed so far off … and soon I hope to start all over again at the beginning. They were aware that I left every morning, came back to the evening, spent every waking hour at the piano. I gave my mother my weekly share.

All my brothers now were working with my father in the cellar on Grand Street making iron beds. They had made as much progress as I had -- not very much. My brother Willie had found some outlet. Not having found the courage to join any professional theatres, he joined a dramatic club! He played comedy parts and was quite good at it. It made him happy. He thought highly of my opinion. I had to take time out of my studies to come to his general rehearsal and the performance.

I got to like the theatre, which I had not up till then been to any other than my experience at the opera. Nothing had intrigued me enough to spend the quarter or fifty cents, and deprive my mother of that aid. My brother had made the acquaintance of more legitimate performers of the Yiddish theatre -- none of the greats or near-greats. "Status" had not permitted them to mix with amateur club members. Still, my brother who was a lovable, easy-going, often smiling young man, was befriended by some of them, especially those of the variety theatres.

There were quite a few variety-vaudeville theatres.  There was one on Suffolk Street. It was called the "Comedy Theatre." Max Gabel was the director, and his co-star was the very young Jennie Goldstein. In his early days Gabel was known more for his "variety" type of theatre. He wrote his own material: sketches, recitations, continuity, etc. That particular season he decided to divorce himself of the "stigma" of "variety" and go 'legit" with his pretty young and talented upcoming star, Jennie Goldstein. He wrote plays or rather "parts" for himself and the "young Jennie."

In his troupe was another performer named Rappaport, who had "palled" with his brother. Gabel was preparing a play, "Grigory Gershuni" and needed a number of "extras" to portray the "revolutionaries."  Mr. Rappaport had suggested his "talented friends" of the dramatic club and immediately "drafted" my brother Willie and his talented fellow professional amateurs. Each was to receive one dollar per performance. Willie had selected the most eligible extras. One of them was his little brother (I was still called "Der kleiner," or "Shortie.")

"Gershuni" was played on weekdays and harvested for me an unexpected "windfall" -- Gabel's next play, "Joseph and his Brethren." A chorus was called for, and Willie suggested to Rappaport, so he would suggest it to Gabel to suggest it to the composer, that he could supply extras who could sing too. All for the same dollar per performance. Gabel liked the idea.

I liked it even better, what with my pupils I was still teaching, and now with "Joseph and his Brethren" I was laying away the pennies for my coming semester at the "Institute of Musical Arts" (I was enamored even with its "Arts" name.) To rehearse the chorus, Gabel engaged one reputed chorus man of the leading theatres, Mr. Rabinovich -- "Mr." I got to think that this was his first name. He had insisted on being addressed as "Mr. Rabinovich." He studied with each one personally, including the performers. I too got acquainted with Mr. Rappaport, and at an opportune moment I whispered, very modestly of course, "I know more music in my little finger than him. Next time, Mr. Rappaport," I hinted, "should Mr. Gabel need a singing chorus or performer, why 'land' someone from a competing theatre?" When Mr. Gabel heard about me, he agreed and asked Rappaport to bring "Der kleiner" ("Shortie") to his dressing room.

I enlightened Mr. Gabel about my 'kentshaft" (my great knowledge), though it might have sounded immodest to Mr. Max Gabel, but not to myself. I was aware of what I "knew" based on my great experience as a choirboy, soloist and child cantor, of course, before my voice changed. Now I am a student at "Julliard." I crossed my fingers while elaborating a bit -- lying was not one of my great virtues. Gabel listened to me. While I was singing my "praises," he was admiring his own image in the mirror and started putting on his makeup. Gabel was not a good-looking man. Some could think of him as even ugly, but he had enough charm to make himself and others believe otherwise. Especially, when he donned his "pince-nez" (eyeglasses dangling on a long black 'shoestring" ribbon and perched on the bridge of his nose) at will. And Gabel "willed" it quite often ...

"Good ... eh, eh, what is your name? Forgive me, I can't remember everyone with so much on my mind, you know …"

"Samuel -- call me Sam for short. It's easier to remember."

"Good, Sam. This coming week I shall let you try your hand."

He sent some of the "singing actors" to me. I sat at the piano "manse mentsh" (almost like a somebody). I surprised not only the actors by myself as well, when I disclosed to them my "method." It will be so much easier for you to learn. I explained, "I'll play the melody, and you will listen and learn." This was foreign to them. As a rule, Mr. Rabinovich sang to them and with them, until they became bored or acquainted with the music. By then, the Chorus Man, Mr. Rabinovich, was hoarse, and so were the singers. My suggestion made sense, and was much more expedient. Henceforth anyone who had to commit music to memory was sent to "me" and my "piano." I was not paid for it, God forbid, it went with the "job." I was rewarded in prestige. It was rumored that I was 'Der kleiner ken di mloche" (the little one knows his stuff). I became "coach par excellence."

I became a "fixture" in Gabel's Comedy Theatre. I was at the piano every day for hours, rehearsing the principals and the chorus. I took my work and myself very seriously. While they were having fun with "Secundele," I had already reached my sixteenth birthday, but I looked younger, even though there were signs that looked somewhat like the "promise of a beard." They seemed to have noticed it sooner than I hoped they would. And each one wanted -- even "dying" to be the first to give me a shave. They'd tease me. "How much do you want for the privilege?" I used to hide, fearing that they'd actually do it. It wasn't that I was afraid of the razor. I just couldn't be bothered or hindered with a daily shave, what with more work than hours. When they weren't rehearsing they'd take coffee breaks, calling out: "Hey, hey, Secundele, here's a quarter. Bring us a couple of sandwiches and coffee!!" I'd go, even though it hurt my dignity. I was hurt that they didn't take me seriously as a composer, teacher or instructor.

If the weather was bad, and they'd take their coffee break in their dressing room, they'd invite me in. That I enjoyed. They would sit and kibitz, and gossip about so-and-so, saying, "Don't worry, Der kleiner ken zi nisht (The little one doesn't know her.)"

"Did you notice how our 'soubrettekele' Mrs. F_____ S____ 'makht oigelakh (is eying) Mr. G____, and Mr. G____ has one eye on Mrs. S____, and the other on Mrs. J.S. ____, and …?" I took it all in. I enjoyed listening. I enjoyed even more their not knowing that I did ....

In the course of their conversation I found out that Mr. Gabel was working on a new show. Nonchalantly I asked, "With music?" "Of course with music," they nudged one another, "How could it be otherwise? Miss G. must have something to cry about in a song, or something to laugh about. In that case it is called a "couplet." Now you know, Secundele? The five-minute coffee break that took more than a half-hour, ended. We returned to the piano ...

Next day I came to rehearse a half-hour earlier. "I'll catch Mr. Gabel before he gets too busy."

"You know, Mr. Gabel, I write music too! If you'd give me a chance, I'd compose something, perhaps for the new show. If you don't like it, it won't cost you anything. Try me."

Gabel pursed his lips in thought. "Well, Secundele, you may be just what the doctor ordered. I did have in mind to go to Joseph Rumshinsky. He could compose something for Miss Goldstein. The lyrics are all ready. I write everything myself, you know, except the music. Try it. If Miss Goldstein will like it, she may even sing it …"

My heart skipped a beat. "Yes, Mr. Gabel. Of course, Mr. Gabel. Tomorrow you'll have the song." He handed me the lyrics of a couplet called "America." He donned his pince-nez, saying pompously, "Now let's see what you can do with 'America'"!!!

Like a wing-footed Mercury I was off and running home to my piano, and while racing a melody was racing through my mind. "America" was taking shape, being born in my mind. I repeated it again and again, so that I wouldn't lose it on the way. Hurriedly up the steps to the piano in one breath. So as not to disturb me, as the family was returning from work, Mama cautioned each one: "Sh, sh, sh ... Shololmul is composing." I wrote and erased, and rewrote over and over again until I conquered "America" ...

"I did it!" I announced to the relief of everyone. They could breathe again. Should I run back to the theatre and say, "Mr. Gabel, here is your "America"? No, he must have left. Should I come at night during the performance? No, he'll have no patience for me then. Mama decided for me. "Morgn, mayn kind." (Tomorrow, my child). She pleaded, "Es epes" (Eat something.)

Tomorrow! The rehearsal seemed to go on and on. I thought that the "coffee break" would never come. The soubrette F___ S___ finally dared to interrupt: "Mr. Gabel, a tepele kava?" (in a glass) -- He was a pedant. I ventured, "Mr. Gabel. I have it." "Already?" he asked. "That's final. Go to Miss Goldstein's house. She is home now. Sing it for her. She is a "maven." (connoisseur). She knows something good when she hears it. If she likes it, she'll sing it. Here's the address."

Jennie Goldstein was living with her parents on Forsythe Street, near Houston. I could never pass Houston Street without reading it as 'H o u s t o n," the way I read it when I saw it on the first subway ride from Ellis Island. Jennie too lived on the fifth floor. I ran up two steps at a time and knocked on the door, finding myself vis-à-vis a beautiful face and laughing eyes. "My name is Sam Secunda." I gave her my American name. Handing her the music, I stammered, "I'd like you to hear it."

The way she looked at me, I had the feeling that she did not have implicit faith in my talents. Still, leading me to the piano, she asked, "Do you play the piano"? "Yes." "Good, let's hear your masterpiece." Embarrassed and frightened, I sat at the instrument. I sang and accompanied myself. Finished I was afraid to look up at her for an opinion. I stared at the music. "Play it again, Sam," she commanded. This time she sang along, melody and words. I had never known anyone to learn so fast. Before long she felt quite at home with my "America." It was as if she were a "native" in my "America" (and she was). "It's good. It is a good song, Sam. Is this your first try?"

"For theatre it is my first try, but I have composed for myself, mostly cantorial. I used to be a Chazendel," I said, bushing to the roots of my sprouting beard. "Why, of course," she reminded herself, "I heard you at the Thalia Theatre this past Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year). I was appearing with Mr. Kessler in the operetta, "Dus yidishe harts (The Jewish Heart)."

"I saw the show. Mr. Kessler invited me. I liked you, Miss Goldstein," I said truthfully. We compared "careers." She too had started playing children's parts. She was now playing adults, though still very young. She too had "skipped" her youth in her race to much success and much happiness.

We parted as if we had skipped rope together all our lives. Running down the dark staircase, I heard Jennie's voice, "I'll sing it, I'll sing it! Don't worry, I'll sing it!"

"She'll sing it, Mama. Miss Goldstein promised she'll sing it ... next week in the new show!!!"

Needless to say I was at the theatre nightly, whether I was needed or not. Just to hear my "America" sung and applauded. I was in "seventh heaven."

This was my first contribution, not only to Miss Goldstein's success, but to America. From that time on Gabel and Jennie greeted me, not as if I were just another extra in the theatre, but as an equal. Well, almost. I walked through the streets of the East Side, stopping at every barber shop, grocery, butcher shop, mirroring myself in the show-windows, where colorful theatre posters and show-cards were prominently displayed. In letters printed large enough for the world to see, there was my name, "Music by Sholom Secunda."  I had forgotten that only two years ago I was heralded the "crown prince of all cantors." This was much more rewarding, I thought. "Now I am a composer."

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. Gabel was forced to close his theatre. Contractual papers had been signed prior to Gabel's renting the theatre. On this and on this date, the theatre was to be torn down and a post office erected.

During these many years with the Yiddish theatre, I had witnessed, to my sorrow, the demise of many more theatres. One succumbed to a bank, another lost its life to a garage, one to a Father Divine Church, another one to a funeral chapel, another to a subway, and others just went ...

I became depressed. My first theatre gone. Will it be my last? My income stopped. How will I pay for my first semester at the "Institute of Musical Art"? Mama tried to console me. "Don't despair, mayn kind. You'll see there will be other theatres." Mama's courage was contagious. She raised my spirits.

Before the summer was over, rumors had reached me about the Odeon Theatre on Clinton Street. It will be opened as a Jewish theatre for the coming season. A certain manager, a Mr. Blecher, was already engaging some performers for his company, among them former members of Mr. Gabel's company. I got in touch with my former friends and asked, "Please intervene for me with the new manager." They promised me they would, and before rehearsals started I was summoned by the manager and star, Mr. Blecher and Sam Morris, respectively. Neither of them had ever seen or heard of me. I had to tell them all over again about my great accomplishments. How else would they know how famous I had become in two years, since I had arrived in America? "You have heard, maybe, the couplet that Miss Goldstein sang in her show, no?" In addition to that, I also played small parts in the chorus, and I played "Benjamin" from "Joseph and his Brothers." And I played an Egyptian with a sword, and without. I could do the same for you, Mr. Blecher and Mr. Morris, that is if you need me. And should you need other such talented amateurs, there are more where I came from."

Much to my surprise I was hired. Rehearsals started. Each actor brought a song. Not a printed song, not a written one, a song in his head that he had sung once in vaudeville, or in some previous show. I had to "take it up" on the piano. A sheet of music paper, a pencil, and I was in business. The miracle was accomplished. I was rather pleased with their comments. The "lleiner ken" (The little one is knowledgeable.) 

My brother Willie was with me, and that was a great help. At a dollar per performance, we were in business again. As long as I was making six or seven dollars a week, my entrance fee to the Institute was assured. But wait young hopeful, there is more heartache in store for you.

Hymie Jacobson was one of the first American-born young men to have come to the Yiddish theatre stage. He was born to parents, both of whom were Jewish actors. His Yiddish was flawless, a natural talent, blessed with good looks and a perceptive mind. He had little formal schooling, but he played the piano, wrote music and danced "a la Broadway." It was said of him that he was a regular George M. Cohan. Hymie's father, Yosef Yacobson, had died young. Hymie, the oldest child, though very young himself, was the sole provider for his mother and family. He was advised by friends to come to New York. He was befriended by Sam Morris, who at that time was the star and co-manager of the Odeon Theatre.

"Well, Shololmul," Mr. Blecher said, "It's not that we don't like you. It's just that Sam Morris was Hymie's father's best friend, and he feels obliged. It's simply a matter of bread. And you see, he can play 'buffs (comedians),' if necessary. We already have one other young man, a comedian. His name is Jacob Jacobs. But he is European in style. We have more than we can carry. So you see ... You understand, don't you? We have no room for you." "Of course, Mr. Blecher, of course, I understand." I didn't! How could I?

Hymie Jacobson needs work ... Question of "bread" ... Well, I too am robbed of a livelihood. Man does not live by bread alone, I thought. My schooling is in jeopardy.

Hymie's ambitions were not to be a "choirmaster," or composer, though he would probably do anything and do it well. So while Hymie was at the Odeon Theatre -- "an all-around man" --he was already looking around, to land a job as a performer in another theatre. That's what his father was, his mother did. He wanted to follow in their footsteps. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, Hymie Jacobson actually went where the spotlight was brighter.

Ratavet (Help)! Shololmul Secunda was sent for and happy to be back. I picked up where I left off. Rehearsing the actors, the chorus, the extras, filling in the little parts, filling vacancies wherever and whenever necessary. Every week another show. I could not afford to be tired or feel sorry for myself, glad to work to bring home the remaining few pennies. The rest went into the jar for my tuition.

Coming back to the very talented Hymie Jacobson, even though I had suffered such a setback because of him, which cost me my job at the Odeon Theatre, we still became very good friends. Our friendship lasted until his untimely death.

I was making a little mark in the theatre. The performers respected me more than just a mere boy, despite my sixteen years. But business was bad. No matter what the star and fine performer Sam Morris removed or renewed, the repertoire was old even then.

On one morning a portly gentleman came to rehearsal holding a play, which was wrapped in a Jewish newspaper. I was told that the name of the gentleman was Solomon Smulewitz. I had never met him, but I knew I had sung many of his songs, especially one: "A brivele der mamen" (A Letter to Mother). My biggest success aboard the 'Carmania." Mr. Smulewitz revealed his great work, the name of which was "Yoysher (Justice)." He was accorded the Director's Chair. He opened the book and commenced to read it. This was the very first time that I had ever been present at such an important event. Everyone seemed to have liked the play. No one asked my opinion (If you ask me now, I won't tell you.)

"Who is writing the music to Mr. Smulewitz's lyrics?" I asked. "What do you mean, who?" asked Mr. Blecher, "We have a composer. Mr. Smulewitz, zeit bekant (get acquainted) with our composer Mr. Sholom Secunda." This time, I put out my hand first.

The arrangement was made. I was to come to his home, and every night after the performance. Together we would write music. Every night that week I sat with my older colleague and created. At the end of the week the show was complete, ready to rehearse the principals and the choir. I was not permitted to orchestrate my music. I had not been a member of the Musicians' Union yet, and certainly not accepted in the Music Club. (I'll have more to say on this subject later, and much more.) The play was produced. The audience still did not come. Mr. Blecher was "drowning" ... I must find a 'star," not just any "shter," but one with a capital Shinn (Shinn is the Hebrew letter for "sha." 'Shter" means star.) They found a star, the renowned prima donna Madam Regina Prager. Not the youngest prima donna, but one of the brightest of that era. They picked a play. Madam Regina Prager in the family drama, with music of course, called "Home Sweet Home." The same question, again. "Who will write the music for Madam Prager?" Secundalle? She had never heard of him and won't accept him. The only one who will make her happy is Joseph Rumshinsky." Madam Prager and her "Home Sweet Home" started the eternal and infernal feud -- Rumshinsky vs. Secunda. And over the years it became a "conflagration" that lasted a lifetime.

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Missing chs. 19-24

OCTOBER 19, 1969, ch. 25
 

After the Gershwin episode, in Mr. Thomashefsky's dressing room, I was terribly downhearted. But my troubles with the famous or rather infamous "Musician Club" was not only mine. Every newcomer -- there weren't many -- had been under its heel. What is going to happen to me in the Yiddish theatre now? They will not let my foot in the door of any theatre of note. In the smaller theatre, what can I expect? Write a few numbers every week -- rehearsals daily with principals and chorus, wages minimal, advertisements nil, giving piano lessons for the rest of my life. Is that what I have sacrificed my youth, still do, just do earn my daily bread? On the other hand, what else could I do? Had I any alternative? I scanned the newspapers, every advertisement. I'd go to Local 310, where musicians used to congregate three times a week ... in search of parnose (a livelihood).

I had met a man by the name of "Sliding Billy Watson," star and manager of a burlesque house, and I was told he was in search of a conductor for his burlesque company. I had a chat with him. "Yes," I said, "I'd be interested in conducting his orchestra and performers," having no idea at that time what burlesque really was. It was foreign to me. From the synagogue to burlesque -- did I make a distinction? This word "Lehavdil" in Latin would be: "Parve Licit Companare Nagnus," i.e. if small things may be compared to great.

I knew about opera, Broadway, musical comedy, world operetta, symphony, but burlesque was an "unknown quantity." Still, if it has anything to do with music, what difference does it make? I asked myself. The fact that I will have to work with half-naked females means that nudity is more important than the music, and of that I had not been surprised. I voted "Yes," to this proposition without hesitation.

Did Sliding Billy Watson read my mind? Was my naïveté written on my face? He looked at me suspiciously and said, "Sit down at the piano and start rehearsing ... We'll get an idea if you are for the job or not." Girls of all sizes, all shapes and forms surrounded me.

At home we had been a family of ten. Never had I seen anyone naked. Not even my brothers completely, except once a week when my father used to take his sons to the public baths. But women? Never!

Suddenly I had seen something that I had never knew existed. I liked what I saw, but I tried not to stare. I buried my eyes and nose in the music, concentrating on what was in front in me.

The music consisted of a "turkey trot," "one-step" and "two-step." Musically this was no problem for me. I played and they sang. Later their dance director came, and again I was told to "play." The dance master was "setting" the dance.

Rehearsal over, "Sliding Billy Watson" gave me his stamp of approval, saying, "When we get the show together, we leave for the road. Every night in another town, for as long as the business will carry us." My wages were more than I had been getting till then -- forty-five dollars a week, plus five dollars daily for expenses for such things as hotel, food. The management took care of the traveling expenses.

I came home and told my mother of my good fortune. "Imagine ... getting a job ... to play piano, conduct the orchestra and get forty-five dollars ... working with a burlesque company. Somehow Mama did not share my enthusiasm for my new position. (I wondered if Mama knew something I didn't? Evidently she did, because she bemoaned the fact that "arum shlepn" (to drag yourself around with naked women ... God forgive us ... that's not for my son ...) I calmed her. It's not so terrible, Mama. I'm bound to see a naked female sometime, sooner or later. "In my profession, Mama," I went on, "I have to be acquainted with every stage of life, every phase of the theatre. The music is not exactly to my taste, just as those half-naked girls are not to yours, Mama." I looked at her, she looked down uncomfortably, but I concluded. "We have to take everything in our stride." "Of course, mayn kind," Mama agreed, fearing perhaps that she might be called an old-fashioned mama.

On the road, finally! To say that I found myself at home in this "raw" atmosphere would not be telling "the whole truth and nothing like the truth..." There were a few performers of the Jewish faith in that burlesque company, but, oh so different than those I had known in the Yiddish theatre. These girls were of a different caliber. In truth I had a tough battle with the "Yeitzer Hore" (evil temptation), every day and every night. Oh, I wasn't a "Lemeshke," nor ... "Nebekhl" any longer. Still I was not at home while in their presence, and too often I felt very uncomfortable. I was convinced that should I continue in that atmosphere among the light-minded and frivolous "ladies of the ensemble," no good would come of it.

I began looking for excuses how to "slip" out quietly, away from "Sliding Billie Watson" and this burlesque society. I started "playing sick," till they had found someone to replace this "very, very sick" young man.

I came back to my parents. It was good to be home again. Financially I had done well in the "burlesque business." I made enough to send a weekly check of seventy-five dollars to my mother, but physically I had lost too much weight. I was too thin, too pale, too tired, too satiated, and too much "initiated." I had learned too much in that, in too short a period of time ...

I came back to the Yiddish theatre, doing the same thing I did before, aggravated about the same aggravating situations. No matter where I turned, I encountered the heel of the "Musician's Club."

Mr. Wattman was still yielding his "drum stick," as if it was a venomous arrow. I went to a Brooklyn theatre, and the "Club" refused permission. But, since their "club" had no composers among their "talents," I was permitted to stay there until ... This time it was the Liberty Theatre. I wrote music to several shows, rehearsed for several hours a day, orchestrated, conducted when none of the "fiddlers"  were out of jobs. But it still left no time to attend school, where I continued with my higher studies of competition. The fact that I had studied instrumentation with the famous Professor Gutchau, that I had experience with the Navy Band and orchestrated for the burlesque company, in spite of all that experience, I still suffered the pangs of hell from my "colleagues," the musicians of my orchestra. I was supposed to conduct, but instead they "conducted" me. No matter what I wrote, it was not to their liking. "This they cannot play; this harmony is not to their liking." It had happened, not once ... that the red-headed fiddler, who was one of the "Club's" conductors, would snatch a sheet of music that I put on his stand and shredded it like confetti. I had to be silent.

I recall one incident. It was during the same season at the Liberty Theatre. Sigmund Weintraub was the star and manager. He was not a docile man. He was strict with his employees, but to me he used to say, "Secundele, don't start with those 'gazlonim (highwaymen).' Fear not, we will outlive them too." "But meanwhile, Mr. Weintraub," I said, "How could one live if they dictate the terms?"

In one particular show, Mr. Weintraub asked for some classical music from an opera. "Just for the orchestra," he said. "Why don't you do as the other composers of the Avenue do? Don't write anything now. Take from some opera, a symphony, find a passage for that one particular scene. That play will probably run for one weekend." I agreed.

Why not listen to the voice of experience? I found a passage from the opera "Oberon," by Carl Maria von Weber. At least this they will respect, I thought. What I failed to do was write on their orchestration sheets the name of Carl Maria von Weber. They took it for granted that "Secundele, the bane of their existence" scribbled it. The red-headed fiddler took one look at the music markings. He picked up the sheet of music and raised it above his had for everyone to see and spitefully tore it into shreds.

This the director, Mr. Weintraub, couldn't take any longer. He jumped down the pit and grabbed the red-headed fiddler by his lapel, saying: "Look you red-headed son-of-a-bitch, this is not Secundele's music that you tore into shreds. This is someone's you couldn't even pronounce ... You don't even know he ever existed. Now you son-of-a-bitch, pick up the confetti and paste it together. I'll wait here, if need be, till the morning, and when you've finished pasting, you will play it just as Mr. Secunda will conduct it!!!" Not a sound came from any of the other musicians. "I'll wait," Mr. Weintraub repeated, "till your red hair turns gray. You'll play." He did!!! They did ...

I completed my post-graduate studies with Dr. Damrosch. That same night I went to Carnegie Hall to listen to the concert honoring the great Jewish composer, Ernest Bloch. I was so enthralled with his music that I decided then and there that I must study with him, especially orchestral music. I reached him by telephone and asked for an appointment. He asked me to come to his home.

Ernest Bloch had lived on Lexington Avenue in a simple house, a walk-up. I rang the bell and waited for the door to open. It was opened by none other than Ernest Bloch himself. "Mr. Secunda?" he asked. "Yes, Dr. Bloch," I answered. "Follow me." We walked up to the third floor, sat and spoke. He wanted to know about my background, about my post-graduate studies, what I was doing for a living, and I "stated my request." I have only one ambition, to study orchestral music with him. I am enthralled with his symphonic composition. They are most inspiring. That evening, at Carnegie Hall, I shall always remember.

"Young man, I feel guilty in telling you this, but I must charge twenty dollars a lesson. I have no time for many students. It leaves me no time to compose. I know the price is too high for many students, but this is my only income. My symphonic works don't bring in enough to take care of my family. So I take in some students who want to study with me. They must pay, so that I have enough to live on," he concluded.

I remained sitting as if petrified, as if I had turned to stone. More than anything else I wanted to study with Ernest Bloch. He's a "deity." But where will I get twenty dollars a week for at least one lesson? My eyes filled with unshed tears, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. I said, "I don't accuse you, God forbid. I understand your position, but to my sorrow, I am not privileged to pay such a price."

When I got up to take leave, he looked at me sympathetically and said: "Now, Mr. Secunda, if you want to, bring me some of your compositions that are of the 'higher form,' those that you might have composed at the 'Institute.' I'd like to examine them. Leave them with me, and I'll let you know. I'll give you my opinion. Perhaps ..."

Next day I brought him a "sonata" for piano, a string quartet that was later published and recorded, as well as a few preludes and fugues. I left them with the Maestro. He promised that "in the space of one week" he would give me his opinion.

I awaited his letter with such impatience that I could not eat. At the end of the week the letter came, saying: "I have studied your manuscript very carefully, and I have decided to give you a scholarship for one year." I read the letter again, this time out loud for my own ears to hear it. That meant that I hwould study with this maestro for free, without having to pay money. I just couldn't believe my good fortune.

That one year, studying with Ernest Bloch, had opened a deep well, not only of knowledge to me, but another source of inspiration, an unending spring of orchestral colors. I had found in him my "musical Messiah." He in turn confessed, smilingly, " I have discovered in my young friend a treasure of Yiddish folklore and popular Yiddish music." He went on to explain.

He was born in Switzerland in a rich environment, but one that was spiritually poor. When I had analyzed Bloch's famous compositions, "Shloma" and "Israel," I was amazed and surprised. How did it come to him? A person who was raised in an assimilated atmosphere to have so much Jewish faith, so much Judaism in his soul, such understanding, such insight. No Jewish composer before him had ever created such master work of the purist Jewish spirit.

Another day he told me of a personal experience. His grandfather, a very pious Jew, once paid a visit to his father's home. Little Ernest saw his grandfather in "tallis and tefillin" (prayer shawl and phylactery). My grandfather stood in a corner, swaying and saying his prayers. I had never seen it before and certainly had never heard it. That scene of my grandfather, especially that "nigun" (melody) of his prayers remained with me. "It had been carved into my soul," he said. "It remained with my childhood memories. I could never free himself of that 'nigun,'" though as he asserted, "I never wanted nor tried to forget it." "When my musical studies commenced," Bloch continued, "I had always found in my theme my memories, my recollection of my grandfather's prayers."

Even though he was an assimilated Jew, Bloch would pride himself as a Jewish composer. The true spark of Jewish composition rings out unhesitatingly in his Jewish poems, for which he was awarded the first prize.

After each lesson we would sit for hours until his next pupil would ring the bell. He would talk about Jewish folklore and tradition. I found that he was truly a Yiddish composer. He said, "A Jewish composer should write in the Jewish spirit. He must write as his soul and heart feels it. Only then can his music have the real flavor, the real essence of the artist. No matter what type of music a composer writes, if he is an Italian, his music will eventually sound Italian. The same with a Russian, an American. That's how it must be with a Jew ..."

After that one year with the Great Master, I started writing serious Jewish music. With theatre music, exclusively, I could not be satisfied any longer. The "Block Influence" followed me. I began seriously to look through the pages of our great Yiddish poets, and I wrote music according to the "nusakh," i.e. the style of reading a prayer, and the philosophy of the poet.

In those years there was no great market for "kunst lieder" (art songs). There was no one to listen to them. It was the beginning of the appearance of the serious Yiddish poetic lied. We had a new arrival in our circle, the renowned singer, Sidor Belarsky, though the folk song had already been introduced in this country in good taste and interpretation by two very great artists -- Victor Chenken and Isa Kremer.

There was another up-and-coming young tenor at that time, Meyer Steinwortzel, who was invited very often to certain concerts, and his appearance included folk songs and the art songs.

At the start of my "serious period," I was greatly helped and inspired by the friendship of Miss Lucy Finkel. She was a young prima donna in the Yiddish Theatre. I was gaining recognition as Sholom Secunda, the young Jewish composer. As our friendship developed, we discovered that we had one thing in common, and that was our love of serious music. She found in me a young person who was anxious, willing and able to write serious music for her, and I found an ambitious artist who had inspired me at that time, at every turn of my professional road. I wrote not only popular theatre songs, but music that was serious in nature that she too found joy in singing, which the serious public found pleasure in listening to.

NOVEMBER 2, 1969, ch. 27
 

My meeting with Anshel Schorr for the first time was at the Musicians' Club, and it was warm and most satisfying. He told me that he and his wife, Dora Weissman, had heard both my operettas at the Liberty Theatre, and he assured me that at the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia I would be very satisfied with the actors and the audience. He would rent a room for me in the same house where he was living, and we'd be working together on the new musical numbers for the show that he is producing. The contract was written then and there.

The Club was happy to get rid of me for three years, and I was happy with the wages that Anshel Schorr had promised me -- a hundred and twenty-five dollars a week, plus a benefit performance. I'd be splitting with the theatre fifty-fifty. He also reassured me that if the audience will like my music as much as he and Mrs. Schorr did, I would surely have a fine profit from that performance -- at least two-thousand dollars would be my share.

During the summer months I went to the mountains in Hunter (New York). Schorr had a home there. In that vicinity, at that time, several renowned Yiddish stars lived, including the famous Thomashefsky family, which was always surrounded by anxious guests and visitors from the nearby hotels, wanting to catch a glimpse of the "great star," the famous man who used to go riding in a fiacre (horse and buggy) through the hills and dales, and the streets of Hunter.

Being the guest of the Schorrs, we prepared the music together for the play with which he had planned to open the theatre. Dora Weissman was to be his star.

The first show was a melodrama called, "An Eye for An Eye." Schorr kept his promise. When I came to Philadelphia, he already had prepared a room for me, where he and Mrs. Schorr lived. And all the necessary paraphernalia that a composer must have to write with and on, even a telephone, a piano, table, etc.

The first show, the melodrama, played for several weeks. It was taken off the boards before its time. Our star, Dora Weissman, had become ill. During the run of that play, we were preparing an operetta by William Siegel for William Schwartz. The name of the operetta was "Di amerikaner rebetzin (The American Rabbi's Wife)." The star of that play too was supposed to have been Dora Weissman, but as she was taken ill, Anshel Schorr rushed to New York to find a "new star." It took him no time, he found Celia Adler, who had been appearing with Maurice Schwartz's Yiddish Art Theatre in New York. But, because of their differences and misunderstandings, she was not re-engaged for the coming season, even though she had been a great success in Peretz Hirshbein's "Green Fields." It wasn't long before Celia Adler and I became very good friends. Of course the music that I had written for Dora Weissman was not suited for Miss Adler, but with great pleasure I began re-writing the new music, in order to bring out the best in her. As a matter-of-fact, Miss Adler was not a singer, although she did have a good ear. In that play there was a certain scene where Celia Adler --an American girl, a flapper -- falls in love with a "Chasid." She gets religion, and on Friday night she blesses the candles. We had decided to put that scene to music. While she's blessing the candles, she hears music coming from outside, a phonograph playing jazz. She

forgets the candles and the prayers and starts dancing to the rhythm of jazz, when suddenly she stops as if awakening from a dream and finishes what she had started -- the traditional blessing of the candles! There was also a young comedienne in the company, Yetta Zwerling, who was for the very first time in Philadelphia. For her I wrote a couplet called "Yukel" (Where Are You, Yukel?). She was a splendid "coupletist," and a very fine dancer. She easily won the applause of the audience with her fine rendition, and of course with my songs. That humorous couplet became an instantaneous hit -- it was being sung even in New York.

"Victor" and "Columbia," both recording companies, had heard it and made a bid for it. And for the first time in the history of the Yiddish theatre, one of the out-of-town songs was brought uptown to New York to the then new Roxy Theatre. The orchestration had been arranged for a big orchestra, and "Yukel" -- "Yukel of Second Avenue" became "Yukel of Broadway," and it gained great fame, and the sale of that recording skyrocketed.

For that particular season Schorr had also engaged Morris Novikoff who had come from the Argentine to the United States. Novikoff's voice had cantorial qualities, and we used it to good advantage. I wrote a number for him called, "Kabed es Ovicho," or, "Honor Thy Father." That too drew great attention, not only from the Philadelphia audience, not only of New York performers, but just like "Yukel," it was picked up by the same two companies ("Victor" and "Columbia") and was recorded.

Wee Willie Robyn was a tiny young man from New York, although there was nothing tiny about his voice. As a matter-of-fact he possessed a great tenor voice and sang with ease and beauty. Every ballad he recorded for "Victor" became a money maker. This young man at that time was the most popular recording artist of his time. "Victor" decided that Wee Willie Robyn should record "Kabed es ovicko" (Honor Thy Parents). I went with him and Nat Shilkret, a conductor of popular songs, to Camden, New Jersey, where most of the "Victor" recordings were being produced. In a very short time the song reached the popularity of "Yukel." Besides, when cantors heard the new composition, they all included it in their repertory -- wherever Yiddish was being sung, at every concert, every Simcha (joyous occasion). If he or she was Jewish, "Kabed es Ovicho" had to be sung. Later, the same Wee Willie Robyn became a successful chazan himself, although he wasn't Jewish.

Lucy Finkel continued her great influence on me, especially in regard to serious music. Her love for the classics inspired me and became an integral part of my life. The many songs that I had written to the texts of some our great Yiddish poets, she sang immediately.

I played for Lucy Finkel my original music that I was composing for the original opera, "Shulamis," based on Goldfaden's libretto of the same name. Miss Finkel heard it and liked it and committed it to memory -- not only her part, that of Shulamis, but every other part, even that of the chorus, including all the orchestral interludes.

According to my contract, the theatre promised me a "testimonial benefit" during that season. I had talked with Miss Finkel about it, and we decided that it must be "Shulamis." "How can you even wonder as to what else you should play?" she asked. My answer was simple. "It is a great undertaking." "Shulamis" requires a great many more singing performers, beside the role of 'Shulamis.' How could it be done without a big chorus, without a symphonic orchestra?" She found a solution to every one of my problems. "Sholom," she said, "Assuming that you'll have your benefit, I had worked out all the plans before you even consulted me. My plan is as follows: We'll play 'Shulamis' according to the original, but with an augmented orchestra. Michalesko is your best friend since he had worked with your father in Nikolaev, yet Hymie Jacobson is your best pal. You'll invite them to appear at your performance. Michalesko will play 'Avisholem.' Jacobson will play 'Tzigentang' (of African descent), and I will be 'Shulamis.'"

Firstly you'll be assured of good box-office, with three big names from Second Avenue. Secondly, since in the third act the only one to appear is 'Shulamis' in the desert scene, I will sing your newly composed music to the play, and you'll be able to announce the 'first performance of the first Yiddish opera.'"

In my sojourn in Philadelphia, I came to know many musicians -- not only those of my own orchestra at the Arch Street Theatre -- a great many who had been playing with Stokowski in the Philadelphia Orchestra.

I started working with the help of my good friends. We assembled a big orchestra that was happy to appear, not only that night for the performance, but also to give me four rehearsals. All my plans were executed with great precision. I left for New York, and without any difficulty I got the consent of my friends, Michalesko and Jacobson, to come to my benefit. Lucy Finkel, I didn't have to ask a second time.

Anshel Schorr began advertising. Big ads appeared daily in the Philadelphia newspapers advertising "Shulamis."

I was readying the orchestration. The performance was to have taken place on a Thursday. Lucy came in from New York on Monday morning. We rehearsed at the piano for the entire day. In the evening the orchestra arrived at the theatre one hour before the performance to rehearse the third act only. That was a nightly session in preparation for my "Yom-hadin" (Day of Judgment), my first "testimonial."

At twelve noon on Thursday, Michal Michalesko and Hymie Jacobson came directly to the theatre. Lucy and I were already waiting there for them with the rest of the company. We were ready, and so was the orchestra and chorus. The general rehearsal was started promptly.

The third act was a great surprise for the entire cast, the first time in the history of the Yiddish theatre for such a colossal experiment. The entire company sat out front in the theatre during the rehearsal of the third act, as if mesmerized. Lucy Finkel felt at home with my music. She knew it to perfection, sure of each note and nuance. Of course we had been meeting in New York every week. No sooner did I complete writing one sheet, she took it home with her to Brighton Beach, where she lived with her mother, Emma Finkel, an invalid. Emma Finkel was Boris Thomashefsky's younger sister.

The performance of "Shulamis" was a triumph, both for myself because of its artistic merit, but financially as well, not only for my own sake, but for that of the theatre as well!

The manager handed me fifteen hundred dollars for my share. It was the first time in my life that I went to a bank to make a deposit. Although I had been earning $125 a week, I had left myself just enough to get by. The remaining money I gave to my mother, whenever I went home. Because of the Blue Laws in Philadelphia, the theatre was dark on Sundays. I'd go home every Saturday night right after the performance and spend one day with the family.

That was some sixty years ago. I'd still do the same now. At that time I kept the same routine and the same procedure -- coming home, giving all my earnings to Mama. What would I have done without her? Later my Betty became "Mama." She manipulated the "purse strings," no matter how pitifully small it may have been.

My first year in Philadelphia was lucky. Culturally I was developing. I had a close circle of intellectual friends with whom I'd spend my free time, discussing art, theatre, music. Every Friday afternoon I'd go with Anna Teitelbaum (later Anna Skulnik), who was prima donna at that time at the Arch Street Theatre. We went to the Academy of Music to hear Stokowski with his Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra, and the Russian Art Theatre with Orlienieff  and Alla Nazimova.

When I was free in the evening, we used to attend the opera. Every Tuesday the opera came for one performance. We'd sit in the balcony for fifty cents.

Financially that season meant the beginning of a new life for me. A taste of "good living," the luxury of eating regularly, learning and socializing.

Before the season had come to a close, I had received my first two checks from "Victor" and "Columbia" recording companies. A sum of two-thousand dollars for "Yukel" and "Kabed es Ovicho." Those two checks had opened my eyes. Anna Teitelbaum was born in Paris and told me so much about the beautiful city. I wanted to see Paris ... and the world.

After the season Michalesko with his wife Andju [Chana], Hymie Jacobson and I met in New York, and we made plans to go to Europe. We decided to form a nucleus of a performing group. We would go to Europe and join the companies already playing there. We'll bring with us one or two American plays, new music -- mine, of course. We'll play percentage, divide among ourselves. The rest they'll divide among themselves. They'll earn money with us. We'll see Europe, "we Americans in Paris." From there to Berlin, Warsaw, Bucharest and Jassy [Iasi], Romania, where incidentally the very first Yiddish performance took pace with Avraham Goldfaden -- Jassy, Romania  ... at the garden called "Pomul Verde," the "Green Apple."

For me the trip meant more than just visiting those famous cities. I had dreams that one day I would come to Berlin, Leipzig and Paris, where I was hoping to study music. That was the mode of that era. The most famous of pedagogues made their home in Europe. And everyone who had aspired to study art in earnest with those greats -- not only painting, but the art of music as well -- must of necessity have gone to Europe. Now it is just the opposite. The greatest of artists are to be found right here at home in the United States. In any case, I was intrigued by the thought of going to Europe. And I looked forward to that day ... a dream come true.

On the "Leviathan," the same boast on which I was to have sailed as a sailor after my enlistment in the Navy, was converted again as a passenger vessel.

We were on our way to Europe as guest artists. Look out World, here comes "Lemeshke," né "Solomonchik," né "Sholom Secunda," Jewish composer of Brooklyn, Philadelphia, and all points ...
 

NOVEMBER 9, 1969, ch. 28
 

Going to Paris. Me as a conductor! I closed my eyes. I'm afraid to open them. I may find myself somewhere other than on the boat taking us to Paris -- "us," Hymie Jacobson, and Sholom Secunda ... who met for the very first time as competitors, both for the same jobs, who remained throughout the years, now on our way to Paris. I didn't get to Europe as a sailor. I'm making it as a conductor. No "Musicians' Clubs," no "Mr. Wattman," no Rumshinsky, no nobody to stop me from conducting now. I stood on the promenade deck, admiring my boat ... "a bisl groyser" (a little bigger) than the "Carmania" that brought me to these shores. Me, little "Lemeshke," and all the Secundas to the shores of Columbus' medina (Columbus' country).

Hymie and I shared a cabin on the "A" Deck. The dining room was huge, with fresh flowers upon shimmering white tablecloths, the food -- I never thought there could be so much (Eight Secundas working, plus four boarders to supplement the income, and Mama Secunda could never make her table look so sumptuous.)

During the afternoon, Hymie and I were busy writing, he the lyrics, I the music, rehearsing the play in which, in addition to Hymie and myself, Mr. Michalesko was to join. We also were working on a second play, which Hymie and I will do later without Michalesko.

Our day's work done, we would sit on our deck-chairs, planning what we will do in "Gay Paree." After working for hours, then we'll really play -- speculating -- "Is Paris half as naughty as in the novels? And sex? Is it free? And women ... Free and frivolous???"

"I must visit the library," I announced to Hymie. "I must make an attempt perhaps to get acquainted with some of the 'maestros' who may still live in Paris." Hymie, just for the joy of shocking me, chided, "That's good ... Sholom, you'll see the 'meisters,' and I'll find the 'mistresses.'" We laughed all the way to Paris.

I didn't confide the part of my ambition to my friend. He would probably have chided me again. But I was hoping perhaps to make some connection with an opera company, or a symphony orchestra that might use my services.

I'd even consider remaining in Europe instead of returning to the Yiddish theatre in America, even though my contract with Anshel Schorr, for Philadelphia, for one hundred and fifty dollars a week -- a goodly sum for that time -- was safely hidden in my steamer trunk.

Paris was all that I dreamt it was. The sidewalk cafes -- sitting at the little tables, sipping aperitifs, my eyes following the "black-stocking parade," and the "black-stocking parade" following me, speaking to me in familiar pantomime, little me responding in the eternal male manner, yet exercising my prerogative. I was even getting a thrill at understanding some of the people's conversation, and all because I still remembered some of my high-school French. We made sure to visit the "Palais D'amour," where large orchestras played, and men would dance if they could dance, with scantily-clad mademoiselles. It was a costly luxury, but for these gentlemen from New York, as for those of "Verona," "amour" was the order of the day, or night, or ...

Three weeks in Paris, France. What a pity we had to spend so many hours rehearsing. Time permitting was spent by the River Seine. The sights were mesmerizing, even the pushcarts. Pushcarts in Paris? Yes, just like by us on Orchard Street. But their merchandise -- the shelves of my library are still filled with some of the rare foreign-language books and rare old, music books -- and symphonies, operas and sonatas, and "lieder" from some of the most renowned composers, bought from the pushcarts for next to nothing -- a few American pennies.

I often browse through my library shelves, and I always discover some musical works that have long been out of print, because the originals were destroyed during the Second World War by the Germans.

I also recall my first orchestral rehearsal in Paris. In America, according to union law, musicians are required to give two hours of rehearsal. If the rehearsal take any longer than two hours, the musicians are paid overtime. They could work as many hours on end. Give them a five-minute break, and they will play on, as long as they get overtime. I called rehearsal in Paris for eleven o'clock in the morning, just as I used to do in Brooklyn. Everyone came on time, and the rehearsal began promptly. I had five musicians; only one of them was Jewish. If there was anything of importance that I could not convey in the vernacular of music, he'd interpret for me. Up to twelve o'clock everything went according to schedule, They were very pleasant, and I was generous with my "tres biens" (very goods) and "mercis" (thank yous). Suddenly I see the first fiddler put his fiddle down and get up, the second fiddler after him, and another, then another. I stood with my baton in hand. They didn't say a word to me. I stared in astonishment. What had I done? "Mes amis," I asked. "Pourquoi?" (Why?). I tried my third-year French on them. They answered. "Dejeuner, dejeuner" (Lunch, lunch). They were a little too fast for me. I did not recall my high-school French this time. They were halfway out of the theatre by the time I had the chance to digest their "dejeuner." I turned to the Jewish bass player and asked him. "Pourquoi? Farvos? (Why?) What did I do or say to offend them?" He smiled, buttoning up the case of his bass fiddle. "You did nothing wrong, Maestro." He motioned with his hand in a gesture, pointing to his mouth. It was time for, "They told you, 'Acheelah' (Essen, essen) dejeuner. It's their lunch hour. And God himself can't make us play, comprenez-vous?"

I saw Hymie getting very excited. He was an excitable chap. I had seem him once rip the lapel of his own jacket when someone in the orchestra played a wrong note. I was afraid of a repeat performance and said, "Hymie, let it go! 'Dejeuner.' When in Paris, do as the Romans do ... Let's have lunch."

We walked to the nearest cafe. We just had sat down when two young ladies walked over to our table, mimicked if they could sit down, and without waiting for an answer they started pointing to my "dimples." "L'homme avec deux fossettes" (The man with two dimples). I blushed up to my dimples and tried to get up. Hymie held me down. We ordered a drink for the ladies. We had our "dejeuner," and before long we returned to the theatre and rehearsal.

Another unique incident comes to mind. In Philadelphia my prima donna was Anna Teitelbaum. Her maiden name was Drucker. She was born in France, and her father still resided there. Before I left for Paris, she asked me to please call on her father and say hello. I called her father and said "Hello." The next day at nine o'clock in the morning, there was a rap at out hotel door. Hymie and I sat up in our bed. We could not understand who would knock at our door at nine o'clock in the morning. I opened the door, and in walked a very handsome gentleman, and sure enough he too had "deux fossettes" (two dimples).

"Are you Mr. Drucker?" I asked. He corrected me: "Drukerre," (accent is different in France.) We spoke about his daughter. Now I knew how Anna Teitelbaum came to her dimples. We chatted a little while, and we invited him to the theatre. The next day when he came to the theatre, he only wanted to speak about his daughter. We pleaded with "Monsieur Druckerre," that the next time [he called on us], "S'il vous plait (please), don't wake us at nine o'clock. Wait at least until nine-thirty."

We had made other friends while in Paris. The company had a very young and pretty ingénue by the name of Chaykele Burstein. She was the daughter of one of the performers. She was born in Paris, raised on the Yissiah stage and spoke Yiddish fluently. Being bilingual she was of great help to us. She was married to a Dr. [Louis] Schwartz. We had seen them often, whenever in Paris.

The most popular couple in the Yiddish theatre in Europe at the time was Molly Picon and her husband Yankel Kalich. They too could not reach their desired place in the American-Yiddish Theatre. But in Europe they skyrocketed with great speed and tremendous success. I had met them in New York, of course, but in Paris we became close friends, saw each other daily, laughing away the hours.

For the coming year, I had to fulfill my contract in Philadelphia. Molly and Yankel were summoned by Yosele Edelstein to his Second Avenue Theatre, where they were to open in "Yankele," the same play her husband Yankele had written for her debut in Romania. The great success was repeated in America.

The three weeks were over. We had to take leave of Paris. Warsaw was next. Michalesko and his wife, Anju, went to Warsaw to see her son (by a former marriage), who was a very fine musician himself. Later her son came to America, organized a society band, played for debutantes with "Polish elegance," hobnobbed with American money and found his place in cafe society.

Hymie Jacobson debuted in Warsaw at the "Kaminski" Theatre, he on stage, and I on the podium of the orchestra of the Kaminski Theatre.

Warsaw was a beautiful city, unlike Paris, but nothing is. But here we found a different atmosphere. Yiddish -- culturally and intellectually was that of the Kaminská family. The mother, Esther Rukhl Kaminská was much revered and called the "Mother of the Yiddish Theatre" by everyone. She had been to America many years prior to my arrival, where she appeared in Jacob Gordin's most successful drama, "Mirele Efros," at David Kessler's Second Avenue Theatre. To be in her company was a delightful experience. She was warm-hearted and most interesting, as was her entire family. her daughter, Ida, her husband then in 1924, Zygmunt Turkow, a fine performer and an excellent director, and their little daughter Ruta ... we lived nearby, and every waking hour, before and after rehearsal and play was spent in their company. When not at their home, they were with us backstage or in the dressing room. Ida and Zygmunt were opening at another theatre in Warsaw in literary repertoire. Ours was the musical comedy.

Hymie Jacobson excelled in a unique type of entertainment. Neither Warsaw, nor anywhere else in Europe, had seen anyone his equal. His style was his very own, his very own delivery, small voice, extremely musical, rhythmic, light and mercurial on his feet. His "couplet" or comedy duets brought the audience to its feet. They would not let him leave the stage. People would come to the theatre two or three times, just to hear him sing and dance his "couplet." On particular number he did in the show was most original, telling a story through music and continuous dancing. At the end of the chorus, he'd pull the straw hat over his ears and wear the remainder of the hat around his neck. To each "biss" (encore), he'd come in with a new straw hat. The audience would probably still be sitting at the theatre, if Hymie Jacobson had not run out of straw hats ...

Hymie Jacobson is gone due to the cruelty of time. The Kaminski Theatre is gone due to the cruelty of man. Hitler was the cruelty of silence.

Our next stop was Jassy, Romania, to play the same show as we did in Warsaw. The only thing that remained in my memory about Jassy and the company were two young people: Chaim Tauber and his wife Frieda. Two young intelligent performers. He, a budding poet, she, a Hebrew teacher. Later they too came to America, where he made a name for himself, writing fine lyrics, such as "I Love You Much Too Much" (music by Olshanetsky), "Shein vi di lavone" (Beautiful as the Moon, music by Joseph Rumshinsky), "Mayn zindele (My Little Son)," music by Sholom Secunda, and many, many others. He also gained prominence on the radio, with his original folk interpretation of his songs, ballads, and playing at the Yiddish theatre. It seemed that time stood still.

A sense of nostalgia and history came over Hymie and me, to play at the "Pomul Verde" garden, where Yiddish theatre was cradled. There was that original name, "Pomul Verde," or, "Green Apple." It played such a significant part in the development of the Yiddish theatre, and Avraham Goldfaden, the "father of the Yiddish Theatre."

Now we were treading those boards; little had changed. Time stood still. We were awed by that historical significance.

Among the attendees at our performances were the very young, who came to learn something from the Americans, and the very young, who came to tell us something of what they remembered. I honestly don't know who enjoyed our stay more. They listened to our music and song, or we listened to the fabulous, unbelievable stories about the Yiddish theatre when it was still in its "swaddling clothes."

After Romania, we went for one week to Berlin (before World War II), not to perform, but just out of curiosity, to admire the city of Berlin, to see the many conservatories, the concert halls, the opera house, and the theatres where those beautiful operettas had been performed. When music by Franz Lehár, Leo Fall, Emmerich Kálmán, and so many other greats was sung in these theatres, on the streets by a free people, or at least they thought they were free ...

We were happy ... fulfilled physically, morally and culturally.

We were homebound via Paris. A last fling! Also to meet with the Michaleskos, and together board the Mauritania to New York. Back to hard labor, each of us to another theatre.
 

NOVEMBER 16, 1969, ch. 29
 

My second season in Philadelphia had posed some problems, none of them insurmountable. However, there was a question of competition. Instead of one theatre in the city of Brotherly Love, now there were two. In addition to the Arch Street Theatre, there was now the Garden Theatre, and some of my very dear friends were there. The play was called, "The Days of our Lives." In it, Samuel Goldinburg, the star and director, did a musical number accompanying himself at the piano. The essence of the number was something like "A kalte nakht finster in droisen" (It was, indeed, a dark and dreary night.) Goldinburg made sure that each play he was doing contained a number at the piano. As a matter-of-fact, at one time Maurice Schwartz did a special performance for the Forward [newspaper] at his [Yiddish] Art Theatre, called "Dos krume shpigel" (The Distorted Mirror). The satirist, Moishe Nadir, wrote a scene. The curtain went up, and there were the tiny cemetery monuments on it. Between the monuments, wedged in, was a tiny piano. Samuel Goldinburg comes onto the stage, sits down at the piano and sings one of his own compositions. Of course, it was hilariously funny. Goldinburg was known for those little "added attractions." With Goldinburg, that season at the Garden, there was his very fine leading lady, a star in her own right and my dear friend, Celia Adler, and the inimitable Hymie Jacobson, his younger brother Irving, Lucy Levine, a young soubrette, and others. All my friends. The Arch Street Theatre management was a little worried that the Garden will be a financial competition. I was worried too, as I would lose some of my best friends in the city of "brotherly love."

Well, after rehearsal I would run over to the "opposition" to see my friends. Goldinburg would say, "Aha, the spy is here ... Let me see, Sholomel, what you wrote for them (meaning for my theatre), and I will see what a friend you are to me.

Hymie would come to my dressing room, look through my music and inquire ironically. "Now, my pal, let me see what you have done for the 'mentshite' (for the world lately)? I answered kiddingly, "I have just written the 'key' that will close your theatre!" When he left I found this codicil: "If this be the 'key,' we're both in trouble."

That's how our season started at the outset. We had no idea as to how the season would end -- for both our theatres.

I'm happy to say that it was a triumph for the city of Philadelphia, supporting two artistic theatres. My male star at the Arch Street Theatre, Joseph Shoengold, was a very fine performer who was married to Frances Adler (Minnie), a daughter of Jacob P. Adler. Joseph Shoengold was not only an excellent performer, but he had a beautiful voice. Among the few cultivated voices in the Yiddish theatre and writing for him was a very pleasant task. The musical comedy in which he appeared that season was called, "Mit dem rebin's koyekh" (With the Rabbi's Might). The play was written by the dramatist Moshe Richter and was based on a true story about a prize fighter who was a rabbi, or vice versa, a rabbi who was a prize fighter. Since our company specialized in musicals, I looked for an idea that would show the many facets of his voice and my music. It was just before the High Holidays. That gave birth to my idea, a cultural composition recognizable even to the lay people -- those who attend synagogues or even those who don't. The composition of three segments, "Hi-ne-ni" (the special prayer in which the cantor is the intermediary between his flock and his creator; prior to the Mussaf) on "Rosh Hashanah (New Years)," "Yom Kippur" (the day of Atonement)," of "Kol Nidre," and the third part, as a change of pace, "Sisu V'simchu B'Simchas Torah" (Musical Thanksgiving to the Lord for giving us the Torah). Those three prayers were fused into one comprehensive number. I suggested that idea to Anshel Schorr. He was not only my director, but the lyricist. Much impressed, the next day he had the lyrics for me. This number was destined to become one of the great concert numbers that is included by practically every concert singer. Not only cantors, but young performers all over the world, and now Italian, French, Russian and for German concerts, whether it was in night clubs, the Catskills, or anywhere else. In later years, even the colored singers included it in their collection (may I add that they did the number very well.) But the greatest contribution to the success of this cantorial composition was brought by the world-famous, and my beloved cantor, Mordechai Hershman.

That summer I took a place in Loch Sheldrake, in the Catskill Mountains. It was known as the "Artists' Colony," Yiddish artists. Molly Picon and her husband, Yankel Kalich, Jewish writer Kovner, Cantor Zavel Kwartin, the renowned satirist and poet, Moshe Nadir, who ran sort of a "little hotel" to supplement his earnings -- for just intimate friends. Lou Goldberg, a one-time Jewish performer, had a hotel mostly for cantors. My bungalow became the meeting center. Every evening it turned into either a musical discussion, or of politics or art ... and gossip for anyone who wanted to hear it, and for those who did not want to hear it, they heard it anyhow. Among the daily visitors was Cantor Hershman. I had written many a "recitative" for him that he had recorded.

One afternoon, as was his way, he came to my home and went to the piano, saw a sheet of music and picked it up. He was an excellent  "sight-reader." He looked it over and said: "Sholomel, what is this? A number I had written this past season for Joseph Shoengold." He hummed a few bars. "May I take it for a day?" I had no objections. Cantor Hershman folded the music, put it in his bosom pocket and left.

I had not seen the good Cantor Hershman at my house after that for about three days. I was getting uneasy, but not for the music. I had implicit trust in the man. I was worried about his health. I called his hotel. No one knew where he was. On the fourth day Cantor Hershman strolled in all smiles. "So, my young friend, you were worried about me, huh?" The Cantor took the sheet of music from out of his pocket saying: "Here is your music ... I  have no more need of it." You may keep it, Cantor. There is more music paper where this comes from." Then the mystery was over.

"Today, Sholomel, I recorded "Dos yiddishe lied" with Nat Schilkret for 'Victor' in Camden, New Jersey. They'll probably send you a 'demo.' It should be out in about two or three weeks."

It's no news now that "Dos yiddishe lied" became a "million-copy-seller." After him, many other artists all over the world recorded and sang it.

I received a letter from Mr. P. Katz who had a music shop on East Broadway, nor far from the "Forverts," before Katz became a member of the "Forverts" staff. He wanted to see me. "What was it?"

He was selling his business to Henry Lefkowitch, a well-known man in the world of Jewish music, already had a music shop on Broadway. He, Katz, wanted to make a "shiddakh" (a match) between Lefkowitch and me for the lyrics and music. I should sell the rights to "Dos yiddishe lied" to the Metro Music Company. That was the music shop on Second Avenue, near the Public Theatre (later the Anderson, and after that went the way of many other theatres, much to our regret.) The "shiddakh" was a lasting one.

The second successful season in Philadelphia ended, and Schorr picked up my option for the third season with raise of twenty-five dollars. That summer was very pleasant again, with my parents at Lake Sheldrake, and my friends around me, my mind at ease. I looked forward to a pleasant stay in Philadelphia for a third year.

I turned to writing something that pleased me, even more than writing for "musical comedy." I utilized my summer months to quench my own Yiddish cultural thirst to the fullest. I composed music to the many poetic writers of M.L. Halperin, Yud Adler, A. Lutzki, Morris Rosenfeld and Sh. Frug. Reading their poetry, delving into the soul of the poet, and not being obligated to any theatre for the summer, I made music while the sun shone, being warmed from above and illuminated mentally by the writings of the great Jewish poets. Most of the writers brought their musically "unclad" -- word-"lieder," and I custom-fitted to order their "musical garments." Those poems that were not brought to my attention, I had the satisfaction in searching and finding these rare treasures of words ... worlds and thoughts.

In addition to the pleasures of writing and composing, there was also the satisfaction of hearing them sung, almost as fast as they were created. There were ever so many fine singers in that little colony. They knew what they were searching for, and where to find it.

After the fruitful summer, I went back to Philadelphia. The third year of my so-called "golus" (in which the "Musicians' Club had exiled me). The third year was, again, a personal triumph. Again I created music for these plays, as many of the songs became standard. Sholom Secunda was no longer a 'new man.' It was not foreign, neither to the public, the publisher, nor to the artists in New York or vicinity. I had become an accepted member of the Yiddish theatre family.

While still at the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia, two directors came to negotiate with me for their New York theatre -- Jacobs and Goldberg. They had been very successful with the Lenox Theatre in Harlem (For many Jews, Harlem at that time was the place of the Jewish "nouveau riche." Jacobs and Goldberg had a knack for giving the audience what it wanted, and the audience expressed its appreciation at the box office. Not only did the two families -- Jacob Jacobs with his talented spouse, Bettie, as a team, and Nathan and Rose Goldberg carrying the drama, gain personal satisfaction as greatly admired performers, but they also filled their coffers through honest labor. When Boris Thomashefsky left, the National Theatre was on the market, and the two remaining partners, Lou Sachs and Louis Goldberg, agreed to disagree, and they put their lease up for sale.

Jacobs and Goldberg, having the wherewithal, paid $110,000 for the National Theatre lease, a great accomplishment for the two of them, who had graduated from a local theatre in Harlem to the main stream of Yiddish theatres -- "Broadway on Second Avenue."

Their contract stipulated, however, that they were not to take possession of it until the coming year. In the meantime, Jacobs and Goldberg took the "Grand Street Theatre," on the Lower East Side.

According to my previous agreement with the "Musicians' Club," they could not deter me any longer from taking any engagement in the Yiddish theatre. I already was a "legitimate" member of the "Illegitimate Music Club," having done my three years in "exile" with Jacobs and Goldberg to compose and conduct music for the coming season.

It so happened that the past season at the Lenox Theatre, Jacobs and Goldberg had produced an operetta called "The Gypsy Prince," libretto by William Siegel, music by Alexander Olshanetsky, and it was a great success. The directors Jacobs and Goldberg decided to open their Grand Street Theatre with the play, "The Gypsy Prince."

For me, it was a personal tragedy, a great disappointment. After all the suffering that I had endured from the "Musicians' Club" after my three-year exile (though my three years in Philadelphia were very satisfactory), I still wouldn't be able to come to New York as a composer, but merely as the conductor of "The Gypsy Prince." It caused me a great deal of anguish. But I had no alternative.

"The Gypsy Prince" that reigned at the Lenox Theatre so majestically, however, did not repeat its success at the "Grand Street." Not that the music was less beautiful, but simply because the competition was "big time," what with the giant stars on Second Avenue.

After "the Gypsy Prince" abdicated, Jacobs and Goldberg searched one melodrama after another. This time I was called to write several numbers for each play, but it gave me little chance to show myself in New York theatres, as a composer of an entire operetta, as a composer on a larger scale. I waited for that season to end, without any foresight as to what was in store for me for the season that was to come.

While still in Philadelphia, I was corresponding with Misha German, whom I had known from the Yiddish Art Theatre. He and his wife Lucy, after they had left Maurice Schwartz, traveled with companies through large provinces in the United States with several plays. They went to Canada. German got several plays from writers. Music, however, he had none. So, as a friend he turned to me, and I did not turn him down.

For that coming season, he had closed a partnership with a long-time manager in Brooklyn, Oscar Green, the proprietor of the "Hopkinson" Theatre. German engaged an excellent cast, many with members of the [Yiddish] Art Theatre, such as Yudl Dubinsky, Yechiel Goldsmith, Itzchok Lipinsky, and of course, the company was headed by Misha and Lucy German. He was aware of how disgruntled I had been at the Grand Street Theatre, and he proposed that I come to the Hopkinson with him -- again in Brooklyn. To make it more attractive, he offered me, as an inducement, a larger orchestra than the Hopkinson Theatre ever had. He had also engaged the young writer, Israel Rosenberg. I had known him from a season when I had worked with Clara Young. (He had written "Berele Tramp" with me, and it was a very successful play.) For this coming season, for the Germans, he had written "Mashka." The Germans liked the play. "The lyrics are good, and the two of you," said German, "will work well together and create a fine operetta, the likes of which New York had not seen. New Yorkers will come to Brooklyn, instead of Brooklyn coming to New York."

Misha German was a gentleman with great persuasive powers. He used what is known now as -- my son Eugene used to tell me -- the "soft-sell," and I signed on the dotted line. That summer Rosenberg and I stayed and worked at my home on Penn Street, Williamsburg, where I had been living with my parents. I was writing music, he the lyrics for "Mashka." Rosenberg liked to imbibe occasionally, in a "gleizele mushkeh" (the same sounding name, but a different spelling, meaning a beverage). He was lovingly called the "Kleiner Shiker'l." If I wanted to induce him to work somewhat longer, I promised him an additional "koiseh" (a Passover cup), in other words, an extra drink. He was worth it. After I heard the lyrics, I said, "Israel, they are highly 'spirited.'" He agreed with me and laughed.

Before the curtain went up, we each had a glass of "Mushkeh" (a l'Chaim) to toast our play, "Mashka." We were, as parents, awaiting the birth of their offspring. We had been "in labor," a labor of love -- the entire summer, nevertheless, labor, not knowing how our child, Mushkeh, will fair in this competitive world!!!
 

NOVEMBER 23, 1969, ch. 30
 

"Mazl tov," the "Hopkinson" gives birth to "Mashka"! "Hopkinson" gave birth to "Mashka"! And twice blessed and born under two lucky stars -- Misha and Lucy German, it was just what we had hoped "Masha" would be -- a great success. We opened in October and closed in May. "Mashka" was off-and-running for thirty-six weeks, a feat unprecedented in Brooklyn.

After Brooklyn we first took "Mashka" the "country girl" to the "big city" -- New York and the National Theatre. With some minor changes in the personnel, with some adjustments, instead of playing it in three acts, we made it into two acts. New York had become accustomed to a two-act musical. Brooklyn liked three acts for the same price, with one extra intermission for the candy concessionaire to sell more "ice-cold lemonade," and for the ticket holder to see and be seen ...

My father had been to see "Mashka" in Brooklyn every weekend. (In the middle of the week, the Germans played repertory for the "benefits." This did not interest my father, mostly because it wasn't his Sholomel's musical. But on the weekends "Mashka" ran five performances: Friday night, Saturdays and Sundays, twice daily.) He saw the play, "standing room" notwithstanding. "Mashka" had literally gone to his head. He had learned the play from the overture to the exit march, and when "Mashka" migrated to New York, my father followed it.

On opening night the National Theatre was filled to capacity. Papa found a "standing room" "seat" in a "box." The second act over, the curtain falls, the audience applauds, the company bows, the audience calls for "Sholom Secunda." My father's son takes a bow. Papa, Abraham Secunda, is happy!!! True, the procedure is somewhat different, he thought. In Brooklyn they bow after the third act; New York, "fancy shmancy," after the second act.

The people in the "box" were getting up, taking with them their belongings and leaving. "How rude they are," my father thought. He looked down and saw that people downstairs were also getting up, some applauding, some turning their backs to the audience and walking. My father would have none of that. He got up, and at the top of his voice he said, "Friende (friends), mentshn" (people), "Vu gayt ir? (Where are you going?) There is one more act!!!"

We were still on the stage, standing and bowing, hating to part with the audience. We, on the stage, motioned to my father to "sit down, sit down." The audience thought that it was a part of the "surprise" and applauded my father. And so, he too bowed. My father, that night, was part of my success.

Backstage, where he was welcome as any member of the family, we explained the change that we had made in the play. Papa, a bit embarrassed, looked at me with a hurt look, and he said apologetically, "Shololmul, why didn't you ask me before making the change? I am the 'audience' ... I like three acts. I say, give them their money's worth. Let them think that they're getting a bargain -- three acts, instead of two, for the same money!!!"

After our success in New York we went on the road. The first time since the "Sliding Billy Watson" revue. While on the road, Misha German re-engaged the entire company for the coming season, with the same play, "Mashka." Of course, we'll be preparing the second play. Israel Rosenberg, a prolific writer, was consulting with us. While on the road he finished the libretto and called his second child "Margarita," starting with the letter "M" for "mazl."

During the summer, I was composing the music. We were triumvirate: "German, Rosenberg and Secunda." German was an enterprising man, and I suggested, "Let's have something new that the Hopkinson Theatre had not seen up to now. Let us have a ballet." "Ballet?" asked German. "Ballet?" asked Oscar Green, the lessee and manager of the Hopkinson. "Ballet?" asked Pete, who was the box-office manager. He was Italian, but he spoke Yiddish fluently. Later his son, Joe, took over.

"O.K., Secunda. 'Thy will be done,' said Rosenberg. But where? "Your play, you're the doctor. Rosie, make a place for a ballet. 'Nasseh Venishma'" (That's what the Jews said at Mt. Sinai when Moses bade them to accept the tablet.) No sooner said than done. "Rosie, let's drink to that!"

I let my imagination soar. "We'll engage professional dancers of the classical dance. Such an attraction was never seen at the Yiddish theatre, even on Second Avenue. In addition to the ballet, our company will consist of good singers, not only males, but female singers. I had one in mind -- Tanya Poland. I remembered her when she was still my age. A little girl of twelve in Nikolaev, where we both played in the Children's Dramatic Club with Michalesko. She played "Mother Sarah," and I played her little son, Itzchok. Her background, just as mine, was "cantorial," and a female cantorial singer was a rarity in the Yiddish theatre. I thought of writing something for her that would suit her fine voice. It is as aesthetic as it is classical.

"Margarita" wasn't based on classical music, but rather on the "folkstimlekh" (folk-like music). Lucy German, the leading lady, instead of singing a song, had a special type of delivery. When she sang the Russian song, "Gdie Etta Ulitza?" (Where is the Street?), well, she brought the house down. The numbers I had written for her and her husband, Misha, were in that vein and all successful.

For the male singer, I suggested Leon Gold. He had an unlimited range (three octaves). With two additional singers in the cast, and those of the year before, I was very happy. German accepted my suggestion of the ballet. A call went out for ballet dancers to audition. How little I knew then, that with this plan I was also planning my future, my entire life.

I was in my early thirties, enjoying my bachelorhood to the fullest: "Seek and thee shall find! I sought and was found. Living at home with my parents suited my convenience.

We re-opened with last year's show, "Mashka," as planned, in the meantime, busily polishing "Margarita." The management engaged a professional choreographer for the special ballet. Many young dancers came to audition. I had not seen so much pulchritude on the Yiddish stage. They danced as well as they looked in their "tutus." I was called upon to give my opinion. What with my experience with "Sliding Billy Watson," in Paris, Berlin, Warsaw, Romania, I was picked to pick the "pick of the crop." While the "ballet meister"  was looking, I was doing both, and listening as well. After all, they were supposed to sing too, hopefully as well as they danced.

One dancer especially arrested my look, I couldn't speak. I was enthralled with her voice, not with her dancing. She was diminutive, her figure that of a gazelle, slender and sensitive. Almost too ... or was it her exceptionally aesthetic beauty -- "Shvartz-Cheinevdick" -- Semites rarely went for the blonde. Black is beautiful, especially her eyes. They mesmerized me. Not the Russian "Ochy Chornia," but typically Semitic eyes "Sloe" and deep as dark pools. I thought they looked through me. (Why am I explaining so much? If you knew my Betty, well ... If you didn't, well, you should have.)

Oh yes, I forgot to tell you one little item more about her. This Miss Betty Almer was the winner of a beauty contest. The now-defunct newspaper, "Mirror," had conducted it in New York. Miss Almer was too modest to flaunt her beauty. But her mother Katie Almer, who was the "costume supervisor" at the theatre, was very much aware of her daughter's beauty. Katie had three daughters: Lottie, the youngest, who looked like Betty, the oldest, black-eyed. The middle one was Mollie, and she had blue eyes. All pretty, all "good" girls. Another item perhaps relevant to the story is that Betty's father was the supervisor of the costumes at the Thalia Theatre when I was a boy cantor. Her mother, Katie, had inherited his "uncoveted position" when he took "permanent leave," and Katie remained a widow at thirty.

Let's get back to the auditions of the ballet dancers. I did not have to intervene or plead with the ballet master for Miss Almer should be the one of the "chosen ones." But I did exercise my power of prayer to the "Higher Master," the One I used be on such intimate terms with, since I was a boy cantor. I added a special "please." That Master heard me. She was one of the chosen one.

I wasn't what you call an extrovert, when it came to girls. I had a "quiet way" with the feminine gender, but with Betty, somehow I lost my way. At a loss for words, a loss for ... how should I say it? She was different. I couldn't use the same approach. I was tongue-tied. My eyes must have expressed what my heart felt, or did I read into it what I wanted to? I thought my blue eyes detected something similar in her dark eyes. And then suddenly one afternoon, in the middle of a dance rehearsal ...

As I had said before, Betty looked very delicate. And evidently she wasn't accustomed to such rigorous rehearsals. She had not been in the theatre, although her parents and younger sister Lottie were. Lottie was a fine dancer. Betty had no taste for the theatre. She turned to secretarial work. Why then did she come to the ballet audition? That was explained to me much later.

It happened this way. Betty was standing on the sidewalk, opposite the home where she had lived in the Bronx. A horse and wagon (it was the era of "Ice Man Cometh") passed by. Whether Betty frightened the horse or vice versa, whatever was worse, Betty and the horse collided. How did it happen? Neither Betty nor the horse spoke. The horse didn't speak, and Betty couldn't. She was unconscious and lying on the ground. A policeman rushed her in an ambulance to the hospital. She was there no more than several days. But when she left the doctors warned that the trauma was greater than the danger to her frail body. She must rest for at least six weeks before going back to work.

After three weeks she felt somewhat better. Her mother, Katie, learned that the Hopkinson Theatre had a "call" for ballet dancers. Katie figured that since the weekend show plays only on weekends (a clever deduction), that it would do Betty good not to sit idly by. No doubt her wages, or absence of it, made itself felt strongly at the Almer abode, and Mama said, "Go mayn kroyn" (my 'crown,' my precious one), try your luck." Betty was sure that she couldn't pass the test. Since her ballet lessons, she had not tested her ballet slippers. Still, Katie -- should live and be well -- "Try," she said. "Nobody was ever arrested for trying."

The following, you know. Betty tried and made it "big." So, there she was dancing for hours on end, on her toes, yet please note that I was at the piano. Suddenly a scream. Actors came out of their cubby-holes and dressing rooms and came running. I jumped from the pit onto the stage to see "what" and "who." I heard the actors saying: "The shaninke (the little, pretty one) had collapsed." I pushed them aside, the Ballet Meister and I lifted her off the floor onto a bench. Naturally, the rehearsal was interrupted. "That's all for today," the choreographer said to the dancers. The rest of the company went to their dressing rooms to wait it out. I sat close to Betty, on the edge of the bench. I lifted her head to cushion it on my lap, till a more comfortable place could be arranged. I smoothed her black silky hair and wiped the drops of perspiration off her delicate face, and I asked the most asinine question: "How do you feel, Miss Almer?" "Much better, thank you, Mr. Secunda. I'm sorry to have caused such a disturbance. We can resume ..."

I assured her that there is plenty of time, that the premiere of "Margarita" is far off. I'll go and reassure the others that you are feeling much better, thank God," I said.

As I put her head back on the bench very gently, I bent down. I don't know where I got the courage, but I put my lips delicately to her cool lips. She closed her eyes, I closed mine. Not a word was spoken by either of us. How could we? Busy kissing? As if intoxicated, I joined the performers in the dressing room and informed them that the "shtilinke ... di shaynike, the Almer girl is feeling much better." That was our brief encounter ...

The next rehearsals went on without any serious interruptions. We, Betty and I, had no other "encounters," clandestine or otherwise.
 

I invited Betty, for the first time, to meet my parents, on Penn Street in Brownsville. The second time they invited her. Everyone , together and separately, invited her. "Nu," "When," they asked her ... everyone, but the one she wanted to hear it from. I had not as of yet popped that certain question: "When?"

"Margarita" ended her stay at the Hopkinson Theatre, and she took to the road. Katie Almer was worried about her daughter, Betty, traveling alone in company of so many strangers. Although she knew everyone by name, perhaps that's why she was afraid. In any event, everyone was saying, "Mrs. Almer, don't worry. We'll keep an eye on Betty." And everybody did ... Not that Betty needed "an eye on her." She had a mind or her own, and that didn't "encourage" anyone, including Sholomel. I stayed at one hotel, which was more expensive, of course. Betty shared a room with the girls in a hotel that suited their salaries, out of which a goodly share went to Mama's rent. I could afford to splurge a little. So I took Betty to dinner before the performance. After the performance we all went out for an hour's relaxation and a snack. We sat by ourselves, though close to the kibitzers. During the afternoons we would go for a walk or enjoy a matinee movie. We enjoyed each other's company daily. Except nightly.

One night it started out as usual, flushed from a happy and successful performance. We went for our routine midnight snack. We had a gay time. Our little "shiker'l" Israel Rosenberg was with us. He was the prompter in this company, though no prompter was needed. He was our mascot. To keep him happy we'd send over a "L'Chaim," and he would toast us. Then, just as the folk song, "Rabbi Elimelekh" Rosenberg was at his gayest, he pushed all glasses aside, half on the table, half on the floor, and he called for "Q-U-I-E-T!" Everyone's eyes were on the lovable jester. "Q-U-I-E-T,"  he repeated. "I want to speak!" Oh, that we all wanted to hear.

I took my eyes off Betty for a second and focused them on the object of the surprised speaker. "Ladies and gentlemen!" We applauded. He repeated the same surprised threat. "I'm going to speak," and he did. "It is a well-known secret that only about three hundred and fifty people of our Hebrew Actors' Union family know, and that is, that our Secundele and our Betty are a little bit in love. (Now this next "play-on-words" shall be omitted. I don't know whether we can say it or not. In any case, it can be omitted.) Now when he says, "Bettele," this can have a double meaning. Betty, Bettele, meaning little Betty ... and "bettel," which means "little bed. And to say ... "... Since our Sholomel cannot lead Betty to the bettele, until he leads her to the "khopele" (under the marriage canopy), so it was decided that, as soon as "Margarita" is laid to rest, our Secundele will get to work. "Vet nemen a khasene" (a wedding will be taking place), and we are all invited."

The entire company was on its feet. The line formed to the right. Each one "attacked" us, kissing us on both cheeks. That night, taking leave of one another, was even more difficult, but convention ...

I could not sleep, thinking, "Now what will I do?" It wasn't a question of whether I loved Betty or not. In my own defense, or my own bachelorhood, I tried to justify my waiting by saying: "I love Betty too much to want to hurt her. I'm still giving my 'earnings' to my mother, leaving myself just enough for my needs. It is evident, as you see, that my father never quite made it in "dem goldenem land" (the golden land). By giving to them, I'd be depriving Betty, my wife. The word "wife" sounded so foreign to my ears. A "wife." A wife???

Betty's family, too, was poor. Her mother was a widow with three daughters, all of marriageable age. Is it feasible?

And what is Betty thinking at this very moment? The girls very likely are persistent, asking her over and over again, "When?" When her Sholomel had not even asked her for her hand. How will I greet her tomorrow? All these questions raced through my mind. Yes, tomorrow I must make the decision. Before I closed my eyes that night, it was already tomorrow, and as yet, I had not reached a decision.
 

NOVEMBER 30, 1969, ch. 31
 

Our tour with "Mashka" was coming to a close. After the "kleiner shiker'l" Israel Rosenberg made the unasked for, untimely and unnecessary announcement our, as yet unplanned wedding, that week was turned into a week of unusual festivities. Business was good. Peace reigned among the members of the company, and being in daily search for a reason to "celebrate," our "impending marriage" was just the right social event to trigger this festival. In other words we were observing the custom of "shivo brokhes" (nuptial blessing) before the "I Do's" were said, and certainly before our marriage was consummated. As a matter-of-fact, our tour ended in May, and I still had not asked Betty that formal "question." Not until October 25th did I "cover her head" (Every married woman must, according to Orthodoxy, have her hair covered, either by kerchief or "parouk." (wig) Everyone seemed to know that we were getting married, everyone but Betty, who was too proud or too shy to ask, and me, who was selfish enough to want to guard my bachelorhood.

We finally brought the "Mashka" company home. I had invited Betty to spend the two summer vacation months in Loch Sheldrake with my family. Noticing how Betty was hesitating, I added, "You may bring along a chaperon. How would you like to bring your sister Lottie with you? I assure you, both of you, that both of you will be a welcome addition to my little family." Betty accepted. Meanwhile, for the entire month of May we had been seeing each other three or four times a week, either in Brooklyn with my family, or with her family in the Bronx. Incidentally I was already the proud owner of a car.

One evening Betty and I had seen a show on Broadway. To this day I don't remember what the name of the show was. I was so busy, thinking the entire evening ... There was no doubt in my mind that I loved her, but how am I going to ask Betty that monumental question so it shouldn't shock her. God forbid, when she hears it, or it shouldn't shock me when I hear my own question with my own ears. Now I really felt like the "Lemeshke." How does one say, "Will you marry me?"

What really prompted me to ask this question? Let me count the reasons. We were sitting in my car on the way to the Bronx, and I thought of my long trek back from the Bronx to Brooklyn. I asked myself, "What is to stop us from sharing one home? Think of the convenience of having Betty all to myself, not sharing her with three other females at her shelter, sharing her with my family of nine."

It came up. I didn't know my own courage, with this question, "Betty?" "Yes, Sholomel," she said, "What would you rather want? To remain a ballet dancer, or be a married woman, espoused to the man who adores you?"

Hearing my own statement, I was quite sure. I had never uttered this before, nor I must confess, have I ever said it since. (It never occurred to me that she could possibly be both a ballet dancer and Mrs. Sholom Secunda.) As an answer, gently Betty moved one inch closer to me and kissed me on the cheek. I held her tightly with one arm around her frail shoulder, although she had gained some weight in Loch Sheldrake. Mama saw to that. (I couldn't spare my second arm. it had to be on the wheel.) That was that!

One consenting kiss deprived the world of art of one great ballerina, and the feminine world of this "most eligible bachelor."

Arriving at our destination, we broke the news. That was no news to the small Almer family. Between kisses and blessings and "a glazele L'Chaim" with a glass of tea and cookies, we celebrated that "earth-shattering" event. By the time I got home to Penn Street, it was dawn, also too late to wake my family to impart the glad tidings. I couldn't sleep. I made an attempt. I closed my eyes, but I saw Betty, felt her head on my shoulders. How could I sleep? I heard the family stirring. Mama was preparing breakfast. I got out of bed and came into the kitchen. Coffee was being served.

"Sholomel," Mama asked, surprised. "Something wrong? You came home so late, and you're not sleeping. Something "kholile" (God forbid) happened between you and Betty?" The family looked at me for an answer. "I'm going to get married." I broke the news gently ...

"Well," said my brother Willie. "Shoyn lang tsayt geven" (It's long overdue.) My sisters wished me "Mazl tov," and Mama wiped her eyes. Papa took it calmly, and asked, "When, my son, will be the wedding?" Oh, when. "That's the question," I said. "You know, Papa, in the theatre one can't say 'when.' You have to consult the management, and the management has to consult the 'books' to see if there is a free evening when two such important people, such as the conductor and the ballerina, can be spared ..."

Meanwhile, at the theatre, some changes were taking place. Misha German, who had been at the Hopkinson Theatre with Oscar Green for two years, thought it more expedient to go to the "Windy City" of Chicago for the coming season. He had two excellent vehicles. Anshel Schorr, on the other hand, after many years in Philadelphia, took his beloved Dorale Weissman and migrated to Brooklyn, to the Liberty Theatre, and immediately sent for me.

We met at the Hebrew Actors' Union building and signed our contract. He had a list of the most eligible performers at hand, searching for a male lead, the best that money could buy. The first one on my list was Willie Schwartz, and Anshel Schorr seconded my motion, if he'd want to leave Second Avenue and Molly Picon to go to Brooklyn to star with Dora Weissman.

Molly Picon, for a little girl, had made big strides. Her prestige since "Yankele" had grown considerably. Her star was ascending. She wasn't a "promising hopeful" any longer. She had made good on that "promise," and all those who were prestigious before her "onslaught" had their importance diminished -- a matinee idol as was William Schwartz, at that time, suddenly feeling himself as important at the Picon Theatre as the fifth wheel on a wagon. The lines at the stage door did not form any longer for the "matinee idol," William Schwartz, but for the diminutive Molly Picon. Anshel Schorr felt that this was the most psychological moment to approach a man like William Schwartz.

"Hello, Mr. Schwartz," Schorr greeted him warmly. "How would you like to be the leading man of my 'Dorale' in Brooklyn? William Schwartz said, "Yes."

Now we had a need of a prima donna. My eyes had not become "jaded." I still could recognize a pretty girl when I saw one, and if she had a god voice, so much the better.

Anna Toback was still quite young and pretty, and she had a very lovely voice. She had left her mark on the audience, even as a little girl, when she was much sought after to play children's parts. (Miss Toback was one of the natural redheads.) Morris Guest, the famous director, had seen her when she was about sixteen, playing ingénues, and he cast her in his big production of "Mecca." Anna's mother kneaded bread, a commodity that was hard to come by. Her father was a janitor, carting barrels from the cellar to the rsidewalk and back.

Poor Anna. Tired of waiting, she was very happy to say "Yes" to Anshel Schorr. The rest came even easier. There was much to choose from in those earlier days of the Yiddish theatre. There was a newcomer, for instance, who was very unique, by the name of Pesach'ke Burstein. He came to America, a ready-made "buff komiker" (comedian). This was different than the American "Hymie Jacobson type," whom every newcomer to the theatre tried to imitate, and no one quite made it. Pesach'ke Burstein luckily, not having seen Hymie Jacobson, was quite original. He had a pleasant voice and danced the Jewish-Russian style dances, and he ended each "couplet" whistling the last chorus. The audience took his "whistle" as girls do when being whistled at. They frowned at it but were pleased. The Jewish audience was more than pleased, and that encouraged Pesach'ke. Even his name was unique. "Pesach'ke" means "Little Passover" because he was born on Passover. Or he might have inherited the name from his grandfather "Em zu lange yor" (May he live longer.)

With Pesach'ke, the "Ein-Un-Ein-Tzike" (one and only) Annie Lubin (that's how she preferred to be billed), and why not? Annie Lubin was a little too "outgoing," as the saying goes, but on her it looked good. A "character comedian" was always an integral part of the Jewish musical comedy, and Anshel Schorr engaged Jacob Wexler. He didn't "kill" anybody. No one swooned over "him," but he was a "fakhman" (he knew his trade.)

I had been pleasantly taken in by a "new face," Menasha Skulnik. I had seen him at the Yiddish Art Theatre. On stage he played some insignificant bit parts. But backstage Skulnik's part was much bigger. He was the stage manager. It was many years later that Menasha Skulnik, the little stage manager, became the Menasha Skulnik of Clifford Odets, the "Flowering Peach," the Menasha Skulnik whom the critics had acclaimed "the actor of the century."

Meanwhile, Menasha and I were walking from Cafe Royal to Delancey Street, over the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn. (The Cafe Royal had taken the place of "Stark's." Later the Cafe Royal became the cosmopolitan meeting place of some of our greatest in the professional arts: Chaplin, Chaliapin, Belasco, Edelstein, Rumshinsky, the famed Russian pianist Rachmaninoff, Dorothy Thompson, and many others.)

Menasha had been married to Sarah Kutner, who was a sister of Mrs. Lucy German. Mr. Misha German described Menasha as a comedian of "rare quality," not at all conventional. Of course, what do brothers-in-law know? If they happen to be of the same profession, they might even end up disavowing one another, as was the case. For instance, I gathered in no time with Lucy German, Skulnik's sister-in-law, that she couldn't tolerate such "unconventional" comedy, simply because she couldn't control Menasha, nor could she control the audience. Whenever he, Menasha, was on stage, "Mind you" -- that was one of Menasha Skulnik's expressions, "Mind you." All he had to say was "Mind You," and he had her audience in his pocket.

A note on Menasha Skulnik. He was not billed as a "star," not even a "starlet." He came upon the scene unheralded as a complete stranger, and in no time he was the talk of the profession.

The first act ended with a musical finale. Everyone participated. Everyone on stage had something to say and sing, all except Menasha. He was the only character that was not tied directly to the play, and yet he had to be on stage.

Here is where the trouble started among the performers. On stage, Menasha Skulnik sat quietly, not moving an eyelash. The audience roared. Each performer emoted. The audience paid no attention the the "emoting" artist. "They paid their money and laughed whenever they felt like it." And whenever Skulnik was on, they felt it, but that did not sit well with the performers. They gave Anshel Schorr an ultimatum. Either Skulnik stops doing what he's doing, or they will stop doing what they're supposed to be doing.

Anshel Schorr sat in the back of the theatre. "I must see what Menasha is doing." Schorr looked, stared and waited, the audience laughed. Schorr didn't laugh, he roared. Schorr came backstage and ordered: "Menasha, I am very sorry, you will  have to turn your back to the audience in the serious scenes, or else we can't end the act."

If there is such a thing as poetic justice, this was it. It didn't take to long when the director told the rest of the cast to "turn their backs to the audience because the audience comes to see Menasha. No one else matters." So much for "Menasha, the Magnificent."

My own personal problem had reversed itself. As much as I was "playing" the reluctant groom, I did not want to wait any longer. I suddenly realized how unfair I was to Betty. "Why should she have to wait just because I am kept busy? I went to Mr. Schorr and told him in no uncertain terms. "Mr. Schorr," I said, "You must look in your books. You must find two days for me and my future wife. A day for our wedding, and at least a day for our honeymoon." Schorr looked at me and asked, "Itzt hot zikh dir farvolt?" (A fine time you picked to get married.) "I can't spare you until the 25th of October." I talked it over with my Betty, ad she smoothed my ruffled nerves, as she was to do all the days of my life. "Sholomel," she said, "You've waited this long. If you promise not to run away, I won't either. We'll have the rest of our lives together." Betty always had a calming effect on me.

My father accompanied me to the synagogue on Bedford Avenue, not too far from my home. We made all the arrangements with the rabbi. The date was set, the 25th of October, on a Tuesday. "A mazeldiker tog" (A lucky day), the rabbi said. I thought, lucky for me!

Rabbi Rabinowitz was very popular in Brooklyn -- famous for his sermons. I informed the rabbi. "Our wedding ceremony will have to be performed early because the entire theatre profession is coming, and right after the 'khupe' they'll have to run, each to his theatre. My friend, Cantor Mordechai Hershman, will be "mesader kidushin" (the officiator of the marriage ceremony.) And when the cantor will find himself amongst theatrical performers, he no doubt will turn the ceremony into a cantorial recital. "You know how cantors are," I added.

I came to the point of asking. "How much do you charge, Rabbi?" "I charge more for you -- twenty-five dollars." "Is that with the 'droshah'?" (sermon), I asked again. "Yes," he nodded with his head. "In that case, I'll ask you a 'shaylah' (a question of law). How much will you charge without the sermon?" The Rabbi smiled, getting the humor of it all. "In other words, you want it 'toute suite' (short and sweet). No droshah, because the theatre people will be here. Is that it?"

"Of course. Actors don't like to hear anyone else talk but themselves." "In that case, Mr. Secunda, it will cost you thirty-five dollars." "Good," I said and gave the man the thirty-five dollars.

		Invitations to the wedding were sent out to the entire profession. No one would miss this event. "We won't believe Secunda is married until we see him under the 'khupe.'" The ceremony start punctually, so that all concerned could get back to their respective theatres in time to raise the curtain. My bride looked beautiful. The groom, I thought, a bit silly, in a state of full dress "costume" borrowed from Pesach'ke Burstein. The stove pipe [hat] too, was just a bit too high. I felt like the "boy cantor" in an oversized yarmulke in Dobrinka. Rabbi Rabinowitz kept his word and kept his part down to a minimum. Cantor Hershman performed as predicted. Seeing his audience, he gave his maximum. The audience, forgetting the bride and groom, enjoyed the concert thoroughly and applauded. I drank the wine, I broke the glass, I kissed my bride, and we marched back the full length of he synagogue, up the isle forming a "receiving line" ... What I was "receiving" from my friends, I need not tell you. Suffice it to say that I laughed my head off. They kissed us hurriedly and ran off to the theatre. Suddenly I felt someone pull on my coattails. "Sholom, Sholom, hurry I must have my full dress!!" I had to think fast. I apologized to my wife and said, "I'll be right back." Burstein and I had arranged beforehand that he would bring my "civilian suit" with him, and after the ceremony the bride would change her wedding gown, her mother would take it back to the wardrobe room, and Pesach'ke would take his frock. I ran into the men's room, thinking that Pesach'ke had prepared my suit. I heard Pesach'ke scream, "Oy a brokh!" (equivalent to catastrophe). "Sholom," he said, "I forgot to bring your suit." "Ratevet!" (Help). We locked the doors of the men's room and we exchanged suits. He walked out first in the full dress. Thus under the influence of "L'Chaim," two saw a man in coattails and thought that it was the groom. They followed him.  I grabbed my astonished bride and made a dash to our car. We drove to Penn Street (my home). It was practically around the corner, to change my clothes, hoping to get back in time to celebrate with our friends. Meanwhile, back at the synagogue, those friends who were not in a hurry to go back to their theatres came into the big hall, saw a big table spread with goodies, and drinks were plentiful. They went to town ...
		photo: Wedding photography of Sholom and Betty Secunda, 1927. Courtesy of the Yiddish Foward.

We were married when Prohibition was in flower. The "shammes" (sexton) had supplied the "mashkah" (drinks). Where he got it, only he and God knows. I suspected that he concocted it according to his own formula. Those who had tasted the first one and realized that "one is enough" were "alive." Others who had tasted the first and, because it was "free," took advantage. They were dead, "dead drunk."

The orchestra, members of both "Musicians' Clubs," and thinking they could do no wrong, started celebrating early and ran into overtime. When the guests were ready to "trip the light fantastic," the musicians were lying on synagogue benches, stretched out in their tuxedos, hugging their instruments, dead to the world. The dancing guests shook them, squirted "two-cents" plain (seltzer) on their faces, but to no avail. Just at that crucial moment, Betty and I returned.

"Hey maestro," The guests kibitzed, "We want music, or else we'll take our presents back." My fellow composers came to my rescue. The first one to pick up the fiddle was Alexander Olshanetsky, with a Russian "Po matyushka" (Russian curse word). He was more Russian than Yiddish or English. He continued. "Gaspada" (Friends), who needs the no-goodniks? Where is Rumshinsky? ("Yes, Rumshinsky also came to the wedding. Time and a few successes mellowed even Rumshinsky.) He happily sat at the piano. "Vu iz der khosn?" (Where is the bridegroom?) Olshanetsky was searching. Seeing us come in, he called across the hall.

"Hey 'Basyack' (tramp), as he continued in his Russian, "Vazmi baraban (take the drug) and barabanshe (get to work and play on the drums.)"

The three of us, Olshanetsky on the fiddle, Rumshinsky on the piano, and I on the drums, we supplied the music. We played "A freylekhs" (Jewish wedding dance), a few waltzes (which were always my favorite dance), polkas and other Russian dance, a "sherele" (a scissors dance because of the criss-crossing).

I think my in-laws danced to their heart's content. And Mama was happy. "Oy kinder," she said, kissing us, "I haven't danced since my own wedding. I should only live to dance at your children's wedding, 'futher in himel.' (He who dwelleth in heaven.) Mama always included him.

My friends, the composers, also were getting a bit under the weather (When no one was looking, the sexton with his beverages got to them too.)

I left the drums, walked over to them, thanked them heartily for coming to my rescue, vowing that I would do the same at their wedding." (They had already been married and divorced. Then again, not everyone could be as lucky as I was. How many Bettys are there in this world?)

Little by little my friends took leave, the synagogue lights were dimming, being put out, and there was silence, except for the heavy breathing of the "klezmer," who were sleeping on their backs, hugging their instruments and their dreams.

Betty and I looked at them. They were not an inspiring sight. It was enough to discourage weddings. Putting my arms around her, I came up with the brilliant prediction, "Mrs. Secunda, my love, I give you my word, I will never marry again!!!" "Neither will I," she answered. We sealed it with a kiss ..."

"Come, husband mine," my blushing bride said. "Time to go to sleep ..."
 

December 7, 1969, ch. 32

LOOKING LIKE A MILLION DOLLARS TO OPEN "THE ROLLAND" THEATRE ...

This was the name of the theatre. Michalesko had been playing in Chicago that past season, and rumors had it that the "ladies of Chicago will never be the same again."

The Hebrew Actors' Union, the Cafe Royal was cooking like a cauldron. "Who will be the company surrounding Michal Michalesko?" "Who will be the composer?"

William Rolland called me on the "Q.T." (on the quiet). We were negotiating. We had become friends the year when I was writing music for Clara Young, and he was the manager. Our friendship through the years had endured.

"Boychik," he said to me, "this will be the greatest chance of your life. The most beautiful Yiddish theatre, the handsome star, and we will assemble the best company. Don't think twice. Wages, I will give you the same as I would have paid Rumshinsky or Olshanetsky. Let us shake hands and 'zol zayn mit mazl.' Tomorrow your picture will be on the first page of the "Forverts." Same size as Michal Michalesko. 'Sholom Secunda, the young talented composer is engaged to compose music for the new Million-Dollar Theatre and its handsomest matinee idol.'"

I found myself in a dilemma. I would have loved to have said "Yes" to William Rolland, but on the other hand, I hated to leave Anshel Schorr. He treated me royally for three years in Philadelphia. At the Liberty Theatre, even better, if that is possible. How will I be able to face him?

It was only the beginning of January; the season runs at least until May. I found myself between two fires. I was very frank with Rolland. I told him how I felt. "What nonsense!" he answered. "Silly boy, do you think that Anshel Schorr will reopen the Liberty Theatre next year with such competition? We know Anshel Schorr. He is too smart, and too careful a man. Forget it!" "I'll speak to Schorr tonight, ask him his plans, and I'll give you my answer tomorrow."

At night at the Liberty Theatre I spoke to Mr. Schorr. "I have something to discuss with you. I think it's important to both of us. How would you like to take a ride in my car to Cafe Royal? On the way I'll tell you my problem." "Fine, Secunda. Why not? We'll be glad to, Dorale and I, after the performance."

Mrs. Schorr was sitting in the back seat with my Betty, and Anshel Schorr with me. Driving down Eastern Parkway, I started. By the time I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge I told him the entire story from A to Z, about Rolland's proposition, about our negotiations. Mr. Rolland knows that until I talk to you, I will not close any business agreements with him or anyone else.

Schorr was as we said before an astute man. He was nicknames, "The Jewish Bismark." I didn't know Bismark, but if he were as clever as Anshel Schorr, he should have been called the "German Anshel Schorr." "Lehavdil." "You must understand," said Schorr, "as well as I and the entire theatre profession that I will not touch the Liberty Theatre for a second season with such competition. This would be sheer idiocy. You know well, Secunda, that I am not an idiot. I have not formulated any plans as of yet."

"I may even listen to my 'Dorale.' (He called his wife "Dorale," and she called him, "Anshele.") She is very anxious to go to Europe, especially Warsaw. At this time, Secunda, I cannot give you any definite answer. If you can delay your answer to him, so much the better. If you cannot, I'll understand your position. We'll remain the same good friends, no matter what. We will be together, if not next season, then next year. We will write many successes, of that I am certain. One season does not a lifetime make."

We never worked together again. Anshel Schorr died on May 31, 1942. His Dorale (Dora Weissman) outlived him by some thirty-five years. She passed on, close to ninety years of age, in 1974.

We reached the [Cafe] Royal, We said good night. They lived in New York [City] I had looked through the large window of the Cafe Royal and saw that Rolland was inside. I had no heart to speak with him in Schorr's presence. I excused myself from not joining him. I saw Schorr walk over to Rolland. They shook hands. I saw the words formulated on Schorr's lips: "Good luck." I didn't stay any longer. Betty had remained in the car, and I joined her. We started back to Penn Street in Brooklyn, to our home.

After a short silence, I asked Betty whether she had overheard any of my conversation with Schorr. "No," she said. She had been talking with Dora and didn't hear anything. "Why, Dear?" I related my conversation with Schorr and asked: "What do you think of Rolland's proposition?  What do you think my answer to Rolland should be?" And Betty as usual ...

"I can depend on you, Sholomel, no matter what you decide will make me happy."

The next day Rolland telephoned me. He already knew my answer. Schorr had recounted our conversation in the car.

That same afternoon I had a rendezvous with my new director, and the contract was signed.

During those years, as soon as a contract was signed, the directors gave the performer "forshus" (an advance on the future wages). A sign of good will. He handed me a check for one-thousand dollars ... "Mazl tov."

Rolland was energetic. He knew what he wanted, and he went after it.

Rolland started putting his company together. I suggested the young and talented prima donna, Lucy Levine, who had been in Philadelphia with Goldinburg, then to the Second Avenue with Molly Picon. As William Schwartz before her, she was all too ready to leave New York, tired of singing "second-fiddle" to Molly, with no special billing, going nowhere fast. Opposite Michalesko her parts would be much bigger, and so will her billing. Money comes with the poster. Lucy already was one of the "new crop" of prima donnas: young and pretty, she played the piano and had a fine voice -- coloratura soprano.

Rolland had also engaged a young comedian named Jack Rechtzeit, who had make his mark at the New York National Theatre with Aaron Lebedeff. As a show, the entire company was well-balanced. Most of the performers sang and danced, and that was what is needed for an operetta.

Rolland and Michalesko had great faith in the writer, Louis Freiman. He had written several plays for Michalesko before, and it suited his taste and his talent. Before the 1927-28 season ended, I was handed the play. I was writing the music. They liked the play. I reserved my opinion.

"What shall we call our first play? Let's give it a romantic name that will entice the ladies. The gentlemen will follow," said Michalesko. Our first-born was named "The Song of Love" (Dos lied fun libe).

The architects, engineers, electricians, painters, all guaranteed that the theatre would be ready in time for the opening. The announcement came out in the newspapers. "The Million-Dollar Theatre Will Open its Golden Portals on the 25th of September 1928, with Michal Michalesko, in Sholom Secunda's new operetta, "The Song of Love.'"
 

December 14, 1969, ch. 33
 

The saying, "Not all is gold that glitters," was never truer. The Rolland Theatre was a Million-Dollar "Pandora's Box." It opened problems that I found myself too weak to surmount. It plagued me through the years, and finally forced me to divorce myself from the profession that had given me all the economic comforts and popularity throughout the world of Yiddish theatre. That paved the way, at times, to even "luxury" for my family, and social position of some sort that many of my colleagues came to envy. The truth is that all this physical comfort was accompanied by mental anguish. My battle for "bread" was easier to conquer. My emotional struggle for aesthetic elements that I was hoping to attain was thwarted at every turn.

William Rolland, in whom I had recognized a cultural element at the outset of our encounter, had succumbed to the "Egel HaZahav" (the Golden Calf) -- the Million-Dollar Theatre. The reasons why I found it difficult to accept the "tried and trite" formula was many-fold.

My earliest childhood in the "cheder" implanted in me the love for the beautifully written and spoken word. The "chanting" of daily prayers and study meant more than a mere form of pastime. It meant to me a delving, as to its meaning. As a little boy cantor, I stood before the "omud" (altar), and my cantillations were not mere vocal "prowess." I truly believed that I was chosen, or have chosen if you will, to speak to "Him." I tried to apply that integrity into my work, not merely to write according to the method, but according to the masters by whom I was greatly inspired. Not for a moment had I thought of myself as having reached their level, but the seed which they and the fine pedagogues had implanted in me through my study, sprouted like a spring, seeking to reach its level.

I thought that the true form of Yiddish music is being "raped" by foreign elements (I had nothing against jazz -- "Turkey Trot" and such -- but it had no place in Yiddish music.) Seeing the recitatives and cantorial cantillations of synagogues and temples being defiled, taken over by jazz. "Opera" in itself is beautiful, but not at the altar. I became a disillusioned, disappointed human being, financial rewards notwithstanding. I was ready to divorce myself from all of that. That's what I thought, but had not dared to vice it, for fear I would be ridiculed by the "world" around me, and even those nearest to me. So much for my thoughts ...

It was that period in the theatre that had set a precedent in the Yiddish theatre, that in order to direct a play one did not necessarily need to have any cultural background, nor have any special talents in the technicalities of the stage, nor theatrical background, nor form of dance, as it is in the case of musicals -- at least a smattering of musical knowledge. What was of greater importance than the aforementioned attributes was that one had to consider themself a "star" (that does not include the possibility that a star could possess that too) -- but, if a performer thought of himself as being the proud possessor of all that, and has enough money to back his own ego that he "anoints" himself as a "star," and in the process believes it. Such was too often the case in many of our theatres. Some tried it and "made it." Those were the exceptions, and not the rule.

On Broadway there were many outstanding performers, to mention but a few: John Barrymore was blessed with great talent, yet he did not think of himself as a stage director. Catherine Cornell, Helen Hayes, Mary Martin and many others too numerous to mention -- drawing power at the box office, but they did not take it upon themselves to "direct" their own plays.

This was where our Yiddish Theatre differed. If one of the "box-office greats" danced a "Kamarinskaya" well, or delivered a "couplet" successfully, he also considered himself capable of directing. As an example, Aaron Lebedeff was greatly loved in his category. I'd include several other stars, among them I'd include Michalesko. He too deserved the "awesome" name "Shtern" (Star). He was handsome, of graceful stature, had a fine baritone voice. He was an excellent performer, in dramatic as well as light fare, passed all the aforementioned "mayles" (fine qualities), yet was not capable of directing. Just as being a good director does not necessarily mean being a good performer. It is of the utmost importance for a director to be artistic, academically cultural, and theatrically fully prepared for that task, just as one cannot become a symphonic conductor, no matter how talented, without having academically prepared himself for this rigorous and exacting task. There are plateaus and degrees of achievement. That is already "a Got zakh" (in the hands of our Creator)" ...

Out of deference to Michalesko, the excellent performer, I may also add that he himself did not believe in his own directorial powers. However, since it was a "fait accompli" (an accepted fact) that the star must also be the director, so be it. The play had to get his approval, but while listening or reading a play, he only had his own importance in mind, whether his part was big enough, can he find enough jokes to make his audience laugh, cry, have enough costume changes, enough to outshine everyone else around him. The people will flock to the box office.

The writer of the play knew his star better than his "craft." He didn't write because he had a thought, and it had to reach the public. He wrote to suit the ego of the star. To make certain that his play would find itself "on the boards," he had to satisfy the star, even more than the producer and/or the composers, and often the audience. He was thinking selfishly. "Damn the play -- the part is the thing!"

This is one of the theatre's clichés: "Der oylem is a goylem" (The audience is a lowly automaton. A "Moishe" or a "John Q. Public" will accept anything that is put in front of him.) Only time and experience could convince them otherwise, but then it was too late to correct it. I am still of the opinion that the fourteen Yiddish theatres that once functioned solely in New York, ceased to exist not only because the Yiddish theatre public lost its taste for Yiddish theatre, not because of its "snobbishness" toward Yiddish as a language, but rather they had found nothing new to entice them. They had become so familiarized with the plot, the contents, that they had no further interest in exploring it further. They knew the sequel, what was to follow, what its outcome will be, and as to the punch line of the joke, he said it before the performer.
 

A young William Rolland

Now back to the "Rolland Theatre," the theatre that had built-in electrical equipment of technical "ingenuity," even an elevator in the middle of the stage that could be lowered as far down as the basement of the theatre and could raise it to its fullest. I had thought of utilizing these new technical accomplishments with new thoughts and innovations into the play. When it was decided irrevocably that Freiman's "The Song of Love" is a must, I had to accept it!!! I took a copy to Loch Sheldrake, my summer working quarters. As I've told you earlier in my writing, my summer residence was encircled by journalists, poets, novelists, and satirists of every description and status. William Rolland, at first, was in complete agreement with my method of "thought and work." "Artistically and culturally," he said, "I'll leave it in your hands." He too was often ridiculed when or if he was seen with a book under his arm (He avoided being seen reading, or even browsing, at a bookstore). In Loch Sheldrake it was not difficult for me to chose a "poetic lyricist." Naturally, he had to have a feeling for the stage as well. A "literat," as Max Gabel used to describe a person with a book. These were my two recommendations: H. Gudelman (Goodelman), the poet, to write the lyrics -- Agreed -- and the new Russian-Jewish "ballet meister," Krasnov (Krasnoff), who in 1928 came to these shores. He too had escaped from Russia via China as did Alexander Olshanetsky, Peretz Sandler, Aaron Lebedeff, Misha and Celia Boodkin, the Arcos, and others.

Michal Michalesko

Krasnov had danced and choreographed many Russian ballets, Pesach'ke Burstein had known him in Russia and brought him to my attention. After conversing with him, Krasnov, I could see that he could bring to this operetta a new approach, just as Benjamin Tzemach had on my recommendation brought to the strictly Yiddish theme of "My yiddishe meydele" (Hasidic theme of that play).

I introduced Krasnov to Rolland, and an agreement had been readied. The music and dance theme were to follow in the European tradition of Franz Lehar, Emerick Kalman and Leo Fall.

Michalesko had no need to imitate any one performer, but he had that weakness. If Lebedeff danced the Kamaranskaya, Michalesko had to do the same, and he did it quite well. Lebedeff did a "Lezginka." You had to make a place in the play for that type of dance. Whether he did it well, that was not the question.

Lebedeff excelled in the "couplet" (the comedic form of a song). Michalesko also had. The fact that Michalesko sang a ballad, a serious number better than Lebedeff, or perhaps better than anyone else in the Yiddish theatre, that didn't suffice. He had to do everything that Lebedeff did, plus ...

Burdened with that knowledge, I had prepared myself to write and was torn between my convictions and their ambitions. Privately they "loved" my suggestions. Left alone, for instance, with the writer, Louis Freiman, the star would "whisper," "a suggestion that came to me": "Sholom, you should include somewhere a 'peppy"' and a few 'catchy"' songs. I have had a chance to hear some of Rumshinsky's new tunes, as well as Olshanetsky's, and they already have for the coming season, included some 'peppy and catchy '"lidlekh" (little songs). It is very healthy for the show to have songs that are 'peppy and catchy.'" That sort of advice weighed me down and kept my own creative writing from "getting off the pad," to soar to imaginative heights. That depressed me more and more. That was the beginning of my emotional problems, and they kept piling up. In that state of mind and atmosphere, I was supposed to wrangle with myself, and with those at the helm of the Million-Dollar Theatre that was all "glitter." But was it ... GOLD?
 

December 28, 1969, ch. 34
 

The Rolland Theatre greatly publicized the "Million-Dollar Theatre," and it was so new that it wasn't even completely finished yet. The walks to the theatre and leading to the stage were covered, not with red carpets, but with boards and newspapers. But the occasion, nevertheless, was very festive. The entire theatre profession was invited. Those who could, came; the newspaper people, Yiddish and English, came. They were invited. All came, as no one wanted to remain on the outside looking in. They wanted to be among the first to see the Million-Dollar Theatre, hear its star, Michal Michalesko, and listen to the music from "The Song of Love." The theatre, inside and out, dripped with gold. The costumes, the scenery, the lighting effects, even surmounted the biggest theatre in New York, just when you thought that your possibly could not see anything more outlandish in the Yiddish theatre.

The curtain went up in the second act, and in front of your eyes half the stage, the entire chorus with the dancers disappeared before your eyes. How? Via electric magic. A button was pushed, and an elevator took them all down into a cellar. What they did in the cellar, we did not see. The stage was in complete darkness, not longer than two seconds. When the lights went on, just as before, the blackout, the continuity of the play (such as it was), went on. Did it add anything to the success of the play, you ask? Well, I wish I could say that it did. It didn't!!!

So for the first few weeks, people paid good money to see their idol, Michalesko, and a "disappearing cast." It was the talk of, well, of Brooklyn. But once the secret was no longer a secret, the audience stayed away in droves. Had the overhead been less, it would have weathered the storm. Under the top-heavy circumstances, we tried to rescue ourselves with a new play. Louis Freiman was readying another operetta called "Senorita."

However, in the same time we put up a melodrama to reduce the expenses. Those who remember Michal Michalesko know very well what a fine performer he was. He was as good in the drama as he was in the operetta. Much better, shall we say facetiously, than dancing the "Lezginka."

"Senorita," as the title indicates, was what we call a "Spanish lady." Michalesko was the Spanish lady (a transvestite; he looked just as sexy). It was a great success financially. Morally it gave me nothing but a deeper depression.

The change for the better came from within my own little family. On the fifth of January 1929, my beautiful wife presented me with a beautiful son. We named him Shmuel, after Betty's father, who had passed away at the very early age of thirty-six.

In our home on Penn Street (where we were still residing with my parents), it was as if a crown prince was born to the Secunda family. I don't know why, because my parents already had six grandchildren. But the arrival of my Prince Shmilikel was something special. My father was happy, another Secunda (only two of the six grandchildren were boys.) The others were happy, perhaps because they knew that I was already gaining some popularity, and Shmilikel was the first of their now-famous Sholomel. Betty and I were happy because, well, we were happy because of our son, and ...

It was at the Bushwick Avenue Hospital in Brooklyn, where our "bchor" (our first born) saw the light. Even before he was brought home, he had countless nicknames: Shmilikel, Meelee  ... My sister Thelma wasn't satisfied with just Meelee. She named him Meelee Peelee. She would "goo-goo" to Meelee Peelee, and Meelee Pelee would "goo-goo" right back at her, So she said ...

Incidentally, the name Meelee Peelee remained in the family. Among many of our close friends, and until this day, when I address my very adult son, he is to me still my "Meelee Peelee." Not Shmuel, not Shmilikel, or any other formal name like Sheldon or Shelly. Whenever I think of him, I see him as my "Meelee Peelee."

The "bris" (circumcision) took place at the hospital. This wasn't just another "bris." The only thing missing (except for the physical elimination), to turn this event into an "American national holiday" was the unfurling of the American Flag. The entire profession turned out en masse. Every male visitor who came to honor me was happy it was my son's "bris," and not his ... under the "mohel's chalef" (the ritualistic instrument that is used at the circumcision).

Every female came to congratulate the mother, pass judgment on our offspring (her offspring, no doubt much more beautiful at birth than the Secunda boy). Betty and I knew better. "Not because he's ours. Just look for yourself. Have you seen another like him?"

Well, indeed! Even we saw another one, almost like him. It was "Ju Ju Puju," or second son. I'll tell you about him later.

Meanwhile, back to the "bris." Mark Karper, the English publicity agent, had made sure that this "happening" should have its share of pomp. It was good publicity for the box office. What does my son's "bris" have to do with the box office? But who else has the mind of a publicity agent? Only another agent ...

All newspapers were represented. The Jewish reporters represented the Jewish newspapers. They would have come on general principles to welcome another "yidele" to the fold. The English reporters thought that it was "unique," and they came. Would you believe that there were photographers at the "bris"? And the next day the City of New York (not only Brooklyn, but all five boroughs) was a much happier place because they read the fortieth page of the New York Times. There it was, the good news: "Sholom Secunda and his Frau Betty are the Proud Parents of a Son ... Mazl Tov!!!"

Meelee Peelee was a rosy baby, and I began seeing everything "rosy." My job was great. The dark drab clouds of pessimism, of depression left me. I stopped seeing the dark side of my surroundings. I didn't mind the "plotless" plays. I didn't mind the "directionless" directors. All was right and bright with the world. Even the world of "Yiddish theatre."

My personal happiness did nothing to aid the theatre though. The season ended for the Rolland Theatre with financial losses. Still not discouraged, William Rolland already was planning the next season, 1929-1930 for his "Million-Dollar Theatre."

Misha and Lucy German concluded their season in Chicago and expressed a desire to come back. And why not to Brooklyn? It had been good for them in the past with the operettas, "Mashka" and "Margarita" at the Hopkinson Theatre. They made history with great successes only two short seasons ago. Now, coming from Chicago, the Germans had a brand new repertoire: dramas and melodramas.

William Rolland with his Million-Dollar Theatre, and Misha and Lucy German with their past success and promise of a future, became partners. I, Sholom Secunda, was re-engaged to write the music and conduct the orchestra.

It was hailed as a very artistic and commercial combination. Both Rolland and German had good taste, and if not diverted too much from the outside, they will do good business. Lucy German was a seasoned performer with more charm than beauty, wanting to play nothing but leading ladies, "love interests," whether it was the drama, the comedy, or the operetta. Lucy, as we indicated, was not young. She was middle-aged. But she had good fortune. The older she got, the better looking she became. Lucy did not have a voice. Yet she could sing a number well. Lucy could cry her way through any number, and it would conclude in thunderous applause. It never failed.

Misha German, for his first operetta to open at the Rolland Theatre, chose a William Siegel play called, "Katya's khasene (Katie's Wedding)." Lucy was Katya, and as star and wife of the director, she had to sing more than anyone else in the show. Hoe do you come up with more than one successful song for one with no voice? You try a little harder!!! Right? Right! I suggested Israel Rosenberg -- still the little "shikerl." He should write the lyrics (No one knew Lucy's capacity as well as Israel Rosenberg.) He came up with delightfully folksy lyrics. Israel Rosenberg was more than a "lyricist." For the combination of Misha and Lucy German, Israel Rosenberg was a "doctor." A "play doctor." He was a specialist in fitting Lucy German with the right scenes, the right approach, the right comedy, the right drama, when Israel Rosenberg was through "stitching together" the garment for Lucy German. Lucy was well-clad, artistically and professionally speaking, but Misha German wanted even more than that, not only that his Lucy should shine in the play, but he was interested in the play in its entirety. Above all he wanted his play, his production, to be more artistically different than most other plays, and he went about it the right way. He engaged an excellent cast to surround Lucy, competition or not.

At the top of the list, German engaged Betty Simonoff as the prima donna. I emphasize "prima donna," German was sure. Betty would not play the love interest. Betty's endowments were the beauty of her voice. She was blessed with beauty of voice, with no one equal in this way in the Yiddish Theatre. It was a voice of quality. Each register had its full value. It wasn't all study that was responsible for its perfection, but it was as if nature had seen her mistakes in having deprived her beloved child of other feminine qualities. When Betty Simonoff opened her mouth, you recognized her intelligence. Her voice soared and raised with impetus the music, the words, and its meaning. She put something into that, that which wasn't even there, before she added that ingredient called "Betty Simonoff."

German also had the foresight to engage two groups: one to sing, the other to dance. Not the usual combination of men and women who would sing together like any other ordinary chorus, but he wanted the male singers to wear tuxedos and serve as accompaniment to the other singers, sort of harmonious continuity that would run throughout the play.

I liked Misha German's new idea, and so did Israel Rosenberg. And during the summer they came up with some very fine contributions. One of them was a number called, "Yehi Ratzon" (The prayer blessing for the new month). Just as "Dos yiddishe lied" in Philadelphia, under Anshel Schorr, so did "Yehi Ratzon" in Brooklyn, became the hit of the play. Lucy and Misha German sang a duet, both without voices, but all were very successful as well!

Years later a young lady from Italy came to sing at the Concord Hotel. I had played "Yehi Ratzon" for her, and she simply fell in love with that number. She started studying it, I coached her, and before you knew it Jeanette La Bianca learned that song so well that the Italian singer had built an entire career around one Jewish number. Other numbers followed because of that success. In that time Jeanette La Bianca changed not only her religion, but her entire repertoire, practically all Yiddish, and she was in great demand by most Jewish organizations.

Every silver lining has a cloud. German's success at the Rolland Theatre would have been even greater if not for that "cloud burst," that infamous October 29, 1929, that "Black Thursday." The walls caved in on "Wall Street," and the world toppled. It was the crash that was heard around the world. The Million-Dollar Theatre was no exception. there is a Hebrew saying: "Tsores rabim-khatzi nehhama" (Troubles that befall all is half as painful to bear, sometimes as if it were the disaster of yours alone.) In other words, if everyone is in the same boat, the unbearable is bearable.

People simply stopped going to the theatre. They stopped living. Many jumped to their death from rooftops. It was estimated in astronomical proportions. It is an accepted fact that the least economical setback, the theatre, is the first to suffer the consequences. The commodity of bread outweighs all others. Everything was at a standstill. Most theatres closed. We made a valiant effort playing for as little wages that could keep body and soul together. Half-wages was the best week we had. No wages was the order of the week. The theatre closed. My family had increased. My income decreased. It went down to zero. I began looking. "Whence cometh my help" ...

I returned to the synagogue. Not just to pray, though pray I did, if for no other reason than for my wife and child, and for my parents, and for our sick, sick world at large.

Chazan Heiman was looking for a choir leader for his synagogue in East Midwood, Flatbush, Brooklyn. The situation in the synagogue was not a happy one. Musically speaking, it went downhill. The great choir masters that kept liturgical music on a very high plateau, conductors like Herman Wall [Wohl?], Margolis, Gherry Shnipelinski, Machtenberg and others. They were either getting older, or were too old, or perhaps met their maker, and their places were taken by younger ones, but not of the same caliber. Youngsters without musical preparation, for their roles, except that they sung in the choir. In Europe, young boys used to sing in the choir for the love of it. They hoped to apply their knowledge to their future, perhaps to become cantors. In America I found it just the opposite. Most of them, the youngsters, were only interested in the monetary reward, "big or small." The boy rarely studied music. Nevertheless, as soon as a teenager lost his soprano or alto voice and could no longer be employed as a choir boy, he turned conductor (Who can't do that?) To illustrate this misconception, Celia Adler, the great Yiddish actress, the eldest daughter of Jacob P. Adler, tells in her "memoirs' the story about her grandfather, her mother's father. Her mother was Dina Feinman, whose father wanted to come to America, and he asked his son-in-law Jacob P. Adler, not wanting to be a financial burden on the family. "I'd be satisfied with any kind of job, no matter how menial. I'll do anything you tell me, even if it is only to stand and make with the "shtekele" (to make like the man with a baton)/

These so-called "conductors" did the same thing. They didn't study, didn't ready music, they simply learned the music by heart, when they resumed the position of a "conductor," there they did the same with the other young boys: rehearsed with them, whatever they remembered from their childhood years. The few who were clever enough "to know how little they knew," they became business agents and had others do the conducting.

It is easy to see how that highly specialized field lost its liturgical specialty, its unique beauty. The "theatres" moved in, and the art of liturgy became contaminated with jazz. "Hay Babba Ribba," or its equivalent, became the modern liturgical music.

Tragically, the Orthodox synagogues were worse off. There, the uneducated became masters. Cantor Heiman of the East Midwood Center could not tolerate such wanton sacrilege. He looked for someone to continue with its artistic liturgy in the tradition of the synagogue. He approached me. I readily accepted. Firstly, to augment my income.

Secondly, upon entering the religious environment, my first love was rekindled. The Love for the altar was reawakened. I went back to "breishis" (my beginning). I began to compose original liturgical music to the prayers.

The "talkies" were becoming popular. Many performers, composers, and instrumentalists were seeking Hollywood talkies. I thought business in New York, for my work, was at a standstill. Let me try Hollywood.

Muni Weisenfreund (Paul Muni) had become by then quite a personality out in Hollywood. We had been very friendly many years ago when I used to come "a-visiting" his sister-in-law, Lucy Finkel, sister to his wife Bella. I thought that perhaps he, or even Bella, could help me open a door, so to speak. I might be able to write some music for one of the Hollywood musicals. I persuaded Pesach'ke Burstein that he too should try his luck. "Let's go together," and we did. We went by train for four-and-a-half days. We took enough food with us to last from New York to California.

The man who knew Muni Weisenfreund apparently left his past in New York, putting everything and everybody out of his mind. "In is heart" he apparently never had them, his old friends that is. In Hollywood, he never made any new ones. Muni did not love people. To us he gave the "frozen sholder," and he made no secret of it. To me he gave a very cold and discouraging "hello." So I dragged myself from studio to studio, searching the "dem nekhtigen tog" (my yesterdays), but I searched in vain. At Universal Studios I met Mr. Cherniavsky, who at one time had been with Maurice Schwartz at the [Yiddish] Art Theatre. He had reached quite a comfortable position at that studio, and he had encouraged me by saying: "I am sure if you persevere, that you will no doubt find something here. Not at Universal, of course, but 'somewhere' in Hollywood."

Again there was an obstacle, the "fly in the ointment" -- the business of the Union -- although their law was a legitimate one. Los Angeles Union Local did not discriminate against newcomers, or "oldcomers." If one wanted to work in Hollywood in any musical capacity, one had to become a member of the Los Angeles Local for at least six months prior to ones taking a job at any movie studio. My Betty advised me: "You're there. Stay in California for at least that length of time. We'll be in touch with each other ..."

I couldn't see it her way. Stay away from her and our child? In the meantime, I do have a job in the theatre to fill, in a radio station, and a position at the East Midwood Jewish Center. My decision was to come home.

The comedian, Abe Sincoff, had also come to Hollywood from New York to seek fame and fortune. Since neither of us three found anything to keep us there permanently, not even on a temporary basis, the "three musketeers," i.e. Burstein, Sincoff and Secunda, were on their way back to New York.

We discovered Hollywood, but Hollywood did not "discover" us. We only spent money. Careers we did not make. But promises and pleasures, oh, we had in full measure!
 

January 11, 1970, ch. 35
 

Jennie Goldstein was the "Queen of the Melodrama." Jennie Goldstein was pretty with curly black hair, and she had a baby face. No one cried as prettily as did Jennie Goldstein. She could "cry you a river," and when she did, her baby-blue eyes would glisten even brighter and melt the hearts of her devotees, of whom she had many. No one lost her "umshuld" (innocence), a commodity greatly cherished in the era, as many times as did Miss Goldstein. She was so popular that mothers wanting to praise their young daughters would say about them, "She's a regular Jennie Goldstein, and when she starts crying, who can deny her anything?"

There is a story. I don't know how many in our profession are aware of it. Jennie Goldstein was very kind-hearted. When William Rolland was undertaking that enormously costly task of building his Million-Dollar Theatre, he was not ashamed to ask for help (Anyone who would give anything, he would be willing to accept.) Among those who contributed "something" was Jennie Goldstein. And, what was that little "something"? Jennie Goldstein gave her diamond tiara. How did she come by this diamond tiara? For her twenty-fifth anniversary, her then husband, Max Gabel, had a "coronation" on the stage of the Public Theatre, and in front of the entire audience "crowned" his wife Jennie, the "Queen of his Heart." As an expression of love and appreciation, he gave this diamond crown to her. Now when William Rolland asked for help, to enhance and enrich the world of Jewish theatre, Jennie Goldstein, good-natured, as usual came to the "fore." Out of friendship to Mr. Rolland and to the profession, she presented Rolland with the crown saying, "Mr. Rolland, help yourself to its value. I have confidence that when you are able, you will be able to pay me back."

It was no secret then. The secret remains to this day, whether or not "Le Rolland" every paid her back. Some say yes, some say no. Jennie did not say anything. From that you may gather that Jennie Goldstein was a star in more ways that one.

The Million-Dollar Theatre was born in an unlucky year. It was 1931, the second year after the disastrous crash of Wall Street. Business all over America was still bad. The theatre business was not better. The Rolland Theatre opened with Louis Freiman's "Step Sisters." It did not draw the desired audience that Rolland had hoped for, and to which Jennie was accustomed. Who was William Rolland's "ace-in-the-hole"? Menachem Rubin. Rolland had not given up his dream, his desire for the "cultural and commercial" hand-in-hand theatre. He hoped to accomplish that with Menachem Rubin, who at that time was playing in Warsaw, Poland in his own production of Sholem Aleichem's "Tsvey mol hundert toysend" (200,000), which was also known as the "Big Winner," one of Sholem Aleichem's very fine comedies. Maurice Schwartz had played it in some years before Rubin had brought it to America. Menachem Rubin added much of his own, and William Rolland was placing a great deal of hope in his new star. Rubin was reputed as a good dramatic star, as well as possessing a fine voice, a baritone, of fine operatic quality. Before long, Rolland was notified of Menachem Rubin's arrival. The three of us -- William Rolland, Louis Freiman and myself, went to the boat to greet Rubin. Our first impression of the new arrival ... Well, a competition for Michal Michalesko, he was not, all his attributes not withstanding. We hoped that Mr. Rubin would make it up in "culture," if that would be an attraction at the box office. We had some very fine singers in the Yiddish theatre. Besides Michal Michalesko, there was Irving Grossman, William Schwartz, Leon Gold. Singers for the operetta are of the utmost importance. Now we were even more curious to hear Rubin's voice. Does he really possess the voice of such great repute?

"Chevra (Fellas), let's take Mr. Rubin to his hotel room so he can make himself comfortable. After that we will then show off our 'Million-Dollar' Theatre, where Mr. Rubin will appear. I am certain that Mr. Rubin has not seen its equal in Europe, not even in the Soviet Union from where Mr. Rubin had come prior to his coming to Warsaw."

"Yes, to the hotel," said Menachem Rubin in his booming voice," though Gaspada (gentlemen), it is no novelty, a hotel to me you know. We, of the Soviet Union, the "Proletariat," have everything the 'bourgeoisie' have in America." Rubin then checked in, washed his face and combed his bushy hair. We went to the theatre. We really expected him to wipe his feet at the golden threshold of the "Million-Dollar Theatre." I mean, really, we were proud to show it off. Rubin, we noticed, was one of those to whom such "trifles" didn't impress much. Since Rubin didn't volunteer any opinion, Rolland could not contain himself, and he asked, "Well, Gaspadin Rubin, what do you think of our theatre?" Rubin shook his head and said, "Shoyn gezayn azoyns" (I have seen the likes of it.)

Well, I thought, we had not impressed him very much. Let's hope he will impress us more. Outwardly he left much to be desired. His complexion was somewhat pockmarked, but I thought that makeup will cover it. His hair, reddish brown, was combed in the Russian "Prichoska," so-so. His figure was well-built. He spoke though in somewhat of a pompous Yiddish, which gave it a tone of bravado, spicing his Yiddish with Russian, which only I understood. Rolland remembered some of it. Freiman, I am not sure from where he stemmed.

Rubin carried with him his "tecke" (briefcase). "This tecke," Rubin boasted, "holds my entire wealth. All my songs are here, with that I do not part. I don't even leave this at my hotel. I always have it with me."

"Well then, Mr. Rubin. How about ... I mean, how would this plan impress you? What I mean (hemming and hawing) is, if if I'm not too presumptuous, if you are so inclined ... What I am trying to say simply ... Alright, for God's sake, sing something already."

Mr. Rubin answered, his eyes narrowing to slits, his language becoming more clipped ... "You want to audition me. This minute? And if it will not please you ... Ha, if it won't please you, if it is not to your liking, if I don't live up to your American expectations, you can have me deported on the same boat back to Warsaw, where I came from. Ha! I fear no such trivia," he answered with sarcasm. "Here you have my music, Maestro." He took out a handful of music sheets and handed over the manuscripts. "Choose whichever you want! You'll find among them, of that I'm certain, songs that the Jewish "aktorshtikes" (so-called actors) do not sing ..."

The first of the songs I took off the top of the heap was the well-known aria "Figaro" from Rossini's opera, "The Barber of Seville."  I said to Mr. Rubin, "It's true that the Jewish performers, as a rule, don't sing arias from the opera in the theatre. That's why I would enjoy listening to a Jewish singer from the Soviet Union singing an Italian aria. "Fine, Maestro!" Rubin answered. The music was laid on the grand piano and it commenced. He sang the entire aria, not only vocally, but he acted it out mimic and all (overacted a bit, I thought.) The second impression was better than the first. He did have a confident baritone. He sang it, and I am happy to say excellently. I recognized schooling and experience, not as much as he wanted me to believe, but enough to please me. Seeing that we showed approval, he pulled out more music from his "tecke," and he asked sarcastically, "And these songs? Do your actors in Americhke sing these?" "No, I have to admit." Those songs were by Yampolski, Milner and other Soviet Jewish composers ... to the written text of Soviet Jewish poets, and also American-Jewish poets. As yet, they had not been sung in America.

Menachem Rubin was convinced that he had impressed us very favorably with his singing. He took the music in his hand, shaking his head (a habit), saying, "Well, Gaspadar. Do I pack my 'tecke' and go back to where I came from, or do you give me 'razrashenie' (permission)?" He put emphasis on the pronunciation, drawing the Russian word "razzrreshannnnie," so that it would give it the most, the fullest importance, that I would be permitted to remain in your Americhke?"

We assured him of his impending success with his singing. "If my singing pleases you all, then the rest is simple. I am not worried anymore. My playing, directing, and what have you, I'll hold my own among the best of them. "Shoyn gehert" (I heard all about them.)

Rubin and I, in spite of his braggadocio -- became very good friends in the next few days that followed, Idealistically, as much as I could believe him, I tried to. He had the habit of "guzmah" (exaggeration). Artistically I found no flaws in the man. He wasn't handsome, yet he was interesting. His repertoire of fine "lider" impressed me greatly.

Jennie Goldstein was still playing "Step Sisters," but Rubin and company were rehearsing Sholem Aleichem's comedy, "Tsvey mol hundert tosyend (Two Times One Hundred Thousand)." (The critics said that, "It was an adaptation of the Russian Vachtangoff's version, although Rubin denied it.) Rubin said that he had written it himself in Warsaw. However, because it was done somewhat hurriedly, he suggested that I write new music. (Later I did find out that my friend Rubin did not write the music.) I liked the idea of writing music to Sholem Aleichem's play. I started writing immediately in a new unorthodox manner -- a new type of production, a new type of music. Rolland came out with tremendous advertisements about the coming new production. The company gave Rubin its complete cooperation and rehearsed day and night.

As to the opening, everyone came, including the entire company from the Yiddish Art Theatre, with its director Maurice Schwartz, some to praise, some to criticize. The Yiddish daily newspapers were well represented. Most of the critics praised the guest artist for his playing and direction. There were also critics who liked neither the man, nor the play, stating that he and the play are but an imitation of Vactangoff's (direction of the same play that had been done in Russia). However I was very much impressed with Menachem Rubin as a director, and as a performer. All critics were unanimous about Irving Jacobson, the brother of Hymie. (Irving, who had for the first time done a serious part. He had given a fine interpretation of the young tailor-boy called "Kopl." This role had been played by Paul Muni, when he was with Maurice Schwartz's Yiddish Art Theatre.

Much to my regret, all this effort was wasted. It did not fare much better than did Jennie Goldstein with "Step Sisters" at the box office. How nice it would have been to say that Menachem Rubin and "200,000" brought "200,000" to the box office. Well, it did, but not in dollars -- in Russian rubles.
 

January 18, 1970, ch. 36
 

"Yes, that was a 'Black Thursday,' but there were other such black days: Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and the rest of the week. Neither Jennie Goldstein with "Step Sisters," nor Menachem Rubin with Sholem Aleichem's "200,000," plus Sholom Secunda, plus all the king's horses, nor all the king's ransom could bail out William Rolland, nor any other Yiddish theatre, out of the doldrums. What does a theatre producer do? He tries another play. After "200,000" he produced "The Street Singer," now with Arthur Tracy, but starring Menachem Rubin, co-starring prima donna Bella Mysell, and together they made a fine leading pair, but nothing compensates the mood of the impoverished country. The theatre closed with a great deficit, owing wages to actors, directors, choreographers, ushers, Sholom Secunda among them. Oh yes, the only ones to be paid were the stagehands. If they hadn't ... beware!!!

"Next season," Rolland thought. "Next season I will do it right! Next season, back to the 'anointed,' the dean of the Jewish composers, Joseph Rumshinsky. A brand new company. We. ... we ... must have brand new ammunition." Good luck to you, Mr. Rolland!

What happened to Sholom Secunda? Tsores (troubles). Sholom Secunda found himself without a job. The Avenue Theatres wouldn't trust their "pit" (where the orchestra sits) to the Brooklyn "genius," Sholom Secunda, although he had proved himself time and time again. I was worried, but my Betty. as always came to my rescue. "Don't worry, Shlomole, God will help!" I looked at her and smiled. "God will help, but who will help until He helps?"

One evening in early spring, I waked into Cafe Royal, one of my rare visits there. Two old friends greeted me: Yehuda Bleich and Zvi Scooler. "Ot iz Secunda," Zvi said. "We were about to telephone you. You saved us a nickel. (Now you know how far back that was. A nickel could still buy a telephone call.) How would you like to join two social directors and work with us at the "Unzer Camp" this summer?

The truth of the matter is that I didn't know what type of work it entailed. It was something very new to me. "What in heaven's name would you want with me at camp?" "Well, I ..." That was Scooler speaking. "... am Social Director to the adults, and I arrange entertainment for several evenings a week. Bleich and you -- meaning me -- will have to assist me. On the other side of the lake is the children's camp. Yehuda Bleich is the Dramatic Director, and you, Sholom, will be the Musical Director. You will teach the children some new songs: Yiddish, Hebrew and together you will put on some children's plays, and I will assist both of you."

"And where," I asked, "will I get the material?" "There is a great deal of backlog of music from previous summers. In addition to what is already there, we will have other guests visiting there: the poet Schwartz -- he will write new texts. You will write new music. You will have new ones." "You will write," Bleich added, hopeful, "and the children will have new songs. Don't forget, Sholom, that you'll be getting two hundred dollars for the summer, as well as room and board for yourself, your wife and your son, Shmilikel. Believe us that that they both tried hard to convince me that you'd truly enjoy being with us this summer."

I was speechless, but I asked myself, "Sholom, what do you have to lose? You don't have any engagements for the following winter. Instead of keep your wife and child in the city for the unmercifully hot summer, if nothing else you'll give your wife and child fresh air. (My summer home in Loch Sheldrake I had sold long ago.) I liked their plan. True, I'll have to work. I like work, and I'll get two hundred dollars for the summer. I said yes.

We agreed to meet everyday and work out our schedule to plan our evenings for the whole summer. I came home to tell Betty the good news. Our offspring, the apple of our eye, Meelee Peelee, will be at camp, we will have our vacation, free -- mind you, Betty, and in addition to that we will have two hundred dollars."

That summer at "Unzer Camp" was most refreshing for many reasons. I met many new people with an almost religious attitude toward Eretz Yisrael. It awakened that long-dormant, always there, nationalistic feeling, not only from a political viewpoint, but a musical nostalgia that was reawakened in me. I wrote down all the "nigunim" (melodies) that Isaac Hemlin sang for me. For days on end, idly we would lie on the grass, pencil and paper in hand, taking notes on every "nigun" he sang. I didn't wait until summer's end, when I would go home. While still at camp, I would sit in the casino unhindered by anyone and worked on those "Palestiner folks nigunim." I thought of numerous ways to paraphrase these and give them more and greater meaning. My friend, Zvi Scooler, helped me search for more and more material. We searched every book in the library and found poems by "Bialik" always a rich source -- in Yiddish and Hebrew, and wrote music to many of his wonderful poems. No sooner were they finished, the artists and part of the staff or visiting performers would hear them, rehearse them, and sing them. Of course not all the poetic works became "singable songs." Neither the guests, nor the Camp Administration, readily fell in love with them. These songs were meant to be more of an art form in character, and ever as the folks-type of music to which they had been accustomed.

As for myself, I had enjoyed to the fullest the cultural and intellectual atmosphere that I also helped to create at "Unzer Camp," an atmosphere that I had missed throughout my years in the Yiddish theatre.

Physical comforts, my family did not have. We were assigned a very tiny room in the hospital quarters. They were tight quarters and terribly uncomfortable. No water to wash with, to drink, no basin, no bath tub, no other conveniences that we take for granted in our days. Besides, my Betty was living in constant fear of our child's health. Right next door to us in one of the rooms was a room with sickly children, some even with infectious diseases, and "God only knows," she said, "how and when our child may pick up something." I brought my complaint to my friend, Gingold, the Director of that division, and he promised to try to see about another place for us.

The remedy did come. Not for the sick children, but for us. There was a shortage of "sick rooms" to accommodate those children who required hospitalization. They moved us out and them in. We got a room on the second floor where Yehuda Bleich, his wife Miriam and their child stayed.

That too had its drawbacks. Here is an incident that took place. It was quite embarrassing at the moment and to this day most regrettable.

My little son had already reached the ripe age of two-and-a-half. Regretfully he did not understand one word of Yiddish. The Bleichs, too, had a little boy, a few months my son's junior. He, on the other hand, understood not one word of English because he had been raised by his parents speaking only Yiddish at home. Living in such close proximity, they played together. The trouble was that my son spoke English to their son who did not understand. They had the same trouble understanding one another, as do the adults even today, who happen to speak the same language and yet could not communicate.

One fine day it didn't turn out fine at all, because my youngster got mad at their youngster, because my youngster could not understand why their youngster could not understand him. And in anger my youngster beat up their youngster. And Bleich's youngster ran to his mother crying: "Meelee Peelee hit me." (in Yiddish). My friend, Bleich, came to my Betty to complain that her heir beat up their heir. Betty did not have the heart to punish her one-and-only son, and neither could I, but per tradition, the father must teach his son a lesson. So I gave it to my son, but good. "Why? Why, my son, did you beat up their son?" (in English, of course). Had I spoken to him in Yiddish, I might have been answered in the same manner my son answered their son ...

We hate what we don't understand. Tearfully, my son answered what to him seemed quite logical. "I don't like him because he speaks to me, and I don't understand him. Why doesn't he speak to me so I could?" To that my good friend Bleich replied, "We don't have enough anti-Semites all over the world. You have to bring a ready-made anti-Semite to our very door step." I don't remember ever hearing such words that hurt more than those my friend "Yehuda Bleich" had spoken to me and mine ...

Notwithstanding those regrettable misunderstandings, the summer was still most satisfactory. The new people I had met that summer remained friends of ours through the years. They were a good influence and had changed many of my social views: Segal, the then General Secretary of the "Farband," Sh. Bontchik, Mayer Brown, and so many other friends who actually mesmerized me with their enthusiasm toward the creation of a homeland for the Jews in Eretz Yisrael. I became an actual member of the "Farband." For many years I conducted the "Seder" of the "Histadrut," together with Zvi Scooler and Isaac Hemlin. In other words, I had remained one of them.

It was indeed a beautiful Sunday morning when I was called to the telephone. "New York calling," the operator said. Famous first words! "Hello," I said. The voice on the other end, I heard, I recognized immediately. It was that of my old-time friend and very welcome indeed. "Hello, Sam." I'd recognize his hello anywhere, anytime, day or night ... "Hymie," I screamed into the telephone. "Yes, Hymie," he answered. "What happened? Why so suddenly?" I asked. "I thought you were in Europe. You didn't even intend to come back, not yet anyway." "Right, Sam," he answered. "But listen, since you can't come to New York, you're so busy working, tell me when you can spare a few moments, and I'll come out to see you. I have a business proposition for us ..."

I invited him to come in the afternoon, when the children enjoy their rest, and truthfully speaking so do I. "I'm leaving right now, " he said, and he hung up. After dinner I was already sitting and waiting for my long-time but distant friend, Hymie Jacobson.

We sat on a bench near the casino, and he related enthusiastically why he came. I had seen Hymie for many years on many an occasion, but I had never seen him so exuberant as he was that afternoon. He didn't wait for me to ask him, "Why?"

"Sam, I have just returned with Miriam Kressyn from Europe. I believe she is now ready for any theatre in New York. I hadn't known Miriam Kressyn," Hymie continued. "But it is too late in the season now to think of bringing her to the Avenue. I thought of this brilliant plan, Sam. If it's agreeable to you, why wait for next season and have others to reap such a harvest with my new 'find'? Why not us ... and who is closer to me then you, Sam? Listen!"

"I'm listening, I'm listening, who is she? Who is Miriam Kressyn?"

"What shall I tell you, Sam?" He started in ecstasy. "She is an 'antique' (no silly, not old). She is a rarity. I discovered her in Boston. Dhe played children's parts and sang in the chorus with Julius Nathanson. She came from Europe as a youngster and is still very young. She went to school there and got an Atwater-Kent Scholarship at the Boston Conservatory of Music. Let me say this, Sholom, she is beautiful (I'm quoting Hymie Jacobson.) She has a beautiful voice, and is a good actress and a good dancer. I persuaded her parents to let me take her with me to Europe."

I looked at him, and evidently he saw a question mark in my eyes and said, "Sam, she is a good girl. I promised her father that I'd take good care of her. She made her debut in several of my plays in Boston. Sam ..." He couldn't stop himself. "Sam, in every play in which she appeared, she was a colossal success." On and on and on ...

(Some things that Hymie failed to tell me about his and Miss Kressyn's sojourn in Paris I had learned about later, when I was there. There was a "Kniazh Volkonsky" of Russian nobility, who had become a theatre critic in Paris for the Russian newspaper "Ruskoe Novosti," in his critique about the operetta: "A star is ascending, while another is descending." (Jacobson being twenty years her senior). It was cruel to write that about a brilliant performer, a "descending star." Whether he was proud of what he said, it is hard to tell now. Neither he nor the "descending star" is here. And Miriam Kressyn doesn't talk much about herself or her past -- the many countries she had been to, the many audiences and critics who applauded her. Much of it I had heard from artists who were there during and after her visits.

When Hymie stopped for a second to clear his throat, I asked, "Well, granted that all you say about Miss Kressyn is true. What is you position?" He told it to me in his own good time.

"While playing in Kovno, Lithuania, under the management of Boris Bukhantz, I received a telegram from the manager of the Hebrew Actors' Union, Reuben Guskin." Hymie continued, "And the telegram read:

THE MILLION-DOLLAR THEATRE CAN BE HAD  STOP  ARE YOU INTERESTED  STOP

I answered: INTERESTED  STOP  CLOSE BUSINESS FOR ME  STOP

I awaited his confirmation." The telegram came, Hymie went on.

"This time the telegram read:

ROLLAND THEATRE GONE  STOP   TAKEN BY ...

(It doesn't matter now who that somebody was ...)

Politics is always messy, in theatre, as well as anywhere else ...

"CAN YOU GET THE LYRIC THEATRE?"

Signed GUSKIN.

"Lyric Theatre?" I asked.

"Wait till you meet Miriam Kressyn. You'll see that our success is assured."

As usual, I had to talk it over with my Betty, and I said so, "I'll telephone you tonight yet. Wait for my call at the (Cafe) Royal."

We shook hands. He went back to New York. I went back to "my children" to induct them into the mysteries of poetry and music.
 

January 25, 1970, ch. 39
 

I told Hymie Jacobson that I'll tell him after I have a talk with my Betty. I really didn't have to. My betty always had a ready answer. "If it's good for you, Sholom, it's good for me too." I telephoned Hymie at the Royal. The telephones there -- three in the front, and as many or more in the back -- were always busy. Long distance -- Africa, Argentina, London, Poland, France and/or England, Brooklyn too. I finally got a clear wire and Herman the busboy, a middle-aged German who saved millions from nickels and dimes that he got as "tips" for handling a glass of water, helping with a coat, cashing a check, or lending an actor for a cup of coffee. He'd answer every telephone and call and get a tip. I heard his voice. "Hymie Jacobson, telephone, long distance calling!" Hymie was waiting for my call. "Yes, Sam." "OK, Hymie," my Betty said, "Yes ... zol zayn mit mazl ..."

Hymie, you know, was an excellent "buff comedian." He was a splendid dancer (in Paris, people used to come to the second act just to see him sing and dance his couplet.) In addition to that, throughout all his theatrical years, even when he worked with or "under" Joseph Rumshinsky, he used to write the lyrics and music for his own couplets and duets with Fanny Lubritsky, who was his partner for many years.

Now as the "boss" director and star, he wrote lyrics for the entire operetta. I used to come into New York once a week. He had material al prepared for me. During the week at camp, in my free time, I would sit in the casino and compose the music for "A meydl vi du."

The summer at camp ended. A beautiful and fruitful summer, for not only myself but for my wife and child too. I worked hard with the camp children every day. It wasn't the easiest work, but I got to love the children, singing from morning until sleeping time. Scooler, Bleich and I prepared new performances for occasions that used to take place under the open, blue skies on green fields and under shady trees. I think of them often, even now, as I am older and love them in retrospect even more. Leaving the camp I brought with me a heap of new songs, which satisfied me artistically. In later years, many of them were printed, published and recorded by many artists. Financially there was no comparison between camp and theatre, but ideologically and artistically, it outweighed everything else.

Back at Penn Street in Brooklyn, I had all my music ready for our opening show, "A meydl vi du," at the Lyric Theatre on Siegel Street, not far from my home, back where I started as a "shik-yingele (errand boy, go-for)," chorus boy, later composer, conductor, now partner and businessman. My work was cut out for me; rehearse with the principles the new music. We had an excellent cast. Miriam Kressyn, the youngest prima donna to have come to the Yiddish Theatre, was all Hymie Jacobson said she was. She sang, danced, her Yiddish and her diction was clear and impeccable, as were some of the other languages she spoke. How she had come to the Yiddish Theatre is a story in itself. If it was through sheer accident, it was a fortunate one for the Yiddish Theatre. She and Hymie, in the leads, were excellent, even though he was almost twenty years her senior.

The character comedy was handled beautifully. Abe Sincoff (Pussy Cat), Rose Greenfield, Ben Schoenfeld, Celia and Misha Boodkin, and Henrietta Jacobson (Hymie's youngest sister, and a replica of her older brother. Irving was the middle one, just as talented, more on the character side. He was not with us. The choreography for Miss Kressyn's dances was handled by Moe Honig (He was studying law at the time and passed the "bar" years later.) Direction, again, star Hymie Jacobson and each responsible for himself, and his partner on the stage. Itzhak Lash, partner and writer of the play, lent a hand when necessary. It resulted as if by a miracle, theatrically speaking, in an excellent performance.

The orchestra was augmented -- seven men. That is all we could afford, but they were good musicians. My piano player was a young man and promising composer, Sam Medoff, a son of David Medoff and Raisa Solovyova, who possessed brilliant voices and had come from the Ukrainian Theatre to the Yiddish Theatre. Sam Medoff (under the name of Dick Manning) later wrote some very successful popular songs, such as: "Two to Tango," "The Pussy Cat Song," "Other Side of the Mountain," "Fascination," and many others that made the Hit Parade. Sammie Medoff's younger brother had been a musician. He was killed in World War II.

The Opening was not "a la Brooklyn," but was "a la Broadway on Second Avenue." A dressed-up audience, all composers, came to hear Secunda's music, listen to the young prima donna. Her reputation had already preceded her. She charmed critics in Europe, and she was sure to "encore." All performers came to see "whence cometh their new competition."

"A meydele vi du" captured those present and promised to bring the rest that could not get in the first time. The music and the entire cast were all an operetta needed. The critics were aesthetically satisfied -- "a new face, a new find, a new talent" were some of the adjectives for youthful Miriam Kressyn, the "Litvatchke," her Yiddish was that dialect, but cultured and was pleasant to the ear. The critics lauded everybody and everything. Such praises were rare and heartwarming, but the winter was bitter cold, especially when the theatre was empty. The scantily dressed Miss Kressyn shivered even while she danced.

Mr. Lowenfeld, the manager, came to excuse himself, the "boiler busted" (They always did when business was bad.) It was pitiful to hear how our young Miriam from Boston, where her affluent family lived, coughed her way through an evening backstage. On stage seldom, she was advised to go to Dr. Daly, but she lacked the three dollars for the visit ...

My Betty had asked Miriam to come to visit with us, since we lived near the theatre -- she, along with the Jacobson family, on Hooper Street. The rent was paid, but not on time. And when the rest of the family took itself to the Cafe Royal to keep warm and avoid the landlord, Miriam stayed in Brooklyn, too embarrassed to be seen without a winter coat.

Her rare visits to our home were very pleasant. Betty made her welcome, as well as my oldest son, Meelee Peelee. Shelly was then about three, and it was "love at first sight." He invited her on the spot. "Aunt Miriam, let's play doctor." I'm not quite sure if Miss Kressyn, at that time, knew the expression, but she and Shelly played for hours. Her cough persisted, and Betty admonished her. "Miriam, why don't you go to the doctor?" (This sounds like the sad story of the Mimi in "La Boheme," but this Miriam did get better, with or without the three dollars.)

We, the management, divided our profits at the end of the week, about twenty-five to thirty dollars maximum, but later it hit bottom -- eight dollars, three dollars, and the "boiler" was never fixed. (That's why the dances were all very lively.) Hymie jumped and reached the ceiling. Miriam, as the Texas cowgirl, sang about the Texas sun, which warmed the cockles of your heart, but not your toes. Henrietta tapped and buck-winged and tore the roof down, and even that didn't help much. We put on many plays to bring back the small but brave audience. They helped us reach the bitter end. To this day I bless them. They followed their beloved performers and actors, through thick and thin, through frost and thaw.

It had been a difficult season. Now the income from the theatre, plus my radio work and East Midwood Jewish Center, where I continued my musical directing, was not enough for my large family's comfort. There were no complaints in spite of economic problems. Everyone still had hopes for tomorrow.

Business in the bigger theatres wasn't any better. The only help they got was the "benefit" public -- those organizations had to raise money for Europe, for those who were left behind. And in this country, for their shuls, temples, old-age homes and orphan homes. With the country still in a state of a deep Depression, the "charitable institutions" were the only ones doing a thriving business. Soup kitchens, apples, pushcarts were on the corners ... The benefits filled the theatres in the middle of the week. That saved those "big" theatres from going bankrupt. A "biggie" like the National Theatre, with a guest star such as Isa Kremer, closed the second week. For anyone to debit as a manager and/or a prima donna, was at best disastrous ...

My light was not extinguished. William Rolland still made plans to re-open for the coming season. His box-office didn't fare any better. His season wasn't better, but his Million-Dollar Theatre had the capacity to sell to "benefits," and his "boiler" was much "newer," and in the severe winters the severe critics are not as cold-hearted as when they sit in theatres with mufflers covering their ears, to keep themselves from freezing.

A brand new star combination appeared at the Rolland Theatre -- Aaron Lebedeff and Leon Blank. They had been a successful "duo" at the National Theatre on the Avenue. Everything there was dated "B.C." (Before the Crash). We lived in hope. The country was coming out of its deep mourning. "After those crash victims who jumped from the roofs, we had nothing but hope ... and that's a lot" ...

Regarding that Lebedeff-Blank combination, he asked me to join him once again, of course, not without trepidation. With Lebedeff, I was very friendly, even from his first day when he came to this country and made his debut in his "Liovka molodiets" (Liovka the Clever). He was that and more. He danced as no one had danced before him -- Russian dancers, and he sang higher, brighter, and spouted witty and not-so-witty saying, as long as it was in Russian. His Yiddish was "Litvish" (with the "S" instead of "Sh"), and vice versa, and this used to provoke peals of laughter. When he used to say: "Zol zayn sha" (Let there be silence), the audience applauded, which became even louder, and their laughter grew rowdier, happier. Yes, he knew his audience loved him and wouls take all he's got and stand on stage and sing, dance, and teach his audience his couplet. When the audience left the theatre, he had another "shlager" (hit).

Blank was equally as popular. He handled the dramatic part of the "laugh riot." There was always something to cry about, even in the operetta, and Blank's tears came in great abundance, whenever it was necessary ...

What I was apprehensive about was Lebedeff. His reputation off stage did not equal his stage reputation. As lovable as he was on stage, that's how much troublesome he could be off. Fellow composers used to tell tales about his "shtiklekh" (his little doings). He was "addicted to stardom," and he knew he was, and if he "was," then he must know everything with a capital "E." Star, regisseur, he wanted to write lyrics, wanted to compose the music. He couldn't write or even read music, but that didn't stop him from telling you how to write. He would come with a ready melody and sing it for you, thinking it originated in his head, but it didn't. It wasn't any more original that "Ej Uchniem" would have been had he come to insert it into a Yiddish play. Some of his melodies were from Moldova, Ukraine, Tifles [?] and Romania, and all those he "thought" were his, or he hoped I would have. Up till then I had gotten the idea that stars were directors, but composers too? Well, that I feared, yes, I did fear working with him. Still it was a challenge. I had no other choice.

After the Lyric Theatre, and knowing myself as a "Yid an akshn" (a Jew who's stubborn), it is said: "If the Jew was not so determined and stubborn, there would not have remained one alive to ascertain the existence of a 'Yiddish folk.' I am one of the "Akshonim" (stubborn), who will carry on no matter how thorny. I'll take the offer and try my luck again!"

At the beginning of the summer, playwrights brought plays by the dozens. It is not so easy to select one. The more there is to choose from, the harder it is to put the finger on one. "This is it!" At best, you hope."

Avraham Blum came with a play, with a very appropriate title, "M'ken lebn nor m'lozt nit" (You Can Live If Only They'd Let You). Both stars were happy with their respective parts, two steps in the right direction. The next step was the company. Lucy Levine was no novice at the Rolland Theatre, and her voice was known and loved. She was remembered from her first season with Michalesko in my operetta, "The Song of Love." Lebedeff suggested Jacob Jacobs to write the lyrics. Mr. Jacobs had written for him and for many other theatres for many years, and I had no objection. Jacobs knew Lebedeff's style, his "loshn" (dialect). Jacobs was an easy-going person. He would give in to Lebedeff and go in on compromises. For Lebedeff it was much easier to have Jacobs than even someone more literary, who would not do Lebedeff's bidding. For me, Jacob Jacobs was new. We had not been together since he was a "buff comedian" at the Odeon Theatre, and I was a chorus boy and "noit composer" (to help out when in trouble). He went on to become a successful manager and producer, alone and with Nathan Goldberg.

Now that I knew from where my next week's wages were coming from, I took a room at a hotel in Far Rockaway, for my small family to spend the summer there. My wife and child were always uppermost in my mind. They should live in comfort. That was my comfort. I had a piano at the hotel to work on. I admit that I was anxious. My first attempt for Lebedeff and Blank, for Lucy, who I had written for and knew her voice.

When I met with Lebedeff and Jacobs, after having several conferences, I had an idea what we were in for. One evening when my Betty was packing our summer belongings, which we were to bring over to our summer quarters, the telephone rang. "Sholom," Betty called. "It's Mr. Jacobs, Sholom." "Vinsht mir mazl tov." (Wish Me Luck).

"What's the matter, Mr. Jacobs? Did the cat have kittens?" I asked this kiddingly.

Jacobs laughed. "No, I just gave birth to the title of our 'light motif' (our theme song), and Lebedeff likes it very much. And he said," continued Jacobs, "that if Secunda will be as successful with his music as you are with the title, we're assured of a successful theme song."

"What is the tile?" I asked. "Don't keep me in suspense."

"Bei Mir Bistu Shein." "Schoen?" (pretty), he asked.

"Schoen!" I answered.
 

February 22, 1970, ch. 43
 

The "two-star combination" at the Rolland Theatre had its headaches. A "four-star Happy Family combination" had a headache that was twice as big. On stage as I staged before, it was the gayest, most tumultuous, singiest, laughiest, easy-goingest, smoothest ever. Off stage, "tsores," and by now you know what that means ...

Collectively they knew they had to share, but the question was how to share it, how to divide their portions, and they could find no way. Each one said that the other had the choicest morsel. One said, "The other had the best musical number." Said the other, "Why does that one have the funniest scene?" The fourth one complained, "This is not good direction. I stand there as though I was the "fifth wheel" of a wagon. I am not even part of the action. I stood there like a "klutz." If not for my song, I didn't even belong on that stage." He was right. He was too good.

But I did not want to become involved in this. I preferred staying on the "periphery" of the "Happy Family." My back was to the audience. I heard them laughing, applauding. I heard their comments. I was hired to stand and conduct, not to stand up and be counted. I looked on the stage, and what I saw I did not like. Individually each performer was an artist, but collectively there was no art, no artistry. But who was I to argue will "sell-outs"? I felt like little David against Goliath. But "I could sling no stones." These were my people. On stage and in the auditorium, Rolland had his ear to the box office. That was "music to his ears." "All is well on stage," he said to me. "The only trouble is backstage."

"So you think, Sholom Secunda," I said to myself, "You are all in the right? No! You did something wrong too!"'

I was looking for an idea for a duet for the European funny little man, Itzik Feld, and the funniest American-Jewish woman in show business, Yetta Zwerling. I thought of a "kuntzele" (a little trick). Broadway had a "heat wave" -- the "Carioca" -- I saw in my mind's eye how funny these two -- Feld, all of five feet, slender, barely breathing, together with the amply-endowed, fiery Mt. Vesuvius singing and dancing together in their own Yiddish fashion of the Spanish "Carioca."

I laughed to myself, when I thought about it, and I am still laughing thirty years later. That was part of the trouble.

Why do you ask if it was a mistake on my part? Why am I punishing myself to this day? Well, I'll tell you. That duet had "stopped the show" completely, and each star was fuming backstage. What made it worse was this. Since the duet was so successful in this first show, i.e. "The Happy Family," for the second show I was asked to repeat the same "trick." That I did not approve of, saying, "It's good for a laugh only once. To repeat it is "plagiat" (plagiarism), and I'll have none of that." That did not end right there. It became the "mode" in every theatre -- Second Avenue, Brooklyn, south-of-the-border, and north of the north pole. If you had a pair of comedians, you would have a potpourri of English choruses in Yiddish. Rolland spoke up. "Sholom, to refuse to do it does not make sense. It was your idea in the first place, and if Feld and Zwerling won't do it at the Public Theatre, Menasha Skulnik and Tillie Rabinowitz will do it at the Parkway Theatre. Jacobs writes his own duets, and very successfully, you know. And in the Bronx, very likely Clara Gold and Lipinsky will do it. It doesn't matter any longer who does it, as long as it is being done."

It took me thirty years to put a stop to it. And so, I bow my head and say "forgive me," "Mea culpa" (my fault). I should have said that thirty years ago. My conscience would have bothered me less.

Did I tell you that my Betty was expecting again? Well, so was I. I would have loved to stay at home with her and my Meelee Peelee, who was close to four-and-a-half years old. But I could not be confined. "Happy Family" at the Public Theatre was going on tour. Grumbling, yes, but happy with the envelope that Rolland handed to each performer with a smile at the end of the week. While still on the road, Mr. Rolland "re-engaged" the entire "unhappy family" for the following season, each one hoping that he would get for the coming year what he didn't get enough of the year before.

We added two more fine performers: Gertie Bulman, a young and charming singing ingénue, and Leon Gold, a "tenor of note." Now I had a perfect quartet -- four fit for the opera: Lucy Levine, coloratura; Gertie Bulman, lyric soprano; Leon Gold, high tenor; and Menachem Rubin, baritone par excellence.

The play we decided upon was called "A gan eyden oyf der velt (Heaven on Earth)."
 

Now, being parents of Meelee Peelee and Ju Ju Puju, we will actually be a "happy family" who is enjoying "heaven on earth." That summer we decided not to go away. It would make it too difficult for my Betty to get help in the mountains and "two small children to tend to is not an easy matter." Any mother will tell you. Every father would probably say, "What's so difficult?"

The older one, not quite five, because restless -- sibling rivalry they call it now. In Jewish we'd call him a "mazik" (little demon). He had to be watched, in or out, out or in the home. We found a young girl, a "mother's little helper," to take care of them then and help at home. Her name was Savannah. She came from the South. She had, in time, become a part of the family, and she stayed with us until the younger one left for college. My wife and I started to catch up on our travels. Our dear Savannah disappeared. We still don't know why, nor where she went to.

One day prior to Savannah's disappearance, she was busy with Ju Ju Puju in the perambulator. Betty was preparing lunch, and I had been at the radio station, where I was still "serving time" as a musical director. The older one, Meelee Peelee, was racing on his three-wheel bicycle. I usually approached my street in my car at the slowest speed, knowing children are at play. Suddenly, I heard the screeching of brakes, a car had hit a child on a bicycle. I was certain that the child was my little son. Hysterically I opened the door of my automobile before I had a chance to bring my car to a complete stop. I jumped out, leaving my machine still in motion. I ran to the child lying on the ground in a puddle of its own blood. I picked up the child, still thinking that the child was mine. A young woman in pursuit cried out, "It's my child. It's my child, woe is me. It's my child." I would not hand the child to her, atill clinging to what I thought was my baby. A policeman was soon at hand and told me, "Sir, this child is not yours. It's this mother's."

They took the bleeding child from my arms, rushed to the hospital, from where the poor child never returned.

The clang of the ambulance was heard in the distance and had disappeared. The crowd was still milling about. It was then that I first realized that I had made a frightful error, but it dawned on me. I still did not se my son on his bicycle. So where is he? I began searching and found by baby on the ground crying hysterically. Evidently when the crowd was running to the other child, they knocked him off his bike and he lay on the ground hurt, scared and crying. I picked him up in my arms, looked and found what I thought where the hurt was. I kissed it and washed it away with my tears, tears of happiness. "Only a hurt , my child, only a hurt, my little Meelee Peelee. I will make it all better. Soon it will be all better." My son stopped crying and asked, "Daddy, what you got for Meelee Peelee?" I don't remember what else I had, but a heart filled with hurting love that I still have for every hurting child.

Some weeks later Meelee Pelee got up with a sudden cry. A different cry than we had ever heard before -- a nightmare perhaps. I tried to guess. eA mother has a built-in "heart-thread," though the umbilical cord is cut, but not that "something" that is connected to her heart. That is always on the alert. My Betty always calm on the outside, went to her little son and felt his head. "Our child has a high fever, Sholom." She gave him the usual dose of medicine that mothers usually resort to in case of a child's illness. An hour later, the child was still in bed, not crying, but not moving either. She took his temperature again and an unheard of scream escaped from her throat. "One hundred and six! Sholom, you read it. I don't believe it. Our baby ... one hundred and six!!!"

Our family doctor came as quickly as humanly possible. He examined our child, prescribed a medicine and quieted my wife, saying, "Don't worry, with a child it's not unusual. Tomorrow he'll be all better." We administered the medicine and the temperature came down considerably, but "tomorrow" it started up again, one hundred and six. The doctor came again and tried another medicine. Again, the same for one week. The doctor himself was getting apprehensive and suggested that we call a consultant. One was called, then a second, and then a third. An x-ray machine was brought into our home, and everything possible was being done. There was no change, the temperature kept fluctuating. So was my boy -- one moment he was jumping up and own on his bed, as any normal child would do, and again as if in a fainting spell, he would lay motionless. It reached the point where all the consultants were speechless, without having reached a diagnosis. This kept up for more than a month. We suffered and our child suffered.

The consultants refused to come any longer. Our family doctor advised us painfully: "There is nothing more that can be done for your son. My only advice is to take him to the hospital. There he will be under observation around the clock. Miracles do happen. I'm a doctor, but I believe in miracles more than in my own profession. We can only do the possible. We may come up with something new and call it science. "God comes up with something old ... we call it a miracle."..

Rolland came to our assistance. He helped to get him a bed in the Polyclinic Hospital. "Tomorrow," the doctor said, "He'll come and take the child personally to the hospital."

In the evening I had to leave for the theatre. I was still conducting, although my heart wasn't there, but I still had a show up to conduct. I was standing on the platform, automatically going through the paces, thinking all the time, "Tomorrow I'm taking my baby to the hospital, but will I bring him back?" By the time I reached home that night, it was midnight. My child was asleep, and Betty was sitting at his side. "His temperature," she said almost mechanically, as though she did not want me to hear it, "is one hundred and six again." We both sat at his bedside until dawn. Betty's head nodded from exhaustion. Mine was falling on my chest, waking me with a start. The sun was streaming through the windows. We were making ready, as the doctor would be here soon.

I went to the bathroom and removed my tuxedo, my working clothes, and put some cold water on my face. I looked into the mirror, a familiar face staring back at me. I couldn't believe that it was me. My blonde hair had turned white. I thought that my eyes had lost their sight. I dragged myself to Betty's side. "Look at me. Look good, Betty. Do you see what I see?" She looked. She began to cry softly. "Yes, Sholomel. I see that you've grown old overnight. I would gladly give my life for our child ..."

The doctor came. "This is no time for tears," he said. Thinking no doubt that there would be time for that soon enough. we took our Shmilikel to the hospital. The attendant took him from my arms, and we remained seated in the waiting room. It was late in the day, and a young doctor came and asked if we were the parents of the little Secunda boy. "We are, woe is us." We followed him into the room.

There our child was lying motionless. His pitifully tiny face was flushed. We knew that he was still ours. The doctor informed us. "There is no alternative. We'll try and operate. It must be done tomorrow morning, if ..." Accidentally, the doctor touched our baby's knee, which had been injured in the bicycle fall, and our child screamed out from his lethargy. Immediately the child was X-rayed. That part of his body had not been explored up to that moment. "There is no doubt anymore. Your child is suffering from osteomyelitis (bone infection)."

Hardly a child had ever survived in those days from that dreaded disease. "If ever it lived, it was left crippled for life." Of that the good doctor warned us. There is nothing else that we can do. The decision must be yours." "Are we signing away our child?" I asked the doctor. He shrugged his shoulders. "Pray for a miracle." I signed and I prayed: "God, let me live only till tomorrow. Let me live as long as my child shall live, not one hour longer."
 

March 1, 1970, ch. 44
 

My son was operated on the next day. The surgeon reassured us that the operation was successful. "The child will live." Will he walk? I asked myself. We dared not ask the doctor, and he dare not commit himself. "He may limp somewhat." We are happy. So he'll limp a little, but he'll live! That's all we wanted. That's all we asked of God. We forgot to stipulate ...

Of course we came to see him daily. Daily the doctor gave his his guarded report. "He's improving slowly, but he's making progress." Our family doctor used to visit him too. His diagnosis was wrong, but his prophecy was right. "A miracle." He'd shake his head, a "miracle" and then he'd depart. We could not blame the doctor. Really, who could have suspected the knee? The child did not complain or indicate any hurt and did not show his knee ...

My son was in the hospital for four weeks. The doctor thought that we could take him home. We could administer to his knee at home now, and bring him to the office once a week. We brought little Shmilikel home alive and almost well. He didn't walk. I carried him on my back to a cab. At home he'd stay in bed, and I would carry him on my back when needed. He was showing signs of improvement. The knee was healing nicely. We were happy. What else do parents wish for?!

The doctor said that we ought to try and see if he could move his knee. Our child was limping painfully. The doctor tried to console us. "Be happy that he's alive, Mr. Secunda." How happy can parents be, seeing their five-year-old drag his poor little limb. All children are playing, and our Meelee Peelee, only yesterday so it seemed, was so difficult to control, to keep him from running and now ...

One whole year we lived with it. We had already moved from Brooklyn where we lived with my parents, to New York and a new apartment house, which wasn't quite finished. It was on Fourth Street and Avenue A. There were many reasons for our moving. My wife had taken it into her head, and it was driving her out of her mind. "Brooklyn is jinxed. It is unlucky for us," she said.

When things start rolling downwards, it just gathers momentum. It gathers no moss, but troubles continue without end ...

We brought our five-year-old son home. And our five-month old baby took sick with an ear infection. "It was just an ear infection ..." This time it was the Brooklyn Jewish Hospital. He must be watched and possibly be operated on. He was being watched -- too closely. We were not allowed to see him. We came daily. Our friend, Celia Harmetz, a nurse, volunteered to care for our child and didn't leave his bedside. One day, I cam alone without Betty. The nurse said, "If you want, Sholom, I'll get you a white coat and an operating skull cap over your ears. I'll take you in to see your baby." Her eyes were filled with tears ...

"Look at him, Sholom," she said in a choking voice. In a surgeon's uniform I tiptoed into his room. My infant son was in an oxygen tent. I saw his tiny face. His eyes were closed, not a sign of life. I looked petrified, not comprehending. Is this happening to me? To my child? My second son? I wasn't even aware that the doctor had given permission, even suggested that I come to see my child, possibly for the last time. She just hinted that the oxygen is being used because other complications had set in, in addition to his ear infection.

Holding my arm, she led me out of the room. "Are you going home?" She tried to sound casual, "I mean, in case I want to give you a call for something ..."

I arrived home. I didn't have the heart to to tell my wife the critical condition that I found our child in. Only our seventeen-year-old Savannah who, bless her heart wherever she is, had been with us still. I had to tell her -- or I would have burst. In the evening I was sitting in my room at my desk, trying to avoid my Betty's eyes. She didn't ask, fearing the answer. I was seated, one arm on the phone (In case it rings I should be the first one to pick up the receiver), yet  when the phone suddenly clanged, I remained motionless, as if I was paralyzed. I couldn't lift the receiver. My wife, from the other room, was screaming hysterically: "Sholom, answer the telephone. Can't you hear? It's ringing!" I heard the ringing, I heard her frantic voice. I couldn't respond. Savannah ran to pick up the phone before it stopped ringing. She listened and immediately looked to see if Betty was listening. She whispered in my ear, "It's the nurse, Mr. Secunda. She wants to speak to you." I took the receiver from Savannah, and in a sobbing voice I said, "Hello, Celia." "Don't cry," I heard her say, "Don't cry, Sholom," she said, "I have hopeful news. Our Ju Ju -- there is a change for the better in our baby. Come right over, and this time bring Betty with you. Now both of you will be able to see your baby."

We arrived at the hospital. Our child was out of the oxygen tent and was in his own little hospital crib. Poor little Ju Ju. He was so pale and looked like the little "infant child in wax." But our friend assured us that he was out of danger. The crisis was over. Before we left, Celia told Betty about my morning visit and what had transpired. In a happier mood, we both left the hospital.

All the time that Ju Ju was in the hospital, I had not gone to the theatre. My knees buckled under me each time I thought of raising the baton. Meanwhile the company started rehearsal for the second play, and I was not there.

Rolland and Lebedeff came to pay me a visit. "We know, Sholom, what you have been through, but you know it's ... business. Alright, you don't come to the theatre. You delegate work to the fiddler, who conducts, but for new music we must have a composer. We came to you. We'll be honest with you, as you would be honest with us. We hope that if your head is not clear, or if your heart is not in it, perhaps we should engage someone to carry on."

I suddenly saw myself, not only sick at heart with our children's illness, but without an income. Two children ill, those were not times of insurances. It left us not only physically, but financially in a very tragic position. What was I to do? I assured Rolland and Lebedeff that: "Tomorrow, for the reading of the new play, I'll be there."

"I'll take the libretto home and start working on it. My child is much better, thank God. My mind is at ease, and I'm ready to work."

That's how it happened. Betty's wish was my command. We moved out of Brooklyn as soon as the building was finished. We moved into our new home, not far from the theatre. My sons were improving rapidly, as children do, when "God is on their side." Within a year my Meelee Peelee stopped limping, quite the opposite. He suddenly became an athletic child. He would outrun or outfight any child of his age. My little one too was improving, except for minor children's' maladies. They were never sick again, God willing ...

One good thing happened during those two years of my anguish. I laid to rest my emotional problems of culture, intellect, musical integrity. I lived in peace with my stars at the Public Theatre. It was the end of the two years, and the star group changed. My quartet fell apart. Itzik Feld's star continued to rise each year. He outshone this three cohorts. The artistic standards at my theatre were not raised, and if possible sunk a degree lower. As long as my heart and mind was on my child, I tried not to take on anything I couldn't endure. But suddenly it was past endurance.

I had to speak my honest mind, when I was asked my opinion. When they stopped asking, it was even worse. I saw things sinking into a new abyss. How could I tolerate it? Even my own writing was suffering. All I would do is repeat and repeat the same formula: the same polka, the same humor, the same duets ... It ceased being Yiddish and changed into being Polish. I don't object to it ethnically, but what place has it in Yiddish theatre or Yiddish musical comedy? It is downright idiotic. It offends me, and I said so. Having said my piece at one of the rehearsals, I left the theatre and headed for home. I suddenly fell spent. I felt that I was falling ... I rested against the wall and remained standing there, hoping it would pass. I must have lost consciousness. I did not realize that I wasn't against the wall any longer. I found myself sitting on the sidewalk. Passersby came to help, asking me what was wrong and whether they could be of help. They suggested taking me to the nearest hospital. Having heard the word "hospital," I came to my senses "Oh no, no thank you. I'm quite well." I assured them, and I did feel strong enough to walk home on my own.

I did decide to go to Dr. Ehrenberg, who was a kindly man who loved the theatrical profession, and we had confidence in him. I sat in his office, waiting until he'd arrive. "Mr. Secunda!" He was surprised to see me there. I told him briefly, putting him at ease. He took my pulse and blood pressure. "Your blood pressure is very low. How did you get there? I'll give you an injection and give you an additional vitamin. You will come at least two or three times a week for your injections to raise your blood pressure. You need care. Anything troubling you?" I knew what was troubling me. How can I tell this to a friend of the theatre? He spends every free hour in the company of performers, or backstage, or with actors at his home. His wife, Gussie, is just as affable, just as enamored of performers. How can I? And if I do tell him, how will that help my health? I promised that I would take care of myself and follow his instructions faithfully.

What am I to do to help myself? I began thinking. Compromising with my conscience, I knew that was a hopeless situation for me and my temperament. To forget my conscience, my aspiration, all those years of study, and hope, and sacrifice -- all that was implanted in me, by my fine tutors and instructors. To eradicate that I knew I could not do. What do I do to save my health, my family? Start anew? How? Become a street cleaner? It's not a satisfactory solution for a person who had studied and aspired to something else. But it would be more honorable, more honest for sure, uncompromising of principles. Why punish my poor heart and mind?

Reuben Guskin (I said it out loud!), manager of the Hebrew Actors' Union, he is a good friend. He knows and understands, I thought. I've often complained to him and trusted him. I said to myself that I would see him. He is a wise man. He has no other interests, other than to help his friends. Mr. Guskin, I'll call him. I already felt somewhat lighter. I knew what I must do. I only needed someone to tell it to, someone who would listen to me. There is a remedy, I hoped.
 

March 8, 1970, ch. 45

I knocked on the door. "Come in." I heard the voice of Reuben Guskin. Someone was sitting with him. He asked me to sit down. The performer who was sitting with him, got up, greeted me and departed. Guskin showed me the vacated chair. He gave me his hand and looked at me without speaking. In his presence I felt at ease. I started without the preliminaries, and I finished with the incident that led me to Dr. Ehrenberg, and the decision I made to give up the theatre. He let me speak without interruption. He didn't speak until I concluded with "quitting the profession."

"You speak like a child. How could you give up your profession with which you have become identified? After all these years, you have attained and retained your name in our Jewish cultural world. You can't get along with the stars if the music you write is not to your liking. There are other directions that might satisfy you more, your artistic integrity, but leaving Yiddish Theatre, that doesn't make sense, and you are a sensible man." He sat silent ...

Is that what I wanted to hear? I had no counterargument. I looked him in the eyes. He broke his silence. "I have a plan, Mr. Secunda, that may satisfy you. Maurice Schwartz is opening next season with Yud Singer's play, "Brothers Ashkenazi." I'm certain that he will be needing music for that play. For the coming season the Art Theatre will be in a new home at the Jolson Theatre, on Seventh Avenue and 59th Street. This will change the entire atmosphere. He has not engaged anyone to write music as of yet. If you'd like, I will speak with him, even this evening. I think he would be happy to have you." I felt much lighter. Guskin wouldn't say anything he wasn't certain of. I have not reached the end of the road. In the evening I took myself to Cafe Royal. There was no particular reason for it. I wasn't a Royalite per se, it wasn't my habitat, but listlessness drove me from my surroundings, to avoid answering questions to which I could find no answers. I walked through that famous door, and my eyes fell on that little corner table -- "Guskin's table," as it was called, near the telephones. Every other ring, it was Herman's voice calling, "Mr. Guskin, telephone!"

He noticed me at the door and beckoned me to come over. I sat at his table. "Herman, ice coffee please, for two." "Thank you, Mr. Guskin. I'm not having anything." "I spoke to Mr. Schwartz." Mr. Guskin was always formal, so as not to indicate familiarity. "I have made an appointment to meet at his office, for the three of us. I'm quite sure that he will be interested." We sat for a while. I knew that there were many waiting to have a "word" with Mr. Guskin. I thanked him and said good night, and I greeted a few Royalites on my way home. My mind was in turmoil. If Schwartz does agree, how will I tell my friend Mr. Rolland? Of course, he'll know why. He saw my struggle, out loud and in silence. He knows my ideologies, and he understands them. But primarily he is a businessman and must think of the show as a box-office vehicle. He tried to indoctrinate me to keep my work and myself as two separate "entities." "We don't always work at what we love. We do that privately when and if possible, or else you will make yourself sick."

In the operetta I had established the name of Secunda, above the play. It's an accomplishment in the theatre. It's called, "star billing," more prestige, more remunerative ... Schwartz does not put anyone above Schwartz, certainly not above Yud Singer, the author. What is more important, an advertisement for myself, or my health? I had not as yet told Betty of my dilemma. In case nothing comes of it, why add more to her anxiety?

Schwartz and I were not strangers to one another. When we had first met years earlier, he was a member of the then David Kessler company. Hi name then was Moishe Schwartz. He used to appear at the "Forward" evenings, or on the Sunday mornings that the Workmen's Circle used to arrange. Moishe Schwartz was much sought after even then. He was one of the first to do imitations and do them well, of Yiddish stars, writers, and other people of note, his improvisations of David Kessler, Thomashefsky, Adler, till he had reached the the plateau where he became so popular as to the the subject himself of imitations. But when we first met he to was in search of himself. He would hire the Roof Garden at the National Theatre, or the Second Avenue Theatre, if it was available, and produce plays of his own taste. Naturally, he played the lead. When he was producing the play, "Mish-Mash," he asked me to help him out. He had no steady composer, and I did not pretend to be very busy at that time either. He wrote his own lyrics to melodies that he had composed, or thought he did. He couldn't write music, and he would ask me to write it down for him. I would. He would take that sheet of music, hand it to the fiddler (those were still my pre-"Musicians' Club" days), where the fiddler was king. He would orchestrate it, and they would play it. The play "Mish-Mash" was just that, but Schwartz appreciated my help. When there were other concerts in which he would appear, I would be either playing for him, or watching him impersonate the actors. I was always easy on laughter, when clear of tragedy. Mine was a contagious laugh that was easily recognizable by those who had ever been in my company. I was always a good audience of his, even before our meeting at his office.

Maurice Schwartz shook my hand and started. "I want you to know, Mr. Secunda, that I'd be most happy to have you as my musical conductor, but you must understand that my Yiddish Art Theatre cannot afford such a privilege as to have a composer of your caliber, just to write music and conduct. Our composer must also be part of the orchestra. He must play so as to save us one musician. We cannot afford to pay such salaries as you've been getting at the operetta theatre. My theatre has no need of that much music. It's the play that's important! Of course you know that!!! Nothing would please me more than to have Sholom Secunda compose the music to my "Brothers Ashkenazi." He stopped for one brief moment to see if I was still breathing ...

He had a compelling voice and spoke as if in waves, and waves. He was extremely musical and had an ear for music. That most imitators must have. How else could they imitate the inflections and dialects? "If we can reach some sort of agreement," he went on, "of a financial understanding."  His voice dangled in front of my ears. He left me no bargaining space. Guskin broke the silence. "Suppose, Mr. Schwartz, you tell us what you can give Mr. Secunda, since you made it very clear what you can't give. Maybe we can go in on some compromise." Schwartz was in a difficult spot. Anything he offered might belittle me, insult me, offend me. He was at a loss. He didn't think that Guskin would create a dilemma.

"Well, Mr. Secunda, you know the going scale of a union musician." He hurried to add "I am willing to give "Chaver" Secunda (Comrade Secunda) twenty-five dollars above the union scale for musicians!"

I remained dumbfounded, stunned and void of any sound. It was less than half of what I was getting at that time at the Public Theatre. I had the same feeling as when I was leaning against the wall ... At any moment I would find myself sitting on the sidewalk again. "No, that must never happen again," I was thinking. While I felt that four eyes were penetrating my thoughts, I also saw the faces of my Betty and my two sons in my mind's eye. They obliterated the other two. "What would they rather have?" I asked myself. "A poor man as husband and father, or a sick man, unhappy, going out of his mind?" I closed my eyes. I was embarrassed for myself. I should be able to compromise to such an extent. To make my terms sound light as I answered in his familiar words: "Chaver Balaboss (Comrade Boss)" (That form of salutation remained between us until the days before his demise. I had visited with him and my friend, Moishe Rohn, in Tel Aviv.) I don't know how I can make ends meet on such a salary. I have a family and two young growing children, who are used to eating. I must do it because I am selfish. My desire to compose serious music, but my children ... Guskin looked at me sadly. He was afraid of my health. He saw me at his office. He was aware of what Dr. Ehrenberg had warned me about. Schwartz tried once more, "Don't say no, Chaver Secunda."

Well, I accepted the proposition in the hopes that if not financially, at least artistically I would find satisfaction, and above all my integrity and peace of mind. I have reached the saturation point. I needed what I hope to get, peace of mind.

Our conversation turned to other matters at hand. Schwartz was telling us that he was preparing for his trip to Europe, to Palestine ... In the meantime, of course, he would be working on his play. As soon as he returns, we will start working on the music for our "Brothers Ashkenazi."

I came home to Betty. I was fearful of being too happy, but I was ... I felt relieved of that pressure, and I told her, "Betty, I've given up the Public Theatre, the operetta, 'Pini fin pinchev' (I had no other word for it.) I agreed to go with Schwartz at the Yiddish Art Theatre. I'll be playing the piano, instead of conducting. Of course, dear, my work will be much less than in the operetta. I'll be able to devote more of my time to other things -- to you, dear." She smiled her grateful smile. "And to our sons, and perhaps try my luck at other things. Slowly I told her of my "voluntary" cut in salary. I had thought to tell her of what brought on this drastic change, about what I experienced that day on my way home from the theatre, about the sidewalk incident and the visit to Dr. Ehrenberg. I had not told her any of this before." She turned pale and stammered. "My poor Sholomel, what have they done to you??? Why didn't you tell me about all of that??? Of course you did right. Of course," she added sadly, "to live on such a thin little envelope. But we'll get used to it. Your health is more important to me than anything else, and I am more than certain that you'll come up with something. We'll find something, you'll find something to augment our income. The sky is still up there. You haven't lost anything, not your prestige, not your talent, nor your integrity ... You are still you, only more so! That's the way we love you, that's the way we want you. I am an optimist. Whatever happens from now on is for the best." We held hands for a long time. I was my young self again. I felt good once again, lying with my Betty, not having to keep secrets from her anymore, secrets that were eating at my conscience, eating at my heart and obliterating my most tender feelings, the foundation of my existence.

March 15, 1970, ch. 46
 

While still at the Rolland Theatre years earlier, I had met Jacques Renard, a young musician. He had been the conductor of the Eddie Cantor radio program, when Cantor was the star of the airwaves. Boris Bernardi, the older brother of the Bernardi boys, Herschel Bernardi being the youngest, brought Jacques Renard to the theatre to see one of my operettas. Renard admired my work, and in a short while we had become very good friends.

Eddie Cantor's radio program emanated from Hollywood. When Renard would come to New York, he would visit with me at the theatre, and from the theatre we would go to the Cafe Royal. To him, the Royal was the high spot. There, he said, he saw personalities that Hollywood hadn't even heard of: writers, directors, doctors, composers, etc. "What in heaven's name are you doing out in the sticks? I have nothing against the Yiddish Theatre," he assured me. "But, my God, if you'd come out to Hollywood, I would introduce you to every important personage in the film industry. They all flock to Cantor's studio. If we go to them, I am more than positive -- I'm even sure that you would connect in no time. And money? Why, do you know what Hollywood makes?!!!" I laughed. "And spends? Where I could spend some of it ..."

"I can only repeat what I said to you the first time you went to Hollywood. I'm convinced of our success. No matter where, I am willing to risk." I was skeptical. I had been there once. I'm familiar with their ways, their lives, their ambitions, and their illusions and disillusions." Betty was adamant.

"Sholom, what is there to think about? You have your contract with Schwartz. You have nothing for the entire summer that needs your presence. Schwartz won't be back until the fall. Go and look around, you're not alone. Jacques Renard is not Paul Muni. Jacque's warm and friendly and genuinely in love with your work. There is such a vast field out there. Here you are not happy. This I know, Sholom," she added sadly, "that which you do now undermines your health. You don't tell me, but I feel it. You're not the same. Try ... Renard will help you, because he wants to help."

It took a few days to get things in order. (What things?) "Everything" was at a standstill. Even my trip was practically at a standstill. I went by bus. I telephoned my friend when I left, and said when I was due to arrive in Los Angeles.

Four-and-a-half days later the long and tedious bus ride arrived at its final stop. I had "sailor's legs" from the bus ride. My head was still spinning when I happily saw my friend Jacques and his wife coming towards the bus. I had little personal luggage. Music I did take. I had to. I'm a salesman of music and these are my samples. If I use the right approach, if my merchandise finds a buying market, I am in luck. Of course, it's not a cloak-and-suit business. One sets the style, and America wears it. I took along some of my choicest morsels, which are conducive to orchestral, instrumental, films and such. Jacques helped with my luggage and put it in his car. On the way to Beverly Hills, he showed me the sights. "I will really make some important appointments for us right after my rehearsal for the Sunday Cantor show. We'll start going places."

"Meanwhile," his wife suggested, "Let's stop at a restaurant. Our guest must be hungry." "No thank you. I am not hungry," I insisted. He didn't listen to me. We stopped at an elegant place where all radio artists and personalities dined. They don't eat, they dine. We just grabbed a bite ...

Every second someone of "great importance" came to our table. "Hi Jacques." He introduced me as a dear friend, Mr. Sholom Secunda, the famous Jewish composer of the Yiddish Theatre from New York ..." Her voice in my ears, her devotion and understanding in comforting me, I fell asleep.

When I opened my eyes I tried to orient myself as to where I was. A luminous brightness flooded the cool-looking room. I dashed out of my bed and stared unbelievably through the clear glass. A row of palm trees stood motionless, like sentries guarding a house. I smiled to myself at my own alertness so early in the morning. I showered again and luxuriated in this homey comfort and beauty, feeling blessed by my good fortune, my good friend, my good wife, my good ... Calm down, Sholomel, try to simmer down. Let's just see how good ..."

I dressed appropriately. I opened my door. I heard the voices of children -- not my Meelee Peelee, not my Ju Ju Puju, but Jacques' children. I walked down the steps that led from the guest room to a spacious empty room. I followed the voices and saw the children. I had not met them the night before, as they had been asleep. They knew that they had a guest from New York, that I was Jewish, and they greeted me friendly and with respect. They led me into the sitting room. I had been there the night before. The sunlight was even brighter than the crystal-lit chandelier ...

"And Daddy will be right back." Mrs. Renard joined us. She was well-groomed and comfortably underdressed. "Good morning, Mr. Secunda!" "Sholom," I corrected her. "Sholom, that's 'peace,' isn't it?" The young son, or was it the daughter who asked this, showing pleasure at being so Jewish-oriented.

"Jacques will be right back," Mrs. Renard continued. "You'll never guess where he went," she added.

"For his morning walk?" "No!" "To the corner for his daily newspaper?" I tried to guess. Well, she told me to guess, didn't she? "No, he went to shop for some Hollywood exotic foods," she smiled. "I know in New York it's on every Jewish table ..."

How little she knew how many tables in New York or Brooklyn didn't have those typically "exotic delicacies," like Nova Scotia (lox). It was rare to them, as caviar, or almost lox, on certain occasions, and herring more often ...

"We don't get it every day," she continued, and as soon as Jacques gets back, we'll sit down to dine. Take Mr. Secunda outside, children, and show him around until Daddy comes home."

They pointed out. It's not polite to point, and they knew it, but we were "heimishe mentshn" (friendly folks). "There is the house where so and so lives, and there, the one with the gables is the house that is Gable's ..." "No doubt," I punned. They looked at me as if I were serious. It turned out it wasn't. Not too much to my surprise, but it was that of some celebrity. The voices around their pool were subdued. Some were swimming, some with glasses, already in their well-manicured, tanned hands.

A short "toot" of the horn called to their attention that "Daddy's here, Daddy's here." Jacques sprang out spritely from his light convertible with a gigantic paper bag ensconced deeply within a woven string basket, no doubt from Mexico. He looked at the children and said, "I see you all met Uncle Sholom. Good morning, Sholom. Guess what I brought you?" "You shouldn't have," I interrupted. "Why are you being so extravagant?" "What kind of extravagance is this, Sholom? We love it, too. It's just too far to go and pick it up every morning. It's a treat for us, too."

I thought of a familiar Russian phrase. In Alexandria we used to say, "Dast bog dobrih gostei to i mi pozivimsya" (May God send us good guests, so we too may be eating a little better ...)

"It's such a beautiful language, Russian, isn't it?" Jacques said. "It's so, it's so European, you know ..." "Yes," I answered, "but at what cost?" The string bag lost its opulence. All of its contents were on the table, fit for a king, a Jewish Litvak king, with its herring, and lox and bagels, and all the other goodies for the guest from Brooklyn. The food was good, and the conversation was lively. Questions were thrown at me:

"Uncle Secunda," one asked, "What is Jewish music?" Isn't music an international language?" "Yes, every musician, no matter what his mother-tongue is, can read music, but there is a distinction, and it's not imaginary." I held their attention, expanding my theory and listened to myself for the first time, as it crystallized itself in my own mind. "There is a music that is definitely Yiddish, and it is not merely because it's in a minor key," I continued. "One of the greatest satisfactions I get out of my work is the opportunity to show that Jewish music in not necessarily a wail ... It can be as merry and happy as the most cheerful music of any other peoples or nation."

"Then you think only Jews can compose true Jewish music?"

I thought for a while. "Let me say this," I improvised, searching for the right words to illustrate my thoughts on Jewish music. "Christian composers could write Jewish music, but they must first make a thorough search, a thorough study of it. Take Rimsky Korsakov, for instance, a non-Jewish composer who wrote some of the finest Hebrew traditional music. But that was because he made a painstaking study of it. This has not been done by the average Christian composer. I haven't found it too often. On occasion -- at Jewish Services, in the temples when conducted by non-Jewish choirmasters, I did find semblances of genuine Jewish flavor -- it may have surged somewhere in his veins, in his blood. He may have been exposed to it in his childhood, or had imbibed it with his mother's milk, although he does not even know it ..."

"Thanks for the lecture, Uncle Secunda," they said respectively, as they excused themselves and ran out to play. Our conversation was finished with our "good-to-the-last-drop" cup of coffee. Jacque laid his napkin on the table, looked at his very expensive Patek Philipe watch (it always reminded me of Tchaikovsky's "Pathétique." That's how I remembered it.) "Time for our rehearsal," Jacques said. "All ready, Sholom?" "Yes, Jacques." He kissed his wife on the cheek. "We'll be back for supper, dear. Don't cook. If you have plans for the afternoon, we'll eat out." And out we went to rehearsal.

Rehearsals for me, personally, were not of great interest. I have gone through the routine since I was a boy. It's different in one respect. Here they had one or more people to perform that one arduous task. I, and everyone else in the Jewish theatre, had to do everything. Everything was done by one man. Here, Jacques, the conductor, stood on one side of the piano and observed closely how each performer ran through his music, deciding his key, temp. stops, goes, etc. One man sat at the piano, another man was the orchestrator. He was making notes in order to ascertain the instruments, if there were any changes. And the sound man, as to the placement of certain sections -- fiddlers, brass, percussions, harp. "Why not?" Harp, by all means ... "It's only audio, you can only hear it, but who doesn't recognize the sound of a harp?" Also it adds so much class ... "Halevei of Yiddish Theatre Gezugt Gevoser," I thought (I wish the Yiddish Theatre could afford a harp.)

I walked around the rehearsal studio to while away my time. I was impatient to see others work. In my fantasy, I saw myself at work. Soon, soon my friend will take me around the film studios. I'll have an idea then as to what my prospects will be for the future.
 

March 22, 1970, ch. 47
 

The first place that we visited was the Warner Studios. As I think of it now, it becomes even clearer how ironically one's destiny can be shaped. We were ushered into a very beautiful office. The musical director was seated at his desk. What and who else? A family picture of himself and his children graced his very immaculately decorated desk, and a pretty secretary with a pad and pencil in hand, ready to jot down the uttering of her director. He greeted us as if we were his long lost cousins.

"Umm, thank you, Sholom." He addressed me by my first name. The name impressed him, I believe. "Pretty melody and a lively rhythm." He pursed his lips. If it has the potential for other that Jewish, that is ... forgive me ... I say that it does not. It's my honest opinion, and you want me to be honest with you. However, I must agree that it is very pleasant to listen to, when Yiddish songs are played by a Jewish musician ..."

Jacques tried to convince him otherwise. "Listen!" He started singing it and snapping his fingers. "Listen to the lively rhythm, the sound. Don't you feel like singing it?" The director would not be swayed. "I'm quite certain," he said, "that in English it would be a flop!" He dismissed the subject completely.

After that "honest" opinion, he got up. We got up, too. We shook hands. That's a must. (I had never witnessed an electric chair execution. Does the chaplain piously shake hands with the condemned? Is that part of the last rites???)

It's only one man's opinion," Renard said, as he consoled me, or tried to anyhow. "Tomorrow, we'll go to another studio. I believe it's too late today. We'll get up early, play a round of golf, get in a few hours at the pool... It's so refreshing after a hard day's work. Tomorrow you'll hear something entirely different. One studio is not the last word, you know."

Every day, for a whole week, we visited another studio, with the same results. "Mr. Secunda, you're great ... for Jewish only ... Did the Jews know it?? (Those are questions Jews don't ask of non-Jews.)

Next morning we went again to Cantor's rehearsal. That was done religiously, every morning for several hours. The first new rehearsals Eddie Cantor did not attend. He had to rest. That morning, he was there. I whispered to Jacques: "I am acquainted with Cantor, you know. I'm sure that he'll remember me. He is Jewish, undeniably ... I mean he is even proud of it, and his wife Ida. Do you think that it's to presumptuous that I should speak to him in person and ask him if he would listen to some of my songs, especially "Bei Mir Bistu Shein"? Both of us have confidence in it ...

"It can't harm," he said, with his New York Jewish inflection. "After rehearsal, go over to him and ask him to listen to a few of your songs."

After rehearsal, everyone left and just Cantor and several of his comedy writers remained. I walked over and said, "Mr. Cantor, my name is Secunda, Sholom Secunda. Our mutual friend, Jacques, must have mentioned my name to you ..."

"Of course, Mr. Secunda. I know your name. Don't be so modest. In Hollywood, modesty is not a virtue."

"Then would you spare a few minutes for me? I'd like to play several melodies for you. I'm quite sure you could make use of them on one of your programs. You may remember Jacques had used my 'Minuet' on one of your programs? "Of course, the Minuet, of course. I remember. Yes, I remember it well -- pretty, very pretty." His eyes traveled to his writers. "Excuse me fellows, one second," he said to me apologetically. "I will just dismiss my writers." What do they know about Jewish music? "Khotch ale yidn" (although they're all Jews), he added in a good Litvish Yiddish, adding, "Sit down, Mr. Secunda, and wait here. I'll be right with you."

He was back in a few minutes. "Now, Jacques, Sholom, we're alone. No one will hear us." Why shouldn't anyone hear us? "And now, Sholom, I am all yours. Let me hear a few "heart-tugging" Jewish melodies. Oh, I haven't cried in a long time at something Jewish. Don't you love Yiddish, Jacques? I do!" I sat at the piano and started to concertize. My "My yiddishe meydele." I started to sing and accompany myself. "Beautiful, Sholom, just beautiful. What else? I played another, and another, and another. I thought, "Now I'll hit him over the head with ...," and I began, "Bei Mir Bistu Shein." I looked at him with a smile, My smile disappeared, as I saw his face ...

My work was thrown out. And my hard-earned money and the humility of my dear friend, Renard. All the effort ... and how can I face Mrs. Renard? And all my newly acquired nephews? They thought of me so highly (?), of their new uncle with the exotic name.

I gathered my music sadly. Men don't cry. Tears are for women only, except when your children, God forbid, are hurt or something as tragic as ... Is this then so tragic? Then why do I feel like crying? I have a job waiting for me with Maurice Schwartz in the Yiddish Art Theatre and twenty-five dollars above the union scale. That's nothing to sneeze at. I comforted myself. I was thinking to myself, like a Dutch uncle, how does a Dutch uncle think? Why not a Jewish Uncle? Well ...

"Sholom," Cantor was explaining, "I love your melodies. "Es hot mir a tsip geton baym hartsn. (It touched my heart.) But they are simply too Yiddish, and the "goyim" (gentiles) won't understand them. Believe me, I am sincerely sorry. But I can't use them ..." I believed him. He took my arm gently, and arm-in-arm we walked to Jacques' car. Cantor waved at Jacques. "See you tomorrow, bright and early." "Yes, Eddie." Jacques waved back. I sat beside him in the car. He didn't have to ask. He did ... "Nu?" he asked. "Nu, nu," I answered. "Too Jewish ..."

"Don't give up, Sholom!" "Don't give up?" I laughed, with my typical laugh, only with a greater portion of "yasherkes" (If you don't know what it is, or how it feels, you shouldn't, you shouldn't know from it -- please believe me ...)

How sad it is that we cannot foretell the future, until the future is behind us. Not only didn't the Warner's musical director realize that he was throwing away millions of dollars (Of course, to me, thirty dollars at a time when I sold the song was a million dollars.) But my friend, Eddie Cantor, never realized that he had three-million dollars in his hand and let it go. As it turned out, Warners did buy the song from a Jewish publishing company and made millions of dollars with "Bei Mir Bistu Shein." The song became so popular, that it was sung all over the world: Africa, Japan, Spain, France and Russia. (Somewhat later Russia probably thought that they invented it.) After it had been sung all over the world, Eddie Cantor sang it on his Sunday evening program at 8:00 p.m. And each time in a different version. Once he sang it, then the "child wonder," Bobbie Breen, whom Cantor had discovered, another time Deanna Durbin sang it ... Everyone sang it.

On my way back -- I had a return ticket for the bus ride home -- I heard the bus driver whistling the melody. I reminded myself of the director's "prophecy." It came back to me. "It will never do well in English, or in any other language but Jewish."

Dare I ask the driver in what language he was whistling the tune in?  The speedometer and each revolution of the wheel carried me father and farther away from my dreams of Hollywood, the "valley of the shadow." Empty dreams ...

I said to myself, "Sholom, be content with your lot. Yiddish is your life since "ovois avoisenu." (Since our forefathers). There were no converts in the Secunda family. and "Halevei vayter" (hopefully not in the future). We can use every single Jew we have. There are too few of us as there is ... I argued in my favor, and no one contradicted me, I dare say. Only non-Jews say, "There are too many of us ..."

I dozed off fitfully, and I daydreamed, trying to make peace with my lot. Write incidental music for Schwartz's productions and perhaps go back to the operettas, give in to the stars from time-to-time, and their idiosyncrasies. That is my lot. In my free time I will write serious music to the poetry that I love to read, that the intelligent man enjoys listening to. "You have not forgotten how to smile, how to laugh, Sholom, so laugh a little and don't embitter the lives of your nearest and dearest ones. And who is nearer than your Betty, your Meelee Peelee, your Ju Ju Puju, and your own life? Yes, Sholom, you'll com back and dedicate yourself. Be a good husband, a good father to your good children. Stop this constant discontentment."
 

March 29, 1970, ch. 48
 

Well, here I am, back in New York. And where do you think I find myself? Of all the places under the piano. "Sholom," I heard Betty call, "someone's at the door." Then I heard a man's voice. "Does Mr. Secunda live here?" "Yes," Betty answered. "He's busy at the moment, but he'll see you, I'm sure. Come in." She ushered the young man into the music room.

"Sholom, Sholom, where are you?" "Here we are, Mommy," answered my two-year-old son Ju Ju Piju. "There's a young man to see you." She tried to show with her eyes that a stranger is present ... and what are you doing under the piano anyhow???"

I crawled out from down under in my boxer shorts, my son's teddy bear in one hand, and one baby shoe in the other. My son followed me. I stood up, and facing me was a young man. He seemed more embarrassed at seeing me, the composer Secunda, in such an informal attire. (It reminded me of an anecdote about the great Russian writer Pushkin and a lady ...)

He (Pushkin) had a rendezvous to meet with her at his apartment at a certain hour. The lady thought that she'd surprise him and come somewhat earlier. when she entered unannounced, he realized that he was completely without attire. He bowed from the waist down and apologized for not wearing his necktie.

"My God" -- a stranger, my son tugging at my short shorts (he called it) ... "Daddy, Daddy, my teddy bear." I handed him his toy. I looked sheepishly at the young man. We both waited for the other to speak first.

"Mr. Secunda, I presume? I have a letter for you," the gentleman said, "from Jan Peerce." Jan Peerce was no stranger to me. I had known him before Roxy had discovered him for his Radio City Music Hall and changed his name from Pinky Perelmuth to Jan Peerce, when he was still playing the fiddle and singing in Alexander Olshanetsky's orchestra.

"Pinky?" I said, tearing open the letter and reading: "Mayn tayerer Sholom, (My Dear Sholom) I sent this letter via my brother-in-law, Reuben Tucker, who was just wed, as you know to my sister Sarah, she should live and be well. He is a lining salesman in the garment center, and in his spare time he is a cantor in a Passaic, New Jersey synagogue. 'Er der gait mir di yor (He shortens my life.)' He was bitten by the 'cantorial bug' and is inflicted with the 'khalas' (sickness). He wants to become a professional singer and doesn't know 'Vi a tir tsu efn (How to open a door).' Since you are tied in with the Jewish radio, do me a favor and give him a 'shtup (push)' into the 'Forward Hour' (every Sunday morning from 11-12. Radio station WEVD used to conduct a musically cultural program.) Or he'll take any other station for that matter. If you can ..."

"He thinks that it will add something to his prestige as a salesman, and it may give him a a chance to sing and make a few extra bucks. The newlyweds could use it ..." "Couldn't we all? Ha, ha, ha, I interjected my humor." "I know I could -- I wasn't acting proud. How could I, standing in my shorts? I continued reading the note. "You are a 'maven' (connoisseur) on voices. Let him sing something for you. If you can do something for him, I'll appreciate it. My sister will be grateful, and his 'shviger' (mother-in-law) won't stop blessing you for doing something for her son-in-law. (She didn't lose a daughter, she gained a future cantor.)" Signed, your friend, "Pinky."

"Oy, I'm in for it!" I thought, as I folded Peerce's note. There was no polite way out, so listen I must. I had auditioned so many "talents" for "Uncle Sholom's Radio Hour," one more if he's at all good can do no harm, although having one chazan, Moishe Oysher, is quite enough.

So I pressed on. "Do you think that you'll continue studying?" "Well," he said, somewhat embarrassed. "I'll study with him as long as my money holds out. I'm married now, and two can't live as cheaply as ..."

"Listen to me, Ruby. I am speaking to you as a friend. I have been friends with your brother-in-law Pinky for many years. I wouldn't say this, even out of friendship if I didn't think that your teacher was right. Study, study, study. Yours is not just another voice. It's God's gift, and he doesn't grant too many gifts to many people. He did give it to you, Ruby. A cantor is a very worthy profession. We can also show our appreciation to Him by making a maximum of his gifts, and with dedicated study, you may even reach the opera ..."

I hadn't heard such riches emanating from a "music box" in a long time.

He was pale with anxiety. "Meanwhile though," he continued Peerce's request, "If you could arrange for me to get an appearance on WEVD -- my mother-in-law had telephoned Mr. Vladek several times. As to myself, I haven't had the nerve so far. Vladek is always 'out.' If I could have just one appearance ... So many thousands of people listen to the Sunday "Forverts Hour." I might pick up some extra work: weddings, bar mitzvahs, to pay my teacher, to start a family (Tucker now has three children). A chazan in a little synagogue makes hardly enough. If I could earn enough by singing, I'd give up going from one factor-loft to another, selling linings ..."

I understood his dilemma perfectly. Studying didn't come easy to me either. I needed three jobs to pay for "Julliard." (I didn't tell him that I still needed three jobs to make ends meet.) "I'll talk to Vladek tomorrow. I assured him that he would appear on the "Forward Hour." I'll tell him my honest opinion. I'll also remind him that Peerce had appeared on his "Hour," even after he had reached prominence. "Do you have any cultural songs?" Mr. Vladek makes a point of that. Something poetic. You also must have an orchestration for a larger orchestra."

"No, I don't have anything like that. As a cantor in shul, a big orchestra was never called for," he said sadly.

"Look, Reuben. I want to do this for two reasons. Firstly, for your voice. I believe in it. Secondly, I owe it to your wife's brother, Pinky. He has done me a great favor. He sang at one of my testimonial performances. I'll give you one of my songs called, "Zamd un shtern" (Sand and Stars). I have a full orchestration for radio. I said, taking it from the shelf, "Here is the song. Learn it well, musically. "You do read music?" I inquired. I needn't have. "And come back to me when you have committed it to memory." I'll teach you how a "kunst lied" (artistic song) should be sung. Voice is not enough, you understand.

In the interim I'll get a date for you. When you'll be here, I'll tell you exactly when." I shook his hand, and he left thanking me all the way to the street door. On the other side of the door, my son Shmilikel, flushed, came running from his lunch. "Reuben, this my Meelee Peelee, my heir apparent." Reuben Tucker didn't believe he heard the name right, but he greeted him. "Hello, Meelee Peelee???"

"Hello, Mr. Reuben," Shmilikel answered, and ran inside, leaving his roller skates near the door. No, Mr. Tucker did not fall over them, thank God, and neither did I. I just picked them up. I always did...

I had kept my word. Vladek gave his consent on my "mevines" (on my know-how). Ruby came a second time. He knew the melody, although the "poetry" needed "polish." So did his pronunciation, he having been born in America. It came natural to me, but he needed more of an understanding of what the Yiddish "oises (letters)" meant. There is much more than is obvious to the eye. The ear, I said, is even more sensitive. He understood and learned quickly.

He appeared on the "Forverts Hour." After his first appearance, he didn't need "favors" from me anymore.

Water under the bridge. Many years have passed since that brief "encounter." The saga could be called, "From Loft to Loft to the Opera." Richard Tucker, the opera singer, remained the same "Ruby" to us. To my children he's Uncle Ruby. To his -- I'm Uncle Sholom (Secunda). Our wives are just as close. And Betty is an "aunt."'

P.S.: I have it in my will -- no one knows it as of yet -- except it states that Richard Tucker shall sing after my demise. He'll sing the "Kaddish" (prayer for the departed), that I shall (must) write for him. It will console my family and soothe my departing soul (and on the wings of his voice, I shall reach the gates of ____?)
 

April 19, 1970, ch. 51
 

Oy, Hollywood, Hollywood! Twice you beckoned, and twice I was rejected. I knocked on many doors to peddle "Bei Mir Bistu Shein," and twice I returned empty-handed! The third time, Lou Irwin (still Hollywood) went on my behalf to peddle an item called Sholom Secunda. He too knocked on every door. "I bring you a tasty dish. I bring you raisins and almonds. I bring you the one and only Sholom Secunda. I bring you the composer of the most popular song in decades. I bring you ... But there was no one to buy Sholom Secunda. One of the letters that I didn't know about then was the last letter from Lou Irwin:

Dear Sholom: They all agreed that you are a talented composer, but "steeped in Yiddish tradition, Yiddish Theatre, and completely Yiddish style. They're afraid the public will get the impression we are out to 'convert' the film industry." To Eddie Relkin (the manager for Maurice Schwartz's theatre), he wrote: I'm sorry I couldn't do anything constructive for our friend, Sholom Secunda. I'm certain, in time, they will regret the fact that they let him slip through their fingers. But, at this second, no contract for Secunda. For Pete's sake, he wrote such beautiful music for "Brothers Ashkenazi." Imagine what he could write for Warner Brothers? Do they know what good is? These letters were encouraging. While I appreciated the attempt, it did not help me financially. "Forget, Sholom. There is no Hollywood!" So I continued writing for the (Yiddish) Art Theatre, this time for Sholem Asch's "Three Cities," which opened Schwartz's second season at the 59th Street Theatre.

I read in the newspaper about two young men, Cahn and Chaplin, whom no one had heard about before. They wrote the English lyrics to "Bei Mir Bistu Shein." I didn't know how much money they were making, and the Andrew Sisters and Lou Levy, the agent. I wrote to Sammy Cahn and (Saul) Chaplin (no relation to Charlie), to Lou Levy and the Andrew Sisters. Talking to the wall, the wall doesn't answer, and neither did they. How could people be so heartless, so cruel, so ill-mannered. Not even an answer to my letter. Let us assume that each of them is talented, with great artistic endowments, magnetic personalities ... They would have reached fame without my song. Let's just say, they might have. But the fact remains that it was "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" that brought them to the fore. The simple truth is that no one made a fuss over them prior to this phenomenon. How could they choose to ignore me so completely? As if I had nothing to do with it?

By accident I had met Lou Levy, the manager of the Andrew Sisters. I asked, "Why, Mr. Levy, didn't you even answer me? Ignore me so completely?" He looked at me, up and down, with such disdain that I started to laugh. I actually laughed, with "yasherkes" (again that word). But, of course, by now you know the meaning of it (It simply means that you can taste the gall.) I know I did. My Betty once said to me out of desperation, "Sholom, let me write a letter. Let me!" She had been a private secretary when she was not with the ballet. "Let me write a letter. Not to these small people. I'll write to the heads. I'll write to the English publishers of 'Bei Mir Bistu Shein.' I'm convinced that you will fare much better there."

So Betty wrote, and I went to "Harms," the firm that belonged to Warner Brothers, whose musical director rejected my song in the first place, saying it was "too Jewish." I arrived there and asked for the "head." "Sholom Secunda, composer of "Bei Mir Bistu Shein," is here and would like one word with him." His secretary came back. "He is very busy at the moment. Please come back at another time. Well, let's see, in about a week or so. And again, the gentleman was busy.

I had a sense of guilt for the Jewish composers and my colleagues. I was acquainted with the statutes for copyrights. Being the president of our Society of Jewish Composers, I was called upon to make decisions at conferences and meetings with lawyers; looking for the possibility to rescue something out of the thousands of dollars that I had lost because of my idiocy. A mistake, no one was to blame but myself. Each one of the lawyers had one answer. "Farkoyt iz farkoyft (Sold is sold.)" I understood its meaning, but not its logic. The helplessness of this situation tortured me, as if it were a nightmare. And if that wasn't enough, the "know-it-alls" would goad. "As little as I know," they'd reiterate, "I still thought that a good lawyer could find a loophole."

There just was no loophole, I must forget it. I studied the laws and by-laws of ASCAP (American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers), i.e. how they go about collecting royalties for their composers and writers. I first realized, had I belonged to ASCAP, that they could have saved some of that lost treasure by collecting fees for performances on television (Television was just raising its head.) They had also made a film in which my song was prominently featured.

How can I become a member of ASCAP? I asked my lawyer Eddie Masters (having changed his name from Moscovitch to Masters), who represented our Society of Jewish Composers. He got me an appointment with ASCAP.

We were expected and dealt with politely. Mr. Masters stated my problem. The manager of ASCAP and Masters had known one another for some time, and Masters influenced him enough to try and deal with my case, as if it were a personal matter. The director was well aware of the case. He honestly showed surprise as to how I could take it so calmly, losing so much money, he said. "Here is a way," he said. "Take his advice." He was well aware that I am the president of the Society of Jewish Composers. He also knew that our Society of Jewish Composers had been associated with BMI, the "opposition," an organization that was founded by the great broadcasting stations, when they could not agree with certain terms. ASCAP had demanded more money from its members. Now BMI  is great competition to ASCAP. "However," he concluded, "If you, Mr. Secunda, are willing to give up your membership in the Society of Jewish Composers, I will see that you will become a full-fledged member of ASCAP, and as such you will be entitled to some of the royalties that will be coming in from now on."

Resign from the Jewish Composers, of which I was a charter member? I looked at my lawyer, and he stared right back at me, as if he was saying, "It's all up to you, Secunda." They were certain that I would accept that proposition. After all that had transpired, how could I resist or refuse? Of course he'll have to withdraw his membership from the Society of Jewish Composers and join ASCAP. That meant tasting some of the honey, honey that "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" was still making for someone else. I remained dumb. I heard them speaking of large sums of money. On one hand I saw my family and the extra income; the things they were deprived of, the things that I would be able to get for them. On the other hand, I saw my colleagues. How could I work against them? How could I be so unethical and unsympathetic towards my friends? The recognition that I helped create. What was I to do? They were waiting for my answer, and I heard myself saying, "I am very grateful for your friendly advice. I wish I could decide, here and now, and tell you, 'I do.' To my sorrow, my decision is tied in with a great deal of procrastination. I cannot take it upon myself, I must talk it over with my lawyers, my friend Mr. Masters, and my wife, Mrs. Secunda. She has an equal share in all my suffering. She must decide how much more she's willing to take. Whatever my answer will be, I shall try to give it to you soon ..."
 

April 26, 1970, ch. 52
 

I left the ASCAP office, practically leaning on the arm of my friend Masters. I had learned nothing new. I racked my brain before going to ASCAP. What is going to happen now? He led me into the nearest coffee shop. Over untouched colorless coffee, we threshed the same subject over and over again: "How to rescue something." How to halt this stream that is rapidly washing away every nugget of gold. Masters tried to be sympathetic. He tried to rationalize the situation. "Sholom," he said, "Your struggle now is entirely with your own conscience. If you resign from BMI, it writes "finis" to the Society of Jewish Composers. Why? Because BMI doesn't know anything but you. Frankly, they made the deal with you and through you. If you leave, they have legal rights to break their contract. About a renewal of the contract, there can be no hope whatsoever. Without you, they will sign no new contract. Now you, Sholom, must decide what is more important in your life. The money --I don't say it derogatorily, just put it in its right perspective -- the money or your colleagues of the 'society.'"

As I've said, it wasn't anything new. Masters was simply pointing it out. I felt weak, too weak to wipe the cold sweat of my throbbing brow. I pressed the paper napkin against my parched lips, to keep from groaning out loud.

"I'll call a meeting of my executive board," I managed to say weakly. "I'll put it to them honestly. Let's see how they will react. After that, I will decide ..."

I telephoned Henry Lefkowitch, the Secretary of our society, and ordered the meeting. "Henry," I said. "I'd like you to impress on our members that their presence is most urgently requested."

Seated, left to right: Alexander Olshanetsky, Joseph Rumshinsky and Sholom Secunda.
Standing, left to right: Abe Ellstein, unk, unk, unk, unk.

Everyone was there. No doubt they all guessed what the meeting was about. Still, I stated my case. The first to speak, at some length, was Michel Gelbart, and then Pinkhas Yasinovsky. They spoke about the "principle" of the thing. One must have principle and ideals. They could not understand how I could think, even for one moment, to abort that which I had helped to conceive, and that's what it means about my joining ASCAP.

Olshanetsky took the floor. He spoke in his own usual manner, a conglomerate language of Russian, English and Yiddish. But we understood him very well. His vocabulary was colorful, cursing our "shlimazl (bad luck)," and saying openly: "Sholom, I, Shura Olshanetsky, tell you, if you don't join ASCAP and save some of that loot, you'll be twice as big an idiot, as when you first sold it (Bei Mir Bistu Shein) for thirty dollars." I, in your place, would do exactly that. Shura (nickname) Olshanetsky finished with a colorful Russian curse word and sat down.

My younger colleague, Ellstein, also asked for a word. "Compromise," said Abe, "is a remedy in most cases. But I see no compromise here. Of course, I agreed with Yasinovsky and Gelbart, that our society will die an early death if Secunda leaves. But, on the other hand, you cannot expect that a man should sacrifice his family for his principles. Gentlemen, I don't have the heart to tell Sholom to stay with us and sacrifice everything else he has done in the past. True, through no fault of our members, but to advise him otherwise, we would be committing a sin against him and his family."

Henry Lefkowitch took no part in the discussion. "I had sought his advice before," he said simply. "I will not vote against you."

Joseph Rumshinsky sat with a smirk on his face, waiting to be asked. No one did, no one. Then, Yasinovsky took the floor again, saying, "Sholom, I ask you once again. Think of it. Think it over well before you take this drastic step and tear down what we have built." Then Rumshinsky exploded, throwing the chair from under him and hitting both fists on the writing table at which he had been seated:

"What is this cringing, this begging?" His voice rising to the highest pitch, his lisp even more pronounced. "You all may ... because of him and his favors. I don't need him, nor his favors. Let him go. We will manage very well without this 'Eight-Bar Sholom Secunda.' The 'muse' smiled on him, and he wrote 'eight bars of music,' mind you, eight bars. And with that he thinks he has conquered the universe? Not my universe!!!"

He kept repeating "eight-bars," wanting to convince everyone there that "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" consists of no more than "eight bars," and other than that, I had never written anything else.

The members tried to subdue him, soothing him, beseeching him. They begged, as if they would a child. "Rummy, don't take it like that." He tore himself out of their arms. His voice choked with rage. "If our Society is hinged on this 'eight-bar' wonder boy, then the hell with this organization We'll have to get along without him, and without this drekeshe society!"

I tried to see his side. How would I have reacted if the shoe had been on my foot? I closed the meeting and picked myself up, and I left. Several of my colleagues stayed, and several followed me out. Yasinovsky and Gelbart followed, continuing their train of thought, trying to convince me. "It's not befitting for a man of your intelligence and integrity to commit such an act." "Such an act?" I looked at the men and asked, "An act of what? Of what am I guilty? How can I stand by and see another man fill his coffers with my 'eight-bars'? Feeling the bitter taste of gall in my mouth, I repeated: "No more than 'eight-bars,' but mine! Mine!" I beat my breast with my fists. The Rumshinsky insult stuck in my throat. "The Eight-Bar Genius." My colleagues were saying, "Secunda, don't listen to Rumshinsky. You know him so well. His envy overpowers his reasoning. He can't bear the thought that without Sholom Secunda, the Society is sunk. Think it over, Secunda, think it over." I said, "Good night," and left. Rumshinsky's insults should have made it easier for me to decide. To chuck this small "incubator child" that could not breathe on its own ... Who is he to me that I should sacrifice even a whimper of my children's comfort, the unshed tear of my Betty's eye. He is not worth it ... no one is. As Cahn and Chaplin dealt with me, so shall I deal with them.

I don't know how long it took me to get to my home. I opened the door quietly and let myself in. I could not meet Betty's eyes. "Is that you, Sholom?" I avoided answering her. I went straight into my room. I can't tell her what had transpired. Suppose she thinks they're right. Of course, she won't, but what is there to say? "Give them up, Sholom, become an ASCAP member. How long can one just grin and bear it?" I could hear her unspoken words: "Sholom, you owe your allegiance to your colleagues. What about your family? Don't you owe your family anything?"

"Sholom, you didn't hear me," Betty was saying. "You came in. You didn't even say hello? If I were Savannah, you'd greet her. She's family! I'm family too. Say hello to me, Sholom." She said it so quietly, with such timidity, I just took her gently into my arms and babied her. "Forgive me. I'm just a little tired. Go to bed, dear. I'll be in soon." I didn't tell her about my meeting with ASCAP, nor about my dilemma. I certainly couldn't tell her about the insults that that man, Rumshinsky, had hurled at her husband, although she was well aware of his antagonism towards me. It was already gray dawn when I joined my wife. Cray, indeed, was my world. I hadn't come up with any answer. Several days passed. I still had not called ASCAP, either to accept or reject their offer. The only one that I saw daily was Henry Lefkowitch. I'd visit his "Metro Music Store," speak with him and his dear wife. They were sympathetic, but they couldn't help much.

Suddenly one day I walked out of their shop and went to the nearest telephone. I dialed the ASCAP number and asked to be connected with the president of ASCAP. "Yes, Mr. Secunda," came his friendly greeting. "What's the good word?" "The word is 'No.' Whether it's good, I don't know." There was dead silence. I was about to hang up, and I heard his voice again. "I don't know how many thousands of dollars you have, Mr. Secunda. I only know how many hundreds of thousands you will be losing. However, call me if you change your mind." I heard the idle hum of the telephone. That was that. I signed away my fortune ...

Years have passed since that fateful telephone conversation. It never for a moment left me. If only I could have shared that painful episode with my Betty, I thought. If only my sons were old enough to understand. And, if they would, what would they say? Would they be proud of their father's decision, of his sacrifice, or would they think that the sacrifice was not mine, but theirs ...?

In the year 1953 the American-Israeli Club of which Betty and I were members was giving a dinner in our honor. We were going to Israel for the first time. Many guests were present. Many stars of the Yiddish theatre profession came to honor and entertain for our amusement. We were toasted after each one of my songs was performed. Finally, the inevitable had to come. Speeches -- there were representatives of several organizations and unions, including the Jewish composers of our society -- The Hebrew Actors' Union. (No, Mr. Rumshinsky was not there, or was he?) Everyone tried to be humorous. It was well known that "Sholom loves to laugh." I do, and they kept laughing most of the evening. Many of them were saying quite openly, "They envy my trip to Israel, and mind you, they kibbitzed, if this were not rewarding enough it itself, he's being accompanied by his beautiful wife, Betty!!!"

The last speaker was Abe Ellstein. Mama had a saying: "When a child laughs too much, it is sure to end up crying. Ellstein had a sense of humor, second to none. Give him his piano, and he would sit at it the entire evening and play. Then he'd be the happiest in the room. "Give him the floor," then he will keep you in stitches, and make you the happiest in the room. "Sholom," I said to myself, "Don't laugh too much, or you'll wind up crying. Abe's pudgy pink and muscular hands that worked wonders at the piano, were raised to ask for silence. The laughter abruptly ceased. "Friends and colleagues, forgive me, but I want to digress somewhat ... I simply want to tell you something about this man whom we are honoring tonight."

"You have all lauded his contribution to the theatre, to our world of Jewish music, serious Jewish music, much of it has enhanced the many works of our Yiddish poets. I am in full agreement with everything that has been said tonight. However, I want to add ... I want to unveil the character of this man, Sholom Secunda, which has not yet been revealed. Very few people know of this particular incident that could have made this man the richest man among us, besides myself. (Abe allowed himself a self-kibbitz, he being adjudged as quite an affluent man himself.) "Sholom could have been so rich now," Abe continued, "that he might be able, single-handedly to restore the 'Beis Hamikdosh' (Holy Temple) in the Holy Land. Well, let's put it this way." Abe became serious again. "He would not have to worry whether or not he has an engagement for the coming season or not. But Sholom Secunda has a conscience, and the dictates of his conscience deprived him of that great fortune, which nearly was his."

Abe related my problems with ASCAP, about the incident at the office with the Jewish composers (not naming Joseph Rumshinsky). He told of the insults, about my final decision. He ended with: "I don't know how many of you tonight have even an inkling as to how much money this man has sacrificed out of loyalty to his friends and colleagues of the 'Society of Jewish Composers.' It takes spirit, it takes courage, idealism, dedication, integrity. It takes -- it takes a Sholom Secunda." He paused, then resumed with, "and just as I hope, we will never forget his contribution to the art of Yiddish music, so do I hope that this act of sacrifice on behalf of us, his colleagues, shall never be forgotten ..."

"Never" is a long time. How many still remember the beautifully spoken words of Abe Ellstein? I don't know. I shall always remember Abe Ellstein well. The painful episode that I tried to spare my Betty, was a secret no longer. Betty's eyes opened wide. She looked at me in disbelief, as if to say ...?

That same evening on our way home, my Betty said quite casually, with that smile in her voice, "The man who is capable of making the same mistake twice deservers a medal, and I will give it to my spouse one of these days." (This is an alternative ending. See if you like that. Somehow I didn't want to say for "stupidity.")

"A man that is capable of making the same mistake twice ... does not deserve a third chance. He does, however, deserve a medal for consistency, and I, your spouse, will present it to you ... with love." Betty had forgiven me for my mistakes, again. The sacrifice was worth it.
 

May 3, 1970, ch. 53
 

My pitiful shrunken envelope I was bringing home from the Art Theatre was hardly enough to make ends meet. My sons were growing up, and my apartment was a luxury I could hardly afford. But since my "fame" (to me it was "infamy") of "Bei Mir Bistu Shein," it had projected me to such prominence that my wife had to "dress the part." We were being interviewed and entertained, even though it was no secret that it was not the Secundas, but others who were enjoying the fruits of my labor. First we were being invited to night clubs as if I was a celebrity who sold his gold mine. People were craning their necks to see "what kind of fool am I?" It reminded me of the days when, to praise me, my cheek was "pinched" as a sign of approval. Now I had to pinch my own cheek. As the Jewish saying goes, "You pinch your cheek to retain its rosy color." Alas, poor "Yokel," I had to get accustomed to live in the style that I had, heretofore, not been accustomed to ...

Thinking back to my childhood days of need, I would have liked to give my wife and sons much more than all my salaries combined -- those of the theatre, radio, Jewish Center ... Comes the summer, theatre stops, and so does my salary. Summer is a bad time to be unemployed. Other times are ...

God, who sees all and knows all, performed a miracle. I got a telephone call from a Mr. Brooks. He introduced himself as the manager and director of the Workmen's Circle Camp (Arbeter Ring). "Till now," He explained, "Scooler was the Social Director of the camp, but he left. Could you, Mr. Secunda, and would you be interested in taking his place?" I didn't want to lose the opportunity of taking my wife and children out of the hot and sweltering city and wanted to hasten my reply, even though "Social Director" was not included in the circular of Cooper Union, Columbia University, the American Institute of Musical Art, Julliard, Damrosch-Bloch, and Yiddish Theatre. But it would tide me over temporarily, I answered. "Yes, Mr. Brooks, I am interested, but I would like to meet with you and discuss a few important points." "By all means, Mr. Secunda. Shall we meet this evening at the 'Forverts' Building, 175 East Broadway, where we, the Camp Committee is meeting? There you will be able to make your requests, and we'll be able to comply or not ..."

Most of the committee were people whom I had met before, in one capacity or another -- at concerts, lectures and theatres, never as boss or workmen.

First of all, Mr. Trottman, Chairman of the group, said in a very businesslike manner, "Let me ask you, Mr. Secunda. Have you any experience as a Social Director? It is not merely a job of standing with the baton. Excuse me. I am not minimizing the importance of the conductor, but I am merely stating that, in reference to entertainment for the entire summer, we need material."

"Mr. Rottman," I spoke with authority. "You may rest assured that in one entire summer with Bleich and Scooler at the "Unzer Camp," I acquired enough material to satisfy the most artistic ... an what I'd be missing, I'm sure that it can be acquired. However, there are some things I must have. The accent must be on music, with an orchestra, singers and directors ..."

"Our camp is not used to such requests. Our camp is used to having people entertaining each other. Symphonies you want, opera ... We always have a few "klezmer" (average musicians) to play dance music," he said with a smile.

 "Our dancers are not Astaire and Rogers. They dance the waltz, with the accompaniment of a piano and a drum. Of course, this is just a kibbitz, Mr. Secunda. We'll take it under advisement." Each member was sitting with a pencil and paper in hand and figuring out the cost of such an elaborate staff. "Ikor shochachti" (Hebrew, the main thing I left out). "How much will you want for your efforts? I remained speechless. I should have consulted with Zvi Scooler. How much was he getting? Well, it's too late. I must speak now or forever ... I took a deep breath. "One-thousand dollars, room and board for my family, my wife and children." Their faces remained immobile. Well, whatever ... too much, too little, the decision is theirs.

"Thank you, Mr. Secunda." Mr. Brooks dismissed me politely. "We'll talk it over, and tomorrow we will let you know our decision."

What made me ask so much?  I could have kicked myself. Two hundred dollars I took for the summer at the "Unzer Camp." Five times as much? I'm more than certain that Mr. Brooks will telephone his "regrets" ...

I didn't guess right. The telephone rang bright and early in the morning. Mr. Brooks asked me to come down to the office to sign the contract, and to make out a list of the artists. Whom do I suggest? "But," He said, "Mr. Secunda, 'Chesed' (Take it easy.) It shouldn't cost too much money." I said that I would try. I made a list of some of the artists that I thought would serve the purpose. Singers who could also play a part: act, dance, recite ... versatility, even among musicians. Not just a "klezmer" who Mr. Brooks had been satisfied with, but a first-class operation. As a matter-of-fact, several of those who played with me that summer at camp, made it "big," e.g. Joseph Sieger, who became the pianist and accompanist to the renown violinist, Mischa Elman; Abe Marcus, on the timpani, who was later engaged to be with the percussion section at the Metropolitan Opera. The fiddlers, later, were to become part of the New York Symphony Orchestra.

"Mr. Secunda," Mr. Brooks said, "I give you a free hand, but please don't open it too widely." (That was a joke, he said.) That was supposed to mean that I shouldn't go overboard, that they couldn't afford such artists. We are called "Workmen's Circle." That's what we and our members are -- working people, and we want to give them culture -- but not of the expensive kind, understand? Take the best for the least ..."

I went searching for the "best of the least." At the National Theatre on Second Avenue and Houston Street, where Thomashefsky once reigned, where George Gershwin and I met for the first time (I wondered what Gershwin was doing there.) The National now was under the management of Irving Jacobson and Irving Grossman, and they were playing vaudeville. I went there on a Friday, and I heard a young man with a magnificent voice. I inquired as to his name, and it was Merrill Miller. I had heard him once on the radio, but he had not lasted very long. I went backstage, complimented him on his singing. He thanked me.

"What happened to you on the radio? I only heard your show a short while ago.

"Well, Mr. Secunda, you know that there is such a thing as a sponsor. 'Sani-Flush' said that I wasn't radio material, so I am between sponsors."

"Would you be interested in working with me this summer?" I asked.

"I certainly would, Mr. Secunda," he answered. I gave him my address.

I had moved again. And this time it was to Washington Heights. Merrill Miller came and brought music with him -- one Italian aria, and one Yiddish "lied." His aria was Figaro from the opera "Barber of Seville." The second one was "A chazandl oyf shabes" (A Cantor for the Sabbath). The warmth and depth of his voice was astonishing. "Would you be interested in singing in a camp?" I asked. "It's an adult camp with cultural surroundings. You may even enjoy staying there for the summer."

"Mr. Secunda," he answered. "I know the place. I was in their children's camp when I was a youngster. I'd probably still be there, but I ran out of money ..."

"Speaking of money," I asked. "How much would you want for the summer?"

Well, he thought for a while. "I could probably make more in the Catskills, but I'd rather work with you, Mr. Secunda, and I'll tell you a secret. They had some very "khenevdike (charming) girls." He wasn't married at the time and could afford the humor. "That, plus $450, and you got yourself a baritone singer for the summer."

I was heartsick. "All I can offer you is $350."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Secunda, I got to make a living, you know."

"But the work in the Catskills is so much more difficult, running from one hotel to the other. And besides, how can you compare the Catskills to the "Workmen's Circle"? This is culture; this is ..."

"This is $100 less, and for that money, I can buy all the culture I want."

I had to let him go. Mr. Brooks would never have given him the extra hundred dollars.

A short while later, the Workmen's Circle would have been happy to give Merrill Miller a hundred dollars more. But by then, they would have had to pay that much or more to get in to se him at the Metropolitan Opera House, under the name of "Robert Merrill."

I stayed at this "temporary" summer camp for nine summers. Many a fine singer graced our small but professionally equipped stage. Some of them reached the opera, concert stage and temple. We produced some very important works of the best dramatists. We also staged two operas, "Rigoletto" and "La Traviata." The camp committee was satisfied. The guests were culturally entertained all for the nominal fee that a worker could pay. A good time was had by all. As for myself, when I graduated from the Workmen's Circle, I was getting the unheard of remuneration of two-thousand dollars for the summer.
 

May 10, 1970, ch. 54
 

Since I came to America, I have always heard that camp is good for the child. Although, as a child, I had no way of knowing what a camp was like. In Alexandria, I knew I was happiest in "cheder," and that had nothing to do with fresh air. The air in "cheder" was good stale air, what with windows being pasted up against the fresh air coming in, and the warm stuffy air going out. And with three meals a day? Well, bread and tea, three times a day, we were always sure of. Perhaps when Mama went without her share once or twice a week, of that I wasn't aware in those days. And then again, what are mothers for, if not for giving up their last morsel?

So you see, I never knew from experience what a camp can do for a youngster, privileged or underprivileged. But for adults? That I found out during the following nine years at "Workmen's Circle Camp." The nine consecutive years didn't hurt my future work, not only as composer, conductor or as a social director. From my point of view, being a Social Director had nothing to do with my work. A social director, as a rule, is one who is responsible for the social activities, such as keeping the guests interested in some form of social activities. (In their privacy, I guess, the guests found their own entertainment, social or otherwise, in their own shape or form.) The Social Director does everything except tuck you into bed, with some exceptions. That department was completely taken care of by Hy Kaplan. He taught them to "trip the light fantastic," basketball for the weekend athletes, those who are over five feet tall, baseball for those men who are agile and under that certain age. I was the -- you should excuse the presumption -- I was the "Cultural and Artistic Director." I had a fine group of artists doubling as we say, in show business, in brass. We rehearsed the play daily, just as though it was a legitimate theatre: drama, operas, comedies, musicals, which we introduced to our culturally minded, and even those short on culture. We exposed them to some of the literary works of our Jewish poets -- poetry by Peretz, Hirshbein, Sholem Aleichem, Rosenblatt and Vladek. This was poetry to which I had written music and had the distinct honor and pleasure of hearing it being picked up and sung, not only by the better Jewish and non-Jewish professional singers, but actually by folks people.
 

Present at those concerts and lectures were also the vacationing executives of the Workmen's Circle, leaders of unions, and journalists of the Jewish newspapers, when they were not traveling around the world in eight -- or eighty days ...

Very often among those present at the Sunday night concerts and lectures was Dr. Fogelman (the future editor of the world's largest Jewish newspaper, the "Forverts (Jewish Forward)" newspaper. His children were "campers," and they too were present on those evenings. On one particular Sunday  evening, the subject of my lecture was "Jewish contributions to American music," in which I brought statistics that substantiated the facts of how much American music had been enriched by some of those Jewish-American composers, in every phase -- opera, TV, schools and universities. In my constant and thorough research, I myself had learned a great deal more, and I imparted my newly acquired knowledge to an eager audience.

After one of those lectures, Dr. Fogelman asked, "Mr. Secunda, have you ever written that type of lecture for any newspapers?"

"No," I said. "I did write some plays as a youngster that I thought were literary gems, plays in which I, a ten-year-old, Solomonchik Secunda would even star in. But, Dr. Fogelman, professionally I had not as of yet invaded the field of journalism."

"Let me be the first one to congratulate you," Dr. Fogelman said. "You are about to embark on a new career, that of journalism. I can suggest, if I may, to try to put into writing for the lay person this very same lecture that you've put so succinctly, and in such a comprehensible form. But instead of doing it in English, as you have done this evening, write it in Yiddish for our thousands of readers. I shall be happy to include it in the periodical, 'Tsukunft (Future).' I am certain that our readers will welcome your musical contribution."

I was very excited by his suggestion. Lecturing came natural to me. Writing? Well, I'll try my hand at it. I sat until early morning and turned out my first professional writing. Dr. Fogelman received it before he left the very next morning. He took the loose manuscript pages, scrutinized it, and with a smile of approval thanked me, promising that it would appear in the next edition of "Tsukunft," Like an expectant mother, I was anxiously awaiting to see my first-born.

That was my first try. After that it ceased to be a novelty. I had embarked, thanks to Dr. Fogelman and "Tsukunft," on my new career as a writer.

The Workmen's Circle group, indeed, was partly responsible for my later acquired responsibilities, as well as at Unzer Camp, and through it the practice that I had acquired in both camps through the decades, enabled me in later years to take the coveted position as Musical Director of the Concord Hotel in the Catskills, When I started, the Concord had not yet reached the fame and status that it would enjoy in later years. Together we acquired something that we were both in need of. The name "Secunda" also grew through those endeavors. The Concord gave me the opportunity unstintingly -- symphony orchestras, as many men in the orchestra as traffic would allow; opera stars to enrich and enhance the written music. Hollywood and Broadway stars that served as the "spoonful of sugar," to make the cultural medicine easier to swallow. And to this day I'm grateful to the Institute for giving me that chance.

In the interim, I was still with the Yiddish Theatre. The entire summer at camp was no more than ten weeks long. My family depended on me fifty-two weeks a year. I still had to carry on in every musical capacity that presented itself to me, in order to make a decent living for myself and my family.
 

May 17, 1970, ch. 55
 

At the end of the second season at the Jolson Theatre, Maurice Schwartz imported from Poland a musical revue called "The Warsaw Bande," a group of Jewish-Polish artists that gained its fame in Warsaw. They were scheduled to continue the season at the Jolson Theatre, while Schwartz and his Art Theatre company went on a tour.

"Chaver Secundale," Schwartz proposed, "Since you are aching to get your baton on something 'artistic,' musically I mean -- I imported just for you this 'play thing' as a reward," he said, tongue-in-cheek, whilst I take my company on tour with Sholem Asch's 'Thilim yid (Salvation),' after its successful run in New York."

At first I was reluctant to agree, not knowing just what this "Bande" company excelled in. But Schwartz, reading my thoughts, said: "If they weren't of some artistic value, I wouldn't have consented that they should come under my sponsorship." I knew that I could take his word for it and remained. Schwartz went on tour with his company.

I was not disappointed with this "Bande." They were seen by a cultural New York audience, and I had a proverbial nightly "ball." These fine performers brought with them new material from the "old country." Our American-Jewish public saw the "Bande" and were conquered by them, and in turn, the group was conquered with all its unique, "old world" charm. They were a priceless addition to the Yiddish Theatre scene. Many of the talented performers that had been seen by the American-Jewish public during these years were now considerably older.

Talent is not easy to come by. It has to be nurtured, developed. Language too was a stumbling block. Those who were American-born, whose Yiddish was not of the purest form, were not readily accepted by the "purist." This important new group of performers was the cream of the crop and hand-picked for export, both individually and collectively.

They did not, of course, replace any of our great Yiddish stars in America. There were no Maurice Schwartzes among them, nor any Samuel Goldinburgs, nor did any of them ever take the place of our prima donnas of the earlier days, such as Lucy Finkel, Bella Mysell, Lucy Levine, Betty Simonoff, or of our younger contemporary singers, such as Miriam Kressyn, who as of this writing is still gracing our Yiddish stage with voice and dramatic ability. In other words, in terms of legitimate voices, I did not discover among them a Lebedeff, a Michalesko, not even a Ludwig Satz, a Skulnik, or a Molly Picon. Such are still missing.

What they did have though, was unique and worthy of much praise. Leon Liebgold was in his twenties then -- a tall, dark and handsome young man whose voices was of good baritone quality, who was not even aware of the potential of his voice. His voice developed even more in his middle years. His young wife, Lilly Lilliana, fragile and delicately feminine, was of equal charm and was a fresh addition to the Yiddish stage.

There was Menashe Oppenheim, a "Gebirtig-troubador," who sang the "Gebirtig" songs better than anyone I had ever heard before or since. Chana Grossberg, a fiery character comedienne in interpreting street urchins, and Malvina Rappel, who did a "lied" with delicacy and interpretation.

The most important contribution of this group to the American-Yiddish Theatre was the new, fresh, artistic material of many of our Yiddish poets, such as Itzik Manger and Mordkhe Gebirtig. Gebirtig was a poet of the people, for the people, who deserves an anthology of his own writings, and I am sure much will still be written about his early poetry about his plight, and eventually his tragic death at the hands of the world's common enemy, Hitler. May his name forever be eradicated.

Gebirtig was born in 1877 in Krakower Gubernia. Abraham Reisen, a renowned Yiddish poet had prophesized a great future for him, even at an early age. Gebirtig wrote his "folk songs" as if they were "odes" to poverty. His songs, "Reisele," "Motele," and many others that were made popular by Menashe Oppenheim, Ola Lilith, Seymour Rechtzeit, and others, which are now part of our Jewish "folklore," and are in collections of Yiddish anthologies of poetry.

Moishe Broderzon, another great folks' poet, was born in Moscow, Russia in 1890. After he and his family were exiled from Moscow simply because they were once a renowned Jewish family, they made their home in Lodz, Poland. By profession Moishe Broderzon became a bookkeeper, but he was an active writer, and as such organized a group called "Young Yiddish" and wrote in many Polish and Yiddish magazines and periodicals. In 1922, he, along with W.N. Neuman and Henech Kohn, together with others organized a Yiddish marionette theatre, and again he was a very prolific writer, director and interpreter of his own writings. He was greatly responsible for the material that this group had brought along with them from Poland to America. This "Bande" traveled throughout the United States and met the same warm reception from American-Jewish audiences.

The "Bande" came as "privileged guests" and had to promise that they would leave the United States after their sojourn in this country. Many of them did leave to join their families, whom they had left behind. In death they were reunited. Those who remained in the United States and did not return to Poland, fortunately escaped their fate and are still with us, we're happy to say. Leon Liebgold and his wife, Lilly, were immediately engaged by Joseph Seiden to make a Yiddish film called "Kol Nidre," and Maurice Schwartz's presentation Sholem Aleichem's "Tevye der milkhiger" (Tevye the Milkman), later "Fiddler on the Roof."

Most of those fine performers who came to our shores for a short while, to shine upon the scene and left to join their families, also joined the six million who were sent to the concentration camps and never returned: Jewish performers, writers and artists in or around the theatre counted more than five hundred souls ...

Maurice Schwartz was not thinking at that time of the "Bande" as a rejuvenation for the Yiddish theatre. He simply thought of them as a commercial venture. But our Yiddish Theatre and the public benefited by it greatly. By the material they had introduced Gebirtig, Broderzon, and even the great Yiddish poetry of Itzik Manger.

It was the season of 1940-41, and Schwartz was preparing a new production called, "If I Were a Rothschild," which was based on a Sholem Aleichem short story. He had this play in mind for some time, but it was difficult for him to cast it. He wanted to have much more than just the "incidental music," and he found it difficult to find the right prima donna, who was young enough to play the young daughter, an actress enough to suit the high standards of the Yiddish Art Theatre, with a voice that would fit the music that I had written for the play.

There was one prima donna who would fill all these requirements. I remembered writing for her, for her first operetta, but in 1939, "A meydele vi du (A Girl Like You)" at the Lyric Theatre. Since then, Miriam Kressyn, who had shown great promise from the outset of her theatre career, had grown into an important artist in her profession, but she found it difficult because of family ties, to play in New York, so she continued her travels through Europe, and South America. In 1939, when "If I Were a Rothschild" was to be produced at the At Theatre. Miriam Kressyn found herself in South Africa playing Yiddish Theatre in Johannesburg and Cape Town, for the Schlessinger Brothers, who were then the African Trust. While there, England had declared War, and she was ordered to leave Africa or be interned as an alien. She promptly returned to her adopted home, America.

The Yiddish theatre season had already started and was in full swing. Miriam Kressyn found herself "at liberty." In other words, she was without a job. The Art Theatre was planning at that time to produce "If I Were a Rothschild." In "The Thilim Yid (The Psalmist)," and Miriam Riselle, a niece of Maurice Schwartz, was playing the young ingénue in that play. Suddenly Miriam Riselle took ill and was rushed to the hospital. Maurice Schwartz had read in the newspapers that Miriam Kressyn had returned to this country, and Schwartz asked me to intervene since I knew her so well and thought so highly of her capabilities, Perhaps Miss Kressyn would do him -- the great Schwartz and myself -- a friend of long-standing the favor. How could she possibly refuse? After all, the fact that each time Mr. Schwartz wanted Miss Kressyn for his theatre, she was somewhere else on the continent. She would not refuse me know for such an opportunity ...

I telephoned Miss Kressyn. She refused! Not because of any animosity. She thought very highly of the Yiddish Art Theatre. Especially of me, since we had been friends for many years. "Miss Kressyn was right in her refusal." As I explained to Schwartz, she said, "Mr. Secunda, how can I play the part? I had not even seen the performance, nor do I have time to rehearse it. I would not be an asset to the play, and it certainly would not help my own reputation." My gentle persuasion did not help much.  "Let me call her," Schwartz said. He called. She said, "No." Mr. Guskin called and Miss Kressyn respectfully refused. This was on a Monday. The theatre was closed. Tuesday, Miss Kressyn played. She had to say, "Yes." It came about in this manner:

Mrs. Anna Schwartz called her, saying simply, "Miss Kressyn, I'd like to speak to you woman-to-woman." Whatever transpired between the two ladies was a secret. Neither Mrs. Schwartz nor Miss Kressyn divulged what was discussed. Rumor had it that a certain young actress, who shall remain nameless, a paramour of Mr. Schwartz, was hankering to get into the play. Mrs. Schwartz, a devoted wife, was aware of her famous husband's "prowess," and she appealed to Miss Kressyn's womanly instincts, and she said, "Miss Kressyn, if you won't consent to play, Miss ..... will be called in," and well, Miss Kressyn did play.

If that weren't enough, Mr. Schwartz himself had taken ill and was rushed to the hospital. When his niece, Miriam Riselle came back from the hospital, it was decided that Miss Kressyn would finish the season with "The Tehilim Yid (Salvation)." Finally, Schwartz came home from the hospital with a "simkha," saying joyfully, "Secundale, now that we've finally landed Miss Kressyn, we can bring 'If I Were a Rothschild' to the Art Theatre. Miriam Kressyn was engaged for that play. To Miriam Kressyn, Schwartz engaged Leon Gold to sing opposite her. The cast included the fine performer Leo Fuchs, who had played Schwartz's part when Schwartz went into the hospital. The public had read about Maurice Schwartz being in the hospital, and evidently they waited in hope that he would be back soon. He came, but not soon enough. The show closed.

The closing of a show prematurely was always sad. What made it even sadder was the fact that it marked the beginning of the tragic end and demise of the Yiddish Art Theatre. Schwartz's health wasn't good, and business was getting worse.

It was the 1940-41 season, which was prior to Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz's adoption of their two children, Marvin and Risa Schwartz. The children were orphaned through the Hitler decree. Martin Schwartz, Maurice Schwartz's brother, was associated with him in the theatre. Schwartz loved his brother's only daughter, and he decided since blood is thicker than ... a union contract, that if Miriam Riselle wanted to play the part of "Esterke," he would see to it that she, instead of Miriam Kressyn, played "Esterke." Reuben Guskin, head of the Hebrew Actors' Union, where Miriam Kressyn's contract was signed, raised the issue. "It is a breach of contract, Mrs. Schwartz. You can't do that to any performer, not only to Miss Kressyn, who has signed in good faith ..." Mr. Maurice Schwartz's excuse was that "Miriam Riselle is my brother's only child. I considered her as if she were my own ..."

Miss Kressyn didn't contest the breach of contract. She went on to play, that season, opposite Michal Michalesko. Miriam Riselle played "Esterke." The entire cast was up to its usual standard. Samuel Goldinburg, Lucy and Misha German, Izidor Casher, Lazar Freed, Luba Kadison, Anna Appel, Anatol Wingoradoff, Anna Teitelbaum, and a very young Miriam Riselle in the title role. Incidentally, she was the only one in the cast that was supposed to sing, as well as the only one in the cast who could not sing. Aaron Zeitlin had written three charming "ditties," one of them was called "Donna Donna." Here I had three songs on my hands, and no one to sing them. My "Chaver Balaboss," Mr. Schwartz, suggested to write something simple to enable Miss Riselle to "execute" them. I obeyed. I had no alternative. The melodies were quite simple. Miss Riselle might have been talented, but singing was not part of her talent.

The critics found no fault with the production. Brooks Atkinson, a long-time admirer of the Yiddish Art Theatre, lauded everyone, but he found Miss Riselle to be "immature." And so the play "Esterke" was taken off before its time and was prematurely put to rest in the warehouse, together with the "paper-mache" throne of the Polish King Kazimierz, just another prop in that aborted play, "Esterke." No one asked for Aaron Zeitlin's poem. No one asked for Sholom Secunda's "Dona Dona," that poor little "kelbele (calf)."

The following summer when I went to camp, I took my little "Dona Dona" along with me to pasture. I taught it to my children at camp. They sang "Dona Dona," the mothers and fathers, and counselors and teachers, all heard it, and they sang "Dona Dona," and in camp the visitors did to. Little "Dona Dona" sang itself into the school books of the Workmen's Circle. That's where "Dona Dona' rested, for nigh to twenty years ...

Then suddenly one day a recording by Theodore Bikel was heard - -not a great singer per se, but he had a way with a folk song ... And that's exactly what he called it. "Dona Dona, the Folk Song." I felt rather pleased as a composer, in my lifetime, that I had reached that category, that plateau, where one of my songs was considered a "folk song." However, I did not want "Dona Dona" to go the same way as "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" went and end up in someone's Swiss bank account. I'd rather it came back to its writers Sholom Secunda and Aaron Zeitlin. It is true that I never dreamed it would bring in as much as "Bei Mir Bistu Shein."

I sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. Bikel, stating simply that he had made "Dona Dona" a folk song, which it isn't. It was written by a Jewish composer by the name of Sholom Secunda, who is alive and well and kicking in New York. I also gave the name of the poet Aaron Zeitlin, who wrote the text to "Dona Dona." Theodore Bikel, a man of great integrity, acknowledged the fact that he made a mistake, and in the future the credit and the cash was returned to its rightful owners ...

It accorded us even greater joy when Betty and I heard it on the European continent. It was sung by school children in French, in English, in Japanese, and it was included in their school books. Will wonders never cease?
 

May 24, 1970, ch. 56
 

The year 1943 was a sad year. It took my parents close to sixty years of their happily married life to raise a family of seven sons and two daughters, and to help rear their grandchildren. It took the children and grandchildren only one year to lose them both. It started in June of that year [June 28, his father Abraham], and by October [7th, his mother Anna], they were both gone. Both were in their eighties [Abraham, 81, and Anna, 80]. Is that a time to leave? Now when they can enjoy, sit back and enjoy the success of their children, the fruits of their "labor of love"? We were a closely knit family, as if pages in a book. And now the covers are gone, torn away. I was close to my fiftieth birthday, yet I refused to accept the fact that they were gone. I took it into my mind that it is no more than a dream. I kept going back to Penn Street, to where my Betty and I had lived together with them. I'll see them, I thought, and be satisfied that they are still together. They were together, but at the eternal resting place. A grown man has to accept the truth, as my children will have to someday.

Mama used to love to tell stories of her Avruhom's "triumphs," as he loved to tell about his Hennie Rivke, how strong he was, how beautiful she was, how well they'd sing and dance together. He and she ... ot, ot -- only a short while ago.

Papa had never been ill and couldn't understand what it was like to have a headache. If someone in the family did complain, he'd ask: "Pray tell me, what is it like to have a headache? How can one know that it is a headache?" His only "headache" was making a living. He would not stop working; begging him to retire, threatening him, pleading ... it was to no avail. Papa worked at turning out iron bedsteads, loading them and unloading them on and off the truck ... on his truck ... till death put a stop to it.

Mama did know pain, not from dancing in her youth, but from climbing stairs. Since the first day of our arrival in America and living on Twelfth Street, she started climbing to the fifth floor everyday, five times a day, up and down five flights of stairs. On Columbia Street, Grand Street, Attorney Street -- shopping, dragging bags to feed her brood, her hard-working family. Buying her daily pail of ice to fill the ice-box to keep the food fresh, to feed her loving husband, sons and daughters and boarders. My father could not understand her feeling pain. But he did see her swollen angry veins on her once shapely legs, and that pained him ...

It was a Passover Seder at my brother Meyerl's home. My father was still "Melekh," king and ruler over his kingdom, sitting as if he were a legendary ruler on his throne of pillows under and around him, a chair piled high with Mama's "betgevant" (bedding that she had brought over from Europe) to make him more comfortable.

When suddenly the "king," my father, sat up straight and said, "I have a peculiar feeling," he was somewhat confused and couldn't explain or describe it. Never having had a pain before, we were surprised. We had grown accustomed to the thought that our father, bless him, was indestructible. Immune to pain. We tried to kibbitz and talk him out of it, saying, "Papa, maybe it's a headache?" Now, you know what a headache is like!!" Papa smiled. It wasn't his usual smile, broad, good-natured grin. Instead his mouth grimaced in the attempt. His eyes seemed frightened and "starey," Fortunately it didn't last long. It passed, and Papa was himself again. We proceeded with the "Seder" (the ceremony of Passover). He answered the "Four Questions," singing "Chad Gadyo," and the Seder ended. His family kissed the grandparents good-night and wished them both a "gut yom tov" and left. Papa and Mama stayed that night at my brother Meyerl's home. At about two o'clock that same night, Mama awakened to his moans, a sound Mama never heard from her life-long companion. "Something must be wrong with Papa if he is moaning. She woke my brother Meyerl and his wife, Frieda. They called a doctor, a personal friend, who came in the middle of the night. The doctor came, and he in turn called for an ambulance and took Papa to the Israel Zion (now Maimonides) Hospital. Papa had suffered a heart attack. After the allotted stay, he did improve. It didn't matter that the doctor forbade him to work, to climb, to pull, to bend. Papa knew better what is good for Avruhom Secunda. Even at eighty, his iron folding beds still had to be delivered by his honor, "Avrohom Secunda."

At the age of eighty, my father had already been climbing roofs and patching leaks with the silver-looking sheets of tin that glistened in the sun and rotted in the rain. At the age of eighty, he still would carry on as though the seventy-two years in between did nothing to him but make him a grandfather, many times over. How does one sit at home, stare at the four walls empty-handed -- no tools, no hammer. All your life you work, you produce, only to become an idle man in the end ... That I don't understand.

We gathered around him and tried to explain that there is no need for him to work. He had done his share. "Enjoy, Papa, enjoy ... Besides, Papa, you take care of Mama. She is not her young self any more."

"Why? What's wrong?" he asked. "Aren't you feeling fine, Henie Rivke?" Mama smiled feebly, "See, of course, Mama's fine. Of course, she is fine."

For two years he had been arguing with the children and his doctors that he is not older than ..., though with each trip to the hospital he came back a little weaker, a little thinner, till nothing but his keen humor was left. Papa's humor always had ended up in the Beryl Botwinik column. Botwinik continued being a co-worker at the "Forverts." Every Friday, Botwinik had a corner entitled, "Humorous saying of Sholom Secunda's Father."

One of those stories made the rounds. Papa loved theatre -- mainly musicals, although not necessarily those that his son wrote music for. I used to get him a pass to see every musical in New York, even Rumshinsky's -- any and all Jewish musicals. At that time, there were several dramas playing as well When he had run out of operettas, I suggested, "Papa, go and see Leon Blank. He is at the National Theatre, and he is playing in a 'shtarke drame (strong drama).' Take Mama and enjoy, cry a little. It will make you feel better."

"Aye, what good is a drama? I'd rather go to see the same operetta for a third time, than to sit through one act of the drama. So, alright, so I like Leon Blank, but he doesn't sing anymore. He doesn't dance, and he talks, and talks, and talks ..."

"Papa, Blank is a famous artist, one of the best. He is a real 'kinstler (fine artist).'" "Kunst, to atam tut zikh" (big deal). Does he talk in English? No, Yiddish ! I talk as well as him, anytime ..."

Another story that used to be told and retold and ascribed to Avruhom Secunda:

They had produced my opera, "Shulamis." He came to hear it. After the performance, I was seated, waiting for his praise. It wasn't coming. I looked at him. The usual glow was missing from his eyes. I swallowed my pride and asked, "Nu, Papa, how did you like my opera?" "To tell you the truth, my son, I like your 'operettas' better." "Why?" I asked. "An operetta is a thing that everyone can understand," he said. "An opera is something, I'm afraid, that not even you understand. So why shouldn't you better write operettas, so we'll all understand?"

Aaron Lebedeff was of my father's mentality. He too used to love to hear my father's "criticisms." Even when we were neighbors in the Catskills, in Loch Sheldrake, Lebedeff would kibbitz: "Sholom, you don't want to listen to me, so why don't you listen to your father? Don't creep on the straight wall (Don't look for the unusual, that only a few understand.) Write so that everyone will enjoy, like me."

For two years, Papa was ailing. His breathing was labored. Mama couldn't attend to him any longer, and the doctor suggested a convalescent home with doctors and nurses in attendance. Mama did not want him to go away. But Mama could do nothing about it. Neither could anyone else. Papa had to go to a convalescent home. That was his last stop. On the 28th of June, he drew his last breath. We couldn't tell Mama the sad news, that her Avruhom (she always referred to him as "my Avruhom," with whom she lived for sixty years is not "her Avruhom" any longer ...

I was at camp readying my weekly musical, when the tidings reached me. Leon Liebgold was appearing that summer at the Workmen's Circle Camp, and he suggested that he would drive me in my automobile to New York. The funeral was postponed for a day. I saw my father laid to rest. I could not rest. This happy "song and dance" profession of mine did not even allow me the luxury of "sitting Shiva" (observing seven days of official mourning). From the cemetery, Leon drove me back to camp, and there I stood, baton in hand, swallowing my sorrow ...

Three months after my father's passing, and my mother still had not been told. She had been deluded with stories that he was much better, but the doctors will not let him go, saying, "If he leaves his bed, he may get a relapse." "Then," she begged, "Take me to him. I'll tell the doctor that I want that the children should take me to see my Avruhom."

"But you're too weak, Mrs. Secunda," the doctor said. For three hot summer months she was confined to her bed. Each day we would tell her that Papa is better, that he will come to see her soon.

One day Mama became persistent. "You're going to take me to see Papa. If you don't take me then, I'll understand that you have not been telling me the truth. I know Papa. He'd never stay away from me for that long."

We were running out of excuses. We had to tell her the sad truth. She smiled sadly. "I knew it," she whispered. She closed her eyes and lapsed into a coma. She was rushed to the hospital. From the hospital I rushed to the Second Avenue Theatre to join the general rehearsal of the operetta that was to open the new season on "Yom Kippur" night. In the middle of the rehearsal, I was called to the telephone. Running to answer, I feared what Betty was about to tell me. I knew that my Betty was there on the phone. She knows what general rehearsal means to the theatre. If she calls, it must be urgent. "Hello," I managed to say breathlessly. Betty tried to control her voice.

"Yes, Sholomel. It's over," she said. We both cried. I remained standing at the telephone, receiver dangling. Someone took the receiver and hung it up. "What now?" I asked. There was no one to tell me, what now? It's a moment of anguish that you must bear yourself. It was on Thursday night, October 7th, that my mother expired. The funeral could not take place that day, Friday, which was "Erev Yom Kippur (Eve of Yom Kippur)." It was postponed until Sunday. I went to the East Midwood Jewish Center to conduct "Kol Nidre." None of the worshippers knew of my personal tragedy. The next day, the Sabbath, I fasted and conducted the "Yom Kippur" services. And after my day in temple, I left for the theatre to conduct the opening performance.

I believe that it goes something like this:

Riddle ...

"What can grow without the rain

Through the years?

And what can cry,

Cry without tears?"

Answer to the riddle:

"A stone can grow,

And never stop growing.

A heart can cry,

It keeps gnawing,

And gnawing ..."
 

June 7, 1970, ch. 58
 

"No regrets, Sholomel?" Betty asked. "No regrets, Betty," I answered. She looked into my eyes. Well, I couldn't say that I don't get a flutter at the thought of my first love. I mean about the Yiddish Theatre. I have qualms at not seeing any of my friends from the Yiddish Theatre. But I must say that I was busy making my way in another direction. Work was pouring in, and the price of my services was way above that of my previous services at the Second Avenue Theatre.

Nine years at the "Circle Camp" had been pleasant, both socially and artistically. Yet, in the past two years there, I felt a new trend -- the youngsters, those who were students became counselors, and I felt among the Jewish-American-speaking youths an antagonism that was foreign to me in the past. "Too much Jewish." "Not enough English." It made me feel very uncomfortable.

Why should anyone feel uncomfortable speaking in his own language? Listening to its poetry, its literature, any ethnic language for that matter. Giving in to those new trends were against my principles.

The opportunity presented itself. The next summer, the "Unzer Camp," and the "Farband" too, were not accustomed to such extravagances -- a full staff of singers, dramatic performers, larger orchestras ... Nevertheless they agreed to my demands. The following two summers at the "Unzer Camp" were delightful. The atmosphere was friendly, without rancor, uncompromisingly Yiddish intellectually and culturally. I actually found myself promoting and even propagandizing Jewish and Israeli music, drawing parallels, showing the differences. What is Yiddish music? What is foreign influence? And what music has filtered in through new migration from the four corners of the globe? It was a field now. It had not been studied until then, and it found its interested listeners.

Although counselors and older campers were present at all my musicals and lectures, I conducted symposiums with the children and the counselors on different musical subjects and themes.

The two seasons at "Unzer Camp" were successful, for myself as well as the administration. I felt sorry that in time I would have to give up my camp activities. I felt that it had served a great service in inducting the young Jewish children into the world of Jewish music, poetry and culture.

My work and position at the Concord Hotel took its place. It had developed into a more serious and cultural endeavor, bringing serious music to the Catskills, and above all serious Jewish music ...

The owner of the Concord was a one-time socialist. Now he was a millionaire many times over. With his help and enthusiasm to further our new project, he made it possible to start devoting one evening a week to serious music at his hotel. I started with an orchestra of twelve. Till then the Concord had a smaller group -- of string instruments, there were none...

Our first concert started with half-classical and half-repertoire of Yiddish folk music that I had arranged, especially for those concerts. At first the guests at the Concord showed little enthusiasm, but it wasn't long before the card-playing, the rumba dancing, champagne-waltzing guests abandoned whatever they were doing at concert time, and filled the lonely-looking seats in the auditorium. At the end of the evening, it was quite rewarding. Their expressions of thanks to Mr. Winarick, who in turn came to me with a "See, I told you they'd love it," was encouraging.

Each week on a Thursday, the orchestra grew larger, the soloist got better and finer, and the audience grew more and more appreciative.

Instead of the more popular overtures, I started presenting parts of symphonic works. After one evening of Mozart, Winarick would run backstage, clasp my hand for joy: "Nu, Sholom, didn't I tell you the Concord guests would fall in love with Mozart? For our next concert, Sholom, we'll give them a little Beethoven, and a lot of Tchaikovsky. I'm in love with Tchaikovsky. You'll see. They'll eat it up!"

"Yes, Tchaikovsky will be fine." I agreed. "But for Tchaikovsky, my friend, you must give me a much bigger orchestra."

"Go ahead," he glowed, "take as many as you can use. If you need fiddler, soloist, money is no object. If you need any other soloist, go right ahead. Nothing is too good for the Concord Hotel. We'll turn the Concord of the Catskills into the 'Carnegie of the Catskills.' This man's generosity and enthusiasm in regard to those evenings inspired me to even harder work. Arrange for the weekly programs, rehearse the orchestra, the soloists, and create Yiddish symphonic works. The more the audience showed its appreciation, the more ambition I put into my work. Physically it was exhausting, but artistically and moneywise it was rewarding. There is no question that my friend, Arthur Winarick, showed his great appreciation where it truly counted.

Soon the Concord stage was graced by many metropolitan artists. I also engaged many of the young artists from the Julliard School of Music, e.g. violinists, cellists, pianists, who were known virtuosos in their profession. They played Mendelsohn, Beethoven, Brahms and Tchaikovsky. The orchestra reached the peak of symphonic proportions.

Fifty-five men and sixty on special occasions. Entire sections of New York Philharmonic and Metropolitan Opera orchestras came. In the summer they were not gainfully employed elsewhere, and they were delighted to work with me in the Catskills. With such marvelous accompaniment, we presented artists such as Richard Tucker, Beverly Sills, Robert Merrill, Frank Guerreira, Scovati, and may more of the musical world's renowned.

The Concord grew to colossal proportions. Now it was known as one of the greatest summer resort hotels in the world, and my reputation artistically had become so that it was associated with the finest entertainment that money can buy. The Concord Hotel ceased to be a ten-week summer resort. It became an amusement establishment for all seasons. And it augmented my importance, four times as much.

Then came the preparation for the various Jewish holidays -- The High Holy Days and Passover. The magnificent auditorium was transformed into a full-fledged synagogue. One would never recognize it as the vast concert auditorium that it was, just a few evenings before, to accommodate a sixty-piece symphonic orchestra.

The choir that was engaged for the services consisted of first-class professional singers. The repertoire, the musical composition, I kept in the traditional form, as I had inherited it from the "greats" of the past, and to which I had been exposed and imbued with from my earliest childhood -- the cantors, and the outstanding choir conductors in the field of cantorial art. My first cantor was Moshe Ganchoff. The cantors that followed were of the new school: Jacob Konigsberg, Sidney Shicoff, and the talented Jacob Singer.

I introduced a mixed choir at the Concord of both males and females for the first time. It is actually a must nowadays, because there are no small boy choir voices that are naturally young and beautiful. (There are now only groups of guitar-strumming bands, and there are no choir conductors of the past caliber who used to dedicate themselves to cantorial music and prayers. That is practically a lost art.)

It is good to think back and recall the hard but joyful work and accomplishments at the start and the eventual progress of that fine outstanding amusement place, the "Concord," but I remember too the heartache that was caused through petty politics.

When I came to the Concord for the first time as the musical director, the orchestra that had been there long before I came upon the scene was not to my liking, to say the least. Why? It was no secret that it had to do with money. All was not "kosher" -- "kickbacks" were the order of the day among some of the "klezmorim" (everyday musicians). Some of them remembered the time I had exposed the infamous "Musicians' Club" that existed for so many years. They were all aware that I would not tolerate any "under-the-table payoffs" for jobs. To me, this is criminal exploitation that I will expose whenever and wherever I will find it.

That practice was factual at the Concord Hotel at that time when I took over the directorial position. They had tried every possible trick to keep me out of there, or they tried to make it uncomfortable for me. For instance, when I stepped up onto the podium and reached out for my baton -- I had put it there myself -- the baton was gone. How childishly stupid for anyone to do that. It is merely an inconvenience. No baton? I conducted with my hand. They still had to follow, and they did!

Another evening, the fagot had a solo in Ravel's "Bolero." I indicated for him to play, he sat with his hands folded, and he announced at the top of his voice for the audience to hear, "No music, Maestro." The audience laughed. That was not part of the program, but it was just to embarrass me. I turned to the audience and conducted with my back to the musicians. There were similar tricks that I had to tolerate. I know that I had to assert myself once and for all, and that was clear. This is not the Liberty Theatre, this is not the Lyric Theatre in Brooklyn. I was not anymore the twenty-one-year-old in a sailor suit. But what can I do? It is an old custom among musicians not to "snitch" on any musicians. One must have proof positive. And it is not easy to break any one of his bad habits that they had inherited. Others before me had to tolerate it. Perhaps they could look aside ...

One afternoon, after one such aggravating rehearsal, I remained seated on the stage, tired and annoyed. Just then Ray Parker, Arthur Winarick's son-in-law and general manager came upon the scene. "Sholom," he asked, concerned. "Is anything wrong? Are you alright?"

"Parker, I don't like to do what I'm about to do. I am going to complain." I told Parker the ills of that group. "I don't like to make such accusations, but I know what is at the bottom of it all ..."

Parker listened. Whether or not he was aware of that illicit practice or not, he did not say. He just calmed me down, saying, "I promise you, Sholom, that this will not happen again. Whatever their habits or practice, they shall not bring it along to your rehearsals. If they do, I shall throw them all the hell out on their ears. You will engage any new musicians you desire. You are more important to us than the lot of them."

"I don't want to take their livelihood away. Please, I beg of you Parker, just give me your permission, grant me the right to speak freely, without fear, that this 'under-the-table practice' that undermines my intention must stop."

"You have my permission. You are the musical director. You are hereby appointed "hirer" and "firer."

I called them in. They straggled in, one by one. I waited until each one was in his place and I began:

"Gentlemen,

I have been given the authority by the management of this hotel, and I am giving you fair warning. I am aware of what is going on. You are trying everything to discourage me, that I should leave. I am not leaving. And what's more, if you continue engaging incompetent musicians, or those who are playing your dirty tricks, just for the few bucks that you got or give under the table, I personally will fire you and give you the distinct honor of being the first musician to have been kicked out of the Concord Hotel. If there is anyone here who doubts it, they better not test me."

I flexed my muscles. For a moment I thought I was my own father, Avruhom Secunda, of blessed memory.

Thank goodness I didn't have to prove it. All is well that ends well.
 

June 14, 1970, ch. 59
 

From the mid-forties until we read the mid-half of the twentieth century, my economic situation had improved considerably. I had stopped writing for the theatre, stopped worrying about a "star's direction," about the contents of the play, which pushed me further and further away from the theatre profession. When the opportunity did present itself, I could allow myself the luxury of being choosy, to write or not to write, and as often as not I refused.

Regrettably, the number of theatres dwindled, the duration of the season shortened from thirty-five to forty weeks to ten or twelve weeks, and those theatres that did manage to open could hardly afford the price of a "Secundale." When out of sheer sentiment, or at an invitation of a friend, my Betty and I would attend an opening or a closing of a theatre, we would see a fine performance of one or two individuals. My heart rejoiced and ached simultaneously for the few that through sheer tenacity stayed and brightened an evening for those who did come to the Yiddish theatre.

It had reached the stage that when a director did come to avail himself of my services -- for that is what it actually amounted to -- a "service" -- I'd agree to write the music and conduct the orchestra for one week only, until the performer would feel at home with my music and then leave to carry on with my own work at whatever project I had become involved in.

And I had become involved in a variety of projects. The Agency Beckman and Pransky, who handled orchestras and vaudeville talents for the Catskills, for banquets and pageants that were taking place on special occasions at Madison Square Garden, had been negotiating with me for some time. The name, Sholom Secunda, had become known through the years as one who composed for the theatre, for the songs that were published and sung, many of them sung in every home, as if they were "folk songs." They were happen to learn them. They were "Secunda's songs." the composer living, and still creating ...

That "name" that the agents [Al] Beckman and [Johnny] Pransky sought was finally enticed. I did not have to pursue the work. Theirs was to seek out, mine was to fulfill to the best of my ability. Of that I am certain.

Then there came pageant time at the Garden. I would write and arrange the music and conduct for the many opera stars who would appear for an appreciative audience of thousands. It was a lucrative business, for the agency and for myself.

I was receiving mail from all over the world, as well as on home territory, here in the U.S.A., asking for my presence to lecture, conduct, and appear. I chose carefully and enjoyed the sweet fruit of my labor.

Best of all, next to providing for my family, my long-suffering wife, my sons who were growing up fast, next to the joy I derived from and with them, I appreciated my leisure. For then I could truly work, and that work was indeed a "work of love."

It enabled me to return to my first love -- to develop further our traditional Yiddish music that had come down to us through the centuries, by way of cheder, shul, synagogue and temple.

I was steeped in liturgical music. I had imbibed it since childhood, as a "meshoirer (choir boy)" with Betzalel Brown and Matye Kuritch. I had known well the compositions of Levandovski and Sulzer. They had created the German-Jewish School of Liturgical Music. They were greatly [missing lines from scanned manuscript, top of page 3, June 14, 1970] ...

 ... to their fullest value -- picked those that I appreciated best. I searched for and found regrettably in many of their compositions, foreign matter that in my opinion did not contribute any cultural value to our prayers. They too were in need of cleansing.

I had listened with horror to the many vulgarized rhythms and melodies that found their way into our prayers, dragged in by our so-called choir directors, who disguised them with a bit of Yiddish trivia; "Dus talisel" (little prayer shawl) that had its place in the theatre, but should not be brought to the "omud (altar)." Just as the dignity of Borah (Creator) and Torah to the House of Worship -- not as "Toirele" and "Boirele," which the great Thomashefsky introduced to the Yiddish Theatre. The "Shma Yisroel" has no right to be belittle of its message. It should not be insulted by the vulgarity of a "Shma Isrolikel" ... Instead the holiness of he prayer, it was reduced to a "cute" couplet that Aaron Lebedeff introduced into the theatre.

These are the "musical sins" that forced me to dedicate all the rest of my spare hours to right the wrong, to compose music to the prayers that will return them to their rightful heritage, in the hope that it will be handed down to the worshiper, to the men, women and children ... of the traditional Jewish prayer, instead of "borrowing" melodies and forgetting to return them to their alien source of the couplet, of the nightclub, and of the box office.

I studied each "nusakh" and "trope" of the Tefillah (the different readings and accents of the traditional prayer) of those composers who were accidentally prepared for such form and style of composition, as for instance the harmonization of an Ernest Bloch and his works. I searched and dissected each nuance, and then first I dedicated myself completely to the music dearest to me, to the prayer that was music to my ears, inspired and directed by my heart, to seek and to perpetuate it ...

East Midwood Jewish Center was one of my testing grounds, with Cantor Hyman and a thorough musical choir that I acquired. Later I brought the tested, plus additional new writings to the "Brooklyn Jewish Center" ...

Not all of my new compositions found favor with them. No, I won't call them all "worshippers" or "the public" (if you will). To many of those present, something was missing. I knew what -- "commonness," the tasteless morsel, the easily recognized music, the hip-swinging, toe-tapping rhythm of the so-called "Now Generation" was missing.

In time though, their ear had become exposed to the sound of my traditional music and accustomed to the sound. In reality, they had not been too far away from it. They just had not recognized it.

"Sholom," he went on. "I'm certain if I were able to lay my hands on good Yiddish material, I could influence my publishers to permit me to create this division and publish all the Jewish music that I would consider fit to print. We'll extend this invitation to all Jewish composers. They should bring all their writings and have them printed. Let Jewish music be heard and sung, and let the unique sound of our music reach the farthest corners of our musical world."

By then I had become as excited as him. "Why, Norman, that's the greatest thought I've heard formulated in the longest time. I for one endorse your idea whole-heartedly. I shall spread the good news to all our writing colleagues and encourage them to bring their works to 'Mills,' via you." Norman and I met and discussed its potential even more thoroughly. We saw that plan working wonders for some of our music that had remained dormant in many instances. We saw the possibilities of our music reaching, in the near future, the remotest areas where our fellow Jews lived, who had perhaps never even seen or bought a printed sheet of Jewish music, nor sang or played it. What interested me even more than just popular music was the printing of choral music for synagogues and temples, that up until that time was next to impossible to obtain. Before we parted I asked him in wonderment and admiration, "You, Norman Warembud, American-born, raised in New York, how did you come to that burning desire to perpetuate Yiddish music? I'll tell you truthfully, Norman, if I myself were not such a Yiddish-minded composer and writer and lecturer, your fiery belief and love for Yiddish music would imbue and engulf me with your wonderful plan."

"What do you mean, Feter Sholom?" He addressed me, almost angrily, by my early radio-famed name, 'Uncle Sholom.' "I love Yiddish, I speak Yiddish, my father subscribes and reads Yiddish newspapers and periodicals. I had it for breakfast, lunch and supper. All of his life, my father was a "Yiddishist," a lover of the pure Yiddish. My wife, Ruth, and I are lifelong members of the English-Yiddish speaking branch of the Workmen's Circle."

He spoke those words like an orator, that had I not been in full agreement with everything he stood for, his words would still be music to my ears. I would have been completely convinced by his convictions, capturing my mind and soul.

The next day I was back at his office with several of my Yiddish "lieder," which were based on our Yiddish poetic works and choral compositions for synagogues and temples. He had not waited for the momentum to cool off. He had already worked out a plan with his publisher-boss "Mills," and a budget was set up to start his plan in motion -- in a "mazeldiker sho (lucky hour)." He also told me that "Mills" is not interested so much in the profits he stands to earn from the new project, that he would be happy if it just would be self-sustaining. "But Sholom," Norman added, "I am certain that not only will he not lose by it, but at the end of his fiscal year, I shall show him a profit."

The next day, as Norman promised, he was in touch with the administration of the Cantors Assembly and ignited them with his enthusiasm. Soon he set his plan in motion, setting up a meeting between us -- myself and the administration members of the Cantors Assembly, many of whom were not strangers. Among the noted cantors were Cantors David Putterman of New York, Saul Meisels of Cleveland, Samuel Rosenbaum of Rochester, who was a product of our early "Children's Hour," which I had started, and Stutchkoff and Pecker. Also Cantor Saul Meisels, who used to appear with me at the Third Seder festivities of the "Histadrut" (United Hebrew Workers of Israel), for whom I used to write music, arrange and conduct. And Cantor Silverman of Chicago, of whom I heard but had met him for the first time at that meeting, as well as Cantor Isaac Goodfriend from Atlanta.

At that historic first meeting it was decided that "Mills" would start publishing, instantaneously, liturgical music. At their upcoming yearly convention in the spring, following the Passover holiday, all the cantors who convene from every part of the land, will bring on that occasion their material and will no doubt purchase, or commission to write compositions. Cantors are always in need of new liturgical music. That should certainly stimulate the publishing business, promote their own works to even a greater extent. Jack Mills, who had never been exposed to "Jewish music," generally and cantorial especially, was to become its most fervent sponsor, thanks of course to Norman Warembud's inspiration and young ambitions.

"Mills Publishers" came to the first convention fully prepared. They had printed a variety of new choral works and displayed them conspicuously. Mills, herself, was present and was overwhelmed by the reception and honor he was accorded, and even more than that he was impressed by the sale of the newly published works.

This nucleus of Jewish music, to be printed by Mills Publishers, turned out to be a "windfall" for the company, and a greater triumph for my dear friend, Norman Warembud's project.
 

June 21, 1970, ch. 60
 

How does one embark on a career as a lecturer? Well, they have debating teams in high school, in college. If one has any speech problems, there was the elocution speech instructor, and the "How Now Brown Cow technique." There was nothing like that in my background. I never had time for debating. I was used to doing what I was told, busy working for my mere existence. Still?

My "career" happened quite by accident. Morris [Maurice] Schwartz loved "banketn (banquets)," especially when business was good. It was a frequent occurrence. Kibbitz was the form of entertainment, and Schwartz excelled at that art. One evening, out of sheer malice, he called upon "Secundale."

"Nu!" I braced myself, and I wish I could remember what I said, but they laughed. After my "debut" I was on his permanent list, kibbitzing my "khaver balabos (comrade boss)," my friend, Samuel Goldinburg, whom I lovingly called "my little boy." We never ran out of material. Schwartz and I used to indulge ourselves in practical jokes with certain members of the vast past (We thought that it was fun. What they thought, they were too timid to complain.)

At times I was called upon to accompany his appearances for organizations, speaking about the plays that he was producing. This was "promotion" for his theatre. Schwartz would speak and often recite. I'd play incidental music, and often he would involve me in his conversations. At first I was lax, even frightened to face the audience, after the great, witty Maurice Schwartz. I was used to sitting at the piano with my back to the audience, or standing with the baton in my hand. I often thought that in case of attack from the rear, the little "stick" may come in handy. But facing a strange audience, well ...

"Arise and shine, Secunda." Schwartz had borrowed a phrase from Clifford Odets and whispered it to me. "Secundale, make believe you are the conferencer."

"Well," I thought, "banquets are my specialty, baton in hand." Lo and behold, I said something and the audience laughed. Needless to say, to serve his purpose, Schwartz had used my speaking talents to the utmost.

Schwartz was traveling in search of an audience. He had hoped to establish an Art Theatre in every city or country he visited. He had become one of Sholem Aleichem's "wandering stars." I miss him, not only for professional reasons, but he was excellent company. He had a way of charming you. You did not even realize that you were "being had," and when it dawned on you, you relaxed and enjoyed it anyhow ...

He was gone, but my "speaking" experience stood me in good stead. Miss Lippe [my agent] called ...

"How would you like to appear at an annual meeting of the Federation of Jewish Women's organization?" she asked.

"Doing what?" I asked.

"Lecturing on one of your favorite subjects -- music, Jewish music. She booked me for one speaking engagement, and I passed with flying colors.

A string of lecturing dates had been lined up for me. A source of income that I had not counted on. The agent, Miss Lippe, called:

"How about lecturing at colleges?" Miss Lippe asked.

"Why, Miss Lippe, I attended Cooper Union and Columbia University. I never graduated from any college ..."

"That's not what I asked, Mr. Secunda. How about lecturing at one of the colleges? Let's start with Hunter."

"An all-girls college?" I asked.

"Don't tell me that you're afraid of girls? Your dimples," quipped Miss Lippe, "could charm the pants off any girl ..."

I lectured at "Hunter," at New York University, and at many others through the length and breadth of America and its satellites, lecturing on the different phases of music, mostly forms of Yiddish music, most of those appearances in English. My theme then broadened from "Jewish music" to universal music. Shortly I was added to the star rostrum of speakers for the "Lecture Bureau."

My work at the Concord was confining but rewarding. I made a daring request. "I want a cantor of international fame for the High Holy Days, and a choir."

Mr. Winarick listened and fully agreed with me. "You're right, Sholomel. Whom do you have in mind?" My long-time friend came to my mind. He was a cantor before becoming an opera singer. Since they have on cantorials in the opera, why not bring the opera into the cantorials?

"Richard Tucker," whom I launched. He had already recorded liturgical music, as well as other songs, folk songs, for Columbia.

"Richard Tucker, the opera singer?" he asked.

"None other!" I answered.

"Then that's our man, Secundale. If you can get him, I'll take him!!!"

"Take him? Do you have any idea how much he will ask for?" He is now considered by Toscanini as being one of the greatest tenors in the world."

"So bargain with him a little. Tell him, after all, that this is the 'Concord Hotel.' Tell him who has appeared here."

I didn't want to explain. I left for New York, destination, "Ruby" (Reuven).

"Ruby, you have recorded many of my cantorial compositions. You have been very successful with them. How about officiating an entire High Holiday Service?"

"Sholom, do you know what you are asking of me? Do you have that much confidence in me?"

"I haven't lost my confidence in you since you came to me with a letter of recommendation from your brother-in-law Jan Peerce, since I risked my reputation by letting you sing on the 'Forward Hour.'"

He laughed. "If you, Sholom, believe I can do it!"

So I asked the "Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question." "How much should I quote that you want for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur?"

"You're asking, so I'm telling."

He mentioned a sum. I was dumbfounded. "Ruby, how can you? I am your friend???"

"I'm not doing it for you, Sholom! I'm doing it for the Concord. If the Concord wants Richard Tucker, the Concord must pay for it."

"OK, Ruby. I'll take your message back to Mr. Winarick."

I traveled from Tucker to Winarick, carrying the propositions back and forth. Tucker didn't budge, so I nudged Winarick a little. "You know what Tucker will do for the Concord?"

"Do you know what Concord will do for Tucker?" Winarick counter-argued. But Winarick upped his price.

In fear that Tucker might ask for a raise for the coming year, he signed Tucker for a two-year contract at an unheard of ransom. Tucker stayed with us for seven years (with a considerable raise for myself and Tucker at each signing of a new contract.) Those were the seven best years of my life at the Concord.

During those seven years, I composed new music to most of the prayers of the Rosh Hashanah-Yom Kippur services, which were immediately published through "Mills," which were recorded through Columbia by Richard Tucker and my choir from the Concord.

Thanks to my prolific writings of the liturgical, my friendship with the Cantors Assembly became even closer. I admired their progressive approach and views toward Yiddish liturgical music, even if not always in full agreement with their programs. I always applauded their approach to the Yiddish "folk's lied" and "kunst lied." They printed and reprinted music from the past generations, that of contemporary Jewish composers, and encouraged them greatly. At their yearly conventions, everyone had an opportunity to hear and be heard -- the old and the new ideas -- and enrich their own libraries for personal use of the many newly published works.

The most active members of that august Cantors Assembly were, at its very inception: David Putterman, Saul Meisels, Samuel Rosenbaum, Moses Silverberg, and Isaac Goodfriend. In my estimation, they had the greatest responsibility of commissioning new cantorial works from American-Yiddish composers, and since the inception of the new Jewish land, Israeli composers as well. They arranged performances of the newly written prayer music, which were performed at temples and synagogues, and they invited the composers to conduct their own music to ensure perfect performance and a greater attraction. Such performers stimulated the interest of every cantor, every composer, and every synagogue to search for "newness," breaking tradition with the old ...

Let it be recorded here. "Thanks to Mills Music Publishers -- under the direct influence of Norman Warembud, and of the Cantors Assembly, more music on various Yiddish themes were printed in that short period of time than in the entire history of Yiddish music throughout the world. Thanks to them, the many younger and older composers, having had no ready platform other than that of their own local house of prayer or Yiddish Center, to let their artistic lied of Yiddish or Hebrew texts be heard, were now being heard on a much wider horizon, not only through the medium of Jewish radio, but of network proportions, national hook-ups, television; newly acquired music, oratorios, such as was being aired throughout the world; string quartets, symphonic works of Yiddish cantorial and liturgical heritage.

I took to travel. My sons were growing up. They were well and had their social interests. I took my Betty, and of we went to see the culture of foreign lands and bring to them some of our own. There was much to learn and much to teach. And I found eager audiences everywhere. I met a young Jewish element, even here in our own country. Though not speaking our common Yiddish tongue, they still found a medium to communicate to me their desire to listen and learn more and more of what is purely "ours," and what we as Jews have brought so generously to the world-at-large.

In my own desire for authenticity, I found a wealth of knowledge in the volumes and volumes of historical facts and shared my newly found "treasures" with an eager Yiddish music-loving youth, at last, which was most interesting and rewarding.
 

June 28, 1970, ch. 61
 

Since my inroad into the "lecturing field," I had broadened my friendship with writers. I wasn't any longer just a branch of the Jewish musical culture, but I was also becoming an integral part of the literary field. I have had friends among the Jewish writers, dating back to my early summer sojourns at Loch Sheldrake. My friendship with Norman Furman, later the director of radio station WEVD, had started when I was still composer at the Rolland Theatre. Furman also had a close friend, Chaim Ehrenreich, whose friendship had blossomed from their earliest years at the "Yiddish Folkshul." Ehrenreich had been appointed editor of the theatre page of the "Forverts" by the great Ab. Cahan. Because of Furman, I also had become closer friends with Ehrenreich and his young wife, Belle Didjah. She too was part of the world of entertainment. Belle Didjah-Ehrenreich had been first with the Metropolitan Opera ballet, and later she became a teacher and choreographer.

Who spoke to whom, first about me, I don't know, but one afternoon at Cafe Royal, Chaim Ehrenreich joined me at my table. This was a common practice at the Cafe Royal.

"Say, Sholom," he said, in his friendly, soft-spoken manner. "I want to talk to you about something that should be of interest to you. I think our 'Forverts' readers may be interested in an expert's opinion on musical events, as is the custom the world over. Till now the musical events have been handled by anyone on the staff, without pretense of any musical knowledge."

"I believe," continued Ehrenreich, "that anything pertaining to music should be handled by one whose criticism would be, firstly, constructive and most accurately reported and completely analyzed and digested for the reader to understand and appreciate, to be able to share the opinion of a 'maven (connoisseur).' It is not a mere cliché that 'everyone can be the judge of a cantor,' but when speaking or writing about 'Aida,' 'Tosca,' 'Meister Singer,' when writing about the symphonic works of a Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, or instrumentalists such as Horowitz, Rubenstein, Ellman, Heifitz, Casals, one cannot merely say whether he liked it or not. He must also know and show cause. Why? To be able to express expert opinion on such subjects, one must have justifiable opinions and must possess a background of musical and dramatic experience."

I was quite surprised by his understanding and speaking out so frankly, against the insensibility in that regard, of his own and other "Jewish dailies" ...

"I couldn't agree with you more, dear friend. What do you intend doing to correct this practice?"

"It's a solution that is simple. I'd like you R' Sholom (Honorary Mister) to become, in addition to a Yiddish 'music man,' a Yiddish newspaper man and write critiques for the 'Forverts.' This would include all musical events that would take place in New York during the season. I believe that it should be stimulating to some of our readers."

I thanked him for his confidence. "I wish," I added, "that I were as confident in myself."

"Don't be silly," Ehrenreich interrupted. "I know that you lectured on musical subjects. I know that you are intelligent enough to appraise knowledgeably concerts and operas. If I should think it necessary to edit the first few articles, I will -- and only if ... After that you'll be independent of anyone. You'll become the first Yiddish music critic of the largest Jewish newspaper in the world -- the 'Forverts.'"

He handed me two tickets to the first Carnegie Hall concert. Next Friday my first critique appeared on the theatrical page of the "Forverts." After that I became a regular co-worker at the "Forverts," contributing an article at least once a week. Out of season, when there was no musical event to review, I would write articles about music generally, and the various forms of music. I introduced a series about the art of symphonic conducting, wrote a series of articles about the lives of fourteen of the world's greatest symphonic conductors. When I continued my travels around the world, I wrote about the most interesting people I met, from all walks of Jewish life that remained in the most remote corners of the vast universe. I sought and searched, and I found "Music Circles," where there were hardly enough Jews left to "make a circle."

However, each adventure has its drawbacks. Many artists -- especially those who were Jewish -- became friendlier after many words of praise, but when my comments were otherwise, some of my best friends (?) became my "best enemies." My mail bag contained pearls of praise, and pallets of poison.

I'm grateful to Chaim Ehrenreich for having given me that opportunity to bring the "Torah of music" -- part of our culture that had not been to many imparted at "cheder," or even in higher stages of learning. They too are entitled to read about and share or dispute the opinions of the expert. Music is part of everyday living, but for the Jew music is even more than that. His daily prayers are filled with words of song and music. For instance, read the "Thillim (Psalm)." It is difficult to find one paragraph that does not mention the word "music." "To the Chief Musician of 'Neginah' (Psalm IV); "Song at the Dedication of the House of David (Psalm XXX); "Hallelujah," and many others.

A people that is raised on and with music, whether it be a prayer, a folks-lied, a popular theatre song, an artistic lied or a symphonic work, must find interest in these themes. According to the mail that I received from readers, Ehrenreich was right. For that I am grateful to him.

The many articles that had been printed through the years in the "Forverts" did not add greatly to my "wealth," but I gained a wide world of friends.

My sons were growing up. I didn't want them to be in "want" of anything. I hadn't enjoyed my lean years. I would not subject them to hardships. I could not look to my father for help. Not only was he financially poor, but his "worldly" outlook had the circumference, the distance, from Alexandria to Nikolaev in Russia, from Twelfth Street and Second Avenue to across the bridge to Williamsburg ...

What I did not learn at "cheder," I made up on my own. "Ye that thirst" included me as well, and "I drank," quenching my thirst from all sources. But my sons? They shall "ask," and their wish shall be "granted." My older Shmilikel (Sheldon, if you please), was preparing to enter college. He chose to be away from home, at the University of California. That meant a "mint" to a modest man. We missed him, we flew to him. He missed us and he flew to us.

I found more paying work. Of course, none to equal the sum of what "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" had brought to strangers, but I said "no" to something not befitting my status ...

I wrote an occasional operetta for a persistent theatre director, and I continued on a yearly basis at the Brooklyn Jewish Center.

My work at the Concord Hotel was no more restricted to the summer months, but the year-round I was like the proverbial postman -- "No rain, nor hail, no sleet or snow, come hell or high water ..." I was at the wheel of my car. My Betty was at my side to keep me from falling asleep. Two or three times a week, as the occasion required, I attended concerts, operas, wrote a critique for the newspaper. At least one lecture a week in town or out-of-town, near enough to return to my family and the comfort of my own bed. In addition to all that activity, I also had a booking office of my own. I was now supplying orchestras and appropriate talent for such occasions as weddings, bar mitzvahs, etc. I wrote for pageants, and projects on Jewish subjects that were taking place at Madison Square Garden. That was all in a day, and/or a week's work. How many working hours to the month? I could not count, nor could I have any other way of showing my wife and my children "How Much Did I Love Them?" (Browning) "Let me count the hours!"

Their love I knew I had. Looking back would I have it any other way? No. I raised my sons according to my desire and wish. I look at them. They have reached maturity socially, intellectually, economically. This was worth working for.

At one of my many interviews I was asked, "Mr. Secunda, what do you do in your spare time?"

I looked at my interviewer and answered. "I work ... and I'm happy to do it."
 

July 5, 1970, ch. 62 
 

Work makes me happy, creative work twice as much. I was listening to my own lectures and "sermons" and reproached myself. "Sholom, what have you done lately to enrich or ensure our continuance as cultural Jews?" I listened to my own sermon and worked myself up to a pitch.

I went to my library, pulled out scripts and notations of my early writings. I had notations on certain ancient tunes, themes, "nusakh." I had so much material tucked away that lay there dormant. "Sholom, these notes are a veritable treasure. This will blossom ... I had not made up my mind as to what it would blossom into. Since I left the "Institute of Musical Art," I had not touched it. This project became my work in my "spare time." What is spare time if not to do what you love most? My desk, my piano was my "golf course" on which my accumulated energy was spent. I devoted six months to this work. I invited the first-class violinists, a viola, violin-cello, and we tried it for corrections and sound. My dream had become a reality. I was even happier when the musicians gave me courage in their reassurance that it isn't just an attempt at the artistic endeavor. It is an "artistic work."

Now what am I to do? Keep it under lock again for another twenty years? If no one hears it, if I share it with no one, what have I accomplished? I must bring it into the open. Technically I was tied to BMI, which was competition to ASCAP. The difference between the two -- ASCAP does not print music. However, they do have members who have big publishing houses, and they do print the music of other ASCAP members. BMI, on the other hand, does print music. Naturally they must like it enough for it to be printed. The difference between the printing of a song, and a "quartet" that takes one-half-hour is money. I thought to myself, "What can I lose? I'll go to BMI and show them my work. If it pleases them, they'll give my work their stamp of approval and print it. In case they don't, God forbid, I'll try other sources."

Mr. Thompson, the president of ASCAP, greeted me politely. I explained in detail. "Since you, Mr. Thompson, are not accustomed to the 'minor melodies,' these harmonizations might be somewhat shocking to an unfamiliar ear. I have composed this quartet with the purest of intentions. It is purely Yiddish in sound and is based on our cantillations. If you are not accustomed to these foreign melodic intervals, it may sound strange. I do believe, however, that if the music is good, there's no difference between Yiddish, Russian, German or American music. It is merely a question of national tendencies, and perhaps of specific shadings."

He listened very attentively and took my music. "I personally have a feeling for this type of music," he said. "In my youth, while still a student, I sang at a reformed temple, and I am familiar more or less with certain intervals and harmonizations. Of course you understand, Mr. Secunda, that this is not a simple matter. I don't consider myself a judge of such serious music, especially financially. It may be quite costly and a risk. I'll turn your music over into the hands of the experts and hear their opinion. I will, in due time, telephone you of our decision. It shouldn't take too long."

He sounded encouraging. Mr. Thompson kept his word. Within three days, he invited me via telephone:

"I am happy to inform you, Mr. Secunda, that our experts liked your music. They are of the opinion that because it is so different in style, it could very well be a worthy project for BMI to try. I am in full agreement with them. However, since it is a matter of finance involving more than the average composition, I'd like to ask you this. Could you make it possible to bring a quartet of musicians here, who could perform for our Board of Directors? It's simply a matter of protection for myself, and I don't want to take the entire financial responsibility on myself."

"Fine, Mr. Thompson, it can easily be arranged. I have four very fine musicians. They have already played it and will gladly accommodate me once more."

He arranged for the date. I got in touch with my colleagues. They too were elated. They came to my house, rehearsed conscientiously to perfection. That accomplished, they showed up at BMI Studios at the pre-arranged hour. At a long table the Board of Directors and other professional music experts and critics were seated. The four musicians took their respective seats and began playing.

Without a break they performed all four movements of the composition. It took no more than a half-hour, at the end of which they were applauded. Mr. Thompson told me that I may dismiss the musicians, and I was invited to sit with the Board to participate in the debate that will have to resolve in either a "Yes" or a "No." I sat quietly, feeling quite at ease. I saw their aces, and yet I was pleasantly surprised to hear each one's opinion, the reasons as to "why" he thinks my work is worthy of their consent. In my presence they all voted "Yes" -- to publish this work of mine. One month later, it was accomplished.

The NBC Studios at that time were enjoying a great deal of respect because of the magnetic presence of the great Arturo Toscanini, who was conducting a weekly "Symphony of the Air." It also boasted a perfect orchestra whom the great maestro had picked personally. Musicians came to audition for him from every city in the land. Besides the orchestra, NBC was proud of its prominent "string-quartet," which was selected from among the finest string musicians of the orchestra. They would present each Sunday important "quartets" from the great world-renowned composers.

I can dream, can't I? One obstacle ... I overcame! It was accepted by BMI, and it was published. Now if I could get it to be aired.

"Well, courage, Sholom!!!" I telephoned the first violinist of the NBC quartet, Mr. Max Hollander.

"This is Sholom Secunda," I started.

"Or course, Mr. Secunda," was his answer. "I know your name. What can I do for you?"

It wasn't difficult to explain my work to Max Hollander. The "nusakh" of Yiddish music was not strange to him, although he wasn't called upon to play Jewish music very often. Not that you know what I am speaking about," I ventured, "what are the chances that my "string quartet" could perform this work on one of your Sunday programs?"

"We are very much interested in new works," he answered. "By all means, bring us the music, and we'll try it at the nearest opportunity. If my colleagues will like it, we shall certainly be glad to play it."

I didn't let him wait too long. That same day I was at his studio with my "treasure." "I don't want to hurry you," I said. (Inwardly I was praying.) "If and when you decide, I hope you will give me a ring about the decision."

A month passed, and I had given up all hope. "Of course," I thought, "it was too much to hope for." NBC has so many requests. So much is at stake for NBC.

NBC did call. "Mr. Secunda, Mr. Hollander is on the wire returning your call."

"Mr. Secunda, Hollander here. I am happy to tell you that NBC will carry the premiere of your 'quartet,' on Sunday, the second of March, at eight-thirty in the evening."

Is there any place higher than "seventh heaven"? Where rests "cloud nine"?

The "Forverts," thanks to my friend Ehrenreich, carried the news in a lengthy article, about this unusual event prior to the concerts. A week after that I was still reading my mail that kept coming from many cities all over the country. Yes, I was truly a happy man. I'd walk from my home to the office, smiling to myself, thinking, "World, can you see that I'm a happy man???"

NBC also must have received much mail because my "quartet" in "D" minor, was performed very often on that program.

For a Jewish composer, writing on Jewish themes, it is an unparalleled satisfaction. That year marked a very wonderful chapter in my life and career. "Yes, 1947, was a good year!"
 

July 12, 1970, ch. 63
 

When the number of Yiddish theatres declined, the scope of radio greatly diminished. With less theatres and less radio there was less of a demand for Yiddish composers, not only in smaller towns but in the metropolis such as New York, which boasted and still does the largest Yiddish community in the world. The Society of Jewish Composers, of which I was still president, faced -- faced what? Our society, in addition to the lack of work, was also confronted with a great deal of competition from ASCAP and BMI.

When I had joined BMI, the collective earnings of our group was quite sizable, and the money that was handed to us by BMI was in turn divided among our members every three months. When the demand for our services waned with each passing year, BMI served us notice. "In view of that fact that your organization has not reached a minimum of royalties, BMI is no longer obliged, nor does it serve its purpose, to renew your contract." Signed -----------------.

What to do? Our lawyer, Edward Masters, and I as president, asked to meet with the representative of BMI, with the hope of finding some basis for our continuing as an affiliate. The meeting bore some fruits. It was decided -- considering the circumstances, BMI states: "They will sign a contract with our society for a period of no longer than three years, at a loss to us of fifty percent of our previous arrangement."

Having no other alternative, we had to agree. There was no doubt left in my mind that the Society of Jewish Composers had to face its catastrophic demise. Either BMI will drop us at the end of our contract, or at best, condescendingly, make us an offer of fifty percent of the remaining fifty. In either case we face doom. All these facts raced through my mind.

"Sholom," I said to this dejected composer, "you must rationalize -- 'Bei Mir Bistu Shein' -- is still bringing in a goodly sum to ASCAP, and to the writers of the English lyrics 'Bella, Bella' is music to their ears." Whereas, I have to pretend not to hear it each time I pass a record store or turn on the radio.

"Sholom, where is the logic? I see no rhyme or reason. My living expenses have become much greater than in the past. I have two sons in college. Eugene, the younger, had just entered New York University. True, proportionally, my earnings also augmented. What with the Concord Hotel, my Artist Bureau, Brooklyn Jewish Center, this assured me quite comfortably of a livelihood. Has Betty complained even once? Still, why should I go on being robbed? Being chided at every encounter? Being called a fool behind my back? And to what purpose?"

ASCAP ... I started thinking seriously about ASCAP. Since Mills Publishers were printing my music, Norman Warembud, my long-time friend, kept after me. "How can one man be so stubborn? Why shouldn't you become a member of ASCAP," he pleaded, "and share in the royalties, part of which is rightfully yours?" When I voiced my qualms about my joining ASCAP, about my concern for my colleagues, my conscience, he interrupted. "How can an intelligent man such as yourself be such an idiot, throwing so much money down the drain?" I found no answer.

"Say the word, Sholom. I'll get you an application to ASCAP. One of our composers will suggest you, and you will become a member of that coveted group. Besides, 'Mills' is already publishing so much liturgical composition that it is being performed and sung all over the world -- synagogues, radio, concert-stage. You are entitled to your fair share, which you are not collecting, only because you are not a member. Can't you see, Sholom, that you cannot resurrect your Society of Jewish Composers? The end is inevitable. Take my advice. You won't regret it."

Leaving my friend Warembud, I walked as if in a daze, debating with myself the pros and cons. Norman's down-to-earth logical argument almost convinced me. I still needed that little nudge ...

I came home. My Betty's concerned look asked silently, "Now what is it, Sholom?" No matter what the problem was, I was certain that I could discuss it with her. She would listen. I told her of my lengthy conversation with Norman and completed with the unnecessary question. "What advice do you give to your perplexed husband?" Barely withholding her tears, her pent-up emotions gave vent to her anger. "Haven't you suffered long enough? Haven't you learned anything these past years? Haven't we already lost a fortune?" Her tears flowed unrestrained. I couldn't bear to see her crying. But what can I say to soften the hurt, to stop the tears? Then in a quiet, almost inaudible voice she pleaded, "Oh, Sholom, Sholom, your hands are tied, but you were your own undoing. Now, now you're asking? Now I can say what I've been aching to say all the time. 'What a fool, my poor creative genius of a husband is.' Sholom, Norman speaks as a friend. Listen to him."

I went to the telephone. From "Mills Publishers" there came a familiar voice. "Norman?" I asked. "Yes, Sholom," answered a smiling voice. He was waiting, anticipating my answer. I blurted out, "Get ready my application! Norman, tomorrow I'll stop by your office and put my signature to the 'document' that will seal my fate."

The next day, as I greeted Norman, he handed me my application that had already been signed by an ASCAP member, saying, "Here's your passport to riches, mit dem rekhtn fus (right foot forward)." He held my hand and added, his eyes shining, "High time, my poor friend, you've come to your senses." Hearing the tearful betrayal of my voice, I did not dare speak. My conscience told me to comply, my subconscious rose up in revolt. "How can you do this to your colleagues?"

What will they say? Norman said, "Sholom, I have a solution to your problem. Compromise. ASCAP will embrace you with open arms, of that I am certain. They know you, they want you. Explain your position to them in regard to the Jewish composers and try -- mind you, Sholom, don't insist -- suggest, "You will join their organization with one proviso. What you have written prior to your becoming as ASCAP member belongs to the Yiddish Composers' group. Everything you will be writing and composing in the future will be published through the 'ASCAP Membership Publishers,' and it will automatically belong to them. This will guarantee your free income from any future performances, of "Bei Mir Bistu Shein,' that is still being heard from here to Timbuktu, and your liturgical compositions published through 'Mills.' This time, Sholom, don't let your conscience be your guide ..."

Fortified with that lecture and with Betty's suppliant look, I came to ASCAP. Handing my card I was ushered into a sumptuous office of the ASCAP President, Mr. Stanley Adams. "What can we do for you, Maestro Secunda?" Of course he had known it for a long time that I had rejected their invitation soon after the "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" craze. I stated the facts briefly, that I was the president of the Society of Jewish Composers, a fact that he was well aware of, no doubt. He listened without interrupting, nodding his head as I continued with my difficult decision to abandon my colleagues. But here I recounted Norman's suggestion of a compromise. Adam, putting his palms together, lacing his fingers, spoke softly with deliberate tact. "It pleases me, Maestro, of your decision to join our ranks. What a pity you have procrastinated this long and committed such an injustice against yourself and your family, losing so much money." But, of course, he hastened to add, "No use crying over spilled milk. We'll take your application and your proposition under consideration, and in due course I hope we will notify you officially of your acceptance as an honored member of our organization."

"Your second request, Mr. Secunda, however, that of your suggestion of compromise, that is a bit more complicated. In order to even consider it, we must, sort of, bend our constitution. The basic law states unequivocally that everything a member writes -- past, present and future -- is under the jurisdiction of ASCAP, and we bear full responsibility to the composer for every one of his compositions being performed here and abroad (except in Russia). Still, I promise that we shall try, and perhaps make an exception in your case, (see 4/26/70 concerning dates) simply because you have been duped legally, cheated out of such a windfall. I think that because of the awareness of your plight, it shall be taken into consideration." He stood up, took my hand and congratulated me once more on my decision. "Be assured, Maestro, financially you will not regret it -- ever!!!"

Leaving the offices of ASCAP I suddenly felt like the proverbial ant on the trunk of an elephant. "Nu, Lemeshke, you were cradled in the town of Alexandria, a mere 'pintele' (a dot on the globe). You will partake of a forty-million dollar a year industry." At last, I could feel the taste of honey!

I couldn't wait to get home. I rushed to the nearest phone to share the good news with my Betty. I searched my pockets for a nickel. "Poor girl," I thought. "Making ends meet, soothing my ruffled nerves, listening to my sighs, ever loyal, never demanding ... I found the nickel. I heard the soft voice on the other end. "Sholom?" "Yes, Betty! Congratulations!" I managed to say, "You're the first to hear the good tidings. How would you like to share bed and board with your future millionaire?"

The letter from ASCAP finally came. I opened the official-looking envelope.

"This certifies that on this date in 1954, Sholom Secunda was duly elected to the membership with the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers."

Signed by: Stanley Adams, President, Name, Secretary.

I would try my long-dormant sense of humor on her. Betty, trying to contain her pent-up feelings, blurted out, "I'm happy that someone finally knocked some sense into that childishly naive head of yours. Let's hope that from now on you will be more practical and look out for yourself and your family." I listened and said not a word. She was right. Now, of course, I appreciate what all these years of hoping, waiting and wishing meant, for her saintly patience with her husband and to her sons.

There was a sudden silence. Betty stopped her tirade (admonishing). Then once again I heard her voice. "Sholom, Sholom ..." "Yes, Betty. I hear you, and I promise, I promise dear to be a good boy from now on, and I promise once more to love, honor and obey, and I promise to keep my promise." I pictured a smiling face at the other end of the line. "Now I'm going to see Norman. Goodbye, dear ..."

That evening at the dinner table my hard-working sons, Shelley and Eugene, toasted their father with a cup of Mama's Friday night "chicken soup."

Now, I still had to hear from my colleagues. What shall I tell them at our next meeting? Will they reproach me for my decision? Will they ask for my resignation as their president, or will they perhaps even expel me from this very body that I had helped to create and nurture?

These were my last thoughts, these troubled thoughts which pervaded my restless dreams, until the eventful evening of the official meeting with my colleagues at the Society of Jewish Composers.
 

July 19, 1970, ch. 64
 

I did not look forward to the meeting of our Society of Jewish Composers that was to take place. And I was right. It was stormy to say the least.

According to our contract with BMI, every composition written by anyone in our society belongs to them till the end of our contract. BMI has a right to break their contract with us, even if one of your songs belongs to ASCAP. Without BMI our organization hasn't a leg to stand on. We're too weak to carry on as an entity. The biggest part of our income was based on what they doled out every three months.

I tried to explain that when BMI finds out that I am an ASCAP member our contract with terminate in any event, but if they don't I'll sacrifice my share of the BMI income and resign from our organization.

My friend Rumshinsky could find no love in his heart for the "8-Barnik," as he insisted on labeling me, especially now, since I was the first Jewish composer to become an ASCAP member. He couldn't overlook another opportunity to spew his venom that was "bursting its dam."

"This man," indicating with his eyes in my direction, "gained his recognition only because of our organization," obviously forgetting the fact that I too had a hand in organizing it, and thanks to the "8-barnik," chorus, all he has to his name he gained because of this "notorious fame." Now, it doesn't behoove him to be a member of our Society of Jewish Composers. He thinks that ASCAP will make him rich. Why his share with them will amount to less than what he gets from BMI, thanks to me. We'll get along very well without him. Let him go!"

Without another word, "crimson and rage," he left the meeting. The rest resolved to wait and see. The meeting came to a close.

After the first six months of my ASCAP membership I received my first check, just for the few compositions that "Mills" had published of "Bei Mir Bistu Shein." The check, which was small in comparison to others that would follow, it amounted to more money that I had received from the Society of Jewish Composers for two years.

"Betty," I called, trying to act nonchalantly, waiving my first check. She looked, took it into her hand in order to convince herself that it was no mirage. She smiled in disbelief. "Sholom, am I seeing right? You're not teasing me, are you?"

I walked into my room in mock anger. She followed, saying, "Now my little dopey husband," she said with so much love and pride. How could I be angry with her? "Come to think of it, Mr. Secunda ..." I felt her softness close to me. "I wonder where did you get brains enough to marry me, and to pick me as your wife?" I often pondered that question myself ...

Betty was the cashier of our family. When I had nothing she stayed in that same capacity, when I was bringing home the "kosher bacon."

----

The Directors Irving Grossman and Irving Jacobson, both fine performers, had taken the National Theatre and wanted me to write the music to their musicals. I signed readily, and I must say I felt very comfortable under their management. Herman Yablokoff wrote and directed the play. The cast was admirable. Besides Grossman, who had a fine voice, and Irving Jacobson, a most talented performer who went on to "Man of La Mancha" fame (as Sancho Panza), and their respective wives, Diana Goldberg and Mae Schoenfeld. There was also Henrietta Jacobson and her husband Julius Adler. We also had Seymour Rechtzeit and Miriam Kressyn, who had graduated from young prima donna to young mothers with equal grace. And there was a youngster by the name of Bruce Adler, son of Henrietta Jacobson and Julius Adler, who played Miriam Kressyn's young son, and a few years later came to play her potential son-in-law in Sholem Aleichem's "It's Hard to be a Jew," to which I had written the music.

These too were enjoyable seasons. I look back at them with a smile. This very capable and ambitious Herman Yablokoff, who had attained recognition in every phase of Yiddish theatre, was actor, director, lyricist, composer and manager. He took possession of the Public Theatre so he could bring one of his great "Herman Yablokoff extravaganzas" (that's what his plays were usually called). Mr. Yablokoff called on me.

"Sholom Secunda," he started. "It's high time the two of us combined our efforts to bring something of great importance to the Yiddish theatre. I have acquired a play by the renowned journalist, Benjamin Ressler, called 'Uncle Sam in Israel.' I believe our combination could bring great results. I'll engage a fine company. I won't play. I'll just direct. I will look for a 'star,' and I believe we'll succeed." He spoke with such emotion and enthusiasm, as was his way. I had little time to think.

As I have learned since, Yablokoff was a "no-nonsense man." No one questioned his capabilities, but his way of bringing his projects to fruition, about that there were many opinions. It was rumored, for example, the following: "Since he's become director, it's as if working under a dictatorship. He is a despot, a one-man 'junta. A ... what ... not? One is not allowed to breathe backstage, no kibbitz, no conversing before walking onstage."

Let me say this in his defense. "If it takes all that for a good, disciplined performance on the stage, I'm for it!"

I had never seen a "Herman Yablokoff extravaganza." It was rumored that he was against granting any "passes" to any professionals. I didn't want to try my luck, to avoid refusal. I did not venture. Since my earliest years in the theatre, I've been welcomed, as has been every artist to any Yiddish Theatre -- "sell-out" not withstanding. I wasn't about to go to Yablokoff and be turned away, and I wouldn't buy a ticket on principle. These were thoughts that were racing through my mind, while Yablokoff was overpowering with his energy and enthusiasm. Most of all I feared a collision of our temperaments. I heard about his. I was aware of my own. I had heard about the stormy sessions Yablokoff had with Rumshinsky, just one short season before. Should I tell him what's on my mind? Why look for trouble? "No!" No what? "No, don't say it," or "No, don't say no." I was afraid to say "Yes," but how do you say "No" to such gentle persuasion?

"Well, Mr. Secunda. What do you say to my proposition?" To bide my time, I started questioning.

"Where can I read the play? Who will the singers be, and who will be the star? Are we going to have heartaches as we usually have because of the star's ...?"

"Chaver Secunda, have no fear of that, by Yablokoff," speaking of himself in the third person. "No one interferes in his play, or his direction. Yablokoff is director. He doesn't need any assistance from the star, whosoever he may be. A cast we'll have a good one. Israel is now an actuality, and I believe that there is nothing we have to worry about." He spoke in short, clipped sentences and impressed me greatly.

Without waiting for my categorical "Yes," he went on. "Tomorrow, I myself shall read the play to you. After you hear the play, we will transact our business." That's how it was. He read the play, "Uncle Sam in Israel." I liked it, and I signed.

We had a few conferences with the author Benjamin Ressler. Certain scenes had to be rewritten and shortened because of musical interludes. It was accomplished without the usual confusion. Many of the performers whom Mr. Yablokoff had engaged were unknown to me, Shifra Lerer for one. I had heard of her -- a capable performer. But can she fill the place of a prima donna? Benzion Witler was also new to me. I had not heard him sing. He looked the part. Is he the singing lead in the operetta? The rest of the cast I did know: Max Wilner, Tillie Rabinowitz, Yakob Suzanoff, Moshe Feder. Yablokoff also engaged the very talented Michael Rosenberg. Rosenberg I knew very well, He had been with the Yiddish Art Theatre, where he earned a great reputation within the profession, with the public and critics alike. There was one thing I feared about Michael Rosenberg. Since he left Maurice Schwartz and the Art Theatre, his ambitions turned in different directions. He neglected the artistic side of his talents. He searched for the spontaneous combustion of laughter, the vaudeville joke. The "Borsch Belt" became his "stomping grounds." I feared all that. I did hope that under the strict and dictatorial hand of the director Yablokoff, Michael would find himself again and will take himself in hand. "Michael," I said to him once sotto voce, seeing that he was not behaving at a rehearsal. "Mikhele, hob Got in hartsn (For heaven's sake, keep God in your heart. Behave.)" Michael looked at me and smiled condescendingly, pinching my cheek and said, "Don't you worry about me, Sholom." And he sauntered off to the dressing room for more refreshments ... photo: Benzion Witler and Bella Mysell (from the Museum of the City of New York)

Herman Yablokoff, the disciplinarian, the iron-handed ruler, lost his power. When it came to this talent, he could not persuade, induce placate or threaten this obstinate talent, and [Michael] was set on a course of his own destruction.

The play was accepted, in spite of its drawbacks. All the performers excelled. Bella Mysell (Mrs. Yablokoff) contributed a great deal of pathos to the play. My disappointment was "Mikhele." It was on the boards of the Catskills that Michael Rosenberg left his talent ...

Herman Yablokoff's cooperation was, for me, a personal triumph. I had a free hand with my music. Bella Didjah, the wife of my friend Chaim Ehrenreich, did well with the choreography of the play. Most of the music of "Uncle Sam in Israel" I latter arranged into a symphonic poem called, "Yom B'Kibuitz (Day in Kibuitz)." It has been performed on may occasions, as were some of the other musical numbers by such artists as Richard Tucker and Roberta Peters.

I dare say that had Herman Yablokoff and I met earlier and combined our efforts, the Yiddish Theatre would have gained.
 

July 26, 1970, ch. 65
 

I loved to travel, and I did. I had a strange curiosity and liked to wander about strange places, to meet and speak with the people there until I made them my friends. I hated to leave them and wanted to observe their way of life and make myself part of them; to study, learn of their customs that were peculiar to their surroundings. I had saved my first two-thousand dollars from my meager earnings. Hymie Jacobson, Michal Michalesko, his wife Andju and myself went to Europe many years ago.

Our first stop was Paris. Paris was not new to me, I had been there before. Its museums, the Louvre, its boulevards, its parks, the Bois de Boulogne, the lavish of the affluent, the "pletzle" (the ghetto), the way of life of the poor Jewish population, as opposed to the French and other minorities, the middle class. The antiquated palaces where kings and their cohorts had frolicked, the fashionable and the seedy ...

Italy -- the long forgotten Jewish quarters, their ancient synagogues in close proximity to the tiny ancient church that "winks" to the Jews with quotations from the Old Testament, with Hebrew letters. Their cathedrals, their operas, the Vatican, the hidden and the obvious, the "ring and the ring-kissers ..."

Germany -- before the "Heil Hitler" era, their "Unter den Linden."

Scandinavia -- the cold Nordic outside and "warm inside" of its friendly people. The Anna Franks and the Quizlings.

Japan -- snuggly pressed and pressing ever forward. It's fearful at times, when will it burst at its seams? To where and how far will the overflow reach? Of course, in our experience traveling we did not neglect the good old U.S.A.

ASCAP helped me realize all that. Financially it had given me the "passport" to the gates of the remotest of places, and in 1949 I turned to my wife Betty and said, "Take your basic black dress and let's go places."

"Sholom, isn't it a little early, eight o'clock in the morning for 'basic black,' before breakfast? Where are we going to?" she asked.

"We are going on a long trip," I sprung on her. In the past when our sons were younger, she would not even think of leaving the children home and travel. Though it seems that we had Savannah for eighteen years, who practically raised them, she was part of our family. In any emergency, she was ready to sacrifice her last morsel of bread if need be. And there were such times.

Now the children were on vacation. I packed my family into my car, and off we went to see as much of America as possible -- the mountains and hills, the rivers and lakes, the big cities and little cities, historical towns and ghost towns. We went as far as California, stopping at the Gold Rush mines in Colorado. In Arizona we searched out the Indian reservations and spent several days and nights there. We learned more about the early Americans in one day, than all the years at college and the movies.

In Salt Lake City we heard the beautiful concert at the Mormon Tabernacle. There was the Grand Canyon, "Old Faithful," which spits out its geyser every hour -- you can set your clock by it. The desert, red as molten gold, and hot as the burning sun. And Los Angeles, the "City of Angels," (mostly fallen). There my Shmilikel spent his college years. There I tried my "mazl," and was "shlemazeldik" (the opposite of mazl -- what else?) For my son Eugene and my wife, the city was a fairyland. Pickford, Clark Gable for Betty, "Hi-Ho Silver" and Disneyland for the younger ones. In California, we also met old friends from the theatre profession, and "Klall-tuer" [sp]" (workers for the community), whom we had known from New York.

The trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco was even more beautiful. The day was partly cloudy, and a misty rainbow followed us all the way to the Golden Gate.

We had stopped in one of San Francisco's hotels away from the crowds, simply to rest. Los Angeles had been so exciting, but so tiring. We rested for three days, enjoying our leisure. Once we were seated at the table for breakfast, and we heard two ladies at a nearby table speaking in Yiddish. When I turned my head in their direction, they stopped abruptly. "Ret ret (Go on, speak)," I said. "I like hearing our language. In New York I hear it often. Three days since we're here in San Francisco, and we haven't heard one Yiddish word."

"We are from New York too," they said. "We too are tourists." I invited them to our table and introduced them to my sons and wife. "We are the Secunda family."

"Secunda?" they stared. "Secunda? The same Secunda, the Jewish composer?" one woman asked in astonishment. "For thirty years I've been seeing and hearing the name, Sholom Secunda. I listen to and sing all your songs. I had to come to San Francisco to meet you and your family in person. "It's a ..." We all chimed in. "... It's a small world after all ..."

On our way back to New York, we tried other routes. See more of the "purple mountains' majesty." It was a long invigorating and unforgettable trip, with many such trips to follow ...

It was 1953, and I turned to Betty and announced "this time it's Israel, the land of our forefathers." As a child in Alexandria and Nikolaev I had discovered our "forefathers" between the scuffed brown covers of the "Chumash." Avraham, Itzhok and Yakob, "Joseph and his Brethren," "Mizrayim" (Egypt) and Canaan; Samson the Mighty, King David and Solomon, and the Holy Temple that was destroyed; the "Wall ..." "Is there really such a wall, standing for thousands of years?"

I remembered that on Saturday afternoon I was once so overcome by the thought of "Where is Eretz Israel, and why are we not there if our 'pvois' (forefathers) are there?" I asked my older brother, Velvl, "Will we ever go to Eretz Israel, see Mother Rachel's grave, the Ma'arat HaMachpela? (the grave where she and her husband are buried)?"

"Aha," Velvl laughed. "Our Lemeshke wants to be with our 'ovois.' He thinks its a hop, skip and a jump -- as far it is from Nikolaev to Odessa."

I was sure that no one really knew whether there is such a place. Well perhaps, "There is a God, but we can't see him ... There must also be an Eretz Israel, but who knows where? We did know where America was. That is all the geography we ever learned."

Finally Israel is a Jewish state, and Lemeshke is on his way. I rejoiced with the millions of other Jews who lived in such an historic time, as this, to see the creation of a new Israel. "We are among these millions, Betty, who by the Grace of God see it with our own eyes. When we used to end our prayers "Le Shanah Ha-Ba'a B'Yerushalayim" (next year in Jerusalem), we were only dreaming, knowing that it was just that. But it was Dr. Herzl who said, "If you will it, it is not a dream." "We willed it, Betty. Not next year, but this year in Jerusalem! I really didn't have to use the "hard sell" on Betty!!!

"I'm ready! Our sons are grown 'kain ein horeh.' They can be left alone in their own custody," she said. "How soon do you want to go?"

Betty had never been on a plane. I thought that she would find excuses. That same day our trip was arranged. We were on our way to Israel, homeland of the Jews!!! My excitement didn't show, but Betty's did. She was very nervous and very scared. She knew that nothing really bad could happen. Her "Sholom" was there to protect her. But who will protect him? And how is she going to feel? Everyone had another remedy. "Eat a lot." "Eat very little." "Have a stiff drink." "No liquids," and another. The doctor gave her pills. "Take one twenty minutes before embarking." "Good girl." That she did!

Everybody saw us off -- my family, her family, our family, with luggage -- much more than we needed. Their best wishes for a safe return, and Betty took one of those pills. We waved, they waved. And we were off. Not "off" the ground, as yet -- a slight delay (It was longer than slight.) By then Betty decided to take another pill. Our plane was late taking off. We waved again. They waved again. Our plane taxied and taxied, and Betty was getting more and more nervous. Before I could categorically say "no more pills," Betty took a third pill and swallowed it. When finally we were airborne, Betty was asleep.

With Betty safe in the arms of "Morpheus," I took a walk on the plane. How come I hadn't noticed the pretty stewardess before? Each one greeted me with a smile. One met me in the aisle and said smilingly, "My name is on my uniform. What is yours?"

"I don't think you'd know me, even if I tell you," I said. And she didn't.

I am not a "sleeper," and to pass the time, talking to stewardesses is as good a "pastime" as any. Like a good husband, I did return frequently to see if Betty was still sleeping.

It was dawn, and the sun was rising out of the other side of the Mediterranean. Betty was still sleeping. By now there were several El Al stewardesses, each one asking "whether there is something else we needed." Soon the voice of the captain announced: "Fasten your seat belts. We are arriving at London Airport, our first stop." I went to my seat to fasten my seat belt. My Betty had not even unfastened hers as yet. I nudged her gently. "Ha." She woke with a start. "We're still here in America? Maybe it's a sign we shouldn't go?"

"No dear, we're already at London Airport." While the plane was being refueled, we got off to stroll about, to taste some of that famous London fog. We walked for about a half-hour and returned. Betty hadn't taken any more pills -- Rome, Tel Aviv ... Betty was brave!

Our first glimpse of Israel was through the window, looking down as the plane reached the airport. The electric Hebrew letters spelled out the name of the airport, Lod." The Hebrew letters looked unreal in electric lights!

This was not at all like the "aleph bet" that I had first beheld in cheder. Who ever dreamed of Hebrew letters in electric lights?

Then the realization that we were actually standing on "our own soil." Only a people who had never had a "mother country," a "fatherland" to call his own, could feel that ... I need not go on to describe that feeling. A Jew doesn't need it, and for anyone else, it defies description ...

Waiting for us was a delegation of many friends who were there to greet us: Moshe Ron, whom I had the pleasure of meeting in New York during his visits, and we had become friends. Issachar Miron, composer of "Tzena Tzena," and one of the Histadrut delegates. They took us to the Hotel Yarkon.

We spent three wonderful weeks in that "old new land." It had engraved itself in my very soul, and while corresponding and writing my impressions for the "Forverts," I lived through each scene, each wonder, again and again. I had vowed that "I shall return." Since 1953 I have been there many times, reiterating the prayer: "Next Year in Jerusalem."
 

August  9, 1970, ch. 67
 

The Million-Dollar Theatre [Rolland Theatre] became the "Parkway," named after the avenue, "Eastern Parkway," where it was located. Its directors, now for several years, were Jacob Jacobs and Nathan Goldberg, where they had successfully produced Yiddish translations of English-language Broadway plays, such as "Johnny Belinda" with Jean Platt, who was the original star (the leading character was a deaf mute. There was no language barrier.) Also there was "Margin for Error," with Jacob Ben Ami; "Death of a Salesman," brilliantly played by Joseph Buloff; "Detective Story," with Jacob Ben Ami; "Anna Lucasta" in Yiddish, in which Miss Kressyn excelled, this time in a non-singing part, who was hailed by Vernon Rice (the critic from the Post), as the "youngest first leading lady of Yiddish Theatre."

Running out of English-to-Yiddish translated plays, finding it difficult to land other plays of equal appeal at the box office, they tried others: Isaac Bashevis Singer's first dramatization of the book, "Family Muskat"; Rose Shoshana's serialized novel, "When Hearts are Young."

The neighborhood, by that time, was going through its "painful changes." The Million-Dollar Theatre on Eastern Parkway was "converted" into a Baptist Church.

With Jacob Jacobs I had worked before. We started our collaboration with the sad success story of "Bei Mir Bistu Shein," and through the years, much of the time, I was aware of his, what I thought were his shortcomings, as he, no doubt, was aware of what he thought were mine.

Jacobs, very honest in his approach, moved in a "constricted circumference" of musical knowledge. There was a great plus and credit to his nature, being honest in his approach and willing to listen. You could argue with him, and as often as not he would let you win.

With Jacobs, Fuchs could "exercise" and fulfill many of his ambitions -- "star," of course! But the rest he assumed: director, composer, musician, choreographer, lyricist, writer, or rather rewriter, the doctoring of plays ... "Doctor without Portfolio," to "operate" on plays and change their physiognomy, to enlarge and enhance his part, and by nature of this "surgery," cut everyone else's to shreds. That even Jacobs could not tolerate, nor Mr. Fuch's machinations, and he often said so to his face. But, Leo's "face" didn't change under "good-natured" pressure. First, Fuchs changed the complexion of the play. I hardly recognized it. He also attempted to change my music. Here he encountered an "iron wall." I did not tolerate it. I realized that, after his surgery, my music would heal the wounds. He then tried his own hand at composing. He had done this before, which he had informed me about. But Mr. Jacobs admonished his star: "If I wanted, Mr. Fuchs, that you should write the music to the play, I could have saved so much money on Mr. Secunda ... You are here to play theatre. Let Mr. Secunda do the composing."

It had happened at one of the many stormy rehearsals. In disgust I gathered up my music and left the theatre -- halfway -- though Mr. Jacobs and the entire cast held me back, among them my personal friends Miss Kressyn and Mr. Liebgold, Mr. Rechtzeit and Jacobs. They held me back, truly with all the strength of their friendship. I stayed. By the time the play opened, parts of the co-stars, Kressyn and Liebgold, were cut to a minimum. Seymour Rechtzeit and Thelma Mintz held on to their respective parts, with all the strength that was left in them. The others managed to go through their paces.

That and several seasons followed, with similar plays, similar stars, similar headaches, heartaches ... Box office, by virtue of little or no competition, survived. But I didn't!!!

I felt that since my financial position had changed considerably for the better, I did not have to suffer the indignities that I had endured. I broke with Mr. Jacobs amicably. He had no alternative, but I did. He understood. It pained me to sever my working relationship with a dear friend, a former boss and collaborator. But I was happy to see him getting along nicely without my professional assistance.

In the interim, I became a "student of the calendar." Where have the years gone? I stalked and counted the years, months and days of my "folly" of "Bei Mir Bistu Shein," some twenty-eight years and three-million dollars ago. Twenty-eight years ago the copyright went out of my hands. Now, twenty-eight years later, it was about to terminate. It was about to return to the lawful ownership of the composer and lyricist. According to my calculations, "Harms" Publishers, who had acquired the right, were about to lose it. They will not be permitted to print "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" unless they renewed the contract with Sholom Secunda and Jacob Jacobs. The million-dollar income that they were making and sharing with Sammy Cahn and Saul Chaplin will terminate. How will the firm of Warner Brothers conduct their deal this time? Will the multi-million dollar firm contact these "poor shnooks," Jacobs and Secunda? Or will we have to come crawling to them for crumbs? That they will not let this "lucrative property" out of their claws. That was certain ...

I went to my friend, Norman Warembud, whom I had first met twenty-eight years earlier, but had not heeded his advice.

"Don't worry, Sholom," was Norman Warembud's reply. They, out of necessity, will come to you. Without your consent, they can do nothing. Without a renewal contract, the property is not theirs anymore. When they call you, you call me. I'll advise you as to your next move ..."

I waited, then I called my friend. "Norman, you said that they'd call, but they haven't as yet." I complained in anguished impatience.

"Don't worry, Sholom, they will, as sure as your name is ..."

"I know, I believe you, but ..."

"Harms," on the other hand, was banking on the fact that, true, Secunda knows that his name is worth much more now, but his mentality hasn't gone through any metamorphosis. He'll be glad to renew the contract. Perhaps not for the ridiculous sum of fifteen dollars on his share. So "Harms" played a waiting game.

They had miscalculated. True, I had to learn the costly way, but I did learn. No sooner did the last hour of the twenty-eight year strike, but "Harms, Inc." called my bureau. Hearing the "hello," I recognized immediately the familiar voice of "Harms, Inc."

"Hold on, Mr. Secunda. Mr. [William] Starr of Harms, Inc. would like to speak with you."

I tried to sound calm, although the voice of "Harms, Inc." sent shivers through my bones. What am I going to say? I've been preparing myself for this moment for the past twenty-eight years, and now I'm tongue-tied. Where has my swift reportage disappeared to? "Oh, God, don't let me commit the same act of stupidity again."

"Hello, Mr. Secunda," came his dulcet tones, "How come we don't ever see you at our offices?"

I had a burning desire to refresh his memory, as to how many times I had been to his office (S.O.B.) and found him perpetually "out." When did they conduct their business? Always out, whenever I inquired!!! I controlled my emotions. "I have been quite busy, Mr. Starr, and I have no spare time to visit offices, when not invited."

"Uninvited? To our offices, you need an invitation? Why, Mr. Secunda, you know with us you will always be a welcome guest. Do come up and bring some of your new material. If you have any, let us see it. Let us hear it!"

After some more talk, I finally blurted out, "Tomorrow."
 

August 16, 1970, ch. 67 or 68
 

Yes, tomorrow, but not before. I had stopped to check with my "advisory board," Mr. Norman Warembud. We finally met, then I went to meet with Mr. Starr of "Harms Inc."

"Why, what a sight for sore eyes, Mr. Secunda." Mr. Starr came out of his plush office to greet me in person. He ushered me into his office, leading me under the arm. I didn't way to say, "I'm not an invalid -- any more. I can stand on my own two feet ..." But to what purpose?

"What a pity we did not see one another all these years," he said.

"No fault of mine," I managed to say. "I did not have the pleasure of knowing you then, personally, although I would have spoken to anyone ... But no one remembered my name. No one was interested or inquisitive to discover. Perhaps there was another 'Bei Mir Bistu Shein' in the head of the composer."

"What a pity, Mr. Secunda. I had no knowledge of that," he said. He spoke on the intercom to his secretary. "Send in so-and-so ..." (The name was new to me then, and I still don't remember it.)

The gentleman came in. "This is Mr. Secunda, the composer  of 'Bei Mir Bistu Shein.'" We shook hands. "Next time, Mr. Secunda, when you have any new song, submit it to this gentleman. He is the editor of all new compositions. He is the one who gives his stamp of approval. I'm sure that you will both get along famously." We nodded to each other, and he left the room.

"You are aware, of course, Mr. Secunda," Starr said, "that the twenty-eight years of the registry of 'Bei Mir Bistu Shein' will expire this year, and that the song will have to be registered anew, for the next twenty-eight years."

"You should live so long," I thought. It seemed to me that I have waited twice twenty-eight.

"Well, now is the time. You'll be able to cash in your share from ASCAP because you are an ASCAP member, and from us as well. Now we'll sign our contract directly with you and the lyricist, Mr. Jacob Jacobs."

He waited, looking into my eyes, searching silently for what my answer will be. Am I still the same man as in 1938? Will I put my name, "Sholom Secunda," on the dotted line for the first Harms Inc. offer? Little did he know that under the tutelage of my friend, the "expert," I was already warned of the pitfalls. Norman knew what the copyright of "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" still meant to him and his firm, the "Mills Publishers."

"Well, Mr. Secunda. What do you think of this proposition?"

"It sounds very good, Mr. Starr, but what about the hundreds and thousands of dollars that was cashed in by your firms, and I wasn't the recipient of one copper penny?"

He evidently had not expected my answer. No one had ever spoken to Mr. Starr in that tone of voice, nor accused him of any underhandedness. His face changed in expression and color.

"My friend," he answered hesitantly, "my dear friend Sholom Secunda. It is not our fault that you sold your song to the Kammens Bros. for thirty dollars. We have our business, and we conduct our business, not yours. We paid the Kammens Bros. their percentage in good faith. We also paid Sammy Cahn his share, and Chaplin his, and Lou Levy his share. We can't expect to deduct from them now, from what we have paid them. After all, they had acquired the rights, and we had paid them. Had you retained your rights, we would have paid you."

"It is logical," I admitted, but I reminded myself, "Remember, Sholom, what Norman rehearsed with you. "Mr. Starr," I said, "even so, the song now is new, and it is mine. You need it, you want it, you must do business with me as if it were new and want to obtain it."

"When I was with Jack Renard at Warner Studios in Hollywood, no one thought too much of the song, and no one in your firm wanted to buy it. Now you don't risk anything. You are guaranteed that the song will continue bringing in hundreds of thousands more. Now I want to be a partner to the profits, as much or as little as there will be."

It dawned on Starr that I am not the same Secunda, and he changed his tone to a business-like manner.

"Well then, Mr. Secunda. What would you ask of us?"

"Money," I answered, my face expressing the same as my words, "Money."

"Money?" he repeated. "Money! That's a big order, my friend."

"Mr. Starr, since 1938 I've been waiting for the day when you will call me to sign the new contract. Twenty-eight years ago, not one of your firm could have found a second in their schedule to talk to me, to say one word. Today, today is the 'tomorrow' that I've been marking off, as does a 'lifer' in his cell. Today is the day when you sent for me, and today, for the first time, I can ask for what is right. You do agree that I have my rights?"

"Good then," realizing that he'll win nothing with just a polite smile. "Money is the answer? How much?"

I mentioned a sum. A big sum. I didn't dream of getting it. I said it with reservations, leaving an open space to bargain.

"Mr. Secunda, that sum is out of the question. It's senseless. The song is no song anymore. True it's a standard, and it is still being sung. It's heard on TV, occasionally on the radio, and some still use it on occasion. Orchestras play it. But how can you expect it to bring nearly as much as in the past twenty-eight years?"

"Mr. Starr, I'm in full agreement with you that it will never bring in the millions as it did in the past, but hundreds of thousands it will bring, and I want to taste some of that 'honey' to make up for some of the 'bitterness' I had been swallowing."

We were bargaining, and it was left hanging, to be resolved after both of us thought it over.

The second and third meetings brought us no nearer to agreement. He upped his original offer, but he did not as yet come up high enough to meet my expectations. Several weeks had passed until a date was finally set up to sign a contract that his firm would prepare.

The newspapers were aware of its negotiations that were pending. I was being interviewed by reporters of many newspapers. The New York Times had set up an appointment with one of their reporters. Arthur Gelb was to write a lengthy article about the song, "Bei Mir Bistu Shein," and its composer. "Poor Little Me."

The new contract was signed on the 16th day of February 1961. The next day the New York Times dedicated half-a-page, by Mr. Gelb, to me and my "Bei Mir Bistu Shein." In the article, Mr. Gelb wrote in great detail, not only of our conversation, how I sold it for thirty dollars -- out of which my friend, Jacobs, got his share of fifteen dollars -- but Gelb also gave the accurate "data" from Harms Inc. and ASCAP.

In America 250,000 copies were sold, and 2,500,000 records, according to ASCAP. This song had brought in up to that time three million dollars.

According to ASCAP, I should make not less than $350,000. ASCAP also disclosed that since I had become a member of their organization, it had paid me just for the royalties they collected for me, $4,352,72.

In the same article, Arthur Gelb writes how I composed that song on the Boardwalk at Far Rockaway. [Ed. note: the article by Gelb appeared in the Feb. 17, 1961 edition of the New York Times.]

That article was reprinted in all the newspapers throughout the country. I was interviewed on all the networks and had to recount this "fabulous" story each time.

With my signing the new contract with "Harms Inc.," the sad legend of "Once Upon a Time There Was a Man Who Had a Gold Mine But Didn't Know He Had It ..." [was over.]

These years after signing my new contract, I can safely vouch for the continued popularity of the song. Not a year has passed without one new record reaching the market; recordings in different rhythms and languages.

Since I get all the statements of sales, I know exactly how often it is used on TV and radio.

My Betty and my sons are happy with its results. If they are, I am happy threefold.

About Mr. Starr, he was a hard businessman, as one must be in business. However, he treated me with great respect and friendliness.

After our new contract was signed, he did express his regrets about my previous losses and invited me often to be a guest at his office, should I have another "Bei Mir Bistu Shein."

Two in one lifetime?
 

August 23, 1970, ch. 69
 

My first trip to Israel whetted my "wanderlust." I was not satisfied any longer to sit and read about the distant places, the foreign lands. I wanted to fill my eyes with the beauty of what other people had to offer -- their customs and their arts.

India, the land of Gandhi, "Mahatma" (Saint) Gandhi, whom the people had "sainted" while he was still alive. Their music, their mystic land, their customs ...

Japan. Above all I must see Russia, to recapture the days of my childhood. Not a day, not a moment of my half-dreaming, half-waking hours, of my early youth, was lost in the maze of my life.

Contrary to George Bernard Shaw's theory, my youth was not "wasted" on me. I remember my days in Russia, Alexandria. My early days in cheder, when the world of religion unfurled its mysticism to me, through ancient yellowed pages ...

In the city of Nikolaev, where I had discovered "me," my metamorphosis from a helpless "Lemeshke" to "Solomonchik," the first "meshoyerer" (soloist) in the big "Chor-Shul" (choir).

Yes, Russia -- fearful, foreboding Russia, under the Czar (not much better now). Russia, from where the Jews escaped, not because they loved it less than the Russian peasant, the poet, composer, tinker or tailor, but escaped because Russia made the Jew the target of its hatred, sanctioning pogroms on us, the defenseless ones. That same "Matushka Russiya" (Mother Russia), the persecuted Russian Jew could never eradicate from his memory.

Russia, about whom the Russian-born Jewish composer and performer loved and sang his heart out in yearning ... I also remember Russia in 1905 when my mother, my father and myself (a little helpless boy), together with my six brothers and two sisters, whose lives were miraculously spared by means of a cross in the window that was hung by a kindly Russian, our kindly Christian landlord.

This Russian-born American-Jewish composer now wanted more than anything else to see Russia, the Russia that was under the Communist government. I read avidly all articles --Russian, English, Yiddish -- everything about Russia that made headlines, or items stuck somewhere on the inside, the fortieth page of the Times, or any other periodical.

My heart is in Israel, my body and mind in America, my ear tuned in to Russia. I must speak with the Russian Jew. I want to hear from his own lips, although hoping against hope that the Russian proverb would hold true: "Chort Nie Tak Strashno Kak Maluyet" (The Devil is not as fearful as he is painted.)

My wife was fearful, having been born in the blessed United States. She could not understand my longing to see Russia. She feared not for herself. Whom does the American fear? With an American passport, even on the moon, the American feels protected under the American flag. My Betty feared for me, for her husband's life, his comfort. Should I, as often as I do, speak my mind? "They may, what may they not?" she argued.

The song "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" reached the Russian streets much later than in other countries. It was recorded by Russians in Russian. Of course, I was not compensated for my "writer's rights," but neither does Russia pay anyone else. So far, they didn't believe in giving. "Taking Only" is their motto.

Being on safe ground, on American soil, I wrote a letter explaining my ardent wish:

To The Ministry of Culture:

I wish to visit with your two great U.S.S.R. composers ,with whom I had the distinct honor of becoming acquainted with upon their brief visit to our U.S.A.: the world-renowned contemporary composers Shostakovich, Kabalevsky -- they and others had extended their invitation to meet me in their beloved country, Russia.

When ASCAP (our American Association of Musicians, Composers, Authors and Publishers) formed a "welcoming committee," I was one of the committee, and so much honored comrades, I would be most gratified if you would grant me a visa to visit the "land of my birth."

Signed,

Sholom Secunda

------

I did receive an answer:

To the Composer Sholom Secunda:

About payment for your musical work, according to our custom, you are not entitled. However, should you care to visit our country, please advise us. You will be a welcome guest.

Signed,

The Ministry
 

[Note to Editor: If you have the communiqué, it would be nice to insert it here.]

That letter eased my Betty's fears. We commenced preparations. It took some time until the "red tape" was cut. My family tried to discourage this trip. "It's not too late to back out. Once you're in Russia, it may be much more complicated."

"Out through a narrow" is an old Jewish saying. My family believed it, cliché or not. They had their say, and I had mine. "Mir forn (we go)." The first lap of my extensive tour started with El Al to Israel. This was our second visit to that country. This time my Betty behaved like a seasoned traveler. We arrived at Tel Aviv Airport. The welcoming committee was there, waiting for me.

We were met again by my good friends Moshe Ron, Sachar Miron, Emanuel Emir (Pugachov). My enthusiasm for Israel was no lesser than the first time. The tempo of the country, its people on the street, the noticeable progress since I had been there the first time, filled me with even greater admiration and a resurgence of love. I was in high spirits.

Isachar Miron had arranged a series of lectures in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. I met many of the Israeli composers, lecturers, musicians, lay people of the "Galut" countries and Diaspora.

In my lectures, I stressed the importance of the work that had been done by Jewish composers in the past, by composers of the Eastern European countries and composers who helped in the development of Jewish music, music that was created before the establishment of Israel. I must admit that leaving those lectures, I felt unnerved by questions that had been thrown at me by their youth, as well as their composers who had settled there prior to the establishment of the New Israel. "Why hang on to the past?" they asked.

The consensus of opinion of the Israeli composer toward all other Jewish composers had not changed since Israeli's Independence. I believe that to this day the opinion of the Israeli writer is that everything written in all those wandering years on foreign soil, of Eastern European and American continents should be forgotten. Only what has been and is being created in Eretz (the Homeland) is of consequence. Nothing else matters.

I tried with all my persuasive powers to make them see the injustice, saying that with a mixture of pain and hope that these pages of history matured with blood and tears of all those martyrs of the past, the innocent victims, should not be torn out of existence. They should live on as a reminder of the "infamy." We have not, nor should we forget the Holocaust in Germany, the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, the persecution in other lands, other countries; the great writers, the poets, the hostile earth and air that gave birth to and nurtured their poetry, much of that has been set to music. The Yiddish Theatre, in those countries, had reflected the mood and the times of their existence.

I tried to persuade them that a work of art should be judged, not under whose government the composer writes for, but on its merit; how it stands up artistically, not geographically. I did not convince them, nor did they sway me.

I cannot, if I live to be a hundred -- of which at this writing I am three-quarters there -- understand them.

Though their attitudes toward us "galut" writers have not changed, I back in the States continued to encourage any artistic or other works of art that reached our shores from Israel.

Any and all Israeli students or artists who visited New York, who were qualified, I encouraged by inviting them to appear at the Concord Hotel, or any other of my concerts.

Upon my return home to the United States, I learned that the "Temple on the Heights," in Cleveland, Ohio, had commissioned twelve Israeli composers to write music to the traditional prayers of "Kabbalat Shabbat" -- "Erbit Leshabos" for Cantor Saul Meisels, to the festive occasion of his twenty years of service at the Temple. Cantor Meisels had chosen a fine professional choir and outstanding organist, with Cantor Meisels, of course, as soloist. To further enhance that occasion, Meisels had invited Professor A.W. Binder to speak about his presentation. He also invited the composer and conductor Lazar Weiner and myself to conduct the music. I had written about the historic event for the "Forverts," calling it "An Historic Friday in the World of Music -- April 19, 1962." I had at length described the holiday mood of all participants: Cantor Saul Meisels, the organist, every member of the excellent choir, and the two conductors. I lauded with my honesty and respect the work of the Israeli composers and their work. I ended my article with these words:

" ... from our side of the ocean, we reach out our hands in a warm 'Shalom' to our colleagues in the new Land of Israel. We hope this is, but ... a beginning -- that they in time will embrace our greetings with equal desire. Then Jewish music will win out in the end. Cantor Meisels and his 'Temple on the Heights' deserves our thanks in the name of all of Israel for starting this very important project. In our history ... it should be inscribed that they, in Cleveland, laid the cornerstone, a foundation for a testimonial of such an historic happening."

To my regret and the chagrin of all Jewish composers who do not dwell in, but reside on the periphery of Israel, their stand on the subject did not change. That I had learned with each one of my following five visits to Israel. I have not given up hope! Only time and history will tell who was right.

From Israel we flew to Vienna. From there finally to Russia. My first stop on the Russian soil, the city of Kiev, capitol of the Russian Ukraine. The first Jewish settlement dates back to the eighth century. In consisted of Chazars who had adopted Judaism. Their numbers increased by immigrants from the Caucasus, the Crimea and Persia. The spread of Jewish religion among the inhabitants of Kiev continued into the eleventh century, and although a series of persecutions began in the year 1113, the Jewish community continued to flourish, thanks to its activities in finance and scholarship. In 1240, Kiev was ravaged by the Tartars and the Jews banished. In 1320 the town passed to Lithuania, and the Jewish community prospered and enjoyed many privileges. Among them the adherents of the "Talmud" ("The Rabbanites"), and their opponents the Karaites, were several important scholars (among the foremost -- Moses Ben Jacob, Ashkenazi Ha-gole.)

With the expulsion of the Jews from Lithuania began the period of suffering for those of Kiev. Many fled to Crimea, but they returned many times and built a life for themselves, and in time enriching the city and country -- The Brodsky family, the most prominent took part in the industrial and advancement of the country. During those years there were many interruptions of anti-Jews. The Jewish population of Kiev had been at one time of 140,000, twenty-six percent of its total.

Now I was in Kiev. So many people, and not one Jew. Is it possible? There may have been some, identifiable or not.

From Kiev to Odessa, the city where three hundred and one Jews were murdered in the pogroms in 1905. My family lived in Nikolaev during that infamous pogrom.

Odessa, where the "Haskalah" movement originated, which not only led to ritual reform, but also to the establishment of a yeshiva that operated from the Orthodox tradition. The names were numerous that stem from there: Ahad Ha-Am, Bialik, Dubnow, Mendele Mokher Sforim, and others.

Odessa, the city that was the seat of the "Choveve Zion (House of Zion)" had a population of 153,000 Jews, thirty-six percent of the population between 1890-1914.

Leningrad, Moscow, that had counted many Jews through the centuries. In those cities I couldn't stay long enough, let alone count its Jewish inhabitants, but I didn't find any. Perhaps they may have been too apprehensive to identify themselves.

What I wanted to see more than anything -- surely more than the Tomb of Lenin, or of the disposed ("Iron Man") Stalin -- I wanted to see Nikolaev again. No matter what, I couldn't gain permission. I showed them my letter from the "Cultural Ministry." I called their attention to how near I was, practically, a stones throw, a hop, a skip and a jump -- Nikolaev is from Odessa. "Nyet!!!" "Pochemu Nyet?" (Why not?) "Nyet, Bez Vaprosa" (without reason).

I want to see the house I lived in, in the little town of Alexandria, the "cheder" across the street. To see if I could find my way to the "Kazyona Uchileshchi" (the public school). I could feel my way there in my memory with closed eyes ... the Houses of Worship. To see the river where my brother Berele had drowned at the very hour of my birth. Did the river cease to flow, or is it still running its bloody course?

Home came the voyager. Home, not in Alexandria, not Nikolaev. Home to the United States of America, and I wrote forty articles about the entire trip, but mainly about the sad, sad state of the remaining Jews of the U.S.S.R. ...
 

August 30, 1970, ch. 70
 

It is said that "the appetite comes with the eating." The same, I believe, holds true with travel. The more foreign countries I visited, the more I wanted to see, and the more compelling it became for me to acquaint myself with the life and customs of the various nationalities. My disappointment with my Russian "homecoming" did not dampen my enthusiasm to explore what lies beyond -- the Atlantic and Pacific, the Far East, Japan, no 'Iron Curtain' to 'smelt,' where language is the only barrier, and that can be easily overcome. Japan was my next destination.

My Betty -- who at one time was so reluctant to leave our home base, finding a thousand-and-one excuses, urgent excuses as to "why not" ... For instance, like the cat that is expecting kittens -- stood ready with baggage packed, Dramamine in hand, at the drop of a suggestion. On our first lap to Japan, Hawaii opened its luscious arms in gay profusion ... the twang of Hawaiian guitars, the climate goes to your head ... the mystic mountains, the motionless palms and swaying skirts. It's a nice place to visit. Love it and leave it.

Of course, each of my lengthy trips included Israel, except for the time I had condescended to visit Egypt. In 1963 I was not permitted to indicate Israel, neither before, between or after. Someday I will tell you what happened to us while we were in Egypt -- why we were forced to escape in the middle of the night, with the kindly assistance of a captain of the airlines company.

Our airplane touched down ... we landed. So this is Japan. did I ever dream of seeing Japan? I must have. If you don't dream, how can it ever come true? Yet even in Japan my first thought was of my own people. I was most anxious to meet Japanese Jews. Are our ancient customs also theirs? Were they ever? How is a Jewish youth raised in Japan? How does a Bar Mitzvah boy say his "Haftorah"? How does "Today I am a Jew" sound in Japanese?

Our hotel was in Tokyo. After several days in that metropolis, we will go by train, plane and/or automobile, to other cities to observe how life differs between inhabitants of the big city and those of Hakone, Kyoto, Nagasaki and others. Some of them lost their exotic look completely. There was no trace of traditional Japan except for their physiognomy and language. It might be any city in the Americas or Europe. But those of tradition still fascinate me more. In some homes, for instance, there still were no chairs and no tables. You sat on the floor with your feet folded under you, eating the same way. No beds -- you sleep on mattresses on the floor, s I did with my brothers on the floor, as was our custom in Alexandria. The rooms were void of clutter. Not so in Tokyo. There the streets were congested with rushing humanity, the stores fully packed with merchandise, the homes fully-equipped with all the modern improvements (made in the United States).

I had seen the "Hippie Movement" there. It was the same, as if I were in the United States, or part of modern Europe. In the amusement places, you hear mostly American music. In Kyoto there is a cultural center, which is similar to that of New York's Lincoln Center, as opposed to the smaller towns -- exotic life, as in ancient days.

It was bound to happen, and it did! A Japanese masseuse in a Turkish bath singing "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" in her native tongue ...

Among the stories that filter down to us Americans -- some true, some fabricated -- I thought, "Well, when in Japan, you must do as the natives." "Is it true," I asked, "about your baths, that men and women bathe together in the nude?" Their answers differed. It seemed that none of the natives of whom I had inquired had ever been to that sort of bathhouse. It is much too costly, but they admitted hearing about it from the tourists. One fact was already established, that the massages were performed exclusively by women, whether in the women's division or the men's. There are no Japanese male masseurs in Japan (not even imported). "It is a matter of taste," I was told. "You can have your choice."

"Betty," I asked my wife, "would you care to accompany me to a Turkish bath in Tokyo?" My wife respectfully declined ... "Thanks, but no thanks, Sholomel, if you don't mind. I'll sit this one out." She stayed behind, attending to her curiosities. I went exploring the exoticisms that Japan had to offer.

I discovered that there are baths to suit every taste, every pocket. Many of the natives don't even know where those places are and couldn't care less. Baths are expensive. If God wanted them to bathe, he would have told them so on the Mountain.

Well then, after flying thousands and thousands of miles, sitting in the plane for so many hours, I was in Japan. A Turkish bath -- even like the one I used to go to weekly with my father and brothers, as if it were a ritual every Friday in Alexandria and Nikolaev. In Russia "Ma Nishtana"? How does Japan differ? Why not in Japan?

The taxi driver took me for a long, long ride. I could have walked it in five minutes, as it was just around the corner from my hotel.

The taxi stopped in front of one of the finest aristocratic "Turkish delights" in Tokyo. A tall (they rarely are) handsome European-clad Japanese gentleman, speaking with a genuine British accent, as if born to the English crown, ushered me into a beautifully appointed waiting room. He had a "menu" as to what or how much "Jewish-American taste" can allow. I "passed" and left it all up to him. In his most perfect British accent he asked if I would please pay in advance. Of course. "Would you pay in American money?" I had "yen" (Japanese money), but why not? He handed me a receipt. (I made a mental note ... find out if it was deductible. I found out) ...

After these mundane preliminaries he picked up a little bell. It "ding-a-linged" just as I thought it would (no language barrier there). A pretty Japanese girl of about twenty entered. She bowed deeply, revealing her very feminine graces, and in pantomime instructed me to follow her. I had learned well that there are times to lead, and times to follow. I chose the latter at that time and that place ...

We entered the third room. I remained standing in my "what-am-I-in-for" look. She locked the door behind us. I don't know whom she expected. I know I didn't. I felt safe in her hands.

I stood there, trying to look matter-of-factly, but I really felt like a thirteen-year-old on his first petting date. She unbuttoned my jacket and indicated for me to disrobe. Well, after all, I thought. Even Betty wouldn't advise me to take a bath with my clothes on. So I did as I was told. She handled my suit very carefully. I waited. My shirt came off next. I remained standing in my "birthday suit," just as my dear mother, "Oy gevalt." ... Is Mama still watching over me? Another Jewish cliché: "Zi hot mir in bod" (She has me in the public bathhouse.) A helpless and embarrassing position -- except for shoes -- was that a safety measure, in case I decided to run out. She interrupted my juvenile thoughts. She indicated for me to sit down on the one and only chair. She removed my shoes and socks. Thank goodness. My Betty buys me expensive socks that are made in France. (How would it look in some cheaper brand, "made in Japan"?)

She took my cold, clammy hand into her soft, warm one and led me into a smaller room, into a small cabinet large enough to hold one small male. She locked me in, with only my head out of the cubicle. She turned on the steam. Eucalyptus? I thought the aroma was not at all like that in Alexandria. I could do nothing but "meditate." I did. I felt the perspiration trickling down my bare body, my eyes. My pretty, pretty guardian angel was standing outside, continuing to dab my hot face with an aromatic towel. The round timepiece on the opposite wall showed fifteen minutes. She locked the cubicle. "What's next?" I wondered.

I felt wobbly, spent. Why? I thought that it would be invigorating. She took my hand, grasping it tightly, almost with masculine strength. She sat me on a chair in a tub and started washing me (just as I had when helping my Betty bathe, as well as both my baby sons. Good heavens, I haven't seen them in a tub since they were babies.) My mind blissfully wandered to them. When I awoke from my "trauma," she was still fondling me. I let her. What else could I do? She wouldn't understand my language. What next?

She helped me up out of the tub, again to another room, void of anything but a long bench, which was similar to the one in the "cheder" but wider. She pushed me down gently, and the "health" treatment began.

What shall I tell you? A male masseur -- to that I was accustomed, but when I think back to that memorable massage, I still feel it in my bones. How long had she been doing it? Does it require much study? And would she still be there doing it, if I were to return five times to Japan, as I had to Israel. And her voice was so pleasant ... She hummed to herself very softly, very Japanese-like. I wanted her to hum something in English. I raised my voice in song, saying "American." I repeated several times ... American ... She obliged, singing in her Oriental manner several popular American melodies (How she ever knew I was Jewish, I'll never understand.) But she started with a familiar tune. I could have sworn on a stack of Bibles that it was "Bei Mir Bistu Shein" with Japanese words. I sat up suddenly in surprise. I could not have been more surprised if my Betty had walked in. The masseuse looked at me startled. I picked up the melody where she left off. I pointed to myself in "pig Latin," and tried to explain. "Me, me" -- "I, I, me wrote this." She was as excited as I was. "Ha so? You?" She pointed back at me. I answered in the only Japanese word I had learned, "Hai, Hai" (Yes, Yes). She stopped whatever she was doing. Her Oriental eyes opened wide in childish wonderment. She helped me off the massage table and led me back to the other room, where my clothes were neatly hung and helped me dress leisurely, even my bow tie (I am a "bow-tie type.") She sat me down again and ran to the telephone. He voice rattled on breathlessly, and she hung up the receiver. A moment later, the "professor" with the Harvard accent entered astonishingly out of breath, losing his cool, stammering, stammering. "Is it true, then, what this young lady indicated? You had something to do with this American-English song?"

"Yes," I said. "I am the father. I wrote it. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I never dreamed that I would be honored with such a personality in my establishment. What part in America do you come from? How long have you been here? How much longer will you remain in our honorable country?" I answered calmly, no more aware of my nudity. The young lady had buttoned anything and everything that was to be buttoned. The "honorable" man saw me to the door. I thought that was the end of my most unusual but brief encounter. But by the time I reached my hotel, there were reporters and photographers waiting for me. I rang for my wife to come down properly garbed, to have her picture snapped with her "famous celebrity husband." I was interviewed. "Do you like your country?" I answered in their tongue. "Hai, hai."

That same evening I was interviewed on the radio. The Japanese announcer spoke English, although not with a Harvard accent that the bath supervisor had, who had studied in New York. He was as glib as any one of our WEVD "tumlers."

The next day, when I bought the Japanese-printed English newspaper, I saw in letters as big as print would permit: "COMPOSER FINDS OWN JEWISH SONG AT A TURKISH BATH -- IN JAPAN" ...
 

September 6, 1970, ch. 71
 

We visited ten countries and listened to their music, saw what should be and could be seen. I learned much and had much to share with my reading public. As to my work schedule, I had so many lectures to deliver, not only in New York. I would fly north and to the mid-west. What a busy year 1963 was ...

My first lecture was in Rochester, New York. My subject was "Yiddish Folks Music and Its Influence." Cantor Samuel Rosenbaum, with whom I had become very close friends through the years, had become Executive Director of the Cantors Assembly, and had been living in Rochester. I had actually known Samuel Rosenbaum since he was a youngster and a participant in "Feter Nochem's Kinder Corner" on WLTH (Childrens' Corner). Rosenbaum was only only the cantor of Temple Beth El, but he was also active in all Jewish musical and cultural undertakings in that city. When my plane landed at Rochester Airport, he was already waiting there for me and took me to his home. His home was all what you would expect -- a charming wife, Annie, and children, plus a homey and warm atmosphere. We had dinner at his home. I checked my clothes at the hotel, and after dinner we would go to the temple where the lectures would take place.

Relaxing in the richly-stacked library of the Rosenbaum's, I was browsing through the English, the foreign languages, the Jewish books that were not foreign to either me or to Rosenbaum. My eyes fell on a group of Y.L. Peretz's books. I picked up one and read some at random: "Oyb nisht nokh hekher" (If Not Even Higher), a beautiful parable, one that I had read many times, often promising myself that one day I would write an oratorio. With the Peretz book in my hand, I walked over to my host. "Do you know how long I have been dreaming of that story -- the "Litvak," the doubter, that beautiful Peretz character, and the "Nemirover"? I think this is a natural. I have read several English translations, yet I wasn't inspired by any of them, as I always am with the original. I had found no fault with the others, but technically they did not lend themselves to a musical version. They could not be portioned with equal success to soloists and choir. (I knew that I was speaking to a professional.) Rosenbaum was all that, for that one needs a special libretto, not just a translation.

"The reason for an English oratorio is quite obvious. Millions of Jewish readers have at one time or another, through the years, read Peretz in school or out of school, even in English, and with music it could reach a vast new audience, a universal one, if you will ..."

I was doing all the talking, as my enthusiasm was mounting. My friend did not interrupt. He just smiled.

After a short pause he walked over to one of the cabinets, extricated a large portfolio, and from among the many that it contained, he picked out one manuscript saying: "If this is not a happy coincidence ... Not so very long ago, I concluded a libretto based on that very Peretz theme ("If Not Higher"). I had no specific plan, other than the joy of working, as if with the great Peretz."

"May I read it?"

"I wish you would. I'd value your comments."

Mrs. Rosenbaum had called "dinner is ready" several times. Now, my hostess locked arms with her husband and guest and persuasively led us to the dining table. "There's a time to 'shmooze,' and a time to eat," she said. We ate. She was the proverbial "Eishes Chayil (Woman blessed with may attributes)," and good to look at, in the home and out of the home ...

I did not linger over the meal. I must read this. I excused myself. The Temple was awaiting my pleasure.

It didn't take me long. It read smoothly, as if I had portioned the individual characters and voices. I "heard" them clearly. If I had my hands equal with the speed of my mind, I would have it done in ...

"I'll tell you, Cantor Rosenbaum, lecture or not, I feel my trip was predestined. If I may, I'll take the manuscript with me right after the lecture. I'll go to my hotel and read it again and again."

In the evening, as I was giving the discourse of my planned lecture, "Folks Music and its Influence," I thought out loud about the Peretz-Rosenbaum libretto and its potential. I had formed a mental picture in my mind and heard myself saying, "Peretz used his pen with such skill and poignancy, as did Rembrandt on canvas with paint and brush."

That night sleep did not come. I did not will it. I took my tools out of my ever-present "workshop" (my portfolio), and I began working, marking where the chorus was to chant, hum, accompany, where and who the soloist should be, that of the tenor vice, that which was more suitable to a baritone, the mother, sickly and weak. The only female in the script must be a contralto. Why? Soprano would be out of character. I argued with myself, as if trying to convince a stubborn Lebedeff. Music melodies were weaving through my music-cluttered mind, Chasidic melodies predominantly, and our counter character, the "Litvak" -- "Misnagdim," the singing opposition.

As day was breaking, I dressed hurriedly. Cantor Rosenbaum will be arriving shortly to take me to the airport. I'll take the first flight out.

On the way out I pointed out to Rosenbaum the passages that were clearly defined, even to the aria of the tenor. "This," I said to myself, "Richard Tucker will sing." I used the positive "will" sing ... Tucker the artist, a thoroughly equipped opera singer; Tucker, the believing thorough Jew at heart, Tucker the friend.

"Maestro," Cantor Rosenbaum quipped, "Are you still dreaming? I would hate to wake you to face reality. Tucker? I wish you luck!!!"

The plane was awaiting. Rosenbaum waited for its departure. "God's Speed" I read from his lips. The plane taxied for a while, then lifting with it my spirits, and with my precious "cargo" in hand, as we soared and soared, high above the clouds -- "If Not Higher."

The trip is usually a short one. It seemed even shorter. Here I was in my home, speaking to my Betty. "I'll tell you that this was 'bashert' (predestined). Read it, Betty. Read it and tell me if I'm not right."

"Sholom, I know the story. We have spoken about it before. It's been germinating in your mind, and now you are so much nearer to its completion. Don't put it off."

We drank our morning breakfast. I took to my music room. I spread out my hastily scribbled notes on the piano, fingered the keys, first without sound, then with sound. I corrected, erased, repeated, got up, gesticulated "heavenward," arguing, pleading ... I see it. I hear it. I must write so as to convey to the listener what Peretz thought, what Rosenbaum saw, what we see. I returned to the mute instrument again. "Speak to me ..." I fingered the strings, the keys for an answer ...

I had a nucleus. I called Betty, who is the only one whom I can share my musical thoughts. My sons were away at school most of the time. Perhaps I do not want them to hear it. I am not ready for their contemporary thinking. Betty is mentally nearer.

"Listen to this and tell me, but without reservations. Either you like it ... if you do, if not, say so. Don't spare me, as you would, as you so often do ..."

"Sholom, not when it comes to music. I always say with honesty whether it is receptive to my ear, whether my heart is touched, whether my body responds to its message."

I played, I sang the words. I looked at her, my audience, my critic. I saw her eyes. I questioned them with mine.

"I like it, Sholom." She nodded her head. "I truly like it."

I limited my engagements to a minimum, those I had to fulfill. New ones I did not accept. I worked night and day. One moment I was as happy as a child flying a kite; the next, I was despondent, as if some ill wind had carried it up a jagged rock and could not be retrieved. It will not rise one breath higher. I erased, jotted again and again. I caught the string this time ... zephyr caught the string. It soared and soared.

I concluded several pages. "I must speak to Rosenbaum. Let him listen, lest I wander too far away from his thoughts."

I telephoned Rochester. Rosenbaum was happy to hear from me. "I wasn't sure," he said, "whether your busy schedule would allow you to devote so much of your time."

"Yes, I'll come in," was his answer to my suggestion. After I hung up, I was actually frightened. "What if he doesn't like it as much as Betty and me? He can be more objective."

Rosenbaum came. He sat and listened. At that moment, at the piano, I was all inclusive: The "Godly Man," the "Woodcutter," the "Nemirover Hassid," the Litvak, the "Sickly Mother," ... "The Judge on High ..." That was only the beginning.

September 13, 1970, ch. 72
 

I worked on it for five months, five tireless months. My pen tied the finishing chord. The vocal and orchestral parts  ... There it was, a shining witness to my efforts ...

We met again, Cantor Rosenbaum and myself, and we called our friend Norman Warembud, who was very anxious that "Mills Publishers" should print the oratorio after listening to the music several times. The more we listed our our oratory, the more convinced we were that my friend, Richard Tucker, should sing the leading tenor part of this lengthy oratorio.

With a great deal of trust in our friendship, I telephoned Tucker.

"Ruby? It's Sholom!"

"What's up?"

"I have a request." I told him the details of the project. "Now my friend, it is up to you."

"The only problem, Sholom, is my schedule. I do not even question the merits. I know your work. I trust your judgment in my vocal capabilities. (Good heavens, does he still have misgivings?) "You know, Sholom, that tonight I'm singing at the Met. Tomorrow, I fly to Italy. I am recording with Leontyne Price. When can we meet?"

"Pick your date," I insisted.

"Good. Tomorrow morning," he volunteered. "Come to my home with your music. We'll try it." (So easy, so easy, no one will believe it. That artist, that friend, that man, Tucker, bless his throat) ...

I called William Gunther, the music director of WEVD. Together we went to Tucker's home. Gunther sat at the piano. I kept my fingers crossed (not a Jewish superstition), praying that my music will find favor in his eyes. In case, He who watches over us, is unhappy about my "crossed fingers," I invoked a Hebrew prayer, "May the Angels stand by my side -- May Michael be at my right hand, Gabriel at my left -- before me Uriel, behind me Raphael, above my head, the Divine Power of God."

Gunther was playing, Tucker at his right, I at his left "singing." I turned the pages, Tucker following his part with his eyes humming with me, sotte voce. Reaching the finale, I did not have to ask. His face beamed his approval, and he applauded. "Bravo, Bravo, Sholom! There's no question, Sholom, as to whether or not ...!!!"

"You say when, Ruby, and I'll get in touch with Rosenbaum and Warembud as to where the premiere can take place. It will be arranged to suit your availability."

I could have kissed my friend (Europeans do this without a second thought.) I didn't. We parted.

Rosenbaum and Warembud put their heads and efforts together. "The premiere [November 17, 1964, "If Not Higher," based on a story by Y.L. Peretz -- ed.] will be in Rochester with the help of Cantor Rosenbaum's congregation [Temple Beth El], with a considerable assist from the Eastman School of Music." Of that Rosenbaum was sure.

Warembud set to work on his company, to have the oratorio published. Jack Mills was precautious. "Norman," he said, "I will come to the premiere. I will listen and will observe the audience. It is too costly a project to trifle with. You know that to publish such an extensive work one ties up a great deal of cash. I am a businessman. I do love music, but I deal in it ... I have a great deal of confidence in your judgment, a great respect for your friend, Sholom Secunda. But just let's hear it. If it is as you say and expect, and I hope it will be, I'll see that it is published and arranged, that the orchestra should perform the oratorio."

No one can dispute and argue with "logic."

Tucker gave us several dates from which to choose. We picked, Tuesday the 18th [17th -- ed.] of November 1964. Tucker was the leading tenor, of course. The other participants were the baritone Norman Atkins, the "Litvak," sung by [the tenor] Milford Fargo; the choir was from the Eastman School of Music [per the Rochester, NY newspaper, the choir was from the Third Presbyterian Church]. The Rochester Civic Orchestra, Theodore Hollenbach did the conducting, and Cantor Samuel Rosenbaum was the narrator.

I came three days earlier to Rochester to supervise the last rehearsals of the choir and orchestra. Tucker and Atkins were to come one day before the performance, on Monday the 17th. How could we fail? Tuesday is a lucky day -- "18 Chai" (to live), all that and Tucker too!

Monday I got a telephone call from Sarah (Mrs. Tucker). "Sholom, Richard has a very bad cold, he is hoarse. He is terribly worried because the doctor advised him not to leave the house. Is it possible to get another tenor?"

"Another tenor, yes. Another Tucker? How is that possible?" I expected Sarah's voice. It was Richard's hoarse voice that fell on my ear.

"Sholom," he said. "I feel worse than you. You hear my voice. Who could have foreseen this catastrophe? Tucker found some voice with which to plead. I found no sound in my throat. Without him I would have to postpone the premiere, I thought. There was dead silence. Tucker guessing my thoughts, said: "Don't do anything yet. I am expecting the doctor once again. I'll tell him to do his utmost to enable me to come to the performance. I'll sing without rehearsal. I know my part very well and am well acquainted with the rest. Wait until tomorrow. You can postpone it even at the last moment, God forbid! Go on with the rehearsal."

In the evening the rehearsal went on as scheduled, everyone trying to hide the foreboding feeling from one another. Only the conductor showed his nervousness, and understandably so. Conducting without the soloist, whom he had never conducted before. I tried singing Tucker's part so that the singers, the orchestra and conductor could get an idea as to tempo and style. Needless to tell you, a Tucker I was not. No one is (was) ...

At that rehearsal there were guests, professionals. Among them were Cantor Saul Meisels from Cleveland, promising if he will like it, he will perform the Oratorio with the Cleveland Orchestra.

The rehearsal was to everyone's satisfaction, but to mine all went precisely as I had hoped. Meisels and his wife, a pianist, were animated, ecstatic. They wanted to perform the oratorio this very year! At the latest ... next year with the Cleveland Orchestra.

While Tucker was greatly missed, the narrator and the music carried it through. Rabbi Karp of Beth El said, "We will only pray that Tucker should be well for the premiere. Our success is assured."

Next morning our nerves were at their breaking point. Betty and I sat over our untouched breakfast, waiting silently, prayerfully for the phone to ring, and it did ... I lunged at the receiver as if it were my lifeline, the straw that will save my life. It was Tucker, long distance.

"Sholom," he said softly, my heart sinking deeper into despair, "I don't feel well, but ..." "Oh God, help us make him well. You can perform miracles." Tucker voice continued. "But I put my trust in God. He always stands by me. I am calling from the airport. Sarah and I are leaving on the next plane that is to leave in the next half-hour."

"Go with my blessings," I whispered.

With thankful prayers to God, I telephoned my hopeful news to the worried friend, Cantor Samuel Rosenbaum.

"Sam," I said joyfully, "He's coming!!! Tucker! He'll be airborne any minute now."

"Wait for me," the equally nervous voice answered. "I'll be with you in no time. I'll pick you up. We'll rush to the airport."

We saw the alight from the plane. In spite of a mild Fall day, Tucker's throat was well "pampered" in a silk scarf. Sarah's precaution. We took them to the same hotel.

"I'm going to try, Sholom." He soothed my questioning eyes with a carefully modulated voice. It sounded better than the day before, but opera stars are like nothing, or no one else, my friends ... If you never were lucky enough to be friends with one, you'll live longer. Between one "high C" and another, one dies a thousand deaths. "What I would like right now," Tucker pleaded, "The conductor, Mr. Hollenbach, should come to the hotel, and at the piano I will try to sing quietly, so that at least we will have a working understanding with one another."

Of course his wish was granted. I played the accompaniment. Tucker softly sang his part, while Hollenbach followed his conductor's sheet. After that the Tuckers left for their private rooms to rest. We stayed behind and prayed ...

The auditorium was filled, over its capacity. Not only were the seats filled, there wasn't any room left to stand. The program opened with the Ernest Bloch Symphonic Poem "Shlomo," played by M. Leonard on the cello, solo and orchestra. The second half was dedicated solely to the oratorio, "If Not Higher" -- Rabbi Karp on stage told in brief the contents of the Peretz story, and he touched on the musical and of it. The performance began.

Tucker raised his voice in song. My silent thanks going up to Him for His miracles. "Forgive me Lord. I'll never doubt you again."

Tucker's voice was as clear, clear true blue as if a gem of a diamond cutter's hand had been projected to the rays of the sun and found multi-faceted prisms. We, who were aware and had lived with that fear for over twenty-four hours, were able to relax. Cantor Rosenbaum at the lectern, smiled at me. Tucker finished his first aria, and a wave of applause broke out and flooded the auditorium.

It was as Mama used to say. "Mitn recktn fus" (With the right foot forward). It must have been Mama' intervention. It really was! Norman Atkins followed in the same good form. It left me magnificently tired ...

"Oh Betty," I suddenly confessed. "I'm afraid that I'm getting old."

"Old," she said in mock anger, "I don't even remember how old you are. How old are you, by the way?" She kissed me delicately on my "used to be" dimples.

Rochester is not New York. No TV commentator covered our great event in my life. Newspapers we did see. The next day the Rochester "Democrat and Chronicle" lauded my work. Harvey Southgate wrote:

"This is a work, first of all, that holds the interest because it tells a story -- originally by Y.L. Peretz. The story is simple in its content, but is clad in a manner of rich and colorful music. At times of a definite operatic character." About Richard Tucker he could not find enough superlatives to say, as well as Norman Atkins. The Orchestra, the conductor and the narrator Samuel Rosenbaum. One could never ask better of any critic.

The "Times Union" was just as generous. Hamilton Ellen captioned his article:

"At Seventy, the Composer Sholom Secunda Creates a New Image."

"See, Betty, I told you I was getting old. I am seventy!!!"

"I don't remember you growing older." She wept for joy. We both did.
 

September 20, 1970, ch. 73
 

At age seventy, as at age seven, since my earliest childhood days, having heard the chant of the "cheder nigun," the seed of traditionally Jewish music was implanted within me. Through the earliest years of my life, exposed to these sounds, influenced by my environment, the seeds ripened -- through joys and sorrows, happiness and despair, achievement and failure, producing each time a new crop, fusing the old and the contemporary. The result? "If Not Higher ..."

One who scanned the notices in the newspapers, even more than did the participants, was the publisher Jack Mills. Just a moral success does not satisfy him. Good notices assured him of a good profit, and that gave him impetus to sign. He rang Norman Warembud's room.

"Hello, Norman," Mills speaking, "Invite Mr. Secunda and Cantor Rosenbaum to breakfast. You work out a deal."

"Right, boss!" Norman humored him. "Consider it done." My friend Norman rang my room, called Rosenbaum, and within a half-hour we were having the equivalent of a banquet-breakfast, at the hotel dining room. The deal was consummated. The oratorio, "If Not Higher," will be published. Another milestone.

Cantor Meisels, too, was excited. When Rosenbaum came to the hotel, he told us that Meisels woke him at the break of dawn to read to him what critics had to say. "The second production of 'If Not Higher' will take place in Cleveland."

Meisels kept his word. One week later he came to New York with the agreement that Robert Shaw, Assistant Conductor of the Cleveland Orchestra, will conduct. The Robert Shaw Choral Group will be part of the production. He is negotiating with the best soloists.

This time, however, the business arrangements had to be signed with Mills Music Company. They already had tied up the rights.

"No matter," said Meisels. The music was shipped express to Robert Shaw, and he started to rehearse with his famous Choral Group. On the 19th of January, 1966, the second performance of "If Not Higher" was heard in Cleveland. The soloists this time were: Cantor Arthur Karrel, tenor; Cantor Saul Meisels, baritone; Harvey Weibrandt, tenor; and Faye Liebman, soprano. Cantor Samuel Rosenbaum again narrated his own libretto.

The critics in Cleveland were no less enthusiastic as those of Rochester.

Robert Finn of the "Plain Dealer" wrote:

"The first half was dedicated to Leonard Bernstein's 'Chichester Psalms.' This is Bernstein's best symphonic work."

"The second half to a new wonderfully attractive 'oratorio' by Sholom Secunda. It is a European folk's tale (written by Peretz), to which Secunda composed the music. Although the music is written for Yiddish listeners, it is as musical as it is appealing. It ascends ... rises above religion ..."

The third performance of "If Not Higher" took place in Atlanta, Georgia, where I conducted my oratorio for the first time, with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. The soloists there were: Arthur Corret, tenor; Isaac Goodfriend, baritone; Alvin Rogel, tenor; Barbara Dean, mezzo soprano; Cantor Samuel Rosenbaum, narrator. Chapell White wrote the next day in the "Atlanta Journal":

Mr. Secunda has used in full measure the wealth of Jewish music, not only in his melodies, but, in the choice of traditionally harmonious melodies. The result is a character style that must be labeled 'Jewish.' The music is very pleasingly colorful enough to create many dramatic elements. Mr. Secunda's 'Oratorio' is direct, without pretense and reaches her goal. These are qualities that have to be taken in consideration at all times."

Although my oratorio, "If Not Higher," as yet, had not yet been performed in New York, the New York Times still gave me an interview with Richard P. Shepperd ab0ut my work, and the change in my career captured the interview:

"Secunda, who over seventy, still runs over ninety miles an hour on three projects." The new projects were named:

'Composer of Poetic Music'

'Conductor of Concord Symphony Orchestra'

'Music Representative of Second Avenue.'"

When I was drawn to the Cantors Assembly, my interest in liturgical music became even more pronounced. I began at once to compose music to the prayer and Psalms. That was not done for any commercial or monetary payment, but was purely a work of love. The wealth of Jewish tradition "Nusakh" (Cantillations of Cantorial Art) intrigued me even more now. I began composing cultural compositions that were published through Mills Company and recorded through Columbia by Richard Tucker and accompanied by the Concord Choir.

The first one that commissioned me to write a full "Kabalat Shabbat" and "Erbit Leshabat" was Cantor David Putterman, subsidized by the Park Avenue Synagogue. Since I had already written music to these same prayers, "Kabalat Shabbat," which was recorded by Richard Tucker, I avoided that same style and searched for differences. Musically, it can be accomplished. One simply has to dedicate himself to that task. Just as before, we were countless composers who wrote original music to prayers. And, no doubt, many after me I hope will search and find and create always new and hopefully even more beautiful works. My new work I called "Shabbat HaMalkah" (Queen Sabbath). I may honestly say, without a resemblance to one another, as if not of the same father ...

Other synagogues invited me to compose for the same prayer. I tried at one time to avoid it. Still, Cantor Irving Feller persuaded me, and I wrote even a third series that is printed under the title "Lekoved HaShabat" (In Honor of the Sabbath) for the Congregation called "Kol Eideth Israel" in Trenton, New Jersey.

My third group of religious compositions, because they were published through the "Ethnic Music Publishers," reached the farthest corners of the United States of America continent and foreign lands -- even in Israel, where I had heard my composition being sung.

My liturgical compositions have reached popular category. Now it is difficult to agree whether Secunda is a theatre composer, or one of liturgical music. To me it really makes little difference to what category I am assigned. I am more interested in helping to develop the music of our treasured Jewish heritage, whether I have used it in my "lieder" in an oratorio, or in prayer, or in chamber music that I composed. That was of no consequence to me. The thing that was of utmost interest to me was always: "Am I going in the right direction? Am I the developer and bearer of Jewish music?" Everything else is unimportant ...

There arose differences of opinion among my colleagues, the Jewish composers. "Which is the right direction? Does one have to follow the heavy-trodden road? Need we follow the 'Nusakh,' the 'trope' that through centuries of wandering in the Diaspora have most likely gone through many changes?" Because at the start there were no musical notes as we know it now. It was, as well call it, "Torah She-be-'al Peh" (Torah by word of mouth). One generation to the next.

The son took it from his father, and the father left it to his son, and so on through the centuries. Or is it desirable to produce, to create modern style on which to build our future in music?

Those are questions that remain for history to judge. My personal belief -- and I will not be swayed -- is that we should observe and protect our traditions, our heritage. I shall continue my work on positive, concrete, and historically accepted musical documentary methods and medium.
 

September 27, 1970, ch. 74
 

To say that every country I have visited brought me joy, I cannot honestly say that. I wanted to see "Jewish life" behind the Iron Curtain. My experience in Egypt and Russia left me depressed for all the oppressed peoples. But for my brother Jews my heart ached still more. To be unwanted in the land of your birth is pitiful, but not to be permitted to extricate yourself from the "enforced" internment is Hell!

So many of our people who are under the Iron Curtain are still there in those countries. I said to my wife, "How can we go to Europe and not see them?" See Romania, Hungary, Poland, Czechoslovakia -- "How do the natives of those countries live under 'enforced' Russian rule?

I had spoken with artists who had visited these countries. Their opinions differed greatly. Why? For what reason? That is their secret. I did not accept it. I wanted to see for myself the difference between life for the Jew in Russia, Hungary, Romania, Poland and Czechoslovakia.

In 1966, elated over the successful performance of my "Oratorio," my Betty and I took to the road again, first stop Romania. My friend, Zalmen Zylbercweig, the author of six volumes of the "Lexicon of the Yiddish Theatre," wrote to a friend of his, Julian Shwartzman, a performer of the Yiddish theatre and journalist. Zylbercweig notified him that my wife and I are coming, and he would appreciate any courtesy that would be extended to the composer Sholom Secunda and his wife.

Upon our arrival to Bucharest, two strangers identified themselves. One said, "You are Sholom Secunda! I'd recognize you anywhere, from your portrait on all your music (printed music), much of which we had made use of in the theatre. My name is Yulian Shwartzman. This is Comrade ----- (to my regret I cannot remember the name of this person.) We came to meet and greet you in the name of the Jewish State Theatre of Romania."

I took a taxi and invited the two gentlemen to come along with us. They refused. They excused themselves, that they had very urgent matters to attend to, but in the evening they would come to our hotel. I tried to persuade them, telling them that we are going to the center of town and would be glad to drop them off. That didn't serve any purpose. "We can't, thank you!" When you are a guest behind the curtain "Iron" or otherwise, there must be someone or something that you are curtained from ... I asked no other questions ...

Our hotel bore no resemblance to the Waldorf Astoria, but I was assured by the travel agent that "It was the finest in Bucharest." I gathered that much. Just as Betty and I left our hotel to take a walk -- Yes, unescorted, which please me to no end -- we met the renowned violinist, Isaac Stern, who was appearing in that city. He too stayed at the most "famous hotel."

Another sign to convince us that this was the greatest, occurred the day before we were to leave Romania. The lobby of the hotel was filled with microphones, kleg lights and cameras. When we were descending in the elevator from our floor, which was the highest, we noticed that at the next two floors down the elevator did not stop.

My curiosity got the best of me. "I know that all this hubbub, all this paraphernalia in the lobby is not for us, Betty. It is not for Isaac Stern, who had left the day before. If it is not for us, who can be more important?"

"It's a puzzlement, " said Betty. The lobby, the attendants were bedecked in all finery. Looking like be-medaled generals, and so much police in their "parade dress" with all the brass shining, milling around, throwing an eye on all "goers and comers." I went over to one of the decorated bellhops (whose hands I greased unobtrusively before and after) and asked in Romanian. "Who?" He looked around to see if it was safe to speak and said, "Shah!"

I turned to betty "Ze nor, er red oyc=kh Yidish (Look at him, he speaks Yiddish). he doesn't have to tell me "Shah." I wouldn't tell anybody. What's he afraid of??

"Sholomel, he didn't mean "Sha." (Keep quiet.) He meant "Shah," the ruler of somewhere ... "Oh ..." I turned to the bellboy and mimicked, "Shah?" I showed on my head, making like a crown. "Yes, yes. Oh, the Shah of Iran!" I guessed.

"Well, Betty, there really is someone more important than Sholom Secunda."

"Not to me," she said. She took my arm, and off we went, out to the street by ourselves to explore what could be explored, and to eat Romanian ice cream.

The next day, when we came down, they were just laying down the red carpet. I just couldn't resist the temptation. Leaving through the front door I stepped with both my Jewish-American feet on the red Romanian carpet laid out for the "Shah of Iran." (We may have been related a few thousand generations removed ...)

In any case, that evening I was interested in meeting again with the two performers that had greeted us at the plane. We were to meet in front of a designated restaurant. We waited much longer than etiquette proscribed, but they did not come. Betty suggested, "Let's go inside, take a table for four. when they come ... "You mean if ..."

I interrupted. "Oh, they'll come, Sholom. Why should you say that? And when they come, they'll look for you inside, and they could see us sitting at the table."

We asked for a table for four. We ordered dinner, ate some ... The waiter was bringing us our tea, when my two friends, Shwartzman and company, appeared at the door. I went over, apologized for having eaten without them. But I said, "Would you please come and join us? No? Not even for tea?"

"We purposely came late," they explained. "We did not want to interfere with your dinner." I assured them that it would have been our pleasure. Again they thanked me profusely. "You join Mrs. Secunda at the table. We'll wait outside ..." It reminded me of Russia, and I did not persist.

My two Romanian friends, along with Betty and I, went for a walk back to the hotel. "Forgive us." they said. "We cannot join you at your hotel, but we have an authorized invitation for you for tomorrow morning. Further, Mr. Shwartzman, the spokesman, told us that one-half of our company (i.e. of his company) is currently playing in a neighboring city in Romania, in Iasi. However, the other half will be rehearsing for tomorrow's show. After the short rehearsal, you will be asked to speak about the theatre in America."

I accepted the invitation. The next morning after breakfast, we met with Comrade Shwartzman. We traveled quite a distance from the center of town before we arrived at the State Theatre. There was a government official to "greet us." We were ushered inside the theatre where the Romanian-speaking company was currently rehearsing. We watched for a few seconds, and then Mr. Shwartzman took us to a "green" room, where the Jewish actors were waiting for our arrival. We met and were greeted cordially. Most of them had been performers and had been playing in Jewish theatres in Russia and Poland "How were they spared?" They didn't remember. (Who would want to remind them?) They all knew about me, my name, and about my music. They were very much acquainted. They asked about a number of Jewish actors by name, those who are in America now, who they remembered and with whom they worked in the earlier days.

We sat at a long table. One of them was their spokesman. He asked, "Comrade Secunda. Would you tell us something about the Yiddish theatre in America?"

I wasn't a novice any longer at lecturing. I spoke about it at length about the progress of some theatres, about the regression of others, and the hopes for the future. There were questions later. They asked such questions as, "How come there are such conflicting stories? So many visitors, and each one tells a different story?"

"Well," I answered. "Each one sees it differently. Each one tells the truth. Either the glass is half-full, or the glass is half-empty. We too get conflicting stories from those who return to America. To learn the truth, you must learn to keep your eyes open. Your ears open, and your mouth ... mostly shut."

There was a young actress who asked a question in a very pronounced Russian accent. She did not look particularly Jewish. As a matter-of-fact, of what I remember, a typically Russian face. When she was stuck for a Jewish word, she substituted in Russian. Of course I understand the Russian language, when the others made an effort to interpret it for us. I declined, saying, "Nie nada, spacibo" (It is not necessary, thank you.) You may speak to me in Russian I still remember the language very well."

I found out that she had been a Russian actress who had resided in Russia. Currently she was living in Romania. "Why?" The truth was not clear. Perhaps she didn't know more than we know, but there was no work for her at the Russian theatre. The authorities thought since she was not equipped for any other occupation in Russia, they sent her to Romania to the Jewish theatre. The fact that she wasn't Jewish, nor spoke the language, made no difference. Now the young actress is studying diligently how to speak the Yiddish language. How does she learn her parts? Well, she transliterates her parts from Russian, and learns the part by heart. She participates in all Yiddish plays.

That evening was to have been "Erev Shavous" (The end of the Pentacost). And before leaving the theatre, I expressed a wish to go to the Big Synagogue to hear the cantor and the choir, to meet the Rabbi, Rabbi Rosen, whom I had heard about. No one volunteered to accompany us. Betty and I went by ourselves. We sat in the rear, next to the exit, so we wouldn't attract too much attention. I wanted to speak to someone, some of the worshippers. I discovered that the average Jew there was much different than the Jew in Kiev, Odessa, Moscow or Leningrad. The Jew was not afraid to speak to me or answer any question. Their question to me was "Vus makht a yid?" (How does a Jew feel?). The equivalent of "How are you?" One doesn't expect an entire dissertation, but a curt answer. In Romania, they spoke freely, although I had no way of knowing if they were speaking truthfully or not.

Suddenly I heard a singing voice. It came, I thought, from the balcony. It was a beautiful soprano voice singing solo. I could not believe my ears. Am I sitting here in a synagogue, or in an opera house? An organ was accompanying her -- not at all a voice one usually expects to find in a shul. She reminded me of the fine opera singer -- Zinka Milanov, a most beautiful and cultured voice.

When she ended, I inquired of those near me. "Who is she? How did she get here?" They all knew her very well. The story goes thus: She had been a star soprano at the Romanian Opera House. She is Jewish. When the great majority of Hungarian Jews asked permission to leave Romania for Israel, this opera singer was among them. The government not only refused her an exit visa, but they banished her from the opera. To make a living, she is permitted now to sing only at Jewish functions, and it is to our sorrow a well-known fact that there are very few happy functions for Jews to sing at in Romania. I tried to make her acquaintance, but to no avail. "Why?"
 

October 4, 1970, ch. 75
 

Betty and I left Romania. We weren't sorry that we were there, and we weren't sorry that we were leaving it. We knew little and learned even less ...

Yugoslavia was our next stop. Belgrade was the first city. We walked the streets in search of a "face," a Jewish face. What is a Jewish face? A sad eye, a sparkling eye, with side locks, without, with a beard, without, A sign of a Hebrew letter -- no sign. There used to be a "ghetto." What happened to it, and its inhabitants? As though at no time had there ever been a tired foot of a wandering Jews that treaded the cobblestones of time. Is it possible?

I read that Jews had settled there even in Roman times. A community of Sephardim to whom privileges were granted by the Sultan "Suliman," who settled in the city, in the middle of the sixteenth century. Then the peaceful life of the community was shattered by the Austrian conquest of Belgrade in 1668, when many Jews were sold into slavery.

The following two or three hundred years, the Jews had suffered greatly there, as they had suffered everywhere else. Their possessions were confiscated, their synagogues were destroyed, their cemeteries were desecrated, yet still they did not leave of their own volition. Where to? Finally they were exiled.

In 1862 there still were two thousand Jews who lived there in the ghetto of Belgrade. They fought in the Russo-Turkish War, and several Jews even distinguished themselves. As of 1938 there were eight-thousand Jews of whom six-thousand were Sephardic. How many are there now?

I signaled the telephone operator of my hotel and asked in English, "Could you possibly connect me with a synagogue, a rabbi, a cantor? I'd be most appreciative." In a pleasant voice the operator asked, "Who should I say is calling?" Betty," I said to my wife in wonderment, "She is going to connect me with a Jew." I turned to the operator on the telephone and told her "tell them please that an American composer by the name of Sholom Secunda wants to ..."

"What?" She said softly. "You are Sholom Secunda?" She pronounced the name not at all as if the Yiddish language were foreign to her.

"Yes, this is he. I'd like to meet a Jew before I leave Belgrade -- anyone ..."

She answered very cordially. "Mr. Secunda, go across the street from this hotel. There is a travel bureau. Ask for ..." She gave me a strange sounding name, not easily identifiable, and that makes it harder to remember. "Mr. Secunda," she added softly, "I hope that I have a chance to meet you. I am acquainted with some of your 'lieder'" ... I assumed she was a Yiddish kind ...

I met the gentleman at the travel agency. He didn't say whether he was Jewish. He didn't ask if we were. He did know where I could find a Jew. He wrote the address, saying:

"Because of the Sabbath, there will be no choir practice. I am sure you will find some of your people there." He didn't volunteer any more information. I had learned not to ask.

We came to that shul. The schedule was somewhat different. Choir practice took place before "davening," so that when I came, some of the people were already leaving. But I did see some of my fellow Jews. They had not lost their identity. As a matter-of-fact, they had beards that were neatly trimmed. Their clothes were Sabbath-like, neatly pressed and all the buttons in place ...

One young lady walked over. "I am your telephone operator." She introduced herself. "Why didn't you tell me over the telephone?" "It is better so," she said.

The choir was an excellent one. There were several non-Jews among them. They love the music, I was told by my English-speaking telephone operator.

"The choir conductor was a gentile. He also arranged some of the Jewish folk songs for the group." I heard several of them. True, in the arrangement, they lost some of their Yiddish flavor. But for me it was a very interesting experience. The singers were exceptionally good.

The second city, Dubrovnik, was, I can say, as the Germans -- "Yudn reyn (free of Jews, not a sign of Jewish life)," if ever, but the city is aesthetically beautiful. And just as upon entering some other of the ancient cities, e.g. Jerusalem and Haifa, you find an atmosphere of old worldliness. Dubrovnik too looked ancient, exactly as it looked hundreds of years ago -- except for the hotels, which were made for the comfort of the tourists. I came as a tourist. I came to learn, but I left not a bit wiser ...

Out of ancient history, and into a stark reality, was the city of Budapest, Hungary, culturally, commercially -- drama, music and night life. The music critic of some of the newspapers knew of my arrival. There was a committee that met us at the airport and took us in their automobiles to our hotel.

I was happy to learn that in Budapest, there still was a fine, thriving Jewish community. A committee of that community came to greet me at my hotel and invited me to come to their synagogue, and to see their Jewish museum. There are several synagogues in Budapest, just as we found in Bucharest. The city has two opera houses that play nightly and twice on Sunday, sometimes three performances. Every citizen there can afford the price of admission. Ballet, symphony orchestras, a high type of entertainment at popular prices.

The synagogue and its immediate surroundings brought us suddenly to stark reality -- the tragic presence. I stood in disbelief. I gasped. My heart pressed against my rib cage. The stark reality hit me so hard that I could not contain my tears. We looked around us. The synagogue was surrounded by graves, graves and more graves. "Here Rest the Martyrs of Hitler's Atrocities." Every mound was a sad reminder, mounds of heartaches.

Inside the synagogue, the contrast was so great that it was shockingly dazzling, as though to shut out its tragic outer surroundings. The synagogue was a fantastically large edifice, brilliantly lighted. It too had a cantor and a choir, and an accompanying organist. The worshipers who were sitting nearest me were not aware of my identity. Recognizing that I was a foreigner, they asked the typically Jewish question. "Fun vanen kumt a yid? (Whence cometh a Jew?)" "Ah, from America." They spoke freely about our life in America, of their country, and they also told in great detail about the differences that they are encountering since the Russians "Y'makh shmor" (sp) (May their names be eradicated.), appropriated their country.

We had noticed even in the gardens where children were playing that they'd suddenly stop in the middle of their game when a Russian soldier would appear out of nowhere.

We saw the museum, which was part of the synagogue (in a special room).  There were documentary pictures of concentration camps, artifacts that the Nazis had manufactured as "souvenirs" out of the limbs of Jewish bodies, both old and young. There were other tourists, both Jews and Non-Jews, just as we, quietly shuffling along, crying unashamedly, looking at the "silent screaming witnesses" of the time not-so-long-ago, an unforgettable, unforgivable past.

We closed the door on death. Life goes on. We went to see an opera, a symphonic concert. We met with Hungarian composers, as well as pedagogues from the Conservatory. In Russia I had to have an interpreter ever present, even though I spoke the language fluently. On the other hand, in Hungary, we spoke freely. There were no guards. We were invited to the home of one of their outstanding modern composers, who was a professor of composition at the Budapest Conservatory. Politics was "taboo," but music was the topic of everyone. And before parting, the composer (whose name I cannot recall) ...

Budapest was one of the more pleasant spots in Europe to visit, which had a very unique past. Budapest was once a twin city, Buda and Pest. Interestingly enough, a Jewish cemetery was there that dates back as early as the third century, and happily it had been preserved. Buda was to be the refuge for the many German Jews during the twelfth century. They built a synagogue and a cemetery there. Pest, on the other hand, Jews were not permitted until the year of 1783, when a few families were tolerated because of their payment of heavy taxes. The tax was called "shultz-gelt." They settled and lived in the "Theresienstadt." In that order: Theodor Herzl, Max Nordau, and Rabbi Stephen Wise, were among the "greats" who came from that city. Budapest was the second largest Jewish community in Europe.

Poland, Warsaw is where Hymie Jacobson, Michal Michalesko and myself made our very first trip together, after my successful season in Philadelphia. We were there in 1924, but there had been Jews there before we arrived. As a matter-of-fact, Jews date back there to the fourteenth century. So do Polish persecutions of the Jews. As early as 1454 the first persecution is recorded. Aroused by the preaching monk called Capestrano in 1483, those who had survived were expelled. But, you do understand, that they returned. Where else could they have gone to?

Or course there are always the "good" and the "bad." There were two Polish noblemen: one was called Potocki, and the other Sulkowski. They had found two small Jewish towns at the edge of Warsaw. One town was named after Potocki and was called "Novy-Potok," and the other town was called "Nova Yarozolina." Those two towns prospered greatly. There were artisans and merchants, but of course the Polish townspeople became very jealous of them. By 1775, they induced the "two noblemen" to destroy the two settlements and expelled the Jews from Warsaw.

If they had not had enough, the Jews again returned, not having a land to call their own. Needless to say, 1914 brought heavy sufferings again throughout all the cities. Nevertheless, around 1930 there were still twelve schools, eighty-three Jewish newspapers, seven of them dailies, the rest of them periodicals. They also had museums in Warsaw and extremely interesting cemeteries. One is still there to bear witness that a thriving Jewish community once was there.

So here we are again in Poland. We had been here and left so many wonderful friends. I heard that, by the Grace of God, some our our dear ones were spared. I wanted them to meet by Betty, and for my Betty to meet them.

So this is Warsaw. I had not seen it since 1924. The city is still a metropolis, a city where Jewish culture had flourished, as well as Yiddish Theatre. Now only one, the State Theatre, where a handful of my friends found their place, where much of Jewish life was eliminated. And now, where there were living human beings of flesh and blood, there now stands a monument of stone. Resting right opposite the cemetery were those greats who died, a natural death -- if there is such a thing.

In 1924 there were 310,222 Jews, comprising twenty percent of the population. In 1953 there were a handful. Our plane arrived at the Warsaw airport. Getting off the plane, we saw a young, blonde lady, and we surmised that it was Ruta, the daughter of our dear friend Madam Idá Kaminská, the granddaughter of that famous Ester Rokhl Kaminská, who was called the "Mother of the Yiddish Theatre." Ruta was the daughter of Idá Kaminská and Zygmunt Turkow, who later escaped to South America, and from South America to Israel. That's where he found his final resting place. Little Ruta was now a beautiful young lady with a daughter of her own. Ruta took us to our hotel and didn't leave until we were comfortably settled. Her mother -- Madam Kaminská and her present husband, Meir Melman, were currently performing in Katovitza (Katowice). That's where Ruta was headed after she left us. We promised that in a few days, we would join them in Katowice to see Ida once more, and those others who had survived.

Two days later we left by train for Katowice. Meir Melman met us at the station and took us to see his wife, Idá Kaminská, whom I had not seen in twenty-nine years. We clung to each other in throbbing silence ...

Meanwhile we did visit the offices of Jewish newspapers, though our conversations there were brief. Their answers, for the most part, were evasive, uninteresting, and untruthful. As I surmised I was just "whistling in the dark."

Idá Kaminská expressed her desire to visit America, to perform. In the evening I saw their performance, a play called, "Sarah Sheindel from Yekhupetz." It had been performed in the United States by the renowned Bessie Thomashefsky at the turn of the century.

The next day we were back in Warsaw, and with us the Kaminská family. Warsaw, through their eyes, would be a different city, of that I was certain.

October 4**, 1970, ch. 76 (pg. 231 of 293) REPEAT OF PGS. 223-230.

October 11, 1970, ch. 77

It was Warsaw that evoked memories ... The few days that we spent with the Kaminská family in Warsaw were most interesting. They went all out to make our stay a memorable one. Mr. Melman took me to the "Nozyk Synagogue" for the Sabbath morning prayers. Thanks to the two of us, Melman and myself, we had a "minyan." There was no rabbi, no cantor. One of the lay worshipers went over to the "omud" and led the prayers. A little while later the Israeli Counsel came, and we made his acquaintance. One thing did please me. I saw that every worshiper had a "siddur" (prayer book), and everyone had a "tallis" (prayer shawl) It reminded me of Kiev and Odessa, where the aged worshipers prayed without the traditional prayer shawl and siddur. I thanked God for the pitifully few of my people who survived in Warsaw.

After prayers there was quite a ceremony being prepared. What was the occasion? A "chanukas habayis" (a house warming), a dedication of a Jewish cultural center that housed a library and auditorium, but it was ostensibly a Yiddish theatre in honor of Madam Idá Kaminská, whom I learned the community worshiped. (Whatever happened later, to this day, I cannot fathom. I hope in time to learn more -- when I read the "memoirs" of Madam Idá Kaminská.)

At the dedication we were treated to the traditional delicious Jewish dishes: gefilte fish, cholent, kugel, and the Poles as well as the Jews drank a brotherly "l'chayim" to Idá Kaminská ...

We visited the lovely home of Idá Kaminská and her family. Many guests came. there was no strain. We all felt comfortable. Many of guests had much to say against America, and they spoke quite freely, voicing their opinion about our "imperialistic" oppression in Vietnam. But no one attacked me personally, thank God, when I did not agree with them. Neither did I detect any particular suspicion among the guests. They most likely were cautious in expressing their opinions in each other's presence.

I left Poland at that time, feeling that their plight is not as desperate. They're not as enslaved or exploited as I had suspected ... brainwashed? Perhaps ...

When we got back to America, I first read in American newspapers about the political upheaval in Poland. What had occurred in that short period of time between my being there and my departure, that the Kaminská family, which had been so highly regarded, was forced to leave Poland, the country of their birth.

Before we left Poland for Czechoslovakia, Idá Kaminská had given us the addresses of some important Jewish leaders and professionals in Czechoslovakia. When we arrived at their hotel, we found a message that Ján Kadár, the director of the film, "The Shop on Main Street," in which Idá Kaminská starred, had been at the hotel earlier to let us know that we may expect him soon.

With Ján Kadár and his wife, we spent some very pleasant hours. From him we heard about the great turmoil that had and still exists in the Russian Satellites. Ján Kadár told us of the difficulties he had encountered while making that film, because of the sympathetic content. He could not forget the cruelty of the Nazis toward the Jews in Germany, Poland, and in his own Czechoslovakia. The Kadárs took us to the Old Synagogue in that proud city of Prague (Praha, as it is called in Czechoslovakia, where Jews in the year 906, near Moldau, were greatly favored.) King Stanislav II had decreed that the Jews were in the interest in town's advancement. The Jewish population at that time occupied the quarter of the "Altstaat," which soon became the celebrated "Yudenstadt."

Ján Kadár and his wife, and my Betty and I, were standing near the Old Synagogue where the "Legend of the Golem" (Automated Homunculus, into which life was breathed by Kabalistic means)  ... Legend attributes the making of the Golem to the High Rabbi Loew of Prague, at the end of the sixteenth century.

They cried, as we did, as we read some of the names that are inscribed alphabetically on the walls of the Ancient House of Worship. We lived through again and again the anguish that we felt while visiting Dachau, Auschwitz, and the Jewish Museum in Hungary. At every step we took, at the Nalewki Synagogue in Warsaw, where the Tłomackie Synagogue once stood. Walking on the cobblestones of the once-renowned Leszna Street, where life once throbbed and pulsated like a fountain of Jewish culture, Jewish music pouring out of the theatre. I heard it all again in my throbbing head. We parted with the Kadárs, and we cried silently. We left Czechoslovakia, but the sadness did not leave us. Once again, sadness and pain stirred our hearts.

We boarded the plane that was to take us away from the "Iron Curtain Country," but that feeling followed us. I saw the silent tears rolling down my Betty's pale face as she sat with her eyes closed. I was glad that she did not see my smarting tears, as if after a funeral of a dearly departed. The feeling never left me. Do the speeches and memorials once a year suffice, to ever relate again to the tragic past? There still are millions of humans in this civilized world who were not even touched, nor do they care now, by what had befallen the millions of innocent souls. The horrors of blood-thirsty inhumans who are still hovering overhead to pounce and devour the handful of Jews who are left, surrounded by a callous and  hostile world.

"Betty," I said softly, "are you ...?"

"No, dear," she answered. "I am not sleeping. Why don't you close your eyes and try to sleep?'

"I can't rest. I can't forget. I don't want to forget. Betty, I must do something, something to express my anger, to shout my protest, to create a living 'Yiskor' for the millions of our people. But how, and where do I begin?"

"Do it your own way, dear, as you know how. Through the means of your music. It's in your veins, your heart and mind ..."

"Yes," I resolved that I must write a 'Yiskor,' a plea for remembrance, not to be said only on designated hours at the synagogue, only on certain occasions and holidays. It must be done even at joyous occasions, as the Kaddish is recited at a wedding, at concerts, as a reminder of those who are gone, yet are still with us in spirit, never to be forgotten. Let them live with the living ..."

Our plane arrived in Paris. We looked around. Paris had lost its luster. We still could not shake the "ashes" of sorrow from our minds.

We returned to the United States of America, with the hope and fervent prayers in our hearts that it should not, that it cannot, and must not happen here, nor anywhere, ever again!

I called my friend and colleague Samuel Rosenbaum in Rochester, with whom I collaborated on Peretz's "If Not Higher."

"How did you enjoy Europe?" was his first question. I could not rejoice. I did not bubble about the joys of my trip. I felt as H. Leivick did, the great Jewish poet who had written "Mi mammakin." Out of the depths of my soul came my thoughts, my desire to erect a musical monument. He listened to me patiently. "You are right, Sholom. It's long overdue."

I said to Rosenbaum: "I know you feel as I do. You can do it with words in your own poetic way."

"You're right," he said. "I'll start today. I'll be in New York next week. I will have written something concrete for you to work on."

Rosenbaum came as promised. He had a goodly part of his work written. I read it before bedtime, through the night, spent all my waking hours reading and rereading it, and reading it again and again, hearing it in my mind. He will still add and detract, erase and rewrite -- as well as I will -- with a minimum of words and music to convey what's in our hearts and minds. But how do you ... or does one ... create acrid smoke out of a crematorium? How do I create the last breath of a "Sh'ma Yisroel," a faint cry of a dying child? How? How do I paint Dachau? We discussed it, Rosenbaum and I. We evoked the tragic pictures, as if at a séance ...

He returned to his home to further his work. I dedicated every hour to that thought. I refrained from any other work. I gave up all other assignments. At night the libretto was at my side. Burning at my very touch, I put the light out, and I closed my eyes. I tried to sleep, but my nightmares were even worse, even more vivid than my waking hours. I turned on the light again, read the script again with pad and pencil at my bedside. I would jot down every note, every nuance I felt in my dreams. I tried to put myself in the most tragic positions. I tried to be part of that holocaust. I welcomed the dawn. I left my comfortable bed, which could not hold me down. I thought that I had heard a voice, an echo of the past, calling out "Yidelekh, shteyt oyf tsu avoidas Haborah." (It was the Pious, reminding the Pious, "Time to get up," "Time to worship the Lord.") And I said to myself, "Sholom, arise, arise and sing, sing out, sing out your remembrance. Sing out your 'Yiskor,' so that the world shall hear your protest ..."
 

October 18, 1970, ch.78
 

Every morning I rushed out of bed and went to work. I felt that we had a debt to pay. We should have done more than he did. We sat with folded arms, not lifting a finger to stop the hands of the marauders. I vowed that I shall not rest until I completed my own "Yiskor." I heard in my mind the cry of a dying mother, as if pointing a finger at us, and with her last breath exclaiming, "Remember!" I heard the voices of the tortured millions echoing. "Remember!" My reawakened heart felt the pain. "Yiskor." "Remember!"

It had become a habit throughout my married life to have my Betty listen to my music before anyone else had heard it. I called to her. "Betty ..." I turned my head and'there she was, standing in the doorway. "Yes, dear," Betty said. "I've been drawn to that music. Your cry, "Yiskor,' frightened me. It will make the listener shiver and cry." I smiled, sadly contented, contented because my wife responded to my cry. "That is what I wanted to hear, Betty. I want it to penetrate. I want those who hear it to feel it as I do, to touch their hearts deeply, and not to let the passing of time callous their humane feelings."

In the course of my writing, I found myself trespassing, so to speak, usurping more space with my music in place of words. I asked myself, "Am I sacrificing the poet's words?" I don't want to, but I was compelled to do so more than once. When my friend, Rosenbaum, came to New York, we discussed it. He listened intently, and instead of arguing with me, defending each measured and treasured word that he had chosen so delicately, so deliberately, he helped me solve my problem at the cost of his many beautifully selected words that he too had worked and polished for months until we felt that this oratorio was an effort from the two of us, of equal importance, expressing concisely the unrelenting destruction of the millions of our people.

The score was completed. We played it for a group of friends whose opinion we valued. Without exception, the group was as impressed as we had hoped.

Now we have it on paper, but what next? Who  could publish such a difficult and costly, non-commercial work? Who and where can it be presented? And if no one hears it, what have we accomplished?

"If Not Higher" was a composition of social significance that could be performed in any language for any people. Peretz's original Yiddish stories were translated in several foreign languages, but "Yiskor" is of a different caliber. It is as unique as is the people about whom it was written, and to whom it was dedicated. Who is interested in six-million sacrificial souls? No one seemed to care when they were still alive, when they were being tortured, tormented, slain, gassed, burned, shot, buried alive, starved, humiliated. Who was disturbed by their untimely deaths??? Why should the Christian world want to be reminded of six-million Jews? (They remember only one ... Jew. They acknowledge only one Jew ... Jesus. Think of the millions who have been burned through the centuries in His name ...)

Enter our dear friend, Norman Warembud. Norman was not an executive of the "Mills Publishers" any longer. "Mills" had sold its firm to another that had no interest in developing further the possibilities of Yiddish works. Norman Warembud was associated with another publishing company. This new company had no Jewish affiliations. Why should this company want "Yiskor"? But Norman's enthusiasm for Yiddish music was even more fired up because of "Yiskor." His tall, slender form pacing back and forth, gesticulating in emphasis said: "This, this oratorio must be heard, and it must be performed exactly as we had done with 'If Not Higher' -- with soloist, choir, and symphonic orchestra. It must be heard to give life to the words, to music that is so artfully and touchingly united into one and dedicated to our martyrs. But how?"

"I look to the mountain, whence cometh" (Psalms). The three of us decided to call in a committee of some of our cultural leaders. We also invited Cantor Meisels from Cleveland. He came to our home to hear this new oratorio.

Again I sat at the piano and gave it my all. I finished. I was exhausted. Cantor Meisels sprang from his chair, declaiming: "This time my friends, the premiere of this magnificent oratorio will be given in my city, in Cleveland, not Rochester." We looked at one another in disbelief. "Rosenbaum," I said to my friend, "Whence cometh our help?" "Cleveland" was his answer. We didn't argue with Cantor Meisels. So it shall be! "But when?" I asked impatiently.

"Give me three days. I ask for no more than three days. I will go back to Cleveland. You have the music arranged, and have patience and faith!!!"

In no more than three days, the phone rang. In his exuberant voice. "Shalom, Sholom." I readily anticipated his answer in the affirmative. "You make ready your score and orchestration. Have it printed and sent it to me immediately. We will start rehearsal at once!"

"How did you accomplish all that?" I managed to questioned him. He continued. "It will be a commissioned work, 'commissioned' by my temple, on the heights of Cleveland in honor of yours truly, Cantor Saul Meisels. The 'commissioner' of this work is one of our outstanding members of the temple, Mr. Harry Gevelber. In memory of the six-million martyrs."

He went on. "I haven't my soloists as yet, but I have the choir. It will be a most memorable one. A children's choir of young boys and girls, all from the Cleveland high schools, circa one hundred and twenty-five children, under the supervision of their teacher-conductor, Claire T. Mekelfrosh.

I gave him the manuscript of the oratorio. He studied the music, read the poetry, and he was (I'm quoting him) "spellbound." He was certain, he said, that the children will be absolutely mesmerized under its spell. "It will add so much to this beautiful work ..."

The date was set for Sunday evening, February 25, 1967. The tenor part was sung by Arthur Koret. Cantor Saul Meisels was the baritone, and the part of Mother Rachel (if you remember, Rachel cries for her children) was sung by Fanny Lieman (sp). Practically the same cast as for "If Not Higher." The narrator, of course, was the writer of the libretto, Cantor Rosenbaum. The only difference was that I, the composer, conducted my own work for the first time.

For a fitting opening that evening, I selected the "hymn" that is so well-suited, in commemoration with the Jewish partisans "Ani Ma'amin" (I believe in the coming of the Messiah), by Hirsh Glik, to set the mood for the event. It was decided that the children's choir should render the "hymn" that is so clearly associated with the concentration camps, ghettos and partisans.

Since this "musical Yiskor" was the first of its kind, the committee decided that as an additional tribute to this dedication, an imposing orator should be invited. Isaac Bashevis Singer, one of our contemporary writers and lectures (before his crowning), was unanimously chosen.

All preparations for the introduction of "Yiskor" was finalized, the time and place, invited speaker, etc., except for the 'dress.' How should everyone dress for this evening? Should it be in all black, with relief of white, befitting a concert? "Morbidity," I thought. "Who will not solemnize the occasion? Serenity is what we want. The ability to look and listen to it objectively, and yet become part of this sane, somber event that is taking place. The form of concert dress is more appropriate, I  thought. It was accepted. Also, should there be "no applause"? Or should we leave it to the discretion of the audience? Let them do as their heart dictates.

  ... In palpitating expectation, The Concert ...
 

October 25, 1970, ch. 79
 

One hundred and twenty-five children on stage began the "Ani Ma'amim" ("I Believe"). The auditorium was in utter silence, as if hypnotized. When the children's choir stopped, the audience spontaneously burst into thunderous applause. It pleased me, and it raised my hopes. They hear the music and feel the sorrow, yet they applaud. That is as it should be. The children sang their second hymn under the guidance of their teacher and conductor, Claire T. Mekelprosh; Hirsh Glik's "Partisan Song," "Zog Nisht Keynmol As Du Gayst Dem Letsten Veg" ("Don't Ever Say This is Your Last Journey.") I knew that the mood was set. The audience was ready for "Yiskor."

The children remained in their places. We joined them on stage; the concert artists and myself. I raised my hands, and the timpanists commenced the irregular tempo and beat, the symbolic sound that signified the heavy-booted march-like approach of "The Malach Hamoves" (The Angel of Death), which Hitler sent as his emissary to kill, to burn, to annihilate six-million Jewish souls.

The orchestral prelude in the opening stanza began and led the onrushing sounds, as if wild hoards were approaching, followed by the loud cries of the one hundred and twenty-five children, their voices heralding, "Yiskor! Remember! Yiskor! Remember!" The choir followed, reciting in unison: "Remember the Sainted. Remember the Cleansed! Remember the Innocent, the Slaughtered, the Six-Million ... Yiskor! Yiskor! Yiskor! Remember!"

The soloists sang their laments, and we could hear as if in "response," a choked sobbing of the audience. The voices of the three soloists combined in one harmonious "plea." "We demand justice!"

The tenor concluded his aria, demanding "Justice of the Almighty." The choir joined in, repeating, "Justice! Justice! Justice!" The audience, as if a dam had burst its locks, broke into an explosive cry and applause, stamping their feet, repeating "Justice! Justice! Justice!"

When the entire ensemble, soloists and choir, unite in reciting the "Kaddish for the Martyrs," it seemed that those present in the vast auditorium had stopped breathing and were in dead silence. The participants' emotional feelings and tear-filled eyes approaching the end of the "Oratorio" commenced: "Yiskadal Vei-Yiskadash Shmay Rabo," which was a uniting vocal and orchestral outcry and ended on a crescendo of ecstasy.

I put down the baton. Everyone on stage stood motionless in silence. The musicians, instruments in hands; the audience too stood motionless. For a split second, I was frightened. Suddenly, the entire audience erupted in spontaneous "bravos." It lasted a long time. First I turned around, facing the audience with bowed head. The rest of the artists followed.

I stepped off the podium towards the exit. Cantors Meisels and Rosenbaum and the entire ensemble followed. The stage was cleared. The audience would not cease their "bravos," calling for us to return onto the stage again, and again, and again.

The people came streaming backstage to express their thanks for the libretto, the music, the choir and the soloists. "It must be performed again and again," one said. "Every year, in every city, and let it resound with such might so that not only every Jewish man, woman and child will hear it, but non-Jews as well. This must serve as a deterrent to ever reoccur again!" Wishful thinking on their part.

The lights were being turned off, the people had to take their leave. They did so, reluctantly.

The entire group, not including the children, was invited to a reception that was given by Mr. and Mrs. Harry and Sarah Gevelber, who had financed the cost of that project. They were the "donors," but really they confessed seriously. "We were the recipients, we derived so much out of that oratorio that one cannot put a price of money on it ..."

We returned to our hotel rooms. Everyone stayed up, awaiting the notices. Cantor Saul Meisels advised: "Rest comfortably, as soon as the newspaper will appear on the street, I personally will get the first copy, come to the hotel, and read it to you."

Everyone left for his room. Betty and I did, too. Though sleep didn't come, I tried to guess what the critics would say. I smiled to myself when I saw, in my imagination, the excellent notices, and frowned at those who, God forbid, were finding my work somewhat less than perfect ...

Dawn was breaking. We were waiting, waiting impatiently for the telephone to ring.

Finally it did. "Hello, hello, Saul," I said, being sure that it was none other. He sounded out of breath.

"Sholom it's me, open your ears and listen good. The newspaper print isn't dry yet." He read it. "Sholom Secunda, a composer of great importance, especially in the realm of Yiddish music, conducted the world premiere of his new cantata, 'The Cries of the Stars' (that was his English translation of "Yiskor"), by Robert Finn, music critic of the Cleveland Plain Dealer newspaper. This forty-minute-long work that reminds the world of the six-million Jewish souls, martyred by the Nazis, was composed for choir, three soloists, narrator, organ and percussion instruments."

"Secunda does not refer to his work as a 'cantata.' It has no descriptive terminology. It reminds us of such works of concert repertoires like Haneger's 'King David,' and the version with narrator Debussy's 'Martyrs of St. Sebastian.' Secunda's composition seeks, with his chords, mainly to emphasize the importance of the texts," etc., etc. The rest of the criticism dealt mainly with the music, the libretto of Samuel Rosenbaum he praised greatly, also the artists who excelled in their singing.

Twenty minutes later, Meisels was at our hotel, I had already called my friend Samuel Rosenbaum, and the soloists. All were assembled in my room. No one thought of breakfast. All waited for Saul Meisel's recitation of the newspaper account. They held their breath. Meisels was in his glory. It was he who brought this to the fore. We were all happy to acknowledge that fact. We were floating on "wings of praise." It was noon and time to come down to earth and think of returning home.

Meanwhile, the telephone did not stop ringing. My librettist, Samuel Rosenbaum, telephoned to Rochester to his Rabbi Karp and repeated in great detail the results of that cantata.

Norman Warembud, who could not be at the premiere in person, could hardly wait. He stayed up to hear the results. We read the results to him over the phone.

"I knew it, Sholom, I knew it. Now we have to see to it that it gets a performance on TV. By the time your return to New York, I will have news for you. Good news!" Hopefully ...

Isaac Goodfriend telephoned from Atlanta, Georgia. "Don't forget. I had reserved the second performance," he answered, when he heard how well it was received. "As soon as  I hang up, I'll run to the office of the Atlanta Symphony and speak with Robert Shaw, who had been engaged as head musical director of the Atlanta Symphony, and we must start preparing for the great performance. Atlanta still remembers the production of 'If Not Higher,' and is looking forward to the oratorio, 'Yiskor.' Remember!"

November 1, 1970, ch. 80

The second performance of "Yiskor" took place in Rochester at Cantor Rosenbaum's Temple Beth El. To my regret, I could not be there in person. But I did not have to wait long for the report.

Ten minutes after the performance my telephone rang, and my good friend Sam Rosenbaum's voice greeted me with a "Mazl tov. Another successful event."

The performance was perfect. The audience's and the critics; reactions were overwhelming. Tomorrow I'll be in New York. By then both English newspapers will have been out, and I will come laden with the reviews. "Don't worry," he added. "I'm more than certain that the critics will be as enthusiastic as in Cleveland."

Rosenbaum walked in the next day all smiles, with a pack of newspapers under his arms. "Here, read them and 'shep nakhas' (rejoice)."

Harvey Southgate, the music critic said, "The Oratorio brings to mind 'Warsaw Ghetto.'" He gave a goodly account of that memorable uprising and picked up the phrase: "Remember the Sanctified, the Innocent, the Martyred Six-Million." That is the key to the new Secunda oratorio written to the text of Cantor Sam Rosenbaum."

"In the musical accompaniment of the soloists, there lies the memorable strength of their work. It is a plea and a call to 'remember.' Secunda is a composer who knows how to write for solo and choir. As a reminder of that grimmest, most devastating happening in history, this work is of great depth of feeling and intensiveness."

"The performance," Southgate continued, "last evening of the excellent choir and soloists was an outcry ... not only to remember, but more than that, a new outlook, worthy of the sacrifice, the Martyrs ... Taking in consideration the graveness of the theme, the music is not based only on tragedy and sadness. It contains heroism and a revolutionary approach. Although the structure is ensconced in the spirit of the synagogue, sanctuary and liturgy, it is definitely in a modern style ..."

Rosenbaum snatched that newspaper out of my hand, saying:

"Wait! You haven't heard nothin' yet! Now I'll show you two editorials right here in the Times Union, two columns of editorial. One was captioned: "The Beginning of the Redemption." "This editorial tells of the tragedy of the Warsaw Ghetto and expresses the wish of the composer and librettist that their oratorio will remain forever a 'Yiskor,' a remembrance to the Six-Million."

The second editorial was captioned: "Yiskor -- To Perpetuate the Memory of the Six Million." Just to remember the six-million European Jews whom Hitler annihilated and obliterated is not enough to ask of the people, the touching words of Samuel Rosenbaum and the pathos of Sholom Secunda's music paints clearly the terror of that destruction.'

The editorial went on to say that 'Just revealing is not enough. We must acknowledge the fact that mass murder can and still remains man's mass failure and downfall. We must acknowledge the fact that the commandment, 'Thou Shalt Not Commit Murder,' is not directed only to free one race, one religion, one color, one nationality, or one political belief, but when man will realize that it can happen to any and everyone ... only then can the killings be stopped."

A few days later I received a copy of the letter that the Dean of St. John Fisher College of Rochester wrote to Rabbi Abraham Karp of Temple Beth El about the concert of "Yiskor" that he had witnessed.

Here is an excerpt of that letter:

"The Oratorio of 'Yiskor' which I had the privilege and pleasure of hearing, was thrilling and moved me deeply. I had suddenly felt that evening as never before, the pain of a people, and old people. The music and libretto was a wonderful mixture, coalition of belief, faith and trust, spirit and courage, with hope that cannot be quenched. Also with a tenderness that is a combination of great love and deep sorrow ...

"It must have been a great accomplishment of the librettist and the composer. Forgive this rhapsody. I cannot help it. I was touched so deeply. For me it was an out-of-the-ordinary experience."

In all modesty I must add that there was much more of this "rhapsodic" letter. I'll spare you the rest.

These praiseworthy notices rapidly were widespread, especially in the larger cities with great Jewish population. Many requests came to the "Ethnic Music Publishers, Inc." to produce it. ("Ethnic Music Publishers" had already bought the rights to it.)

Norman Warembud, who had introduced Yiddish music to Mills Publishers, had left the firm that he had been associated with for many years, and was now in that same capacity a member of another publishing firm. Leaving Mills because it had been sold to another company that was not interested in furthering publication of Jewish music, Warembud could not bear the thought that this department on which he had spent so much energy and love to build, should be dissolved. He was willing to sacrifice his position with the company, and against the opinion of all of his friends who had advised him not to resign. He did resign, and to the surprise and delight of his friends he was offered the coveted position with the "Bourne Music Publishing" company and accepted.

To his chagrin he realized that at Bourne Publishers he would encounter the same resistance to developing further the publication of Jewish music. He could not rest ...

To his nearest friends he said: "If I have to organize my own music firm, I will not abandon this ambition of mine to further the publication of Jewish music."

One day, over the telephone, he asked me to come to his office. He had good news pertaining to our Jewish music. The enthusiastic optimist, seated in his office, I asked, "Who's the new Messiah?"

"You know, of course, that the 'Ashley Music Company' -- Ashley is Jewish, and I convinced him of the importance of a Jewish department, and he agreed with me. He is willing to buy the rights to your second oratorio, 'Yiskor,' on the same conditions that Mills Publishers had with your first 'If Not Higher.' Ashley also agrees to start printing Jewish liturgical compositions and lieder. He is ready and wiling to print 'Lekoved shabes' (The Third Sabbath Series, the same as I had composed for the Trenton Temple Subsidy). Nu, why don't you say something?" he asked ...

"What can I say?" I said quietly, in utter disbelief. "You are a big man ... Good luck."

That same day we went to the Ashley offices, the future publishers of my music, and a number of other Jewish compositions.

Ashley was a warm, Jewish-minded person who showed a great interest in the new project. The contracts were drawn and signed, and the new publications were in swing.

The third performance of "Yiskor" was already under the auspices of the new Jewish publishers called "Ethnic Music Publishers, Inc."

Not surprising to anyone, Isaac Goodfriend, Cantor of Atlanta, Georgia, claimed his promised performance. Goodfriend had a strong affinity to Jewish culture and had boundless energy. (In addition, his young wife had shared with him the great tragedy of the concentration camps. Both were shuffled from one camp to another. Both endured the pains of Hell of those dark years, and by the grace of God, both survived.) Knowing of the oratorio, which seemed to them as a biography of their own tragic experiences, and the great success that "Yiskor" had in other cities, Isaac Goodfriend got in touch with the new publishers for the following performance of "Yiskor" with the Atlanta Symphony. It was agreed that I should conduct the concert.

When Betty and I arrived in Atlanta, we discovered that it was the custom in Atlanta, that any and all important Jewish events do not have to be "advertised." It is enough for the Cantor and his wife to announce the importance of that event, that they are already working on this project in order to ensure its great success. Meantime, a number of interviews were arranged between myself and the newspapers, radio and TV.

Atlanta went all out to further this great happening. The Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and the all-gentile choir handled this work with the greatest of respect and diligence. I felt that I would get the fullest cooperation of all of the members, not only for its deeply religious meaning that it would hold for them, but also with respect and appreciation for its musical worth. The tenor role was sung by David Ogg; the baritone solo, Cantor Isaac Goodfriend; and Mother Rachel was Barbara Diem. Samuel Rosenbaum was the excellent narrator.

To go into rhapsodies about the performance and its reception would be a repetition of the previous ones.

Betty and I boarded the plane for home with a load of newspapers, copies singing the praises of the libretto music and singers. I rejoiced in the thought that "Yiskor" would remain a musical monument, an historical documentation for all, both for Jews and non-Jews alike, the world over.
 

November 8, 1970, ch. 81
 

Morally, artistically, even financially 1967 was a good year. Physically it was a painful one.

Since 1907, when I was a choirboy with Cantor Lachman in Nikolaev and contracted typhus, I was quite a healthy specimen. In 1908, as a youngster already in America, I got a "slight" infection of scarlet fever -- the doctor said it was slight -- and I recovered shortly after that. For the next sixty years, I had not known any serious illnesses.

Evidently I had inherited the constitution of my my father who, until the age of eighty, did not know the feeling of a headache. What a shame I did not inherit his talent as an iron bed-stead-maker. Instead I chose the "theatre," with its trials and tribulations, which are synonymous with that profession. Nervousness comes naturally.

In 1967 I first discovered what it meant to be sick. I tasted pain. Some symptoms began about two years before that, but there were no severe consequences. So I paid no attention to it. At one point I mentioned casually to my good friend, Dr. Lefkowitz, that I noticed some change in my urinary habits. He bombarded me with questions.

"Well, Sholom," he said, "at your age of seventy-three, it is very likely the prostate." He telephoned another friend, Dr. Schulman, and made an appointment for me for a thorough examination. Dr. Lefkowitz's opinion was confirmed. Dr. Schulman had made a diagnosis. "It is indeed the prostate, and we will most likely, in time, have to operate. There's no hurry." He quieted my nerves. There was no emergency as long as it is not painful, it can wait. "Come in for a checkup." I obeyed his orders. I visited him regularly. "My habits" did not improve, but I was not feeling pain as of yet, so I tolerated the annoyance.

Passover was nearing, and I was to go to the Concord Hotel in order to start rehearsals for the Passover Festival. Before leaving, I went for a checkup.

"I don't want to change your plans," Dr. Lefkowitz said, "but after the Holidays we'll start talking about an operation." I thought that as long as I could go on with my urgent work that was at hand, I'll worry about it later.

We went to the Concord. The first half of that eighty-day holiday was quite comfortable. I had reason to hope that the rest would be just as comfortable. Three more days after that, I thought to myself that I would have plenty of time to be sick, even for an operation if necessary. The doctor said that it would incapacitate me for no more than ten or twelve days.

It seems that things don't always work out according to plan. The next day after the concert, I had the particular desire to run to the bathroom every five or ten minutes, but without satisfaction. Instead I felt a sharp pain. I did not tell Betty of the sudden pain, hoping of course that it would subside, by tomorrow for sure. Tomorrow it was even worse. I had fearful pain, running to the bathroom, hoping that it would ease the dreadful pain. Instead, it became more intense. In the evening, during the beginning of the second day of the Passover holidays, I knew that I would have to stand on my feet for a lengthy period of time while conducting. I wouldn't be able to run off stage to seek help. I telephoned my doctor and told him of my condition and symptoms. He advised me: "Leave for Monticello Hospital immediately. It is bound to get worse, Sholom," he said. "How can I?" I argued. "I must conduct both days."

"Forget it!!! You will not be able to conduct. Do as I tell you!!! According to your symptoms, your pains will become unendurable."

The "unendurable" evidently was "endurable." I did not heed the doctor's instructions. No one noticed my great discomfort, not even Betty, nor the choir whom I was facing at all times. The next day the pain did not subside. I conducted "Shacharit" (the morning prayers) and "Musaf" (noon prayer); still no one was aware. I guarded my secret well. Whatever prayer my cantor and my choir were singing, at that moment, I managed to get in one prayer of my own: "Please God, one more day. Just help me get through this one day. I'll be so grateful to you."

Between morning and afternoon prayers, my pain became excruciating. Now I must seek Betty's help. I walked off stage. Betty, who was out front, was waiting for me. "Betty, you must telephone the doctor immediately. After prayers, we'll proceed to the hospital." Her frightened look asked, "What was the matter?" But she did not wait for an answer. How I finished conducting, I could never explain. My car was already at the door with my luggage. My wife had arranged for someone to drive the car. Again I played the strong one, protesting angrily. "Betty, don't make an invalid out of me. I'll have no one in the car besides you. I know I'll have to stop every few minutes to ease the pain. I will not inconvenience anyone." I won again, poor Betty. I always wore down her resistance!!!

The trip from the Concord Hotel to Monticello Hospital should take fifteen minutes, no more than a half-hour. It took two hours and fifteen minutes, or did it just seem that long? The pain defies words. When I finally spied the hospital from afar, I increased my speed, ignoring red lights and stop signs. I kept the horn blowing, in hopes of attracting a police car. Perhaps he will drive me to the hospital. Suddenly I stopped. "Betty, I'm afraid I won't make it any further." But I did. I had to! I arrived near enough to the entrance. I directed Betty to "get someone, anyone, to park the car in a proper zone." I left it practically in the middle of the street. "Take the keys," I said to Betty. "It may cause an accident." I reached the admission office. "Please notify Dr. Schulman that Sholom Secunda is at the hospital! And take me out of my misery. Give me something. Anything."

I was taken to my room. The doctor had already ordered it for me. The nurse put me into the bed. In no time an apparatus was brought to the room. Was it the operating room, or was it God? Or both? In less than a half-hour the pain miraculously disappeared. "It disappeared! The pain is gone, Betty," I said. "I must have prayed well." I smiled. She didn't. I passed the night peacefully. Bright and early in the morning my doctor greeted me! "Well, Sholom, today we'll take x-rays, do blood analysis. That is just the procedure before an operation." The next day picture-taking commenced. They took more blood than I thought I possessed. Till they returned me to my room, it was already dark. My wife and sons were waiting for me. I comforted them. "Look who's here! Why look so worried? I feel fine, no traces of pain. I see no reason at tall for my being here. What makes me most happy though ..." I continued speaking as if someone had cranked an automatic spring in me, and I couldn't stop. "I am happiest that I was able to conduct the services, without an inconvenience to the hotel and its guests. It would have inconvenienced everyone. It would have ruined their peaceful holiday."

My family just looked ... "And as long as there is no pain," I continued, "I am very much satisfied." The doctor arrived once more with the "glad tidings" that he had studied the x-rays and my blood analysis, and ... I interrupted. "I don't need an operation?" "No, Mr. Secunda. You do! Tomorrow we operate. Mrs. Secunda," the doctor turned to my Betty, "We'll return your husband to you as good as new ..."
 

November 15, 1970, ch. 82
 

"Is this really happening to me?" I asked myself. "Or is this a "TV hospital series?" (Not another! I don't think the public could stand one more.) "No," this is a "Secunda special," and I am the star. I was being placed on a hospital stretcher. I saw my family, my Betty, my sons. They were with me. "Good luck, Dad." My heirs wished me well. Betty smiled faintly, she kissed her fingertips and touched my lips. Her fingers felt cool and comforting. "We will stay here, dear, until you come down. So please make it fast! Those are orders." It took me by surprise. I laughed out loud. I was surprised at my own sounds. Yesterday I thought I would never laugh again.

How long it was going to take neither of us knew. If the doctor did, he did not say. On the operating table, I felt as though I was "on." This must be a stage. I felt no discomfort, just anticipation. I listened to their conversation: Dr. Schulman, the nurses, the anesthetist, apparently, "this performance" does not need any extraordinary concentration on their part. I am very much surprised, I thought. I concentrate more on my performances. Listen to them! Politics in the middle of my prostate. I wouldn't do that if I were operating on theirs. As a matter-of-fact, I don't even agree with their political views. Why don't I answer them? I could give them my views on that subject, and show them exactly where I stand. Why do I take this lying down??? Stand up and be counted! I always say, why not now? Now, now, now, now ...

"How long did this go on?" Did I say that, or did I just think it? Well, it must be over. How do I know? They are wheeling me again. It felt good. Very light, very comfortable ... "Hey, they left me alone!!! Oh, this must be what they call the "recovery room." What for? I am recovered. How else would I be aware of my surroundings? Every moment a nurse tiptoed and felt my pulse, then left. It seemed endless. How late is it? The electric lights are on again ... here they come. Aha, to feel my pulse again. No! This time there was more than one. I feel very important. All the attention for "little old me" is getting ... not like in Nikolaev, when no one dame near me, as if I had the plague. Poor Mama standing on a ladder on the outside looking in, watching over me, her "Lemeshke." No, Mama never called me "Lemeshke." To her I was "mayn orem kind nebekh (my poor, poor child)."

"Mama, don't worry. My Betty is watching over me now, and Meele Peele and Ju Ju Puju. Do you remember them, Mama? Do you, Mama?"

The "wheelers" wheeled me again. Here I must be in my room, and there they are! My first-born, my second, my Betty. The nurses lifted me into bed. My eyes were wide open. "Nu, Sholomel ..." No, she didn't say, "Sholomel." That would show weakness in front of her two grown sons. "How do you feel, dear?" she asked. My answer was short and to the point. "Good! Very good." My younger son said something in regard to my brief but concise comment. I don't remember what it was, he said, but I burst into a "guffo," and my dear little family laughed with me. My Ju Ju Piju was a "scoffer," a clown. At the drop of a situation, he always comes up with something very clever. He thinks that it makes me laugh. I don't always say so, but I do too.

It was midnight. The nurse reminded my family. "I'm afraid now that you will have to leave." They turned to me. "We'll see you tomorrow, Dad," and they left. The midnight nurse had no particular problems with me. When I opened my eyes, it was tomorrow, and there was my treasured little group again. The nurse had put me in "visiting shape" while my eyes were still closed, but now I was ready for an inspection from my family.

It took exactly twelve days as the doctor had prophesied. Every day the doctor stopped by and caught a glimpse of his "art work" and applauded himself: "Very good, very good." On the twelfth day, he repeated his inspection, only this time I interrupted his answer and said, "Very good, very good, indeed!" "Tomorrow, Mrs. Secunda, he will be able to go home and sleep in his own bed ..."

We both smiled our satisfaction. My "bchor," my eldest son, was bringing me home in his car. He teased me. "Now Sholom, don't ever do this again. This is a warning. Don't ever pull another trick like that on us again. We had enough scare to last us for a long, long while ..."

At home I stayed in bed most of the time with the exception, according to the doctor's orders, of my daily walk in the nearby park for about an hour. I felt stronger each day. After a short period of recuperation, my doctor dismissed me into my Betty's custody. And to me he said, "Maestro, you may go about your daily routine." Now that was good news to me. I started preparing for my summer concert. I had been apprehensive at first. The management of the Concord Hotel -- we had become dear friends through the years -- in order to emphasize my importance, and what my presence meant to them, they warned me: "Sholom, the 'dog catchers' (those who stay in waiting to get hold of someone else's job) came to ask for your vacated position. As a result of the severity of your illness, they thought that you might not ... We are glad you fooled them!"

I came back to the Concord in time to conduct the symphony concerts without any strain on my part. I also started rehearsing the choir for the "High Holy Days." As of now, everything will be 'coming up roses.' I miscalculated my troubles even greater, first to start ...

Several months had passed since my bout that was triggered on the Passover holiday. Now it was Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year). The two days went off beautifully and uneventfully. The cantor, the choir and the concert -- everyone was complemented greatly. The guests did not know what had transpired these last few months, and I was not about to inform them about anything about their musical conductor. They wished me a "Happy New Year." "Halevei nisht erger" (not worse for the coming year). "Not worse." I should have been very happy, had I known what was in store for me. So I took it under consideration ..."

During the week between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, everything went according  to plan. I conducted the festival two days before. I rested. I felt fit for the coming work ahead. Friday morning, the day of Erev Yom Kippur (Yom Kippur Eve), I had the usual breakfast with my family and friends, as was our custom. After breakfast, I announced, "Betty, I'm off for my constitution. There will be little time for fresh air. Later, at three o'clock, I ordered a rehearsal of 'Kol Nidre,' then some rest, and at four-thirty the last 'feast' before the Yom Kippur fast."

It was a magnificent day in the Fall, crisp and clear and pure as gold, when suddenly the next breath came with a sticking pain in my chest. I halted "What the devil is this?" I thought. What did I eat to cause this sudden pain? It must be a gas pain, I explained to myself. "Just like a child." I reprimanded myself. I paid it no further attention and walked on, somewhat slower. "What's my hurry?" Still the pain persisted.

I won't tell Betty. I know her too well. She will send for the doctor. He'll send me to bed. "Kol Nidre" is staring me in the face, and I cannot afford to miss it. To get sick just at this moment is very stupid of me. A most inopportune moment. I was very angry with myself. Who can afford such a luxury? Not me! I'll keep my secret, if I'll keep my wits about me. No one need ever now ..."

But, "damn it, this pain! "Suffer, brother, suffer, you'll appreciate your health so much more." I egged myself on.

I went up to my room and got into bed. Rest. I couldn't find a comfortable position. No matter which side -- on my stomach, no good; on my back, worse. I got up, standing or sitting the pain was difficult to bear.

Time to go down to our midday meal. Not go? What will Betty think? Yes, I must go down. At the table Betty may not suspect anything. Everyone was enjoying their food. I did not eat a morsel. I found an excuse readily. "I won't eat now, Betty," I said and explained why. "Four-thirty is the last meal before the 'fast,' and if I eat now, how can I eat again later?" Betty thought it was quite sensible. "Why eat if you are not hungry now?" So again my bluff worked. "I'll go to my room to rest." "Again?" Betty asked. "Again, Betty," I said, and left.

Betty did not trust my excuses. She came up to the room. "Are you alright, Sholomel?" "Or course. What's the matter with you? Stop following me around like a baby. You know I have to rehearse the choir. I must go down!"  I ran out of the room to hide my pain from her. I ran to the shul to find sanctuary there. The choir had assembled. Not one of them noticed my discomfort.

Weeks later, Doris Cohen, one of my star soloists, told me: "After rehearsal the singers were discussing the fact that you let quite a few mistakes pass without your usual reprimand or comments. It was not your custom to be so lenient. We couldn't find any explanation ..."

Evidently the physical pain was so intense that it made the "artistic pain" much easier to tolerate. But, of course, they had no way of knowing. I was a superb actor in a pinch, and it became pinched ...
 

November 22, 1970, ch. 83
 

After the "Kol Nidre" rehearsal, I rested a few moments. It was time for the "main dining room." I could not even attempt to eat. Fortunately Betty cam down somewhat later. "Why so late?" I reprimanded her. I had already eaten. I rose from the table in an attempt to leave the room. "Where are you running again?" she asked. "What got into you?" "I am not running, Betty." I answer somewhat tensely. I really wasn't running -- barely walking -- dragging my feet, trying to reach my room. On the way up I encountered guests, and as was the custom, again they wished me a "Happy New Year." "Gum Atem" (the same to you), I answered. Frightening thoughts pervaded my mind. "Who knows, Sholom, if there will be a next year for you."

I changed my clothes and went down again to shul. It was early. I just wanted to be alone, apart from Betty. Her presence cannot help me now. She will only make matters difficult. Worse yet, she'll ask, she'll run for the doctor. Though there were plenty of doctors right here on the premises among the guests, and that I wanted to avoid, the hour of "Kol Nidre" is nearing and nothing or no one must stand in the way. I will not destroy the sanctity and the mood of the most holy of all our days.

I could not define my own feelings. Is it stubbornness on my part? Ambition? or is it fear? Or sheer stupidity? I was certain by then that it wasn't a gas pain, nor a simple stomachache. I was afraid that something much more serious had befallen me. "God," I pleaded. "Just let me live till after 'Neilah' (the last prayer). Then come what may." This prayer sounds very familiar to me. Didn't I say this once before? Good heaven, why do we forget so fast???

For "Kol Nidre" we all took our places on stage. The Rabbi, the Cantor, the choir, the trustees  ... prayers began. We sang "Kol Nidre" three times as custom requires, till it was time for the Rabbi's sermon.

Throughout that time I stood on my feet. When the Rabbi started his sermon, everyone was seated. I tried... it was difficult. As long as I was busy conducting, I was too occupied to dwell on the pain. It was self-hypnosis that kept me going. Sitting, I found it hard to breathe and the stabbing pain in my chest increased.

Couldn't I, or didn't I, dare to diagnose my pain. What was happening? I couldn't judge the sermon. Is it that long, or does it seem that long? Everyone is getting up. The sermon must be over. "I must! What must I do now? Oh yes. The next prayer is "Yaelah" (tumult). This is the prayer that starts, "May this remembrance of us ..." Two more hours to go ...

The two hours ended, and I was still standing. "Miracle of miracles," I congratulated myself. No one was aware that here stands a very sick man whose strength is ebbing from minute to minute. The Rabbi, the Cantor, and all the members came over after the prayers and shook my hand warmly, reiterating their praise and to wish "to enjoy the next year as much as they enjoyed this year, and many, many returns of this day to follow in good health." How could I tell them that such "good health" I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, this year, next year, or any year ...

Instead of milling around in the lobby, exchanging pleasantries, I said to Betty, "I'm rather tired. Tomorrow is another day. 'Yom Kippur.' I think I'll go to my room and rest." "Good," she answered. And we went up to our room.

I was hoping that she'd fall asleep soon, so I could get up and walk, or sit down at will. Lying down was impossible. Betty turned out the lights. I heard her regular breathing. She was asleep. I sat up in my bed and remained sitting for a few minutes. I got out, walked back and forth, and went back into bed, repeating the procedure, it tired me to a degree, that I had to lie down.

At daybreak, I got dressed. Betty woke with a start. "Sholom, why so early? What's the hurry?" she inquired. I found some other excuse. I shut the door behind me.

The shul was empty. Stragglers came in early. "The "Shacharit" (morning prayers) began. I sat in the corner. No one disturbed me. I wanted to avoid being seen, carry on any conversation, or for anyone to notice how sick I was. To tell the truth, why had I not realized myself how dangerously ill I was? Why did I wait? What happened later I learned at the hospital.

When I regained consciousness, coming out of the oxygen tent, I asked: "Where am I?" The doctor explained how gravely ill I was when I was brought to the hospital. "Thanks to your foolish ambition, or your idiotic theatre credo ... 'The show must go on ...'  "I hope, Mr. Secunda, that this will be a lesson to you in the future. Don't let such foolishness happen, ever again. We may not be here to help you ..." The doctor walked out in disbelief and anger.

The last thing I could recall when it came to the prayer "Ein Komocho" (There is No Equal), the Cantor choir and I were in our places again. The musical part of the liturgy began. I do recall thinking that my end was fast approaching. Or was this it? How come I could kibitz with myself. By the time "Neilah" comes around, I will be, as the saying goes, "Nokh Neilah" (translation -- Fini)! The end of "Maestro Sholom Secunda." "I'll never make it."

I made it. God wanted me to stay on a little longer, so that I may go on writing my "memoirs."

I left the shul under my own steam. Betty met me at the exit. I looked at her. "Come with me up to our room," I whispered. "I must talk to you."

She followed holding my arm, just fearful of what I have to tell her. But really not suspecting, she doesn't recognize that anything is wrong with me. Perhaps I am just imagining all that. Finally I told her what had been happening with me since yesterday morning. She stared in disbelief. "How dare you hide it from me?" She scolded me with tears in her eyes. "I'll call Shmilikel in New York. He'll come with his car. Then I'll call Dr. Feder, the heart specialist and inquire what to do next." Betty recognized that which I was afraid to admit to myself.

"Yes, Betty, you do all that. I'll go down to shul. No matter what, I must finish 'Neilah,'" I said stubbornly, and I went down again. Betty called Dr. Feder in New York. He was alarmed and expressed doubt whether it was wise to take me to New York. "He may not make it," he said. "It is advisable to take Sholom to the Monticello Hospital." Betty came to me in shul and relayed what Dr. Feder had said, omitting, "He's afraid that he may not make it."  That she told me much later. "You go and call Dr. Feder and tell him that I will not go to the Monticello Hospital, and he should arrange for a room in his hospital, Mt. Sinai, and that is where Shmilekel will take me."

From "Neilah" to the end, there was still quite a bit of praying to do. Yet how long could it have taken? God must have given my Shmilikel wings to the car. By the time the prayers were over, Betty and my son were already waiting with my clothes.

"That's it," I cried to them. "Take me to my room." I fell away on my bed. I could not lie still. They helped me up. "Call the house doctor," I cried. Betty left me with Shmilikel and Dr. Spindler entered with Betty. He took one look at me, went to his little black bag, took out some medication saying, "I must give him an injection and some pills. That will put him to sleep. Don't move him now. In the morning you will be able to take him to the hospital."

Betty telephoned Dr. Feder again and recounted what Dr. Spindler had said. "I hope all will end well," Dr. Feder said. "Telephone me before you leave for New York. I will wait for you at your home with the cardiogram apparatus."

Dr. Spindler's injection and pills did not do much good. I did not sleep. "I can't stand the pain any longer. I cannot ..."

At about one o'clock in the morning, Betty rang Dr. Spindler once again and begged him ... "Please, doctor, please do come up ..." He did and gave me another injection.

Was it him, or was it God? I only know that before he left the room, I was fast asleep or lost consciousness. Till seven the next morning I did not know what further happened to me.
 

November 29, 1970, ch. 84
 

Sleep or unconsciousness, whatever. I opened my eyes and sat up with a start. We were still at the hotel room. Betty and Shmilikel were near me, sitting in the same place, in the same position. I looked around. "Are the services over?" I asked. "Yes, Dad, the services are over. That was yesterday. This is today, the night after Yom Kippur. It is seven o'clock the next morning."

"I must have slept through the night," I said. Betty nodded.

"How are you feeling, Dad?" Shmilikel asked.

"Fine, Shmilikel, I think fine, just fine."

"Well, do you feel strong enough to leave for New York?"

"Of course." I sat up and reached for my shirt. My Betty helped me dress. Shmilikel took all our luggage to the car and came up to help us down. "I'll leave my car here, Dad. I'll drive yours." I protested. "Why son? I'll drive!" I stood up and smiled wanly. "You drive."

The car was waiting downstairs. We left the hotel. No one greeted us, no one waved to us, no one saw us. I was grateful. My son was at the wheel, and my Betty was by his side. I was in the back seat, trying to find a comfortable position -- sitting, reclining, lying down. Betty's body twisted in uncomfortable positions, staring dry-eyed, her look glued to my face. I could have cried out in pity for her. I dared not, less she misinterprets.

Between moments of drowsiness and waking with a start -- out of one nightmare into another -- we reached our home. Dr. Feder was already sitting in the lobby. I was helped into the elevator and into bed. Examination, the cardiograph, medication to ease the pain. Without questions or waiting for an answer, the doctor telephoned the hospital for a room. He turned to Betty and said, "I'm calling an ambulance. Have him ready." Hearing an ambulance, I protested again. "I don't want an ambulance. At the hotel I avoided disturbing or frightening the guests, or to make them feel sorry for me. I certainly don't want to do it to my neighbors. Shmilikel will drive me." The doctor had to consent.

Once again I was on my way to Mt. Sinai. I was expected there. The nurse came to meet me with a wheelchair. And once more the familiar flowers, framed picture on the walls, to brighten a bleak outlook.

It all happened so fast. Another doctor, another nurse, an apparatus, oxygen  ... My head was placed in that contraption. I could breathe easier, and I felt my eyes closing against my will. My last glimpse was of my Betty, my Meelee Peelee, my Ju Ju Puju. Will I ever seem them again? No one heard me, no one read my thoughts, no one answered ...

How long had we been apart? No accounting of time in the hospital. There were my two sons. Hadn't they gone yet? I must have dozed off, or had I depar ... No silly ... No one ever comes back ...

My eyes opened wider. Through the enclosure I saw their mechanical smiles, and the three of them as one, asked: "How do you feel?" I found my voice, though they could not hear me. I formulated, "Fine ..."

"Thank God," came the reply, as if the amen in the responza ...

Orders from the doctors: no talking, no movements at least for the next four weeks, nurses around the clock to watch, to feed, to attend to chores and charts and thermometers ...

I had plenty of time to think. Happy thoughts, they were not. Will I pull through, and if I do, will I be incapacitated, or will I be able to carry on my musical career, to write, conduct, travel, lecture ... I feared asking, not wanting to hear the negative. Yet I must know ...

"Follow instructions." The doctor was warning me to take care. "You'll be home and out of the hospital in about six weeks. Forget work for at least six months."

"Even that is encouraging." I promised to be good. I'd promise anything. Betty was at my bedside from nine in the morning, when they admitted visitors, until nine in the evening when they chased her out. My sons came twice a day. Instead of lunch, they would leave their offices and spend their hour with their father. In the evening they would come to take Mama home. Six long weeks (that was routine at the time.)

After the third week, Dr. Feder came in again. This time he wasn't alone. He brought a slew of young doctors, as if he were concluding a story that he had started before. He pointed to me saying: "And this is the Hercules, the Samson, I have been telling you about ..."

Evidently, mine was an interesting story. He was recounting my "escapades": my feasting, my fasting, my conducting, Yom Kippur Eve and the Day of Yom Kippur, while having a heart attack ...

The conversation that followed between Dr. Feder and the young interns was purely technical. I did not understand much. What I did catch was the last phrase, as the young doctors were leaving. "How the Hell did this man survive?" My family looked at me. I stared back ... Was I that bad? No one spoke. I broke the silence. "So, Dr. Feder, when am I going home?" "When I tell you to, when I think that you are good and ready," was his crisp answer. He returned to Betty, saying, "If he will obey orders, mine and yours, Mrs. Secunda, he will be capable of returning to his desk ... mind you ... I said, 'desk,' that is, no conducting, no car driving. Everything in small doses."

The nurses continued their vigil. I was a prisoner. Doors were closed, with that unhappy notice pinned on it for everyone to see. "No Visitors." Except for Betty and my sons, for a little while at a time. I begged the nurse to open the door a little crack, just to hear human voices, to see a passing shadow. Once in a while a young nurse, shy at not obeying a man that needed a shave badly, would comply with an apology. "You know, Mr. Secunda. I will be reprimanded ..."

I managed to keep my grave condition out of the newspapers. My son, my Eugene, who was with a public relations firm in the advertising agency, had many friends among the newspaper reporters and columnists. I warned him not to let a word escape. It should not reach any of the columns. My good friend, Chaim Ehrenreich, of the Forverts, did not know about my illness. But he promised to keep a "deep secret," and he kept his word. Other very close friends, mostly of the profession, called my home. The telephone either did not answer, or they got a busy signal. My Betty had removed the receiver, too tired to speak, or talking to her dear, devoted sister Lottie, or talking to the children. When word finally did escape and reached some of my close friends, they would come to the hospital, and if they had "pull" with some of the attendants, they were allowed a "peek," a wave, and no more ...

One of my dearest friends, Richard Tucker, had been in Chicago conducting the High Holy Days, when news reached him about my illness. He was in constant touch with my home, no matter where he would be. This time, not getting any answer again and again, he flew to New York and finally through the doctors, mutual friends, discovered that I was in the hospital. He came in, identified himself to the nurses and said, "I am leaving on an extensive concert tour and I must see my friend, Mr. Secunda, before I leave." Sensing the urgency in his voice, the nurse permitted him a few minutes with me. A moment of silence. Neither of us could speak. Then Richard Tucker entreated me with tears in his eyes. "Take care of yourself, Sholom. Take care, please." He hugged Betty and said goodbye, turning to me again and saying: "Promise, promise to take care of yourself. You must attend my testimonial that is being given to me by the Zionist Organization of America. You know we have a date ... to be there." He kissed Betty again and left. I kept my promise.

Mrs. Tucker did not fare as well as her husband. She came to the hospital. Richard advised her to go directly to my room, but on that particular day, the day nurse was a "strict constructionist." She executed her orders to the letter of the law. "Orders are orders, Mrs. Tucker. No visitors." Mrs. Tucker asked to visit with Mrs. Secunda.

The other exceptional incident took place when Jan Peerce, another good friend of long standing, came. He approached the desk, inquiring of the attendant as to my condition. The attendant looked at her chart and answered: "Critical ... No visitors ..." When Jan Peerce heard the word critical, he became so agitated, that he ran to the main office to get more accurate information. It was explained to him. "Mr. Peerce, everyone who is in the hospital with a coronary thrombosis is automatically put on the critical list, and no one outside the immediate family may see him." Peerce evidently showed very great concern and extreme nervousness. He mopped his forehead and wet his lips. The supervisor consoled him. "Mr. Peerce, we assure you that Mr. Secunda has improved greatly. And he will very shortly be discharged." Peerce would not be consoled. He besieged the supervisor. "Please, madam. I promise 'on my word of honor.' Just one minute. She walked him to the door and reminded him. "Just one minute ..."

Jan's eyes lit up, seeing me smile at him. "Don't talk, Sholom, I don't want to hear you talk. The next time I hear you, you will be laughing, playing, conducting, or lecturing. Don't answer me. I am the star. Let me do the talking. "Zay gezunt (be well)," and he left. Another good friend ...

The six weeks of solitary confinement, which was a fitting punishment for my foolishness, ended. My sons brought me home. I was in a very weakened condition, but with much hope. I stepped into my home, and Betty assured me.

"Sholomel, you will be alright now."

"I know I will, Betty. I know you wouldn't fool me. Not my Betty, EVER."
 

December 6, 1970, ch. 85
 

Beds I always thought were either for sleeping or love-making. Who ever dreamed that I would be in bed because of weakness! "Who had ever heard of anything so absurd?" I asked Betty. Betty smiled and said: "Well, Sholomel, you are not the only one. Thank God you are getting stronger. You do walk from room to room, and in the park for a bit of fresh air."

"That's right," I agreed. And I go for a ride with my sons -- a ride to the doctor. I make him happy, he makes me happy. He is happy with my progress and rewards me with a smile. He also recommended that for the coming winter I should stay in a warm climate. "Snow and wind," he said, "is not too pleasant for one recuperating from a serious illness such as mine."

We had been in Puerto Rico before. We had enjoyed the warm weather. On the spur of the moment I said, "Betty, how about Puerto Rico?"

"Well, how about it?" Betty answered. "I'll call the agency." I had to call off some of my appointments and break some contracts. Instead of staying for three weeks in Puerto Rico, we planned to stay six weeks. We left New York in a swirling, howling snowstorm, and we were greeted at San Juan Airport by a tenderly warming Puerto Rican sun.

The six weeks there were among the most pleasant in my memory. We returned many times after that. We had met many old friends and acquired new ones. Professionals, business people, socially prominent people, a great many musicians who had come from New York, where they had dwelled before coming to settle in Puerto Rico. Some, before of business, others because of climate, or both.

Among the new friends that we made was the conductor Arturo Somohano, conductor of the Symphony Orchestra, an instrumentalist who had left New York, came to Puerto Rico to teach at the University, to play in the symphony orchestras. However he mainly settled there because of the warm climate, and the quiet, easy life away from the tumultuous forever rushing, running, restless life in New York.

Another new and dear friend -- a great personality, one who shines like a beacon, is the meister of the cello -- the world renowned musician, conductor and composer -- the legendary Pablo Casals. With this genial man and his dear, young wife, Marta, we became very friendly. We were drawn to one another, and we would meet, speak of music, politics, the greats of our time, those of the past who he had admired, and so on ... no less now. I had worshiped the personality of Pablo Casal, even when I was still a young student. I would go to Carnegie Hall whenever he was to appear, whether in a concert with just piano accompaniment, or as a soloist with the Symphony Orchestra. For years I followed his artistic career.

During the Revolution in Spain, his name would appear in every newspaper the world over. He had aligned himself in position to the prevailing government -- a fighter for democracy against Fascism and Nazism.

When France usurped power over the Democratic fighters and proclaimed himself Dictator of Spain, Pablo Casals left his homeland in Spain and made France his home. He continued his musical career from France. He vowed never to return, as long as Spain will be ruled by a dictatorship under the Fascist leadership of Franco. Pablo Casals has kept his word and never returned.

When Hitler invited the Casals to come to Germany on the special occasion honoring "Herr Hitler," Casals answered, "I left my own country because of my hatred for Fascism, and I will certainly never participate in any country dedicated to or sponsored by a Nazi." In that respect, there was one other great personality in the musical field who had the same views -- the world renowned, Arturo Toscanini. He also refused to appear in any Communist country, including his own Fascist Italy. And to show his disdain for those dictators, Toscanini flew to Israel to conduct the first concert of the newly organized Israeli Symphony Orchestra.

Just as the sun had warmed my physical being while in Puerto Rico, so was I warmed by the friendship of their great genius Pablo Casals. Even visiting with him was a moral boost. Every discussion of musical themes lifted me spiritually and impatiently left me waiting for my next meeting with him. Not only was he interested in music, but in the political world about which he was so well informed. The social problems of the world, of the young, his age not withstanding, he had such young ideas about everything. Without exaggeration, I can say that this man was well versed on every worldly subject, no less than in the world of music. It sufficed to mention the word -- Fascism, Nazism, Communism -- he would jump from his place like a young deer, open his expressive eyes wide, hitting the table with his strong fist, expressing anger and hatred for every dictatorial government.

I'll never forget his warm words of love that he expressed, speaking of Israel. The first anniversary of Israel's independence ... Betty and I celebrated at Casals' home. It was also his ninety-first birthday. Telephone messages and telegrams from all over the world kept coming; musicians and admirers, and dignitaries of many countries. He was very appreciative of all the attention he was getting. It made him gay and happy.

I still recall his ninety-second birthday, when Betty and I visited with him again. Present at that meeting was the great pianist virtuoso, Eugene Istomin. Quite unexpectedly he came into the Casals home. He congratulated the Maestro on his ninety-second birthday, wishing him many more happy birthdays, kissed him and said, "Maestro, I came by plane just to congratulate you on your birthday. I am flying right back to New York to continue with my concert tour across the United States." That incident left an indelible impression on me.

And still on another visit ... at that time, I had told him that in the month of May I had planned to go to Israel, hoping to have my oratorio, "If Not Higher" performed there. I told him about the text of the oratorio. I also told him about the performance in some of the American cities with Richard Tucker as soloist, and how happy I would be if it were performed in Israel as well. "When are you planning to go?" he inquired. "The following May," I answered. "In that case, we too will go, Marta," he said to his wife. "I'd love to be there and see the people!"

"What are you saying, Pablo?" his lovely young wife, Marta, interrupted. "How can you go in May? The 'Casals Festival' takes place in Puerto Rico."

"So what?" he joked wittily. "When does the Festival end?"

"May 15th," she said.

"So we'll leave on the 16th for Israel," he concluded.

This illustrates the boundless energy of that out-of-the-ordinary human being.

He also asked me many questions about the great Yiddish poet, Yitzhok Leibush Peretz, about the story, about my music, who conducted, who sang, was I satisfied with the work. I had to tell him the story of Peretz -- who he was, of his other poems, etc. I told him in detail about "If Not Higher." He was so impressed and said modestly: "If you come to my ninety-third birthday, would you bring me a recorded copy of the CBS-TV performance?"

"It would be my pleasure, Maestro," I said, with tears in my eyes. I was so touched.

When we returned the following winter, I took along a tape of the Oratorio. I telephoned his home to let him know. "I'm here again, Maestro. I came to celebrate your ninety-third birthday." However, it was not Casals who answered the phone. It was Marta, his wife. She answered, and hearing my voice she said: "Oh, Senor Secunda, my Pablo is at the hospital. He has been operated on. But the surgeon assured me that he is on his way to recovery. In two or three weeks he'll be home again. I am so sorry that you cannot see him."

"The doctors will not allow any visitors, Senora Casals. I know very well how difficult doctors can be. I am well versed in the ways of hospitals. I am no novice in hospitals."

We were in touch daily, and she spoke hopefully of his full recovery. I certainly prayed for that man's life, as I had for my own.

When Casals came home, Marta telephoned. "Senor Secunda, my Pablo wants to see you." Of course we came, and his first question was, "Did you bring me the tape of your Oratorio? I'm anxious to hear it."

"Maestro," I said laughingly. "Let me first wish you a 'Happy Birthday.' My Betty and I sang a cappella 'Happy Birthday, dear friend. Happy ninety-third birthday, and many, many more.'" He smiled and thanked me. "Yes, Maestro. I have your tape at the hotel. You just get well. I will wait until you are fully recovered from such an operation."

"What operation? I don't even think of it anymore. I am preparing for my trip to Vienna. They are performing my Oratorio, and from there I come to New York, where I will conduct a concert of one hundred cellists ... that congregate, especially for that occasion, from all over the world. After that the 'Casals Festival,' and then back to Puerto Rico."

His wife was telling us no matter how much the doctors begged him to give up his trips and hard work, he would not hear of it.

In any case, I had to promise to come the next time with my tape. A date was set, realizing that he had no tape machine. He sent to one of the electronic companies and borrowed one, and made his wife Marta learn how to work the gadget. All in anticipation of the evening of our promised meeting.

We were sitting around the tape machine. Casals was looking into the music, following each note, each nuance on tape. When it ended he smiled and asked: "Who sang the tenor part?"

"Richard Tucker."

He smiled. "I must say, Maestro, to write such characteristic music -- one of necessity must be Jewish -- to sing it that way. Only a Jew can convey it!!!"
 

December 13, 1970, ch. 86
 

During those many years of my association with the Yiddish Theatre, as both a composer and director, I had written for most of the theatres: the performers, the legitimate directors, and the "so-called" directors. I was happy with few and tolerated many. At times I had pleasure; much of the time I suffered. Nevertheless I had been to see most of everything that had been produced in the theatre. If I liked it, I said so. If not, I kept it to myself. I had a professional obligation, a courtesy to pay to each one and each thing.

I cannot explain why I had not been to a particular theatre. I knew about its existence. Still I had never seen any of its productions. Nor did I know any of its productions, nor did I know any of the participants, other than seeing their names in print at times. I was aware that this was an institution with a serious approach toward the literary writings. I admit now, somewhat guiltily, that its durability and endurance should have intrigued me more. Who is at fault? Well, I had never been invited. I shouldn't have waited, but I did.

Unexpectedly my phone rang one morning, which is not very expected. The voice of the caller was that of Yosel Mlotek. I had know Mr. Mlotek, who was the Educational Director of the Workmen's Circle for many years. "Anything new?" I asked, somewhat surprised. "Nothing of great importance," he answered in his slow and deliberate manner. "But I would like to interest you in a new project," he said.

"Well, if it's interesting, I am indeed interested."

"Friend Secunda," he started. "'The Workmen's Circle,' as you know, is interested in the 'Folksbiene.' I'm not sure whether you are acquainted at all with their work."

"Much to my regret I am not, I admit it. I know of its existence. I know its aims are high and their chosen plays are rated highly, but I have never seen any of them."

"In that case I believe that it's high time you should get acquainted with them. I know that you are not interested in writing for the commercial theatre any longer. I have what I believe is a constructive proposition for you. You know the director, David Licht ...," he went on. "Well, he has adapted several short stories by Yitzhok Leibush Peretz and created a single play and called it 'The Melody Lingers On.' The play, as you can see, needs music. We concluded that no one is more fitting to write music to Peretz than you, Sholom Secunda."

I was interested in Peretz. I had read practically all of his writings and wanted to write music to many of his stories before I even settled on "If Not Higher."

"Of course, Mr. Mlotek. I trust you. Although I had never worked with Mr. Licht, I would like to read the play before I give my answer."

"You are right, Mr. Secunda! If you are in the least interested, we will send you a copy of the play, and I am sure when you have read it, you will like it, no less than did I and all of our colleagues. It was agreed that the play would be sent to you."

Shortly thereafter the play did arrive. I was very much interested in learning which stories of Peretz Licht had utilized. Fusing them together into one play, and how he had done it ... I read it, I liked it, and I decided, "Yes, I will write music to it, and it will have to be different, even more different that for the Art Theatre, for Maurice Schwartz." He had no singing in his plays. The music was incidental. In this play there is music. Performers are singing and dancing, and Licht had even introduced into the play several of Peretz' own poems. "That should be interesting," I presumed.

Betty didn't hear me. She was off attending to one of her many chores. She was always attending. I'm glad she didn't hear me. Now, wasn't this a silly question for a man in his seventies to ask, who should know better?

I didn't call Mlotek immediately. I waited. I wanted to read the play once more, perhaps even again to see if I had not changed my opinion of the adaptation. When I did ring and told Yosel Mlotek of my decision, he was happy to hear it. "Now I believe that I should meet with the director, hear his plans, meet with the company for whom I am writing. Do you agree?"

"By all means, Mr. Secunda." Mlotek arranged a meeting between myself, David Licht the director, Mr. Spaisman, one of the performers [actually the manager], and the executives. They came to see me at my home. Mr. Spaisman raised the question of money. I found it somewhat awkward to speak of money. They couldn't pay me what I would normally ask for, and I wouldn't work as cheaply as they could pay.

"So, Mr. Spaisman assured me. "We won't have to go to a Din Torah (Jewish court-of-law)." The truth of the matter is that we did not go to a "court-of-law" -- Jewish or otherwise --neither did I even get the minimum that Mr. Spaisman had promised. However, my meeting with Mr. Licht was fruitful. It was good to sit and discuss a play with a director who knows his writing, knows his mind, knows his stage, and who knows his performers. His interests are not "parts," but characters; not individuals, but the play in its entirety.

One thing had to be accomplished yet. I must meet my people, those who I must write for. I knew that they were not professional singers. Most of them had other interests out of which they earned their livelihood. The Theatre was their avocation. I did know Menashe Oppenheim, who had played that particular season with that group. Menashe will play the part of the "badkhan" (sort of a rhyming jester). I saw him in my mind's eye, and I believed that it suited him very well. Menashe Oppenheim aged gracefully. His voice, although limited in range even when he was younger, had a great deal of sweetness in it. He sang in a fine manner, which was very pleasing to the aesthetic sense. When I inquired about the others, Mr. Licht smiled, saying: "Zey veln zikh an eitze gebn" (They'll manage ...) I had an idea what I could expect in the way of singing.

The score was finished. Waiting for rehearsal, it didn't take very long to discover that most of the company did not sing, and they had never sung a solo on stage either. But they were willing, and they worked seriously at it, and it pleased me. I felt very happy in their midst.

It was 1969, the year I discovered the Folksbiene. The play was well-received, from the critics and audience alike. It did not enrich my status financially, but I had gained the friendship of a fine group of "non-professional" professionals -- those of the Folksbiene.