their sorrow to my parents and to try to find words that might ease the pain of my brother’s death.
The funeral was held on Lexington Avenue, way uptown, just before you get to Harlem. They put my brother in a coffin on a little stage, and everyone prayed for him. When I looked at that coffin I remembered seeing his unrecognizable face and bloody bandages in the hospital. I was told the truck had run over his head.
After Julius was killed, I thought I’d never feel comfortable in my skin again. I was empty. Our little bedroom that we’d shared felt empty too. I just walked around like a zombie. At school I became an even worse discipline problem than I’d been before.
I do remember the kindness of my teacher, Miss Hopper, at P.S. 28. When I came in, she told the rest of the class, “Bernie has lost his brother in an automobile accident.” She pulled me aside and told me she had lost a sister. For the first time I felt like someone really knew how I was feeling. My fellow students didn’t come up and say, “We’re sorry,” but I could feel their compassion too.
My parents never let on how terribly Julie’s death affected them, but they closed down the tailor shop and we moved to the Bronx, near the corner of Fox and Simpson Streets. I can’t say for sure they moved because of Julie’s death, because I never questioned where we lived. All I knew was that whenever they decided to move, I had to take all of my toys and goods and put them in a cardboard box and hope no one would steal them.
The Bronx wasn’t as alien as it might have been, because my aunts and uncles lived in the neighborhood. I had hoped that Julie’s death would have exempted me from having to study for my bar mitzvah, but no such luck. My parents signed me up at my aunt and uncle’s temple, and I had to start going to Hebrew school there. I had a lot of studying to do before I would be ready to conduct a service in front of the whole congregation; this was the big day when, according to Jewish tradition, I would become a man.
Poor Julius,
I thought,
was never going to get that chance.
I made it through Hebrew school and the bar mitzvah itself, including the speech that every kid makes. Mine was pretty generic: I talked about how much I loved my parents, how I was planning to devote myself to my religion, and how I was looking forward to a life of accomplishment. These were the things I knew everybody expected me to say, so I did, although to be honest I didn’t believe a word of it.
To my surprise, it still turned out to be a very emotional day for me. It felt very strange to be up on that bimah without Julie in the audience. The experience shook me, and I felt that terrible sense of loss all over again.
My mother and father both seemed to be very happy, although they must have been feeling Julie’s absence too. There were a lot of people in the synagogue that day. Some of them came over to me, hugged me, and slipped me envelopes. I slit them open and saw singles, five-dollar bills, and tens. It was the first time I had ever held paper money in my hands. Just when I was beginning to think that this was going to be a really good day, my father came over, took all the envelopes, and put them in his pocket. I never saw them again.
M y parents had registered me for P.S. 80, the local public school, but I hardly ever went. When I did, the teachers would ask me, “Where have you been? You can’t skip school.” I would make up extraordinary stories. “My aunt got sick, and I had to help her with her pushcart, or she wouldn’t be able to feed my cousins.” I created a fantasy world populated by family members who needed me so much that I couldn’t possibly go to school.
One time in spelling class my English teacher said, “Schwartz, come here.” We had just been tested on ten spelling words, and I had spelled every one wrong. He said, “Not only did you get every word wrong, but you made a mistake in your own name.” Sure enough,
The funeral was held on Lexington Avenue, way uptown, just before you get to Harlem. They put my brother in a coffin on a little stage, and everyone prayed for him. When I looked at that coffin I remembered seeing his unrecognizable face and bloody bandages in the hospital. I was told the truck had run over his head.
After Julius was killed, I thought I’d never feel comfortable in my skin again. I was empty. Our little bedroom that we’d shared felt empty too. I just walked around like a zombie. At school I became an even worse discipline problem than I’d been before.
I do remember the kindness of my teacher, Miss Hopper, at P.S. 28. When I came in, she told the rest of the class, “Bernie has lost his brother in an automobile accident.” She pulled me aside and told me she had lost a sister. For the first time I felt like someone really knew how I was feeling. My fellow students didn’t come up and say, “We’re sorry,” but I could feel their compassion too.
My parents never let on how terribly Julie’s death affected them, but they closed down the tailor shop and we moved to the Bronx, near the corner of Fox and Simpson Streets. I can’t say for sure they moved because of Julie’s death, because I never questioned where we lived. All I knew was that whenever they decided to move, I had to take all of my toys and goods and put them in a cardboard box and hope no one would steal them.
The Bronx wasn’t as alien as it might have been, because my aunts and uncles lived in the neighborhood. I had hoped that Julie’s death would have exempted me from having to study for my bar mitzvah, but no such luck. My parents signed me up at my aunt and uncle’s temple, and I had to start going to Hebrew school there. I had a lot of studying to do before I would be ready to conduct a service in front of the whole congregation; this was the big day when, according to Jewish tradition, I would become a man.
Poor Julius,
I thought,
was never going to get that chance.
I made it through Hebrew school and the bar mitzvah itself, including the speech that every kid makes. Mine was pretty generic: I talked about how much I loved my parents, how I was planning to devote myself to my religion, and how I was looking forward to a life of accomplishment. These were the things I knew everybody expected me to say, so I did, although to be honest I didn’t believe a word of it.
To my surprise, it still turned out to be a very emotional day for me. It felt very strange to be up on that bimah without Julie in the audience. The experience shook me, and I felt that terrible sense of loss all over again.
My mother and father both seemed to be very happy, although they must have been feeling Julie’s absence too. There were a lot of people in the synagogue that day. Some of them came over to me, hugged me, and slipped me envelopes. I slit them open and saw singles, five-dollar bills, and tens. It was the first time I had ever held paper money in my hands. Just when I was beginning to think that this was going to be a really good day, my father came over, took all the envelopes, and put them in his pocket. I never saw them again.
M y parents had registered me for P.S. 80, the local public school, but I hardly ever went. When I did, the teachers would ask me, “Where have you been? You can’t skip school.” I would make up extraordinary stories. “My aunt got sick, and I had to help her with her pushcart, or she wouldn’t be able to feed my cousins.” I created a fantasy world populated by family members who needed me so much that I couldn’t possibly go to school.
One time in spelling class my English teacher said, “Schwartz, come here.” We had just been tested on ten spelling words, and I had spelled every one wrong. He said, “Not only did you get every word wrong, but you made a mistake in your own name.” Sure enough,
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