Read Online Jew Store by Stella Suberman - Free Book Online

that would be eaten the first day, edibles had to be spoilage resistant. Into the first-day sack went fried fish, tomatoes, and boiled chicken; into the second-day one hard-boiled eggs, as well as jars of borscht, eggless (because raw eggs spoiled) and with an extra infusion of citric acid, or, as it was called, soursalt—among thrifty Jewish housewives, the traditional substitute for expensive lemons and also dimly understood as a spoilage retarder. In both bags were jars of already brewed tea and coffee, canned salmon, and a can opener. Matzos and fruit were strewn throughout.
    My father had scheduled the trip for a Sunday because my Uncle Philip, who attended the College of the City of New York all week and on some Saturdays but not Sundays, would be able to transport them to the train. My uncle carried the family and their belongings from the Bronx to Grand Central Station in a rented wagon behind a rented horse. When the protracted, complex trip was over, my uncle said for my mother to try to relax, to try to enjoy the new experience. “Think of yourself as lucky,” he said to her. My mother thought of herself as nothing of the sort and could barely summon up the energy to give her brother a good-bye flutter. After that she did a “plunk-down” in her seat, and stayed there, becalmed and listless.
    Still, if her body was becalmed, her head was beset by strong winds. She felt, she used to say, that everything was topsy-turvy, or, in her way of saying it, “topsy-mopsy.” Only “tem-po-rary” came through clearly, and she clung to it, to keep from being blown away.
    T hey arrived in Nashville in mid-afternoon and walked into town. My father’s objective was, as in Savannah, to spot a store owned by Jews. They moved on to Church Street.
    From the first step, my father felt he was returning to where the very air was life-sustaining. “Celebrate! Celebrate!” he cried to the family.
    Celebrate? My mother answered that what with two days on the train and now the schlepping, they were lucky that instead of dead they were just tired.
    My father faked outrage. “What am I hearing? In the South, tired ain’t allowed, only peppy! You hear me what I’m saying?”
    If my mother thought it was a schlep, my father treated it as a promenade and as a way to get out the kinks from the train trip. He said to my mother, “Listen to your muscles. They’re saying, ‘Hoo-boy! Thank you, lady!’”
    My mother always said she didn’t hear her muscles, she heard only my father. He was floating along, lost in admiration for the buildings, the stores, the merchandise. When he came upon a store with a black marble foundation, he seemed overcome. Peering in at the window displays, he awarded an accolade: “Merchandise the finest,” he said. It was as if fervently expressed enthusiasm would at last convince my mother of the soundness of the decision to come here. He finally summed it up: New York stores were not better; there were just more of them.
    On the next block he glanced up at a sign that said GREEN-GLASS HABERDASHERY , flicked his head, and they went in.
    Greenglass Haberdashery was a store for the better class. There was carpeting on the floor, lamps instead of overhead lights, buttery billfolds and hand-crafted fedoras on display. Barney Greenglass, as well turned out as his store, greeted the family and proceeded to what protocol demanded: New Jews in town were to be taken immediately to meet the rabbi and his wife.
    At the rabbi’s house, there was a welcome and refreshments. My mother told herself—and was surprised when she did—that if non–New York Jews were like Sadie had said, at least they knew from a nice glass of tea and a good piece of honeycake.
    The rabbi’s wife was full of the authority that came from being the rabbi’s wife. She instructed my mother on important things: the location of the little store that