My Zayde: A Recollection
Poems by R.M. Usatinsky
Illustrations by Judith Sol Dyess
25TH ANNIVERSARY EDITION
1994 - 2019
Introduction to the 25th Anniversary Edition
A late bloomer, I received my bachelor's degree in playwriting from The Theater School at DePaul University just one week shy of my 29th birthday in June 1992. A week later, I found myself sitting in the office of Dr. Albert Erlebacher, professor of history at DePaul, talking about a new master's degree program he was about to spearhead.
DePaul's master of arts in interdisciplinary studies seemed too good to be true; a multidisciplinary curriculum that I could design choosing from a plethora of courses offered by both the English and History departments. And the icing on the cake was I'd able to choose between doing a traditional master's thesis or a self-guided final project, the latter being both intriguing and seemingly more fitting to my un-orthodox academic inclinations.
I enrolled to begin my second degree at DePaul and began the two-year evening program that fall. From the outset, I knew I had made a great choice and enjoyed the course work, classes, content and professors.
Towards the end of the first year, I again found myself in discussions with Dr. Erlebacher about my choice regarding the final project. He asked me which were my favorite classes so far from both disciplines and I responded by saying how much I enjoyed writing for magazines with Ted Anton, poetry with Richard Jones (both on the English side) and my participation in the history department's collaboration with the University of Illinois' oral history project on Chicago's Bridgeport neighborhood.
I told Dr. Erlebacher of my interests in writing poetry and that I had really enjoyed interviewing people for the oral history project. Then it came to me. I had been wanting to write a book about the life of my great-grandfather, who was one of the most influential people in my own life story who had passed away more than a dozen years earlier. Erlebacher suggested I write a book of biographical poetry that paid homage to my great-grandfather's life. He said I could interview family members and people who might have their own recollections to share that could serve as the basis for some of the poems. Then, I could self-publish the book creating an authentic interdisciplinary project combining writing, research, editing, oral history and all the elements required for publishing a book and setting up a legitimate entity by which to do so; in other words, establish my own independent publishing company.
And it came to be that in the spring of 1994, My Zayde: A Recollection, was set for release.
The book contained thirty original poems chronicling the life and times of my great-grandfather, Sam Satin (nee Yehoshua Usatinsky, 1890-1980). The poems were accompanied by fourteen original drawings by Catalan-born artist Judith Sol-Dyess, who was a former student of mine whose drawings I had remembered and admired.
During the process of writing and publishing the book, I interviewed family members and a half-dozen people who new my great-grandfather, providing wonderful and inspiring stories, anecdotes and vignettes about his life. Once the poems were finished, I began the task of setting up the publishing entity and sourcing book printers, ultimately selecting one in nearby Michigan. I also had to manage the acquisition of the ISBN numbers for both the cloth and paperback editions as well as the Library of Congress catalog number and copyright. Finally, I brought my dear friend, Rich Smith, on board to select the font and design and layout the book.
The books—all six boxes and 500 copies worth—arrived at my apartment one morning and all I remember is the feeling of total elation that overcame me; all the hard work and challenges had finally paid off the moment I gave my signature to the UPS driver.
Two weeks later—about a month before graduation—I presented the book at Hamakor Gallery in Skokie to about 60 close friends, family members, colleagues from Chicago's Columbia College, where I had been teaching English composition and poetry that year; and my faculty advisors from DePaul, including Dr. Erlebacher and his English department counterpart, Dr. James Fairhall.
Looking back at the original poems all these years later, it's easy to recognize this as an amatuer work, unsophisticated, unpolished and seemingly hastily arranged, all of which I take responsibility for but with the caveat that while I was doing all the work necessary to publish a book, I also had other classes, part-time teaching during the week and my job—and primary source of income—waiting tables on the weekends at Bub City, Lettuce Entertain You Enterprise's most popular restaurant at the time.
In revising the poems for the 25th anniversary edition, I wanted to make as few modifications to the original text as possible, and succeeded in doing so, making only minor changes I felt improved the overall quality and integrity of the poems. As the revised version would be earmarked exclusively as a digital only edition, I decided to also add some photographs from my personal archives.
I still look at this as a work in progress and thanks to technology (and the fact that I work as my own webmaster!), I revisit these poems often and will be the first to confess that I do occasionally tweak a word or two here and there as times go by. But that's the beauty of writing, that it's never really finished, not in the writer's lifetime or beyond. These poems are living things—collections of ideas, words, lines, stanzas and images—that convey different meanings, emotions and interpretations to every single person who encounters them.
In the end, this collection of poems remains my personal tribute to a man who touched my life and who touched the lives of so many who knew, loved, admired and respected him. He was, and will always be...my zayde.
R.M.U. August 19, 2023, Rijswijk
The Fifth Candle of Chanukah
In the cold grayness of a winter's day,
where solitude and wind part the clouds
long enough for a ray of sunlight to shine in
through the dirty window
and warm the cold, damp room—
long enough to etch a smile upon faces
where frowns are usually worn
sunlight
like the drop of oil that burned
for eight days and eight nights,
that lit the temple
and branded life and salvation upon the
souls of the Macabees;
behold, a miracle of light
for a miracle of life
the family gathers round the bed;
water on the boil, the kettle smoking steam
sundown
we light the fifth candle of Chanukah
Baruch atah Adonai,
Elohaynu Melech Ha'Olam,
Asher lidyshanu b'mitsvo-tov
V'etzy-vanu, l'had lik nair,
Shel Chanukah
the candle is lit and burning bright,
a child is born unto the night;
he does not cry nor sing aloud,
his pale blue eyes with destiny endowed;
his supple skin already holds
the scars of a life yet to unfold
his triumphant arrival into a changing world,
a life before our eyes unfurled;
though challenges before him soon await,
the hands that hold him are hands of fate;
when the candles have melted
and their flames flickered out,
the sixth candle of Chanukah will burn, no doubt
and so will the seventh as will the eighth,
for eighty-nine years through love and through faith;
the days will pass quickly, so will the years,
good times, bad times, laughter and tears;
come let us celebrate this wondrous night,
as the fifth candle of Chanukah burns ever so bright
My Pavoloch
In a hollow valley
on hallowed soil
in a little stone house
swept neat and tidy by a little straw broom,
a baby is born in my Pavoloch;
restless birds singing at the dawn of life;
a child, sucks in vain on a crust of bread,
on his mother’s withered bosom
dust rises from the earth,
in my Pavoloch; old men take the sun,
smoking what they’ve rolled; tired women
hang themselves out on the lines;
this, too, is my Pavoloch
in my Pavoloch people sing and people dance
there is dirt on the old men’s shoes;
women laugh so hard, so hard they cry;
everyone stinks of celebration in my Pavoloch
and sons of fathers go off to big cities
they go off and they never return; sons of
mothers who shall win great bounties; but the
fathers know what the mothers know not, their
sons will never return to their Pavoloch
an old man dies beside a dung heap,
an old man, a pious man, on his way to a
better place; no cold dwellings, no damp shirt
or fraying talis; his body will freeze with the
night and thaw with the dawn; there is death,
too, in my Pavoloch
but with every death comes a new life,
and a baby is born in my Pavoloch; and like
the restless birds that sing at the dawn of life,
a baby cries out in the silence of a new day
and when he is grown to be a fine man,
a fine of Pavoloch he will be; and he will
leave the place where he was born and go
forth out into the world with his dreams,
and he will remember his Pavoloch
The Road to Krasilov
On the road to another town;
one hoof beat—two;
a rattling cart shakes bags of grain
on a dusty road to another town;
the next town,
and the next town,
the next town after that;
trying to persuade the sun to shine but
one more lonely hour
the road to Krasilov;
dark in day as is at night;
wily crows watching every move,
awaiting even a modest spill;
an old oak telling lies to the wind,
how could its branches bend any lower?
“Where do you take your grain today, young man?”
“To Krasilov,” the young man tells the tree;
“To see that young girl again?”
“I could easily earn more in Kiev,” replies the young man;
“Yes, I suppose you very well could”
another lonely mile and another lonely sunset,
day escapes beneath an elastic horizon;
the young man has been fooled again
but his purpose is clear his will intact;
he will endure the shameless elements:
the biting wind, the stony ground,
and the raindrops falling hard like needles
piercing his supple skin
he carries on upon the road to Krasilov;
to sell his grain and to pick his flower
(a budding rose); thunder bursts awaken
him from a restless daydream; crows have
stolen his grain but love awaits him,
on the road to Krasilov
The Grain Merchant
From shtetl to shteltl
the grain merchant
bag in hand
packs a little case
collects a few old marigolds
has a sip of whiskey
sweet taste on his tongue
the grain merchant
sets off on his daily journey
sometimes takes a week
often takes its toll
collects a little money
has a sip of whiskey
bitter taste on his tongue
the grain merchant comes into town
weary and tired and hungry
grain to sell
stories to tell
collects a few new clients
a toast of whiskey—
l’chaim!, l’chaim!
and the grain merchant sets out for home
weary and tired and hungry
his family awaits him
with anticipation
for he’s collected a little money;
so, they boast and they toast a taste of whiskey
sweet taste on the tongue
of the grain merchant
The Dung Heap
He dare not breathe,
the young man beneath the dung heap;
footsteps drawing near
soldiers ready long, smoky rifles
noxious vapors squeeze swollen temples
like a python strangling its prey
a muffled sound screams out;
something jerks wild beneath the dung heap;
an inner quake sends an invisible jolt
to the surface of his skin;
the dung heap atop him rumbles like a volcano
about to burst, spewing its molten filling,
its red, acidic excrement flowing;
cascades of sweat and saliva gushing
from bloated pores;
night falls and the young man sleeps
beneath the dung heap
morning comes
the dew sleeps cool upon the dung heap;
blood clotted dry, crusted on broken skin;
the young man, nostrils burdened by the residue,
awakens, pushing his swollen finger
through the soggy mound
until it reaches the crisp morning air
slowly moving his head he plunges his lips
into the small hole he has made;
swallowing air,
kneading his way out of the clutches
of the womb-like dregs
that births him anew
spitting him out onto the cold, wet ground
warm fingers touches his thawing arm
but he is not afraid;
it is Moshe, a familiar and trusted friend,
extending a welcoming hand;
the soldiers have gone, there is work to be done,
bodies to bury and tears to dry,
that lie beside
the dung heap
Scars
Scars
have been seen
though not too often
by uncle: the one upon his back
by me: the one upon his hand
flesh that never healed
that bled for days
unattended to
scars
open wounds mended by
earth and prayer
ripped flesh torn open by unmerciful shrapnel
skin, parted, vulnerable to contamination
he looked at the gash
saw bubbling blood oozing froth from the void
like a rotting eruption
shaking the blood from his hand
trying to free his mind from disgust
but the vision remained
blood streaming a lake of fear
tears falling
happy to fall
happy to flow
from seeing
living eyes
scars
narrow rivers of elongated flesh
raised mounds of crippled skin
a ridge of oil painted upon a canvas
of supple dermis
a sealed fissure
a broken promise mended;
trying to smooth them out
flattening them over the damaged
landscape, spoiled by madness
and war; a place where winds no longer rage
where tears no longer sting;
gun shots ring out silent in the night air
flesh binding flesh upon nature’s masterpiece
of flawed perfection
scars
tiny reminders left upon his body
remembrance eternal
a permanent memoir
that never lies for it never could
a photograph that will never fade
a truth that can never be questioned
a reality of what once was
what might have been
a poem
a vignette
a song
a story told with only one, solitary
superfluous mass of pale gray skin
no need to know how the story ends
never curious about the circumstances
or messages hidden deep within
where are those scars now?
buried with his memory
deep within my soul
Rose & Sam Satin
The Marriage of Yehoshua and Razel
A handsome couple
Yehoshua and Razel;
the shtetl swells with pride
mama Fegeh and papa Raphael make final preparations
young girls run from house to house collecting needed things
even grey clouds make way for festive rays of sunshine,
mandelbroyt and honey cakes baking themselves extra sweet
it is, of course, the sweetest of all occasions
the rebbe is late
his carriage null by the roadside
he rides his old mare bareback the rest of the way
has memorized his bruchas
penned a magniloquent sermon
the shtetl will stand in awe as he proclaims a
union under God
the rebbe arrives, is hurried inside
he brushes the journey from his suit
scrubs his hands clean
wipes the road from his face
his white talis looks like a floating angel
as it is removed from its dusty bag
the ceremony begins
tears fall from wrinkled eyes
that have known too much suffering
yet can still shed sweet water
Yehoshua is nervous, more than he anticipated
he wants everything should go just right
he remembers Nathanson’s wedding,
such mishugaas!
the screaming children
machetunim bickering
(the geese—oy vey the geese!)…
Yehoshua wants a nice wedding
the bride and groom beneath the chuppah stand,
the rebbe puffing out his chest
shoulders high, chin angling upwards
(what a showman!),
a perfect blend of sentiment and schmaltz
it will be a most beautiful wedding indeed
the rituals completed
the ketubah endorsed
a modest kiss
a hand for life
the breaking glass
mazel tov!
your love should last a lifetime
Sam & Mary
First Born (Part One: Razel's Poem)
Married life
husband and wife
clothes on the line
scrawny chickens boil
sipping cherry wine
summer brings a baby
linen clean and white
the first born child
a baby girl
cries gently in the night
baby Manya, first teeth, first steps
precious eyes so true
the most wondrous gift that God has given
a baby girl for you
shayna Manyaleh, the rebbe comes to name you
and to say his bruchas
celebrations soon begin
for luck everyone pinches your tuches
a parent’s pride in creating life
equaled only by their joy
they have made a girl, a beautiful girl
soon they’ll be blessed with a bouncing baby boy
at night when all is quiet and still
and baby is soundly asleep
Razel and Yehoshua lie awake in their bed
praying to God for their Manya to keep
(Part Two: Yehoshua’s Poem)
How does it feel to hold
life in your arms?
looking deep into her eyes
seeing your own eyes
deep, blue, serene, shtark
hold her tiny hand in yours
the Earth holding the moon in its safe orbit
touch her soft face with yours
unshaven and course
so fatherly and proud
kissing the layers of her supple neck
as she sleeps peacefully upon your moving chest
what do you feel when her soft hair
touches your lips?
what do you hear in her
coos and giggles?
what is like to hold life?
the life of your first born child;
may she bring you all the joy in the world
Warsaw
Time to escape the brutality
of the modern age
to seek a safe haven
and new fortunes
free from hostile warriors
from a life that wasn’t a life
take a road
any road
where will these roads lead us?
through village and valley
hardship and anguish
to freedom and salvation
to Warsaw
where new tomorrows await
new possibilities, opportunities;
a better life awaits
nobody hunted, no one in fear:
freedom awaits
a journey of days and eternal nights
stale tea leaves brew in charred kettles;
a journey to freedom
but for a price:
where does the road to freedom begin?
what will it be like once we get there?
Warsaw
where the streets move below your feet,
vendors and thieves crowd bustling squares,
tongues fly—rapid fire—
tongues that have already tasted freedom;
waste it! rejoice in its sweetness
settle in to a dark and narrow flat,
arrange your documents and official papers,
you now have a country to call your own,
one that will care for and protect you and yours;
you are now Owsiej Usiatynski
you have rights, freedom and civic duties
but your time here is only fleeting for
real freedom awaits upon distant shores
so, you’ve heard about America
the land of plenty and
outstretched arms;
the place where dreams come true,
where handshakes lead to fortunes,
where a landsman—even though a stranger—
is a brother and friend
say goodbye to cold and friendly Warsaw,
be grateful for her sanctuary,
for giving you a son:
but now you must move on,
destiny awaits;
don’t look back,
Warsaw was but a transitory dream
The RMS Aquitania
Four Hundred Hours
Thirty hours
on a ship of steel, steam and hope
wind tosses the massive boat
salty spray blinding its human cargo
bound for new frontiers
Fifty hours
and old man dies triumphantly
while only part of his purpose is fulfilled
it is still a triumph
his family will carry on his name
and his dream
Eighty hours
brittle bones creak in the
icy sea air
the bread is stale
tins of sardines impossible to open
with frostbitten fingers
luckily the whiskey still
tastes sweet
gulls, curious passersby
rest a while upon the ship’s
frowning bow
One hundred hours
A celebration below a
cloudy night sky
singing, laughter
drenched in gaiety
quickly transforming into
tears of jubilation
drowning every ounce
of fear
One hundred and fifty hours
the baby catches a cold
already making trouble
little Jakey
give him a few drops of
whiskey, he’ll sleep the
night away
Two hundred hours
this is becoming an endless journey
perhaps it is really death
disguised in a bittersweet ruse
mouths are salty and dry
tempers short and flaring
but only when strength briefly returns
Two hundred and fifty hours
pallid, drawn faces pleading to
heaven, praying to God for redemption
let the waters part bringing us land
let the heavens comfort us in soft white down
Three hundred hours
silence drifting upon the sea
like a baby’s whisper
pitiless waves heartlessly
toss the ship about
obeying nature’s violent behest
Three hundred and fifty hours
the once strong and unyielding
reduced to grievous despairing souls
expressionless faces staring into others
each one pitying the other more
how the human condition prevails
is a mystery, how they’ve survived
this far, beyond explanation
transcending reason; if only
for faith they shall survive
to suffer another day
Four hundred hours
cheers crying out at daybreak
those who found refuge in unsettling
dreams awaken, sharing in the jollity
raising their voices amongst the
thousands of jubilant voices—rejoicing
land drawing nearer, the journey
transforming into a distant, fading
memory; time for preparing cases and
wetting down unruly cowlicks
The ship's whistle blows, time for
well-wishing, hugging, kissing, handshaking;
the hours are now but a memory
a little taste of hell for an abundant serving
of heaven; may God bless them all in their
new lives, journeys and destinies
Ellis Island
Disembarkation
Ellis Island
New York City
America
Processed
Examined
Lungs
Teeth
Eyes
Inoculated
Poked
Prodded
Name changed
New identity
New world
New opportunities
Family
Friends
Freedom
Money
Dreams
Hope
Prosperity
All things new
Port of entry
Passport stamped
Immigrant status
Uncertainties
The future
Awaits
Mein Zunim (My Sons)
Settled into America
working long days
earning hard cash
paid by the piece
Chicago town
stony roads and
dirty rain that stains
little boys’ tattered trousers
as they play in the muddy yard
Jakey and Alex,
mein zunim
watching them outside
like boys they play
rough and tumble, smiling faces
milk moustaches and chocolate teeth
help mama set the table
the napkin goes on that side
the fork on top, two spoons
go there, one for borscht
another for tea; a butter knife
such good boys mein zunim
time for school, to learn,
make friends and grow up too quick
don’t come home too late,
tomorrow is Shabbos
sleep, sleep you mischievous boys
shluf mein zunim, shluf.
wake up it’s time for shul
wash your faces and make your beds
put your Shabbos suits on and comb your hair
Jake, Jake, the trouble you make!
threw another stone through the
neighbor's window; glass shatters
Mrs. Perlstein screams:
“Jakey, I’m going to come downstairs
and pull your hair!”
Jakey makes a face and mocks:
Jakey, I’m going to come downstairs and
pull your hair!
Razel makes a stern face, Jakey’s head bows low
Razel swats him a good one on the tuches
as he waddles past, giggling his way through
the house and to his room
Alex, mein Alekel
such a quiet and nice boy
sits on papa’s knee tickling
papa’s moustache;
listens to the radio
fixed with purpose, swallowing
every word, every sound;
a curious boy
observing motion, stillness
nature and people
plays nice games with the
neighborhood children
shares his mandlbroyt with
Sammy Soroka
and how I watched mein zunim grow
from small, frail boys—yinglekh—
to young men in tailored suits with
thick hair, strong hands and
good hearts; and such wondrous things
mein zunim know; about the world and
life and the whole entire universe
how proud you make me
how proud any father would be
to have zunim
like mein zunim
The West Side
I never saw bricks standing so tall one
on top of the other; buildings edging up
skyward; I wonder if bricks standing so
tall could reach the sky; how could people
live up so high? and walk up three flights of
stairs? vey iz mir!
I never saw streets stretch so wide, so long;
where could these streets lead? I wonder if
they could stretch all the way to the holy land;
how could someone walk down such long and
endless streets? walking miles and miles and
miles; vey iz mir! such streets; and I never saw
grass so green and tall, or flowers so yellow, or
a blue sky so very blue as this blue sky; and here
I will make my family a home, on the west side;
14th Street, Keeler, Tripp, Kildare, Karlov, Kostner,
12th Street, Grenshaw, Roosevelt Road, 15th Street,
16th Street, 22nd Street, Independence Boulevard,
Douglas Boulevard, The Russian Shul, Zimbler's
(they had everything there!), Turovitz Grocery,
Zweig's, Perlman's, Cohn's Shoes, Segal Shoes,
The Lawndale Theatre, The Central Park, The Gold,
The Marbro, The Paradise, Carl's, Fluky's, The Liberty
Bank, Silversteins, Horwich Bakery; such a place!
the west side; where Ben Gurion spoke at a parade
outside Pinsky Hebrew Shul; my little Tibie presented
him with a bouquet of flowers; the west side; where life
was sunlit, clean, and everything was new and everyone
was young; where you knew who your friends were; you
knew who your family was; you knew your kids' friends'
names; you knew time was precious, that life was for living;
on the west side; where you could sleep in Garfield Park
on a hot summer night and the only thing that would bother
you were the mosquitoes and the yentes kvetching; but even
that was okay, on the west side;
where you said good morning to your neighbor, where you
knew your neighbor and knew your neighbor's business
(even if it wasn't your business); where you went to shul on
Saturday morning; when you actually had Shabbos clothes;
when you stayed after services not just for the honey cake
and whiskey, but to see your friends and greet them with
hearty handshakes of Gut Shabbos...on the west side;
where you made your home, where you settled down, where
you raised your family and lived a life unlike any life; where
you dreamed dreams unlike any dreams of old and where you
could walk down streets so long and wide, see buildings so
high you thought they reached the sky; where you paved the
streets with gold dust dreams, built your own skyscrapers with
tall ideals; where you spent your days, your nights and your
holy festivals; where you saw your dreams of yesterday bloom
and your hopes for tomorrow sprouting like fertile seeds;
where the limits of success had no boundaries, no frontiers,
for success was limitless, failure unheard of, unthinkable;
where life was good, wholesome and innocent;
like never before,
like never again,
on the west side
The Installment Dealer
House to house he travelled
the installment dealer
wearing shoe leather down to the cobblestone
on his route he challenged the seasons;
he appeared on your front porch, he was known for
he came well recommended;
he was invited in, offered tea and coffee cakes
he sat in the best chair; came with samples from
Gilbert Drapery; not the most beautiful or the most
expensive, but what his clients could have easily afforded;
whatever he brought was good enough, who knew any better?
Mrs. Walenski made her selections; the installment dealer
reached for his payment book; five dollars now and a dollar a
week; Mrs. Walenski's head fell almost to the floor, her large
eyes fixed upon the payment book, then shifted slowly to the
installment dealer;
"Mister Satin," she said as she held out her large hands
"Have another piece of coffee cake, I made it myself"
"I'll take what you can give me," said the installment dealer as
he set his tea cup down and reached into his jacket for his pencil;
"You'll give me more next time," he said as he took a bite of
coffee cake, crumbs falling to his lap that he brushed to the floor;
Mr. Satin arrived at his next appointment; on the south side to visit
an Italian family; he entered an empty flat, was greeted by skinny
children and a zaftig woman who hugged him so close he nearly
disappeared into her bosom; it's another poor family story; they've
just arrived and haven't a cent; "I'll take what you can give me,"
said the installment dealer, "you'll give me what you can next time;"
The Italian woman embraced him; his frail frame disappeared
once again into her bosom; the children laughed out loud;
"I'll pick you up on Wednesday morning at nine, we'll go see
Gladman, you'll have the most beautiful home on the south side"
the installment dealer sold everything, you name it, he sold it;
he bought by Pritikin, by Midwest; on Halsted, on Jefferson
Boulevard; furniture, clothing, silk; any household necessity
and what a schmoozer! at three times the price he could sell a
shmate to a princess or a Rolls Royce to a pauper;
he was a household name; like a part of the family; invited to all
the goyishe simchas...weddings, communions, whathaveyou; was
there at the baptism of Esposito the Italian's son, at the funeral of
Wisnewski's cousin; was there when you needed him, when you
didn't have a dime;
the installment dealer; the customer peddler; with his payment
book, installment plans, his samples and his kind heart; he took
care of business that your family should have what it needed,
that his family should have what it needed
Razel, A Rose (For Rose Satin)
A woman I never knew
for she lived not long enough
to have known me in this life
she was my zayde's reddest rose,
she was his faithful and loving wife
they shared together the truest love
bound not by legal ties, but bound by
sanctity and respect, and the beauty in
her eyes; she was as strong as the
strongest bridge, gentle as an autumn
breeze, her soothing voice, her placid
touch, could calm the raging seas;
intimidated not by modern things,
by progress fast or slow; and by any
device for a pizza slice, she always went
with the flow; though held traditions close
at heart, she lived in the present tense; her
family came first and foremost, with love,
concern, and reverence; and when she
passed away, I have been told, zayde's heart
it nearly froze; until her memory thawed the
chill and softened it again, like the petals of
a beautiful rose
The Labor Zionist Alliance (L.Z.A.)
The Labor Zionist Alliance
Farband Chapter
working for the new homeland
Palestine
Israel
the land of our forefathers
(our people);
meetings take place, ideas for raising money
(raising consciousness)
raising the understanding of how important it
was for the Jewish people to have a land of their own;
a place (a special place) to call home,
to call their very own;
the meetings
the stained black-bottomed coffee cups
and smoldering cigarette butts in square
glass ashtrays
(they really smoked back then; cigars, too);
they drank coffee, and nobody knew from
cappuccino or Sweet and Low;
they called the meeting to order by pounding a
gavel (a real wooden gavel)
I saw it once in zayde's top drawer;
and the work continued
work for the homeland
The Labor Zionist Alliance
the workers, the backbone
the heart and soul,
the toil and tears of a young
growing nation
Sam Satin (left) and Dr. Max Dolnick
Dr. Max Dolnick
Dr. Dolnick was a quiet man
a bespectacled and thin man, of frail health
a close friend of my zayde
eloquent, scholarly
an ardent Zionist
recruited zayde
to be an ardent Zionist
Dr. Max Dolnick
a good friend, an intimate friend
they never dined, never socialized
embraced ideas and loyalty––respect––but never each other
not a rich man, Dr. Dolnick
gave money to his patients who could not afford
their prescriptions; he did not drive
zayde would occasionally drive him in his '41 Nash to see
his patients; and zayde smoked too much back then
Dr. Dolnick said "Sam, quit smoking now and you'll live
another forty years;" zayde quit smoking and lived
another forty years;
I remember the portrait of Dr. Dolnick hanging from the
landing at the Dr. Max Dolnick Community Center
it was the first thing you saw as you came in through the
front door, a portrait of a man with a hollow wood like face,
wearing small, round glasses circling small round eyes;
so, there I was one day, skimming the pages of the telephone
directory looking for a namesake, a relative, a landsman
someone who could tell me more about Dr. Dolnick,
someone who could bear witness to the man and his existence,
his friendship with my zayde
any detail
a photograph
a memoir
a faint recollection
a story (made up or not); anything to inspirit the myth
something to confirm that there was a man who I never knew
who meant so much to a man I knew so well
whose car I drove, whose bed I slept near, whose hand I touched
the same hand that outstretched and greeted
Dr. Max Dolnick;
as for me, I never saw the man but for his portrait hanging
but often had I touched the hand that had often touched his;
I never heard him speak though I have heard others speak of him;
he was a friend of my zayde's, a dear friend, a close friend
and one day in a distant time and place, when our spirits together
will be, will Dr. Max Dolnick be a friend to me
United Pavolotcher Society, Waldheim Jewish Cemetery, Forest Park, Illinois
The United Pavolotcher's Society
How alike we are to the seeds of trees
that plant their roots so deep into the ground;
we, whose roots share a common tree,
planted deep beneath a common soil;
how alike are we to clouds that spread their
shadows far across the landscape; clouds that
rain heavy water and soak our common soil,
drench our common roots, and sprout our common seeds;
we, who are the scion of past lives and past lands,
uprooted and transplanted like trees, trees that survived
the cyclones and torrents, the passages of time and
(r)evolution; dusk and dawn, days and nights of prayers
and psalms, that one day we will be reunited in our land,
our home, our Pavoloches, our Krasilovs, beneath the
ground, upon the ground, and far reaching to the sky;
we will drink sweet wine from Elijah's cup and sing
Dayenu; this is our brotherhood, our sisterhood,
our resting place in a land far from the land of our
fathers; but it is only temporary;
we have paid our dollar for our plots of land we
wait the day to answer God's calling when we will
awake to a new and brighter sunrise; when we will
walk once more along dusty roads; when we will smile
upon our neighbors, and raise our voices high above the
wailing call of the shofar blaring freedom, redemption
and salvation;
we will be reunited with our land and our people,
with our God Almighty who will bring us forth
once again from bondage and deliver us to our
promised land;
and though it may not be Zion it is our Zion
the place we rest eternally
the land of our home
for today, tomorrow,
and for all time
5912 N. Mapleweood Avenue, Chicago
Maplewood
There is a modest three flat on Maplewood Avenue
where my family used to live; and I lived there, too,
as a little boy; and during the great migrations from
the west side to the north, to a newer, better, safer
place to live, came my family to Maplewood Avenue;
they came with old furniture and new hopes, strong
traditions and happy hearts, joyful hearts; bubbe and
zayde slept in the back bedroom that overlooked the
yard, garage, and alley; grama and grampa had the
smaller bedroom, shaded by the Zanin's building
next door; mom and aunt Phyllis slept on the back
porch that was converted into a girl's room; how
carefree the times, how innocent and tranquil;
breakfast was served on the round kitchen table
that eventually became mine and since discarded;
lunch on the job or at school or at a friend's house;
dinner on the table at the same time every night,
everyone had their place at the table on Maplewood;
and if someone liked their vegetable soup strained,
or the skin taken off their cold chicken pulkies, they
didn't have to ask; if someone spilled their ginger ale
or left crumbs of challah on the table it didn't matter
and no one became angry;
at home on Maplewood; where your friends were made
to feel like family and your family felt like friends;
where the door was always open and the fridge was always
full; the laughter always hearty and warmth and love a
comfort to anyone who sought it;
we walked up three flights of stairs to get home
on Maplewood; zayde would take one stair at a time,
sometimes he would stop and rest on the landing between
floors, looking out of the window with his hand resting upon
the polished banister;
on Maplewood there was a mezuzah on every door post;
a clank in every radiator; a fake fireplace in the frontroom
that might have been real once but no one knew for sure;
there was a little table and stool in the front hall where
the telephone was; the phone was black and you dialed it
with your finger or a pencil; zayde would dial one number
at a time, slowly; he would look at the first number, insert his
finger in the dial and spin it round hard; then the second,
the third, and so forth; sometimes he would place the handset
down until he had finish dialing, then would slowly lift it up
and press it hard to his ear;
Maplewood was where family was; Maplewood was family;
Maplewood was where the Blechman Cousin's Club met to
play cards and talk and drink schnapps; where zayde argued
about uncle Moysh smoking in the house; zayde thought that
since he quit smoking everyone should quit smoking;
On Maplewood; where Jakie came to spend a few days to recover
from some very personal surgery that left him sitting on an inflatable
bagel; Maplewood, where Phyllis and Art came to sleep and to weep
the night their little Shari died; where on Wednesday bubbe would
come home from downtown with her pretty little hat and white gloves
from returning what she bought at Mandel Brothers on Monday;
where friends would come to play kayoodle and mah-jong;
where lovers kissed their first kiss outside the front door
(even my first kiss was there outside the front
door on Maplewood);
Maplewood
the only home I ever knew that was a home
where I was a child
where my zayde lived
where Friday night we all ate together
where we watched Ed Sullivan in the frontroom on
Sunday nights; where I played Tarzan and even had a
rubber Tarzan knife;
when zayde would come home late on a Saturday night
I would lie awake in my bed listening for the sound of the
car door slamming then zayde walking slowly up the stairs
and in the door; I would wait until he took out his teeth and
pulled the covers over his head; we fell asleep so quickly and
begin to snore which put me fast to sleep;
Maplewood
where I got the chicken pox and wet the bed
where Lucky gave me my first (and only) black eye
where some bullies punctured my first basketball
where I waited outside in my little baseball uniform
for Arnold to pick me up
(which he never did);
Maplewood
where I was afraid to go into the basement alone
where I thought I heard witches laughing on the back porch
where jesters chased me in my dreams
where zayde let me come into his bed
where I had my first giraffe
where the Hofmanns were our neighbors
Mrs. Hart, the landlady
David Mason, the only boy who ever invited me over
Mr. Schick who fixed television sets
the O'Brians and Haleys who would greet you from their yards;
Maplewood
the street where I lived
once as a boy;
where I can still feel zayde's beard scratching my face as I
snuggled up beside him on his bed; where I can still smell
the aroma of SkinBracer faintly on his face; where I can hear
the sound of him scraping his burnt challah over the sink
and sipping his tea from the saucer, and cursing every other
driver, and leaving home for the last time...on Maplewood
Dr. Max Dolnick Community Center, 6122 N. California Avenue, Chicago
The Center
Where did zayde go every morning?
every afternoon?
every night?
what was his business?
his doings?
his occupation?
he founded a community center on
California Avenue; named it after his
beloved friend Dr. Max Dolnick;
the Center was his life, the very center
of his life; there from morning till night
making necessary plans and arrangements
looking after everything that required looking after;
I remember the red calendar book he kept inside
of the right top drawer, or sometimes left open
upon his desk; every day a different function:
meetings, luncheons, affairs, dinners, banquets,
rummage sales, bazaars, and of course the High
Holiday services, that was the most important
event of the year;
how he would haggle with Cantor Lind over his salary,
but zayde would always get his way; Cantor Lind was
worth twice what he was paid and would have worked for
half of that; he told me on the phone one day how he loved
my zayde, how he embraced him and how he had even kissed
him once upon his face out of sheer admiration for the man;
there were many special people at the Center; Hymie Drucker,
uncle Art's father, worked nights and smoked in the bathroom;
he only took a puff or two before putting the cigarette out
between his fingers, stasheingit behind his ear for later;
Elnora Wilson was the first black person I ever knew, she
worked for my zayde and called him Mister Satin, which
seems quite odd to me now;
and did they argue; zayde must have fired her a
thousand times; Elnora took care of me when I
was young, just like she took care of zayde as
he got older;
one summer afternoon, she sat me down at the
large wooden table in the kitchen at the center;
I must have been around five years old and the
Cubs game was on an old black and white T.V.
with a coat hanger antenna; Elnora asked me if
I wanted something special (of course I did!);
so, she cut a square slice of vanilla ice cream
from the carton and dropped it into a bowl; then,
she took out a bottle of Coke from the fridge and
poured the Coke on top of the ice cream, gave me
a spoon and set the bowl down in front of me...
"your grandad likes these," she said; it was my
first Coke float; I remember Elnora every time
I have one;
Elnora had many children––nieces, nephews and
other relations––who would come to work at the
Center on special occasions, especially during the big
Pioneer Women bazaar; her son-in-law, A.J., was the
first person to let me go into the boiler room
(because zayde never let me); Wilma-Jean, Elnora's
daughter, was very beautiful (I thought she was
Diana Ross the first time a saw her!); she worked in
the coat check during the bazaar;another daughter,
Bertha, would work in the kitchen with Elnora,
Bertha's children found their mother dead one
morning in her bed; they said that something burst
in her brain; but she wasn't the first, or the last, of
Elnora's children to die so very young (or tragically);
so many memories of the Center, of zayde behind his
desk, arguing with someone on the telephone, locking
up at night to go home, shaking both doors extra hard to
make sure they were locked;
I would often come and have lunch with zayde at the Center
as my grammar school was just across the street; we would sit
in his office and eat together, or go to Robby's where zayde
would have mushroom barley soup; "give me the barley and
keep the mushrooms," he used to say to our waitress Barbara
Sullivan; he would eat chicken or a cheese sandwich (he
would only eat Muenster!) and a baked apple or rice pudding
for dessert that he would drown in half and half;
and the Center had a leaky roof that always resisted mending;
zayde was always worried about that roof;
I loved sitting in zayde's chair behind his big desk, looking
through the scribbled-on pages of his date book; I was a child
and never worried about leaky roofs or date books; in the end,
the leaky roof always wins;
so, fold the tables, stack up the chairs and return the table
linen; pack up the files and lock up all the doors (be sure
to shake them extra good and hard);
we say goodbye to the past and remember how good it was;
we pick up the phone one last time and dial SHeldrake 3-4398;
the number has been disconnected but there is still a familiar
voice on the other end of the line; it's Mr. Satin calling from
the Dolnick Center...I'll take that call
Elnora Wilson, zayde and my grandmother, Mary Lurie. June 26, 1976, Evanston, Illinois
Friends and Rivals
Friends and rivals filled zayde's life
with joy, laughter and a bisel strife
Mr. Fink and zayde would constantly fight
it didn't matter who was wrong or right
it could have been cloudy and one would say bright
it could have been daytime, the other would say night
with Katz it was a difference of opinions and views
about politics, religion, Israel, and Jews
about who blew the shofar on Yom Kippur eve
and how much the bluzer in turn would receive
with Max Clar there friendship replete
with Pinsky rapport, though impetus to compete
with Stein due respect, with Patt nothing less
with Fannie Poster agitation, but handled with finesse
but in times of commotion and subtle disarray
zayde somehow managed to always get his way
if he hollered or screamed it was not to offend
for he loved and respected both rival and friend
Right to left: Sam Satin, me, unknown, Reuben Pinsky, Alfred Fink. Dolnick Center, September 1979.
The Shvits
On Roosevelt Road
take a shvits, trim and massage
such a mechayeh!
"Feh"
"Feh," zayde would say
as he gave a little grepts
always made me laugh
False Teeth
Sometimes falling out
put them in a cup at night
I tried them on once
Pants Over Pajamas
Just like Dick Van Dyke
pants over his pajamas
in time for supper
Tea
Sugar cube in mouth
spill hot tea on the saucer
takes a little slurp
Chaver Satin (In the Words of His Friends)
A friend to all
to those who knew him from the Center
those who knew him from shul
those who knew him as a neighbor
those who knew him as I knew him
chaver means friend
who is there when you need a friend
Chaver Satin was there when you needed a friend
Chaver Satin was there when you needed a favor
especially to book a room with short notice
he would always manage to squeeze you in somehow
Chaver Satin would make sure you had what you needed
that the coffee was set up and the tablecloths were clean
and if you asked for a donation, Chaver Satin would write
you a check––maybe a small check––but you could always
count on Chaver Satin
and Chaver Satin was stubborn
Chaver Satin always had to do things his way
but his way was always for the best
Chaver Satin––no matter how stubborn––was always fair
Ttre aren't many people left in the world like Chaver Satin,
a true and dedicated friend whose words are worth their
weight in gold, who you can call at anytime if you need to
but then again, there never were many people in the world
like Chaver Satin
Prelude to Waldheim
I was only fifteen; had my learner's permit
zayde would pick me up at home on Washtenaw
he would move over and slide back the front seat
the long drive to the cemetery was getting too much
for him and seeing how I could drive, and was a good
driver, (even at fifteen), everyone felt better about
zayde not driving so far;
I knew the way to the cemetery. I had gone with zayde
so many times before: California to Lawrence, right on
Lawrence to Manor; left turn, cross the train tracks,
continue south to Irving Park turn left on Harlem until
you arrive at the front gate of Jewish Waldheim Cemetery;
first we would stop at the office and zayde would go
inside and take care of business; I would turn on the
radio while he was inside (he wouldn't let me play it
when we were driving); zayde returned and we would
drive to where the family plot was he would survey the
graves: bubbe's, little Shari's, his friends', his own;
I liked looking at the pictures on the headstones
sometimes you had to lift a metal cover to see the
picture sometimes they were locked like bubbe's was;
zayde would tell me not to walk on the people
zayde would pick up twigs and fallen leaves from
around bubbe's grave; he would walk, row by row,
making mental notes of any problems: weeds, chips in
the headstones, grass that needed cutting;
we would stop at the office once more before we left so
zayde could report any problems; we would leave the cemetery
and go for a bite; we wouldn't talk much on the way home;
occasionally, zayde would comment on my driving, that I was
going too fast or too slow; but he was diplomatic about it;
he would drop me off at home and slide over behind the wheel
pushing the seat up and re-adjusting the mirrors; he thanked me
for taking him and then drove off; sometimes I would kiss him
goodbye; I would wait until he crossed Devon Avenue before
going inside, often wondering how many more times I would
drive zayde to the cemetery before the last time I would drive
zayde to the cemetery
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Edgewater Hospital, Chicago.
Yellow Jaundice
I took zayde to the doctor for a check up
before his annual pilgrimage to uncle Al's
for the winter; I waited outside for a long
time in a corridor at Edgewater Hospital;
zayde came out, was silent, he said he
would have to be admitted at once, that
he wasn't going to be able to go to
California, not now, anyway;
the doctor said it was jaundice his skin
had a yellow tinge, his eyes were yellow;
they would have to run tests to see what was
making zayde yellow; they found that he had a
blockage somewhere in his stomach that would
have to be removed (I thought it was because he
ate too much challah);
the date was arranged, surgery postponed because
he was running a fever; they said despite his age he
was healthy enough to undergo the operation but they
offered no prognosis;
everyone came in from out of town; when they opened
him up they found cancer in his pancreas;
he survived the operation, was put into intensive care;
what a horrible place...the man in the next bed was
recovering from open-heart surgery; he was pale and
had tubes coming out from everywhere (what a sight);
there was never any talk of recovery or of zayde going
home; just observation and getting zayde strong enough
to eat;
doctors came in and out; nurses, some nasty some nice,
forced ice chips and apple juice into zayde's dry mouth;
all I did was take zayde for a check-up
I'll Take You Home Now, Zayde
There were times when I thought the best thing
for zayde was to simply take him home; if he's
going to recuperate, why not let him recuperate
in his own bed? if he's going to get well again,
why not let him get well in his own bed? if he's
ever going to eat again why not let him his eat
his own challah, drink his own borscht and sip
his own tea from his own cup in his own bed in
his own house? and if he is going to die, what
better place to die than in his own bed in his
own house?
I suggested that we take zayde home but no
one agreed; the hospital was the best place
for him, they would say, he would have the
proper care and attention; I'll take zayde home,
I would say to myself I'll give him the proper
care and attention he needs," but no one would
listen to a teenage boy; had they, maybe zayde
would have gotten well; had they, maybe he
could have gone to California; had they, maybe
he would have never died; had they...
Witness
Six months dying in a small stinky room
Edgewater Hospital; where his body shrank
smaller each passing day; a tube in his neck
sustained his life which wasn't much of a life,
it merely postponed death, put it on hold; fed
through one tube, urinated through another, yet
another in his arm delivering sustenance to make
him strong;
he soiled his sheets; sores and blisters on his back
and legs were constant ailments though we tried to
keep him comfortable by rubbing him down with
lotions;
moaning and dying more each day; every painful
movement brought him closer to the end; he counted
rabbis and salt shakers, he recollected his bar-mitzvah,
his wedding; called out names of his parents and prophets,
childhood friends and relations; sang and chanted and
spoke in tongues;
but he was still my zayde
and fascinated by it all, I observed his death witnessing the
passing of a life from one realm to another
Pesach in Acapulco
Six months of suffering
watching others suffering
as zayde lay, weightless,
suffering;
I was sixteen
zayde's car was mine now
it would never be his again
I drove his car––my car––
to Edgewater Hospital to see
him everyday; no one knew I
wasn't going to school
for six months I watched my
zayde dying, watched my family,
coming and going, in and out,
consultations with doctors,
decisions not being made
grama and grampa had a trip
long planned to Israel
go, we told them, pa will be alright;
mom and dad had a trip
long planned to Hawaii
go, we told them, pa will be alright;
I was invited to Acapulco for Pesach
with Sari's family
go, they told me, zayde will be alright;
I went one last time to see him, to tell
say goodbye and to wait for me; he was a
shadow of the zayde I had once known;
I told him, though I was sure he did not
understand, that I was going to Acapulco
for Pesach; zayde always knew he would
die on yontif;
I was at breakfast on Saturday morning
at a kosher hotel in Acapulco, Mexico;
it was Shabbos
it was Pesach
it was also yontif
suddenly, I was overcome by morbid thoughts
I ran to the phone in the corridor outside the
dining room; I called collect, mom answered
I asked if everything was okay, told her I felt
that something was wrong, maybe with zayde
she couldn't hold back that something was
wrong, the pauses were too long; she told me
zayde died last night, on yontif, on Shabbos,
just as he knew he would;
everyone had just eaten dinner; they had been to
the hospital a few hours earlier; a nurse called
advising that the family should come, it wouldn't
be long before he would be gone;
I hung up the phone and returned to my breakfast,
informed my gracious hosts that my zayde had died;
they consoled me but I did not need consolation, I
excused myself and walked out into the hot morning
sun, stopped in the circular driveway, there was a
palm tree there; I looked up towards the sky and said
aloud to God: please take care of my zayde
I did not return for the funeral, zayde would not have
wanted me there anyway; I had done enough I had
comforted him enough; he had waited until I had gone
away to die, not wanting me to see him that way,
overcome by the final shadow, wrapped in his shroud,
covered by his talis; I hoped they had shaved him nice
and combed his hair with a wave like he liked it
when I returned home from Acapulco my family was
still in town; I don't know what everyone thought about
my not being at zayde's funeral; selfish, I imagined and
wouldn't have blamed them if they had; but zayde knew
why and understood, that was the most important thing;
I can't remember the long flight home, it was so long ago
maybe it was all a dream; perhaps I hadn't gone to Acapulco
at all; maybe I had invented the entire thing...
and life went on; I went back to school, was held back a year
until I made up what work I had to, and did; I drove alone to
the cemetery many times; I talked to zayde, told him about my
life; I never cried until that day, nearly a year later...I was at
Sari's house and it suddenly occurred to me that my zayde was
no longer there;
I locked myself in the bathroom and I cried, remembering all
we had been through, zayde and me; all of those afternoons in
the hospital; all of those things we said and shared; all of the
things I had seen that I probably should not have seen; all the
roast beef sandwiches on white toast with mayo I ate in the
hospital lunchroom sat atop a red vinyl swiveling stool at
the counter;
zayde's soul was finally at rest inside of me; our lives, mine
on earth and his in heaven, could go on, peacefully, together,
united by our memories, our souls and the love we had and
often shared and still, to this day, remain
Shattered Dreams (1981)
Shattered dreams
on the laughing porch
with one toy box, giraffe,
and the white wicker tantrum;
seeing and feeling one hand above
my head as the gray man sleeps
besides me, as he always does;
a child's peace of mind
seeing images through thread-wound
rings, the mind's eye of a little boy;
playing games on checkerboard floors
always trying to find turtles and birds
buried in the yard;
the peeling of the false brick-like siding;
the clothes line, and the other line;
the little blue pool, always waiting for
the other children to come and play;
my zayde died there,
I can still hear him in my dreams.
not calling names, or counting rabbis,
but reaching out a thin and frail hand
through delusions in his mind;
delusions implanted by illness and disease;
as he lay there waiting to die alone, so did I;
the sand ran all around my feet, the sun,
scorching my skin; the beach and the hourglass
were one, but fate was far beyond the setting sun;
time shattered dreams once more,
while smiles turned to frowns;
shattered dreams of a little boy and
an old man and a life long lived,
lived well, but ended as do all lives;
as will mine;
when will time not shatter dreams?
when will our lives not end like
sandy beaches? when will our
childhood nightmares cease to
torment us waking us to horrors
in the middle of a peaceful night's
sleep?
forever is never
and never it seems
will time shatter time
instead of our dreams
My Zayde
My zayde was an old man
from the day I first knew him
until the day he passed away
we shared a small bedroom with
two twin beds; I was glad to have
someone to sleep with
he had two dressers
one is now mine; it is my
most beloved possession
my zayde would take his
teeth out before going to bed
he would rinse his mouth with
warm salt water in the morning;
he would eat toasted challah and
drink Sanka for breakfast
he wore thick eye glasses,
a hat, and a cardigan sweater
with a shirt and tie
he had white hair and a
white moustache; combed his
hair so it made a wave
(my hair does that now)
he used an electric razor to shave
he'd splash on SkinBracer that I
could taste when I kissed him;
after I moved away I would still
sleep at zayde's on Friday nights
we would watch Sanford and Son
and Chico and the Man; sometimes
he would let me stay to watch Johnny
I couldn't fall asleep until I heard zayde
get out of bed and say I'll pish, take out
my teeth, and come right to bed
on Saturday morning he would drop me
off at home or sometimes I would go with
him to shul; then we'd go to Robby's for lunch
he ate there almost every day
all the waitresses loved him and
called him Sam; even the cook
would come out and say hello;
zayde drove a big blue Chevy Malibu
the seats would burn you in the summertime
zayde took me to a picnic once on
the south side; my zayde was a
beautiful man; he was kind and
he loved me more than anyone;
one day I hope to be someone's zayde
a great-grandfather to my grandson's son
I will talk about my zayde
how he would sit in the yard on
summer afternoons wearing bermuda shorts,
a white sleeveless undershirt, black socks
and slippers while reading the Forwards
and fall asleep on the mesh webbed chair
while I would play in the yard; grama would
call us up for supper and we would eat cold
chicken sandwiches on challah with mayonnaise
my zayde reminds me of a day just like today;
cloudy, warm, and gray; and my zayde is still a
part of me, and now he is a part of you
his beautiful memory enshrined in our
hearts, our minds, and upon these pages
forever
Obituary
SATIN
Sam (Sheika) Satin
beloved husband of the late Rose (Razel),
devoted father of Mary (Bernard) Lurie,
Jack, Alex (Shirley),
devoted zayde of Phyllis, Arthur,
Terri, Bob, David, Diane, Michael,
Jeff, Mark, Jamie, Cory,
Neil, Ricky, Ross, Tracey, and Glenn.
Founder, manager and chairman of Dr. Max A. Dolnick
Community Center,
Dr. Dolnick High Holiday Services,
President United Pavolotcher Society since 1925,
Westside Pinsky Farband Shule,
Sec'y Ben-Gurion branch Labor Zionist Alliance,
member of Bai Jacob Congregation,
Associated Talmud Torahs, member Friends of Pioneer Women,
member Association of Americans and Canadians in Israel,
member of Krasilover Verein,
active in Jewish National Fund,
Israel Bonds, Jewish United Fund,
member of the Northwest Home for the Aged,
Histraduth.
Loved by all who knew him.
In lieu of flowers contributions to the Pioneer Women would
be appreciated.
Services Tuesday, April 8, 1980
2 p.m. at Original Weinstein & Sons Chapel 3019 W. Peterson.
Interment United Pavolotcher Cemetery,
Jewish Waldheim.
Chapel visitation at time of services. Information 561-1890.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to Dr. James Fairhall, DePaul University;
Dr. Albert Erlebacher, DePaul University; Abbott Chrisman;
Alex Satin; Mary and Bernard Lurie; Terri Morris;
Miriam Mayer; Aviva Sorkin; Cantor Phil Lind; Bina Nadler
Text Copyright ©1994 and 2019 by R.M. Usatinsky
Illustrations Copyright ©1994 and 2019 by Judith Sol-Dyess
All Rights Reserved
Original book design and layout by Richard G. Smith
Photos courtesy of the author's collection
