Music for My Father

                                                                           

Music For My Father

Replica of Dad's antique kiddush cup

 Just before  the onset of World War I, my grandfather, Israel Marder,  left the little town of Brode in the Austro-Hungarian Empire to make a new life in America. My father, Sol, was very young at the time. He  and my grandmother, Helen,were supposed to join him when  Grandpa could afford money for their steamship tickets. Unfortunately, the war intervened, leaving family on both sides of the ocean, not to be reunited until 1920.

When Dad and his mother finally said farewell to Brode, they applied for a joint passport that recounts their trip across Europe to Le Havre, France where they planned to  board a boat for the United States.   At one border crossing, after learning that they were Jews, the guards  began to taunt them and shoot over their heads . Dad was immediately shoved down into a ditch and warned not to raise his head .Shots were fired  that sounded like bees buzzing.Heedless of the warning, a boy next to him got to his knees. With a cry, he fell over dead.

  The Polish Eagle  in Dad's passport is boldly stamped over an entry that documents their stay in a little Polish town  called Auswieczem. Twenty years later, it was the site of the infamous Ausweitz death camp.  Every time I look at this passport, I am struck with what would have happened if my grandmother and father had stayed there.

 Never-the less, they somehow  arrived at LeHavre.  Dad and Grandma Helen (we called her" Nanny") sailed across the Atlantic to New York City. The very first thing they saw was a little boy eating a banana. Right then and there, Dad decided he wanted one. Somehow, he was able to get that banana, but didn't know that it had to be peeled. After biting into the skin, he started to throw it away. People laughed at him, calling him a "greenie" or "greenhorn."They were right;.he had an awful lot to learn. After a  short stay on Ellis Island, both were finally cleared for the long  train ride to Chicago, where they were met by my grandfather.

The Marder family settled  a few blocks from the famous Maxwell Street Market,, a neighborhood already heavily populated by newly arrived Jewish immigrants. Like many others of their generation, my grandparents wanted their son to  learn English and become educated in the ways of their newly adopted country. Dad was soon enrolled in a school near  his home. One day, as my dad tells it, he got in deep trouble with his teacher over a remark she made about Grandma. Becoming incensed, Dad took off his heavy shoe and heaved it at the woman. As you might expect, that got him thrown out of school.

Instead of telling his parents, Sol secretly enrolled himself in another neighborhood school, where apparently he did very well .  Speaking Polish, Yiddish and German, my father soon added English to his list of languages, and began earning pocket  money by tutoring students after school.

As a high school student, Dad attended Harrison High , then Crane College. His goal was to become a physician. The untimely death of my grandfather, however, meant  he now needed to support his mother. Instead of  attending medical school, Dad chose to become a chiropodist (or as it is now called, podiatrist) because the course of study was shorter. He graduated from the Chicago College of Chiropody and proudly set up his new practice on the west side of Chicago, on the busy corner of Madison and Western. He shared an office space with a dentist with whom he traded professional services, fixing Dr. Stein's feet in exchange for free dental care.

It was about this time that my father met the beautiful, dark haired young woman that he would marry.There is a photo of my parents together at this time at a beach. Mom, slim and lovely, stands with her arm around Dad's waist. He is dressed in a light linen suit, with wavy, slicked down  dark hair and a hint of a stylish mustache. What a striking couple they were! Jean and Sol married in 1933 with the blessings of both families.

In 1939 my sister, Judi ,was born.Then, when the U.S entered the World War II, Dad was deferred because he was the sole support of his mother. He  felt compelled to do  something meaningful while his friends fought overseas, and so he volunteered to become a block warden. He patrolled the neighborhood with a helmet and flashlight, making sure houses were in compliance with air raid procedures, and was a first responder if medical attention was needed.

After the war, my parents decided to go into business for themselves. . Dad closed his practice, but wisely kept up his certification as a chiropodist. Mom had valuable experience working in her dad's clothing store.

Her youngest brother, my Uncle Maury, had just been discharged from the Army, and he generously helped Mom and Dad start a men's work and casual clothing store on the southwest side of Chicago.

One day, as my Grandmother Celia was making lunch for her son-in-law, she asked Dad to buy a raffle ticket. He declined, claiming that he'd never won anything in his life. Despite his protests, Grandma pulled out a dollar and bought the ticket for him. A week later, she was on the phone to my mother, excitedly telling her that Dad had won a new car. This was a big prize, new cars had been impossible to find during the war.
Also, it meant that my parents could drive across the city and visit my grandparents as often as they wanted.

For a number of years, my parents lived in an apartment in back of their store, with my grandmother watching my sister, Judi.  Dad and Mom were devoted to each other, but he also had very strong ties to his mother. At times, I know it must have been hard trying to please the women in his life. Eventually, my family moved to a larger apartment near their store, where hopefully there was more space and more peace.

The year I was born, Dad sponsored my great-aunt Hattie, enabling her to emmigrate to the United States. I'm sure it made my grandmother very happy to be finally reunited with her sister after so many long years. In order to accommodate his extended family , Dad and a friend  purchased the two story apartment building that would become our new home on Francisco Avenue. Together with my great-aunt, we now had six family members under one roof.

.As a little boy, I remember telling my dad  I had a sharp pain on the bottom of  my foot. He sat me down at the kitchen table, took off my shoe and sock and carefully examined the sole of my foot. In very simple terms,  he explained that I had a plantar's wart and that he had a doctor friend who could fix it. The next day, I was introduced to Dad's friend, Dr. Zipperman, who treated me over the next few weeks. Every time I went there, Dr. Zipperman told me what a great doctor my father was. I was very impressed and extremely proud of Dad. That was the first time I knew that he was a skilled podiatrist.

In the early 60's, two seemingly unrelated events changed my father's career path.  Nearby Midway Airport closed, because its small runways couldn't accommodate the new  jets that needed to land there. This took away a large amount of business from my parents' store, because the Midway ground crews had always shopped there. As luck would have it, a nearby podiatrist announced his retirement and was searching for someone to take over his practice. Dad took a calculated risk and bought out Dr. Lloyd, who had a substantial patient following.  Dad's practice soon began to thrive. I know it meant a great deal to him to return to his chosen profession. My mother began to take on more responsibility, and  business slowly improved.


When I was a junior in high school, I was running on a cinder track in during gym class. Someone in back of me gave my back a deliberate shove and I sprawled on the ground. Because I used my hands to break my fall, they were the only things that were hurt badly. There were guys in my class no one wanted to mess with, so I said nothing to anyone. When I got to my parents' store, my mother took one look at the gravel embedded in my hands and told me to go to Dad's office.

This was the first time I became my father's patient, With infinite care, Dad  cleaned me up, then sat me in
his examining chair with a bright light above it. Pulling on rubber gloves, and using a  magnfier over his glasses, he began to pick out each  piece of gravel with a probe and a tiny pair of tweezers. After he finally finished, he applied an antibiotic cream and gave me a couple of aspirin for the pain. No one could have treated me with more skill or kindness. I saw Dad in a whole new light after that.

Like Mom, Dad was very involved in Jewish causes. He served on our synagogue board and was a charter member of the local B'nai Brith men's lodge . I have a vivid memory of Dad editing a  monthly bulletin on our dining room table that he mailed to  local members. He also served as an advisor to high school boys who belonged the Bnai Brith Youth. Eventually, he took office as president of the Midwest Region. Through Bnai Brith, my father worked  with prominent  Chicagoans like Mayor Daley and  Cardinal Joseph Stritch. One summer,on a mission to Israel, he was honored to  meet with David Ben Gurion. Finally, my father was always a  strong voice against anti-Semitism and an active member of the Anti-Defamation League.

While I've  inherited the love of good literature from my mother, I know Dad strongly influenced my passion for music.
 He loved to listen to Hebrew  recordings of Cantors Jan Pearce and Richard Tucker and  soundtracks from musicals like " Fiddler on the Roof."  Every Passover, Dad  led our family seders, chanting the songs from the   Hagadah in beautiful,  flawless Hebrew.I can see him now at the head of our dining room table, in a crisp white shirt and striped  tie, holding up his silver wine cup as he sings the holiday Kiddush. My place was always on his right, and as I got older, I was able to sing some of the service with him.


 Dad urged me to join our synagogue choir, made sure that I practiced my accordion in grade school, was delighted that I took up the bass clarinet and saxophone in high school, and really loved hearing me play guitar. When my first guitar was carelessly broken on a high school trip, Dad took me to  a studio in the Loop and replaced it  because he knew how much I love to play.   My junior year, with the help of my parents, our Jewish youth group organized a "hootenanny" or folk concert.
 When my two  friends and  I  appeared on stage sing  and play guitar, sure enough,there was  Dad sitting next to Mom. smiling and clapping along with the music.

There is much more to tell about my relationship with my father, but it's a story for another time and place.
When Dad's health failed, he moved to  a retirement home. He loved to take me to the old fashioned ice cream parlor there and treat me to a dish of my favorite coffee ice cream. When my daughter, Julie, was a toddler, Dad's eyes would light up when we took her to visit.

Just a week before the Jewish New Year in 1990, Dad passed away. Our rabbi wisely told me that, although I would be in mourning, he would allow me to sing in the High Holiday services, He said that it would help me get through the grieving period. He was right. The songs I sang were, as always, for my father.