Page 38 - issue
P. 38
Death of A Salesman
higher in his avodas Hashem.
Dad loved athletics and was a good skier and soccer player.
Even in his late seventies, he could be seen every Sunday morn-
ing after shul at the JCC playing volleyball. Routine and disci-
pline were very much part of Dad’s life. As a Yekke, his time was
valuable and a precise schedule was always a priority.
The New World
In 1933, when Dad was 18, Hitler was already in power.
Unable to go to yeshiva or college, Dad entered the family
business and traveled around Germany selling. These were
dangerous times, however, and after two incidents while trav-
eling, he left for Palestine in 1935 on his mother’s advice; he
was only 20 years old. In Tel Aviv, Dad made a living as a
salesman and roomed with a young man named Noah
Rosenbloom, who later became a rabbi and married my par-
ents in Philadelphia in 1946.
Once, my father paid for a taxi to go from Tel Aviv to Haifa,
and since he was the first customer, he took the front seat.
An elderly gentleman came along and demanded that he be
given that preferred front seat. My Dad, as the mentsch he
always was, immediately gave up his seat to the older person.
The taxi traveled with a military convoy and came under fire
by Arab terrorists. The fellow in the front seat was shot.
In 1938, Dad’s mother visited him in Tel Aviv. Surveying
the business climate in Palestine, she didn’t like what she saw
and advised him to go to Baltimore, where they had relatives.
She then returned to Germany. In 1939, she and her hus-
band were sent to a concentration camp in France. After they
were released from this work camp – fortunately, it was
before the days of the death camps – my grandmother wired
my father asking if he could post $3,000 so they could immi-
grate to America.
Dad was earning nine dollars a week as a tie salesman for
Miller Tie Company of Baltimore. It was an impossible situa-
tion, and my Dad was beside himself. On a cold Shabbos day,
right after shul, Mrs. Selma Ney observed my Dad pacing out-
side her window on Whitelock Street. Mrs. Ney was the moth-
er of Dad’s wonderful friend, Herbert Cohn, brother of Aber
Cohn and half-brother of Bert Ney. (She had been married to
Mr. Cohn, and after his passing married Dr. Ney.) Mrs. Ney
opened the window and called out to Dad, inquiring about
the welfare of his parents. In a dejected tone, he explained
their predicament. Mrs. Ney told him to come see her right
after Shabbos. Indeed, he did, and Mrs. Ney went straight to
the cookie jar and handed him $3,000. This would be the
equivalent of $100,000 today. Her only request was not to let
her husband know of her chesed.
Years later, when this story was told to Rabbi Schwab, he
mentioned that, any time he or the shul needed funds, they
could always count on Mrs. Ney. Who knows how many times
she went to that cookie jar to perform such acts of chesed?
Dad, as ehrlich as he always was, expressed the fear that
34 u www.wherewhatwhen.com u
higher in his avodas Hashem.
Dad loved athletics and was a good skier and soccer player.
Even in his late seventies, he could be seen every Sunday morn-
ing after shul at the JCC playing volleyball. Routine and disci-
pline were very much part of Dad’s life. As a Yekke, his time was
valuable and a precise schedule was always a priority.
The New World
In 1933, when Dad was 18, Hitler was already in power.
Unable to go to yeshiva or college, Dad entered the family
business and traveled around Germany selling. These were
dangerous times, however, and after two incidents while trav-
eling, he left for Palestine in 1935 on his mother’s advice; he
was only 20 years old. In Tel Aviv, Dad made a living as a
salesman and roomed with a young man named Noah
Rosenbloom, who later became a rabbi and married my par-
ents in Philadelphia in 1946.
Once, my father paid for a taxi to go from Tel Aviv to Haifa,
and since he was the first customer, he took the front seat.
An elderly gentleman came along and demanded that he be
given that preferred front seat. My Dad, as the mentsch he
always was, immediately gave up his seat to the older person.
The taxi traveled with a military convoy and came under fire
by Arab terrorists. The fellow in the front seat was shot.
In 1938, Dad’s mother visited him in Tel Aviv. Surveying
the business climate in Palestine, she didn’t like what she saw
and advised him to go to Baltimore, where they had relatives.
She then returned to Germany. In 1939, she and her hus-
band were sent to a concentration camp in France. After they
were released from this work camp – fortunately, it was
before the days of the death camps – my grandmother wired
my father asking if he could post $3,000 so they could immi-
grate to America.
Dad was earning nine dollars a week as a tie salesman for
Miller Tie Company of Baltimore. It was an impossible situa-
tion, and my Dad was beside himself. On a cold Shabbos day,
right after shul, Mrs. Selma Ney observed my Dad pacing out-
side her window on Whitelock Street. Mrs. Ney was the moth-
er of Dad’s wonderful friend, Herbert Cohn, brother of Aber
Cohn and half-brother of Bert Ney. (She had been married to
Mr. Cohn, and after his passing married Dr. Ney.) Mrs. Ney
opened the window and called out to Dad, inquiring about
the welfare of his parents. In a dejected tone, he explained
their predicament. Mrs. Ney told him to come see her right
after Shabbos. Indeed, he did, and Mrs. Ney went straight to
the cookie jar and handed him $3,000. This would be the
equivalent of $100,000 today. Her only request was not to let
her husband know of her chesed.
Years later, when this story was told to Rabbi Schwab, he
mentioned that, any time he or the shul needed funds, they
could always count on Mrs. Ney. Who knows how many times
she went to that cookie jar to perform such acts of chesed?
Dad, as ehrlich as he always was, expressed the fear that
34 u www.wherewhatwhen.com u
