HARRY'S STORY - PART I OF IV — Sharon Mark Cohen

Harry’s Story - PART I of IV

There’s more about Harry…follow along daily this week through Friday to read parts II through IV.

I’ll never forget Harry (October 18, 1921 - October 28, 2014). He was my hero. Anyone following my blog posts will have noticed many masterful translations of letters from my ancestors painstakingly done by Cousin Harry. Now, it’s time to tell Harry’s story.

Harry Langsam was born in Strzyzow, Poland, on October 18, 1921. His life story followed a long and winding road to his death at age 93 on October 28, 2014, in Los Angeles, California. That was a few short months after our last visit with Harry and my presenting him with a copy of my family history book, Kitchen Talk, which he helped me complete with his masterful translations and constant encouragement.

Harry, the youngest in a family of two sons and three daughters, followers of the Hasidic rabbi from Bobow, Rabbi Ben Zion Halberstam, wrote, “I wore the round, velvet Hasidic cap with curled ear-locks on both sides of my face.” When he was an infant, Harry’s mother stood by the open window to see the famous Rabbi of Munkach, Hungary, walk by. Harry noted that the rabbi, a native of their shtetl, Strzyzow, returned yearly to visit his grandmother’s gravesite. “Every year, at the time of his visit the place was in an uproar. Hundreds of people went to the railroad station to meet the rabbi.

“Welcoming the rabbi was reserved for menfolk only. Women who wanted to have a glimpse at the rabbi were crowding the windows inside their houses through which the procession went by. My mother feeling slightly better did not realize how dangerous it would be for her to sit near an open window in the cool spring weather, that she was liable to catch a cold. On the contrary, she believed that seeing the holy man would contribute to her recuperation.”

Harry, having lost his mother when he was an infant, reported the events of the day based on stories friends and relatives relayed. “It was a balmy spring day. The skies were blue without a speck of a cloud. The spring flowers and the lilac trees were in full blossom disseminating a pleasant aroma. The birds have noisily gathered on the chestnut trees that lined the street of our town. It seemed that they too were participating in welcoming the rabbi with their chirping.

“A cold draft engulfed my mother’s weakened body, she was stricken with pneumonia which was very dangerous in her situation. …within days after the rabbi’s visit, she passed away.”

Harry’s young mother caught pneumonia and ultimately died on May 13, 1922, when she was merely 36 years of age. Informatively, Harry wrote, “Only men attended funerals. Women were allowed to follow the procession to the first water pump so they could wash their hands, as it is customary to do after escorting a deceased on his or her last journey.” The tragedy of his mother’s death started Harry’s struggle for survival.

“Being motherless, I was filled with jealousy for other children who had parents and multiple siblings. For that reason, I sometimes did things that wasn't fitting for a nice Jewish boy to do. In cheder (religious school), I would swipe someone's bagel with butter and swallow it rapidly, one two three, and it was gone. In the rebbetzin’s (the rabbi's wife) house where my father and I spent a lot of time, I dipped my fingers into her charity box and took a few groschen, to buy a candy. From that box, she distributed alms to the poor.

“She once caught me red-handed but instead of chastising me, she told me with motherly love, that the coins do not belong to me; they belong to the poor. ‘Is anyone poorer than I am?’ I thought to myself. I have no mother, and my father is a poor man. Notwithstanding my sinful behavior, my father was very good to me. When the first cherries appeared on the market he would bring a dozen cherries to me at religious school and say, ‘Here! Taste the cherries, see how sweet they are.’ Despite his poverty, he used to give me a nickel each day to buy a candy.

“Other children used to get a shiny silver dime. One time I rebelled and demanded a shiny dime like the other children were getting. My father became angry, slapped my face, and sent me to school without anything. My dear father! Where are you now? How hurt you must have been not to be able to give your child the same coin that other parents gave their offspring. I wish I could beg your forgiveness for all my transgressions. Unfortunately, the Nazis did not give me a chance to do so. They mercilessly cut short your life.”

After viewing the pictures below, be sure to check back tomorrow at sharonmarkcohen.com and click “blog” to read Part II of Harry’s Story.