Roommates: My Grandfather’s Story

Gootie, my grandma, was a short, large-boned woman who made the kitchen her kingdom. She entered the living room only on special occasions—like Monday night to watch “I Love Lucy.” She had to think about her movements ever since she fell from a freight train in Russia during the First World War. Her broken leg, never properly set, left her dragging a stiff limb for the rest of her days. The disability made it necessary to plan her movements in advance. She did the same thing psychologically. Slow and careful in everything, she was the exact opposite of her speedy husband. They were the marriage of thought and action, and in constant conflict.

Rocky was a whirlwind and the family pioneer. He came to America on his own in 1914 and began immediately to work sixteen-hour days so he could bring his wife and two children, Bashy and Max, to Michigan. During what he called “the first war,” none of his letters were answered. He didn’t know where his family was or even if they were alive. But he saved his money and he kept writing.

After the war, when Gootie, my mother, and Max returned to their village from the big city of Odessa where the Russian government had shipped them, their house was a ruin and their German and Lithuanian paper money worthless. A few letters were waiting for them.

In Michigan Rocky went to night school, where he learned to read and write English. The only thing he did at less than top speed was sign his name. When he had to do so, usually on some kind of official form, he did it the way a good basketball player shoots free throws: he concentrated on mechanics. He braced himself with his left hand on the writing surface, checked the position of his thumb and forefinger on the pencil or ballpoint, and then executed the curves of “Herman,” the slightly ridiculous American name that an immigration clerk gave him because “Yerachmiel” was too hard. The men who worked beside him at the American Bakery were smarter. When they couldn’t say Yerachmiel, they called him Rocky, the name that stuck.

I never missed an opportunity to watch him sign “Herman.” It was regal. He should have used a quill and a blotter. He always gave it a quick double check before he put the pen down. When I learned cursive in fourth grade I filled Palmer method notebooks practicing writing between the big lines and small lines with my name and his. Max Apple never got beyond a scrawl, but I could do “Herman Goodstein” like a master forger.