Rick Smith
Since my earliest memory of attending services at Beth Israel takes us back to 1951, and since my Bar Mitzvah at the shul was in 1960, Steve Singer’s video, describing the shul and downtown Bath in that era, inspired me to join the Our Stories project. The phrase “I could write a book” comes quickly to mind. What can be said in less than 10,000 words? In an effort to avoid writing the great Jewish-American novel, this contribution will simply be verbal snapshots interspersed with a few “editorial” comments.
Sam Prawer, my godfather (“Uncle Sam”), sitting with me in the front row at high holidays, impeccably dressed and groomed, with his little book of honors from which he would motion up each person who, I always believed, had paid a donation appropriate (in Sam’s view) for that honor for that person. Also, Uncle Sam shamelessly cajoling larger and larger donations, auction style, from the members, for Israel and other Jewish causes in meetings in the downstairs room.
Purim plays in that same downstairs room with children of widely varying ages because there just weren’t that many of us. We did manage plenty of noise despite our small numbers.
Don Povich in so many ways, but in particular, teaching Hebrew school on widely-spaced Sundays to that same small group of children. We all struggled with the material and all loved it. Among other things, he taught that any version of Judaism is a good version.
Abe Kramer leading services in impossibly fast-paced Hebrew but regularly handing the closest child (me, in the front row) the shaking silver goblet of Manischewitz to take the first sip. He was small in stature, and had a pink face with many age spots, but brought both emotion and dignity to every service. Many times his voice would crack during a particular chant, and I would choke up with him without knowing why.
Baseball talk in the vestibule waiting for the ninth and tenth man. As fast as these men could read Hebrew, they could talk baseball even faster. A firehose of statistics, second-guessing the managers, calling out the best and worst plays. If it's baseball, it must be a Yahrzeit. Everyone’s an expert.
As Steve Singer’s video explained, these men were almost all merchants; those that weren’t had their own professional practices. This was a source of pride and of Steve’s nostalgia for Bath as a one-stop shopping walkable town, when much of that shopping could be done at Jewish-owned stores. That may be the silver lining in a cloud. Bath was at no loss for anti-Semites in those years. The “k” word was common, as were unkind references to Shylock, frugality, noses and more. At least one reason for 90%+ of the congregation being merchants or solo professionals is that no one in the non-Jewish community would hire us. There are always exceptions, but you would not find Jews in positions of authority in the banks, national department store outlets (Sears, Grants, Newbury’s were all downtown) or BIW. As a teenager, I was told point blank that a lifeguard job at a local summer resort was not available to me because “we don’t allow Jews as guests or staff."
“Sneaking” out of Yom Kippur services with Uncle Bob Levine to have soup on a fasting day. He lost most of a leg in WWII and said that, as an amputee, he was allowed to eat and since I was little, it was OK for me to join him. Uncle Bob and Aunt Dot (Dorice) ran the Mademoiselle Shoppe on Front Street and lived at the corner of Green and Lincoln.
Women on the left, men on the right. I recall one man, one of the Greenblatts, I think, who always sat with his wife on the left-hand side, in a protest of sorts. Steve Singer credits Sue Smith with breaking that practice. I do recall that she sat with me but I hadn’t remembered that it was a turning point for the congregation. When Sue and I married, though, heads did turn. Her parents (Omar & Virginia King) were part of Bath's non-Jewish elite and tongues wagged on both sides of the aisle (tracks?). Even though Sue had converted years earlier, it was not hard to find members of the Jewish community, some in my immediate family, who “weren’t too pleased."
Stanley Sperber. From my college years at Bowdoin (and Stanley’s at Columbia) until my sixth or seventh year of law practice in Bath (and Stanley’s earliest years as conductor of the National Choir of Israel), Stanley brought a golden age (to my mind) to our high holiday services. From the Sh'ma occasionally sung in a forceful, almost call-to-arms, style, to long melodic passages that had often been chanted in monotone in the past, if not blurred-through in that infamous Beth Israel ultra-fast Hebrew, he brought us real music. He also brought us a wider Jewish world view and a blend of humor and serious religion that fit Don Povich's personality well. They became great friends. Steve Singer may have to correct me on this, but I think Stanley was leading services (with Abe Kramer) when an extremely tall black Ethiopian Jew appeared at services. That was a first for nearly all of us.
Dr. Jesse Levin (dentist). He was funny and had a quirky personality, but I dreaded him. Picture a very chubby little kid (me) waddling across the High Street Bridge to Center Street, shaking in fear of what Jesse might find in my teeth and looking for ways to distract my thoughts. Just before turning right onto Center Street, there's the narrow lunch counter mounted just inside the window at Happy’s Hamburgers with Hap grilling burgers only inches away from the patrons’ elbows. Across the top of the hill looms the Sedgwick Hotel with low curved granite walls guarding its stairs and with its air of mystery (who stayed there?). Fighting gravity down Center Street hill, there's the Oakhurst Dairy bottling plant and small store on the right with a door just three feet from the sidewalk (maybe I could duck in for a chocolate milk). A little further down the hill on the left is the "green front” (the state’s liquor store; the only place to buy liquor). What do those men have in those brown paper bags? Further down the hill two buildings before the tracks, on the right, there's Brooke Chevrolet’s showroom, always a good place to stop and daydream about the open road. After 1956, it was Smith’s Chevrolet. Uncle Joe bought it, reputedly so my cousin Bobby (Bladen Smith) would have something to do. Bobby won at chess against all comers in the showroom while Ralph Palmer actually ran the dealership. Trudging along the flat part of Center Street, images of Jesse’s giant Novacaine hypodermic needle in my head, I see across Washington Street on the right-hand corner, the brick-clad Opera House (a quick movie might get me past Jesse’s closing time; one bit, 12 1/2 cents, for a movie; two tickets for a quarter) and glance to my right down Washington Street for a glimpse of the Italian sandwich shop that would provide Sunday night’s supper. On the left-hand side of Center Street, Sears & Roebuck beckons with its many potential distractions. Move along, Richard. Now crossing Water Street with the butcher shop’s diagonal door on the left and Abe Kramer or Morris Petlock (both?) inside with red-stained white aprons. Not far to go now, but Grant’s and Newberry’s department stores on the left, with their easily accessed candy counters, still offer hope for delay. Louis Sherman’s store and Sam and Belle Levin’s (she pronounces “candle” “kendle”) Bath Department Store are now on my right, but I can't let myself be distracted now. Ten more feet. That narrow door on the right, Pull it open and gaze up those two continuous flights of stairs - Mt. Everest after that walk - while breathing in that unmistakable dentist office smell. The walk up the stairs takes as long as the rest of the journey but there’s Jesse “Richard; have a seat, be right with you," followed but the grinding of his belt-driven, slow-moving drill. I think I’ll pass out now. When it is over, there's no fee to pay. “Professional courtesy" was the order of the day and Dad would reciprocate with free house calls or office visits, but with my sugary diet, I think Jesse Levin got the short end of the candy stick.
The assimilation conundrum. Small window onto a big topic. Most of our generation in Bath thought the older generation was telling us to “Americanize” as much as possible. Too bad about Yiddish, but it’s OK if you don’t learn. Be proud of being Jewish, but don’t be loud about it. Blend in. Mom (Sara Levine Smith) did light Sabbath candles but other nods to the Sabbath took the form of “you’re really not supposed to (work, drive, etc.) but it’s OK. Laying tefillin was OK for my Long Island, Brooklyn and Boston-area cousins, but not necessary for us, or for the Vermont cousins. My parents criticized the Rubins’ Christmas tree/Hannukah Bush and observed Passover in a diligent orthodox way, but did not keep kosher the rest of the year and allowed me to open some Hannukah presents on Christmas morning, even when the two holidays did not overlap on the calendar. Dad (Dr. Jacob ("Jake" “Jack”) Smith) and my Uncle Joe (Dr. Joseph Smith) spent precious little time at the shul, even at High Holidays. The medical practices were always more important, although Dad would go to Yahrzeits and Mom was in the sisterhood, a group I never fully appreciated until seeing Marina Singer’s video in this project. Sue and I did keep kosher in the 70s and 80s and Sue and Marilyn Weinberg were close (we were immediate neighbors through the woods which made being Jewish a larger part of our lives, but not to the point of our lives revolving around the shul or Judaism generally.
The “outside” influences. Camp Lown and Miami Beach. Jake and Sara were concerned that Don Povich's Sunday school training might not be enough to overcome all of the Americanization influences, so for four years (ages 9-12) I spent two months each summer at a co-ed Jewish camp on the Belgrade lakes. Everyone was Jewish. Amazing. I could be loud about being Jewish and everyone would love it. It didn’t prevent assimilation but it did provide me with a greater Jewish background and with Bar Mitzvah training. With a July birthday, that training allowed me to have a bar mitzvah a year early at services at Camp Lown, so I was ready (or thought I was) for the 100+ (250?) guests I faced at the shul and at the Sedgwick Hotel reception afterwards. Camp Lown either reinforced or was reinforced by spending the entire month of March every year from age 6 to 17 in Miami Beach, most years at the then fairly grand Versailles Hotel, 33rd and Collins. Some years, the Prawers would join us. Ye Noshery, Wolfies, stand-up borscht circuit comics, Sammy Davis, Jr. et als., at the night clubs. Every Hotel and restaurant packed with and/or catering to the Jewish community. These were formal days in Miami Beach. Suits for the men, even for me, minks in the air conditioning for the women and white linen and silver everywhere. Except the Kenilworth; no Jews allowed, thank you very much. And prejudice was everywhere because there were separate taxi-cabs (jitneys) for whites and “colored" and even separate drinking fountains marked “colored.” Living with that truth put the anti-Semitism I often felt in Bath into real context. Of course, as I got older, I began to learn that the Miami Beach experience showed me a side of Jewish culture often mocked by gentiles and many Jews.
That brings us back to the assimilation conundrum, the core and on-going story of growing up Jewish in post-world-war-two Bath.