Uncle Isaac’s forefathers, “God knows how far back,” kept this same store in the same way; for like the ring in Lessing’s fable it was to be left to the son who knew most about the Talmud, and, as a consequence, least about the business. The Talmud had to be studied, the store ran itself. Not that there was anything automatic about it in those days; but Uncle Isaac, true to the traditions of his forefathers, sold only those things which his forefathers had sold before him, namely; red earthen pots and big green bowls which he bought from the same family in the same town where the same peasant potteries flourished, from which his forefathers had bought their supplies of these same red pots and green bowls.
If a customer came to the store while the children were little and his wife was busy caring for them (for Uncle Isaac was blessed according to the promise made to Abraham) he had to wait until Uncle Isaac disentangled himself from the mazes of the Talmud. Then almost reluctantly he sold the pot or bowl, scarcely ever exchanging a word with his customer, who was usually a peasant, and of course a Gentile whose presence disturbed the pious atmosphere into which Uncle Isaac had wrapped himself.
If any of the townspeople came, he was more friendly; he had to be, and as was often the case in later days if they asked why he didn’t sell cups and saucers and wash-bowls, he would invariably shrug his shoulders as his blessed forefathers had shrugged their shoulders before him. This shrug was eloquent, and meant many things; but, above all, it meant: “Have I not bother enough to remember what Rasche’s (a celebrated Jewish commentator) comment upon Rambam’s (the abbreviation of another commentator’s name) comment was? How can you expect me to give my time to such things as buying and selling wash-bowls and cups and saucers?”
His children, three boys and three girls, were nurtured in this atmosphere. The sons began studying the Talmud when they were five years of age, and the daughters were initiated into the mysteries of the Kosher household before that age.
As the children grew, Uncle Isaac withdrew almost entirely from business and gave himself more and more to the study of the holy books. The oldest son, named after the sainted grandfather, went to Pressburg to study for the Rabbinate, living from the charity of the faithful, by whom the support of a pious youth is considered a great privilege.
The next son married into a rich but not pious family to whom his sacred learning was a very welcome asset. This left the business, such as it was, upon the shoulders of the youngest son, Moschele.
Moschele inherited less of his pious forefathers’ piety and much more of some remote ancestor’s business talents, and one day he came home from a distant market bringing with him a dozen cups and saucers and a wash-bowl and pitcher.
Had he brought home idols made of clay he could not have hurt his father more, and the whole town soon knew that Moschele—young Moschele whose eyes had already rested lovingly upon the blushing faces of young maidens—had received a beating from his father, who, in his fury, had broken the cups and saucers, throwing the fragments at the poor, defenseless head of the culprit. Uncle Isaac’s temper was equalled only by his piety, and the old man was beside himself.
Moschele was in the same mood, and decided to leave his old father with his red pots and green bowls and dry Talmud. I visited Uncle Isaac’s store many a time after this event. It was less a store than ever. The house itself was sinking into the surrounding mire, the thatched roof was falling in on one side and sliding off on the other.
“Where is Moschele?” I asked him on one of these visits. He lifted his weary head from the Talmud, and extricated from a pile of ancient manuscripts an envelope printed all over with English letters, which announced the business of Jake Greenbaum who kept the “finest General Department Store on Avenue B.” in New York. The letter in the envelope told of Moschele’s employment in the great city, and of his life there.