Music, Memories, and Schmaltzed Herring
On Wednesday mornings I would go to networking meetings at the musician’s union office. Once, afterwards, concertina case in tow, I went looking for a coffee and a nosh only to discover Geffen’s Kosher Dairy Restaurant located nearby on 7th Ave. On each table were dishes of half sour dill pickles, coleslaw, and sauerkraut. They served strong hot black coffee. It is also where I was introduced to my first, and to this day, best schmaltzed herring and most wonderful potato perogies with fresh sour cream I have ever tasted. I should probably regret those meals now that I have a stent in my heart. But in your early 20s you are invincible.
It is also where I met my friend Samuel.
I was usually the youngest person in the room by a couple generations. Most of the tables were occupied by elderly men and women, primarily of European Jewish background. Some would sit alone reading a Yiddish newspaper or the NY Times, others quietly in each other’s company, while still other patrons might be in involved in intense focused discussions (the Jewish term is arguing). This is how I met my friend Samuel. Samuel (not Sam) was in his 70s when we met. He had an intense gaze, a head of unruly gray hair, eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own and a heavy ethnic NY accent. I was sitting at the table directly behind him and his two daily companions having their morning discussions when he turned around and looked directly at me, “you’re a young man, right. What do you think of this mishegas about…?” Suddenly I was part of their political discussion. Samuel ordered a second helping of the schmaltzed herring. He asked if I had ever had their herring. I replied I had not. Sharing a piece with me he said, “Good, right? Your first taste of herring you’ll never forget. Like hearing a beautiful sonata.”
As I got up to leave, he looked down at my case and asked, “is that a concertina?” An amazing feat for someone to recognize a concertina case let alone the instrument itself.
And so, a conversation ensued and a friendship began. Every time I was at Geffen’s I was invited to sit with Samuel and his friends, discussing every current and topical event. Samuel always respected my opinion, as long as it agreed with his. His mind worked quickly, developing ideas and arguments supported by his knowledge of NY publications in both Yiddish and English, Torah, and Groucho Marx. His sense of humor was only eclipsed by his vast intellect. Samuel also loved classical music.
Turns out Samuel was a surprisingly good musician. He played mandolin and balalaika in the NYC Balalaika Orchestra. One morning he invited me to their next rehearsal. And so, I went. I sat on a folding chair off to the side, just watching and listening. Afterwards Samuel introduced me to the conductor and told him I was an excellent musician who played the concertina, even though he had never heard me play. “Do you read music.” The conductor asked.
“Yes” I replied.
“Good. Can you make the next rehearsal?” Obviously, there was a low bar for becoming a member of the orchestra.
At my first rehearsal, as nothing was written for the English Concertina, I was given sheet music for violin and accordion. None of the music was so difficult I could not quickly and competently follow. There were probably four dozen or more members of the orchestra in an age range of young teens to people in their 90s. After each rehearsal cliques of people gathered over a coffee or a beer at some café or bar close by. I sometimes would follow Samuel and his bunch to a coffee shop. Their discussions were always about the music, current orchestra gossip, rise in rents, politics, and especially their memories. Someone might start a conversation with ‘I remember the time’ and relate a moment in their past. About a concert. A place. A meal.
Once, someone offered a memory of the grandeur and beauty of a theater in Krakow. Samuel offhandedly mentioned that his eldest sister performed there. It was the first time I heard him refer to someone of his past.
“Is she still performing?” I asked wondering if she still performed like he does. Samuel gave me a look and a one word answer. “No.” The rest of the evening he barely said a word to me.
Afterwards, walking to the subway station, one of the elderly women at our table caught up with me, gently taking my elbow to stop and talk. After a few pleasantries she spoke to me in a thick Eastern European accent.
“Don’t mind Samuel. He isn’t angry. I know him from before. It’s just that we really don’t talk about that part of our lives.” I was a little taken aback and foolishly asked ‘Why?’
“You really have to ask?” she said with a look that I will never forget. “We lost so much. Family. Friends. Our whole lives. Next time you just talk about what’s happening now. Be a friend. That is what keeps us going.”
She smiled at me, squeezed my elbow again, and walked away. This would be the only conversation I would have with her.
Samuel passed away a little over a year later. The next concert was dedicated in his and a couple other names of players in the orchestra. Someone else would play their part. As things go, I became busy and no longer had the time to attend orchestra rehearsals. On some Wednesdays I still went to Geffen’s Kosher Diary Restaurant. Samuel’s friends were seated at the same table. I would say hello but did not linger about as I did previously. Eventually Geffen’s closed.
There are times when a smell, a song, a glimpse of someone, or a place trigger a memory. We may not be able to or even want to remember everything and everyone from our lives.
I still love a good schmaltzed herring.
There are times now and then, I remember Samuel.
Randy Stein
March 9, 2021
