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Overview
In 1920, in small-town America, the ubiquitous dry goods store--suits and coats, shoes and hats, work clothes and school clothes, yard goods and notions--was usually owned by Jews and often referred to as "the Jew store." That's how Stella Suberman's father's store, Bronson's Low-Priced Store, in Concordia, Tennessee, was known locally. The Bronsons were the first Jews to ever live in that tiny town (1920 population: 5,318) of one main street, one bank, one drugstore, one picture show, one feed and seed, one hardware, one barber shop, one beauty parlor, one blacksmith, and many Christian churches. Aaron Bronson moved his family all the way from New York City to that remote corner of northwest Tennessee to prove himself a born salesman--and much more. Told by Aaron's youngest child, The Jew Store is that rare thing--an intimate family story that sheds new light on a piece of American history. Here is One Man's Family with a twist--a Jew, born into poverty in prerevolutionary Russia and orphaned from birth, finds his way to America, finds a trade, finds a wife, and sets out to find his fortune in a place where Jews are unwelcome. With a novelist's sense of scene, suspense, and above all, characterization, Stella Suberman turns the clock back to a time when rural America was more peaceful but no less prejudiced, when educated liberals were suspect, and when the Klan was threatening to outsiders. In that setting, she brings to life her remarkable father, a man whose own brand of success proves that intelligence, empathy, liberality, and decency can build a home anywhere. The Jew Store is a heartwarming--even inspiring--story.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781565128743 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill |
| Publication date: | 09/14/2001 |
| Sold by: | Hachette Digital, Inc. |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 321 |
| Sales rank: | 260,919 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Destination
My mother always said she'd felt something of a let-down when she first saw the sign reading CONCORDIA TOWN LIMITS. They had been riding for three days along rutted dirt roads north and west of Nashville. Somehow she had come to believe that when they got to the town that my father had chosen for their new home — their destination, he said — there would be something remarkable about it, something that would set it apart from the other small Tennessee communities through which they had been traveling. But here they were, at the "outskwirts," as my father called it all his life, and what she saw were only more cotton fields, yet another wooden church with a cross on top, one more cemetery. So what should she have expected? she asked herself. An elevated train? Fancy gates?
My mother wasn't exactly overjoyed at being there. Truly, ever since they had left New York City, her mood had been like a thing on her chest, as she used to say. Two years and three months before, the family had ridden the train south to Nashville, where at least there lived other Jewish families, where there was a shul, or synagogue, and the prospect of a glass of tea in the afternoons with the rabbi's wife. Now they were about to enter a small town in Banion County, west Tennessee, fifty miles southwest of Paducah, Kentucky, wherever that was. They were going to try to open a store in a place where they would be the only Jews in town.
These feelings of my mother's were very unlike those of my father. Indeed, in disposition the two of them were very different. She was the one who looked back, fretted, viewed with alarm, often brooded. He lived for the future, crossed bridges when he came to them and not before, hoped always for the best.
In looks, except that they were both small in stature, they were opposites as well. My father's appearance was bright and light, his straight hair "blondish," his eyes famously blue, his smile quickly there. My mother was dark haired and dark eyed, and her smile came less readily.
As they rode toward town, true to form, my father was ebullient, my mother apprehensive. Oy, what were they doing here, she was asking herself, herself and her husband and her two children, here among these, as my father called them, "country Tennesseans"? From what she had seen of them along the road, she had already declared them a curious people. Were they not strange, these women who charged out of their houses (in bonnets stiff like iron) to sweep with brooms their dirt yards? Whoever heard?
And oy, the church spires. As she looked now toward the town, she counted six. Or maybe seven. In such a small town, so many churches? From what she had heard, in the South prayers went to God and to — um — Jesus, so why not just one big praying place, come one, come all? The deep gloom all at once upon her, she did what she always did when this happened — put her head in her hands and moved it back and forth, as if tolling it. "Like a bell my head was in those days" was the way she used to describe it.
As the oft-repeated tale went, when, on July 16, 1920, the Bronsons reached the edge of town, there was in the sky a heavy black cloud outlined in cold blue. Within a few minutes the rain began falling. My father pulled the wagon into the graveyard, and my mother joined Joey and Miriam under the tarpaulin, which already sheltered the family's few possessions. My father stayed out in the now-hammering rain and stared at the tomb-stones. On one a poem started, "So sinks the sun after a gentle day," and he thought it was nice that somebody's day had been gentle, his own not having been gentle by anybody's call.
My father had wanted to go by train; Concordia was a county seat, and therefore the train stopped there. But trains meant fares and freight charges, and with the debt to my grandfather for their trip to Nashville still outstanding, my mother — for whom a debt was, as she put it, "like a growth" — argued otherwise. No, she said, they should think of "a penny saved, a penny to pay back with" and should therefore go by wagon. As if it were a matter of choosing the El over the streetcar to get to 125th Street, my father said.
As the thunder retreated, my father heard its rumble as threats to return if he didn't do right. Understood, he said to himself, but right about what? Out of his choices, of which he had many, he picked the most imminent — a place to stay. The wagon one more night was not an option. But where to look? And where was his mazel — his good luck — which should be turning up right about now to point the way?
Suddenly, not from the heavens but from the elm tree, plummeted two boys. As they stood staring at my father, they seemed to him the color and texture of the rain itself.
Atop pale hair sat ancient Panama hats, the saturated brims undulating with each raindrop. Pants, perhaps once blue, were streaky white; white shirts, confined by suspenders, were soppy, the long sleeves, buttoned at the wrists, plastered to arms. Feet were bare.
These were the Medlin brothers — T and Erv. As he announced their names, T, the older one and the one who spoke (Erv, six, only gazed), told my father he had been "christened" T.J. but was called T "for short" — as if, my father always said, two letters were too much of a mouthful. T was "near to nine," although my father described him as one of those country boys who might be "near to nine" but were more like "near to" thirty. They were the sons of a cotton farmer and lived "over yonder," T said, pointing to a peeling farmhouse.
T was puzzled by my father's presence. "You be the new Jew peddler?" he asked him.
"Jew yes, peddler no," my father answered him.
It was clear the boy had never before seen a Jew who wasn't a peddler. "Where you bound then?" As we got to know T through the years, we all were aware of his habit of flicking his eyes up when he was doubtful, and he did that now. "And what you got in mind?"
When told that my father was bound for Concordia and had in mind opening a store there, the boy seemed even more confounded. Though we all liked to "do" people, I always thought my father had a true gift for mimicry, and what T said now, according to how my father told it, was, "Danged if I ever heard tell of a Jew storekeeper afore. And, law, in Concordia?" As the rest of the Bronson family emerged from the tarpaulin, T looked them over, commented in an aside to my father, "I see you ain't just the one Jew," and asked if they needed a place to stay. He had something in mind — the home of his "cudden," Brookie Simmons, the one in Concordia who took strangers in, the one who, according to T, "loved company like a darky on Sunday afternoon."
My father had one question — the itchy "How much?" All the money he had in the world was in his inside coat pocket, and it was a slight amount indeed. "She charge much?" he asked T, not comfortable with the question but having to ask it anyway.
It was plainly T's view that everybody in the world except my father knew that Brookie Simmons was the daughter and heir of "Coca-Cola" Simmons, the bottling plant magnate and the town's wealthiest man, and as such she would be little interested in such matters. "You don't know nothing if you think she's in it for the money," he said to my father.
My father had no alternative but to chance it. He asked the boy, "So, you're ready to go, Mr. T?"
"Yessir." T climbed into back of the wagon, and Erv followed. My mother reseated herself on the perch.
My father flicked the horse lightly, called out, "Vi-o! Vio! Giddyap! Giddyap! Let's go, you Willy you!" and the wagon was back on the road. Now that they were set for the night, my father felt that he was not mucking around in the yellow mud, which, after the rain, the road had once again become, but that he was gliding along a ribbon of gold silk.
As they neared Concordia, T leaned over from the back to give my father directions. "Left as soon as you hit the cobblestones, Mr. Jew."
The words flew out of her mouth, my mother said later, like a bird from an open cage. "Mr. Bronson, little boy."
"Yes, ma'am," the boy answered her.
The house of Miss Brookie Simmons was on Third Street, two blocks from First. It was a little different from the neighboring two-story white frame houses in that it seemed wide rather than tall, with a roof only slightly pitched. Perched on the roof was a little rectangular construction, an attic that had ignored symmetry and simply shot itself off to one side. What the house looked most like was a shallow-tiered, whiteiced, sat-on cake.
As the wagon pulled up, everybody except my mother jumped off and started up the concrete walk. After the rain the sun had come out full, and steam was rising from my father's damp wool coat. Also Joey needed a haircut and his black curls hung over his forehead like a bunch of Concord grapes, and Miriam was in a dress wrinkled as if it had been slept in. Well, my mother reminded herself as she sat alone in the wagon, it had been slept in. And she thought oy, what if my father came back insulted? For the way they all looked. For being in a wagon. For being Jewish.
She gave a long look to the house. It was a house in need of paint, sitting on pilings of cracked, often absent bricks. The steps were scuffed, the lattice under the house broken, the porch floor full of warps and waves. This was the house of the daughter of the richest man in town?
Miss Brookie Simmons was out the door before the entourage even got to the steps. Out she came, short and round, a white cotton shirtwaist above, a long navy blue skirt below. Gold-rimmed glasses glinted as she moved; and salt-and-pepper gray hair, cut Buster Brown style with straight-as-pins bangs, swung around.
Plump she might have been, but, according to my father, she was a fast mover. In one quick circuit she had hugged T, shaken my father's hand, run her fingers through Joey's curls, and twisted Miriam's earlobe. Erv's cheek was pinched and a peck planted. The lady seemed as pleased as a hen coming upon unexpected feed. As she went whirling around, she was saying "delighted" over and over, which to my father sounded hopeful. She finally made it plain and said to him, "You can have two rooms, and you can decide for yourselves who goes in which."
My father couldn't decide on the spot who was going in which, but he liked this lady. "How could you not like her?" he used to say. "A lady so busy with such a nice hello?"
She bounded down the steps, and everybody followed. My mother watched her coming to the wagon. Brookie. What kind of name was that? The names she missed were more like Molka, Gittle, Moishe, which at this moment she feared she might never hear again. When the lady got to the wagon, she laid down a barrage of words, to my mother such gibberish she could only remain mute in the face of it.
The lady finally reached up and tugged at my mother's arm, and in another moment, everybody was going up the walk, Miss Simmons in the lead, a strong flow of chatter in her wake. Joey and Miriam were jumping about, and my father was talking, laughing, being happy. My mother trailed behind. She felt, as she often said, like a shoe run over by many streetcars.
Inside, the house seemed deep and dark. My mother at once thought she smelled the mustiness she had been advised to expect in Gentile houses. Hadn't she heard about a cleaning compound made of pig fat?
Miss Simmons led them to two upstairs bedrooms, furnished identically. My mother's first bit of cheer came from hearing there was a bathroom "down the hall." She had worried that in this country town there would be only outhouses, and she had been remembering them as they had been in the old country — tiny huts in the backyard to which you dashed on hot nights, frigid nights, any kind of nights, for things the house pot wouldn't do for.
After a glance into both bedrooms my mother plunked down on the double bed in one of them. And there she sat.
Miriam was already twirling around, looking, touching. The curtains held her. The bedroom curtains of her memory had been thin and straight, uninterrupted by fold or flounce, and very unlike these great white billowy things with ruffled edges swelling above their tiebacks.
My father and Joey came in with the trunk, my father dragging from the front, Joey pushing from behind. My father figured my mother needed encouragement. "There ain't nothing to worry about," he told her. "We're doing okay."
How could they be doing "okay," my mother wondered. Everything was in such a tumel — a mishmash. She didn't even know how much they were being charged, and when she asked my father, he said he didn't ask and didn't know.
And about being Jewish? Had my father told the lady?
Again no. "You want the first thing out of my mouth should be 'Hello, shake hands with a Jew'?" my father asked my mother. If the boys didn't tell her — and so far they hadn't — he wasn't going to say anything to anybody until they were safely settled.
My father went outside to thank the boys. They were on the walk, already leaving. "Say," he asked them, "ain't it written somewheres that a little child shall lead them?"
"Yes sir," T answered. "Isaiah 11:6."
In the bedroom Miss Simmons was trying to get my mother to come into the dining room. Her words were slow and carefully wrought, as if in this way to ensure comprehension. She said somebody named "Lizzie Maud" was fixing them something to eat.
There was a mention of fried chicken and potato salad. Potato salad? That jumbled-up stuff with all the mayonnaise?
In the end my mother didn't go down to the dining room. She pulled back what Miss Simmons had called the "counterpane" — and had pronounced "counter pin" — lay down, and went to sleep.
If my mother had gone, she would have been convinced at last that she was in the house of someone with money. The dining room could be said to actually glow with riches: Mahogany gleamed, silver glinted, crystal sparkled.
When my father came in with Joey and Miriam, he always told us, he gave a look to the already-set table, to the silver pitcher in the middle, to the stemmed silver goblets, and to himself said, oyoy, could the poretzim — the Russian landowners — do better?
After a moment the door between the dining room and the kitchen swung open, and a tall, softly contoured Negro woman came through. In one hand she bore a silver platter of chicken and in the other a crystal bowl of something neither Miriam nor Joey had ever seen before. It was, of course, the potato salad.
Miss Simmons introduced them to each other: She was Lizzie Maud; they were the Bronsons.
Lizzie Maud said, "How do," and my father said, "Likewise."
Miriam and Joey, having never before been in such intimacy with a Negro, stared at Lizzie Maud. The woman was dark, the very color of the room's rich woods. Above full features, kinky black hair was pulled into tiny clusters, each tied with a ragged snippet of white cloth. On her feet were broken-down men's shoes that had metamorphosed into slip-ons. A muslin apron that (no doubt) countless washings had turned into filmy gauze covered her dress. On the apron was a circle of words, which Joey, not yet in school and with the words barely visible, struggled to read. He finally made out "Rambling Rose Flour, Pride of the South."
Lizzie Maud turned back to the door, as if she had forgotten something. When she pushed back through, she had a silver basket of hot biscuits loosely covered with a napkin. "Be a lots of shuffling of the dishes," she said matter-of-factly.
Into the silver goblets Miss Simmons poured tea from the pitcher. When the tea came out, so did pieces of ice. Joey and Miriam have remembered staring. Ice in tea?
Miss Simmons put the pitcher down, and all at once the word Jewish was in the air. "Have I got that right?" she asked my father. "Aren't you folks Jews?"
It was out. My father managed a nod. The lady said she thought so, had known it almost at once. According to how Miriam has always told it, Miss Brookie Simmons said, "I confess I had an inklin' when I saw those ravishin' black curls on the little boy and glimpsed a certain look here and there, and I thought, 'Unless my brains have turned to rhubarb after all my years in this town, these people are Jews.'" We always expected a quote from Miss Brookie Simmons to be requoted, and in Miss Brookie Simmons's distinctive style, by Miriam. At doing Miss Brookie Simmons, Miriam was matchless.
What finally had convinced her, Miss Simmons was saying, were the accents.
Accents? She heard accents? And she saw certain looks? My father was nonplussed. Did my mother and the New York relatives have it wrong when they said he talked "just like a Yankee"? And didn't everybody say that with his light coloring he didn't look Jewish? He didn't fidget over it. The lady was taking the Jewish thing okay, and that's what was important.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Jew Store"
by .
Copyright © 1998 Stella Suberman.
Excerpted by permission of ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Prologue,
1 The Destination,
2 Avram Plotchnikoff's New Name,
3 A Nice Jewish Girl,
4 For Better or for Worse,
5 God's (So to Speak) Country,
6 Miss Brookie's Cousin Tom,
7 Xenophobia,
8 My Father's Fancy Footwork,
9 Bronson's Low-Priced Store,
10 Green Eyeshades,
11 No Picnic,
12 Opening Day,
13 In Christ's Name, Amen,
14 A Gleam In My Mother's Eye,
15 Two Social Calls,
16 A House and Neighbors,
17 My Mother's Dilemma,
18 Seth's New Job,
19 New York Aunts,
20 The Bar Mitzvah Question,
21 Gentiles,
22 Joey's Homecoming,
23 Miriam's Romance,
24 Aunt Hannah's Wedding,
25 Concordia's Savior,
26 Miriam's Rescue,
27 Push Comes to Shove,
A Reader's Guide, including An Interview with Stella Suberman and Reading Group Questions,
About the Author,
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