Conscious memories begin with fuzzy images ingrained in a very young child’s mind

We arrived on the shores of the United States in 1948. My father a”h was wont to say that he had one penny in his pocket for each year, 48 cents. Don’t rightly know what was in those few valises. Couldn’t have been much. Much later he confided in me that “the Joint,” a Jewish philanthropic agency, gave six months of assistance. From that point on, we were totally reliant on chasdei Hashem.

Conscious memories begin with fuzzy images ingrained in a very young child’s mind.

Teller “Ehvenoo” (Avenue) in “deh Brunx” between East 175th Street and East 176th Street is where we lived till we moved to Boro Park. It was a narrow canyon nestled between towering walk-ups, each clustered with tiny apartments opening to semi-dark, echoing hallways.

The first stop was 1052 Teller Avenue . The apartment was right over the boiler, so we had a surfeit of heat even in the summer. Floor warm to little bare feet that pattered about, careful to avoid the hard, sharp edges of the linoleum curling up, in spite of the best efforts of my father a”h to tack them down. Making friends with the various fauna that shared the apartment rent free.

Finally, 1076 Teller Avenue. I remember the move. My father and uncle a”h doing all the schlepping from 1052 down the block to 1076 and me riding in middle of the couch when that was brought over. The fourth-floor apartment in the back had a much better climate, less numerous fauna; the view, however, left much to be desired. Looking out, all one was able to see was the other faceless apartment buildings with their backs turned toward us across the courtyard, and a massive spider web of power lines, telephone lines, and clotheslines stretching helter-skelter between them.

Teller Avenue between East 175th and East 176th had a number of notable characters who directly affected our lives. These people deserve to have more of their stories told, as they each cared for us and helped us acclimate to life in the United States. There was Mr. Marshall, the grocery man; the tailor, of whom I was deathly afraid; Bud, the proprietor of the nonkosher grocery store, who was forever rebuilding more 1932 Fords; and Mr. Yuden, the pharmacist. His drug store, with an unmistakable medicinal fragrance, which permeated even the beautiful wooden glass-fronted cabinets. Behind the counter stood Mr. Yuden in his horn-rimmed glasses, dispensing the concoctions prescribed by the doctors, advice, and a kind, gentle smile to go along with the over-the-counter medications that were meant to be a real panacea for our ills.

Our parents didn’t have the time or funds to go places, so we had to find ways to occupy our precious free time and thereby satisfy the fertile imagination of little people who had no toys.