According to legend, the small-town American editor must be the master of all trades, crafts, arts, and professions, handling everything from the recovery of lost cows to the mending of broken marriages. From this sketch of the editor of the Yiddish-language Canader Shtimme of Toronto, it is clear that the editor of a Jewish paper must perform all such functions—and serve heaven, too.
_____________
On Wednesday afternoons, when the stores in the small towns of Ontario are closed down and the businessmen come into Toronto on their buying trips, one is likely to find several out-of-town shopkeepers milling about the office of Mr. Joshua Simon, editor and publisher of the Canader Shtimme, or The Voice, as the name reads on the English page. The nature of their missions is varied: one of the pilgrims might be interviewing a combined rabbi-teacher-cantor-shochet-mohel on behalf of his tiny locality in Northern Ontario; another might be laboring away on the words of an advertisement seeking board and lodging with a congenial family for his young daughter who is arriving in the city to enter the University of Toronto; still another may be a widower biding his time for a chance to discuss with Mr. Simon the possibility of finding an older girl or a young widow who would consider marriage and settling in some remote community.
To see Mr. Simon is a very uncomplicated matter. One simply barges into his office. That’s how he likes it. And although this has a tendency to make his large office look like the lobby of some unruly convention, Mr. Simon moves through the milling throng with great effectiveness. He places his visitors in different parts of the room and flits from corner to corner, carrying on conversation in a kind of subdued mumble which insures a measure of privacy without stifling any of the genuine warmth of a personal discussion.
“Appointments you make with social workers,” he says with affected abruptness to those astonished at the easy access they have to the editor and publisher of the Voice. Mr. Simon never wastes an opportunity to take a dig at the social-work profession, a calling that has over the years provoked a steady jet of captious editorials from his pen (many of which I translated for the English page when I worked for the Voice) . Nothing can dissuade him from the view that the Jews of America are handing over Jewish survival itself to a civil service. Jewish life, according to the Simon thesis, depends on every Jew’s doing the Good Deed himself. “No man can delegate his mitzvah to a professional,” he has thundered time and again for upwards of thirty years. And to those who maintain that he harbors outmoded notions about social work, Mr. Simon retorts that he spent the winter of 1907 in Siberia for his advanced ideas.
The comings and goings in his office Mr. Simon sees as the embodiment of his philosophy. As a matter of fact, most of the problems brought to Mr. Simon by the out-of-town folks (and by the local people, for that matter) have little to do with his work as editor or publisher. But that he should refer these people and their troubles to community agencies and their “push-button” Jews? Never! “You don’t have to have any fancy diplomas to be an expert; all you got to do is believe that every Jew is his brother’s keeper.” Whether this theory is borne out by his experience is debatable. But one thing is certain, and that is that the Voice has been host these past thirty years to a highly entertaining variety of bedlam and that its editor and publisher is a colorful gentleman with a knack for getting himself involved in some highly bizarre episodes.
_____________
I don’t know how high the incident with the Jewish community of Porcupine rates among Mr. Simon’s escapades, but I can record it in every detail, having been more than slightly involved in it myself. The Porcupine affair dates back to the early fall of 1935 in the days when there were no cold wars, no hot wars; in fact, hardly anything to worry about—except the depression.
At that time I was editor of the English page of the Voice. I was also proofreader, layout man, dispatcher, and business assistant to Miss Kopstick, the office manager or “bookkeepern” as she was called by the rest of the staff. Quite the most grueling of all my responsibilities, this last chore involved my taking ads after Miss Kopstick had left for the day. Prospective advertisers often came bearing virtual essays in flamboyant Yiddish, telling the world that they had rooms to let, or used bicycles or baby carriages, or one of a thousand other items for sale. My efforts to condense the copy to the size of a dollar classified ad were always hotly contested. The argument contra would generally run along these lines: “What will it hurt you if the advertisement has a few more words? Will it break down the presses? Will the Voice go out of business?” Of no avail were explanations about space rates. And often as not these disputes would wind up with accusations that I was an assimilationist undermining dos Yiddishe vort in America. When things would get too trying, I’d ask Mr. Simon to relieve me of some of my various jobs. For an answer he’d point vaguely in the direction of the street and say: “The depression is the boss; go talk to the depression.” This simple reply managed to personalize the lean 30’s for me so dramatically that to this day the vision of a fierce, bony, old melamed perched on the threshold of the Voice still leaps into my mind when I think of the depression.
In those days Mr. Simon would go to New York once a year. The week among the bigtime Yiddish writers would refresh his spirit. Back in Toronto he’d relive in every detail the nights spent at the Café Royale with the great and near-great of Yiddish literature. Sometimes he’d produce the manuscript of a roman he had bought from an unknown writer and would read a passage here and there with the air of a man who had uncovered an important author.
It was while he was away on one of his trips to New York that Mr. Gluskin of Porcupine came into the office. There was something urgent about the way he asked for Mr. Simon. And besides it was a Monday evening and not a Wednesday afternoon.
“Mr. Simon is in New York. He’ll be back in a few days,” I informed him.
“In a few days it will be Rosh Hashanah,” Mr. Gluskin said impatiently. Then he snorted, “How do you like that—in New York!” as if it were damn frivolous of Mr. Simon to be out of the city at a time like this.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ventured tepidly, not at all anxious to get mixed up in what was plainly, from Mr. Gluskin’s behavior, a raging emergency up in Porcupine.
“Can you get us a cantor five days before Rosh Hashanah?” he challenged in that same snort. Then realizing that, after all, I had nothing to do with the fix his community was in, he softened up. “We got a telegram yesterday from Cantor Shimmele Goldfarb, the man Mr. Simon recommended to us for the High Holy Days. Goldfarb was in an accident and has to stay in bed for at least two weeks. So now you know the whole story. We have no cantor five days before Rosh Hashanah.”
_____________
In the strict sense of the word, Porcupine didn’t even have a chazan in Shimmele Goldfarb. He was, and still is to this day, the proprietor of a little hand laundry and is known the year round as plain Sam Goldfarb. He is one of a handful of men in Toronto who are part-time chazonim. Alas for their dreams of becoming world-famous cantors—as the years wore on they found themselves trapped behind sewing machines, in laundries, in bakery shops, and in grocery stores. Now and then some of them can be seen in Hyman’s Bookshop or in Ladowsky’s Restaurant on Spadina Avenue, exchanging bitter talk about the talent that’s been stifled in each of them or arguing over the merits of the world-renowned cantors in New York and of the less renowned ones holding positions in the large synagogues of Toronto. Every year about two months before the High Holy Days they start bringing their worn-out cuts to the Voice. The Sams, the Daves, and the Morrises become Shimmelach, Dovidlach, and Moishelach. Invariably they are photographed wearing great, puffed-up skullcaps and sprawling, black cravats pinned up against their prayer shawls. Under the pictures are florid descriptions of bygone greatness said to have been achieved in such cities as Warsaw, London, New York, etc. Then a final paragraph announcing that they are available for the High Holy Days either in Toronto or in the province. Naturally the ads diminish in number as the holidays draw near, since most of the men are hired either by congregations in Toronto or by the different communities throughout the province. And those who have not secured positions remove their cuts well in advance of the holidays as a matter of pride. So that Mr. Gluskin’s anxiety about Porcupine’s being caught without a cantor was warranted.
_____________
Together we quickly scanned the advertisements in the Voice and the only one still available as late as five days before Rosh Hashanah was a Feivele Gelfand, who, according to the blurb under the cut, had been at the age of eleven a wonder-child cantor in Lodz and whose great talent had persisted into adult life to make him the darling of Lemberg, Warsaw, and Philadelphia before he got to Toronto. When I told Cantor Gelfand over the telephone that a representative from Porcupine was waiting to speak to him about a position for the High Holy Days, he replied with an elaborate indifference that he was sorry he’d forgotten to remove the ad, and that he was at the moment considering offers from Winnipeg and Edmonton, although he would see the man from Porcupine if for no other reason than out of courtesy.
A half hour later he arrived at the office. Pompous and haughty, he towered fully two feet above my desk. He was plainly annoyed at the world that he was still available as late as five days before Rosh Hashanah and there was no doubt that he meant to take his anger out on Porcupine. Cantor Gelfand repeated his story about offers from Winnipeg and Edmonton for the benefit of Mr. Gluskin, but he added that he wasn’t sure whether to accept since his wife wouldn’t hear of his traveling two days and a night to conduct services in those far-off communities. Mr. Gluskin hurried to laud Mrs. Gelfand’s good sense, pointing out temptingly that Porcupine was a mere thirteen hours away from Toronto. At this Gelfand began to hum in a barely audible falsetto. He stared intently at the ceiling as if lost in private thoughts. Then he shook his head from side to side for a long, long time and finally announced that he’d be too expensive for a place as small as Porcupine. There followed a brisk half hour of bargaining after which the cantor succumbed to one hundred dollars and traveling expenses, fully fifteen dollars more than the indisposed Cantor Goldfarb was to have received. But Porcupine was stuck and Gelfand knew it, even though exquisite care had been taken by Mr. Gluskin and myself to avoid the slightest hint about his being a last-minute replacement.
In the usual circumstances, a try-out would have been in order, and it wouldn’t have been out of place for Cantor Gelfand to give a sample rendition on the premises of the Voice. As a matter of fact, it was quite common in those days for communities too small to stand the expenses of a try-out on a Sabbath before Rosh Hashanah to send representatives for the purpose of auditioning candidates in Mr. Simon’s office, and every year around the time of the High Holy Days nasal lamentations of every description would issue forth from behind the editor’s door. But in this delicate instance Mr. Gluskin didn’t think it wise to press for an audition. Relieved that his community was spared the mess that had threatened, he quickly sealed the agreement with these few words:
I want you should know, Cantor, I made a special trip from Porcupine. I have full power to hire and Porcupine will be satisfied as long as I’m satisfied. I always say, The way a man acts is his best credential. Something tells me you’re all right. I have full confidence even if you are coming to Porcupine sight unheard.
This neat figure of speech was followed by a bout of handshaking and the cantor left as pompously as he had come. My hand, too, was enthusiastically pumped by Mr. Gluskin, who promised to let Mr. Simon know how very helpful I had been. It was no small satisfaction to know that I had filled the breach so well in Mr. Simon’s absence. With a feeling of some triumph, I went back to the business of composing New Year’s greetings.
_____________
The New Year’s edition of the Voice was always fat with learned articles and an array of good-will messages ranging from that of the Prime Minister of Canada to that of the aldermen of Ward 4, which was the main locus of the Jewish community in Toronto during the 30’s. A perennial challenge of tremendous proportions, by the time it was on the newsstands the New Year’s issue had the members of the small staff looking as if they themselves had been run through the presses. In addition to sharing the tribulations of producing the New Year’s issue with the rest of the workers, I was confronted with a special problem which the others were spared. In Toronto there are more than one hundred landsmanshaften and congregations that perpetuate the memories of towns and villages in Eastern Europe bearing some of the most fantastic names imaginable. Since many of these organizations take space to publish greetings, I had the ticklish assignment of transposing into phonetic English such names as Wierzbnik, Chenchine, Tzozmer, Plotszk, Husiatine, Driltz, Beizetchine, Chmielnik, Slipyeh, Narayew, and Ostrovtzeh—just to give a few random examples. After a few days of the kind of intense proofreading I had to do on the New Year’s issue, these names would suddenly take on the appearance of typographical errors no matter what spelling I’d give them. I’d plead with Mr. Rifkind the linotypist to repeat the names for me slowly so that I might capture their true sound on paper. Mr. Rifkind was an irascible Litvak who wrote delightful Yiddish poetry for children and regarded my difficulties with gentle sadism. Whenever he’d see me coming he’d exclaim, “Aha, here comes the English editor that can t spell English.” All that was needed in our depleted condition late at night around Rosh Hashanah time was this little joke, and ugly quarrels would blow up between us over the respective peculiarities of the English and Slavic languages. Naturally, the other workers would line up solidly with Mr. Rifkind. Hadn’t they been forced to labor tediously with store clerks, gas-meter inspectors, delivery men, and public officials of every kind over the spelling of their various names since they had come to Canada?
A noisy dispute on this very subject was proceeding merrily one night when I was interrupted by a telephone call. It was Cantor Gelfand’s voice.
“You’re the one who arranged I should go to Porcupine for the High Holidays, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered. It was one-thirty in the morning and I wondered what had driven him to call at this ungodly hour.
“I won’t be there. Send a telegram and tell them,” he ordered.
Rosh Hashanah was two days away.
“But Cantor Gelfand, you’re due in Porcupine tomorrow afternoon,” I protested.
“I told you I can’t go.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m in prison.”
There was the composure of the hopeless in his voice.
I must have asked several questions before I realized that Gelfand was no longer on the phone. Then a calm heavy voice announced that it was Desk Sergeant Bradeen, that there was no use discussing this matter over the telephone, and that I had better hurry on over to the Chestnut Street Police Station. Then he hung up. Without wasting a moment I went to Mr. Simon, who happily had come back to town that very evening. Starting with Mr. Gluskin’s visit, I told him the entire story, ending up with the telephone call that had just come through from the police station. Mr. Simon listened impassively. When I had finished he put on his jacket and his topcoat with deliberate, ceremonious movements. Then he reached for his hat, blew a few abrupt little jets of breath at some dust specks on the hatband, and finally turned toward the door motioning for me to follow him.
Sergeant Bradeen was immensely relieved to see Mr. Simon, or “The Editor,” as he was generally called by the police and other officials. Cantor Gelfand remained aloof, looking wounded in the manner made famous by Paul Muni as Emile Zola. Three large policemen stood off at a distance casting troubled glances at their captive.
“Now we’ll get somewhere,” the desk sergeant said, as a kind of salute to Mr. Simon. And there was good reason for the tribute, too. Wasn’t Mr. Simon known in the remotest precincts of the Toronto police force for his ability to explain the most esoteric of Jewish values? It was through his inimitable way of interpreting things that policemen pounding various beats in Ward 4 gained a keen insight into such institutions as the mikveh, ritual slaughter, chicken plucking, and sundry other practices that baffled the constabulary mind.
Electing a ponderously formal manner to hide his amusement at the sight of the three puzzled policemen towering over the little cantor, Mr. Simon said: “I would like please to know what the trouble is, Sergeant?”
“Is this man supposed to be an outstanding cantor?” asked Sergeant Bradeen.
“And suppose he isn’t? Does that mean he should be arrested in the middle of the night like a criminal?”
“Answer my question, please!” the Sergeant insisted.
“I don’t know if he is outstanding, but he is recognized as a cantor,” replied Mr. Simon with neat diplomacy.
“So what’s he doing driving a milk wagon and disturbing the peace in the deep of night?” Sergeant Bradeen asked. “He was bellowing from his wagon at the top of his voice when Constable Sloan picked him up.” He nodded at one of the police officers to identify Sloan, who explained that complaints about the shouting had been coming in for three nights and that when finally apprehended Gelfand would give no reason whatsoever for the ungodly noise.
At this point Cantor Gelfand turned to Mr. Simon and spoke up for the first time in a broken sort of way.
“Maybe you can explain to a policeman,” he said in Yiddish, “that I wasn’t making a disturbance but singing a sweet nigun I learned as a child from the Gerer Rabbi himself. I can’t.” The rest of his story came in one tortured sentence. He had been rehearsing the High Holy Day liturgy while out on his milk route in order to whip his nusach into perfect shape so that the Porcupine community would hear him at his best. “But it doesn’t matter any more,” he assured Mr. Simon in that hopeless voice he used over the telephone. “I started out two hours earlier just to be in time for the train to Porcupine that passes Toronto in forty-five minutes around. It’s too late to finish my milk route and catch the train.” Then he turned to me and asked in English: “You sent the telegram?”
Mr. Simon answered for me that it was never too late to send a telegram. Realizing that there wasn’t enough time for extensive forays into the sociology of part-time chazonus, he turned to Sergeant Bradeen and spoke in a voice that bristled with urgency: “I must see you alone for five minutes, Sergeant. It is very important.” The request was promptly granted and Bradeen ushered Mr. Simon into a private office. Even before the five minutes were up they were back. Sergeant Bradeen proceeded slowly to his desk and from there faced his duty like the man of probity and courage he was.
_____________
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” and J. nodding at Gelfand he continued gravely, “this man’s a cantor all right. That was no shouting you heard, Sloan, it was a holy chant. At least that’s what the Editor here says,” Bradeen added quickly. This piece of intelligence was received with restrained consternation by the police. Avoiding Gelfand’s hot glances of indictment, the three constables made strenuous efforts to maintain face in a most difficult situation as the desk sergeant pursued his course unflinchingly.
“It seems that the cantor is under contract to conduct prayers starting at sundown for a congregation up in Porcupine. As God-fearing men, none of us would want to see his flock up north go without services on what I have been told is their most important holiday of the year. The Editor has given me a very helpful suggestion and if all of us cooperate we should get the cantor over to the station in time for his train.”
Sergeant Bradeen paused a moment to permit the minions of the law to prepare to redeem themselves in the eyes of Cantor Gelfand and of his God who was waiting to be served in Porcupine. Realizing that further talk was unnecessary, the sergeant began to issue orders to implement Mr. Simon’s battle plan. I was drafted to take down the names of the unserved customers on Gelfand’s route. Constable Sloan took on the job of finishing the milk deliveries and taking the horse and wagon back to the stable. A second police officer was detailed to relieve Sloan on the beat and the third man was assigned to drive the cantor home for his satchel which had been packed earlier that evening and then over to the station within the forty minutes that were left. Mr. Simon interrupted to advise that I ought to accompany the cantor so that I might take over such time-consuming chores as explanations and/or first aid in case Mrs. Gelfand should become hysterical if she chanced to see her husband coming home in a police cruiser. This thoughtful suggestion was quickly incorporated into the scheme of things and Mr. Simon settled back to watch closely every word and every move of the police officials. For here was a drama to be remembered and recounted, how as the city lay wrapped in a deep sleep, unconscious of the emergency, there set out from the Chestnut Street Station in the dawn. . .
Some weeks after, Porcupine had seen the High Holy Days come and go, and Mr. Gluskin happened into the office. I asked him how his community had enjoyed Cantor Gelfand. He gave a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders and said, “Not bad, but a Yosele Rosenblatt he wasn’t.”
_____________
