America was a curious amalgam, a mixture, a blend — of contradictions. And so was Abe: a factory dissident fighting for human rights, an authoritarian patriarch fighting against them. At home he disallowed all dissent and waged a war against toys.
Lillian was born in 1914, Murray, in 1915, and Rose, my mother, in 1921.
Books were their only playthings.
A miniature tea set made of white china rimmed in gold a pair of roller skates that locked with a key these and other gifts from the children’s relatives disappeared.
Murray was arrested with other small boys for playing with bottle caps stolen from a milk wagon.
Abe believed he should be taught a lesson, and if Eva had only stopped crying, “Murrele” would have spent the night behind bars.
Although Abe approved of reading, it, too, was regulated. He would stand outside looking up at the windows trying to catch someone reading at night. Too much reading, and you would need glasses.
Inside his mausoleum - like bookcase, behind huge volumes of never - opened Yiddish books, Abe buried the children’s things the toys he disparaged along with the medals of excellence he cherished.
Lillian Mercurochromed the bone protruding from the broken arm that put an end to Murray’s flight in the skates he’d unearthed from the bookcase.
Through other joyrides and bad landings (and additional bodily harm administered afterward) Murray, who had the makings of a champion pole vaulter, remained undaunted and unrepentant.
In 1932 he won a gold medal from Boy’s High.