It occurred to me that while I have written about my father, I cannot recall writing anything other than brief references about my mother. That thought came to me as I looked at a wedding photograph of the two of them, Rose and Lou Silverman. Now, my father is standing there in his sartorial best with a bemused, “make sure you get my best side” look on his face. My dear mother, however, standing in her wedding gown at 5 ft if that high, has her “I’m the one who is going to be running the show” look in her eyes.
And, as I think about my years in that household, that’s the way it was. I have to tell you as loving and caring as she was, she was one hell of a feisty, tough woman. I mean she pushed him out of the door each morning with a dictum that he get his rear end in productive mode and bring home the bucks. While he never achieved the financial success she craved, he did, as far as I could tell, the best that he could do.
He sold insurance and managed what they called a debit (a territory today) for the Metropolitan Insurance Company. Each week when he brought home his earnings, she would inquire how the other salesmen did that week. When she would hear that one of their friends and fellow Met salesman earned more than he, she would berate him and insist that he do better. “You’re better than Charlie Becker!” she would scold. I cannot tell you how many times I heard that angry lament. She had a favorite Yiddish insult she used on him that went something like “Ne mein amisha meshunnah!” whatever the hell that means.
That said, however, she loved and made a comfortable home for him and my brother and me. In that regard, she also pushed us two siblings to excel in whatever we did. I remember once when my brother, Stanley’s report card was not up to her expectations, she unmercifully went after him with a leather belt. Now I know that is properly frowned on today, but his grades never suffered after that (nor did mine come to think of it).
She was a bright woman. In today’s world with all of the opportunities available to young woman, I believe she could have been anything she wanted to be. An avid reader, she favored murder mysteries. She listened to all of the detective series – The Shadow, Bulldog Drummond, Perry Mason, and the rests – then playing on the radio. And when a Chester Morris Boston Blackie movie hit the local circuit, you could bet on her seeing it. I recall also that she was particularly adept at crossword puzzles, and when she was deep into one, you did not want to make unnecessary noises.
She ran a tight household with a tighter budget. Remember this was the height or should I say depth of the Great Depression in the mid thirties. When Lou had a bad week, and brought home less earnings, though she did not let him off the hook, we never lacked a solid meal, sufficient clothes and, of course, the proverbial roof over our heads. If he had a continuing run of bad weeks, she would find work as a sales clerk at a Hecht’s Department Store in D.C.
She had to return to that job quite often because my father had somewhat of an addiction to the ponies; particularly those running at Pimlico. I surmise that feeling in those years that that was his only way of making a score, he wagered either any spare funds he had at the end of the week, or if a “sure-to-win” tip came his way, some of the insurance premiums he had collected on his debit. Unfortunately, he had a particular penchant for losers, and my mother would have to earn a few bucks to make up the difference. How he manipulated his weekly reports to hide a deficit I do not know, but with her “bailouts” he managed to pull it off for years.
While not fervent, she practiced her faith. She attended our local synagogue on the so-called high holy days, and bringing out her Passover-only eating-ware, she would have a Seder or Passover service each year. What amused me, however, was that she loved a Virginia ham steak, and as if it were a ritual, each year a few days after the Passover holiday ended, she would prepare and serve an Hawaiian-style, ham steak. In later years I questioned if this was some kind of protest or an expression of independence. Both my brother and I were cajoled into attending the Katzenjammer-like Hebrew schools that led ultimately to our respective bar mitzvahs. On reflection, I guess she was as religious as most at that time.
Personality-wise, she was not the openly gregarious, warm, friendly person my father was. Always observant, she could be acerbic in her opinions and criticisms. Though not vindictive, she was not the kind of person with whom people felt comfortable and attached. That said, she had a pretty large circle of women with whom she played bridge and Mah Jong. Regarding the latter, she did not like to lose. I was once told that she was an intelligent, tough player who would go for your throat if you gave her an opening.
There are several humorous family legends (I believe all true) related to her, such as when she was fairly on in years, my brother tried to give her a driving lesson. Unnerved to the point of panic as, driving so far to the right, she barely missed parked cars by a whisker, he switched the lesson to parking in an empty lot only to have her end up plowing into a snow bank (her first and last lesson incidentally). Or, though she was a excellent baker and cook, she would prepare her meals to an intense heat. We used to joke that her mashed potatoes were still hot a week later.
Regarding her proclivity for very hot food, it is said that once when they were heading up to the Catskills on the old and often jammed Route 17, the folks stopped at a then popular spot called The Red Apple Rest for a hotdog. We suspect she may have been the only person ever to return a just grilled hotdog back over the counter (along with some kind of caustic comment) because it was not hot enough for her.
She was always there for my brother and me. If we were ill, she was there. If we had school lesson difficulties, she was there. If we truly needed something, she somehow found the funds or means to get it. And if we “broke the rules”, believe me she was there! When we moved to Jersey City from D.C., she agreed to let older brother, Stan stay with friends in D.C. to graduate from Roosevelt High there. While that did not work out, it turned out OK for him, for in his graduation year at Dickinson High in Jersey City, he met Arlyn, his great life partner. I also remember when in high school and my father insisted that I get some kind of part time job instead of going out for the football team, she “persuaded” him to let me play ball. And when I was drafted and at Camp Kilmer awaiting assignment, she travelled the difficult journey by train and 2 busses each week just to visit me for a few hours.
When it came to family, she was very supportive and protective. She maintained contact with her brother and sister and most of her close relatives, and when we visited Jersey City yearly, tried to see them all. Later on when Stan and I had our own families, while seldom demonstratively complimentary, she had enormous pride in her grandchildren. Often short of finances, instead of buying them things she would lovingly knit various items for them.
She had compassion for those in need and contributed what she could to all kinds of charities (she kept a loose change can or what she called a “pushka” for such purposes). I remember going with her one day to visit Flora, a Black woman who helped her sporadically with housework when she was working at the Department store. Flora lived in one of the poorest of Black areas of D.C. (remember Washington was a Jim Crowe town in those years). A widow with no family near her, she was recovering from Pneumonia. That day and as often as she could Rose Silverman made here way into that destitute neighborhood with whatever food she could share. I’m sure there were others, but Flora was the one I remember.
When we moved to Jersey City, not much changed. My father, his minor “investments” at last discovered by Met auditors in 1941, was encouraged to seek another position elsewhere. That being the year of our entry into the war, with young men being herded into service, he was able to quickly get hired, only this time in Jersey City. Again near her side of the family, and with familiar neighborhoods and old friends, my mother quickly adapted, and settled in.
The years moved on, and in time they moved into a comfortable senior apartment building in East Orange, NJ. As she got into her 70’s, her body started to break down and as her vital organs failed, so did she. Incidentally, an amazing metamorphosis occurred during those latter years. Lou Silverman, who it was alleged could not boil a cup of water, assumed care of her. He bathed and dressed, fed and managed her medicines until the end. Needless to say she fought like hell until that end; she did not go gentle into that dark night.
I guess as I think about it now, I never really knew the core essence of her. Outside of my father’s making a good living, my brother and I and our progeny achieving some measure of success, her keeping a clean and comfortable home and all of us having the best of health, I don’t really know what other passions she had. In those years, of course, having a family and being a good wife and mother were sufficient goals for women like her. Still a male favoring society, expectations could be limited to having and caring for a family. I suspect that while she was content with this, there was a rage within her for something else. What it wasI will never know. She was a woman of her time…devoted to family, giving, protective, proud and above all, a survivor. I miss her.
Arnie Silverman
Laguna Niguel
