My life, my times, and my research: an autobiographical sketch

American Journal of Economics and Sociology, The,  Oct, 2007  by Roman A. Ohrenstein

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I

Introduction

IT HAS BEEN SAID BY Arthur Schnitzler that "it is easy to write a memoir when one has a poor memory." But it is not easy to squeeze an individual's history into the obvious happenings. Rather, it is the story between the moments that colors the completeness of life. Alas, an autobiographical sketch does not lend itself to describe the momentuous sparks. Realizing that memoirs are not defined by great writing but by a great story, I shall attempt to pierce the obvious in the hope that it will reflect my life's odyssey.

I was born on June 12, 1920 in Slomniki, Poland. The town's population was about 5,000, out of which roughly 250 families were Jewish. Most of the Poles were farmers and artisans. Some were also businessmen. The Jews made their meager living as craftsmen, tailors, peddlers, and storekeepers. There was also a class that the Jews facetiously called "luftmentsben," literally, "air-people" without an occupation, living from hand to mouth.

Jews called such a village a shtetel, where the drama of Jewish existence was played out religiously, culturally, socially, and institutionally. In it, we celebrated our happy occasions and mourned over our personal and national disasters--a confluence of joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, hope and despair.

Though we were an alienated minority, the literacy rate among the Jews was relatively high. Every Jew, no matter how low on the socioeconomic ladder, knew how to write Yiddish and to read the prayers in Hebrew. My parents, Joseph and Gena of blessed memory, strained themselves financially to provide their children with a good Jewish education. In our home, learning was high priority. We are an Am ha-Seifer ("People of the Book"), my father used to say. Referring to the omniscient wisdom inherent in the Torah, he added the Talmudic admonition: "turn-in-it, turn-in-it for everything is in it" (Avot V:25).

In public school I learned, among other subjects, Polish history, culture, and literature, thus whetting my appetite for a higher secular education. Still, being a Jew in the school was not a picnic. Some of our fellow Polish students harassed us, and sometimes beat us up just for the fun of it. To them we were nameless. Instead, they called us zyd parch ("leprous Jew"). Even some of the teachers made disparaging remarks in class against the Jews. Such a hateful environment was difficult to take. I recall once during an outing, a bully boy pushed his fellow Jewish student into the water, critically injuring him. The injured boy was taken to a hospital in Cracow, where he died. His name was Joseph Spiegel. In protest we organized a strike for a day. Upon our return the teachers were furious ...

Some Jewish students resented such chicanery and, when attacked, hit back. I recall that once during a national parade, a student behind me was deliberately stepping on my heels and called me names. It was a humiliating experience I could not take. I turned around and hit him on the chin. Upon returning to class, and in the absence of supervision, he took out a knife, attacked me, and shouted: "Zyd, you crucified Jesus Christ and I am going to kill you with this knife." I fought back and gave him a bloody nose. Hearing the commotion, the teacher came in and separated the combatants. He then investigated the case and named me as the culprit. There were, of course, many "witnesses" who testified against me. However, I put up a vigorous defense, relating the way I was humiliated in public and calling attention to the perpetrator's knife with which he threatened me. The teacher, Mr. Miska, who was known as a "salon anti-Semite," had to admit that I was provoked, and named me Benedict Spinoza. For that time on, those schoolyard bullies were afraid to start a fight with me. I was then 12 years old.

Upon my graduation, a fair-minded Polish teacher planted in my mind a seed I could never forget. "Too bad" he said, "that you are unable to continue your education." How could I? There was no advanced educational institution in our town. For that, one had travel to Cracow and, as a Jew, my chances of being admitted to a Polish gymnasium were next to nil. Yes, there was a Hebrew gymnasium in Cracow, but that involved a large expense I could not possibly afford. And on top of that, my father, a man of learning, was a devout Hasid, a member of a pious society, who would be reluctant to pay for a secular education that might, God forbid, lead his son to loosen his ties to our ancestral heritage. In sum, it was a no-win situation.

Nolens volens, I had to settle for the next best alternative. I became a ferocious reader of any books I could lay my hands on. There were two libraries in town, one Polish and one Jewish. The Polish library had much more to offer with respect to classical literature from all over the world, including philosophical and scientific works. I swallowed many of them like a hungry lion. At the same time, I did not neglect to delve deep into the Jewish sources.