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4.2.12
WC: 191694

seeing my parents read anything but newspapers (The New York Post), until I went to college.
They were just too busy making a living--both parents worked--and keeping house.

There were no book stores in Boro Park, expect for a small used book shop that smelled old and
seemed to specialize in subversive books. The owner, who smelled like his mildewed books,
looked like Trotsky, who he was said to admire. We were warned to stay away, lest we be put on
some "list" of young subversives.

My parents, especially my mother, were terrified about "lists" and "records." This was, after all,
the age of "blacklists," "redchanels," and other colored compilations that kept anyone on them
from getting a job. "They will put you on a list," my mother would warn. Or "it will go on your
permanent record." When I was 13 or 14, I actually did something that may have gotten me on a
list.

It was during the height of the McCarthy period, shortly after Julius and Ethel Rosenberg had
been sentenced to death. A Rosenberg relative was accosting people getting off the train, asking
them to sign a petition to save the Rosenbergs' lives. I read the petition and it made sense to me,
so I signed it. A nosy neighbor observed the transaction and duly reported it to my mother. She
was convinced that my life was over, my career was ruined and that my willingness to sign a
communist-inspired petition would become part of my permanent record. (Was there ever really
a permanent record? It was certainly drummed into me for years that such a paper existed. I'd
love to find mine and see what's in it.)¹⁰ My mother decided that I had to be taught a lesson. She
told my father the story. I could see that my father was proud of what I had done, but my mother
told him to slap me. Ever obedient, he did, causing him more pain than me.

In addition to the "subversive" book store, we had a library that was also tiny and somewhat
decrepit, but when I was nearing the end of high school, a new, spacious library opened about half
a mile away. We went there every Friday afternoon--for two reasons. First, that's where the girls
were on Friday afternoon. And second, we could take out up to four books and keep them for a
month. The two reasons merged when Artie Edelman realized that we could impress the girls by
taking out serious books. Up until that time my reading of serious literature had been limited to
Classic Comics. Don't laugh!

Classic Comics were marvelous. Not only could we read about the adventures of Ivanhoe, we
could see what he looked like! My first erotic desires were aroused by the illustration of the dark-
haired "Jewess" Rebecca. (I can still picture her and have searched for a copy of the Classic
Comic at flea markets from coast to coast to relive my unrequited adolescent lust).

I recently came across the Classic Comic of Crime and Punishment. Having read three
translations of the great work of Dostoyevsky, I was amazed at how faithful the comic was to the
tone, atmosphere and even words of the original. I tried to give it to my granddaughter who was
reading the book for class, but she politely turned down the offer, with a slight air of
condescension that one gratefully accepts only from a grandchild.

¹⁰ Now there really are "permanent records." They're called Facebook, Twitter and the Internet.
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