I Remember the Wallet

I Remember the Wallet

When my brother Jake and I were kids—twelve and eight, respectively—we lived in one of Montreal’s poor immigrant sectors. We’d been ice-skating at Beaver Lake at the top of Mount Royal when we found a wallet containing five-hundred dollars. It was a veritable fortune to us, but especially so in the 1950’s.

We gave Dad the wallet the minute we got home. Inside it, he found an identification card of a man who was named Herman Schultz. “So much money this is. We should better call him right away! Probably he is worrying himself sick,” Dad said. “This man, Shultz, I think he is living in that newcomer's’ boarding house by St. Urbane.”He announced after he’d hung up the phone. “This Mr. Shultz, he told me also he immigrated from Germany a few years after the war, just like us. Maybe we would know some of the same people who came over in those times?” My father almost sounded hopeful.

I remember it was late afternoon the following day when Mr. Schultz came over to collect his wallet because Dad had just gotten home from his tailoring job at the menswear clothing factory. It was Purim. The whole house smelled fantastic because Mom had been baking hamantaschen. The man brought a massive candy-filled basket, cellophane-wrapped and tied with an equally massive ribbon.“Fur die Kinder,” he said, handing it to Dad.

“Tank you very much, Mr. Schultz, but this was very unnecessary,” My father said. He handed the man the wallet and set the basket on the telephone-stand near the door.

“You must be an excellent father to have such honest children, not so common in these times,” said Mr. Shultz.

He looked much older than Dad. Dressed in a striped gray suit, Mr. Shultz wore a gray felt hat that had a tiny red feather sticking out of the hat-band. “Please, please, come in and warm up! Maybe some coffee and a little something?” My father said. The man took off his hat. His head was completely bald and very shiny and he walked with a terrible limp leaning on a silver-handled cane. Dad led him into our living room. The two men sat down on the sofa while Mom went to make coffee.

After she’d left, they began speaking in what, only years later, I came to realize was German. I paid close attention and although I was fluent in Yiddish, I understood only parts of what was being said. Jake and I both thought they were speaking some version of Yiddish that was unfamiliar to us. We went back to sitting on the floor and playing Monopoly.

I remember Mom brought out a tray from the kitchen that had coffee, cream, sugar, plus china cups and saucers she rarely used. She set the tray on the coffee table then went back for the plate of the hamantaschen she’d baked. Jake and I grabbed a few before resuming our game.The grownups drank coffee and talked but abruptly, they switched to English. Mr. Shultz said his daughter had married an American soldier in Germany after the war and they’d moved to California. He planned to join them once he got his American immigration visa.

I remember Dad had just rolled up his sleeves before reaching for a cup and saucer. Filling it, he handed it to Mr. Schultz then pushed the cream and sugar toward him. “Thank you, but no cream for me. During da vor, ve all got used to drinking it black.” He stared at my father’s arm as he served coffee. Dad always rolled up his sleeves before eating but only at home. When they were rolled up, the triangle and tattooed numbers on his forearm were impossible to miss. Mr. Shultz continuing to stare said, “Ach, terrible, terrible times dis vor vas, no? Hart it vas on everybody, you know, not just fur die Juden (the Jews) vhat vere in die lagers?” (the camps). “For us vhat vere in die Wehrmacht, things also were very bad!”

Without warning, Dad jumped from the sofa wheezing and spat his coffee all over the floor. Mom grabbed Mr. Shultz’s coat and hat and dropped them on his lap. Growling, Dad said words I didn’t understand. Mr. Shultz also jumped up and the two raced to the front door. My father opened it for the man but when Mr. Shultz was on the steps, Dad grabbed the candy-basket from the telephone-stand and threw it down the steps at him.

We watched Dad close the door and walk back to the living room. He sat on the sofa, poured himself a cup of coffee then added so much cream, it turned almost white. Next, he added two spoon-fulls of sugar. I remember the spoon clanging against the cup as he stirred for what seemed like a very long time. He starred into the cup for what also seemed like a very long time.

I remember Dad drank his coffee slowly, staring into the cup. He had a second cup but with it, he ate all the rest of the Hamantaschen. When he’d finished, he carried the tray to the kitchen where Mom was cleaning up and kissed her on the cheek. In Yiddish, he said, “Those are the best hamantaschen you’ve ever made!”

That Saturday, after Dad came home from shul (synagogue) and after we’d all eaten lunch, he took Jake and me downtown to Eaton’s Department Store. “Miss, excuse me,” he said to the pretty women behind the perfume counter, “but can you tell me, please, where is it here I could find the candy department?”

After some wandering around, we found it. Dad bought us a large basket of cellophane wrapped candy. As the salesclerk handed him his change, she said, “Sir, shall I tie this pretty ribbon around it? It’s included in the price.”

“No, but tank you very much, dis is very not necessary,” He said in his heavily accented English. He leaned over and kissed each of us on the tops of our heads.

Dad never said another word about Mr. Shultz or what had happened. Neither did we.