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My standing in the Medical Society, to begin with, did not give me great satisfaction. My studies at the university in Russia were hampered by a series of unfavorable circumstances. I entered the university in my late 20s, having been barred for many years through the norm allocated to the Jews. I already lacked the zest and exuberance of youth. I devoted a great deal of my time to the process of eking out a living, meager as it was. Because of students' revolts in the stormy years of the revolutionary period emanating in 1905, the university was virtually closed for months at a time. I also underwent an operation for mastoiditis, of which I nearly died, and my health was impaired.
The last year in medical school was especially hard on me because when my son was born, my wife could no longer work in her capacity as a teacher. Despite these obstacles, I graduated magna cum laude, but there were blind spots in my training, especially in surgery which calls for a great deal of training and practice. In my Vladimir-Volinsck days when I was in charge of a hospital, I had to do some surgery from necessity, but I was primarily an internist. In the hospital in Leningrad under the Communist regime, I bore the title of Internist Consultant, which was more meritorious than practical because there was no need for a consultant to diagnose typhus fever or tetanus. As to the treatment, there was hardly any treatment at all for lack of medicine. Even tetanus serum at times was unavailable. Be that as it may, I was hardly well prepared for this country where surgery was an integral part of a physician's practice. As an internist, I hardly met with the diseases common in Russia, and there were some diseases like tuleremia, brucilosis, and others that were unknown in my student days. Even X-ray was a new phenomenon to me. The English Pharmacopoeia was also different, and the business part of the medical profession was entirely alien to me.
What I needed was time to familiarize myself with the ways and means of the practice of medicine. A refresher course of some six or even three months, together with observation, would have brought me up to the level of any physician in Duluth and perhaps on top of others, but I was pressed for time. I simply had to practice or starve. The knowledge of my shortcomings, the moral trauma I suffered right from the start, my speaking limitations kept me down. I was on the fringe of the medical profession. I never penetrated the inner circles and remained a stranger.
Not much progress was made with regard to the communal life of the city, which was limited for obvious reasons to the Jewish circles. Shortly upon my arrival, I joined a Jewish lodge called Hebrew Brotherhood and was appointed the medical examiner since the members carried an obligatory insurance policy. I went to the meetings ex officio. Instead of brotherly love, I found there petty jealousies, rivalry, and factionalism. The initiation tricks, the ceremonials, the multicolored uniforms of the officers, the passwords seemed to me childish and humiliating to the initiated. In justice to this lodge, I might say that later, when I became the medical examiner for non-Jewish lodges, I found the same conditions prevailing with the initiation rites in some of them tougher and even dangerous.
Under the influence of Harry, I joined the Temple and found there no solace. The “shul” in our little town of Pereyaslov was dirty and noisy. The prayers were long and in Hebrew which some of the members did not fully understand. But there was also faith and enthusiasm. The “shul” was to the inhabitants of the ghetto some kind of a club, a place of entertainment and an educational institution. On the long winter nights after the evening prayers, they would congregate at a long table placed at the heating stove. Some of the learned men, and as often as not it was my father, would read to them and translate some excerpts of the lighter kind from the Talmud or read a Hebrew paper to them and discuss current events. Stories were told and personal experiences related. On the Sabbath, visiting cantors would take over the lead on prayers. The more prominent ones would also give a concert on a weekday, and some of them were really good. Itinerant preachers, so-called “magidim,” would come to town. Most of them were religious instructors, but with the advent of Zionism, other kinds of preachers appeared who were not as interested in matters pertaining to religion as in the awakening of national feelings. The “shul” in other words was an integral part of Jewish life; and my father and myself, in my boyhood, while non-religious, frequented the “shul.”
In contrast to the traditional synagogue, the Temple introduced into American life by the assimilated German Jews was clean and orderly. The burden of leading the prayer was on the rabbi. The congregation limited itself to pronouncing a few stereotyped phrases. At times they would rise like marionettes at the cue of the rabbi, stand in would-be “reverence” for a few seconds, and sit down in orderly fashion. It was, or anyway it looked, artificial to me and devoid of any inner feelings. It is not my intention to extol the “shul” or to minimize the importance of the Temple. Not all shuts were alike; the Temple has its place in this country, and some of the rabbis are real leaders in Israel. It expresses only my nostalgic reminiscence, and my impression of the Temple relates only to that of Duluth which, at that time, was void of any constructive purpose or religious elevation. The Temple was dominated by a few German old-time settlers who kept themselves apart from the plebs. The rabbi was an uninspiring man without any learning, and I resigned after a couple of years.
I could hardly take interest in various secular organizations regulating communal Jewish life. A doctor’s time is not his own, and--as chance had it--whenever I would attend some meeting, I would be called to a sick bed. I also came to the realization that in order to be active in the community one must possess one of three things: either money (money talks), the “gift of gab,” or, failing these, a lot of if “chutzpah.” I did not have any of them. My imperfect English was also a hindrance. As far as the general life in the States, cultural and otherwise, I was at that time critical of many things. As a man who knew poverty in its most ugly phases, I was not blind to the power and value of money. But I did not like the cult of money in this country where the value of a person is defined by the size of the capital he possesses as expressed in the single word, “worth.”
Having been reared on the rich Russian literature, I found the American literature wanting in depth and in form of expression. In the old country, all I had read of American literature was “The Jungle” by Upton Sinclair which impressed me favorably because of his sympathy with the underdog, and the works of Jack London who was admired by the Russian Intelligentsia because they sensed the rebel in him, and the intelligentsia in the-main was rebellious. Here, the only novel which impressed me greatly was “Arrowsmith” by Sinclair Lewis. His other works were debunking “bunk.” Upton Sinclair proved to be more of a journalist than a novelist. Such writers as Eugene O'Neill, Steinbeck, and other modern writers were not in the field of literature yet. I could not get used to the provincial newspapers, which occupied themselves with small talk about matters of private life such as marriages, births, and giving the names of visitors to Mr. and Mrs. Citizen.
The American emphasis on sports seemed to me overdone and lacking in spontaneity, since it was commercialized. The numerous noisy parades, the revival meetings, the multitude of lodges seemed to me juvenile. I missed the point that this is a young country with all the manifestations of exuberant youth. I also failed to realize that this is a free country with no political oppression (at least at that time) in contrast to Russia where writers, the daily press, and the youth of the country were engaged in the fight for freedom. While I was critical, I did not express it in words. I felt that it would have been unfair to the country that gave me shelter and a chance of a new life after all the sufferings I experienced in the country of my birth.
As a matter of fact, it did not disturb me to any extent. I was at peace with myself, content with the improved state of mind of my wife who accepted, more or less, the new way of life. I was satisfied with the progress made by my children in school. My boy and my daughter were both most excellent students. A great consolation was the tremendous increase in my practice and the luxuries this afforded. We moved into a better home, acquired new furniture and a grand piano. By the end of the second year of my life here, I bought a car. It was good to feel that instead of seeking help from my family I could now render help to my wife's family in Russia. Like many other hopefuls, I invested the money I accumulated in stocks and bonds. I felt secure, and everything looked rosy until the greatest calamity of my life struck me.
The curse of the Linetski family, tuberculosis, came upon my unforgettable wife. She was taken to a sanatorium where she spent more than two years in isolation and suffering awaiting imminent death, a woman unequalled in generosity, my faithful mate for many years who was my support morally and materially in time of adversity and a delight in time of prosperity. It was totally due to her resourcefulness and optimism that I ventured to walk the difficult path of becoming a doctor, and I got lost without her.
On top of this tremendous blow came the economic debacle. Stocks and bonds shared the fate of my former liberty bonds; they became entirely valueless. With the increase of unemployment, my practice--based mainly on laboring people--suffered, the more so since I spent a great deal of time at the sanatorium and neglected my practice. The years of my wife's illness and the next few years following her death were the hardest and the unhappiest of my life. I lost all my stamina and drifted along without aim, unable to brace myself. Some people under such conditions would have become drunkards. I tried to find some forgetfulness in playing bridge and chess. While my income diminished, my expenses mounted. I had to pay the sanatorium and provide a housekeeper for the children. The housekeepers changed frequently only to find that the new one was worse than her predecessor. The meals were abominable and the bills immense because of neglect and, most likely, dishonesty. I was financially and spiritually a ruined man.
It was at that time that I lost my son--that is to say, spiritually. He was a most capable man with the highest I.Q. His memory was prodigious, and he could quote verbatim the longest poems by Keats, Byron, or Pushkin which he had read only once in years past. He was also a very promising musician and gave at least once a piano recital that was highly praised in the press. I failed, however, to impress him with the dignity of work and, above all, I did not make a pal of him, sharing with him my grief and whatever hope was left for me. Because he was intellectually far above his schoolmates, he did not make many friends; and the teachers disliked him because they sensed his superiority. The house was now empty, and he was in no mood to play the piano. His mother's illness most likely affected him more than he cared to show. George started to play truant from school, neglected his lessons, and did not pass at least in one subject on the final examinations. With conditions as they were at home and with the awakening of sex, he became restless, spending his time in questionable company. I had no hope now of his becoming a musician although he still took piano lessons.
It was at that time I conceived the idea of having him take an engineering course with the aim of going back to Russia upon graduation. Many engineers from the States were helping to build up the country, and he had the advantage of knowing the language and being in sympathy with the new regime. On money borrowed on my insurance policies, he went to the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis. He had very scant spending money, and the curriculum of the engineering course was not to his taste. He became disappointed, threw his studies to the wind, and drifted into bad company. Pressed for money and disillusioned, he became depressed and returned home. I was at that time remarried.
My daughter was a replica of her mother, physically and morally. At the time of my wife's illness she was at the tender age of 10. She was stricken the hardest having lost the care of a mother and not getting much care from myself who was a moral wreck. However, with her innate resourcefulness, she managed to make a life of her own. She organized a group of her schoolmates in the vicinity. They played games, established some kind of a children's library, and even invented a language of their own to amuse themselves. She excelled in school and was always first in her class. The hardest time for her was when I remarried. A stepmother at her best cannot take the place of a real mother, and my new wife was a strict disciplinarian with no soft spot in her makeup, arrogant and dominant. She only valued money, and all matters intellectual were an abomination to her. Clashes between her and George started from the very moment he put his foot in my house, and finally he was driven from the house never to come back. For a time he lived separately in Duluth, doing odd work and getting a little clandestine help from me. Eventually he drifted to New York and stayed there.
My daughter, naturally, had to stay home which became a prison to her under a tough, merciless warden. However, the domination and the cruelty of the stepmother did not break her. Her armor was the knowledge of her own superiority, and she held her in contempt, avoiding any clashes with her. She was young and realized that it was a temporary setback. Indeed, immediately upon graduation from Junior College she entered the University of Minnesota at Minneapolis and managed to get through the first year by holding a paying job and doing excellent scholastic work at the same time.
Unluckily, she was taken ill with the same dread disease of which her mother died and went to the same sanatorium. It was because of her strong will and optimism that she recovered in a comparatively short time. Even in her sickness she was active, resourceful, and a leader of people. As soon as she was allowed to leave the sick bed she organized a group which aimed to alleviate the fears of newcomers and make it easier for them to bear the cross of sickness and inactivity. She was also engaged in other useful work. Dr. Laird, the superintendent of the sanatorium and a friend of mine, told me that of all the patients who were under his care in the sanatorium for three decades, my daughter left with him the most vivid impression and was held by him in the highest esteem. It was this doctor who enabled her to continue her studies by getting a considerable loan for her from some Foundation. Helen was an outstanding student and graduated with high honors. She was rewarded for her sufferings (as if there is a reward for virtue) by marrying a man wonderful in many respects. There is happiness and contentment in this marriage, and two girls were born to her who have the promise of resembling her in every way. It is quite clear as far as the older girl is concerned what is in the state of formation; for the younger one who is just a baby, there is the same hope.
The question arises: How could I, a man essentially soft, sensitive, and idealistic the way most Russian intellectuals were, marry a woman whom I had known for many years as practical, hard, and vulgar? As it turned out, I really did not know all. There was certainly no love involved, but sex of course entered into it. When my wife was taken ill, I was in the middle forties and had had no intimate contact with women, venal or otherwise, for many years. But this was only a contributory factor.
The main reason was to establish some kind of a home life, for I was terribly lonely. It is to Sheba’s credit that by her indomitable will she pulled me out from the abyss of despair and put me back to work. With her, it was “Either you produce or out you go!” By attending diligently to my work, I regained my practice, and in a short time I was able to repay my debts and establish a comfortable home. My health, which was ruined during my wanderings “from pillar to post” was improved. I was now well fed and had better rest. The sense of being again a “man” lightened my spirit, but I paid for all these benefits a high price.
I was alienated from my family to which Sheba was hostile for no obvious reason. I was dragged into a kind of social life entirely alien to me. Above all, I saw my daughter humiliated and unhappy, and I was unable to intercede on her behalf. Her treatment of my daughter was peculiar in a devilish way. She stopped talking to her, thus treating her like a deaf and dumb person. Perhaps it would have been easier for Helen if she had been attacked verbally. It was also harder for me to do anything. It was ridiculous to demand that Sheba talk to her. Some person might say, “I do not feel like talking.” My wife would most likely say, “To Hell with you and her” (she was a hellish woman); and separation would follow for which I was not prepared. My daughter was unhappy and so was I. Under constant pressure, I lost my identity and this, coupled with some unfortunate circumstances, resulted in a complete nervous breakdown.
Looking back, I see my life as a long, tortuous road of struggle, errors, and frustrations. The happy memories are few. Most of them are bitter as gall. Years of idleness and loneliness seeped the remnants of my inner strength, and I stand alone without pride or hope. Vanitas vanitatis. All is in vain.
The End