My father, Bernard Haar emigrated to America in 1947. Having survived the camps which were part of the Nazi madness, he never spoke about his experience. He married my mother Pola whom he had met in a DP camp in Germany. In New York City, he worked long hours, six days a week, as a clothing operator in a sweat shop but he hated the work. And he constantly exhorted and encouraged me saying, “Get an education so you won’t have to do this.” He came home from work each day tired, worn out, falling asleep on the living room chair after supper.
He was Jewish but not very religious though he never ceased to exhort me not to forget I was Jewish. He could be stern, and he had a temper, but he could also be kind and caring with a humorous twinkle in his eyes. When I was ill, he had this most wonderfully concerned and caring look on his face. But, when I had not behaved well during the day, he could, when he came home from work, and at my Mom’s instigation, go after me with his belt. Such was parenting in those days.
Despite all that, many days I would go to the Moshulu train station on Jerome Avenue and wait for him to come home from work. I loved him but did not know him and I am not sure he knew what to make of me. I was rebellious and questioned his authority. It was the 1960’s and I embraced that era and was embraced by it.
He liked to play pinochle on the weekends in the park with “the old men.” On Friday and Saturday nights he was gone late into the night to play poker with other survivors from those days.
At home he and my Mom argued in Yiddish and Polish a lot, mostly about money, my Dad’s constant card playing and who knows what else? They did not have much and lived from paycheck to paycheck. They had come from Europe but had never really acclimated to the States. All their lives they lived in one-bedroom apartments and slept on a hide-a-bed in the living room, so their kids could have a real bed in the lone bedroom.
My father and I did not talk much, but we played Stratego, Rummy, went swimming together, and walked to Crotona park to have a catch. He would throw the Spalding ball high in the air and I would try to catch it. What a grand memory! One time we went to Yankee stadium, but he did not enjoy the experience.
After I joined the Air Force, he would write me many letters exhorting me not to forget I was Jewish. When I was twenty-one and at the height of my adolescent wisdom, nothing my parents said could dissuade me from what I knew was right; I decided to become a Christian. My Dad tried to talk me out of my great wisdom. But I was stubborn, foolish and determined. Only with age did I discover how wrong I had been and how I had hurt my parents, especially my Dad unnecessarily. I am sorry, Dad.
When my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 1979, I went home to see him. We talked and I confessed that I now realized my mistaken decisions. We went for a long walk on a beautiful sunny Fall day in the Bronx, father and son just talking. When it was time for me to leave, and as the taxi waited outside the apartment building on Gates Place, we hugged, I said, “I love you Dad”; we kissed on the lips and said good-by. There is so much more I still wanted to say to him.
Up until the day he died, my father had black hair. He looked twenty years younger than he was. But when I told him, “Dad, you look young.” He would routinely answer, “Yes, but I feel old.”
I hope my own children realize the fragility of life. I hope we will talk and say what we want and need to say. Life is indeed short. You’re here and then you’re not here. Btw, I think my Dad did the best he could with what he had and what had happened to him. I forgave him his human flaws as he forgave me mine. Here’s to Bernard Haar. May his memory be for a blessing. I miss him.
Thanks, Murray :)
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