223 Lenox Road

Brooklyn N.Y.

October 2 1941.

Dear Mr. Warren:

Thanks for being friendly to my "Old Man". And
for giving me my first opportunity. I'm new and unpublished, so
you see what this means to me.... how impatient I am to see the
"Old Man" in print at the very earliest date you can manage to
find space.

I am at work on a novel and at earning a living
on a job. I can use encouragement, the kind that you have given
me with your letter accepting my story. It's very welcome.

The enclosed is another story I hope you will
like. I am looking forward to your reply with eagerness.

P.S. I've moved. Everyone in Brooklyn moves in October. My new address is above.

A.T.

223 Lenox Road
Brooklyn N.Y.

April 23 1942.

Dear Mr. Palmer:

Your note came to me only to-day because you had
addressed it to my former residence, otherwise this letter would
be in your hands to-day.

Breaking into Southern Review as it makes its farewell
appearance touches me deeply, and I, like many others shall look
forward to the time when once again your magazine carries on its
noble pursuit.

"Old Man" is my first published story. It was my first experiment. Following it I wrote two others developing my experiments towards the point when I could get under way with the novel which has since occupied all my time after working hours on a job in Brooklyn.

I wonder whether you could see your way clear to give me-
what shall I call it?-- a "sendoff" ?

It would do me incalculable good when the time comes, not far
off, a few months at most when I will try to get my book published. Would
you do this as a parting gesture to a hard-working writer ?

As for the biographical sketch you asked for; all I can say is
that I'm thirty-four. I work at an office desk during the day for sustenance
of one kind and at my own desk at home all night for sustenance of another
sort. The title of my unfinished novel is "More Day To Dawn" which should give
you an idea of the theme. That's all about me that is of any interest.

With genuine gratitude,

OLD MAN

ARTHUR TUMIN

You may know the neighborhood. It is the oldest quarter
in the city, squatting on the outskirts for a few miles to where
the open road begins. The crowded, rickety tenements have stood
for many years and only recently steam heat has been introduced
into some of them.

On a clear Saturday afternoon the women sit on the tenement
stoops talking to their neighbors, scanning the passersby, adjusting
family differences and airing neighborly gossip. The men pass the
time telling stories of the old country and discussing the Rabbi's
Sabbath sermon. Everybody knows everyone else's comings and goings.
Many little rumors have also been started on these steps and circu-
lated around the stoops of the neighborhood. The young folks are
painfully aware of this. When they come home they greet their
parents hastily, walk into the hallway and beckon to the old folks
to follow them into the house.

On a weekday, the children play in the streets, young men
and women are at work, and the housewife lets her bed linen hang
from the windows while she prepares to do her marketing on Millstream
Court. The old man is delayed in Schule by his crony who will not
let him go until he has clarified the difficult passage of the Talmud.
Another pinch of snuff, a wrinkled brow for a long moment and the
answer comes to him with gratifying ease. He wriggles his hunched
shoulders with delight and then accompanies his friend, planting
his feet in the direction of the market.

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black bread from which the lox peeks out like trimming on a petti-coat.

"One comes from Shule right to the market," he apologizes, putting down the sandwich.

"Eat, eat," she says. "Time I have. Only money I should have as much."

"The horse radish is fine in honor of Sabbath," he declares enthusiastically. "The grinding, it takes only a minute. What a relish with Gefulte fish!"

She thinks of how she will soak the gratings in beet and vinegar. He slowly grinds the handle of the grating machine and sharp, aromatic odors rise from it and sting the eyes. She pays him a few pennies and moves onward, her shopping bag growing heavier, her kidneys giving her pain. She can feel the unborn rain or snow in her aching, swelling feet.

The old man returns to his sandwich and his thoughts. The November wind pinches his parchment cheeks under the beard, and his nose feels like a fountain.

The day is shorter, he meditates. The autumn is like an old man, cold and dreary. Night falls early and the prayer book waits.

He puts a red hand into a big pocket and fishes out a handkerchief. A paper falls out of its folds. He holds the handkerchief in mid-air, deferring the action until he has examined the paper first one side, then the other. Yes, yes, it is the bill. The electric

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bill, he remembers.

"Reb Motle!" he calls to the younger man with the gray-
yellow beard standing by a pushcart filled with scattered remnants
of silks and cloths.

"Reb Motle, be so kind," he says beckoning.

The remnant merchant puts his thumb to the side of his nose,
blows hard into the gutter, draws out a great bandana from his pocket
and runs it superficially over his nose and mustaches.

"Yes?" he says, approaching the grinder.

"I must go to the electric office with a bill. The children
have given me a bill to pay. If I forget, they will say the old
father is feeble-minded, too. Will you watch my stand Reb Motle?"

"And why not?" the other answers. "Go, go."

The little, old man runs his fingers through his beard,
adjusts the ends neatly, pulls his hat down tighter, draws his coat
around him and leaves the stand in his neighbor's charge.

He walks slowly, meditatively, on Hunting Pond Road, the big,
wide, pretentious avenue. He feels uncomfortable in these surroundings.
There is nothing intimate, homely, nothing to invite reverie. It is
hard and cold and strange. It is the avenue for the youth, he reflects.
It is the place of the young ones. It lives at night.

At night, Hunting Pond Road is like a Mardi Gras <u>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</u> flaring
neon signs like confetti over the shop-fronts. Young men in draped

-6-

rounds, she guesses. Business has increased since he started selling
clothes on installments in addition to the jewelry.

The crowds on the avenue swell after the movies are emptied
and the outdoor speeches on the corners are adjourned. Then the ice
cream parlors and the Chinese restaurants do a big business. And it
is only in the early hours of morning that Hunting Pond Road grows
silent and finally sleeps.

The old man knows that the avenue goes to sleep long after
he has said his prayers and gone to bed with aches and restlessness.

But he sees the banks and the offices are open and busy in
the daytime. He stops at every corner to inquire, "Where does one
find the electric company's place?" until the electric office is
recognizable by the brilliant waves of light that shine in the
windows and on the signs. Who else could afford such artificial
sun?, the old man reasons, laying a cold hand on the colder, shin-
ing bronze of the great, glistening door.

Inside, the chromium and the light flash bewildering. Every-
one moves around with perplexing determination. Swift, short sentences
are spoken and understood. Telephones ring, money is heard tinkling
behind barred windows. Everything is glowing. Smooth and accurate.
Even the floors under the feet are slippery and it is hard to move
on them. Signs say things that only the initiate can understand.
So, the little, old man stands still, collecting his wits.

-7-

No one could see him without feeling embarrassed for him, as he stood motionless and bewildered in the brilliant office. No taller than five feet, dressed in black from head to foot, enveloped in a great coat that covered him almost twice around and hung down to his feet, the little, old man looked like a bundle of old clothes propped up in the middle of a spot-lighted stage. His face was hidden under the immense brim of an undented black hat which stood high on his head suggesting an umbrella. His long, white beard reaching down to what must have been his waist, gave one an idea of what it was that stood so incongruously planted on the floor.

Employees and customers alike could not avoid smiling. The black ensemble began to twist and turn around pathetically so that you felt his big hat was looking for some place to alight. Finally, he began to move indeterminately in the direction of a clerk's desk.

The clerk, a young Jewish man, who had been employed for that reason, began to speak in Yiddish.

"Good morning," he said, nodding his head. He smelled a peculiar odor of herbs.

The big hat was pushed back on a wide forhead by a pair of nervous hands. The old man's eyes shone from underneath the shadow of the immense brim. There was a glowing depth in them.

"A Jew?" the man said gratefully.

The clerk could see people in the office laughing sur-
reptitiously. He thought of something Hebraic to say to make the
man feel comfortable. He wanted something apt, and it delighted
him when he remembered these words, "The Lord gathereth together
the dispersed of Israel."

The old man looked up at him and cocked his head so that
his fedora fell against the threadbare shoulders of his oversized
coat. He removed his hat and a skull cap came into view. Again
and again he nodded his head. Then he said, "That is nice. That is
good."

He was lost in reflection. The clerk did not want to
appear hasty. He let the old man sit there without asking questions.
Instead, he spent the next minute observing him at close range.
Hollows under the old man's eyes made them look bigger than they
really were. His transparent, parchment skin with little pink veins
showing through, was furrowed under the silky, white beard. The great
coat was not black but really green from exposure. The hand-stitching
was still evident around the lapels, and the tremendous patch-pockets
showed the interlining at the top. The shoulders were padded and
would have exaggerated even a well built young man.

Now, the garment hung loosely to the floor, and underneath
it the clerk could see a perfectly clean, little, woolen Talis, its
strands neatly tucked into an immaculate, white shirt, frayed and
oversized.

-9-

The old man fumbled in the huge pockets for something, and while he did so he said, "I know I must not take up your valuable time. I have a bill and I do not know where to go with it."

"I have lots of time," the clerk lied.

"You speak like a boy who had once studied the Holy Books," the old man said. "Is your father alive, and your mother?"

"Yes."

The old man nodded reflectively again.

"Do you live with them?" he asked.

"No. I am married."

"Married," the man repeated. "Do you see your parents?"

"Oh yes, surely."

"And your father, is he a learned man, an orthodox Jew?"

"Surely. My father is a learned man. He used to teach me."

"A fine man. A fine Jew. That is good. And you visit him, and like him. That is as it should be. That is good. God will be kind to you."

He discovered his bill and said, "Where shall I pay this? I am like a mute for I cannot speak the language."

The clerk took the bill from him and said, "Sit here, I will bring back the receipt for you. You need not bother waiting by the teller's window." He watched the little man count out the money from an ancient pocketbook.

-10-

When he returned to the desk the old man had replaced his hat, and his eyes had vanished under it again.

"I would like to come here and speak to you sometimes," he said. "One must not be conceited. But the Talmud says that when one is amongst strangers it is permissible to make oneself known. The Torah is wonderful, for its wisdom is applicable to all times. The sages have said, 'He who is always studying and never repeating what he has learned is like him who always sows and never reaps.' I would like to tell you about the wisdom of our teachings when you are not busy and have the time."

The clerk tried to look very enthusiastic. He said, "That would be very nice, and I am sure that I will have the time if it would not inconvenience you."

The old man smiled. There was a glow in his voice when he said, "A real Jew in a place like this! The Lord raiseth up them that are bowed down." He rose from the chair and wound the coat around him like a blanket. He stood for a moment and surveyed the glittering aspects of the office. Then he moved closer to the clerk and said, "It is gratifying." He paused again thoughtfully. "You will be good enough to send my regards to your father."

The clerk thanked him and rose to shake the old man's limp hand.

The bundle of clothes moved away from the desk and the clerk settled down to face the repartees of his co-workers.

-11-

But the little, old man stood hesitatingly for a while,
then turned and made his way back to the desk.

"Forgotten something?" the young man asked.

The old man sat down again. He rubbed his pale hands
together, wondering how to begin. He put his fingers through his
beard and ran them over his dry lips.

The young man said, "Is there something I can do?"

"Yes, yes, really something." He looked at the clerk
hopefully.

"What is it?"

His voice faltered, "I wonder," the old man said, "I wonder
if you would give me something, a paper or something to show that
you are a friend of mine, that you have befriended me."

The clerk was embarrassed. He said, "But I don't understand."

"I mean something to show that you have spent a pleasant time
with me ... that you think I am interesting enough to see again. Could
you do this?" He wet his lips, "and ... and in return ... I shall
discuss the teachings of our sages ... just as we said a minute ago.
I shall come here and visit you ... if you will have the time. Yes?"

The amazed clerk replied, "Yes ... of course ... I will
give you a note." He thought for a moment and said, "On my business
card, how would that be?"

"Ah, that would be good. Very good indeed. That would be
very fine. A good idea. Good, good."

-12-

The young man said, "You understand I am not an official
of the company? Just one of the hired people."

"Of course, of course," the old man nodded without being
helpful. "The card would be good, very good indeed," he repeated.

The clerk tried again. "Do you want to give this to
someone?" he asked.

"Ah, no. I want to show it."

There was a quizzical look in the clerk's face. The old
man felt he would have to explain himself or perhaps leave without
the coveted card.

He said, "I want to show it to my sons and daughters.
They are your age. Young ones."

The clerk looked blank. He took a card from his desk.
He did not know what to write. Composing many lines in his head, he
finally wrote: To my friend with my respect for his wisdom and under-
standing.

He translated what he had written. When the old man heard,
he thought hard, then he said, "Could you find it in yourself to say ...
I mean to change the word 'wisdom' to the word 'companionship'. It
would be better for me. Would it be too much trouble? Could you make
the card read like that?"

Still confounded, the young man wrote a new card. The old

-13-

man took the card, held it delicately, then carefully put it away
deep into the caverns of his coat pocket.

"Thank you." he said. "Thank you. May you be an honor
to your father."

He stuck his hand into the pocket where he had secured the
precious card, huddled his shoulders under the immense coat and,
nodding farewell several times, moved as quickly as he could in the
direction of the market place and the old grinding machine.

**********