A. L. Kaplan

Tag: New York

  • The Barnett Menorah

    The first day of Hannukah sounds like the perfect time to share a small bit of my family history. I remember the beautiful silver menorah pictured above from my great grandma Celia Barnett’s apartment. Fast forward several decades, and the menorah made its way to my parent’s home. Last winter this little treasure came home with me.

    Thus began the great mystery.

    When I removed all the tarnish, I discovered an engraving on the base. Luckily, I happen to know someone who speaks both Hebrew and Yiddish fluently. They were able to give me this translation:

    From the board of directors
    of Machzikei Talmud Torah of Boro Park
    to Ahron Tzvi Barnett for his efforts for the good of the institution. 5684

    That puts it circa 1924. Machzikei Talmud Torah of Boro Park was founded in Brooklyn in 1908 and closed in 1941. Their focus was the Jewish religious education of children. They were located at 1319 43rd st., Brooklyn, NY. There is an article that mentions him being a Gabbai at the school.

    The menorah was manufactured by Victor Siedman Mfg.Co. Inc. (c. 1920-1934) of Brooklyn, NY. The same company that made the silver candlesticks given to Celia on her 25th wedding anniversary in 1926.

    But who was Ahron Tzvi Barnett? According to the family tree, Celia Barnett (1881-1978) married Isaac “Ike” Barnett (1876-1958). But her father’s name was Harris Barnett (1856-1944). Yes, a Barnett married a Barnett. No there was no family connection. So was the menorah given to her father, Harris, or her father-in-law, Marx “Max” Barnett (1855-1933). Neither of those names matched Ahron Tzvi Barnett. A bit more sleuthing, and a lot of help from friends and family solved the mystery.

    Tzvi is Hebrew for deer – Hirsh in Yiddish also mean deer

    Hirsh – got Americanized to – Harris

    The menorah belonged to my great great grandfather Harris Barnett.

  • Déjà View

    Ads flashed on the giant screens, mesmerizing even in broad daylight. The bright blue sky did nothing to ease Carl’s tension. It was the same as his dream, all of it. The flag blowing in the wind, the coke ad, even the people walking down the street. Soon a dog walker would trip over the rottweiler’s leash. Carl closed his eyes, struggling to stay calm, but the images continued, like the nightmare he’d had for months. It always ended with a girl in a red dress falling to her death from the tower. Tormented, he finally left his Kansas farm and drove all the way to New York. He had to stop it. He had to save her.

    The bottle of Coors on the screen began to pour itself into a glass. If he didn’t reach the top of the tower soon, it would be too late. He raced into the building, passed the security guard dozing at the door. Alarms began to blare as Carl charged up the stairwell. He reached the roof, lungs bursting, legs protesting. The girl in the red dress stood perched on the edge of the roof, hair blowing over her face, leaning toward her death. Carl lunged catching her ankle as she fell. He couldn’t let her die, not again.

    “Let go of me you idiot. You’re spoiling the stunt.”

    Carl looked down, noticing the inflated crash pad on the ground and the camera crews set up around the square. Damned defective psychic powers.

  • Under the Hanukah Tree

    Gifts? Who cares about gifts? Christmas activities are what really rock, like piling into the car and driving to my favorite restaurant in New York’s Chinatown. We’d bundle up against the cold and walk to Mott Street, stopping in shops on the way. Each year I’d buy a tiny clay figure of a peasant for my collection. Then it was on to Hunan House for a delicious banquet with our friends. Of course we had soup. Hot and sour or sizzling rice were my favorites followed by pan fried dumplings and spare ribs. The main course varied year to year, but moo shu pork and whole crispy sweet and pungent sea bass were almost always on the menu. Once in a while, if we ordered in advance, we’d get Peking duck as an extra special treat.

    Chinese restaurants aren’t known for their desserts, but Hunan House used to do a fried banana that was out of this world. They’d bring the sizzling pan of glazed bananas to the table and quick drop them in a bowl of ice water. The result was a hot delicious cooked banana surrounded by a sweet hard candy shell. If only I could go back in time. I’ve never found another restaurant that did fried banana’s like that.

    Bananas weren’t always on the menu. If they weren’t, we’d go to the ice cream place around the corner for mango ice cream or to Little Italy down on Mulberry Street for pastries. Not the same, but always delicious.

    Today this tradition has been passed on to the next generation.

    Happy New Year and may all your steam buns be hot.