How Yoshke Saved Us (not what you think)

My father OH worked as an electrician/handyman like his father before him, bringing the time tested dictum of ‘poverty breeds ingenuity’ with him from Dovid-Horodok. Of course, we also had to endure having everything that could have any possible value at some undetermined date and circumstance stored in our home, as well. In my childhood, the distinction between work life and family life existed only on Shabbos or Yom Tov. The rest of the time, work was central to our existence, and between my father OH and my grandfather OH, a finish carpenter, my early years were spent around workshops and tools, rather than fun and games. This has carried into adulthood also. I was, at some point, discouraged from lingering around the basement workshop or tagging along on jobs, because my parents decided they wanted a Talmid Chochom, not a laborer. I inherited the work ethic and the talent for skilled labor in spite of this, and in later years, being associated with my mother’s furniture business allowed me to hone my skills and make decent money building and refinishing custom furniture. (Truth is that I always wanted to be like my father and grandfather, people who took pride in good work, enjoyed it, showed no shame from it, and came home exhausted because of it. Though I appreciate the education I received, both secular and religious, it was wasted on me. My family had aspirations for their prodigy that did not match his personal tastes.)

My father OH, being of thrifty constitution (cheap asshole), used our family station wagon for his work vehicle. Having two cars in that day and age was unheard of, and parking one car in Brooklyn was difficult enough. Fortunately when you grow up in Brooklyn you don’t ever have far to go to get where you need to be going, and the subway or bus provided more comfortable accommodations than one would otherwise find being jammed between crudely fashioned wooden tool boxes and heaps of salvaged electrical wire. Other than the summer trips to Detroit to visit distant relatives and the Stoliner Rebbe’s OBM kever (gravesite), we seldom went anywhere in that beat up Studebaker wagon except when absolutely necessary. The Ford Squire my father purchased in the late 60s was bigger, but he just ended up putting more crap in it, so the seating arrangement never actually improved.

(I did my first oil change on that car, and learned a lesson I will never forget. Always, and I mean always, check the wind before you unscrew the plug from the oil pan.)

Back in the day, just as Lubavitch was staking its claim, Crown Heights was a neighborhood of Jews and Catholics. The old-time Italians and their new Jewish neighbors didn't see eye to eye on much of anything, and the Italian kids would routinely vandalize Jewish owned cars at night. Boys will be boys they say. Aside from that my father kept his tools in the car and once or twice a year, he would sadly awaken to find it emptied of its contents. One proposed solution was to unload the car each night into the basement and reload it again the next morning, a menial task falling to his one and only son. Lucky me, huh? All of 9 years old and I’m the unpaid shlepper for an emotionally distant father. In his defense, my father was already in his 50’s at the time and years of hard work and arthritis made climbing steps very difficult. There was no way I could have realized it then and I ended up hating him for years without realizing this.

To make a long story short, someone adeptly pointed out to my father that the goyishe owned vehicles were seldom vandalized or broken into. It was common knowledge that the older Italian kids from a few streets away would come over to our area and wreak their adolescent havoc on Jewish mailboxes, flower beds, windows, and automobiles. There was also a steady rash of thefts and break-ins in Jewish homes. This may sound a bit paranoid or Judeo-centric, but the fact is that Jews were the targets of more thefts, property damage, and assaults than anyone else, because we didn’t generally resist and there was also a negative attitude toward us from some of our Catholic neighbors. Even the police were generally indifferent to crime against Jews. It’s not so much that the Blacks, Italians, Irish, or Hispanics hated us because we were Jews (though I know some did), but because they saw the demographic changing so rapidly and probably, in the way I have felt under similar circumstances, were not comfortable with it. Years later, partly from the influence of Rav Kahane OBM and a few Israelis commandos-turned-Lubavitchers, the Crown Heights community formed a very effective Shmirah (neighborhood watch program.) If a Shvartza or Puerto Rican was caught doing anything naughty, he would begin a full-out sprint for the one of the local police stations, hoping to make it to the NYPD before the Chasidim got him first.

I remember one incident in particular where a well known Lubavitcher was accused of firebombing the home of an Italian who has been vocally anti-Jewish, and had threatened violence on many occasions. That Chosid was never convicted and in my estimation deserves a medal of honor.

Finally, one of my father’s Christian customers suggested that he hang a crucifix from the rear view mirror of his car as perhaps a simple and inexpensive solution to a very aggravating and costly problem. I suspect my father first reacted with shock at the idea, and then perhaps took it in good humor. Imagine a Chasidishe Yid with a getchke in his car? I thought the idea was great for two reasons. One, it could embarrass my father, and more importantly, it would stop the unloading and reloading that damned car every day, leaving more time for reading or playing with friends. Since we lived among Roman Catholics, it would not be unlikely that half or more of the cars on any given street would be adorned with a small getchke or cross somewhere along the dashboard, identifying the owner as a full blown idol worshipper, so it wouldn’t seem obvious that something was amiss. (A folk song about a plastic Jesus, magnets, and freezing rain comes to mind.)

I don’t know what convinced my father, a devout Jew, to relent. Perhaps the idea appealed to his practical nature, or maybe he was just fed up replacing auto glass and tires. Either way, the break-ins and vandalism stopped. No one was happier over that development than I. My father was always very careful not to touch the crucifix directly, and used tongs to take it off the mirror or dash each morning before daylight, so the other Jews wouldn’t see him driving around with it. Of course on Shabbos or Yom Tov that was impossible, and my father’s wagon would sit for sometimes three whole days adorned with the emaciated image of poor little Yoshke dangling from his perch. I never heard about any negative feedback from neighbors over it, but like many of the goings-on in my family, those would have been kept secret, too.

Some chevra from Boro Park have also used the “Jesus Trick” to fool possible vandals, and as far as I know they have had mixed results. In a world of high auto insurance premiums and even higher deductibles, every little bit counts. Why be fussy over details if it saves you money and aggravation?

Some people save money by switching to GEICO. My father o’h saved more by switching to Yoshke! Thank you Jesus!