Lodz, 10 July 1923 Dear Nephew Shloymele, I am now sending you a photograph, or a "picture" as you call it, of me and my family. I've wanted to write you the letter that I promised to write you in my previous letter. But since I received another letter from you in the mean- time, I had to wait with that promised letter and answer the one I just received from you. When I received your last letter, I recognized that we do not agree about matchmaking, i.e., you are wiser than I and understand more about that business. So we won't discuss those matters any more. I agree with you on many points and I hope that your proper mate, the match made for you in heaven, will be sent to you to fulfill your desires. Dear Shloymele, since I won't have the opportunity to know your betrothed, I would at least like a picture of, and a letter about, your intended. I think, however, that such requests are still a bit premature. You write, dear child, that you read something in my letters about our seeing each other, and you make it clear that you will not send me any more support money while I am in Poland. But if I want to come to America, you are ready to see me through hell and high water. If I wanted to respond to those remarks, I would have to write reams, since no one understands your writing as I do. Your letters show deep thought, but what is immediately obvious is that we both want to help each other; we both understand each other; but neither one of us is a fool. Your letter reminds me of the joke of the two goats who met face to face on a narrow bridge. Neither wanted to back off, because both were stubborn. In the end, they both fell into the water. It is superfluous to write you the moral of the story. I can only tell you, dear child, that your letters play on my nerves, although I never tire of reading them. In every word there are hidden secrets as well as hints of devotion. But, dear child, why do you press me so to the wall in your writing? Why do I take your writing so seriously? It seems to me that you have known your uncle for a long time now and that you understand what kind of a person he is. It is not that I was holding back but that I didn't want to cause you heartache by constantly writing letters complain- ing, for example, about my lack of livelihood, my lack of an apartment, how hard I work, etc. Nevertheless, you did manage to olern something from my writing, and you ask that I write you about everything, from A to Z. It seems plain that you are interested in your uncle's fate. In another letter, however, you come along and say that you won't send me any more money as long as I am in Poland. If I were to come to America, however, that would be a dif- ferent story; then you are ready to do your utmost. I only ask one thing of you, dear child: haven't I already received help from you? Haven't you occasionally done more than was possible? I believe you've denied yourself per- sonal needs in order to do what was possible for your uncle. May G-d repay you. If ever you are in need, G-d forbid, may this deed stand you in good stead. You have resurrected a corpse, made a sick person well. But, dear child, it is as with all sick people who start to recover. They are not yet quite well; their stomachs are not yet healed. Since they are hungry, they tend to overeat and make themselves sick again. The moral is that, when I received your $150, I was so starved to get into some sort of business that I didn't consider my position. I didn't make the effort to provide myself with an apartment, which is absolutely impossible to get now. I didn't make the effort to find a suitable partner with whom I could assure myself of a living. I didn't get into a business based on borrowed capital. Our capital was spread among hundreds of poor workers, and in today's unnatural times, when the mark is constantly falling, it is simply a tragedy (to be repaid in inflated currency). Plainly stated, I gorged myself when my digestive tract was not yet well and ruined everything. But on top of all that, I didn't want to write to you asking for support money or (to ask) that you sponsor my coming to you. However, it is true that if I had the wherewithal, that is, if I could do it, I wouldn't wait for you to assist me; I would come to you on my own. If not permanently, then at least to see you. I don't agree when you say that, since I am an only son, I shouldn't come to America if I can make a living in Poland. Your writing is consistent and wise, dear child, but what comes of it? For me to answer your points, you would have to become better acquainted with my life, my existence and so forth. But let me leave that for another letter when I will have a better opportunity, more room and a bit more courage. Then I will answer your letter about the quality of life. What is living? One can live on bread and water too. It is written in our Torah: "Man does not live by bread alone, but by everything that proceeds from the mouth of the Lord does man live." A person does not live by bread alone. He should take advantage of all the world has to offer. Do you think, dear Shloymele, that all I do is plan how to elicit small sums from my nephew? No! G-d forbid. Your money, which you earn there by the sweat of your brow, is quite precious to me. I would rather write you happier letters, but it is too early to do so. You and I must both have patience. I hope, however, that he who sows in tears will reap with joy. All of my tearful letters still don't deserve what you wrote to me. I have never wanted anything from you, G-d forbid, and I still don't. Your money is pre- cious to me. You work very hard for it there. I think that you will be very happy with my photograph. Let me know what you think. I'll tell you only this much: your uncle stands deep in thought, perhaps thinking of you. I don't look very good--a person with lifeless eyes, a person who is dependent on someone else; to put it plainly, a per- son without luck. You will see all this in my photograph. My wife, on the other hand, looks very good. She worries very little and is not burdened with many children, but is also not completely well. She takes medication often and is not one of the healthier women. My oldest daughter, Balcia, whom you probably still remember, is now eleven years old. She is weak, a problem. She is dull in her studies and a bit behind, I think, because of the war. She is in the third grade in the Yiddish School. She writes Polish and Yiddish well and does sums. I hope that my coming years will be kinder to her than the previous ones. My second daughter, Rifche, is eight years old. She is in the second grade in the Yiddish School. She is smart and does well at her studies. She knows how to speak and write Polish. In short, she is unusually clever. My youngest, my only son Joseph, is smart as a whip, mild mannered and polite and, above all, gentle as a dove. He takes completely after me. He has many of my virtues. He is quick to take umbrage, is careful and scrupulously clean, and so forth. Since I have nothing else of import to write, I send heart- felt and loving regards. From me, your devoted uncle who remains ever devoted to you, Wolf Lewkowicz P.S. Warm regards from my dear wife. She sends heartfelt and loving greetings. Warm regards also from my dear chil- dren. I send regards to your dear father. Let me know how he's doing in terms of health, livelihood and so forth. Although you mentioned that he would be writing me a letter, so far it seems that I haven't earned it of him. My wife also sends regards to your father. To your sisters, Bronye, Ruchche, and Rifche, regards from all of us. Write us a letter about them and what they are doing. Are they working or still studying? Do they still live in your father's house or are they on their own? Warm regards from my in-laws, brothers-in-law, et al. Lazer, your dear grandmother, and Esther all send warm regards. Regards to (Aaron) Isaac Anker, to your uncle, Isaac (Dave) Kutchinsky, and so forth. With respect, Wolf Lewkowicz Wolczanska 168 u Rotbergo Lodz, Poland P.P.S. I am enclosing an article about the condition of today's businesses in Poland. You can draw your own conclu- sions. All material Copyright 1995 by Marshall L. Zissman and Sol J. Zissman.