Lodz, 18 November 1922 Dear, Esteemed Nephew, Sol Zissman, Today, I received a letter from you and also $5 which you enclosed. Dear and devoted Shloymele, I'm sitting here now thinking how to answer your wise and genteel letter. As a matter of fact, I feel that my thoughts are inadequate to answer youir wise writing. Every time, dear child, that I receive a letter from you, I am, to put it plainly, astounded. How do such wisdom, such good-heartedness, such refined emotions, such a clear conscience come to such a young child? How many years does one have to study in Europe to develop spir- itually as much as you have, my child? At least 50 years! And you, in such a short time, have made a career for your- self, and your life is something to marvel at. I read in amazement how shrewd you are with your partner (Aaron) Isaac Anker. Your writing shows that you are not a child in matters of trade, but a consistently good businessman who understands how to conduct himself in the business world. May G-d grant you good fortune in all your dealings and courage in all your undertakings. Now, dear and devoted nephew, concerning me and the two remedies you suggest to me, I write the following. First, I see that you are not of the breed of doctor who is more interested in the dollar than in the patient. I see very clearly that you are concerned about the patient and seek various prescriptions, various potions with which to sustain your ailing uncle. Yo are not, however, satisfied only with sustaining me. You want to cure me completely, to make me wholly well, to make me leave the sick bed entirely. As you yourself write, you want to put me on a firm footing. The only problem which remains is to decide. I am about to be operated on, and you are the person doing the operating. Will you use an anesthetic, or operate without putting me to sleep? In either case, I am convinced that the operation will be a success and will proceed with G-d's help. Let's take the first case--without a sleeping draught, that is, you were to send me a boat ticket. Until I get ready to go, until I receive permission to go, until I arrive on the spot, until I send for my family--all this is just like a patient who lies on his bed and watches the doctor prepare his operating utensils--sterilizing them, rolling up his sleeves, then taking the knife in his hands. Meanwhile, the patient's heart is pounding every minute. I once watched an operation done with anesthesia. Every- thing went so fast. One person administered the anesthetic, a second person operated, a third bandaged the patient, and in a few hours--behold, a new person! Dear child, do I have the right to say what is on my mind right now? Don't I know full well that you want to operate on your uncle because you are truly concerned, unlike the other kind of doctor I mentioned before? And don't I know that if I were to come to you there, to America, I would be far better off than struggling here? Dear child, I know all this, but I must take the tenor of the times into account. It is not like the old times when anyone who wanted to travel to America went to Warsaw or Lodz, bought a ticket for 100 rubles, needed 50 rubles more for traveleing expenses, and on any old Saturday night could make his "exodus." In two weeks' time, he'd be in America, and whether the decision was good or bad would no longer matter, because he was already there. Under present conditions, things are completely different. You yourself must know that, for the moment, it is impossi- ble to travel. I see the same would-be immigrants wandering around here for two years with visas, affidavits, even boat tickets, and still they can't go. The reasons vary--money owed, quotas, documents, troubles of one sort or another. Therefore, dear and devoted nephew, as much as I would like to, I must restrain myself from undergoing the operation without the benefit of anesthesia, that is, I must restrain myself, for the meantime, from coming to you. I have already written to you once asking, if you have the wherewithal and if it would not be a financial strain, that you try to help me this once with a gift of $150.00. Then I am convinced, dear child, that the operation with anesthetic can and must work on your ailing uncle. To put it plainly, with the money I will be able to get some sort of business or store. I am not yet totally lost. I don't live in a village but in a big city, and I see that with money one can make a good living. Without it, my efforts go for naught. In addition, dear Shloymele, I don't want you to think that the money you will send me is charity. It will be more like, as the Scripture says, "Casting your bread upon the waters, for in the fullness of days you will find it." I am still young, and I hope to heaven that I will be able to repay you at some time. All my efforts, all my strivings, are only so that I might not have to suffer working for someone else, that we might not have to sleep in my in-laws' kitchen on two metal cots. I don't want to be rich; I am easily satisfied. I accept whatever comes as a blessing. I never look to see who has more than I do, only who has less. Therefore, dear Shloy- mele, I have no great, unrealistic aspirations. Before I started to write to you concerning the $150, my hand trem- bled. I thought the whole thing out thoroughly. I am not of the sort who constantly writes to America for money. There is, Shloymele, a Polish proverb which, translated, holds that a drowning man will grab even the sharp edge of a knife in an attempt to save himself. Having no other alternative, seeing what a morass I have sunk into, no longer able to bear the heavy burdens that are on my shoulders, I turn to you dear child as a savior, as a sympathizer, as the right kind of doctor who interests him- self in making me completely well. May dear G-d help you in all your undertakings, and may this money which you will send for the last time be a keren kayemet, funds which will ensure my existence. Send it right away, so that I may the sooner return it many times over. Your last letter has been filed in my memory. If, in the last years before my death, I should have the energy and the courage to write an autobiography, I will certainly not fail to mention who my savior was, the one who made me well in the bloom of my youth. I will not neglect to write you what I have acomplished with the money and what deals I have made. One more word, dear Shloymele. We are both orphans. You have no mother, and I have no father. Let us, therefore, be good friends and talk our hearts out to one another. Perhaps that will make things easier for both of us. From your last letter, I understood that you were lonely in America, and that you have little to do with your father. Believe me, although I am far from you, I see everything clearly from a great distance. Dear child, I tell you not to worry. I wish that I were in your position. As the Scripture says, "Rejoice young man in your youth." Live well. Utilize all your freedoms and all the pleasures that offer themselves to you while you are still young. In addition, find yourself a suitable friend, a woman with as good a heart as yours. But you must really look into her heart to see that it is as pure, as clean, and as genteel as yours. As it is written: "If you have found a woman, you have found good." With this, I close my writing. My heartfelt greetings to you my devoted nephew and to your dear father. Write to me about how he's doing. Hearty greetings also to your sis- ters. Thank you very much for their pictures. Let me know what they're doing. Are they working or still studying? Let me know if Ruchele is finally well. When she left, she was ill. What is Branye doing? And Rifkele, the youngest? Write to me of your dear grandmother, of your uncles, of everyone. How are they all doing? My wife, children, in-laws, and brothers-in-law send heart- felt regards. My dear mother sends her heartfelt greetings. She was here in Lodz for a wedding given by Aunt Dina Raisel. Please write soon to the following adress: Wolf Lewkowicz Lodz ul Wolczanska #168 c/o Rotberg P.S. I received the five dollars which you enclosed in your last letter. I thank you very much for the money. I am enclosing a newspaper article about the edict concerning the 3% immigration. All material Copyright 1995 by Marshall L. Zissman and Sol J. Zissman.