“Where's the Kaw-Fee?” 

By Ricky Bernstein

It's quite remarkable to me that in all the years I knew him, he never once raised his voice in anger.  Never.  Most of all, I remember the way his eyes crinkled in the corners so sweetly as he smiled.  And he smiled often.  As a young child my family lived in the downstairs flat of my grandparent's three-family house.  I often slept on the big fold out couch in the den where my grandfather's closet held his shirts and trousers all neatly hung in organized rows.  In the morning, after his shower, "papa" would come to the breakfast table wearing underwear, a sleeveless white T-shirt and black socks that came to just below the knee.  Over this a large robe and shiny black tie shoes.  From time to time he let me polish them - a treat back then.  Soon as he sat down to breakfast, or any other meal, for that matter, he'd sing out with a large grin..."where's the kaw-fee ?"  His good-natured ritual. 

When we moved to our own house not not far away, he came by often with a loaf of Jewish rye.  Out of the house he always wore a brown fedora.  My mother loved him immensely and so did we.  His visits were a bright spot in her day.  Sunday afternoons were reserved for a mid-day family dinner with Papa, and Nana's two unmarried sisters Dot and Theresa.  I groaned at the prospect wanting to play baseball or football with my friends outside instead.  After the meal, Papa would settle into his oversized lazy-boy chair to watch baseball.  His beloved Red Sox.  I'd watch for a while then escape to the basement workshop Papa used to repair old furniture.  I was allowed to make use of the tools nails and paint whenever I wished.  Looking around one day for paint, I was astonished to discover pin-ups of several naked ladies residing behind the doors to the upper cupboards.  Did Papa even know they were there ?  For a curious thirteen-year-old, what a marvelous find !

Many years after his passing, the old house was sold when my grandmother Juliana passed away.  It was so quiet.  I'd not been in Papa's workshop for years and was surprised to find it untouched.  The tools hanging just where he'd left them...the naked ladies still smiling from behind the cupboard doors.  After a while I gently removed one of the crumbling paper pin-ups along with the big carpet shears I now use in my own studio.  Treasures from another life.

Bill Wolkoff was a delightful person never judging - always in good humor.  He sold life insurance for a living.  When his mostly poor customers couldn't make their weekly payments, he'd spot them from his own pocket.  He was generous to a fault.  On Friday nights Nana and Papa often took us to the neighborhood Chinese restaurant.  Papa would strike up a lively conversation with the waiter in Chinese while ordering our exotic chop-suey dinner.  The waiter always smiled, shooting back rapid Chinese with animated gestures.  We were mystified and proud.  "What did he say," we'd beg to know, "what did he say ?"  Papa would lean close and in a whisper - only for us, he'd tell us about all the strange and mysterious foods he'd tasted in China. Cat, dog and octapus with long slithering, slimy legs.  My sister Jane and I would wince in delightful pain.  Covering our mouths, we'd tell him to stop, but truly begging for more.  Nana looked on in mock irritation telling him to shush, hoping the people in the next booth would not overhear her foolish husbands nonsense.