“My mother and father arrived in this country from Russia about 1895, set up house in a typical east side flat and raised a family of three boys.

My father was a bread baker, and he adopted or was forced into this type of work because his brother who had preceded him to America was a baker, an apprenticeship was available and this was the most expedient way to start to earn a living.

The bakery operated at night so the stores would have fresh baked goods in the morning. As the youngest in the family, I had no choice, so therefore it was my duty to walk to the bakery every night at about nine o’clock to bring a tin pitcher of some sort of cold drink to my father.

Perhaps at that time, I was too young to be conscious of the social and economic mistreatment of the working people as my father earned $18.00 per week, worked twelve hours per night and six nights per week, under the most horrible and inhumane conditions. The heat was intense, conditions unsanitary, the pace of worked seemed unbearable, and as I grew older, all of these abuses seemed to come into focus in my mind and the entire picture became more meaningful.

My father worked without lunch or coffee breaks and during my visits I was amazed by the speed and feverish work that took place. I was proud of my father’s strength and bulging muscles and in a very short time even his apron was covered with perspiration.

The flour and ingredients were mixed by hand, the dough was kneaded into large bread shapes and then were pushed into the ovens with long flat shovels; the baked breads were removed with almost the same motion. The feverish activity, the continuous movements, and the pace that never slackened overwhelmed me.

The work had to be done without a stop because once the ovens were heated, the breads had to be baked before the ovens cooled. The heat was oppressive, the air was breathless as the powder from the flour enveloped the room and I was frightened by the rats scampering about from one bag of flour to another.

The one redeeming feature of my nightly visits was the immense satisfaction I got from the pleasant smell of fresh baked breads after their removal from the ovens. Of course, there always was a cooled bread cut into slices; butter available and the pungent, delicious taste will never be forgotten.

My father’s night off was Friday night, our Sabbath eve and he was so exhausted by his week of hard work that he slept most of Saturday—his day of rest.

The important part of what I have written is the dedication of my parents and most immigrants of that era to the absolute need for their children’s education. The slaved and saved so their children could continue schooling and have the advantages they could not have.

Even though my father was never home at normal family hours, there never seemed to be any need for parental discipline. My mother, in her quiet, kind, and gracious manner very capably handled all matters of that nature.

Other vivid recollections that I have, are the need for my parents to put a few pennies away each week for charitable purposes and also to try to save a little money to send to Russia to help their relatives there or to bring additional members of the family to this country.

The above encompasses a very short period in my lifetime, but one that has vivid and important memories for me.”