Did I Do the Right Thing? or My First and Only Day as a Shammes

My grandfather was a taciturn man. Only after his death did I discover he spoke seven languages and was a Torah scholar of some regional honor. He emigrated to the United States about 1903 after his brother Jacob worked in the United States long enough to send for him with a paid steamer ticket. Jacob worked as an itinerant salesman traveling up and down the Midwest selling and buying household items and, depending on when the winter came down on him and his horse, he would stay in that town until the spring.

My grandfather’s older brother migrated into the United States through Galveston, Texas which before 1900 was a busy port for Jewish immigrants who were encouraged to settle outside the New York area by several national Jewish organizations. This is how he ended up working and traveling in the Midwest.

He was wintering in Albert Lea, Minnesota in 1904 when the small Jewish community in Waterloo needed a teacher (Rabbi) to lead them in weekly Sabbath services and other religious celebrations. After spending several months in Waterloo, he founded a congregation named Congregation Sons of Jacob and remained. When his brother Harry arrived, Jacob and my grandfather Harry founded a metals scrap yard named Cohn Brothers Inc., in Waterloo, Iowa. They worked hard together and prospered although Jacob was killed in a yard accident in 1919.

My grandmother and grandfather’s home was the first one in the family with a TV set (black and white, of course with a revolving antenna mast on the roof) which we watched with my cousins at least once a week, usually Saturday or Sunday night. Reception was “snowy” on Channel 5 from Ames, (about 80 miles west), but the two stations in Cedar Rapids, Chanel 9 and Chanel 6, only 30 miles south came in much clearer. It was a given that I would go there for lunch Saturday and watch TV until I got picked up by my folks later in the afternoon, or even when they came to dinner.

In retrospect, my grandfather was the titan of the family. My dad’s two brothers were in the scrap metal business with him at Cohn Brothers. That side of the family belonged to the Country Club while my Dad and Mom worked at his own grocery store-usually 50 to 60 hours a week. My brothers and I worked at the grocery store, from delivering handbills (I hated that job) or sorting returned glass pop bottles, carrying groceries for the customers, boxing fresh eggs, stocking shelves or even riding with Curly the delivery man while delivering food to customer’s homes who had phoned in their grocery requirements to my Mom that morning.

Our family was responsive to Conservative Judaism. My older brother was Bar Mitzvahed at 13. I was expected to follow as was my younger brother, too and when I turned 13, I did. My sister was not considered for Bas Mitzvah back then as there was no similar “rites of passage” celebration for 13-year-old girls in the Conservative segment of Judaism. There was no discussion or questioning, it was just part of planning to be 13.

My Bar Mitzvah was in January. After the Bar Mitzvah service we were expected to attend Saturday morning prayer services. By attending Saturday services we added to the Minyon count (minimum ten men) which made it possible for the continuation of religious practices. We attended Saturday services with my grandfather. He would pick up the recent Bar Mitzvah boy (there were several other cousins who qualified, but at this time I was the only one) at 8:00 and we would attend the three to four hour’s prayer service.

Since it was 110 percent in Hebrew, with touches of Yiddish thrown in, the only aspect I understood was limited to the announcement of page numbers as well as the few calling out of names to ascend the Bimah (stage) and read out loud in Hebrew certain portions of the service.

Being a Conservative synagogue, leaning toward the Orthodox, the community followed Orthodox requirements such as no work on Saturday (the Sabbath day) including not cooking, not driving, not using electricity, and other efforts to encourage not working, thus keeping the Sabbath day holy. My grandfather was allowed to drive the distance to the synagogue, I was told, due to his age (78 when I was 13). Most synagogues hired a non-Jewish man to make sure there was enough heat in the building, that the snow was removed, that the lights were turned on as needed, along with any other jobs not allowed by the fourth commandment “remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.” This person was commonly referred to as “The Shammes” (meaning servant – sounding like the word Shamus in detective stories).

That first Saturday morning I walked into the Synagogue with my Grandfather I was greeted with, not applause exactly, but with nods of heads and glances of approval from about 15 old men who made up the Minyon. I took off my winter coat and noticed it was pretty gloomy inside since the lights were not on.

As I walked toward the front of the Schul (prayer hall), I noticed the light switches for the ceiling lights to my right. I reached out and switched them all on thinking I was helping them see, after all they were old and their eyesight was suspect as they hunched closely over their prayer books.

I was surprised when I heard a yelp from all of them at once. My Grandfather looked startled. He pulled me away from the wall. “You are not the Shammes today,” he said thinly. He guided me to the seat next to his usual front row place where we both sat. The rest of the morning continued as it had for the previous 4,000 years, except it was a lot brighter with the lights on.